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!
Tag: Berton Braley
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The Ignoramus
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New Year’s Resolutions
From The Seattle Star, January 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. We won’t be too ambitious in a resoluting way, We’ll plan on very little of the new deal stuff. For neither Rome nor Athens was completed in a day And reforming’s not accomplished by a great big bluff. We’re going to take it gently and by stages and degrees; Our goodness will not raise us to a higher sphere. But we’ll try to show improvement in our actions, if you please, And be a LITTLE better than we were last year! We shan’t upset the country by our thoughtfulness and care, We’ll go on being selfish to a large extent. But may be there’ll be troubles we can kind of help to share, And maybe we’ll be gentler in our temperament; We shall not have a halo for the charity we do (A mortal with a halo would be mighty queer) But we’ll moderate our tempers—(can we count a bit on you?) And we’ll be a LITTLE kinder than we were last year! We won’t be too ambitious in the matter of reform, But we’ll be a little better if we find we can. And where the market’s crowded and the game is getting warm We’ll be a little nicer to our fellow man. We shan’t be shining angels and we wouldn’t if we could, We only hope for progress and we start right here. We want to be—not perfect, or even “goody good!”— But Better Human Beings than we were last year!
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Good Will to Men
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!
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Content
From The Seattle Star, December 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. It’s lots of fun to travel Around from place to place, To watch the road unravel, The country change its face; It’s fun to be a rover, A pilgrim, now and then, But when the journey’s over I’m glad I’m home again. To visit friends is pleasure Wherever they may be; Such joys I always treasure And hold in memory. And yet—somehow—why is it? No matter where I’ve been, When finished is my visit I’m glad I’m home again. Home, where I can be selfish And lazy-like as well, Withdraw like any shellfish Within my comfy shell To shun the wide world’s tourney And loaf around my den— I’ve had a pleasant journey. I’m glad I’m home again.
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Youth
From The Seattle Star, December 17, 1912. By Berton Braley. I’m glad I’m young and fond of youthful laughter, Finding much joy in all this wondrous earth; My heart a house—filled up from floor to rafter With love of life and light and gentle mirth— I’m glad I’m young, with eyes that still can twinkle, With ears that pleasure when the songs are sung, And lips that still recall the way to crinkle At jest and whimsy—ah, I’m glad I’m young! I’m glad I’m young, although my hair has whitened And I am near my three-score years and ten; Youth in my heart has kept my spirits lightened, The ways of youth are still within my ken; And if I cannot dance—I watch and listen, Thinking of memories to which I’ve clung; My blood still leaps, my eyes are still aglisten, And, though I’m old, I’m glad that I am young!
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Symbolic Dancing
From The Detroit Times, December 10, 1912. By Berton Braley. Symbolic dances are the fad On many hundred stages; We see the dancers, thinly clad, All sorts and kinds and ages. With filmy draperies that cling And weird, uncanny motions, They symbolize such things as spring And passions and emotions. They dance a poem writ by Poe With great poetic frenzy. Their lack of garments goes to show They scorn the influenzy; They’ll dance a tragedy clear through With motions most symbolic Although they may appear to you As suffering from colic. In dances they’ll portray the past, The future and the present, And they’ll present, with detail vast, The poet and the peasant; They’ll dance a painting or a play, A novel, grim or merry, And in symbolic wise, some day, They’ll dance the dictionary!
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The Traveler’s Bane
From The Seattle Star, December 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. The old Inns were pleasant In decades gone by, But just at the present There’s none of them nigh. When travel was rougher These Inns served full well, But NOW we must suffer The Small Town Hotel! When, wayworn and dusty We land at the door, The rooms are all musty, There’s mould on the floor. Ah, pity the drummer Who must stay a spell Both winter and summer At this shine hotel! Its beds are all bumpy (Infrequently clean), Its oatmeal is lumpy, Its lights kerosene; Its “linen” is spattered, Its dining rooms smell, It’s blowsy and battered— The Small Town Hotel. Whatever you eat there Is sure to be fried; The landlord you meet there Is weazened and dried; There’s no one to hop at The ring of your bell; It’s awful to stop at The Small Town Hotel.
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The Puritan Strain
From The Seattle Star, December 6, 1912. By Berton Braley. The artists and critics my rave as they will Of prudishness prim and precise, They claim that it hampers their art and their skill To have to be proper and nice. But for all of its squeamishness, all of its cant, It holds us to decency, plain, And I’m willing to lift up my voice in a chant, A hymn to the “Puritan Strain.” It may be a trifle too rigid and grim And hard on the spirit of Youth, But it keeps the commandments from growing too dim And it holds to the right and the truth. It’s harsh and unyielding in many a way That causes but worry and pain, But a man or a nation won’t go far astray If controlled by the “Puritan Strain.” It’s helped us to conquer the country we own Which stretches from sea unto sea, It’s sobered and tempered us while we have grown A nation united and free. It’s grappling undaunted with problems most vast, With power of hand and of brain; That grim, granite purpose will save us at last— Thank God for the “Puritan Strain!”
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Bohemia
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!”
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A Sermon to the Traveler
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.