Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, December 23, 1913. By Henry Howland.

“I’m sorry that we ever met,” I heard ma tellin’ pa, last night;
And pa said he was sadder yet—I guess he said it just for spite.
Then ma she scolded pa some more and after that commenced to cry
And threw her new hat on the floor and said she wished that she could die.

Pa said that he was just a slave and hadn’t any right to live.
The more he earned, the more he gave, the more ma wanted him to give.
“I never get a chance to play; I’m just a drudge, that’s what I am,”
Pa said, and then he went away, and gave the door an awful slam.

When I was gettin’ into bed and ma bent down to hear my prayers
She cried some more and turned her head and said her life was full of cares.
I’m sorry for them both, and yet I’m glad they can’t be free again,
Because if they had never met, why I would be a norphun, then.

From the Rock Island Argus, December 22, 1913. By Henry Howland.

I like to read the maxims which
    Philosophers have made;
They tell us how we may be rich
    And wise and unafraid.

“Thrice armed is he whose quarrel’s just,”
    “Truth crushed to earth will rise,”
“Right will prevail.” “They can who must,”
    “He only wins who tries.”

“Look ere you leap.” “The rolling stone
    Accumulates no moss.”
“A cat may gaze upon a throne.”
    “Your gain’s another’s loss.”

“They cannot win who hesitate.”
    “Think twice before you speak.”
“The bough too often bent will break.”
    “They find who bravely seek.”

“A little nonsense now and then
    Is relished by the wise.”
“The sword’s less mighty than the pen.”
    “Man’s strength his need supplies.”

So down along the list it goes;
    The maxims make it clear
How each may overcome his foes
    And at the front appear.

But I am often filled with doubt,
    My faith is insecure;
The men who worked these maxims out
    All died so very poor.

From the Rock Island Argus, December 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.

I am longing for the pleasures that the fields alone can give;
I am sick of being crowded where the luckless millions live;
I am yearning for the freedom that the farmer’s boy enjoys
Out there where no busy builders are producing ceaseless noise,
Where the frost has made the wattles of the troubled rooster blue
And the kitchen door-step’s buried under snow a foot or two.

I am sighing for the pleasure that the farmer doubtless feels
As he wades out in the mornings to give Boss and Spot their meals;
How I long to be there helping to haul wood upon the sled
And to have the joy of chopping up the chunks behind the shed;
I can hardly keep from turning from the city with its ills
To go out and help the farmer who is doping for his chills.

What a joy ‘twould be to never have to dodge or skip and jump;
And how sweet in zero weather it would be to thaw the pump;
How I hanker for such gladness as the farmer may possess
While he has to do the milking when it’s ten below or less;
I would say good-bye forever to the city if I could—
Gee, I’d like to be a farmer in the winter—YES I WOULD!

From the Rock Island Argus, December 15, 1913. By Henry Howland.

We’ve married sister off at last, and pa and ma are glad;
The troubles that we had are past; we’ve all quit feelin’ sad;
Now mebby I’ll have things to wear that wasn’t pa’s before,
And none of us will have to care about expense no more.

They say his father’s got a pile; he gave a house to sis,
Where him and her will live in style, with servants, after this.
Pa used to fret a lot about the price of meat and coal,
But now his heart is free from doubt and joy is in his soul.

We put on all the airs we could when he began to come.
I acted as they said I should and pa quit bein’ glum.
Ma, every chance she got, would tell about our pedigree,
And made him think we had a swell and old, old fambly tree.

We all pretended to believe that sis was somethin’ great
And that we’d set around and grieve if she would meet her fate.
Ma often got him coaxed aside and in a tremblin’ tone
Would tell about the boys who’d tried to win her for their own.

We went in debt to dress her well—of course he never knew.
Gee, but we kept her lookin’ swell; she was outclassed by few.
Pa cut my hair to save expense; we kept things clean and neat,
And everything was cooked immense when he stayed here to eat.

We’ve got her married off at last, and pa and ma are glad.
The troubles that we had are past; we’ve all quit bein’ sad.
It took all we could raise to dress her so she’d catch a prize;
The way the plan worked out I guess it pays to advertise.

From the Rock Island Argus, December 12, 1913. By Henry Howland.

