Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, November 29, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

Oh, say not so! Oh, say not so!
    Wound not a weary heart!
Do not regard us as your foe
    And say that we must part.
Oh, modify that angry look
    While we express regret.
You are a most accomplished cook
    And cooks are hard to get.

Oh, speak not thus! Oh, speak not thus!
    Pray set that suit case down!
If you’ll consent to cook for us,
    No one shall chide or frown.
Our casual comments we shall quit.
    No fault we’ll find with you,
For as a cook you are a hit
    And cooks are very few.

From the Evening Star, October 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

My Uncle Jim has done ‘most everything there is to do.
He says life’s not worth livin’ when there isn’t something new
To hold a man’s attention. He has tamed a buckin’ hoss
And drove in trottin’ races without grumblin’ at the loss.
He has taken railroad journeys an’ he’s viewed the buildin’s high;
He’s lost a stack of poker chips an’ never blinked an eye.
But his latest fad’s the queerest that has ever come to him.
He’s writin’ poetry! Jes’ think of that fur Uncle Jim!

He writes about the stable an’ the haystack an’ the cows
An’ comes as near profanity as the police allows.
He jiggles an’ he joggles till he gets ‘round to a rhyme
An’ don’t keer what he says, so long as he is keepin’ time!
We used to think he’d mebbe be a man of useful mold,
A blacksmith or a congressman or else a farm-hand bold.
But now we think his chances for great things are mighty slim.
He’s writin’ poems; an’ that’ll be ‘bout all from Uncle Jim.

From the Evening Star, October 7, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

There’s a great continued story that has filled us with suspense.
We haven’t read it, but we feel its interest immense.
We’re furnished with reliable advices, day by day,
If the heroine is happy or the villain is at bay.
The maid who does our general work is Miss Miranda Stubbs.
She cooks; she minds the telephone; she dusts; sometimes she scrubs.
And when that weekly story comes, with words of joy or gloom,
She folds it to her bosom and she hurries to her room.

Miranda’s face informed us by its smiling all serene
That Gwendolyn, the Village Rose, had stepped upon the scene,
And brave young men from far and near, so handsome and so neat,
Were struggling for a chance to lay their fortunes at her feet.
The sighing of Miranda told us that the choice was made.
A frown revealed objections that the father stern arrayed.
A week of great anxiety compelled us to suppose
That fate was most unkind to Gwendolyn, the Village Rose.

The villain from the city plunged Miranda in despair.
She shuddered till she spilt the tea and broke the chinaware.
Then fits of sobbing told us that the hero was in jail,
Accused of crime all falsely, with no one to go his bail.
We try to lead our simple lives. It isn’t any use.
We wonder what effect the next installment will produce.
The atmosphere of grief or joy that we are living in
Depends upon the love-lorn and fictitious Gwendolyn!

From the Evening Star, August 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

I’d like to have lived in the classic days
When luxuries that would now amaze
Were common; when splendid sybarites
In feasting would pass their days and nights.
And yet when patricians boldly shirk
There must be people to do the work.
Had I been there it would be my luck
To be left outside to unload the truck.

I’d like to march with the heroes bold,
Where the music sounds and the flags unfold.
When through dreams like these our fancies flit
We always imagine that we’d be It.
And yet I’ll wager that should I be
A soldier brave they’d allot to me
No medals bright to adorn my tent.
I’d be cooking beans for the regiment.

From the Evening Star, August 7, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

When there’s gayety assembled and the lights are all aglow
Why is that we falter in the conversation’s flow?
Why is it that we do not think till half-past two or three
Of something which at ten would have been first-rate repartee?
Repose declines to greet you. It is banished from your bed
As you keep on thinking over all the things you might have said.

When your name has just been mentioned in connection with a speech,
And every thought you ever had has drifted out of reach;
When you say, “To public speaking, unaccustomed as I am,”
And then relapse into an imitation of a clam,
You realize with bitterness than when three hours have fled
You’ll have insomnia, thinking of the things you might have said.

’Tis the fate of many a statesman with a crisis on his hands;
It’s the same way with a lover who in bashful silence stands.
In every line of effort we are likely to be caught
In fierce resentment of some bright but useless afterthought.
Of all the gloomy specters that oppress our souls with dread,
The worst are recollections of the things we might have said.

