Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, April 7, 1914. By Henry Howland.

They say that merit only gets the prizes here below,
    That honor is reserved for them who strive and who achieve;
They say that worth is certain to be recognized, but though
    ’Tis sweet to hear the story, it’s not easy to believe.
    The best, the oldest wine
    Wouldn’t seem so very fine
If the bottle bore no label for which cultured drinkers call;
    If they said ’twas cheap we’d not
    Give it praise in word or thought—
Much depends upon the label on the bottle after all.

The general whose forces ne’er have had to taste defeat
    May owe to luck his victories, may be the tool of chance,
But the enemy in terror makes arrangements to retreat
    When he gets into the saddle and gives orders to advance.
    The general who fell
    May have planned and ordered well,
But he had no reputation as a victor to appall;
    They that fought him fearlessly
    From his famed successor flee—
There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.

We would class as common drivel much that Scotland’s Bobbie writ
    If we didn’t know he wrote it and that hence it is sublime;
Much that Tennyson has left us, with an unknown name to it
    We would pass as being nothing but the common brand of rhyme.
    The medicine we drink
    Oft were better used as ink
But it clears away our headaches and from bed at length we crawl
    Full of joy and full of praise
    To go plunging in the frays—
There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.

Oh my boy, perhaps you’re trying in a quiet, humble way
    To be worthy of the prizes that we take to mean success;
Perhaps you’re meekly hoping for a sweet reward some day
    That they’ll hand out to another who you’ll know deserves it less.
    With the best that you can do
    You must flaunt your merit, too;
Wear the manner of the winner, do not humbly cringe and crawl.
    And the smiling fates will bow
    As they gladly wreath your brow—
Much depends upon the label on the bottle, after all.

From the Rock Island Argus, April 1, 1914. By Henry Howland.

My little boy, the way is long
    That you shall have to go;
God grant you may be brave and strong
    To do your part, to show
Whate’er may be the goal you seek,
    Whate’er the height you gain,
Consideration for the weak
    And those who strive in vain.

My little boy, ambition’s call
    Will oft be sweet to you;
God grant you strength to turn from all
    That wicked men pursue,
To let no gain come to your hand
    If blood must be the price,
To spurn the profits that demand
    Another’s sacrifice.

My little boy, with all to learn
    And laughing still at play,
God give you manliness to spurn
    What honor thrusts away,
To keep you free from guile and greed,
    Where’er your course may lie,
To do the brave, heroic deed,
    Though doing it, you die.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 31, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I saw her once before
In the short skirt she wore,
    And again
She went dancing round and round,
With a wince at every bound,
    As in pain.

They say that in her prime,
Ere the cruel hand of Time
    Hurt her so,
She possessed a pretty face
And could hop from place to place
    On one toe.

But now her look is sad,
And she moves as if she had
    Aching feet;
Every bald head’s look is grim
As she glances down at him
    In his seat.

My old grandad oft has said—
Poor old grandpa, he is dead,
    Long ago—
That she once was all the rage
As she skipped upon the stage,
    To and fro.

But she’s fat and flabby now
And as graceful as a cow
    On the trot;
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin,
    So I’ll not.

In the chorus let her stay;
It may be her only way
    To survive.
You may cease to be a peach
Too, young lady, when you reach
    Sixty-five.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 28, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Kindly send my letters back,
    Sweet Marie;
You possess a lofty stack
    Penned by me;
Since our dream of love is o’er
You’ll not need them any more—
Send them quickly, I implore,
    Sweet Marie.

You have filled me with dismay,
    Sweet Marie;
There are other fish, you say,
    In the sea;
You have made my future black;
All my hopes are dead, alack!
But please send my letters back,
    Sweet Marie.

All my days I’ll mourn for you,
    Sweet Marie;
Ever fond and ever true
    I shall be;
When my passion was intense
I wrote letters lacking sense—
Send them back at my expense,
    Sweet Marie.

Do not tell me they are burned,
    Sweet Marie;
Let them safely be returned
    Speedily;
Send this with them, please my dear;
On the day that they appear
I will do the burning here,
    Sweet Marie.

Listen to my plaintive wail,
    Sweet Marie;
Send them by the fastest mail
    Back to me;
Let my plea be not in vain;
Place them in my hands again,
And to me you shall remain
    Sweet Marie.

