From the Richmond Times Dispatch, October 3, 1915.
Five hundred million dollars—
It seems an awful lot
That old man Mars now collars
To spend on shell and shot.
And yet ’tis forked up gladly
And not a soul repents,
While poor folks struggle madly
To raise five hundred cents.
It certainly seems funny,
Although well understood,
That there is always money
For things that do no good.
From the Newark Evening Star, August 12, 1915. By Margaret Howard.
Great poets have sung in high praises
Of mothers with silvery locks,
Of mothers who sat in the corner,
With mending or darning the socks.
They’ve sung of the old, wrinkled faces,
Of hands that were toilworn and old;
They’ve sung of the blessed old mothers
Now gone to the heavenly fold.
But I sing of the glorious mother
Whose hair is still wavy and brown,
With hardly a glint of the silver
In the braids of her hallowing crown;
The mother who still loves a party,
Who dances as well as her girls,
And who proudly keeps step to the music
When the bright suffrage banner unfurls.
The mother who sat in the corner
Was all well enough in her day,
But old Father Time marches onward,
And now other notions hold sway.
The mother who sat in the corner
Had none of the helps we have now;
She had to do all her own canning
And spin, weave and milk her own cow.
It’s true she did not love club meetings
In the days of the long, long ago;
It’s also quite true she’d no auto
And never saw one picture show.
She didn’t clean house with a vacuum,
She didn’t have electric lights.
(For all they had then was the candle
And tallow dips for the dark nights).
So while poets dwell on the praises
Of the mothers of days now gone by,
Let me sing of the present-day mother,
With the sparkle of youth in her eye.
Let me sing of the well-informed mother,
Who keeps young with her girls and her boys;
Who understands all of their sorrows
And gladly shares all of their joys.
Let me sing of the up-to-date mother,
Who follows the ball games and sports,
Who not only reads of the fashions,
But the war news and market reports;
Who loves to romp with her grand-kiddies—
Oh, loud should her praises be sung!
The best chum of all the long ages—
My mother, so splendidly young!
From the Newark Evening Star, August 11, 1915. by Dr. F. von Wachter.
How many million stars must shine
Which only God can see!
Yet in the sky His hand has hung
Ten thousand stars for me!
How many blossoms bloom and fade
Which only God can know!
Yet here’s a field of buttercups
And here my daisies blow!
How many wing paths through the blue
Lure swallows up and down!
Yet here’s my little garden walk
And yon’s the road to town!
How many a treacherous voice has wooed
Unhappy feet to roam,
Yet God has taught my willing ear
The sound of love and home!
How many lives have kissed and clung
Since Eve was Adam’s bride,
But God has given me you, dear girl,
And I am satisfied!
From the Evening Star, August 10, 1915. By Philander Johnson.
The old home sometimes gets a trifle dreary
And you wander to the mountains or the sea,
And there you find, with feelings rather weary,
That things are largely as they used to be.
The same old bus arrives with bump and rattle,
The same mosquitoes make you holler “ouch.”
You find the same old weeds, the same old cattle,
The same old boarders with the same old grouch.
It isn’t very long till you are yearning
For the city you were glad to leave behind.
Your heart grows light to think of a returning
To scenes that once disturbed your peace of mind.
You long to greet the same old glare and flurry
And hear the same old tunes ground out so loud,
And take the same old street car in a hurry
And jostle onward with the same old crowd.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 9, 1915.
Have you ever heard, in the lonesome night,
The call of the wind-swept sea,
Mighty and strong the great seasong,
Ever pitched in a minor key?
Have you ever stood on a barren plain
When the red sun sank below
The curve of the world and the night was hurled
Like a pall o’er the afterglow?
Have you ever seen a single leaf
Alone in the wintry blast,
Like and old man, gray, outliving his day,
With his heart in the wistful past?
Then surely you know of the sombre things
Which God in his wisdom sends
To turn men’s thoughts into kindlier vein
When the day’s mad labor ends.
