Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, October 31, 1913. By Henry Howland.

It’s a grand old world to be livin’ in when the grass begins to sprout;
It’s the finest world that I’ve ever seen when the leaves are a-comin’ out;
It’s a bully world in the fair June days when the colts kick up their heels;
It’s a fine old world when the little chicks get to scratchin’ for their meals,
And I’ll tell you, boys, it’s a good old world ‘long about this time o’ year,
When the turkey’s fat and the ax is sharp and Thanksgivin’ day is near.

It’s a fine old world when the spring work’s done and the crops begin to grow;
It’s a grand old world when the days are short and the fields are white with snow;
It’s a bully world in the summer time when you smell the sweet new hay;
It’s a dandy world when you’ve sold your wheat and the profit’s put away,
And I’ll tell you, boys, it’s a great old world when the girl you love the best
Sits alone with you where the light is low, with her cheek agin your vest.

It’s a splendid world when a fellow’s young and limber and full of vim
And a good square meal is the finest thing that a body can show to him;
It’s a great old world in the summer time and a fine old world in fall;
It’s a bully world when you’ve saved so much that you don’t need to care at all;
But I’ll tell you, boys, it’s the dearest world and the fairest and sweetest world
When you look down into your young wife’s lap where your first little child is curled.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 10, 1913. By Henry Howland.

The papers scold my pa; they say
Bad things about him every day,
And often ma begins to cry
    When she looks at the paper—then
I kind of get to wishin’ I
    Could lick a few newspaper men.

Pa doesn’t care; he says no man
That tries to do the best he can
To get ahead and help along
    Has any right to think they’ll not
Hurrah about it when he’s wrong
    Or prod him in his sorest spot.

I don’t blame ma for feelin’ sad
Because they say my pa is bad;
He’s always good to her and me,
    And when her eyes were wet, one day,
He kissed us both and said that he
    Had joys they couldn’t take away.

One time they had his picture so
He looked like old Nick down below—
I wish the papers all would please
    Just print nice things about my pa
To make him always glad, for he’s
    The dearest pa I ever saw.

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

We dream of peace and we plan for peace,
    For peace we pray when we kneel at night,
And not for a day do we ever cease
    To watch for a fair excuse to fight;
We agree that war is a thing to dread,
    Its cause a crime and its cost a shame,
But we place a wreath on the captain’s head,
    And we grant the conqueror deathless fame.

We speak of the useless waste of blood,
    Of the bitter woe and the sinful strife,
But we mount our guns by the roaring flood
    And devise new schemes for destroying life.
Our envoys linger in foreign lands
    Inspiring trust and allaying hate,
But our ships are manned, and with ready hands
    We grasp our weapons and watch and wait.

We hear the sighs of the ones who bear
    The terrible cost of armament—
Who toil and give but who never share
    The glory for which their years are spent;
We shudder when innocent blood is shed,
    War is the world’s most ghastly shame;
But we twine a wreath for the captain’s head,
    And we grant the conqueror deathless fame.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 2, 1913. By Henry Howland.

He never told his love; she met him at the door
And told him that he ne’er had looked so well before;
She said she was so glad he had been pleased to call,
And, talking, took his hat and hung it in the hall.

She’d thought of him all day, she hastened to declare;
She led him to a nook and sat beside him there;
She deftly smoothed his tie and tucked one corner in,
And with her little hand she softly touched his chin.

She told him she was sure he’d some day make his mark;
The nook in which they sat was all their own, and dark;
He found her in his arms and vowing to be true;
He never told his love—she made it needless to.

From the Rock Island Argus, September 27, 1913. By Henry Howland.

Westward, ever westward
    The fortune-seekers fare;
The peasant boy stands gazing
    Across bleak hills and bare
And dreams of boundless riches
    Spread out on every hand,
Of splendor and of glory
    Out in the sunset land.

Westward, ever westward
    The fortune-seekers fare;
The “noble” rake and spendthrift
    Dreams of the millionaire
Whose daughter sighs for “glory”
    And cannot understand
Why God assumes no title
    Off there in sunset land.

