Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, October 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

If talk alone would do the trick,
    What vast improvements we would see!
We’d save the sinful and the sick,
    And fill the world with honest glee.
From every fault we would be freed,
    And midst the generous acclaim,
Ambition and his brother Greed
    Would hide their heads in sorrowing shame.

Gay banners would not be unfurled
    To glorify the march of Death.
We would not see a struggling world
    Half stifled by the cannon’s breath.
We’d make our resolutions high,
    And make them so that they would stick.
Men would not curse nor women cry
    If talk alone would do the trick.

From the Evening Star, September 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

My grandsire is a husky chap; his age is eighty-five.
    He has a cheery smile and thinks it’s good to be alive.
He does not claim perfection. When the New Year comes again
    He makes his resolutions, just the same as other men.
He seemed to start life’s journey on unfavorable terms.
    His family did not know a thing about these wicked germs.
They let him travel barefoot and he ate green fruit by stealth.
    I very often wonder how my grandsire kept his health.

He ate his bread and marmalade and didn’t care a straw
    About the labels which are recommended by the law.
And when a cut or bruise unto his careless lot befell,
    He tied a rag around it and then left it to get well.
He tried to love his neighbor and he wasn’t wild for pelf.
    He did the best he could and then forgot about himself.
He faced the outdoor life without the luxuries of wealth.
    It is a mystery how my good old grandsire kept his health!

From the Evening Star, September 27, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

The twilight softly lingers down to Pohick on the Crick;
The fields are proudly wavin’ where the golden grain grows thick,
An’ the moon that slowly rises sheds a soft, mysterious glow
Across the homes that we-all folks have loved since long ago.
We’ve had our share of sorrows such as fall to human kind,
But we think of present duty, an’ the past is left behind,
Exceptin’ when we pause to rest an’ memory songs resound,
Like faint an’ distant echoes, as the shadows gather ‘round.

We know that strangers sometimes smile, while passin’ on their way,
At the quaint, old-fashioned blossoms in their generous array.
We know the moss has gathered through the uneventful years
Around the churchyard stones that have been moistened with our tears,
But the sound of strife an’ hatred has been silent for so long
That the weak have learned to look with trustful eyes upon the strong.
We’re thankful, as we hear of deeds that make our hearts turn sick,
The Path of Glory doesn’t lead through Pohick on the Crick.

From the Evening Star, September 11, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

Nothin’ only carelessness
    Said Hezekiah Bings,
Is causin’ all the world’s distress
    An’ disconcertin’ things.
For years the fields have blossomed gay,
    For years the sun has shown.
This world would go its placid way
    If it were left alone.

But as it blossoms and it thrives
    For mortals to enjoy,
Man with his strange ambition strives
    To make the world his toy.
Through hurt and horror man will trace
    His pathway to a throne,
Yet earth would be a pleasant place
    If it were left alone.

From the Evening Star, August 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

Said the man who molds the cannon to the man who builds the ship,
“I am giving you a cargo for a strange and fearful trip.
And if you float or if you sink out yonder in the sea
I’ll keep on molding cannon; and it’s all the same to me.”

Said the man who builds the ship unto the cannon molder grim,
“I’ll take your cannon for a sail where lads all smart and trim
Will aim and fire true. And if your cannon shattered be,
I’ll keep on with my building; and it’s all the same to me.”

“For every gun that cracks we’ll mold a bigger, stouter gun.
For every ship that sinks we’ll put afloat a better one.
The lads that come and go—the women weep to lose them thus!
But we make our ships and cannon, and it’s all the same to us.”

From the Evening Star, August 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

As imports grow uncertain, various epicures turn pale.
The truffle crop for us, they say, is almost sure to fail,
And persons of luxurious thirst in accents sad complain
That gout must be acquired without assistance from champagne.
The busy chef gets gloomy as he peels the pomme de terre
And spoils the consomme with tears of anger and despair
As we, the Kommonpeeple, gastronomic grief defy
And merrily meander ‘mongst ham sandwiches and pie.

