Newspaper History

Tag: Berton Braley

  • Justice

    From The Detroit Times, January 29, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    The Bandit ravaged through the land
    And left his mark on every hand,
    For desolation lined the path
    Which he had made in greed and wrath;
    He looted, pillaged, far and wide,
    The sweet and smiling country side;
    He spoiled and wasted like a flame
    And people trembled at his name;
    His glutton cravings to allay
    He did not hesitate to slay.
    Not bravely, in fair open fight,
    But meanly, foully in the night!

    At last the people rose in ire
    And trailed him on through muck and mire,
    By stream and copse, by hill and dale,
    They followed grimly on his trail
    Until that final moment when
    They had him cornered in his den.
    They brought him forth with choking smoke
    Yet, as he stumbled out, he spoke
    And said, “By all the rules, I swear
    This sort of treatment isn’t fair;
    You show no just respect for me
    Nor for this cave, my property;
    You are not acting as you should”—
    But some one shot him where he stood.
    “He may be right,” the men agreed;
    “Perhaps we did not give due heed
    To all the rules and all the laws—
    But he’d no right to howl, because
    He plundered on a ruthless plan
    And broke each law of God and man;
    His hands with blood and gore were red;
    We reckon he is better dead.”

    (I wonder if the trusts and such
    Which have us strongly in their clutch
    Might, by some distant chance, be able
    To see the moral of this fable.)

  • How It Goes

    From The Detroit Times, January 23, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I go to the bank and I draw a check
        And think I have money to last awhile,
    But my hopes all crash in a total wreck
        As money melts in the swiftest style,
    For somebody borrows a yen or two
        And somebody comes with last year’s bill,
    Or my clothes wear out or the rent comes due
        And leaves me nary a single mill.

    When somebody pays for the work I’ve done
        I grin and chuckle with soul care-free,
    “Well, now I’ll certainly have some fun—“
        But somebody comes with a C. O. D.;
    Or if a saving account I crave
        And plan on watching the roll grow fat,
    The whole amount that I meant to save
        Must pay insurance—or things like that!

    They’re always waiting to grab my roll;
        I never manage to get ahead;
    I’m either paying for this year’s coal
        Or last year’s horse—which is cold and dead;
    Coin never lasts as I thought it would,
        It always goes at the least excuse;
    It never does me a bit of good;
        I try to save it—but what’s the use!

  • Indispensable

    From The Tacoma Times, January 15, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I care not what your place may be,
        A job that’s most laborious
    With mighty little salary,
        Or one that’s fat and glorious,
    But, be your labor great or small,
        Of this you must be sensible—
    Some other guy can do it all,
        No man is indispensable!

    When you begin to swell with pride
        And cater to the gallery
    And put on lots of “dog” and “side”
        Because they’ve raised your salary,
    Why, then’s the time you’ll tumble quick;
        Such ways are indefensible;
    Some other guy can do your trick;
        No man is indispensable!

    It’s well enough to know your worth
        And know just what to do with it,
    But don’t imagine that the earth
        Will quit when you are through with it;
    No, it will roll upon its way
        And—what seems reprehensible—
    Some other guy will draw your pay;
        No man is indispensable!

  • The High-Ball Route

    From The Tacoma Times, January 14, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    Girlie, I’ve noticed the flashy guy,
        The one who’s chasing around with you;
    Believe me sister, he don’t get by;
        You want to chuck him—and sudden, too;
    He may look grand and he may talk great,
        But take my warning and cut him out,
    For the guy who’s honest and true and straight
        Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!

    Them friends of his that you’ve had to meet
        Ain’t just the kind that you ought to choose,
    For how kin a decent girl keep sweet
        In a crowd that’s given to paint and booze?
    There’s too much glitter and flash and glare;
        That duck’s too much of a “good old scout;”
    Believe me sister, the guy who’s square
        Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!

    You get some feller that thinks you’re queen
        And tries to keep you from any wrong;
    This present party is far too keen
        On leadin’ you off with the giddy throng;
    The true-blue feller will treat you white,
        But not where the spigots fizz and spout;
    Believe me, sister, the guy who’s right
        Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!

  • The Humorist

    From The Tacoma Times, January 13, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I serve the Lords of Laughter,
        I serve the gods of mirth,
    I make the world a dafter
        And yet a gladder earth;
    When woes grow thick and thicker
        And life seems inky black,
    By magic of a snicker
        I drive the sorrows back.

    I serve the Lords of Laughter
        And oh, I love to wake
    The roar that shakes the rafter
        And makes the midriff quake;
    I care not for the flouting
        Of bards who sneer at me
    If I can hear the shouting
        Of great and gorgeous glee!

    Oh, may the songs I sing you
        Lift every heavy cloud,
    And may I always bring you
        Clean laughter, long and loud!
    So when I pass hereafter
        This truth the world may tell,
    “He served the Lords of Laughter
        And always served them well!”