From the Richmond Times Dispatch, August 8, 1915. By Robert Herrick.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow may be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
Ye may forever tarry.
From the New York Tribune, August 7, 1915. By Eric G. McDougall.
You are going , you say, in the Medical Corps,
You leave wife and children behind.
They need men like you at the seat of the war,
And they’re not always easy to find.
You’re high in the service, you couldn’t hold back,
Promotion for you won’t be slow,
But when I suggest that I take the same track
You hasten to tell me, “Don’t go.”
The points that you make in your kindly advice,
For which please accept my best thanks,
Are, I’m not good enough for an officer’s job,
And somewhat too good for the ranks.
My job is important, my place can’t be filled,
My health isn’t up to the test,
There are plenty of men to be wounded or killed,
To stick where I am would be best.
I answer: The Country is calling for men
To battle for Freedom and Right.
That isn’t “Hot Air” from an editor’s pen;
We know why we’re into this fight.
They all give up something from comfort to lives,
I’ve no one depending on me,
Let those stop at home who have children and wives,
Just now—it’s worthwhile to be free.
I’ve climbed a few hills since the last time we met,
I’ve hike many miles through the woods;
The Chief sent me out information to get,
And he says I’ve delivered the goods.
My wind is as long as the snow peak is high,
What I shoot at I frequently hit.
I think I agree with the medical guy
Who said, “Put your shirt on—You’re fit!”
My job is important; I gave it its due,
I let my two mates go ahead.
There’s one who will sail in a fortnight or two,
And one, by this time, may be dead.
I wound up the contract, it looks like my turn,
My chance for returning is fair,
And from me and my comrades old England may learn
The West raises more than “Hot Air.”
From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 6, 1915.
When I am dead, forget me dear,
For I shall never know,
Though o’er my cold and lifeless hands
Your burning tears should flow.
I’ll cancel with my living voice
The debt you’ll owe the dead—
Give me the love you’d show me then,
But give it now instead.
And bring no wreaths to deck my grave,
For I shall never care,
Though all the flowers I love the most
Should grow and wither there.
I’ll sell my chance of all the flowers
You’ll lavish when I’m dead,
For one small batch of violets now—
So give me that instead.
What saints we are when we are dead,
But what’s the use for me
Of praise that’s written on a tomb
For other eyes to see?
One simple little word of praise
By lips we worship said,
Is worth a hundred epitaphs—
Dear, say it now instead.
And faults that now are hard to bear
Oblivion then shall win.
Our sins are soon forgiven us
When we no more can sin.
But any bitter thought of me—
Keep it till I am dead;
I shall not know; I shall not care;
Say it then, instead.
From the Evening Public Ledger, August 5, 1915. By Bayard Taylor.
The rain is sobbing in the wold,
The house is dark, the hearth is cold,
And stretching drear and ashy grey
Beyond the cedars, lies the bay.
My neighbor at his window stands,
His youngest baby in his hands.
The others seek his tender kiss,
And one sweet woman crowns his bliss.
I look upon the rainy wild,
I have no wife, I have no child.
There is no fire upon the hearth,
And none to love me on the earth.
From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 4, 1915. By Edwin Markham.
Out on the road they have gathered a hundred thousand men,
To ask for a hold on life as sure as the wolf’s hold in his den.
Their need lies close to the quick of life as the earth lies close to the stone;
It is as meat to the slender rib, as marrow to the bone.
They ask but the leave of labor, to toil in the endless night,
For a little salt to savor their bread, for houses water-tight.
They ask but the right to labor and to live by the strength of their hands—
They who have bodies like knotted oaks, and patience like sea-sands.
And the right of a man to labor and his right to labor in joy—
Not all your laws can strangle that right, nor the gates of Hell destroy.
For it came with the making of man and was kneaded into his bones,
And it will stand at the last of things on the dust of crumbled thrones.