From The Seattle Star, January 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. We won’t be too ambitious in a resoluting way, We’ll plan on very little of the new deal stuff. For neither Rome nor Athens was completed in a day And reforming’s not accomplished by a great big bluff. We’re going to take it gently and by stages and degrees; Our goodness will not raise us to a higher sphere. But we’ll try to show improvement in our actions, if you please, And be a LITTLE better than we were last year! We shan’t upset the country by our thoughtfulness and care, We’ll go on being selfish to a large extent. But may be there’ll be troubles we can kind of help to share, And maybe we’ll be gentler in our temperament; We shall not have a halo for the charity we do (A mortal with a halo would be mighty queer) But we’ll moderate our tempers—(can we count a bit on you?) And we’ll be a LITTLE kinder than we were last year! We won’t be too ambitious in the matter of reform, But we’ll be a little better if we find we can. And where the market’s crowded and the game is getting warm We’ll be a little nicer to our fellow man. We shan’t be shining angels and we wouldn’t if we could, We only hope for progress and we start right here. We want to be—not perfect, or even “goody good!”— But Better Human Beings than we were last year!
Category: The Seattle Star
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New Year’s Resolutions
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Content
From The Seattle Star, December 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. It’s lots of fun to travel Around from place to place, To watch the road unravel, The country change its face; It’s fun to be a rover, A pilgrim, now and then, But when the journey’s over I’m glad I’m home again. To visit friends is pleasure Wherever they may be; Such joys I always treasure And hold in memory. And yet—somehow—why is it? No matter where I’ve been, When finished is my visit I’m glad I’m home again. Home, where I can be selfish And lazy-like as well, Withdraw like any shellfish Within my comfy shell To shun the wide world’s tourney And loaf around my den— I’ve had a pleasant journey. I’m glad I’m home again.
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Youth
From The Seattle Star, December 17, 1912. By Berton Braley. I’m glad I’m young and fond of youthful laughter, Finding much joy in all this wondrous earth; My heart a house—filled up from floor to rafter With love of life and light and gentle mirth— I’m glad I’m young, with eyes that still can twinkle, With ears that pleasure when the songs are sung, And lips that still recall the way to crinkle At jest and whimsy—ah, I’m glad I’m young! I’m glad I’m young, although my hair has whitened And I am near my three-score years and ten; Youth in my heart has kept my spirits lightened, The ways of youth are still within my ken; And if I cannot dance—I watch and listen, Thinking of memories to which I’ve clung; My blood still leaps, my eyes are still aglisten, And, though I’m old, I’m glad that I am young!
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The Traveler’s Bane
From The Seattle Star, December 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. The old Inns were pleasant In decades gone by, But just at the present There’s none of them nigh. When travel was rougher These Inns served full well, But NOW we must suffer The Small Town Hotel! When, wayworn and dusty We land at the door, The rooms are all musty, There’s mould on the floor. Ah, pity the drummer Who must stay a spell Both winter and summer At this shine hotel! Its beds are all bumpy (Infrequently clean), Its oatmeal is lumpy, Its lights kerosene; Its “linen” is spattered, Its dining rooms smell, It’s blowsy and battered— The Small Town Hotel. Whatever you eat there Is sure to be fried; The landlord you meet there Is weazened and dried; There’s no one to hop at The ring of your bell; It’s awful to stop at The Small Town Hotel.
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The Puritan Strain
From The Seattle Star, December 6, 1912. By Berton Braley. The artists and critics my rave as they will Of prudishness prim and precise, They claim that it hampers their art and their skill To have to be proper and nice. But for all of its squeamishness, all of its cant, It holds us to decency, plain, And I’m willing to lift up my voice in a chant, A hymn to the “Puritan Strain.” It may be a trifle too rigid and grim And hard on the spirit of Youth, But it keeps the commandments from growing too dim And it holds to the right and the truth. It’s harsh and unyielding in many a way That causes but worry and pain, But a man or a nation won’t go far astray If controlled by the “Puritan Strain.” It’s helped us to conquer the country we own Which stretches from sea unto sea, It’s sobered and tempered us while we have grown A nation united and free. It’s grappling undaunted with problems most vast, With power of hand and of brain; That grim, granite purpose will save us at last— Thank God for the “Puritan Strain!”
