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!”
Tag: Berton Braley
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Consistency
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April
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 22, 1913. By Berton Braley. Fashioned of tearfulness, tenderness, cheerfulness; Changeable, shy, as the ways of a maid; Spring’s sweetest miracle, lovely and lyrical, Showers and flowers, and sunshine and shade, Making the merry land fragrant as fairy land, Thrilling the heart with a wonderment new, Laughing and serious, moonlit, mysterious, April’s a month that was molded for you!
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Do It Now
From The Seattle Star, March 20, 1913. By Berton Braley. If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing, If you like him or you love him, tell him now! Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration As he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow; For, no matter how you shout it he won’t really care about it, He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed. If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead! More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny And the hearty, warm approval of a friend. For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver, And it gives you heart and spirit to the end; If he earns your praise—bestow it; if you like him, let him know it; Let the words of true encouragement be said. Do not wait till life is over and he’s underneath the clover, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead!
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The Bowlers
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.”
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The Old Game
From The Seattle Star, March 4, 1913. By Berton Braley. Oh, yes, I had quit it “forever,” The scissors and paste and all that, The haste and the frantic endeavor, The typewriter’s merry rat-tat; I tired of the holler for “copy,” I longed for a life that was tame, And my friends called me shabby and sloppy, So I dropped from the Newspaper Game. But something kept whispering, “Billy, You’re out of your element here. This sinecure’s meant for some Willie Who don’t know a scoop from a beer. This joint is too tied by decorum, This routine is always the same; Your clothes don’t wear out where you wore ‘em When playing the Newspaper Game.” Whenever the newsboys would holler, Whenever the extras came out, I tugged at my unsweated collar And my heart-strings were tugged by a doubt, Till at last—well, I doubted no longer, I passed up my cinch, and I came To the call that I knew was the stronger, And I plunged in the Newspaper Game. The typewriters rattled to greet me, The smell of sour paste-pots was sweet, I found the old “mill” there to meet me, I dropped in my battered old seat. The news room was dingy and smoky, But a shiver of joy shook my frame, For I’d quit the “good job” that was pokey, And was back at the Newspaper Game. Below were the linotypes clicking, And the smell of hot lead came to me; The sport man was nervously flicking The ash from his “cigarootee.” My typewriter acted unruly, My fingers felt clumsy and lame, But I knew I was back again, truly, To the joy of the Newspaper Game. You can swear you will leave it behind you. You can flee to wherever you will, But the newspaper fever will find you, The newspaper fervor will thrill. It makes—or more likely, it breaks you, You die—and leave scarcely a name; But not until death overtakes you Are you free of the Newspaper Game.
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A Possibility
From the Evening Star, March 2, 1913. By Berton Braley. When tariff makers of renown Shall cut each unjust duty down; When landlords ask but little rent; When banks and trusts shall be content With modest profits now and then On trade they do with common men; When railroads cease to charge a rate Almost the value of the freight; When coal men, lumbermen and such Shall cease to waste and spoil so much; When middlemen shall be no more; And he who runs the retail store Shall find a profitable way To scale the prices we must pay; When, in each legislative hall, Our “statesmen” serve us, one and all, Instead of working for the folk Who hold the land beneath their yoke; When you and I, with thrifty care, Shall stop the leakage here and there, Desist from thoughtlessness and haste Which mean extravagance and waste; When all these goodly things are so, The cost of living may get low— But, I dunno!
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Big Game Hunters
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!
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The Believer
From The Detroit Times, January 31, 1913. By Berton Braley. The game may be a hard one and the cash come slow You may be hoeing bravely on a long, long row. Perhaps the goal you’re seeking seems so far away That you wonder if the effort can be made to pay. But just when you are weary and the world seems vile, There’s something happens to you and it’s all worth while; For love comes in the picture, and your dreams come true When you find a little woman who believes in you. When the world is blind and careless through the long, long years When it doesn’t seem to bother with your hopes or fears When your friends are very doubtful and your foes are grim And everybody jeers you till your hopes grow dim; Still, you can make the riffle, you can come out best In spite of many doubters and of all the rest There’s nothing under heaven that a man can’t do If you have a little woman who believes in you!
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The Shoe Clerk
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!
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The Answer
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!