Eastward, ever eastward
    The fortune-favored fare;
The west gives up its riches
    To them that boldly dare;
The butcher and the miner
    Count up their golden stores
And go to live like princes
    On distant eastern shores.

Eastward, ever eastward
    The fortune-favored fare;
The peasant’s son has visions
    Of social glory there;
Westward, ever westward
    The ragged legion pours;
The lucky ones forever
    Surge back to eastern shores.

From the Rock Island Argus, September 11, 1913. By Henry Howland.

When it seems as if there never could be any chance for you,
When the way is lost in darkness that you struggle to pursue,
    When it seems as if your gains
    Poorly pay you for your pains
And mankind is set against you, having sworn to do you ill—
    When this feeling weighs you down
    Rise and leave the cheerless town;
You can walk away from trouble if you will.

Out across the peaceful meadows and beside the greening slopes
There is tonic for the weary and a promise of new hopes,
    Every bending blade of grass
    Does its little as you pass
To inform you of fair prizes that are worth the winning still;
    Every step will make you strong,
    As your shadow moves along—
You can walk away from trouble if you will.

Why make others share your sadness when your hopes have oozed away?
Why compel them to despise you for the things you do and say?
    Even in the crowded street
    Where the restless currents meet
Courage waits for him who seeks it, pressing on past mart and mill;
    Step forth from behind the walls
    Where the shadow thickly falls—
You can walk away from trouble if you will.

From the Rock Island Argus, September 8, 1913. By Henry Howland.

They claim that men are gittin’ so they don’t believe in hell,
And unless they’re makin’ money folks don’t think they’re doin’ well;
If all that people tell us of the human race is true
It would seem as though religion hasn’t got much left to do.
Here’s a book I’ve jest been readin’, and it says men’s god today
Ain’t the God our fathers worshiped in their pious, simple way.
And it’s true that men are crowdin’ for the money they can git
But I notice that the average is
    Quite
    Good
    Yit.

I remember when most people thought old Nick would get ‘em sure
If they stole or lied or cheated or lived lives that wasn’t pure;
Still, in spite of thinkin’ that way, men would cheat you when they could;
Fearin’ that there was a devil didn’t seem to keep ‘em good.
I remember when folks used to set around, afraid, at night,
Thinkin’ that the old boy’d git ‘em if they didn’t do jest right.
But that didn’t stop the cheatin’, ner make thievin’ rascals quit,
And I reckon that the average is
    Quite
    Good
    Yit.

It’s true a few are tryin’ to grasp all there is in sight,
And I know that men are cheatin’, they still cheer the ones that fight;
They have legislated Satan out of bizness, and they say
That our fathers didn’t worship the same God we do today;
Men are crowdin’ one another, and they crush and steal and lie,
Never fearin’ lakes of fire may be ready when they die,
But there’s others, oh my brothers, that still follow Christ, and it
Seems to me as though the average is
    Quite
    Good
    Yit.

From the Rock Island Argus, August 29, 1913. By Henry Howland.

One who had traveled far and seen
    The lands that poets praise,
Who knew the hills and plains of France
    And England’s flowery ways,
Who through the old world and the new
    Had passed with wondering eyes,
Stopped where a toiler stood, one day,
    And heard his pensive sighs.

The scene that spread before them there
    Had naught to give delight;
There were no lovely vales, no streams
    Nor snowy peaks in sight;
Nor saw no ships with white sails spread,
    Nor gazed at fruitful plains;
The fields were small and poor and bare,
    No flowers lined the lanes.

He that had seen Yosemite
    And journeyed down the Rhine,
Who had beheld the snow upon
    The tallest Apennine,
Spoke of the wonders of the world;
    The other shook his head:
“Here is the fairest scene of all
    The world contains,” he said.

“But here,” the traveler exclaimed,
    “Is neither lofty height
Nor ancient castle that may once
    Have housed a gallant knight;
Here is no splendid waterfall,
    No rich plain spreads away—
Yet here is laid the fairest scene
    In all the world, you say?”

“Here is the fairest scene of all,”
    The simple one replied,
And pointed to a cottage where
    Poor vines crawled up the side.
“There are no castles here; the fields
    Are small and poor and bare,
Yet here is earth’s most lovely spot—
    The one I love is there.”