Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, June 8, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 We was feelin’ somewhat sporty, down to Pohick-on-the-Crick.
 We figured out a hoss race as a neat an’ fancy trick.
 We fenced the track off proper an’ we laid the distance out,
 An’ we sent requests for entries to the neighbors ‘round about.
 We didn’t give nobody any chance to sneer or snub;
 We made all comers members of the Pohick Jockey Club.
 There was only jes’ one little drawback to the fun;
 The hosses was so busy that they hadn’t time to run.
 
 Joe Struthers had to keep his mare a-haulin’ stuff to town.
 We couldn’t git the hosses that belong to Ezry Brown
 Because, like many others, they are occupied jes’ now
 In fillin’ their engagements with a harrow or a plow.
 The only equine candidate fur glory an’ fur fame
 Was Uncle Eben’s mule that’s been laid up because it’s lame.
 Us men folks all went back to work a-realizin’ quick
 That hoss sense ought to set the pace at Pohick-on-the-Crick.

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

 When Arabella talks to Jim
 She thinks, while glancing up at him,
 “There is a man of heart and brain
 Worth any lass’ while to gain.
 I’d like to have him in my care
 And fix his neckties and his hair.”
 Yet this is all she has to say:
 “It is a pleasant day, today.”
 
 And Jim, with feelings all intense,
 Thinks, “There’s a girl of real sense,
 And pretty as the flowers in spring,
 And sweet of voice as birds that sing.
 There’s not a chance that she could be
 Attracted by a chap like me.”
 So this is all Jim has to say:
 “It IS a pleasant day, today.”
 
 So, as the years too swift have fled,
 They’ve left their real thought unsaid.
 It is the custom of mankind
 A timid refuge thus to find
 When some frank sentiment intrudes,
 A refuge in dull platitudes.
 We slight the best of life and say
 “It is a pleasant day, today.”

From the Evening Star, May 24, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

     Oh, the dear old funny story
     Still appearing in its glory—
 What a train of memories it will invite!
     It will bring fond recollections
     Of the humorous reflections
 That the lecturers would stand up and recite.
     Each comedian rehearsed it
     After-dinner speakers nursed it
 We would hear it set to music light and gay.
     Even leaders of the nation
     As a means of illustration
 In their speeches kept it going on its way.
 
     Ivy climbs upon the steeple
     And the faces of the people
 Are wrinkling and their hair is turning gray;
     And the landmarks of each city
     Slowly crumble—more’s the pity—
 Till improvements come and sweep them all away.
     But that good old comic whimsy
     Though it seemed so wan and flimsy
 Still provides a glint of fiction or of truth.
     It’s a wondrous demonstration
     Of the one thing in creation
 That rejoices in an everlasting youth.

From the Evening Star, May 13, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 When you’re feelin’ kind o’ lonely
     An’ you’re gettin’ sort o’ blue
 An’ you think that life is only
     A great blunder through an’ through
 Don’t rely on publications
     Full o’ philosophic dreams
 Or on novels or orations
     Built on socialistic schemes.
 
 If you’re threatened with “conniptions”
     Of a violence intense
 Just obtain a few prescriptions
     From old Doctor Commonsense.
 He’ll advise a little laughter,
     Just as much as life can spare
 To be followed quickly after
     With some sunshine and fresh air.

From the Evening Star, April 19, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 They say our legislature
     Is going to find a way
 To conquer human nature
     And drive its faults away;
 To shield us from oppression—
     Although with some regret
 We note this sad confession:
     It never happened yet.
 
 Mankind has ever striven
     For sweet Perfection’s state.
 All power has been given
     To kings and princes great.
 On soldiers, saints and others
     Its hopes the world has set
 To make men dwell as brothers;
     It never happened yet.

From the Evening Star, April 16, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 Just around the corner there is music soft and sweet;
 The sunbeams on a holiday go dancing down the street.
 You see a path where blossoms bend to greet you on your way
 Through the misty lanes of April to the splendors of the May.
 Though the sullen shadows linger you can sing a little song
 While you’re trudging on your journey, which will not be very long.
 Just around the corner skies are smiling warm and blue—
 The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue.
 
 There the butterflies are neighbors and the honeybees are friends,
 And the wind is sighing comfort where the weeping willow bends.
 The clumsy tortoise plods along, nor cares where he may roam,
 And when he’s scared or weary shuts his shell and calls it home.
 The grasses wave in billows like the flowing of the sea,
 And the birds are busy nesting, way up yonder in the tree;
 They are just around the corner, ‘mongst the perfumes and the dew,
 The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue.

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

 Whenever Jabez Jones takes hold
     Of anything at all
 We find he cannot be controlled
     In matters great or small.
 He hollers and he waves his hands
     And sometimes he gets cross
 While issuing his loud commands.
     He has to be the boss.
 
 He isn’t much at chopping wood
     Nor with a rake or hoe.
 His judgement isn’t very good
     And his results are slow.
 But time is precious. It is clear
     We shouldn’t risk its loss.
 So long as he can’t interfere,
     We just let Jabez boss.

From the Evening Star, April 9, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

     Spite of all the churlish chatter
     It is quite a serious matter
 To become a proper guardian of the peace.
     You must have a disposition
     That would fit you for a mission
 To Turkey or the Balkans or to Greece.
     You must treat the children kindly,
     And when people jostle blindly
 At a crowded crossing ‘mid the dust and noise,
     You must grab a perfect stranger
     And convey him out of danger
 In a way that won’t disturb his equipoise.
 
     You must learn the regulations,
     And likewise the laws of nations,
 To avoid the chance of diplomatic jar.
     You must listen uncomplaining,
     All your sense of mirth restraining,
 While they come to tell you what their troubles are.
     You should have a fund of knowledge
     More than could be learned at college,
 To assist each weary wanderer in distress.
     And your compensation should be
     All a bank director’s could be—
 Though I fancy it’s considerably less.

From the Evening Star, January 19, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 We’re livin’ calm and peaceful down to Pohick on the Crick.
 We remember last November when the talk was flyin’ thick,
 But we’ve settled down to duty and a proper share of rest,
 With every one a-hopin’ an’ a-doin’ of his best.
 There ain’t no apprehension ‘bout what’s goin’ to be done
 In conferrin’ new distinctions over there in Washington.
 We wrote our ballots plainly, as becomes men brave an’ free;
 Since the vote has gone on record, we jes’ say, “Let bygones be.”
 
 There’s a heap of agitation—we kin hear it from afar,
 Even though our own existence moves along without a jar.
 There are big committee meetin’s. Speeches fill the air again.
 They are sometimes most as thrillin’ as they were in the campaign.
 There are new ideas started with determination bold,
 An’ there’s eager agitation in defendin’ of the old.
 But we have our own ideas an’, I guess, to them we’ll stick,
 Heaven be thanked! Election’s over here at Pohick on the Crick!

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

 Father was reciting
 A speech he had to make.
 For days he had been writing
 For patriotism’s sake.
 With noble self-reliance
 ‘Gainst tyrants he rebelled
 And uttered fierce defiance—
 Just then the baby yelled.
 
 Mother was declaring
 That women ought to vote,
 Her arguments preparing
 All earnestly to quote.
 With reasons energetic,
 Which could not be dispelled,
 She spoke in tones prophetic—
 Just then the baby yelled.
 
 They both forgot their speaking
 And hastened swiftly there
 To that small infant, seeking
 To soothe him with their care,
 Forgetting the oration
 In which they both excelled—
 They might have saved the nation
 If the baby hadn’t yelled.