From The Washington Herald, July 24, 1913.
I pick the paper up and see
That matters are acute.
It’s 98 at Kankakee,
And 99 at Butte.
It’s torrid up at Devil’s Lake;
Hot in Quebec, we learn.
The cities fairly seem to bake
Wherever we may turn.
I pick the paper up and see
From Oshkosh to Fort Worth,
That forty cities claim to be
The hottest upon earth.
From the Rock Island Argus, July 23, 1913. By Henry Howland.
He left the little old town, one day,
To pursue success and to win renown;
The seasons passed in too dull a way
To give him joy in the little old town;
In the little old town the streets were wide
And the buildings low and pleasures cheap,
And he pitied those who were satisfied
To stay where the people were half asleep.
He left the little old town to win
The large rewards that to worth belong,
To add to the city’s unceasing din,
To try his powers among the strong.
And he proudly thought, as he turned to gaze
At the little old town in its peacefulness
Of a distant glorious day of days
When he would return, having claimed success.
He thought of the villagers dozing there,
Deaf to Ambition’s persuasive call,
Content, because they were free from care,
To claim rewards that were few and small.
And he thought of a girl whose eyes were wet
When, wishing him well, she said goodbye,
But he hurried away, to soon forget
Where the roar was loud and the walls were high.
And often he thought in his lonely nook,
When his muscles ached and his heart was sad,
Of the little old town with its sleepy look,
Where the streets were wide and the children glad,
And often he thought of the peace out there,
And often he wondered if, after all,
The people were wasting the seasons where
The days were long and the rewards were small.
He had thought of a glorious day of days
When he would return to the little old town
And listen to those who would give him praise
For his proud success and his wide renown,
And tomorrow he will be traveling back,
No more to care and no more to sigh
For the glory the little old town may lack—
To lie and rest where his parents lie.
From the Rock Island Argus, July 22, 1913. By Henry Howland.
Henrietta was a maiden with a pair of witching eyes
And her voice was like the sweetest music man has ever heard.
She had all the charms that nature in her gracious mood supplies—
Henrietta was a beauty, as you doubtless have inferred.
She possessed a gentle manner and a temper that was sweet,
She was always doing something for the ones who needed aid;
Scandal was a thing she never found it pleasing to repeat,
From the path that leads to heaven Henrietta never strayed.
She possessed no taste for ragtime and she ne’er indulged in slang,
Henrietta was artistic from her fingers to her toes;
Sweetest ecstasies were given to her hearers when she sang,
She was free from affectation and was not inclined to pose.
She respected age, believing that the old could be sublime,
And instead of reading novels she dipped into classic lore;
She could neatly darn a stocking or construct a witty rhyme,
And she wasn’t always thinking of the pretty things she wore.
Do not think and do not say that Henrietta was a myth,
Do not say that one so perfect never on this earth was known;
Henrietta lives and answers to the name of Mrs. Smith;
I’ve described her as Smith saw her ere he claimed her for his own.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 21, 1913. By Mary Riley Smith.
A little elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear.
A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm moist fingers holding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing over much,
You are almost too tired to pray tonight.
But it is blessedness! A year ago
I did not see it as I do today—
We are so dull and thankless, and so slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away;
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
That while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only good.
And if some night, when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,
This restless curly head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped,
And ne’er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into the grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then.
I wonder so that mothers even fret
At little children clinging to their gown,
Or that footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor—
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
And hear it patter in my home once more.
If I could mend a broken cart today,
Tomorrow make a kite to reach the sky—
There is no woman in God’s world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But, ah, the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest has flown—
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 20, 1913.
See the happy youngsters,
Racing through the wood,
For the old loved water
Where the swimming’s good.
Now they’re at the pool side,
And with shout and jest
Each strives in undressing
To outdo the rest.
Then white limbs a moment
In the sunlight gleam,
As a lithe young body
Cleaves the glassy stream.
Then a head emerges,
And above the din
Rings the cry of triumph,
“I’m the first one in!”