From the Evening Star, July 26, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

Oh, Bull’s-Eye Bill was a burglar bold
    Who never did what he was told.
He smoked and chewed and swore and drank
    And his greatest pleasure was to rob a bank.

Miss Susan Slosh was a suffragette,
    A militant of the ultra set.
She’d burn a castle or she’d wreck a train
    Or heave brick-bats through a window pane.

When Bull’s-Eye Bill and Susan wed
    ’Twas a very fine match, the neighbors said.
But Bill got blue ‘cause his wife would roam.
    She’d rather go to prison than remain at home.

The tears would course down his cheeks so pale
    As he begged her to please come out on bail.
“A jail’s all right for a man,” says he,
    “But it ain’t no place for a woman to be.”

So they disagreed an’ their ways they went.
    She gets locked up to her heart’s content.
And Bill gets to cussin’ now and then
    ‘Bout women usurpin’ the sphere of men.

From the Evening Star, July 6, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 A little baby laughed one day;
     I paused and wondered why.
 None of the wealth could it display
     For which the grown folk sigh.
 
 Its wardrobe seemed exceeding slim.
     No jewelry it wore.
 Its home was up a side street dim,
     Behind a dusty store.
 
 It hadn’t even teeth or hair.
     Its hands were frail and small.
 And yet it sat goo-gooing there,
     As if it had them all.
 
 It seemed to say that happiness
     Rests not with pomp or pelf;
 It comes not from what you possess,
     But from your real self.

From the Evening Star, July 2, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 The person who always insists on the facts
     Met a troubadour singing his lay;
 His mood was not rude with intent to intrude
     As he caroled so light and so gay.
 And this was the song that came floating so free
     As he journeyed along without care:
 “Oh, the Nightingale Sweetly is Singing to Me
     As the Violets Perfume the Air.”
 
 Said the person who thinks in statistics and tracts,
     “I am sorry that I must arise
 And say that your lay is from truth far away.
     It fills me with grief and surprise.
 For the violet, when it is blossoming wild,
     No perfume possesses; that’s clear.
 And it’s proved by the data which I have compiled
     That we do not have nightingales here.”
 
 So, the person who strictest adherence exacts
     To the precepts by learning laid down
 Told the throng how the song was essentially wrong
     And should not be allowed in the town.
 We heard with respect and we thanked him full loud
     For the lesson he gave us that day—
 And then we forgot him and followed the crowd
     That danced to the troubadour’s lay.

From the Evening Star, June 20, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 We’ve got a railroad problem down to Pohick on the Crick.
 We’ve heard about stock tickers an’ manipulation slick,
 But we ain’t a-takin’ sides with any bulls or any bears.
 If we get ours we won’t object to them a-gettin’ theirs.
 Whenever we are drivin’ through the rough an’ heavy road
 We wish we could get out an’ help the horses pull the load;
 An’ we’re haunted by the echoes of a whistle far away,
 Where folks kin see a locomotive passin’ every day.
 
 We held a meetin’ an’ discussed the railroad problem there.
 We didn’t say a word about the freight rates or the fare.
 We didn’t talk of watered stock or policies unjust.
 There’s time enough to kick. You want to get your railroad fust.
 A cozy little station an’ some trains a-makin’ time
 Would lift us for the present to a height of joy sublime.
 Jes’ any kind of railroad, runnin’ slow or runnin’ quick,
 Is all that we demand to date, at Pohick on the Crick.

From the Evening Star, June 11, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 We are feelin’ some excited down to Pohick-on-the-Crick.
 We used to run the village in a manner smooth an’ slick;
 But we suddenly discovered with astonishment profound
 We had a lot o’ lobbyists a-campin’ on the ground!
 You see, a lobbyist ain’t always one that works for pay.
 He’s just a man that hangs around an’ wants to have his say.
 He’ll flatter or persuade you or he’ll rile you an’ make fun
 In hopes to make you do things jes’ the way he wants ‘em done.
 
 You can’t repair your fence or break a colt or shoe a mare
 Without Joe Struthers gives the job his supervisin’ care.
 An’ old Zeb Tunkins drops around not meanin’ any harm
 An’ tells you what’s the matter with the way you run your farm.
 Si Simlin criticizes all the efforts that you make
 An’ Huldy Woggins wants to teach your wife to broil an’ bake.
 We want investigatin’ an’ we want it good and quick.
 There’s too much lobbyin’ down here to Pohick-on-the-Crick!