Tag: Walt Mason

From the Evening Star, June 18, 1913. By Walt Mason.

The old world is wagging along to the bragging of those who have won in the battle of life; their vaunting and crowing we hear as we’re going to do what we can in the flurry and strife! But Midas and Croesus have all gone to pieces and millions of winners have crumbled to dust; the old world, still wagging, has heard legions bragging whose names are forgotten, whose riches are rust. The old world is flying along to the sighing of those who have troubles too heavy to bear; and loud sounds the wailing of sick souls and ailing, the chorus of sorrow, the dirge of despair. But millions are sleeping who one time were weeping and cursing their gods in the caverns of gloom; the old world, still flying, has heard so much sighing—has heard so much prating of dolor and doom! The old world is rumbling along to the grumbling of those who can tell how it might be improved; the kicking and carping that way have been harping since first in the dawn of the ages it moved. But millions are planted who once gallivanted around on the surface with croakings and kicks; the old world, still rumbling, has seen them go tumbling, has heard the small splashes they made in the Styx.

From the Evening Star, June 13, 1913. By Walt Mason.

The latest book by Mr. Gush has made a killing grand, and to the bookstores people rush, with money in each hand. “We want the best of Gush’s works,” they cry, “and here’s the mon!” And so the sad, soul-weary clerks dispense it by the ton. The village library’s in a stew, for all the dames are there; they want that book—none else will do—and they are pulling hair! In street cars, in the busy mart, and in the social crush, they talk, until they break your heart, about that book by Gush. And all the tiresome low brow dubs discuss it in the street; and women, at their culture clubs, read extracts and repeat. You hear of it from every bore, and in the evening’s hush you sadly sit before your door and curse the name of Gush. And then the talk all dies away, as sudden as it rose; a new best-seller is in sway, and Gush turns up his toes. If in the bookstore you should look, next month, for Gush’s work, “We never heard of such a book,” will say the weary clerk. Today a book may be a scream that holds the public mind; it passes like a winter dream and leaves no trace behind.

From the Evening Star, May 27, 1913.
By Walt Mason.

The man who deals in rainbows has come to town by stealth, to catch the village vain beaux with tales of sudden wealth. I hear his gorgeous ravings, his winter dreams and sich: “Bring me,” he says, “your savings, and I will make you rich; I’ve coal mines in Nebraska (where coal does not exist), and peach groves in Alaska (no peaches there, I wist); the nectarine and prune shine on trees I have for sale, and I can sell you moonshine, so hand me out your kale.” The easy marks are digging their kopecks from the jar, for hot air, never twigging what easy marks they are. They hope to rake in riches and never pay the price; a sucker always itches to be a sacrifice. I sidestep such disasters as these men have in view; to my hard-earned piasters I stick like patent glue. I cannot be enchanted by any hot air crank; my coin is safely planted down in the village bank. I buy no dazzling ophirs a million miles away, no Belgian hares or gophers in Persia or Cathay. No fish in the Nyanzas, no ice plants up in Nome; no ginseng farms in Kansas, no silk works far from home. I save my clammy rubles till there’s a seemly pile, and sidestep lots of troubles, and dance and sing and smile.

From the Evening Star, May 20, 1913.
By Walt Mason.

He’s idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his roof is the heaven, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer to boss him around; his joys do not whither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no sane man can need ‘em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweet spangled moiler, who raises ten kids on a dollar a day?

From the Evening Star, May 14, 1913.
By Walt Mason.

Full soon the sweet girl graduates in white attire will rise, and tell, in forty-seven states, where Italy now lies. The beauteous maidens of the land, the bold, aspiring youths, on platforms flower-bedecked will stand and hand us vital truths. Life seems to them an easy thing; a banner’s all they need; a motto in the air to fling, so he who runs may read. A watchword couched in ancient Greek will smooth the road to fame; ah, me, when roses tint the cheek, life seems an easy game! But mark these women old and worn, who, at commencement time, gaze on the festival and mourn—their presence seems a crime! They found this life a harder road than e’er they dreamed it was, with more of whip and spur and goad than of the world’s applause. There is a shadow on each brow, stilled is their buoyant song; their eyes are weak and faded now, for they have wept so long. They’re bent from bearing heavy weights, from toiling day and night; they once were sweet girl graduates, serene in snowy white. “Beyond the Alps,” we heard them say, high purpose in their eyes, upon a bygone happy day, “the land Italian lies!” Life leads through tangled wilderness, and not through bosky dells, but who’d discourage or distress the Blessed Damozels?

