Tag: Henry Howland

From the Rock Island Argus, July 2, 1914. By Henry Howland.

How dear to my heart is the old cider barrel,
    As fond recollection presents it to view;
The place where they kept it corked up in the cellar
    Is as fresh in my mind as it ever was, too.
The damp, whitewashed walls, the potatoes and turnips,
    The apples we’d picked when the weather was fair—
How well I recall them, how gladly I lingered
    Beside the old barrel deposited there—
The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
    The iron-hooped barrel confronting me there.

Once armed with a gimlet, I went to the barrel—
    Dear father and mother had gone for the day;
I bored a small hole and slipped a straw through it,
    And ceased to be troubled while sucking away.
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
    Till things in my fancy seemed softly to blend,
And I couldn’t have told whether I or the barrel
    Was dancing around or still standing on end—
The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
    The iron-hooped barrel that stood upon end.

Somehow I got out of the old whitewashed cellar
    And whooped and hurrahed and made merry awhile;
They say that my shouting aroused all the neighbors
    Who lived in a circle of less than a mile.
At last my fond parents came home from their visit,
    The things that ensued I shall never forget;
I acquired a hatred of hard cider barrels
    That long has been rankling and clings to me yet—
If all the hard cider were spilled in the sewers
    I’d look on the waste and be free from regret.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 29, 1914. By Henry Howland.

The preacher looks out over empty pews,
    The scholar sits unnoticed and alone;
The poet, collarless and needing shoes,
    Sings soulfully, unheeded and unknown.

The actor who was born to grace the stage
    Reads splendidly the lines penned by the bard,
But no one notices his noble rage,
    He is a creature robbed of all regard.

The artist who has striven well and long
    Walks through the empty gallery and sighs;
His canvases attract no eager throng,
    And hunger dulls the luster of his eyes.

The halls of art are desolate and drear,
    The sacred lamp of learning feebly glows;
Round roped arenas people wildly cheer,
    Or overcrowd the moving picture shows.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 22, 1914. By Henry Howland.

A Chicago businessman says that no business man could live up to the principles of the golden rule.

“Oh, let’s have done with the Golden Rule,
    For it isn’t business;
It may do for the dreamer still or the fool,
    But it isn’t business.
Let the poet sing on of brotherly love,
    And the joy that is earned through being kind;
Let the preacher prate on of glory above—
    That will do for the meek and the lame and the blind,
        But it isn’t business.

“You may fail, if you please, to gouge where you can,
    But it isn’t business;
You may hate to bear hard on another man,
    But it isn’t business!
You may scorn to undo one who’s weaker than you,
    And seek no more than you’ve earned,
You may treat other men as you’d have them treat you,
    But, beaten and poor, at last you’ll have learned
        That it isn’t business.”

Has it come to this? Must we deem it so?
    Then adieu to business!
Let us back to the fields and the plow and the hoe,
    And have done with business.
Yet, because some weeds have grown rank and tall
    Shall we say no flowers shall bloom again?
There is greed, but it hasn’t engulfed us all,
    And honor is still in the hearts of men
        Who are doing business.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 20, 1914. By Henry Howland

She railed at the man who had wooed her, because
He was not such a man as another man was;
She scolded him over the teacups and when
The market went wrong she scolded again;
She complained when he smoked, it was sinful, she said;
She complained when he took up his paper and read;
Each day she complained that his love had grown cold
And she sighed to be loved as he loved her of old;
She envied her neighbor and murmured, “Ah, me!
Her husband still loves her! How happy I’d be
To be loved as she is, to be cherished—alas!
How our idols are broken, how soon the dreams pass!”

Her neighbor, so blessed and so cherished, had praise
For him that so loved her; in many glad ways
She showed that she thought him exalted and wise;
She flattered him fondly; she watched with glad eyes
To see him approaching, to greet him at night;
She brought his cigar and she gave him a light;
When he made a mistake, as the wisest may do,
It was never his fault, that she told him she knew.
She was satisfied just as he was; she would not
Have him changed by the very least tittle or jot.
And through days that were fair and through days that were gray
She loved and was loved and went singing away.

There is nothing more sure, more absolute than
That no woman can scold love into a man.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 13, 1914. By Henry Howland.

No snow-capped mountains may be seen
    From where I sit and work away;
No meadows that are wide and green
    Delight my soul from day to day;
I walk beneath no spreading trees
    Nor sit beside a sparkling pool,
But there is a delightful breeze
    That serves to keep me calm and cool.

All day I hear the city’s roar,
    The room I occupy is small,
And when I let my fancy soar
    It bumps against a lofty wall;
Instead of scents of new-mown hay,
    I sniff the fumes of gasoline,
But cooling breezes all the day
    Assist me to remain serene.

