From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. Carve me an angel, sculptor, and let your stone be white So white that it will shimmer, reflecting back the light— Give it semblance, sculptor—a form and shape like this: A lassie wee and drowsy, who gives a good-night kiss. Too weary from all her playing to open her lips to speak— And carve the chubby fingers that touch her mother’s cheek. Ah, she needs no halo—simply a wayward curl. That is an angel, sculptor—somebody’s little girl. What for an angel, sculptor? Get you marble fine Carve it with patient purpose, coax it to curve and line Drape it with flowing garments, give it the simple charms— Carve us a mother holding her baby in her arms. Wonderful, tender, hopeful, sweet she must be and wise And with the light of heaven glimmering in her eyes. That is an angel, sculptor—see that you carve it sure Showing the love that surges out from a soul all pure. Carve me an angel, sculptor. Carve us a woman, old And grave in all the wrinkles her withered cheek must hold— Wrinkles that tell of sorrow, lines that the laughs have left Give her the knotted fingers no longer quick and deft Bend her with years of toiling, bow her with weight of years Show us the golden beauty wrought of her smiles and tears. Tell in the stone the story, how she is wan and worn Through all her self-denial for the ones that she has borne. That is an angel, sculptor. Grave it, and carve it so And all the world will see it—see it, and bow down low.
Category: The Topeka State Journal
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The Angel
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A Picture
From The Topeka State Journal, November 12, 1912. By Alice E. Allen. I’ve a little picture— Artist? No one knows— Just a winding country road Where a glad wind blows; With a bit of forest, Cool and green and still Set against a morning sky, Rose and daffodil. There’s a brook that dances Underneath a bridge; There’s a wood-thrush singing Somewhere up the ridge. All the wind is honey-sweet With the wild sweet clover. ’Tis the place to pause and dream All your old dreams over. Oh, I wish that artist Somehow could be told Of the happiness he’s hid In his skies of gold; Could but know the joy it is Just to drop your load, And to go a-wandering Up his forest road.
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After Rud Kip
From The Topeka State Journal, November 8, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. When the husband meets his helpmeet every morning in debate, And he’s trying to explain to her why he was out so late, There never is any question that his arguments will fail, For the female of the species can talk longer than the male. When the argument is hottest and they get down to brass tacks, And they land each other’s relatives a lot of pungent whacks; You would think that hers were angels and that his should be in jail, For the female of the species can think faster than the male. When they’re whacking up the boodle that he’s earned throughout the week, And deciding how to spend it, he’s a pretty helpless geek; It is hard for him to look at his percentage of the kale, For the female of the species can grab quicker than the male. When they do their weekly shopping and they linger ‘round the store, Till the husband thinks that living is a most decided bore; She can take her a 50-cent piece and get dry goods by the bale, For the female of the species can buy cheaper than the male. When it comes to information on the gossip of the day, On the neighborhood activities and things that people say, She has got her husband beaten when she gets up on the trail, For the female of the species can “hear” lots more than the male.
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My Boy
From The Topeka State Journal, November 6, 1912. By Olive Martin. Gone is the loud din and noise, Put away are all the toys. All youthful things are out of sight, One can’t find a ball or kite. No cap lays on the parlor chair, No jacket on the front hall stair. No one slams the kitchen door, No one spots the hallway floor. I strain my ears to catch the sound Of footsteps down the stairway bound, But all is quiet overhead; I cannot hear the slightest tread. I miss my boy’s loud, cheery call, His whistle, merriment and all. I miss the boyish face so dear, The big gray eyes, serene and clear. You wonder that I am not sad And that my heart is very glad? You think I should regretful be, And in my loss no goodness see? To you the secret I will tell, Assuring you with me all’s well; My boy has grown to manhood tall, So I am happy after all.
