Category: The Tacoma Times

From The Tacoma Times, April 8, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 And so we part in friendship, yes,
 With neither pain or bitterness.
 And, unbewitched, we plainly see
 The meaning of our comedy;
 Yet this we know—and knowing, smile,
 At least we loved a little while!
 
 The vows we made, the faith we swore,
 To love—and love forevermore,
 Are quite forgot; we turn and go
 Certain that it is better so,
 Yet, though Romance cannot beguile,
 At least we loved a little while.
 
 Because you loved me, I have known
 A world I could not find alone.
 And from my love you did not gain
 A glimpse of palaces in Spain.
 What if we missed the Blissful Isle?
 At least we loved a little while.
 
 Good-bye—upon your brow I press
 The kiss of faithful friendliness.
 For, though we part from sorrow free,
 We lived a space in Arcady,
 And we can whisper, with a smile,
 “At least we loved a little while!”

From The Tacoma Times, April 1, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 He raved at women’s folly
     In following the fads,
 Declared, with melancholy,
     His money went in scads
 To sate his wifie’s passion
     For shoes and hats and those
 Materials of fashion
     Like lingerie and hose.
 
 At corsets he was sneering,
     At powder and at paint,
 Tight shoes would set him jeering
     With words not few or faint;
 He laughed at bogus tresses;
     He scorned the hobble skirt,
 Condemning women’s dresses
     With vim and vigor curt.
 
 So wifie dressed one morning
     To please her hubby’s taste,
 All artifices scorning,
     Uncorseted her waist;
 Her shoes of size most ample
     (A hygienic last)
 She meant, she said, to trample
     Her follies of the past.
 
 Her nose was free from powder,
     Her hair was all her own,
 Yet far from feeling prouder
     At how her sense had grown,
 Her husband bellowed, “Woman,
     You look a perfect fright;
 Go dress like something human;
     You surely are a sight!”

From The Tacoma Times, March 17, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 We started in at half-past two
     To roll for “just a little while,”
 As bowlers very often do,
     An idle moment to beguile;
 At three o’clock I said, “Let’s quit.”
     (I’d won in nearly every frame.)
 My comrade answered, “Nixy. Nit!
     Come on, let’s roll just One More Game!”
 
 And then we bowled along till four.
     My friend by that time, forged ahead.
 “Aw, say!” he murmured, “It’s a bore.
     Let’s cut it out and quit,” he said.
 But no, it was my turn to shout,
     And so I made my boastful claim:
 “Give me a chance! I’ll beat you out,
     Come on—let’s roll just one more game.”
 
 We rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled
     And then we rolled and rolled again.
 At home our dinners both grew cold;
     We rolled till nine, till half past ten;
 We rolled until the dawn grew gray
     And searching parties for us came;
 We shrieked as we were dragged away,
     “Come on, let’s roll just ONE MORE GAME.”

From The Tacoma Times, February 12, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 We are looking, we are looking for the Masters of Finance,
 And it’s no use fleeing from us as we dauntlessly advance
 With a summons and subpoena and a warrant in our hand
 And with double-barreled questions and an air of stern command;
 We are trailing wily captains of the wicked system camp
 And the malefactors tremble when they hear our sturdy tramp;
 There are men of mighty millions who were never known to quail
 Till they heard us stepping softly as we hit upon their trail.
 
 Let the Wall Street powers thunder, we are not a bit afraid,
 We’re the bravest little hunters that you ever saw arrayed.
 We’ve been probing, poking, peeking through the jungle where they roam
 The fierce and savage monsters who are feared in every home;
 And when we’ve got ‘em captured through our skill and courage high
 We’ll put ‘em on the witness stand and make ‘em testify.
 We’re out for big game hunting—there’s a lot upon our list
 And when at last we’ve got ‘em, WE SHALL SLAP ‘EM ON THE WRIST!

From The Tacoma Times, January 24, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 Each time I go to buy my shoes,
 I say, “Now THIS time I will choose
 A last to fit my dainty foot
 And simply seek Myself to suit.
 I will not let the subtle clerk
 With siren voice and oily smirk
 Persuade me that I ought to fall
 For shoes too pointed and too small.”
 
 But when I enter in the store
 It goes exactly as of yore;
 The clerk convinces me that I
 Have no idea what to buy,
 And by some magic makes me see
 That what he wants to sell to me—
 A pair of shoes too short and tight—
 Is really just exactly right.
 He makes me think a narrow toe
 Is really very broad, and so
 I buy HIS choice—and not the pair
 Which common sense would bid me wear.
 
 Result—my corns their aches renew,
 I have a painful week or two;
 But when that pair wears out—ah, then,
 I’ll do the same fool thing again!

