Category: The Seattle Star

From The Seattle Star, January 12, 1914. By Berton Braley.

Why does the dog throw back his head
And howl at night to greet the moon?
In ages long forgot and dead,
When earth was still a block new hewn,
The wolf pack roamed the wilderness,
And with them ran, all gaunt and gray,
The father of our friend today,
A white-fanged wolf—whom time has made
Into the slave of man, his aid,
A comrade ever faithful grown,
Who sleeps beside his own hearth stone.

But now and then when moonlight thrills
Across the valley and the hills,
The old wild magic steals again
Over the canine friend of men;
He seems to slink the forest through,
The ancient forest that he knew;
He seems to hear again the pack
That bays upon the white moon’s track,
And from his throat and shaggy jowl
Issues again the old wolf howl,
The ululating lupine wail
That once re-echoed on the trail!
I know not if this tale be truth,
But so ’twas told me, in my youth!

From The Seattle Star, December 31, 1913. By Berton Braley.

You can’t be Shelley or Keats or Burns,
    Or Caesar or Edmund Kean;
They had their chance and they did their turns
    And now they are gone, I ween.
And why should you copy each august shade
    Who lies on a graveyard shelf?
HE didn’t copy, his fame was made
    By being his own true self!

You can’t be Kipling or Roosevelt,
    Or Wilson or Bryan, too;
But you can be known, and you can be felt
    By being Yourself all through;
No man grows great when he imitates,
    For that is the way to fail;
The fellow who wins from the frowning fates
    Must mark out his own clear trail!

You may not reach to the heights of fame,
    For few can climb so high,
But at least you can play in the lively game
    Whenever you want to try;
You may not get to the top at all,
    Nor capture renown or pelf,
But, win or lose, or rise or fall,
    At least you can be yourself!

From The Seattle Star, December 29, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Oh yes, I’m guilty, right enough;
It ain’t no use to throw a bluff,
An’ yet, I guess, Society
Kin share the guilt along o’ me!
I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

Born in a dirty, reeking slum,
Where decent sunlight never come,
An’ starved for food an’ starved for air
Through all my years of boyhood there,
While evil things, an’ low an’ mean
Was nearly all the life I seen,
Of course, I growed to be a tough,
A hoodlum, and a bad young rough!

But even then I might uv been
Reformed to be some use to men,
If, every time I left the trail,
They didn’t slam me into jail
Where thieves an’ all that rotten crew
Would teach me worse than all I knew.

Oh yes, I’m guilty; that is clear,
But every guy who’s listenin’ here
An’ all you swells an’ goodly folks,
Who sniffs at me an’ such-like blokes,
Is guilty, too—along o’ me,
An’ will be till the world is free
Of stinkin’ slums an’ rotten holes
That poison people’s hearts and souls,
An’ cheats ‘em from their very birth
From every decent chance on earth.
I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

From The Seattle Star, December 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.

In the days of old Rameses, when he ruled along the Nile,
There were human sacrifices of a rather gory style.
And if tender-hearted people at this sort of thing demurred,
“It’s a Necessary Evil,” they were told, when it occurred.
“For the mighty gods require it, and we mustn’t tell them ‘No,’
Or the crops would cease to prosper and the Nile would cease to flow!”
Yet in time this custom perished, ‘spite of priest and king and thrall,
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!

In the time of Mr. Nero, who was emperor of Rome,
There were Necessary Evils which were very much at home.
There were gladiators’ battles and a lot of other games,
Such as feeding Christian martyrs to the lions or the flames.
But the reign of Nero ended and he had his little day,
And those Necessary Evils were completely swept away—
Swept away like little sandhills in a sudden windy squall—
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!

There were good and kindly people who defended slavery
As a Necessary Evil which was simply bound to be.
Yet it’s washed away forever by the blood of noble men;
It’s a Necessary Evil which will not come back again!
So the Barroom and the Brothel, which are ever talked about
As two Necessary Evils which we cannot do without—
They shall go like those before them, they shall crumble to their fall—
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!

From The Seattle Star, December 10, 1913. By Berton Braley.

I’m sick of your mobs and machinery,
    I’m weary of second-hand thrills;
I’m tired of your two-by-four scenery,
    Your nice little valleys and hills;
I want to see peaks that are bare again
    And ragged and rugged and high;
To know the old tang in the air again,
    And the blue of the clear Western sky!