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

Ain’t it splendid to be livin’, ‘long ‘bout this time o’ year,
With the green things peepin’ upward and the mornings crisp and clear;
With the children’s cheeks a-glowin’ and the future lookin’ bright,
And the gladdened roosters crowin’ just for fun with all their might?

Ain’t it cheerful, ain’t it splendid to get out and whiff the air
When the winter time is ended and there’s beauty everywhere,
When the buds are busy swellin’ and the colts kick up their heels
And the lambs quit friskin’ hardly long enough to get their meals?

Ain’t it fine to hear the cackle of the hen whose heart is light
And to have the will to tackle any job there is in sight?
Ain’t it fine to see things growin’ just the way they used to grow,
And to feel the warm wind blowin’ just the way it used to blow?

Ain’t it good to start the furrow and to smell the new-plowed earth,
And to hear the blackbirds chatter, huntin’ worms for all they’re worth?
Ain’t it good to hear the ringin’ of the distant dinner bell,
And to hear the robin singin’ just to show that all is well?

Ain’t it lucky to be livin’ when the blossoms brighten things,
And you’re waitin’ for the summer with the gladness that it brings?
Ain’t it good to see the gleamin’ dandelions in the lane;
Don’t it kind of start you dreamin’ the old boyhood dreams again?

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

I met him on the corner where I saw his breath congeal,
And he spoke from furs that covered him almost from head to heel;
“Ah, but this is lovely weather! Stirs a fellow’s blood, you know;
If I could I think I’d always have it ten degrees below;
Take a cold bath every morning, sleep out on the porch at night—
Nothing like it if you’re anxious to keep feelin’ fit and right.”

In the hovels people shivered, children who were lightly clad
Heard the frosted windows rattle and neglected to be glad;
Through the storm the doctors hurried, wearied from long lack of rest,
Many a weeping mother vainly clasped a dead babe to her breast;
Through the city Death went stalking, striking down the young and old,
And the gaunt cab horses shivered as they stood out in the cold.

I met her in a parlor, where she lolled in luxury;
“Ah,” she said, “this is the season that brings greatest joy to me;
How I love to hear the creaking of the wheels upon the snow;
What a joy there is in living when it’s ten degrees below!
Springtime brings its fragrant blossoms, but I feel supreme delight
When the wind blows from the northland and the world is clothed in white.”

By the curb an old man tumbled; at his side a shovel lay,
And his poor, thin coat was fluttered by the wind that howled away;
Pallid children crouched where sadness could not be induced to leave,
In the hovels women shivered and forgot all but to grieve;
Through the city Death went stalking, madly striking right and left
Where the little, gloomy coal bins of all contents were bereft.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 18, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I wish that it were possible to be as good by day
As when at night, I am alone, to foolish fear a prey,
For then I think of righteous things that I would gladly do,
And fashion for myself a course all blameless to pursue.

But when the day has come again, with all its snares and cares,
And I am face to face with men and mix in their affairs,
Somehow the resolutions which I clung to in the dark
Are put aside as foolish things, unworthy of remark.

I wish that it were possible, when I am well and strong,
To shun the habits which prevent a man from living long;
When I am ill and toss about upon a bed of pain
I list a score of things which I shall never eat again.

But when my health returns and I am once more on my feet
I cease to wisely shun the things that I should never eat;
To ancient habits I return, and lightly cease to dread
The dangers that appeared so great when I was sick abed.

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

“Oh, I’ve done well today,” he said;
“I gave a man whose hope had fled
New hope and saw him push ahead.”
    His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
You gave another hope, you say;
    What profit have you in return?
No footman waits on me today,
    And it is little that you earn—
        Where’s the money?”

“Oh, I’ve done well,” he said again;
“A golden sentence from my pen
Has earned the praise of thoughtful men.”
    His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
Your golden sentences may please
    A few poor pedants, grave and old,
But they who live in splendid ease
    Still scorn us for our lack of gold—
        Where’s the money?”

“Oh, I’ve done well,” he said once more;
“In future men will praise my lore
And wear a pathway to my door.”
    His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
Who cares what future men may say?
    I still am forced to skimp and save;
What will it matter if some day
    Men pile their tributes on your grave?
        Where’s the money?”

He bravely went his way to do
The best he might, to still pursue
The course that had been found by few;
    The world asked: “Where’s the money?”
He wisely served posterity
    And earned a future, lasting fame;
But, scorned by those about him, he
    Forever heard the world exclaim:
        “Where’s the money?”