Tag: J. W. Foley

From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 1, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

They said it hurt morals, and maybe it harmed
Good morals, but folks were not greatly alarmed;
The few were concerned, but the many were prone
To leave the whole matter severely alone.

They said it hurt culture, and maybe it had
A bearing on culture most certainly bad,
But left to itself it would work itself out.
There wasn’t a thing to be worried about.

They said it hurt learning, and maybe it did,
But learning’s a thing that expects to be hid.
And while there was much, they agreed, to be learned,
There wasn’t good cause to be gravely concerned.

They said it hurt manhood, and maybe it meant
Some injury to it, as far as it went;
But this was no reason for clamor or fuss
As long as it didn’t directly hurt us.

But when it hurt Business, the folks over town
Unitedly said that it must be put down
Whatever it was, and they stamped the thing out—
For then it was something to worry about!

From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 30, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

This life’s a middlin’ crooked trail, and after forty year
Of knockin’ round, I’m free to say the right ain’t always clear.
I’ve seen a lot of folks go wrong—get off the main high road
An’ fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed.
I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men,
I ain’t been perfect all my life an’ may not be again;
An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray
I want to think he started right—an’ only lost his way.

I like to think the good in folks by far outweighs the ill;
The trail of life is middlin’ hard an’ lots of it uphill.
There’s places where there ain’t no guides or signboards up, an’ so
It’s part guess work an’ partly luck which way you chance to go.
I’ve seen the trails fork some myself, an’ when I had to choose
I wasn’t sure when I struck out if it was win or lose.
So when I see a man who looks as though he’s gone astray
I want to think he started right an’ only lost his way.

I’ve seen a lot of folks start out with grit an’ spunk to scale
The hills’ that purple over there, an’ somehow lose the trail;
I’ve seen ’em stop an’ start again, not sure about the road,
And found ’em lost on some blind trail, almost before they knowed.
I’ve seen ’em circlin’, tired out, with every pathway blind,
With cliffs before ’em, mountains high, an’ sloughs an’ swamps behind.
I’ve seen ’em circlin’ through the dusk, when twilight’s gettin’ gray,
An’ lookin’ for the main highroad—poor chaps who’ve lost their way.

It ain’t so far from Right to Wrong—the trail ain’t hard to lose;
There’s times I’d almost give my horse to know which one to choose.
There ain’t no guides or signboards up to keep you on the track;
Wrong’s sometimes white as driven snow, an’ right looks awful black.
I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men;
I’ve lost the trail sometimes myself, an’ may get lost again.
An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray,
I want to shove my hand in his an’ help him find the way!

From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 21, 1914. By J. W. Foley.

Father is patting his shoulder
    And lifting his grip;
Proud of him as he grows older,
    (But biting his lip.)
Aunty improving his going
    By giving advice.
And mother her tears overflowing,
    And wiping her eyes.

Father pretending to joke him
    While saying goodbye;
Sister seems trying to choke him
    While fixing his tie;
Uncle is chaffing and winking,
    Disguising his sighs,
While mother is standing and thinking
    And wiping her eyes.

Old chums are wishing successes
    And shaking his hand;
Girls with pink bows and white dresses
    Are hoping he’ll land
Top o’ the heap in his classes—
    He can if he tries—
And mother’s white handkerchief passes
    While wiping her eyes.

Towser’s tail wagging and shaking,
    He must understand;
Little Tob—brother is taking
    Him fast by the hand;
Standing on tip toes to kiss him
    And wiping goodbyes,
And mother—who knows how she’ll miss him?—
    Just wiping her eyes.

Father is counseling to him
    Of college and den.
Boy, as we yesterday knew him,
    But never again.
Mother once more may caress him,
    And then the goodbyes
And murmur and whisper “God bless him!”
    While wiping her eyes.

From theGrand Forks Daily Herald, June 1, 1914. By J. W. Foley

They have tamed it with their harrows; they have broken it with plows.
Where the bison used to range it someone’s built himself a house;
They have stuck it full of fence posts, they have girded it with wire,
They have shamed it and profaned it with the automobile tire;
They have bridged its gullied rivers; they have peopled it with men;
They have churched it, they have schooled it, they have steepled it — Amen.

They have smothered all its campfires, where the beaten plainsmen slept,
They have driven up their cattle where the skulking coyote crept;
They have made themselves a pasture where the timid deer would browse;
Where the antelope were feeding they have dotted o’er with cows;
There’s the yokel’s tuneless whistling down the bison’s winding trail.
Where the redman’s arrow fluttered, there’s a woman with a pail
Driving up the cows for milking. They have cut its wild extent
Into forty acre patches till its glory all is spent.

I remember in the sixties, when as far as I could see
It had neither lord nor ruler but the buffalo and me;
Ere the blight of man was on it, and the endless acres lay
Just as God Almighty left them on the restful seventh day;
When no sound rose from its vastness but a murmured hum and din
Like the echo void of silence in an unheard prairie hymn.
And I lay at night and rested in my bed of blankets curled
Much alone as if I was the only man in all the world.

But the prairie’s passed or passing with the passing of the years
Till there is no west worth knowing and there are no pioneers;
They have riddled it with railroads, throbbing on and on and on,
They have ridded it of dangers till the zest of it is gone.
And I’ve saddled up my pony, for I’m dull and lonesome here,
To go westward, westward, westward, till we find a new frontier;
To get back to God’s own wildness and the skies we used to know;
But there is no West; it’s conquered—and I don’t know where to go.