From the Evening Star, April 30, 1913.
By Walt Mason.

Don’t think you’re the only old boy that is lonely, discouraged, down-hearted, world-beaten and blue; the world’s pretty roomy, and others are gloomy and galled by their troubles as deeply as you. But others are braver; their souls have the savor of courage undaunted, the courage that wins; when effort seems futile and Fortune is brutal, they take what she hands them and greet her with grins. So Fortune grows weary of swatting these cheery unquenchable fellows who will not repine; these smiling humdingers she takes by the fingers and leads them to regions of roses and wine. But you sit a-brooding, your eyeballs protruding, your whiskers awash in a fourflusher’s tears, you look, while you’re straining your innards complaining, a statue of grief from your heels to your ears. Dame Fortune will spy you, and if she comes nigh you she’ll hand you a brickbat instead of a rose; she hasn’t much kindness for men who have blindness for everything here but their own private woes. So cut out the grouching and mourning and slouching, and show you’re a scrapper named Scrapperovitch; go forth to your labors like stout-hearted neighbors, and soon you’ll be happy and sassy and rich.

From the Evening Star, March 10, 1913.
 By Walt Mason.
 

 You’re welcome at the booze bazaar while you have got a roll; they’ll say you are a shining star, a genial, princely soul. The low-browed gent who sells the suds will call you “Cap” or “Judge,” while you have bullion in your duds to buy his baneful budge. And all the mirthful hangers-on will cheer your wit and sense, while merrily the demijohn goes round at your expense. They’ll greet with wide ecstatic grin the stalest of your jokes, while you have cash to buy the gin or fix the crowd with smokes. But when your little roll is lost, and you all busted are, there falls a chill antarctic frost about the shining bar. And when you fix your thirsty gaze upon the bottled shelf, the gent who smirked in other days, growls fiercely, “Chase yourself!” The loafers eye you with disdain, who once said you were It, and grumble that you cause them pain, when you’d display your wit. The days when you showed up so strong no one can now recall; and if you hang around too long they’ll push you through the wall. Good fellows go the same old gait, the gay, high-rolling chumps; and they will meet the same old fate, and bump the same old bumps.

From the Evening Star, February 26, 1913.
 By Walt Mason.
 

 I would not care to live, my dears
 Much more than seven hundred years
     If I should last that long;
 For I would tire of things in time
 And life at last would seem a crime
     And I a public wrong.
 Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom you know
 Was born a hundred years ago
     And states the fact with mirth;
 He’s rather proud that he has hung 
 Around so long while old and young
     Were falling off the earth.
 But when his boastful fit is gone
 A sadness comes his face upon
     That speaks of utter woe;
 He sits and broods and dreams again
 Of vanished days, of long dead men,
     His friends of long ago.
 There is no loneliness so dread
 As that of one who mourns his dead
     In white and wintry age;
 Who when the lights extinguished are
 The other players scattered far
     Still lingers on the stage.
 There is no solitude so deep
 As that of him whose friends, asleep
     Shall visit him no more;
 Shall never ask, “How do you stack,”
 Or slap him gaily on the back
     As in the days of yore.
 I do not wish to draw my breath
 Until the papers say that death
     Has passed me up for keeps;
 When I am tired I want to die
 And in my cozy casket lie
     As one who calmly sleeps.
 When I am tired of dross and gold
 When I am tired of heat and cold
     And happiness has waned,
 I want to show the neighbor folk
 How gracefully a man can croak
     When he’s correctly trained.

From the Evening Star, February 19, 1913.
 By Walt Mason.
 

 Who was it first invented kraut, and put it in a barrel?
 Some scientist should find it out, and deck his tomb with laurel.
 For kraut’s a good old honest dish, and when, with eager talons,
 We throw it in our holds we wish that we could eat three gallons.
 For sauerkraut’s savory and clean, and not the least corrody
 And it contains no nicotine, or benjamin of sody.
 I always give a joyous shout, glad are my feelings inner
 When grandma says she’ll cook some kraut (with other things) for dinner.
 And toward the stove, throughout the day, with anxious eyes I’m looking;
 And neighbors seven miles away all know just what’s a-cooking.
 The incense that you read about around the dump is gropin’
 When granny cooks a mess of kraut and leaves the windows open.
 I see the neighbors going by, they sniff the sauerkraut boiling,
 And often I can hear them sigh: “For kraut I’m fairly spoiling!”
 Ah, sauerkraut is a noble dish, beloved of wise old fogies!
 And why do foolish people wish their weed in plugs or stogies?