Tag: Duncan M. Smith

From the Rock Island Argus, October 8, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Oft in the stilly night
 When the cats begin to fight
 On the fence behind the lot
 Then I form a little plot
 As the window wide I throw
 And the yard I knee-deep sow
 With lots of bric-a-brac
 That was resting on the rack.
 
 Do the cats in wild alarm
 Run lest I should do them harm?
 Do they let the concert slide
 And proceed in haste to hide?
 No; they do not seem to know
 As I throw and throw and throw
 That a single thing is wrong
 With their piercing midnight song.
 
 Then I heave a pair of shoes
 That I wouldn’t care to lose,
 And I throw a kitchen chair,
 Followed by my wife’s false hair,
 Books and tables, sofa, rugs,
 Pots and kettles, pans and mugs,
 Writing pads, my rubber stamp,
 The piano and the lamp.
 
 Then the bedding and the bed
 From the tail piece to the head
 All are hurled into the gloom
 Till there’s nothing in the room.
 But the cats are good as new
 On the job when I am through.
 Nor do they a moment pause.
 They regard it as applause.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 7, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 I took my little hopeful
   And sat him on my knee
 And tried to get the six-year-old
   To take advice from me.
 “I want you,” I said softly,
   “Always to be polite,
 And with the rude and naughty boys
   You must not scrap and fight.
 
 “With others do not quarrel
   And do not in your play
 Get angry with another boy
   Who wants to have his way.
 Give in without protesting,
   For you will always find
 That lasting friendships you will win
   By being true and kind.
 
 “Thus by your good example
   The other boys will see
 That it is better to be good
   And with their mates agree.
 Should one be so forgetful
   As to be rude or rough
 Turn on your heel and go away
   And he’ll feel bad enough.”
 
 ’Twas thus the lesson ended,
   And then I asked him, “Now,
 What would you do if some rude boy
   Should try to pick a row?”
 He thought about a minute,
   Then answered plain and clear:
 “I’ll tell you if you want to know.
   I’d biff him on the ear!”

From the Rock Island Argus, October 5, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 And this woman, soft of voice,
   Of whom the poets sung,
 Who in the ages long ago
   Was forced to hold her tongue.
 Good sooth but she is making up
   And paying back the debt
 Piled up through all those silent years!
   Behold the suffragette!
 
 Our mother sat around and smiled
   When men in meeting rose,
 And when they grandly aired their views
   Her tongue was in repose.
 But now the words so long suppressed
   No longer clog her throat.
 She fires them out with emphasis
   And says she wants a vote.
 
 No longer will she sit at ease
   And let him have his way
 About affairs of church and state,
   For she will have her say.
 For when there is a talking fest
   You find her in the swim,
 And oftentimes, to his dismay,
   She knows as much as him.
 
 Yes, woman, you have grown a bit
   And learned a lot of things.
 You fly as high as any one
   Since you have spread your wings.
 Is it for better or for worse?
   We can’t exactly say:
 But, though man is a little dazed,
   He likes you anyway.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 4, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 There’s no use in moaning
 In weeping and groaning.
 The sun may be shining
 Ere yet it is noon.
 His warm rays may cheer you
 And hope nestle near you,
 So cease your repining
 And look for it soon.
 
 Make end to the sighing
 For swift years are flying
 And joy at your casement
 Is calling to you.
 Make haste, then, to meet it.
 Go smiling to greet it.
 Give care its effacement
 And hide it from view.
 
 Oh, turn your face sunward
 And listen for one word,
 A message of sweetness,
 Of love pure and true!
 Be happy, my dearie;
 Be smiling and cheery,
 And then with completeness
 Will joy come to you.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 1, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 I love the open road that down
   The river winds away
 And reaches on from town to town
   Through fields with flowers gay,
 That offers here and there a nook
   Beneath a shady tree
 Where proper folk ne’er think to look
   Nor prying eye may see.
 
 I love the high and open sky;
   I love it when it’s gray.
 I love the swallows as they fly,
   The fishes when they play.
 I love the crashing thunderstorm
   When ‘neath a stack content,
 All snuggled up, serene and warm,
   I watch it till it’s spent.
 
 I love the wind that comes and goes
   With soft and slumb’rous sigh
 And flutters hollyhock and rose
   Whene’er it passes by.
 It kisses tramp and money king
   Alike in open day.
 The praises of the road I sing
   And tramp upon my way.

From the Rock Island Argus, September 16, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Writing pieces for the paper,
 Mostly foolishness and vapor;
 Sometimes reason may slip in,
 Nor is that a deadly sin,
 But it is a sad mistake
 That a writer should not make,
 Lest the reader go to sleep
 Or declare it is too deep
 And the paper fling aside,
 Going forth to take a ride.
 
 Writing for the public print,
 Gossip, story, beauty hint—
 Anything to fill the space
 That a streak of blues will chase;
 Anything that’s light and not
 Clogged with too involved a plot;
 Anything that’s not designed
 To make labor for the mind
 Or to air high sounding views,
 Lest the reader take a snooze.
 
 Writing for the public mart,
 For the eye and for the heart,
 Something simple, straight and plain
 That will rest the reader’s brain
 And will put him in the mood
 For the predigested food
 That adorns the printed page
 In this restless, rushing age;
 That will feed him something light
 Ere he goes to sleep at night.
 
 For we do not read to learn—
 We have knowledge, yes, to burn—
 But we read to be amused
 And to hear our foes abused.
 There is work enough, indeed,
 Where we toil at breakneck speed.
 So when we sit down at night
 With a paper and a light
 Nothing we are after then
 That will make us work again.

From the Rock Island Argus, September 14, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 The county fair is now on tap
   And all the porkers proud
 Are showing off their very best
   Before the gaping crowd.
 The cattle in the narrow stalls,
   The horses on the track,
 Are showing, each and every one,
   How lofty they can stack.
 
 The barker at the circus tent
   Is tearing in the air
 Great jagged holes, that each and all
   May know that he is there.
 The peanut and the popcorn man
   Are chasing far and wide
 To see that every hungry child
   Is with lunch supplied.
 
 Up in the building on the hill,
   Where cabbage is displayed
 Beside the pumpkins and the corn
   And goose eggs, freshly laid,
 The folks who raised it stand around
   To hear its praises told,
 And each one swells and feels as gay
   As any two-year-old.
 
 The father and the mother come,
   And all the kids are there.
 The listen to the big brass band
   And at the players stare.
 They take in everything in sight
   That gives them thrills or mirth,
 And you can bet most anything
   They get their money’s worth.