Newspaper History

Tag: Philander Johnson

  • Improved Facilities

    From the Evening Star, July 31, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Inventive genius undertook
        To make our labors lighter.
    The oldtime way mankind forsook
        For methods much politer.
    With speech and print we made in vain
        Our protests and predictions,
    So now a cannon’s mouth we train
        To utter our convictions.

    Unto the future of the race
        We turned with deep reflection,
    And bade eugenics take the place
        Of natural selection.
    Such problems are dismissed offhand
        With confident elation.
    You simply press a button and
        Exterminate a nation.

  • The Quest

    From the Evening Star, July 24, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    The Dove of Peace exclaimed one day:
    “Conditions fill me with dismay,
    I will disguise myself and seek
    The quiet dear to one so meek.”

    On land she hoped, afar from strife,
    To lead a simple barnyard life,
    But shuddered with incessant dread
    As cannon rattled overhead.

    She trimmed new plumage and in state
    The eagle sought to imitate,
    Until an airship hurried by
    And sent her trembling from the sky.

    Then as a sea gull forth she flew
    Where waves were still and skies were blue
    Until a shock disturbed the scene
    Caused by a reckless submarine.

    And so she turns on weary wing,
    Still hopeful that her wandering
    On land or in the sky or sea
    May find some spot from terror free.

  • A Retrogression

    From the Evening Star, July 22, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    One time we had an uplift down to Pohick on the Crick.
    The talk of art an’ culture came a-flyin’ very thick.
    We bought a lot of handsome books whose covers plainly showed
    That when their authors talked of art, they talked of what they knowed.
    We felt that we had found the way unto a life refined,
    Whose object would be beauty an’ a disposition kind.
    We were strong for classic painting an’ for sculpture so sublime,
    An’ architecture that defied the ravages of time.

    Then from a mighty shock the world stood trembling and afraid.
    It came from the headquarters where the classic art was made.
    The painter dropped his brushes and the sculptor left his clay
    An’ the singers marched in silence to the fierce, incessant fray.
    We learned how works of beauty that were built through patient years
    Were swept into destruction in a storm of rage and tears—
    So maybe it’s the old-time way to which we’d better stick
    An’ jes’ live plain an’ humble down to Pohick on the Crick.

  • Altogether Different

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    They bid us laugh at trouble and to chase dull care away,
    For trouble will grow greater if you nurse it day by day.
    But I couldn’t laugh at trouble and I couldn’t banish care
    When fate turned out a grievance as my own especial share.
    I’ve smiled at the material for customary glee:
    The cook who burned the biscuit seemed a mirthful sprite to me.
    The small boy with a stomach ache—how he has made me grin;
    How I’ve chuckled at the teacher who sat down upon a pin.
    But when the biscuit that was burned at breakfast met my gaze,
    My feelings sought expression in a dozen different ways.
    The small boy with the pain, when once I met him face to face,
    Evoked my sympathy and left of laughter not a trace.
    Of joy the situation showed a most convincing lack
    When I sustained a puncture by a pin or by a tack.
    That smiles will banish sorrow all philosophy has shown;
    But it’s hard to laugh at trouble if the trouble is your own.

  • Imaginary Destruction

    From the Evening Star, July 14, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    If all the men who talk of fish
        Were fishermen for sure,
    If fact were equal to the wish
        That stoutly doth endure,
    If all the men who sit and write
        Of fish, in verse so fine,
    Had sought the waters that invite
        The patient hook and line,
    If all the tackle that is made
        And every year turned loose
    ‘Mongst sporting goods to be displayed,
        Were put to active use,
    The situation could be told
        In language quite succinct:
    The fishing yarns would all be old;
        The fish would be extinct.

  • The Vanished Hero

    The Vanished Hero

    From the Evening Star, July 7, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Jack Harkaway! Jack Harkaway! Companion of my youth,
    How often we have wandered from the beaten path of truth,
    And reveled in adventure such as none could hope to know
    Save those who sought your guidance for a reckless hour or so!
    You were the hero of my dreams, with strong and ready arm
    To punish the unrighteous and to shield the weak from harm.
    With you the age of chivalry once more was in its prime;
    And your acquaintance only cost a paltry silver dime.