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The Singer’s Apology
From The Seattle Star, November 18, 1912. By Berton Braley. I have heartened your soul for battle, I have turned your face to the fray, I have stirred your blood to a seething flood with many a valiant lay; I have made your songs of conflict and slogans to lead you on, I have chanted you forth to victory when all your hope was gone. You march to the beat of songs I sing, they comfort your sleep at night And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight! If I go forth to the battle field and join in the conflict there I am only one of a thousand men who does his little share But the songs I make in my sheltered tent as I toil with brain and pen Are the breath that fans the fighting flame in the hearts of a thousand men. And, though I take not to the field or stand in the battle line The word that carries the warriors on to victory is mine! I have lifted your souls from fell defeat to battle again—and win I have sounded a clarion call of faith amid the fighting din What matters it if my hand is weak when I make ten thousand strong By the thrill of a magic chant of words and the rhythm of a song? I keep the private’s courage high, the captain’s eyes alight— And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight!
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The Compendium of Knowledge
From The Seattle Star, November 16, 1912. By Berton Braley. I bought a cyclopedia (Ten volumes, bound in calf). Said I, “My reading’s been too light; All froth and useless chaff; I’m really ignorant, I’ve been Too frivolous, by half!” Upon the shelf I placed the set And gazed on it with pride, And I was awed to think how much Of wisdom was inside; What harvestings of wondrous lore, That came from far and wide. Upon that self-same shelf it stands, And it will linger there; For, though I studied patiently, Then wept and tore my hair, At last I gave the problem up, In anguish and despair. For every highbrow in the world Had writ of various things, “Of ships and soap and sealing wax, And cabbages and kings.” I couldn’t understand a word, And still my poor head rings. They wrote in seven syllables, With formulae abstruse; They wallowed deep in Delphic words, Which scared me like the deuce. Among their curves and diagrams, I muttered, “What’s the use?” From out its shelf that set of books Looks down with aspect grand And, gazing at it, I remark: “Is there no soul at hand To write a cyclopedia Which folks can understand?”
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Nothing Serious
From The Seattle Star, November 15, 1912. There’s many a man who kicks against The price of pork and steak, Who says that the cost of chalky milk Gives him a constant ache, Who howls when he buys a dozen eggs And roars a half an hour When buying a cake of laundry soap Or half a sack of flour, Who threatens to cause someone’s arrest And rails against the trust, And says that the cost of living soon Will make the nation bust— BUT Who’ll blow a good five dollar bill For one of the latest shirts And pick out a swell three-dollar tie And make no sign it hurts. Who’ll stand at a bar with twenty men And buy round after round In treating the crowd to foamy drinks And never make a sound!
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Responsibility
From The Seattle Star, November 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us, However we may try to shift the shame, It’s you and I that really are to blame If things are in a tangle and a muss. If Might is Right, if Goodness yields to Greed, If Mammon thrives, and God is quite forgot, If evil reigns in many a beauty spot, It is because We have not taken heed. The wrongs that live are those we tolerate Because we have not tried to make them right; If Darkness rules where Justice calls for Light, If Love is trampled out by Wrath and Hate, If little children toll and women slave, If some men starve while others feast and waste, If Truth is lost and Liberty disgraced, If millions fast from childhood to the grave, It is because, for all our noise and fuss, We stay content with matters as they are, We have the final choice to make or mar— Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us!
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The Plea of the Ordinary Reader
From The Seattle Star, October 21, 1912. By Berton Braley. I feel I am needing a change in my reading; I weary of tales which describe The poor east side tailor who lives in his squalor Amid all the rest of his tribe; I also am weary of stories more cheery Which chiefly—yes, wholly—concern The beautiful heiress with gowns made in Paris And the youth who has money to burn. I long for narrations of people whose stations Are not so extreme either way. The people I meet in the office and street in The course of my business and play; I don’t care for stories of wealth and its glories Nor tales of acute misery; I long in my fiction to find the depiction Of commonplace people—like me!