From The Detroit Times, May 5, 1913. By Frank R. Leet. Pop sez that this world we live in Is one big fishin’ pond An’ we’ve all been fishin’ fer somethin’ Since th’ time the first day dawned. He sez some are fishin’ fer trouble An’ others are fishin’ fer fame An’ the banks of life are alive with girls A-fishin’ to change their names. He sez the grafters are fishin’ fer suckers Newly weds are fishin’ fer bliss Ministers are fishin’ fer souls to save The lover to hook a kiss. He sez the vain ones are fishin’ fer compliments The bums are fishin’ fer booze The nabobs are fishin’ fer diamonds and things The poor fer food and shoes. He sez that we’re at it all of the time A-fishin’ fer what we wish So, when I’m not really a-fishin’ fer fish I’m fishin’ to fish fer fish.
Author: desperaudio
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We’re All A-Fishin’
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Let’s Go Fishing
From The San Francisco Call, May 4, 1913. By Hazen Conklin. All day long I sit a-dreaming Of a brook, its waters gleaming As it splashes, dances, races On its way ‘mongst woodsy places; Of a troutbrook, pooled and ready For the hand that’s quick and steady. Though my desk, in hopeless clutter Calls me back to bread and butter Work seems sordid, unromantic Its insistences pedantic And I sit a-dreaming, wishing: Come on, Tom, let’s go a-fishing! In my fancy I am wading Where the arching trees are shading Pools where fondly one surmises One can coax those lighting “rises” Overhung by rocks, moss-garnished Under which, with truth unvarnished One can swear the big trout darted Just before the trout line parted. Say! What is the call of duty When compared to speckled beauty! I can hear my line a-swishing: Come on, Dick, let’s go a-fishing! Oh! This beastly grind of working! Can’t you feel the fever jerking At your coat sleeve, coaxing, teasing Saying: “Come, we’ll find appeasing For the appetite within you,” All the while that you continue Adding figures, scribbling phrases Threading stupid business mazes? Rod and reel and flies and hamper Right across each page they scamper. Be a sport and stop your wishing: Come on, Harry, let’s go FISHING!
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The Face Immortal
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 3, 1913. By Frank L. Stanton. Time that has left me lonely still may the shadows chase It has not dimmed the beauty of one immortal face A sweet face of Life’s springtime—a face the violets know God knew, high in His heaven, why I loved it so! When Evening comes, to tell me: “Life’s friends have left you lone! There is no voice to answer the tremblings of your own,” I see dear lips of crimson—cheeks where the dimples race And Memory is with me, and in dreams I see her face. Is not Life all dreaming? Where scythes and sabers gleam The heroes of Life’s battles are the captains of a Dream! And so, when Darkness gives us the blessing of God’s grace I’m holding hands with Memory and dreaming of her face.
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Considerable Fish
From The Detroit Times, May 2, 1913. By Berton Braley. “Speakin’ of fishes,” said the Tar, “Speakin’ of fishes, near an’ far, There once was a gentleman shark I knowed As swallowed our anchor fer a hook An’ when he seen what a bite he’d took Went hikin’ off through the sea, an’ towed That ship along like a bloomin’ chip, Though she was a regular monster ship. He towed her backwards, mile on mile Though the engines fought him all the while; He towed her over the heavin’ foam He towed her into the pier at home An’ then with many a bump an’ shock He towed that vessel upon the dock; He towed her up through the city street At a pace that a race horse couldn’t beat. He towed her over the vale an’ hill An’ he never stopped a bit until The screw got caught in a spreadin’ oak An’ the anchor chain an’ the hawser broke But the shark kep’ on with a grim intent Though I never did learn where the monster went.” There was silence awhile in the village bar As a tribute mute to the bold Jack Tar An’ it looked like the palm would sure be his Till old Bill Jackson said, “Gee Whiz! I kin tell you just where yer big fish is; An’ I know the tale that you tell is true ‘Cause I caught the shark as he hove in view An’ I got him stalled in the stable now An’ I use the critter to help me plow.” Then the old Tar rose an’ he said, said he, “By the Great Horn Spoon, that sure beats me.” Then his face grew pale and he gave a start And he fell and died—of a broken heart.
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Kissing Games
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 2, 1913. By Edgar A. Guest. I watched them playing kissing games And chuckled to myself As I recalled the days before Time put me on the shelf. I watched that roguish lad of mine Salute each pretty miss With all the gusto that I showed When I was wont to kiss. But I am on the sidelines now And he is in the game And he is hugging pretty girls With eyes and cheeks aflame. And there’s no special one to pout Or raise a fuss when he Distributes his affections thus The way there is with me. What though he kiss a dozen maids And give them all a squeeze, Nobody sternly says to him: “What means this conduct, please?” Nobody stamps a pretty foot At him or starts to cry But this will come, when these glad years Of youth have wandered by. “Just like his dad,” I hear her say, And note her gentle smile; And I retort, “This freedom will But last a little while. Perhaps one of these lassies sweet Will some day rule his life And yet I hope, that like his dad He’ll choose as good a wife.”
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Real Trouble
From the Rock Island Argus, May 1, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. He sighed because it was his fate To earn the blessings he received; Because he was compelled to wait For opportunities he grieved. He mourned because he could not claim A certain lady for his own; He sadly sighed because his name In many quarters was unknown. He thought his fate was hard to bear Because he seldom got a rest; When he began to lose his hair A bitter sadness filled his breast. But when he lost his appetite And when good health was his no more He sadly wondered day and night Why he had ever grieved before.
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Other Pebbles
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.
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Sad Case of Travers Green
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 29, 1913. When Travers Green was feeling gay He lightly sought some cabaret And when “Fleurette” began to dance He’d give a connoisseur’s glance, As if to all the world to say, “I know what’s what in a cabaret.” Anon he sipped the sparkling wine, Where countless lights were wont to shine; His dress was faultless to behold, His manners easy, yet not bold, And had you but observed hime there, You would have thought him free from care. Alas! Alack for Travers Green! No more in gilded haunts is seen; His dad who used his bills to pay For motors, clubs and cabaret, And costly clothes and chorus girls And many, many merry whirls Has cut poor Travers off without The wherewithal to roam about; And since this youth has never toiled, Nor felt his hands by labor soiled, What lies before I cannot say, But he dines no more in a cabaret.
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Ownership
From the Rock Island Argus, April 28, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. This glad world was not made for me, The brook would sing upon its way, The fragrant blossoms grace the tree, The squirrels in the branches play, If I should sink to nothingness, And never know again or care; But being here, I may possess All that is good and sweet and fair. I may be gladdened by the song With which the lark begins the day; To me the woodland joys belong, The blossoms that bestrew my way; The beauty of the towering cliff I may behold with ecstasy; I see and hear—what matter if This fair world was not made for me?
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Cry of the Dreamer
From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 27, 1913. By John Boyle O’Reilly. I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men; Heartweary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again. And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away, For a dreamer lives forever And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming, Of a life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by, From the sleepless thoughts of endeavor I would go where the children play; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day. I can feel no pride but pity, For the burdens the rich endure; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skillful And the child mind choked with weeds! The daughter’s heart grown willful, And the father’s heart that bleeds! No, no! From the street’s rude bustle From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the wood’s low rustle And the meadow’s kindly page. Let me dream as of yore by the river And be loved for the dream alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day.