Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, June 11, 1914. By Henry Howland.

It was early in July, when the fleecy clouds were high,
    And the sea was very calm and very blue,
That I met a maiden fair walking under branches where
    The leaves let little streaks of sunlight through.

A rosebud on her breast seemed to try to do its best
    To rival the rich beauty of her mouth;
By the glory of her face and her manner and her grace
    I knew her for a daughter of the South.

Ah, how beautiful she was! Dressed in cool and clinging gauze,
    She might have been an airy fairy queen;
As I gladly watched the maid coming, tripping through the glade
    I forgot that middle age should be serene.

I gave my belt a hitch and threw back my shoulders which
    I had suffered to droop somewhat carelessly;
With a youthful, springy stride I approached her and I tried
    To forget that I was not as young as she.

It was early in July when she met me with a sigh,
    And exclaimed, “Please take me home, I’ve lost my way;
You’re a nice old man and so I may trust in you, I know.”
    Oh, I wish I’d never met her there that day.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I stand and wonder, looking down at you;
    The world, all unexplored, before you lies;
Who knows what Fate may summon you to do,
    To what high summit you may proudly rise?

It may be that words written by your pen
    Shall live as long as art has power to please;
You may be called to lead and govern men,
    Great ships may bear your flag o’er many seas.

The might that Caesar won you may surpass,
    A Raphael’s brush may e’en descend to you;
It may be that your name in shining brass
    Shall claim the love of all who pause to view.

Napoleon and Shakespeare may be thrown
    Within the shadow you shall some day cast;
But probably you’ll live to grieve and groan,
    And get a mere three-line “obit” at last.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 8, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,
    We’ll have a wild, hair-raising ride;
I’ve smuggled out the new machine,
    And it shall now be fully tried;
The breeze shall fiercely fan your cheek,
    The waiting cops we will despise;
We will ignore the words they speak,
    The dust we make shall fill their eyes;
Oh, I will take you home, Kathleen;
    I hope that you may feel no pain;
The car is all wiped nice and clean,
    We’ll have it spattered up again.

I know you love me, Kathleen, dear,
    Because the car I run is new;
I’ll speed it on the highest gear,
    And try to give new thrills to you;
The things that get in front of me
    I’ll smash, and care but little how.
Hold to your hat and you shall see
    Some mighty pretty scorching now.
Oh, I will take you home, Kathleen,
    And if we give to others pain,
We’ll blithely hurry from the scene
    And never drive that way again.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 6, 1914. By Henry Howland.

“I’ve traveled till I’m sick of traveling;
    I’ve looked at everything there is to see.
It’s come to pass that nothing seems to bring
    A new sensation or a thrill to me.

“My taste is dulled, my thirst, alas, no more
    Brings anxious, eager longings to my soul
Since all I have to do is turn and pour
    Myself another glassful from the bowl.

“I’ve broken sporting records and I’ve played
    At working corners up in stocks and wheat;
Such things have lost their charms for me; I’ve made
    The whole great round, the circle is complete.

“Women, wine and song—bah! Not for me;
    There’s nothing left to long for any more,
There’s nothing left to do or taste or see,
    The world has not another thrill in store.”

But fate was kind to him who thus complained;
    It came to pass by happy chance, one day
That, all alone and with his pockets drained,
    He on a far-off shore was cast away.

There, where his voice could reach no friendly ear
    And where remittances could not be had,
Hard masters made him toil from year to year
    And every time he ate his soul was glad.

He longed for things that he could not obtain;
    The prospect of a day or two of rest,
The chance to save a little extra gain,
    Sent new thrills trooping gladly through his breast.

He sat him down no more with listless sighs,
    But with the hope of winning liberty
He worked and looked ahead with eager eyes,
    Till Death was kind enough to set him free.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Stay, you that proudly plan to dare
    And you that seek to do:
Before you hurry forth to try
To proudly plant your standard high,
    An honest word with you.

Who seeks to raise himself above
    The level of the crowd
Must drag through many a slough of woe
And suffer many a blinding blow
    And oft sit humbly bowed.

For every little gain he makes
    Who tries to take the lead
A hundred disappointments leave
Their impress on him; to achieve
    The heart must often bleed.

Stay, you that plan to gain renown
    Or play a splendid part:
Ten thousand sore discouragements
Upon your heart shall leave their dents
    Before you get a start.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 3, 1914. By Henry Howland.

The Slave:

With weary brain and aching heart
    He greets another day;
He sadly stumbles forth to start
    Upon his weary way;
The sun may shine above his head and accented breezes blow,
But what mean fair, blue skies to him that need compels to go
    To labor where no sunshine falls,
    Shut in by cheerless, dingy walls,
Estranged from all but woe?