    How warily we tracked the skulking villain to his lair!
    How cleverly we laid for him the unsuspected snare!
    When luck was all against us, as it was through many a page,
    You cheered me with your jolly quips or observations sage.
    We roamed through distant countries and the savages we met
    We conquered with a boldness that I never shall forget.
    There’s nothing that you couldn’t do, when you applied your skill
    To tasks that must have baffled ordinary strength or will.

    There were no movies then and magazines were grimly wise.
    You lived before the aeroplane went flashing through the skies.
    The telephone was but a dream; the motor car a myth.
    All crude was the material that they equipped you with.
    And yet no hero since your time has shown the buoyant grace
    Which you displayed in meeting every peril face to face.
    And it’s many a time I’m longing on an idle summer day
    To sail the seas and roam the woods with you, Jack Harkaway.

  • A Reformer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Bill Jenkins used to toil an’ think fur all that he was worth,
    His purpose bein’ to get out an’ to elevate the earth.
    He wanted reformation an’ he wanted it fur fair,
    An’ he made his fellow-man the object of his special care.
    If his fellow-man was hungry Bill could show him how the fact
    Was due to some bad habit or some ill-considered act;
    He was shocked beyond expression at the faults that he could find,
    But willin’ to be shocked some more, he sought to uplift human kind.

    He drew comparisons ‘twixt folks that didn’t get along
    An’ those who like himself seemed rather confident an’ strong.
    He felt a bit superior an’ the feelin’ kind o’ grew
    That he hadn’t no bad habits—leastways only one or two.
    Yet his schemes for reformation on a strictly wholesale plan,
    They didn’t seem of value to his sufferin’ fellow-man.
    He sometimes gave expressions to opinions almost rude
    To what he would refer to as “the world’s ingratitude.”

    He took the failure to accept his good advice to heart.
    The folks admitted that his talk was mighty fine an’ smart.
    He didn’t understand the ways of honest, kindly care.
    Great wisdom ain’t uncommon, but true sympathy is rare.
    He stopped an’ thought it over an’ his pulse beat fast an’ warm
    As he said, “I wouldn’t wonder if it’s me that needs reform!
    This world would surely hit a pace that’s generous an’ good
    If every one reformed hisself an’ done the best he could.”

  • Off to the Bank

    From the Evening Star, June 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    “It’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete,
    “The bank whose solidity can’t be beat—
    The bank o’ the stream that reflects the glint
    Of the golden coin from the sunshine mint,
    Where the jewels don’t need a safety box,
    But are tossed where the water hits the rocks
    Into the air with a sparkle gay,
    With plenty to spare and some more next day.
    Oh, there’s never a thought of gain or loss
    As you sit on a cushion built of moss.
    The stately pillars are trees that grow
    With a grace that your builders may never know.
    There I may draw from the mighty store
    All that I need an’ come back fur more
    With a welcome endurin’ an’ complete;
    So it’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete.

  • The Halt

    From the Evening Star, June 11, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    “Wait a little,” said the robin,
        “For the song I have to sing.”
    “Wait a little,” said the rosebud,
        “For a bit of blossoming.”
    I know the world is busy,
        But the sunshine and the smile
    Shouldn’t wholly be forgotten.
        Let us wait a little while.

    Wait a little on the beauty.
        Wait a little on the song.
    They will leave you better fitted
        For the tasks that need the strong.
    Life holds nothing for the laggard,
        But the road is many a mile,
    And there’s hope and strength in halting
        Only just a little while.

  • Si Woggles

    From the Evening Star, June 9, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Si Woggles was a grocer’s clerk,
    Who grew superior to his work.
    He got to thinking more and more
    That he knew how to run the store.
    He pointed out with feelings grim
    The profits that were due to him,
    And he attributed each loss
    To interference by the boss.
    It fairly made him weep to see
    How obstinate the boss could be.
    Si reasoned with him and he tried
    To check those efforts misapplied.
    That careless boss, he answered back
    And said that He would Run the Shack!
    The conscience of Si Woggles burned,
    His thoughts to desperation turned,
    Till finally his fretted mind
    Became so fierce that Si resigned!
    Sad was the day when Si no more
    Came ‘round to open up the store,
    And weigh the merchandise with care
    And gossip with a friendly air.

    And yet the people came to buy.
    Some few said, “What’s become of Si?”
    But somehow that old grocery store
    Keeps doing business as of yore.