Tag: S. E. Kiser

From the Rock Island Argus, April 23, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 How drear a place the world would be
     If all who fail to win success
 Permitted all the rest to see
     The evidence of their distress!
 How fortunate it is that men
     So often hide the griefs they bear
 So often still try bravely when
     Their breasts are laden with despair.
 
 How few men ever would achieve
     The victories that are so sweet
 If each should let the world perceive
     Whenever he had met defeat!
 How few men would be deemed sublime
     By those whose hearts are moved to song
 If each sat grumbling every time
     His heart ached or his plans went wrong.
 
 How little there would be to praise
     How much to keep us plunged in gloom
 If each but waited all his days
     To hear the dreadful crack of doom!
 ’Tis well that men conceal despair
     When stubborn fate has used them ill;
 Why not, if you have woes to bear,
     Assist by seeming hopeful still?

From the Rock Island Argus, April 11, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 The man who cannot rest today,
     But says he will tomorrow,
 Finds, when his work is cleared away,
     New tasks or sits in sorrow.
 The merry time, the happy time,
     The blissful day in view
 Is never gained by them that wait
 To triumph and to celebrate,
     With nothing more to do.
 
 The man who folds his hands today
     And contemplates with sorrow
 The pressing task that’s put away
     Unfinished ’til tomorrow
 Has neither rest of heart nor mind,
     For he that looks ahead
 To duties long delayed destroys
 The sweetest of sweet leisure’s joys,
     But borrows doubt and dread.
 
 The man who mixes work and play
     At present and tomorrow
 Keeps life’s poor little ills away
     And finds new cares to borrow.
 The merry time, the happy time,
     The blissful day in view
 Is every day for him whose hand
 Is turned each day to fair deeds and
     Who plays in reason too.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 27, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 I like it in the morning when
     The sun shines in across my bed
 And seems to kind of whisper then
     “Get up, you little sleepy head,”
 And just outside my window, where
     A limb sticks upward from a tree
 The sparrows often sit and stare
     And nod their heads and chirp at me.
 
 I like it in the evening when
     The sounds all seem so far away,
 And all the men go home again
     Who had to work so hard all day,
 For then my muvver always sings
     And dresses in her nicest gown,
 And soon we’ll hear the train that brings
     My papa back to us from town.
 
 I like it best on Sunday, when
     We don’t get up till very late,
 Because the maid’s so weary then
     And has to sleep till nearly eight,
 And after we’ve had breakfast, why,
     My papa doesn’t start away,
 But stays at home, and he and I
     Keep all the house upset all day.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 19, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 They are trying to arrange it so that man may safely fly;
 They are trying to learn more about the stars up in the sky;
 They are digging up old ruins so that each of us may know
 What people did for pleasure and for profit long ago;
 Here and there is some one trying to revive the love of art,
 Here and there some poet bravely sings a song that’s from the heart.
 But away with art and science and the Babylonian brick,
 What we want is some sure way in which to Get Rich Quick.
 
 Men are fighting still for freedom, fighting still to have the right
 To address their God unhindered when they kneel to pray at night;
 They are chafing ‘neath oppression as their fathers did before,
 They are tugging at the fetters which their luckless parents wore;
 Here and there some man arises and attempts to let us know
 How to make fair peace forever the sweet mistress here below,
 But we have no time to bother over such affairs; we stick
 To the hope of finding ways in which to Get Rich Quick.
 
 The preachers keep on preaching of the glories over there
 Where the boodlers cease from troubling and the prospects all are fair;
 The anxious, eager doctors keep on striving to defy
 Grim Nature and arrange it so that people needn’t die;
 But away with all the dreamers and the foolish ones who preach.
 Who cares what the stars are made of, or what ancient tablets teach?
 We are looking for the hero who will show us all the trick,
 Who will kindly point the way in which to Get Rich Quick.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 18, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 “Man wants but little here below”—once that perhaps was true;
 I have no right to think I know, no more, indeed have you;
 Man may have once been satisfied to skimp along somehow,
 But it is not to be denied that much is needed now.
 
 There was a time when eggs were not quite worth their weight in gold,
 When bacon did not cost a lot and steaks were cheaply sold.
 When beans and bread and milk and cheese had not, in fact, obtained
 A place among the luxuries from which the poor abstained.
 