“The day is done,” he sadly sighs;
    What has it brought to me?
The sunset’s glow is on the skies—
    Why should I turn to see?
I am condemned to live and toil the heavy hours away;
Tomorrow I shall still be where I started yesterday;
    By circumstance to service bound,
    I must pursue a cheerless round,
And hurry to obey.

The Lover:

The sunbeams play across his way,
    And blossoms that are sweet
Come drifting from the trees to stray
    About his eager feet;
He hurries onward hopefully where duties claim his care,
And claims the pleasures that arise from faithful service there—
    And in his heart he bears along
    A little of the West Wind’s song,
And all his world is fair.

“How fair the day has been,” he cries,
    When evening’s shadows spread;
“How rich a glow is in the skies,
    How fair the way ahead!
Sweet songs have sweetly haunted me through all the splendid day,
And Hope is calling bravely while I hurry on my way
    To smiling lips and loving arms—
    My path is through a land of charms
Where friendly fairies play.”

From the Rock Island Argus, May 29, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Give a definition of success. “Money.”
Give a synonym for happiness. “Money.”
What attaches honor to a name?
What produces privilege and fame?
What relieves the sinner of all blame?
    “Money.”

Give a definition of respect. “Money.”
What enables people to “connect?” “Money.”
What brings haughty monarchs to their knees?
What brings titled suitors over seas?
What makes wisdom look like cottage cheese?
    “Money.”

Give a ready synonym for goal. “Money.”
What is more important than the soul? “Money.”
What removes the ugliness from vice?
What in lieu of beauty will suffice?
What is proudly gained at any price?
    “Money.”

From the Rock Island Argus, May 22, 1914. By Henry Howland.

She was so gentle and so fair
    That I was gladdened when we met;
She had a modest, pensive air.
    In fancy I behold her yet;
She moved with such unstudied grace
    That she appeared to float along;
The beauty of her youthful face
    Was such as urges bards to song.

Again I saw her; years had passed;
    Alas, she had been wooed and won;
A listless look at me she cast,
    Then went on mending for her son;
She wore a wrapper that was red,
    A knot of hair, uncrimped and small;
Her beauty and her grace had fled—
    She didn’t seem to care at all.

And then he came who once, mayhap,
    Had deemed her earth’s most lovely thing—
Had gladly held her on his lap—
    And decked her finger with his ring;
He passed her with a grunt, no more,
    And then forgetting she was there,
Got down at full length on the floor
    And gamboled with their son and heir.

From the Rock Island Argus, May 20, 1914. By Henry Howland.

“I wonder if you know how fair
    You make the world for me?
I wonder if you know that where
    You are I long to be?
Your smile is like the morning sun
    That gladdens all below;
When you appear the day’s begun,
But when we part the day is done—
I wonder if you know or care,
    I wonder if you know?”

(He wonders if she knows or cares;
    Why should he ever doubt it?
The lovelorn, longing look he wears
    Has told her all about it.
Although he never tells her so,
He may be sure that she will know;
Love needs no speech—long, long ago
    Love learned to do without it.)

“I wonder if you ever guess
    That when you linger near
The world is filled with loveliness,
    That when you leave ’tis drear?
For you, sweetheart, it is that all
    The fairest breezes blow,
And from the skies the stars would fall
Responsive to your witching call;
You smile to gladden and to bless—
    I wonder if you know?”

(He wonders if his sweetheart knows
    Or has the wit to guess it;
He tells it everywhere he goes
    His looks and sights confess it;
He thinks her lips forbidden fruit,
Ah, let him cease from being mute,
And boldly, bravely press his suit—
    She longs for him to press it.)

From the Rock Island Argus, May 19, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Pa’s got back from his vacation,
    With a look that’s wild and strange;
Seems all full of tribulation,
    Though he’s had his rest and change;
For a year he had been wishin’
    He could be alone somewhere,
So he spent his two weeks fishin’,
    Far away from home and care.

He has forty-seven places
    Where the hungry woodticks died;
And the color of his face is
    Like a piece of beef that’s dried;
Both his feet are full of blisters,
    Insects nearly ate him up,
And last night he called my sister’s
    Beau a pompous little pup.

Pa’s got back from his vacation,
    Lookin’ like a hungry tramp;
Once he nearly faced starvation
    When he strayed away from camp.
He must eat things predigested
    Till his health improves a lot;
Comin’ home he was arrested
    For the only fish he got.