Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, July 1, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

A collar built to suffocate;
A hat that seems a leaden weight;
A shirt and over that a coat
To shed each cool wave set afloat;
Suspenders which are far from light,
Or else a belt pulled safe and tight—
In these suffering man so neat
Goes forth to battle with the heat.

A filmy cloud of rustling lace,
That floats along with clinging grace;
A bit of color, which the breeze
May toss about with buoyant ease—
The man stands by and gasps for air
And then exclaims while gazing there
On comfortable loveliness,
“How foolishly those women dress!”

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

The Oriental dreams about a future blissful state—
Nirvana, which will find him all oblivious to fate.
Mohammed gave his followers a heaven of their own,
Which those with our ideas are inclined to let alone.
There is a heaven for each mortal striving here below;
For some the pace is rapid and some want it rather slow.
I fear my own ideal to a scanty height ascends—
Just let me sit around addressing post cards to my friends.

There’s a gentle satisfaction that is never known to fail
In taking up your pen and sending scenery by mail;
Or if a certain taste for art or humor you’d display,
You can find a funny jingle or a picture bluntly gay.
When weary of this mortal strife, oh, let me find a spot
Where I can scratch a line about the climate, cool or hot,
And somehow, o’er the distance which its strange enchantment lends,
Devote myself to sending picture cards to all my friends!

From the Evening Star, June 23, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

No dangers lurk in the display
    Of sizz-wheel or of rocket.
So safe and sane we’ve made the day
    That no one dares to knock it.
We’ll organize a picnic crowd.
    We’ll have a fine attendance
And father will recite aloud
    About our Independence.

Some pickles and some eggs we’ll take
    And pie—we’ll have to risk it.
We’ll have ice cream, sardines and cake
    And special homemade biscuit.
We are a bold and hardy race,
    But on the day in question
The only perils we can face
    Are those of indigestion.

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

How softly fall the memory lights
    On pictures of the past
As still and sultry grow the nights
    That shade the glare at last.
When like a furnace breath so hot
    The breezes ebb and flow,
You think about the cherished spot
    Where once you shoveled snow.

The eager tingle of the blast
    No more seems harsh and rude.
That sky with clouds all overcast
    Seems gentle and subdued.
Oh, how we wailed the bitter lot
    That faced us months ago,
And now how lovely seems the spot
    Where once we shoveled snow.

From the Evening Star, June 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

There was an old lady who swept back the sea
And she was as busy as busy could be.
We laughed to observe her industrious style,
But she kept at her task with a song and a smile.
    “It’s better,” said she,
    “To work, you’ll agree,
    And it pleases my fancy to sweep back the sea.”

A neighbor of hers gathered fabulous gain.
He sought for repose, but the quest was in vain.
He coveted fame with ambition sincere,
But for every good word cam a critical sneer.
    “Dear Madam,” said he,
    In a manner quite free,
    “You are wasting your time as you sweep back the sea.”

“Ho! Ho!” she made answer. “You toil year by year,
‘Mid the ebb and flow of despair and good cheer.
Your task is like mine, only hardly so wise,
Since I get fresh air and some fine exercise.”
    And he answered, “Ah, me!
    If you like, I will be
    Your partner and help you to sweep back the sea!”

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

I watched the gently flowing stream
    Where silver ripples stray.
Beneath the water’s flash and gleam
    I knew the fish would play.
I thought of many a prize to make
    A rare and tempting dish.
I sat and dreamed, though half awake,
    That I was stringin’ fish.

I looked and saw the finny tribe
    Down in the water clear.
Swift circles they would there describe
    And to my hook draw near.
I made full many a fervent wish,
    They romped in graceful glee.
I dreamed that I was stringin’ fish.
    The fish were stringin’ me.

From the Evening Star, April 17, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

When sunshine gets the better of the days so chill and raw,
Dear father gets a hammer and a chisel and a saw.
He says in thoughtful tones that match his stern superior frown,
“A lot o’ things about this shack are getting all run down.
The bells and lights need fixing and the doors are out of plumb.
There’s not a lock or hinge that doesn’t call for oiling some!”
It’s then we see a very anxious look on mother’s face,
As she remarks, “He’s starting in to fool around the place.”

There are grease spots on the carpet; there are scratches on the door.
There are holes and splintered sections in the polished hardwood floor.
If you pause to press a button it will shock you without fail.
The plaster drops in bunches where he tried to drive a nail.
But no one dares to criticize the work that he has done;
So long as father pays the bills, he ought to have his fun.
But there’s a sense of nervousness that nothing can efface
When spring arrives and father starts to fool around the place.

From the Evening Star, April 16, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

The man who works eight hours a day
    Goes home with joyous mind,
Prepared to take his share of play
    And leave his cares behind.

The statesman burns the midnight oil
    And starts his task anew;
A day makes fruitless all his toil—
    His work is never through.

The lawyer lives in fierce suspense,
    The doctor’s rest is rare.
The financier finds wealth immense
    A weight of serious care.

And Nature in her curious plan,
    Unfolded day by day,
Seems after all to love the man
    Who works eight hours a day.

From the Evening Star, April 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

There’s a squatty looking building that was put up years ago,
They called it altitudinous and thought it quite a show.
But other structures were designed, as men more daring grew,
And this one seemed to dwindle. Its admirers were but few.
It nestles in a canyon. Windows loftily aloof
Gaze down upon the chimneys and the flagpole on its roof.
Nobody lifts his head today and turns a wondering eye
On the squatty looking building that we used to think was high.

Oh, many a glimpse of glory shines and fades in life’s events,
As the theme of song and story with a nation’s compliments.
There’s many a statue chiseled for posterity to see
That doesn’t even make the tourist query, “Who was he?”
As other times bring other men triumphant to our view,
The world forgets the old in contemplation of the new.
And we mention bygone greatness with a reminiscent sigh—
It is like the good old building that we used to think was high.

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

We thought that Uncle Jim might need
    A little spell o’ rest.
In eloquence he took the lead
    An’ labored with the best.
We thought we’d slip a sinecure
    To this our favorite son,
An’ so we got him safe an’ sure
    A berth in Washington.

We met him there with furrowed brow
    An’ droopin’, weary eyes.
We couldn’t understand just how
    A man so good an’ wise
Could seem so overworked an’ sad,
    With such a victory won.
Our Uncle Jim went to the bad
    Up there in Washington.

When next election comes along
    The neighborhood intends
To bring him by a ballot strong
    Back here among his friends.
Though this may not appeal to him,
    Our duty must be done.
We’ve got to rescue Uncle Jim
    From work in Washington!