Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, May 13, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Then out spake brave Horatius,
    The captain of the gate:
“Halt! Every mother’s son of you,
    Both friends and foemen wait!
Let not a blow be given
    No matter what the odds,
For the ashes of your sires
    Or the temples of your gods.

“Hew not the bridge, sir consul,
    Please put your ax away;
I’ll later call upon you
    To hew, but not today—
In yon straight path a thousand
    May well be stopped by three;
There I will stand and have command—
    Not now, but presently.”

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
    A counterfeiter bold:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
    With thee the bridge I’ll hold!”
And out spake young Herminius,
    A strong-arm artist he:
“I will abide by thy left side
    And keep the bridge with thee.”

“Horatius,” quoth the consul,
    “Behold yon great array;
Why may I not begin to hew,
    Why counsel this delay?
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
    Spare neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life—
    At least, so I’ve been told.”

“Fool,” answered brave Horatius,
    “Hold off till I say when;
We must await in patience
    The moving picture men!
As soon as they get ready,
    And not till then, cut loose—
We want this scrap recorded
    On films for future use.”

From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I’d like to be among the few
    Who, needing rest, may be at ease;
I mean those lucky people who
    May turn from duty when they please—
The ones who, feeling weariness,
    May knock off early for the day
And have no fear that pitiless
    Taskmasters will reduce their pay.

I’d like to have the right to let
    Some other who was under me
Remain at work to stew and fret
    While I went roving carelessly;
I’d like to hold an office which
    Might be left to another’s care,
While I sought pleasure with the rich
    Or sat at blissful ease somewhere.

But I have noticed that the men
    Who have the privilege I lack,
Who may depart, not caring when
    Their interests shall call them back—
I’ve noticed that those who possess
    This privilege, which seems sublime,
Are overcome with weariness
    About three-quarters of the time.

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

Cleon hath four limousines,
    Ne’er a one have I;
Cleon fares to foreign scenes,
    Here at home stay I;
Cleon lives where servants hurry
    And the walls are high;
Cleon oft has cause to worry,
    So, alas, have I.

Twenty suits of clothes has he,
    Only one have I;
He makes money easily,
    By hard working I;
In his glass the old wine bubbles,
    Cleon likes it “dry”;
Cleon frequently has troubles,
    Ah, well, so do I.

Cleon is a millionaire,
    I work, wet or dry;
Cleon’s losing all his hair,
    Little hair have I;
Cleon oft has indigestion,
    So, indeed, have I;
What’s the difference, you question?
    This is my reply:

Cleon’s daughter has eloped
    And his son flies high;
Hopes that Cleon fondly hoped
    Have been doomed to die;
Cleon sits alone at night,
    In his breast a sigh;
My kids stay at home and fight—
    Six of them have I.

From the Rock Island Argus, May 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.

The sun may shine again—I s’pose it will.
    But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The orchard trees may blossom on the hill,
    But that’ll make no difference to me.

The ones who like the smell of new-plowed ground
    And think a wild rose beautiful and sweet
Will probably still want to tramp around,
    Glad that the sod is soft beneath their feet.

The boys will build their little boats and let
    Them float on rivers I could step across;
The yearlings, with their scraggy coats, will get
    Out in the fields and gain a shiny gloss.

The cows will stand and chew their cud and dream,
    But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The fisherman will loll beside the stream,
    But that will make no difference to me.

The people in the busy town will try,
    No matter what they have, to still have more;
The lights will flicker and the flags will fly,
    The wheels will keep on turnin’ as before.

On Sunday mornings they will ring the bells,
    At quittin’ time they’ll blow the whistles, too;
The home run will be followed by loud yells,
    And men may sing at what they have to do.

The world will still roll on, but there is one
    Who said last night that “it could never be;”
I s’pose we’ll still have sunshine from the sun,
    But that’ll make no difference to me.

From the Rock Island Argus, April 27, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Some people say it wasn’t luck that made ‘em rich and proud;
They claim ’twas wisdom, work and pluck that raised ‘em from the crowd.
I don’t deny that there’s a pile of truth in what they say,
And yit it always makes me smile to hear ‘em talk that way.