From The Washington Herald, July 19, 1913. By John A. Joyce.
In the morning of life
I was filled with ambition
To roam o’er the world
And see sights afar;
But somehow in age
I am prone to contrition
At missing the splendors
That shone in my star.
Many friends came around me
In moments of pleasure,
Who drank at my banquet
And laughed at my wit.
Yet when they had found
That I lost all my treasure
They left me in sorrow
And silence to sit.
The voice of the crowd
As it rung in my praises
Awakened a joy
I imagined would last.
But, alas, my ambition
Lies under the daisies
And the wrecks of my glory
Are strewn in the past!
From The Detroit Times, July 18, 1913. By Berton Braley.
Oh, bother me not with duty
And hector me not with work.
No possible sum of booty
Could make me do aught but shirk.
The office can go to thunder
And business can go to pot.
I’m going to remain here under
The shade of the porch—it’s hot!
If Wall Street is in a flurry,
If Washington’s in a muss,
I murmur, “Well, I should worry.”
I mutter, “Well, what’s the fuss.”
For politics cannot stir me,
I don’t give a hang for trade,
And nothing on earth can spur me
To move from my spot of shade.
The toilers may all deride me,
They say I’m a sloth, I know.
But a tinkling pitcher’s beside me
And the hammock is swinging slow.
There’s no one on earth that has a
More absolute sense of ease.
Oh, it’s me for the cool piazza
And the breath of the lazy breeze!
From the Rock Island Argus, July 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.
I’d like to live on Easy Street for just a little while;
I’d like to have a cushioned seat and daily cause to smile;
I’d like to have the right to say to some pale-featured clerk:
“I guess that I’ll play golf today, but you stay here and work.”
It must be fine, it seems to me, to merely boss a job
And have so much that one can be well hated by the mob.
This thing of working day by day, without a chance to rest,
While others put their tasks away and journey east and west,
Sometimes becomes a kind of grind, devoid of any thrill;
One’s muscles slacken and one’s mind becomes more flabby still;
I wish that I, from toiling free, had riches that were vast,
So that the mob might scowl at me when I rode proudly past.
I should not wish to always loaf, without a single care;
The idler is a useless oaf whose outlook is unfair,
But, oh, I fancy ‘twould be good to have things fashioned so
That if I wished to quit I could, and pack my things and go.
And it would give me such delight to see them look with hate
Who’ve never tried to earn the right to quit their present state.
I am not yearning to have more than any man would need;
I’d want a butler at my door, but I’m opposed to greed;
I’d have an auto and a yacht and live in splendid style;
To trouble I should give no thought, I’d wear a constant smile;
I’d let my chest bulge out with pride, with pride my heart should throb,
If I possessed so much that I’d be hated by the mob.
From The Seattle Star, July 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.
Now Adam most probably knew
Much more about life than his son,
But I’ll warrant his son snorted, “Pooh,”
When father told what should be done.
Like many a boy who is bright,
He said, “The Old Man’s on the Shelf.”
Well—he learned that his father was right,
But he had to find out for himself.
And so it has gone down the years,
The young ever doubting the old
And suffering sorrow and tears
Because they refuse to be told.
Each girl—oh, you couldn’t tell her;
Each boy was a wise little elf
And so, as was bound to occur,
He had to find out for himself.
Through trouble and sorrow and pain
We gather the little we know,
And then when we try to explain
Our children just laugh as they go.
You laughed at the words of your dad
(And you’ve paid both in worry and pelf)
And you’ll get the same deal from your lad,
For he has to find out for himself!
From the Rock Island Argus, July 15, 1913.
Bring me not wisdom,
Though folly be vain;
Bring me not riches,
Though poverty’s pain;
Bring me not splendor,
Though rags may be vile;
Bring me not glory,
But teach me to smile.
Give me not power,
Though smallness be mean;
Give me not grandeur,
But make me serene;
Bring me not homage,
But leave me obscure,
If mine be the courage
To hope and endure.