Once more in each fiber and fold of me
    I feel the old wonderment brew;
And again has the spell taken hold of me,
    The spell of the mountains I knew;
So the city means nothing but slavery,
    And my heart is a load in my breast,
And life will be stale and unsavory
    Till I stand on the hills of the West.

Let the homebodies “hobo” and “rover” me;
    Poor plodders, they never can know
How the fret for the hills has come over me
    And the fever that bids me to go
Away from traditions gone moldering,
    Away from the paths overtired,
To the place where the mountains are shouldering
    Right up to the Archways of God!

From The Seattle Star, November 28, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Sometimes I long for the days of old
    When men were quick with a trusty blade;
When dandies strutted in silk and gold
    And women rustled in stiff brocade;
When life was filled with the old Romance,
    With courtly manners and stately ways,
And brave Adventure had half a chance
    ‘Neath the smiling skies of the Good Old Days.
And yet—and yet—this thought keeps coming,
    They had no plumbing!

There’s a wondrous thrill in the good old time
    When gallants fought for a gallant king,
And all went gay as a lilting rhyme
    And life was a rollicking, joyous thing;
When Milord rode forth in a scarlet coat,
    With spotless lace at his neck and wrist,
And a faithful squire at his side to note
    The deeds he did—and the maids he kissed!
Yet, for all his deeds, and dear, he held ‘em,
    He bathed but seldom!

I sometimes long for the days of old
    And sigh to climb from the modern rut;
Then I think of the castles, dim and cold,
    And I think of the poor man’s airless hut;
I think of the candles they used for light,
    The lumbering stage they rode upon;
I think of the Might that passed for Right,
    And I’m glad the good old days have gone!
They were pleasant days for the hero dapper,
    But—I’m no scrapper!

From The Seattle Star, September 26, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Let’s get together and tell ourselves
    How superfine we are.
Let’s perch way up on our lofty shelves
    And gaze on life from afar;
Let’s look with scorn on the common herd
    Who toil at a useful job,
Let’s speak of art as a magic word
    And sneer at the busy “mob.”

Let’s speak of faith as an outworn thing,
    Of love as a creed that’s dead.
At everything plain and simple we’ll fling
    A barb with a poisoned head;
Let’s jest at honor and sneer at law
    And chortle at truth as rot,
Till people murmur, “We never saw
    Such a liberal-minded lot.”

And while we jabber and sneer and smirk
    And our words of wisdom fall
The world will trudge to its daily work
    And never will care at all!

From The Seattle Star, September 20, 1913. By Berton Braley.

The world’s a rotten hole,
It is, upon my soul,
    No place to live in;
There’s no one on the square
And people everywhere
    By greed are driven.
I haven’t any vim or real ambition
And all my plans are going to perdition.

The weather’s on the bum,
The future’s looking glum,
    Fate crowds and shoves me.
A pall of gloom descends,
I haven’t any friends,
    Nobody loves me.
If some one said, “Cheer up,”—well, I’d waylay him
And grab a heavy bludgeon—and I’d slay him!

The cheerfullest of men
Gets like this, now and then,
    And bile and choler
When life just makes him sore,
And he will kick and roar,
    And swear and holler;
So let me rage and snort with temper fearful,
And when the fit is over I’ll be cheerful.

From The Seattle Star, September 1, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Out of chaos, out of murk
I arose and did my work
While the ages changed and sped
I was toiling for my bread
Underneath my sturdy blows
Forests fell and cities rose
And the hard, reluctant soil
Blossomed richly from my toil.
Palaces and temples grand
Wrought I with my cunning hand.
Rich indeed was my reward—
Stunted soul, and body scarred
With the marks of scourge and rod
I, the tiller of the sod
From the cradle to the grave
Shambled through the world—a slave!
Crushed and trampled, beaten, cursed,
Serving best, but served the worst,
Starved and cheated, gouged and spoiled
Still I builded, still I toiled
Undernourished, underpaid
In the world myself had made.

Up from slavery I rise,
Dreams and wonder in my eyes,
After brutal ages past
Coming to my own at last
I was slave—but I am free!
I was blind—but I can see!
I, the builder, I the maker,
I, the calm tradition-breaker,
Slave and serf and clod no longer,
Know my strength—and who is stronger?
I am done with ancient frauds,
Ancient lies and ancient gods—
All that sham is overthrown,
I shall take and keep my own
Unimpassioned, unafraid,
Master of the World I’ve made!