Who cares though Wienerwurst may sell at fifty cents an inch
And caviare may bring two dollars and a half per pinch!
Although we’ll miss the dainties from a distant foreign shore,
The good old lunchroom’s handing out its blessings as of yore.
A restful refuge for the hoi polloi that has to work,
All free from apprehensions caused by Serbian or Turk.
Familiar luxuries are ours beneath a placid sky,
And it’s easy to be happy with ham sandwiches and pie!

From the Evening Star, August 21, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

“I fear I’m not a sportsman true,” said Nimrod McIntyre.
“Some things that sportsmen have to do I cannot quite admire.
Amid the joy with which we hail a triumph great or small,
I can’t help feeling sorry for the creature that must fall.

“I get the thrill which comes when in the water clear I look
And see the fish that battles to gain freedom from the hook.
And yet it’s not the joy unqualified that I would wish,
For way down in my heart my sympathies are with the fish.

“When, with my trusty gun in hand, to slay a bird I fail,
I don’t feel blue at all. My sympathies are with the quail.
And yet I fish and shoot; but with no genuine desire
To kill a thing! Why is this so?” said Nimrod McIntyre.

From the Evening Star, August 10, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

My Uncle Jim looked kind o’ proud.
    I asked him for the reason—
You know how he kin hold a crowd
    In any sort o’ season.
Said he, “I DO feel proud today.
    My words, I’ve learned to weigh ‘em.
I thought of several things to say
    An’ then I didn’t say ‘em.

“It’s easy to blaze forth an’ give
    A wild illumination
An’ smite the folks who seem to live
    In undeserved elation.
But words like those go oft astray.
    It’s better to delay ‘em,
An’ think about the things you say
    Before you really say ‘em.

It’s hard to judge your fellow-men
    An’ allus pick the winners.
We praise the guilty now an’ then
    An’ picture saints as sinners.
I’ll brag a little if I may.
    My foes, no more I flay ‘em.
I’ve thought of several things to say
    An’ then I didn’t say ‘em.

From the Evening Star, July 26, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

Dear Editor:
I wish to call attention to the fact
That while in most respects your news is liberal an’ exact,
There’s something you are missin’. I am wonderin’ how you could
Be so indifferent to our influential neighborhood!
You write about the contests on the turf or in the ring,
But, up to now, your sportin’ page has never said a thing
About the mighty battle where two giants was arrayed;
I mean the game of checkers me an’ Ezry Slocum played.

’Twas him as sent the challenge. Leastways, he was heard to say
That he could beat Si Perkins playin’ checkers any day.
My last name bein’ Perkins an’ my fust name bein’ Si,
Of course, I couldn’t pass the base insinuation by.
Although our feelin’s was intense, our speech was never rude.
We calmly met the gaze of the assembled multitude
That stood on barrels an’ on crates an’ even on the shelves
To see how me an’ Ezry Slocum would acquit ourselves.

I made a swift attack an’ jumped him all along the line.
I romped around his king row purty much like it was mine.
Oh, you talk about your polo or your golf or your base ball!
I want to say the game that we put up ‘ud beat ‘em all!
I am writin’ to remind you that in this enlightened age
The public will take notice, if your valued sportin’ page
Neglects to mention who has riz up to fame so high—
The Checker Cyclone; which the same is
            Yours sincerely,
                        Si.

From the Evening Star, July 3, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

I read about the fishing and I read about the trees.
I read about the scenery all guaranteed to please.
I read about wild nature with its glories and its grace
And packed my grip, determined that I’d go and see the place.

The fish were tired of biting and the trees were not as grand
As those that flourished in our parks and roadways near at hand.
And nature in its wildness seems to love a lot of things
That it provides with various sorts of stickers and of stings.

And yet those printed pages seemed like poetry so fine
And a handsome illustration went with every other line.
No longer will I seek the rolling wave or leafy nook.
I’ll pack my grip again and go back home and read the book.