He left the little town because he thought
    He needed a horizon that was wider;
He fancied he had talent and he sought
    The city as a suitable provider
Of opportunities such as he dared
    To think were all he needed to win glory;
The little town, he solemnly declared,
    Was such an old and oft-repeated story.

He sought the city with its rush and roar,
    And with its glare and glitter and its splendor;
He thought about the little town no more,
    Forgot the friendships that had been so tender;
He found his opportunity inside
    A cage where day by day he labored grimly,
Where sweet, fresh air and sunlight were denied,
    Where hope loomed up sometimes—but very dimly.

His home consisted of four little rooms,
    Within a building that was far from peerless.
They were as dark as are Egyptian tombs,
    And just about as stuffy and as cheerless;
Day after day he went the same small round,
    Nor ever found new scenes to rest his eyes on,
But, sadly pinched, he fancied he had found
    Though high walls shut him in, a broad horizon.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.

We’ll all flit ‘round in aeroplanes
    In a dozen years from now;
We may have done with aches and pains
    In a dozen years from now.
Great ships will pass through Panama,
Baseball games may have ceased to draw,
And ma may vote instead of pa
    In a dozen years from now.

We may have blotted out disease
    In a dozen years from now;
We may have bridged the broadest seas
    In a dozen years from now;
New York may fully understand
That west of Jersey there’s a land
Containing cities great and grand,
    In a dozen years from now.

Caruso may have ceased to sing
    In a dozen years from now;
Men may be sick of traveling
    In a dozen years from now.
No more divorces may be sought,
The last big fight may have been fought,
And guides may cease from being shot,
    In a dozen years from now.

Vice may no longer keep us vexed
    In a dozen years from now;
We may have Mexico annexed
    In a dozen years from now.
The cost of living may be low;
It isn’t very likely, though,
That those who work will think it so
    In a dozen years from now.

War may be banished from the earth
    In a dozen years from now;
Men may be measured by their worth
    In a dozen years from now.
But doubtless there will still survive
Men who will fret when others thrive,
And two and two will not make five
    In a dozen years from now.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 15, 1913. By Henry Howland.

For nine long years she worked away
    With all the strength she had;
She showed improvement day by day
    And made her parents glad;
She went abroad to study there,
    Her father’s purse grew thin,
But “maestros” said her gifts were rare
    In Paris and Berlin.

She practiced in the mornings and
    She practiced late at night;
She gained much strength of arm and hand,
    Her touch grew sure and light;
While other girls were having fun
    In foolish, girlish ways,
She practiced steadily and won
    Her teacher’s honest praise.

At last, with nothing more to do,
    She sought her native town,
And there was wooed and won there, too.
    She quickly settled down.
Her babies play upon the floor,
    Her husband’s purse is thin,
And “maestros” think of her no more
    In Paris or Berlin.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 13, 1913. By Henry Howland.

When the car in which you’re riding
    Seems to barely creep along
You are not slow in deciding
    That there must be something wrong;
When you miss the elevator
    And must wait till it comes back
You are likely to blame Fate, or
    Think the whole world’s out of whack.

When the office boy is stupid
    Or the sweet stenographer
Seems to have her mind on Cupid
    How you hate both him and her;
When she hums her sweet love ditty
    You get overcharged with gall,
And you feel no touch of pity
    When he whistles in the hall.

When you think all men are trying
    To deprive you of your own;
When you wake up sadly sighing
    And, at night, quit with a groan;
When you think that every other
    Finds the wrong course to pursue
It is safe to bet, oh brother,
    That the thing that’s wrong is you.

From the Rock Island Argus, November 4, 1913. By Henry Howland.

Pretty little maiden, yesterday a child,
Free from affectation, merely running wild;
Kicking up and laughing, climbing fences, too—
What a lot of changes have come over you!

Pretty little maiden, guileless in your glee,
Yesterday you lightly sat upon my knee;
Yesterday you kissed me when I went away;
I have found a woman in your place today.

Now your legs are hidden and you shout no more;
You’re a helpless creature—you so lithe before!
You must be assisted where you used to climb,
You must guard your actions gravely all the time.

You have lost the freedom of the careless child;
You no more may ever gallop, glad and wild;
Wholly artificial, you must lace and friz
And be cold and proper—what a shame it is!