Fer instance, there was Henry Wood—taught school here years ago;
His teachin’ wasn’t any good—we had to tell him so;
He tried to get another school, but couldn’t anywhere;
Directors thought he was a fool and said so plain and fair.
    So havin’ nothin’ else to do, he wrote a silly book or two;
    Most mushy stuff I ever read, but I have lately heard it said
        That Henry was a millionaire.

And there was John Tate’s oldest son, a lazy, worthless chap;
When there was hard work to be done he never helped his pap;
The old man drove him off at last—just told him plain and flat
That all the monkeyin’ was past—what happened after that?
    They say he’s saltin’ money down and keeps six servants up in town;
    He sells some kind of medicine he guarantees to keep ‘em thin
        When women think they’re gettin’ fat.

Take them two fellers—was it pluck with which they were endowed?
Or was it just a bit of luck that made ‘em rich and proud?
Take notice, that I don’t deny that work and wisdom win,
But when you say that ends it, why—excuse me if I grin.

From the Rock Island Argus, April, 15, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Sim Watkins was a chap who used to get his feelin’s hurt
Most every time he turned around; he thought folks done him dirt
If they’d neglect to run across the street to shake his hand;
He used to have a notion that folks set around and planned
To slight him everywhere he went; most everything you’d say
He’d twist till it would seem a slur at him, some way.

At parties when the girls would get alone and giggle, Sim
Was always sure to think that they were makin’ fun of him;
At meetin’ when the preacher threw out hints, as preachers do,
Sim always took ‘em to himself, kept puttin’ on the shoe;
If folks would count the change he’d give it made him mad, you see
He thought by that they had their doubts about his honesty.

He’s dead and gone, he didn’t leave a great deal when he went.
In lookin’ high and low for slights his time was mostly spent.
And I suppose, if he’s above, where people get their wings,
And draw the tickets for the harps and golden crowns and things,
He’s settin’ back and thinkin’ that the happy angels there
Are laughin’ at the way he looks in what he has to wear.

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

He started writing verses that were easily understood,
And here and there was some person who told him that they were good;
He dealt with themes that were common, his language was plain and strong,
And a few people frankly told him he was blessed with the gift of song.

He began to throw in italics, haphazard, it may be said,
And here and there was a foot-note to enlighten the ones who read.
And here and there was a stanza too deep for the common kind;
The people began to marvel at the mightiness of his mind.

He dropped the common, adopting an allegorical style,
And the critics had to interpret his meaning, after a while.
And the people were filled with wonder, not understanding a bit,
And the poet had fame and riches and fancied that he was it.

His meaning got deeper and deeper, till even the critics themselves
Were stumped if they read without taking their reference books from the shelves.
And his glory kept growing and spreading, he was hailed as a prophet, indeed;
Whenever he wrote a new poem, six nations stopped working to read.

Thus, filled with thoughts of his greatness and scorning the simple ways,
He wound and criss-crossed and doubled in a metaphorical maze.
Till clutching his brow, he read slowly his latest, and said with a sigh,
“It’s so deep that I can’t understand it—my God, what a wonder am I!”

From the Rock Island Argus, April 9, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Oft through the dark my little one
    Comes stealing softly to my bed,
To clamber in and cuddle down
    And on my bosom lay his head;
I hear him whisper coaxingly:
    “Please let me sleep with you tonight,”
And as he nestles close to me
    His childish fears are put to flight.

Ah, if he knew how weak, how frail
    Am I in whom he puts his trust,
How blindly and how oft I fail,
    How oft my face is in the dust,
He would not rush to me when fear
    Comes with her sable wings outspread;
The faith he has when I am near
    Would cease to bring him to my bed.

Some day perchance they’ll bring him where
    I long have slept, from visions free;
And weeping, they may leave him there
    To lie serenely close to me.
Oh may I hear him, trusting, say
    As he is reaching upward then,
“Please, father, I have come to lay
    My head upon your breast again.”