From The Topeka State Journal, February 21, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I remember back in the eighties when Hank Frisby went to school Everybody in the village had him doped out for a fool. Fer he was so gol dum homely, all the critics in the place Said there wasn’t no intelligence or larnin’ in his face. He was tall, rawboned and knockneed and as awkward as a cow And the gals they always passed him by and never smiled nohow. He was bashful and was awkward and he seemed to have no vim And the fellows round the school house always poked their fun at him. Nuthin’ much was said about it when he left our town one day Hardly anybody knowed the fact that he had gone away. Once in a while they’d mention Hank and wonder where he went But nobody ever found out, fer they didn’t care a cent. Nigh a dozen years passed by and then one day a thing occurred And it caused more lively gossip than the town had ever heard. Great big auto came a-tearin’ down the main street with a yank And the feller in the back seat givin’ orders—he was Hank. Hank had been out west and struck a vein of ore both wide and deep And he picked up half a million while our town folks were asleep. When he jumped out of his auto full of vigor and of vim You should have seen the town folks all a toadyin’ to him. He put up a splendid mansion and he wed the village belle And he has his dinner evenin’s—or at least that’s what they tell. He’s mayor now and owns a mill, a railroad and a bank And there’ no one in the village who ain’t mighty proud of Hank.
Category: The Topeka State Journal
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The Pendulum of Time
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Easy
From The Topeka State Journal, February 20, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. It isn’t so hard to be happy And have everything that you need A yacht and a fine automobile Which grinds out a wonderful speed; Fine porterhouse steak every evening And eggs for your breakfast each morn; A fine house and lot in the suburbs And clothes that are not patched and worn A lot of hard coal in the cellar A library full of fine books A houseful of excellent servants Including the finest of cooks A trip to the seashore each summer And Europe whene’r you would go; No, it isn’t so hard to be happy If you’ve got nine millions or so.
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Grand Opry
From The Topeka State Journal, February 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Grand Opry as a form of entertainment can’t be beat. I love to cough up ten good bones and buy myself a seat. To hear some howling tenor from some low-browed foreign land Come forth and yell a lot of stuff that I can’t understand. I simply dote on listenin’ for several mortal hours While them high-priced sopranners exercise their vocal powers. I think I get my money’s worth. Oh yes, of course I do And I am always sorry when the jamboree is through. There’s nothing I like half so well and for a chance to go I’d walk five miles in my bare feet right through the ice and snow. I know what you are thinking, I’ve got your thought wave quite- You’re thinking I’m a liar and I guess you’re thinking right.
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Hayin’ Time
From The Topeka State Journal, December 28, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. All the treetoads are a yellin’ And the bees are buzzin’ round. The grasshoppers are hoppin’ Here and there upon the ground. All the birds are sweetly singin’ And all nature seems in tune. Makes a feller feel like workin’ Workin’ morning, night, and noon. And a sweet and wholesome odor Is a-risin’ from the earth. And the old sun is a-shinin’, Shinin’ down for all it’s worth. All the country folks are hustlin’ Startin’ at the break of day. Mother, she is busy cannin’, Me and dad are makin’ hay. Tell you what, we got to go some For there ain’t no time to lose, Four o’clock most every mornin’ Finds a feller in his shoes. Then he’s got to feed the horses And the pigs and mind the sheep ’Til he gets ‘em to the pasture While you folks in town all sleep. When it comes along to breakfast, Feller’s got an appetite And the salt pork and the taters And the beans taste out of sight, Then we hustle for the meadow And we hit her up ’til noon. When the dinner bell starts ringin’ And she never rings too soon. Half an hour and then we’re at it Pitching hay our very best And we never stop for nothin’ Till the sun sinks in the west. Then we’ve got to feed the horses Milk the cows and get the sheep And about the hour of nine we’re All in bed and fast asleep. Then we all get up at daylight And we start right in once more, Tell you what, a city feller Never’d think of gettin’ sore On his job, if he’d just travel Out here on some hot day And just stand around and look at Me and dad a-makin’ hay.
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A Small Order
From The Topeka State Journal, December 21, 1912. This is all that I expect Santa Claus to bring to me: One large boat—my old one’s wrecked; One large, lovely Christmas tree; Then I need a larger drum, That says “boom” instead of “tum”; And I want a nice long whip That will make our tomcat skip; Then I hope to get a ball That will dent the hardest wall, And a bat that will not split Every time that it is hit; Next I’d choose a pair of skates Just as nice as sister Kate’s, And a bright large monoplane That will carry rag-doll Jane; Then I’d like a lot of things That are run by hidden springs— Rats and spiders, and the like; And I need a brand new bike With a coaster-brake that will Make work easy down a hill. There! That’s all I asked him for. Still, I’m hoping (since he’s Dutch) That he’ll bring a few things more— As I have not asked for much!
