Tag: Henry Howland

From the Rock Island Argus, June 3, 1914. By Henry Howland.

The Slave:

With weary brain and aching heart
    He greets another day;
He sadly stumbles forth to start
    Upon his weary way;
The sun may shine above his head and accented breezes blow,
But what mean fair, blue skies to him that need compels to go
    To labor where no sunshine falls,
    Shut in by cheerless, dingy walls,
Estranged from all but woe?

“The day is done,” he sadly sighs;
    What has it brought to me?
The sunset’s glow is on the skies—
    Why should I turn to see?
I am condemned to live and toil the heavy hours away;
Tomorrow I shall still be where I started yesterday;
    By circumstance to service bound,
    I must pursue a cheerless round,
And hurry to obey.

The Lover:

The sunbeams play across his way,
    And blossoms that are sweet
Come drifting from the trees to stray
    About his eager feet;
He hurries onward hopefully where duties claim his care,
And claims the pleasures that arise from faithful service there—
    And in his heart he bears along
    A little of the West Wind’s song,
And all his world is fair.

“How fair the day has been,” he cries,
    When evening’s shadows spread;
“How rich a glow is in the skies,
    How fair the way ahead!
Sweet songs have sweetly haunted me through all the splendid day,
And Hope is calling bravely while I hurry on my way
    To smiling lips and loving arms—
    My path is through a land of charms
Where friendly fairies play.”

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

Give a definition of success. “Money.”
Give a synonym for happiness. “Money.”
What attaches honor to a name?
What produces privilege and fame?
What relieves the sinner of all blame?
    “Money.”

Give a definition of respect. “Money.”
What enables people to “connect?” “Money.”
What brings haughty monarchs to their knees?
What brings titled suitors over seas?
What makes wisdom look like cottage cheese?
    “Money.”

Give a ready synonym for goal. “Money.”
What is more important than the soul? “Money.”
What removes the ugliness from vice?
What in lieu of beauty will suffice?
What is proudly gained at any price?
    “Money.”

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

She was so gentle and so fair
    That I was gladdened when we met;
She had a modest, pensive air.
    In fancy I behold her yet;
She moved with such unstudied grace
    That she appeared to float along;
The beauty of her youthful face
    Was such as urges bards to song.

Again I saw her; years had passed;
    Alas, she had been wooed and won;
A listless look at me she cast,
    Then went on mending for her son;
She wore a wrapper that was red,
    A knot of hair, uncrimped and small;
Her beauty and her grace had fled—
    She didn’t seem to care at all.

And then he came who once, mayhap,
    Had deemed her earth’s most lovely thing—
Had gladly held her on his lap—
    And decked her finger with his ring;
He passed her with a grunt, no more,
    And then forgetting she was there,
Got down at full length on the floor
    And gamboled with their son and heir.

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

“I wonder if you know how fair
    You make the world for me?
I wonder if you know that where
    You are I long to be?
Your smile is like the morning sun
    That gladdens all below;
When you appear the day’s begun,
But when we part the day is done—
I wonder if you know or care,
    I wonder if you know?”

(He wonders if she knows or cares;
    Why should he ever doubt it?
The lovelorn, longing look he wears
    Has told her all about it.
Although he never tells her so,
He may be sure that she will know;
Love needs no speech—long, long ago
    Love learned to do without it.)

“I wonder if you ever guess
    That when you linger near
The world is filled with loveliness,
    That when you leave ’tis drear?
For you, sweetheart, it is that all
    The fairest breezes blow,
And from the skies the stars would fall
Responsive to your witching call;
You smile to gladden and to bless—
    I wonder if you know?”

(He wonders if his sweetheart knows
    Or has the wit to guess it;
He tells it everywhere he goes
    His looks and sights confess it;
He thinks her lips forbidden fruit,
Ah, let him cease from being mute,
And boldly, bravely press his suit—
    She longs for him to press it.)

From the Rock Island Argus, May 19, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Pa’s got back from his vacation,
    With a look that’s wild and strange;
Seems all full of tribulation,
    Though he’s had his rest and change;
For a year he had been wishin’
    He could be alone somewhere,
So he spent his two weeks fishin’,
    Far away from home and care.

He has forty-seven places
    Where the hungry woodticks died;
And the color of his face is
    Like a piece of beef that’s dried;
Both his feet are full of blisters,
    Insects nearly ate him up,
And last night he called my sister’s
    Beau a pompous little pup.

Pa’s got back from his vacation,
    Lookin’ like a hungry tramp;
Once he nearly faced starvation
    When he strayed away from camp.
He must eat things predigested
    Till his health improves a lot;
Comin’ home he was arrested
    For the only fish he got.

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

Then out spake brave Horatius,
    The captain of the gate:
“Halt! Every mother’s son of you,
    Both friends and foemen wait!
Let not a blow be given
    No matter what the odds,
For the ashes of your sires
    Or the temples of your gods.

