Category: The Seattle Star

From The Seattle Star, August 18, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Dear lady of my heart’s desire,
    I love your lithe and slender grace,
Your rhythmic ease I much admire,
    I like the dancing steps you pace;
Your every move is my delight,
    So dainty and so brisk and free
You are a most entrancing sight—
    Oh, won’t you trot through life with me?

With love the fiddler for the dance
    And hearts as merry as a rhyme
We’ll turkey trot a glad romance
    In syncopated two-step time,
Though care should tread upon our toes
    And rough and bumpy be the floor,
We’d laugh at troubles such as those
    And gayly turkey trot some more!

Come then, my love, and be my wife
    And take the fate that fortune sends;
We’ll tango pleasantly through life
    And one-step till the music ends;
We’ll buy a rag-time gramophone
    With syncopated melody,
If you will only be my own
    And turkey-trot through life with me!

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

Now Adam most probably knew
    Much more about life than his son,
But I’ll warrant his son snorted, “Pooh,”
    When father told what should be done.

Like many a boy who is bright,
    He said, “The Old Man’s on the Shelf.”
Well—he learned that his father was right,
    But he had to find out for himself.

And so it has gone down the years,
    The young ever doubting the old
And suffering sorrow and tears
    Because they refuse to be told.

Each girl—oh, you couldn’t tell her;
    Each boy was a wise little elf
And so, as was bound to occur,
    He had to find out for himself.

Through trouble and sorrow and pain
    We gather the little we know,
And then when we try to explain
    Our children just laugh as they go.

You laughed at the words of your dad
    (And you’ve paid both in worry and pelf)
And you’ll get the same deal from your lad,
    For he has to find out for himself!

From The Seattle Star, July 14, 1913. By Berton Braley.

There’s many a viand that pleases my taste
And adds to my joy and the girth of my waist.
I’m fond of ice cream and of crackers and cheese
And terrapin, too, with my palate agrees;
Of food that is simple and food that is rare
I find I can utilize all of my share,
But wondrous, indeed, are the inroads I make
On cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak!

Ah, me! How I pity the mortal who dwells
In big boarding houses or costly hotels.
No matter how richly and grandly he dines,
With French-fried dishes and notable wines,
He never can know the delights of the deed
Of raiding the icebox in search of a feed;
He never can know what it is to partake
Of cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.

For when the fore part of the evening has sped
And the stomach expresses a wish to be fed,
To satisfy hunger that follows the play,
I have no desire for the gaudy cafe;
Ah, no! I would stick to my regular hunch
And dig in the icebox in search of my lunch.
At home, in the kitchen, my fast I would break
With cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.

From The Seattle Star, July 4, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 Here, in the rays of the blazing sun
     And the heat of the summer weather,
 The Cause that Lost and the Cause that Won
     Met on the field together;
 And the Boys in Gray and the Boys in Blue
 Fought for the cause they thought was true
     In the battle’s smoke and smother,
 And the blood ran red and the fields grew black
 And the dead lay still in the cannon’s track,
     As brother fought with brother.
 
 There were deeds of daring on either side
     ‘Mid the big guns’ crash and thunder,
 Which thrill the heart with a mighty pride
     And the brain with a sense of wonder,
 To think of the gallant lads and gay
 Who fought for the blue or the somber gray
     With a bravery fine and splendid—
 And then we shudder to think, in truth,
 Of the thousands slain in the flower of youth
     When the long hot day was ended.
 
 The battle was won and the price was paid
     In agony, blood and treasure,
 And wife and mother and sorrowing maid
     Knew pain that we may not measure,
 For thus we learned at a fearful cost
 That the brave Lost Cause was better lost,
     Though gallant in song and story,
 Lost, that the Union might not die
 But South and North alike might fly
     The Flag that we call Old Glory!
 
 Here in the rays of the blazing sun
     And the heat of the summer weather,
 Was fought the battle that made us One,
     A people close-bound together!
 God grant that never again may we
 Know such a struggle to keep us free,
     With all of our hearts we pray it,
 But if the summons should come again
 To pay the price as we paid it then,
     God grant us the strength to pay it!

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

 Miss Nancy O’Neill was a suffragette lady,
     Decidedly militant, too,
 Who was loved by an Irishman, Martin O’Grady,
     But vainly indeed, did he woo;
 For Nancy was busy at blowing up houses
     And kicking the chancellor’s cat,
 And so had no time to be thinking of spouses
     Or frivolous subjects like that.
 
 With bon bons and flowers poor Martin pursued her,
     But Nancy was deaf to his suit.
 Though gently and sweetly and kindly he wooed her
     At all his proposals she’d hoot.
 Till finally, wearied of being so tender,
     So patient and placid and calm,
 He gave up the homage he once used to render—
     And sent her a dynamite bomb.
 