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A Strenuous Courtship
From The Topeka State Journal, December 20, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Hank annexed a motorcycle Of the chugging, snorting kind, Then he went and called for Sadie And she clambered on behind. Through the city street they snorted Forty-seven miles an hour, Scaring people, dogs, and horses, Always crowding on more power. Sadie wrapped both arms around him And she hung on for dear life, Faster, faster, cutting through the Atmosphere just like a knife. Jolting, jarring, popping, snapping, Like the fourth day of July, On the wings of John D.’s petrol Did our Hank and Sadie fly. Hank he hollered: “Honest, Sadie, Ain’t it what you might call bliss? ’Tis a cinch, my little lady, I could ride through life like this.” “There ain’t nuthin’ to prevent it,” Screamed our Sadie in his ear, But the motor was so noisy, Hank could not exactly hear. Seven times did Sadie scream and Try to make him understand; Finally he got her answer And he blushed to beat the band. Then he turned around to kiss her. ’Tis a foolish thing to do When you’re on a bumpy highway, And you’re hitting fifty-two. Some time later they were rescued, They were hanging in a tree; Sadie, she was bruised and shaken, Hank had just a busted knee. In the hospital they married, Showing that they still had spunk, Then he sold the motorcycle To a man who dealt in junk. That was many moths ago and Now on cycles they don’t ride. But they run a horseless carriage With a cherub tucked inside.
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Her Coat
From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1912. When winter to the leafless world His coming still delays, She watches the thermometer With eager wistful gaze; And half a dozen times an hour She wishes she could go Where zero juggles with the bulb, And all is frozen snow. She reads the weather man’s report, And jumps for joy one day Because at last a frigid wave Is somewhere on the way. No, she is not an Eskimo From polar lands remote, She only wants it cold enough To wear her new fur coat.
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The Regular Fellow
From The Topeka State Journal, December 12, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton The Regular Feller is one who kin smile When everything goes dead wrong; Kin smile with a smile that’s free from all guile And tinker up some sort of song. The Regular Feller kin whistle a tune When things seem to be breaking bad, He tries to be happy with what he has got, Forgetting what he might have had. The Regular Feller don’t talk all the while, Like rattlebrained fellers all do, But when he says something, just make up your mind It’s something worth listenin’ to. The Regular Feller don’t tell what he’s done, Or big things he’s going to do soon. He just goes and does ‘em and keeps his mouth shut His secrets he tells to the moon. The Regular Feller has no time to stoop And dig into other folks’ ground. For small village scandal he cares not a whoop, He passes no gossip around. The Regular Feller speaks well of his kind, Or else he says nothing at all. There’s no room for rubbish or junk in his mind, No room for the thoughts that are small. The Regular Feller does not slap your back, And brag that he’s always your friend. But when you’re in trouble and others all quit, He’ll stand by you, right to the end.
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A Diagnosis
From The Topeka State Journal, December 4, 1912. I didn’t know I had it till a little while ago— I haven’t been sure of it till within a day or so. I’d felt some symptoms of it, in a dim, uncertain way, Since first I read the ad about the medicine one day. Last week, however, I struck on the most convincing ad And now I know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad. At first I thought I saw some floating specs before my eyes, And then I’d feel that lassitude each morning when I’d rise; And so I kept on reading ads about man’s awful ills Until I found I suffered from dumb fever, aches and chills; I noticed that full feeling for an hour succeeding meals— I felt the way a man in gravest illness aways feels. Why, I’ve had the symptoms; I’ve had buzzing in the head, And sudden loss of temper; can’t remember what I’ve read; My feet will often “go to sleep”; my fingertips get numb— I shouldn’t doubt if I should be both paralyzed and dumb. And, as I say, last week I struck the most convincing ad— I don’t know what may ail me, but I know I’ve got it bad. I’ve written to the doctor for that medicine of his— I’m ready to acknowledge that it’s what he says it is. I’ve got my letter written, telling what I have endured; My picture has been taken, and I’m ready to be cured. I’ve suffered all the symptoms that the other patients had— I only know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad.
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Hitchin’ ‘Em Up
From The Topeka State Journal, November 29, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. The marriage microbe is a bird that’s hard to understand. The short man always asks the tall skyscraper for her hand. The man who’s six feet in his socks will wed for good and all Some maiden who is passing fair, but only four feet tall. The brilliant girl who takes the prize and outshines all the school Is more than apt to cast her fate in marriage with some fool. The learned man who knows his books and has a sober mind Most like weds the dizziest young damsel he can find. The prettiest of all the girls will wed some cross-eyed gink Who doesn’t look as though he knew enough to even think. The homely girl most likely hooks the handsome millionaire. The frivolous maid weds a man who’s loaded down with care. The pious girls is apt to draw some old night prowlin’ skate Who doesn’t think that 3 o’clock is anywhere near late. The pastor of the church may draw a social butterfly Who thinks more of her new fall hat than mansions up on high. The more you try to solve the thing, the less you really know. Philosophers all gave it up some centuries ago. The mystery is fathomless, as much now of yore. It’s only human nature, pure and simple, nothing more.