Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, December 29, 1912. By Philander Johnson.
 

 They sing about the dear old farm,
     And of the leafy lane,
 And of the village school whose charm
     They cannot quite explain.
 And since they wander through the map
     While touching strains are sung,
 I’ll carol of the street car strap,
     Where I have often hung!
 
 How I swayed with courage stout,
 Like some banner tossed about!
     I almost learned to take a little nap.
 With a cultivated twist
 Of the muscles of my wrist,
     I have dangled daily from the street car strap!
 
 We strive to view the roof o’erhead
     With an expression sweet.
 We say “Beg pardon!” as we tread
     On one another’s feet.
 How proudly shines the polished place
     Round which our hands we wrap,
 As in suspension there we grace
     The dear old street car strap!
 
 How it helped to keep my nerve
 As we went around the curve
     And almost fell into somebody’s lap.
 I enjoy my only chance
 At a modern ragtime dance
     As I hang upon that dear old street car strap.

From the Evening Star, December 24, 1912. By Philander Johnson.
 

 There’s a Santa Claus in pictures with a reindeer and a sleigh
 And a smile so bright and happy that it drives all care away;
 A man with a conveyance and a span of reindeer light
 And a store of treasure big enough for every child’s delight.
 
 There’s a man who boards a car with bundles six feet long by two
 And has his hat pushed off by people who are passing through,
 But he smiles, while in determined mood again he sets his jaws.
 The fellow with the bundle is the real life Santa Claus.
 
 There’s a man who climbs a ladder when the daily toil is done
 And hangs up toys and trimmings to help out the day of fun.
 His collar’s sadly wilted and his hair is all awry
 And he tears his brand-new trousers on a nail while passing by.
 
 He nails and saws and hammers and he doesn’t mind the work;
 The hours are swiftly flying and he doesn’t dare to shirk.
 He hums a little ditty while he hammers, nails, and saws—
 The fellow with the workshop is the real life Santa Claus.

From the Evening Star, November 17, 1912.
By Philander Johnson.
 

 We’re feelin’ purty cheerful down to Pohick on the Crick.
 At first the town was lookin’ fur some unexpected trick
 Such as Fate likes to play on folks that gets well satisfied
 In order to prevent ‘em from the ways of too much pride.
 We thought the election was a-goin’ to turn things loose
 An’ leave us in a state where nothin’ wasn’t any use.
 Each said that if his party was defeated in the fall
 Us ordinary people wouldn’t stand no show at all.
 
 But there isn’t any sign of an excuse to be forlorn.
 The stock ain’t lost their appetites fur oats an’ hay an’ corn.,
 An’ people keep on eatin’ jest as in the other days,
 Creatin’ a demand fur everything thet we kin raise.
 An’ I’ve noticed it was much the same in ‘lections of the past.
 We always got a skeer which proved without a cause, at last.
 Although a governmental change sets rumors flyin’ thick,
 We keep on goin’ jes’ the same at Pohick on the Crick.

From the Evening Star, November 1, 1912.
By Philander Johnson.
 

     For the leader of a nation
     There’s a wonderful elation
 When he gets the news of victory complete;
     But there’s also comfort waiting
     For the man who hears them stating
 That his efforts have resulted in defeat.
 
     He can be an eight-hour sleeper,
     He can sit down to his “three per,”
 Far distant from the bustle and the roar.
     It will not be found essential
     To meet people influential
 Who hammer with petitions on his door.
 
     He can play the games that please him,
     And indulge the moods that seize him
 If he wants to take a trip to foreign lands.
     He can give a cheery greeting
     To each friend he may be meeting
 And not put in the whole day shaking hands.
 
     There is joy in the endeavor
     To be powerful or clever;
 But when the struggle has been gotten through
     There is surely compensation
     In the blissful relaxation
 Of the man who hasn’t very much to do.

From the Evening Star, October 25, 1912.
By Philander Johnson.
 

 Men used to laugh at telephones,
   And called them idle toys.
 They railed in rude sarcastic tones
   At things the world employs
 To meet its constant needs today
   Yet nature does not change.
 We still salute with laughter gay
   Each proposition strange.
 
 They laughed to hear the world was round;
   They laughed at talk of steam;
 The airship once the public found
   A vastly humorous dream.
 So as we glance about the earth,
   Where marvels rise anew,
 We find the things of greatest worth
   Are jokes that have come true.

From the Evening Star, October 19, 1912.
By Philander Johnson.
 

 As orators with words so fair
   And promises so fine
 With eloquence filled all the air
   And thrilled your heart and mine,
 We’d listen for a little while
   Before we turned away
 And murmured with a cynic smile,
   “They don’t mean all they say.”
 
 The eagerness of good intent
   That kept their hearts so warm
 Led them to promise as they went
   More than they could perform.
 In hope’s glad sunshine they came out
   To make ambition’s hay.
 They never heard our word of doubt,
   “They can’t mean all they say!”
 
 Now darker banners they unfurl,
   Their words bring strange regret.
 Instead of promises they hurl
   An angry epithet.
 But to our comment old we cling,
   And vow with hearts all gay
 That time its usual change will bring,
   They don’t mean all they say.