  • Why the Dog Howls

    From The Seattle Star, January 12, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    Why does the dog throw back his head
    And howl at night to greet the moon?
    In ages long forgot and dead,
    When earth was still a block new hewn,
    The wolf pack roamed the wilderness,
    And with them ran, all gaunt and gray,
    The father of our friend today,
    A white-fanged wolf—whom time has made
    Into the slave of man, his aid,
    A comrade ever faithful grown,
    Who sleeps beside his own hearth stone.

    But now and then when moonlight thrills
    Across the valley and the hills,
    The old wild magic steals again
    Over the canine friend of men;
    He seems to slink the forest through,
    The ancient forest that he knew;
    He seems to hear again the pack
    That bays upon the white moon’s track,
    And from his throat and shaggy jowl
    Issues again the old wolf howl,
    The ululating lupine wail
    That once re-echoed on the trail!
    I know not if this tale be truth,
    But so ’twas told me, in my youth!

  • Individuality

    From The Seattle Star, December 31, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    You can’t be Shelley or Keats or Burns,
        Or Caesar or Edmund Kean;
    They had their chance and they did their turns
        And now they are gone, I ween.
    And why should you copy each august shade
        Who lies on a graveyard shelf?
    HE didn’t copy, his fame was made
        By being his own true self!

    You can’t be Kipling or Roosevelt,
        Or Wilson or Bryan, too;
    But you can be known, and you can be felt
        By being Yourself all through;
    No man grows great when he imitates,
        For that is the way to fail;
    The fellow who wins from the frowning fates
        Must mark out his own clear trail!

    You may not reach to the heights of fame,
        For few can climb so high,
    But at least you can play in the lively game
        Whenever you want to try;
    You may not get to the top at all,
        Nor capture renown or pelf,
    But, win or lose, or rise or fall,
        At least you can be yourself!

  • A First-Rate Book

    From The Detroit Times, December 30, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    I’ve been reading of slaughter and battle,
        Of glory and gumption and gore,
    Of raids upon foemen and cattle
        And hair-raising stunts by the score.
    Of heroes of mightiest bravery,
        Of villains with records unsavory,
    Of righteousness, evil and knavery,
        And plenty of olden time lore.

    I’ve been reading some lovely romances
        And tales of adventure, as well,
    Of men who took uttermost chances
        And braved any fate that befell.
    I’ve reveled, with eyes that were glistery,
        In fairy tales, magic and mystery,
    Theology, logic and history,
        And poems that none can excel.

    And I read all of this in one volume,
        One volume I’d never looked through
    Till I plunged in its close-printed column—
        And its treasures lay bare to my view.

    So I learned, after decades unheeding,
        What wise men have long been conceding,
    That the Bible is chuck full of reading,
        And mighty good stuff it is, too!

  • The Criminal’s Apology

    From The Seattle Star, December 29, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Oh yes, I’m guilty, right enough;
    It ain’t no use to throw a bluff,
    An’ yet, I guess, Society
    Kin share the guilt along o’ me!
    I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
    But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

    Born in a dirty, reeking slum,
    Where decent sunlight never come,
    An’ starved for food an’ starved for air
    Through all my years of boyhood there,
    While evil things, an’ low an’ mean
    Was nearly all the life I seen,
    Of course, I growed to be a tough,
    A hoodlum, and a bad young rough!

    But even then I might uv been
    Reformed to be some use to men,
    If, every time I left the trail,
    They didn’t slam me into jail
    Where thieves an’ all that rotten crew
    Would teach me worse than all I knew.

    Oh yes, I’m guilty; that is clear,
    But every guy who’s listenin’ here
    An’ all you swells an’ goodly folks,
    Who sniffs at me an’ such-like blokes,
    Is guilty, too—along o’ me,
    An’ will be till the world is free
    Of stinkin’ slums an’ rotten holes
    That poison people’s hearts and souls,
    An’ cheats ‘em from their very birth
    From every decent chance on earth.
    I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
    But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

  • The Dilettante

    From The Tacoma Times, December 27, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    “Alas,” the struggling painter cried,
    “My artist soul is sorely tried,
    The crass commercial side of life,
    The constant toil, the constant strife,
    Give me no chance to do my best,
    But keep me working without rest
    At making pictures which will sell,
    A thing at which I would rebel
    If I had money so I could.”

    Fortune to that young man was god,
    An uncle died and left his roll
    To him who had the “artist soul.”
    No longer was there need to do
    The pictures he’d objected to,
    And “Art for Art’s sake” he was free
    To follow long and faithfully.

    But when his money came to him
    Somehow ambition lost its vim;
    Without the struggle and the fight,
    The game had lost its old delight;
    At first the work he did was small;
    At last he didn’t paint at all!

    The moral is that too much pelf—
    Oh, make the moral for yourself!