 Man needs a fortune here below to live in comfort now;
 No wonder that the wrinkles show so plainly on his brow;
 He has to have a lot to drive starvation from his door,
 And month by month they still contrive to keep him needing more.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 12, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 We hurry through the busy days,
     We that within the cities dwell,
 And, having won a little praise
     For toiling hard or planning well,
 Turn homeward with a pride that dies
     Before another day has dawned
 And we again pursue the prize
     That always lies so far beyond.
 
 We have our little triumphs who
     Among the eager thousands strive;
 Each busy day brings something new
     To keep our feeble hopes alive,
 But sweeter than the fairest gains
     The cities yield us are the joys
 That come in dreams of country lanes
     Down which we strolled when we were boys.
 
 We nurse ambitions that are fair,
     And struggle on to win renown,
 But when the day ends with its care,
     We still dream of the little town
 Or of the orchard where the breeze
     Once stirred the fragrant buds in May;
 We keep the sweet old memories,
     It matters not how far we stray.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 5, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 The doctor gazed a while at me and gravely shook his head;
 “You must not work so hard,” said he, “eat only whole wheat bread;
 Avoid all starchy things and try to take your beefsteak rare;
 Avoid the deadly stuff they fry, keep in the open air,
 And cheer up. Clear your frowns away, put all your cares aside:
 Play golf or tennis every day, or get a horse to ride.
 
 “You might take three months off and go to Europe or Japan,
 Or take a trip to Mexico; you need a change, old man.
 You have a haggard, weary look, your system’s all run down;
 Go out and loll beside some brook a thousand miles from town.
 Take my advice and rest a while, become a man of ease.
 Quit working and learn how to smile. Three dollars, if you please.”
 
 He could not know how glad I was to get his dear advice,
 Nor that I could not go because I chanced to lack the price;
 He knew not that if for a space I traveled unconcerned
 They would inform me that my place was filled, when I returned.
 By toiling hard and steadily I clung to my position
 And kept those who were dear to me in fairly good condition.

From the Rock Island Argus, March 1, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 I have a cousin twice removed who lacks a jaunty air;
 He lives in Turnipopolis and is a leader there;
 Here in the city he would stand back in some safe retreat
 And look with bulging eyes and be afraid to cross the street.
 He moves with very little grace, his clothes are cheaply made,
 But he has money in the bank and all his debts are paid.
 
 He lives at Turnipopolis, where daily, wet or dry,
 The people of the town turn out to watch the train go by;
 And there at times when flags are raised and thrilling songs are sung,
 ’Tis he that makes the speeches to the old and to the young;
 He is the leading citizen, he strokes the children’s curls
 And proudly claims a leader’s right to kiss the pretty girls.
 
 I sometimes wonder if it pays to toil and moil and fret
 Where virtue is so very cheap and life is cheaper yet;
 Where thousands come and thousands go, unnoticed and unknown,
 Where, lacking room a man may still be friendless and alone—
 I sometimes wonder if it pays to merely live for this
 When each might be a leader in some Turnipopolis.

From the Rock Island Argus, February 25, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 When I am well I think with pity
     Of those who have to work away
 As I do, in the busy city
     Week in, week out, day after day.
 It seems so futile to be moiling
     And I am tempted to rebel
 Against the ones who keep me toiling
     Relentlessly—when I am well.
 

 I think with envy of the wealthy
     Who for their health seek distant climes
 And wish that I were not so healthy
     So that I might fare sometimes;
 I long to leave the noise and rattle
     To get away from all the strife
 Forgetting that the ceaseless battle
     The toilers wage is all of life.
 

 I see about me weary faces
     That show the need of change and rest;
 I wonder why men cling to places
     Whose profits are but small at best.
 “Poor fools,” I say, “they are but wasting
     Their strength where toil is profitless
 When each might far from here be tasting
     The sweets of well-earned carelessness.
 

 When I am ill, and cannot hurry
     With those who haste away to town
 To toil and moil and scheme and worry
     I curse the fates that keep me down;
 It seems a pity to be quiet
     While there the wheels are whirring still;
 And thinking of the rush and riot
     I scorn repose—when I am ill.