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The Leaves Give Thanks
From The Topeka State Journal, October 29, 1912. By Georgia Wood Pangborn. All the cheerful little leaves Were lying mute and slain, Their tender summer faces Marred with age and pain. Through the threadbare forest Strode the wind and rain. I wept because the sky was gray, Because the leaves were dead, Because the winter came so fast, And summer’s sweet was sped; And because I, too, was mortal— “All flesh is grass,” I said. But while I was lamenting The woods began to sing. The voice of all dead leaves came up As when they sang in Spring: “Praise God,” they sang, “for Winter And stormy harvesting: “Praise God, who uses old things To serve the new things’ need And turns us into earth again That next year’s roots may feed; Roots but for us and our decay Would shrivel in the seed. “To the thousand summers Our summer has been thrust, But the snow is very gentle Above its rags and rust. Lie down, lie down, oh, brothers, With the thousand summers’ dust.”
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When Nellie Dresses
From The Topeka State Journal, October 28, 1912. When Nellie goes upstairs to dress, I take a magazine, And read about the wonders of Some far-off foreign scene; An article of men who graft, The Wall Street system, too; Also the editor’s remarks On what next month he’ll do. I light my pipe and puff away The while the page I scan, And read a Robert Chambers tale About some love-sick man. A muck-rake expert leads me through A bale of torrid stuff Explaining how a lot of men Got rich upon a bluff. I read the advertisements next, Of collars, kodaks, cars, And breakfast foods and underwear, Tobacco and cigars. A liberal education I Obtain, I must confess, The evening we are going out And Nellie starts to dress.
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Pixy Wood
From The Topeka State Journal, October 24, 1912. By Madison Cawein. The vat-like cups of the fungus, filled With the rain that fell last night, Are tuns of wine that the elves distilled For revels that the moon did light. The owlet there with her “Who-oh-who,” And the frog with his “All is right,” Could tell a tale if they wanted to Of what took place last night. In that hollow beech, where the wood decays, Their toadstool houses stand, A little village of drabs and grays, Cone-roofed, of fairy-land. That moth, which gleams like a lichen there, Is one of an elfin band That whisks away if you merely dare To try to understand. The snail, which slides on that mushroom’s top, And the slug on its sleepy trail, Wax fat on the things the elves let drop At feast in the moonlight pale. The whippoorwill, which grieves and grieves, If it would, could tell a tale Of what took place here under the leaves Last night on the Dreamland Trail. The trillium there and the May-apple, With their white eyes opened wide, Of many a secret sight could tell If speech were not denied: Of many a pixy revelry And rout on which they’ve spied, With the hollow tree, which there, you see, Opens its eye-knots wide.
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The Hired Girl’s Way
From The Topeka State Journal, October 18, 1912. The nights our hired girl stays home, An’ don’t expect her beau t’ call, She’s jes’ as nice as she can be, An’ doesn’t hustle round at all. Sometimes she takes me on her knee And tells me tales of pirates bold That used t’ sail upon the sea In search of silver and of gold. An’ she don’t pack me off t’ bed As soon as supper time is through. Or tell me that I’m in her way Becoz she’s got her work t’ do. But in the kitchen I can stay An’ she jes’ tells the finest things Of soldiers fightin’ every day An’ princes bold, an’ evil kings. But when her beau is comin’ up T’ take her out t’ see a show, She makes us hustle through our tea So’s she can get dressed up to go. An’ you jes’ orter see her frown If Paw sits talking very long, An’ you should hear her bang around T’ let him know he’s doin’ wrong. An’ Maw don’t dast t’ say a word, An’ Paw jes’ swallers down his tea, An’ then she grabs the dishes up, An’ says she ain’t got time fer me. You orter hear her rattle plates An’ see her grab each dish and cup, An’ wash ‘em clean as quick as that The nights her beau is comin’ up. She don’t have time for stories then, Or nothin’ else I want t’ do. Paw says there is no stoppin’ her When she is eager t’ git through. An’ I git hustled off t’ bed, An’ I don’t like it, not at all, I can’t see why she acts that way Jes’ coz her beau is goin’ t’ call.