From The Tacoma Times, January 14, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 If “business” cannot thrive unless
 It works a child to weariness,
 If “business” to be “good” demands
 The toil of little baby hands,
 And takes the tiny child away
 From sun and fields and merry play;
 If “business” makes the young its spoil
 And drags the mother forth to toil
 At tasks that rob her eyes of light
 From bitter morn to gloomy night;
 If “business” can’t afford to give
 A wage on which a girl can live,
 But drives her out upon the street
 To gain her clothes—and food to eat;
 If “business” only thus can feed
 By heartless shame and ruthless greed,
 Then “business” is a foul disgrace,
 A menace to the human race
 Which should be fought with will intense
 Like some vast, spreading pestilence.
 
 But business can be cleansed and purged,
 Its evils fought, its scoundrels scourged;
 The Plunderbund may rage and rant,
 Swearing, “It can’t be done, it can’t!”
 Proclaiming Ruin and Despair
 If we should make the game for Square;
 But, spite of Scribe and Pharisee
 We strive for right that is to be!

From The Tacoma Times, January 7, 1913.
 By Berton Braley.
 

 I don’t know nuthin’ about yer books,
     An’ I don’t much care to know ‘em.
 I’m scarcely wise to a novel’s looks,
     An’ I never has read a poem.
 Them written things is Greek to me,
     I’m mightily shy on learnin’,
 But I know the woods, an’ the wind that’s free
     An’ the smell of the wood fires burnin’.
 
 I know the call of the matin’ bird
     An’ the trail of the stag to water,
 An’ the ways of the wild things, winged an’ furred,
     That all of you “wise” folks slaughter.
 I know the song of the wind at night
     In the pine trees softly stirrin’,
 An’ I know the cry of the ducks in flight
     An’ the sound of the wings a-whirrin’.
 
 Do you know the way to pack an’ camp
     When there ain’t no friend beside you?
 Kin you keep yer route on an all-day’s tramp
     With never a trail to guide you?
 You can’t? Well, mebbe, I’m quite a chump
     To you an’ yer learned brothers,
 But let me tell you sir, plain an’ plump,
     There certainly are some others!

From The Tacoma Times, December 25, 1912. By Berton Braley.
 

 Diverse feasts upon his golden plate
 And Lazarus is at his gate,
 The same starved beggar whom we know
 From nineteen hundred years ago,
 In reeking slum and tenement,
 The children whimper, wan and spent,
 And hunger-sharpened tongues deride
 The mockery of Christmas-tide,
 And mothers weep in woe forlorn—
 Was it for this that Christ was born?
 
 In flaring light and glaring hall
 Vice holds her strident carnival,
 And mortals fight and steal and lie
 For gold to join this revel high;
 Men sell their truth, their souls, their fame,
 And women know the taint of shame
 By greed and passion downward whirled
 Along the Highway of the World;
 And true men cry, in wrath and scorn,
 “Was it for this that Christ was born?”
 
 And yet—though toilers taste distress
 While wasters roll in idleness,
 Though Mammon seems to hold in sway
 The people of this later day,
 It is but seeming—truth and right
 Are leading all the world to light,
 And old abuses fall to dust
 Before our new-born faith and trust.
 
 We are not heedless—Christmas chimes
 Ring the true spirit of the times,
 Of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men,”
 Brave words that thrill and thrill again,
 For in the deeps of every heart
 The little flames of fervor start,
 And grow and grow until we burn
 All bitter wrongs to overturn,
 Till all the world we’re children of
 Shall know the perfect rule of Love!

Ah Gentle Savior, pierced and torn,
It was for THIS that You were born!

From The Tacoma Times, December 5, 1912. By Berton Braley.
 

 They eat off a trunk and they sit on a box,
 The floor is all cluttered with fish-nets and socks,
 They live on spaghetti and red ink and cheese
 And talk about “Art” with some unction and ease.
 Their hair’s never trimmed, and it’s seldom they shave,
 At “puritan morals” they sneer and they rave;
 They care not to sweep or to scrub or to dust,
 They never pay bills till they find that they must,
 They go in for fads in their manner of dress,
 They revel in dirt and they’re fond of a mess.
 
 Of “base money grubbers” they frequently rant,
 Referring to artists who “sell”—which they can’t!
 Yet give them a chance where the cash is the test,
 They’re just as commercial as all of the rest.
 
 They strut and they swagger, they poise and they pose,
 And each has a horn which he constantly blows,
 Their minds and their rooms with disorder are rife—
 And they call this “Bohemian Life!”

From The Tacoma Times, December 2, 1912. By Berton Braley.
 

 Don’t be a clam when you travel,
 Don’t sit like a mute in your seat;
     There’s a lot you can learn
     If you’ll pleasantly turn
 And talk to the folks you will meet;
 There’s a heap of good tales will unravel
 If you’ll merely be cordial and kind,
     For a wise man can gain
     From his talks on the train
 A whole bunch of food for his mind.
 
 Some people could travel forever
 And never be wiser at all
     Though they covered the map
     While the sociable chap
 Will gain by a journey that’s small.
 It’s well to make every endeavor
 To let down the conventional bars,
     For you’ll benefit, if
     You don’t act like a stiff
 With the folks that you meet on the cars.