 He trampled her garden with ardor most fervent,
     Cast bricks through her window with zest,
 Set fire to the house and abducted her servant,
     Attempted to poison her guest;
 So Nancy said, “How can I EVER resist him?
     Such militance beats me,” she said;
 So she put her fair arms round his neck and she kissed him,
     And now they are happily wed.

From The Seattle Star, April 10, 1913.
 

 It’s pleasant on the upper deck
     Where ocean breezes blow
 To lazy in a steamer chair
     And watch the waves that flow;
 It’s pleasant on the upper deck,
     But mighty hot below.
 
 There’s fun upon the upper deck
     There’s mirth and laughter free,
 There’s music on the upper deck
     As gay as it can be.
 But it’s the boilers down below
     That drives her through the sea.
 
 It’s fine upon the upper deck
     While downward, near the keel,
 The blaze will make you nearly blind,
     The heat will make you reel.
 But we’re the boys who make the steam
     That drives the shaft of steel.
 
 The people on the upper deck,
     They only pays their way;
 We stokers in the boiler room,
     We envies such as they.
 But we—we drives the bloomin’ ship,
     While they—they only play!
 
 There always is an upper deck
     And boilers down below,
 And them that’s on the upper deck,
     They think they’re all the show.
 But it’s the fellows near the keel
     That makes the vessel go.

From The Seattle Star, April 7, 1913. 
 By Berton Braley.
 

 She’s much more important than presidents are
     Or other officials of state;
 In HER hands is power to make or to mar
     Our national future and fate;
 The men of tomorrow are hers for today
     To counsel and pilot and guide.
 With patience and love she will show them the way
     To lives that are worthy of pride.
 
 She is molding the thoughts of the girls and the boys
     To whom we must leave our tomorrows;
 She learns of their every-day pleasures and joys
     And shares in their pains and their sorrows;
 The youth of the country is put in her care
     To learn of the way they should go;
 She gives them her best—and a little to spare
     Which only the children can know.
 
 We know how she works and how nobly she serves
     With all of her soul and her heart,
 Devoting her strength and her health and her nerves
     To playing her excellent part,
 And so it’s our pleasure and even our boast
     The way we are paying our debts,
 Since we give her a salary equal (almost)
     To that which the janitor gets.

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

 If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing,
     If you like him or you love him, tell him now!
 Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration
     As he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;
 For, no matter how you shout it he won’t really care about it,
     He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed.
 If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,
     For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead!
 More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny
     And the hearty, warm approval of a friend.
 For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver,
     And it gives you heart and spirit to the end;
 If he earns your praise—bestow it; if you like him, let him know it;
     Let the words of true encouragement be said.
 Do not wait till life is over and he’s underneath the clover,
     For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead!

From The Seattle Star, March 4, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 Oh, yes, I had quit it “forever,”
     The scissors and paste and all that,
 The haste and the frantic endeavor,
     The typewriter’s merry rat-tat;
 I tired of the holler for “copy,”
     I longed for a life that was tame,
 And my friends called me shabby and sloppy,
     So I dropped from the Newspaper Game.
 
 But something kept whispering, “Billy,
     You’re out of your element here.
 This sinecure’s meant for some Willie
     Who don’t know a scoop from a beer.
 This joint is too tied by decorum,
     This routine is always the same;
 Your clothes don’t wear out where you wore ‘em
     When playing the Newspaper Game.”
 
 Whenever the newsboys would holler,
     Whenever the extras came out,
 I tugged at my unsweated collar
     And my heart-strings were tugged by a doubt,
 Till at last—well, I doubted no longer,
     I passed up my cinch, and I came
 To the call that I knew was the stronger,
     And I plunged in the Newspaper Game.
 
 The typewriters rattled to greet me,
     The smell of sour paste-pots was sweet,
 I found the old “mill” there to meet me,
     I dropped in my battered old seat.
 The news room was dingy and smoky,
     But a shiver of joy shook my frame,
 For I’d quit the “good job” that was pokey,
     And was back at the Newspaper Game.
 
 Below were the linotypes clicking,
     And the smell of hot lead came to me;
 The sport man was nervously flicking
     The ash from his “cigarootee.”
 My typewriter acted unruly,
     My fingers felt clumsy and lame,
 But I knew I was back again, truly,
     To the joy of the Newspaper Game.
 
 You can swear you will leave it behind you.
     You can flee to wherever you will,
 But the newspaper fever will find you,
     The newspaper fervor will thrill.
 It makes—or more likely, it breaks you,
     You die—and leave scarcely a name;
 But not until death overtakes you
     Are you free of the Newspaper Game.