“Hew not the bridge, sir consul,
    Please put your ax away;
I’ll later call upon you
    To hew, but not today—
In yon straight path a thousand
    May well be stopped by three;
There I will stand and have command—
    Not now, but presently.”

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
    A counterfeiter bold:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
    With thee the bridge I’ll hold!”
And out spake young Herminius,
    A strong-arm artist he:
“I will abide by thy left side
    And keep the bridge with thee.”

“Horatius,” quoth the consul,
    “Behold yon great array;
Why may I not begin to hew,
    Why counsel this delay?
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
    Spare neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life—
    At least, so I’ve been told.”

“Fool,” answered brave Horatius,
    “Hold off till I say when;
We must await in patience
    The moving picture men!
As soon as they get ready,
    And not till then, cut loose—
We want this scrap recorded
    On films for future use.”

From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I’d like to be among the few
    Who, needing rest, may be at ease;
I mean those lucky people who
    May turn from duty when they please—
The ones who, feeling weariness,
    May knock off early for the day
And have no fear that pitiless
    Taskmasters will reduce their pay.

I’d like to have the right to let
    Some other who was under me
Remain at work to stew and fret
    While I went roving carelessly;
I’d like to hold an office which
    Might be left to another’s care,
While I sought pleasure with the rich
    Or sat at blissful ease somewhere.

But I have noticed that the men
    Who have the privilege I lack,
Who may depart, not caring when
    Their interests shall call them back—
I’ve noticed that those who possess
    This privilege, which seems sublime,
Are overcome with weariness
    About three-quarters of the time.

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

Cleon hath four limousines,
    Ne’er a one have I;
Cleon fares to foreign scenes,
    Here at home stay I;
Cleon lives where servants hurry
    And the walls are high;
Cleon oft has cause to worry,
    So, alas, have I.

Twenty suits of clothes has he,
    Only one have I;
He makes money easily,
    By hard working I;
In his glass the old wine bubbles,
    Cleon likes it “dry”;
Cleon frequently has troubles,
    Ah, well, so do I.

Cleon is a millionaire,
    I work, wet or dry;
Cleon’s losing all his hair,
    Little hair have I;
Cleon oft has indigestion,
    So, indeed, have I;
What’s the difference, you question?
    This is my reply:

Cleon’s daughter has eloped
    And his son flies high;
Hopes that Cleon fondly hoped
    Have been doomed to die;
Cleon sits alone at night,
    In his breast a sigh;
My kids stay at home and fight—
    Six of them have I.

From the Rock Island Argus, May 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.

The sun may shine again—I s’pose it will.
    But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The orchard trees may blossom on the hill,
    But that’ll make no difference to me.

The ones who like the smell of new-plowed ground
    And think a wild rose beautiful and sweet
Will probably still want to tramp around,
    Glad that the sod is soft beneath their feet.

The boys will build their little boats and let
    Them float on rivers I could step across;
The yearlings, with their scraggy coats, will get
    Out in the fields and gain a shiny gloss.

The cows will stand and chew their cud and dream,
    But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The fisherman will loll beside the stream,
    But that will make no difference to me.

The people in the busy town will try,
    No matter what they have, to still have more;
The lights will flicker and the flags will fly,
    The wheels will keep on turnin’ as before.

On Sunday mornings they will ring the bells,
    At quittin’ time they’ll blow the whistles, too;
The home run will be followed by loud yells,
    And men may sing at what they have to do.

The world will still roll on, but there is one
    Who said last night that “it could never be;”
I s’pose we’ll still have sunshine from the sun,
    But that’ll make no difference to me.

From the Rock Island Argus, April 27, 1914. By Henry Howland.

Some people say it wasn’t luck that made ‘em rich and proud;
They claim ’twas wisdom, work and pluck that raised ‘em from the crowd.
I don’t deny that there’s a pile of truth in what they say,
And yit it always makes me smile to hear ‘em talk that way.

Fer instance, there was Henry Wood—taught school here years ago;
His teachin’ wasn’t any good—we had to tell him so;
He tried to get another school, but couldn’t anywhere;
Directors thought he was a fool and said so plain and fair.
    So havin’ nothin’ else to do, he wrote a silly book or two;
    Most mushy stuff I ever read, but I have lately heard it said
        That Henry was a millionaire.

And there was John Tate’s oldest son, a lazy, worthless chap;
When there was hard work to be done he never helped his pap;
The old man drove him off at last—just told him plain and flat
That all the monkeyin’ was past—what happened after that?
    They say he’s saltin’ money down and keeps six servants up in town;
    He sells some kind of medicine he guarantees to keep ‘em thin
        When women think they’re gettin’ fat.

Take them two fellers—was it pluck with which they were endowed?
Or was it just a bit of luck that made ‘em rich and proud?
Take notice, that I don’t deny that work and wisdom win,
But when you say that ends it, why—excuse me if I grin.