I may not sit upon a fence
    While watching busy harvest hands;
Each morning early I commence
    The work necessity demands.
But while I strive with all my might
    To do my part as best I can,
I hear with undisturbed delight
    The hum of my electric fan.

Let others hurry far away
    In search of scenes that may be fair,
Or in the harvest fields all day
    Attempt to rid their souls of care.
My brow is kept from burning by
    Cool breezes wafted from a shelf—
By soothing, friendly zephyrs I
    Can regulate to suit myself.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 11, 1914. By Henry Howland.

It was early in July, when the fleecy clouds were high,
    And the sea was very calm and very blue,
That I met a maiden fair walking under branches where
    The leaves let little streaks of sunlight through.

A rosebud on her breast seemed to try to do its best
    To rival the rich beauty of her mouth;
By the glory of her face and her manner and her grace
    I knew her for a daughter of the South.

Ah, how beautiful she was! Dressed in cool and clinging gauze,
    She might have been an airy fairy queen;
As I gladly watched the maid coming, tripping through the glade
    I forgot that middle age should be serene.

I gave my belt a hitch and threw back my shoulders which
    I had suffered to droop somewhat carelessly;
With a youthful, springy stride I approached her and I tried
    To forget that I was not as young as she.

It was early in July when she met me with a sigh,
    And exclaimed, “Please take me home, I’ve lost my way;
You’re a nice old man and so I may trust in you, I know.”
    Oh, I wish I’d never met her there that day.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I stand and wonder, looking down at you;
    The world, all unexplored, before you lies;
Who knows what Fate may summon you to do,
    To what high summit you may proudly rise?

It may be that words written by your pen
    Shall live as long as art has power to please;
You may be called to lead and govern men,
    Great ships may bear your flag o’er many seas.

The might that Caesar won you may surpass,
    A Raphael’s brush may e’en descend to you;
It may be that your name in shining brass
    Shall claim the love of all who pause to view.

Napoleon and Shakespeare may be thrown
    Within the shadow you shall some day cast;
But probably you’ll live to grieve and groan,
    And get a mere three-line “obit” at last.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 8, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,
    We’ll have a wild, hair-raising ride;
I’ve smuggled out the new machine,
    And it shall now be fully tried;
The breeze shall fiercely fan your cheek,
    The waiting cops we will despise;
We will ignore the words they speak,
    The dust we make shall fill their eyes;
Oh, I will take you home, Kathleen;
    I hope that you may feel no pain;
The car is all wiped nice and clean,
    We’ll have it spattered up again.

I know you love me, Kathleen, dear,
    Because the car I run is new;
I’ll speed it on the highest gear,
    And try to give new thrills to you;
The things that get in front of me
    I’ll smash, and care but little how.
Hold to your hat and you shall see
    Some mighty pretty scorching now.
Oh, I will take you home, Kathleen,
    And if we give to others pain,
We’ll blithely hurry from the scene
    And never drive that way again.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 6, 1914. By Henry Howland.

“I’ve traveled till I’m sick of traveling;
    I’ve looked at everything there is to see.
It’s come to pass that nothing seems to bring
    A new sensation or a thrill to me.

“My taste is dulled, my thirst, alas, no more
    Brings anxious, eager longings to my soul
Since all I have to do is turn and pour
    Myself another glassful from the bowl.

“I’ve broken sporting records and I’ve played
    At working corners up in stocks and wheat;
Such things have lost their charms for me; I’ve made
    The whole great round, the circle is complete.

“Women, wine and song—bah! Not for me;
    There’s nothing left to long for any more,
There’s nothing left to do or taste or see,
    The world has not another thrill in store.”

But fate was kind to him who thus complained;
    It came to pass by happy chance, one day
That, all alone and with his pockets drained,
    He on a far-off shore was cast away.

There, where his voice could reach no friendly ear
    And where remittances could not be had,
Hard masters made him toil from year to year
    And every time he ate his soul was glad.

He longed for things that he could not obtain;
    The prospect of a day or two of rest,
The chance to save a little extra gain,
    Sent new thrills trooping gladly through his breast.

He sat him down no more with listless sighs,
    But with the hope of winning liberty
He worked and looked ahead with eager eyes,
    Till Death was kind enough to set him free.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Stay, you that proudly plan to dare
    And you that seek to do:
Before you hurry forth to try
To proudly plant your standard high,
    An honest word with you.

Who seeks to raise himself above
    The level of the crowd
Must drag through many a slough of woe
And suffer many a blinding blow
    And oft sit humbly bowed.

For every little gain he makes
    Who tries to take the lead
A hundred disappointments leave
Their impress on him; to achieve
    The heart must often bleed.

Stay, you that plan to gain renown
    Or play a splendid part:
Ten thousand sore discouragements
Upon your heart shall leave their dents
    Before you get a start.