From The Washington Times, April 5, 1913. To wed or not to wed, that is the question. Whether ’tis better, after all, to marry And be cajoled and bullied by a husband, Or to take up stenography or clerking, And slave, alas! for SOME ONE ELSE’S husband? To love—to wed—and by a wedding end The struggles and the thousand petty cares That “slaves” are heir to—’tis a rare vocation Devoutly to be wished for! To love—to wed— To wed—perchance DIVORCE! Aye, there’s the rub! For in that dream of bliss what jolts may come When we have cast aside our little jobs, Must make us wary. There’s the sorry thought That makes so many spinsters hesitate; For who would bear the long, eternal grind, Th’ employer’s jokes, the chief clerk’s contumely, The insolence of office boys, the smoke Of last week’s stogies clinging to the hair, When she herself might quickly end it all By GETTING MARRIED? Who would not exchange A dingy office for a kitchenette— A keyboard for a cook stove or a cradle— But that the dread of something worse to come After the honeymoon—that life of CHANCE From whose dark bourne so many have returned By way of Reno—fills us with dismay, And makes us rather bear the jobs we have Than fly to evils that we know not of? Thus cowardice makes spinsters of—so many!
Author: desperaudio
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Reflections of a Bachelor Girl
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The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 4, 1913. By Thomas Moore. The time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman’s eyes Has been my heart’s undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought me I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me. Her smile when beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft met in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, beauty won me But while her eyes were on me If once their ray Was turned away Oh! Winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! The endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.
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Hypnotism
From The Topeka State Journal, April 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. He fell upon his bended knees And said: “Oh Agnes, wed me please.” He told her that she was his queen The grandest gal he’d ever seen That no one had no eyes like her’n— At least so fur as he could learn. He said he’d never seen so rare And gorgeous a display of hair. He said her figger was immense And hoped she wouldn’t take offense Because he mentioned such a thing, For of it poets often sing. He said he’d traveled all around And never had he heard a sound So musical as was her voice. She was his one and only choice. He’d give her all he had to give, Without her he could never live. No friend was by, his speech to stay. He wound up in the usual way. She gave to him her maiden heart— It was a cinch right from the start. For, while she let him have his say, He had no chance to get away. She had him lashed right to the mast And tied and shackled hard and fast. He didn’t know what he had said, He simply knew that they were wed; And when to breakfast she came down, Years later in an old house gown, Without a sign of curl or rat, And ready for the daily spat, He wondered how in thunder she Could have inspired the ecstasy Upon that great momentous night On which he made and won his fight. And then it percolates his brain As it has done time and again That she just had him hypnotized Until he raved and idolized.
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The Washer Woman’s Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 2, 1913. By Tronquill. In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope; Working, singing all alone, In a sort of undertone, “With a savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” Sometimes happening along, I had heard the semisong, And I often used to smile More in sympathy than guile; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard, As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. Not in sorrow nor in glee, Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long, “With the savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” It’s a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she, Just as poor as poor could be, But her spirit always rose Like the bubbles in the clothes. And, though widowed and alone, Cheered with the monotone, Of a Savior and a friend, Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub On the washboard in the tub, While the baby sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools With old scissors stuck in spools, She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I would not wish to strip From that washer woman’s lip Any song that she can sing, Any hope that song can bring. For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end.
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Consistency
From The Tacoma Times, April 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. He raved at women’s folly In following the fads, Declared, with melancholy, His money went in scads To sate his wifie’s passion For shoes and hats and those Materials of fashion Like lingerie and hose. At corsets he was sneering, At powder and at paint, Tight shoes would set him jeering With words not few or faint; He laughed at bogus tresses; He scorned the hobble skirt, Condemning women’s dresses With vim and vigor curt. So wifie dressed one morning To please her hubby’s taste, All artifices scorning, Uncorseted her waist; Her shoes of size most ample (A hygienic last) She meant, she said, to trample Her follies of the past. Her nose was free from powder, Her hair was all her own, Yet far from feeling prouder At how her sense had grown, Her husband bellowed, “Woman, You look a perfect fright; Go dress like something human; You surely are a sight!”
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Ae Fond Kiss
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 31, 1913. By Robert Burns. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love forever, Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be like a joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
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In Storm and Stress
From the New York Tribune, March 30, 1913. By W. J. Lampton. How weak is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path, And with the storm and fire and flood Exacts the price of goods and blood, To leave him stricken, sick and sore Bereft of people, home and store. And yet how strong is man—the blow That falls in one place starts the flow Of helpfulness from everywhere, With open hands and saving care. The speedy answer to the call Of loss and sorrow, and from all Come hope and courage which uplift The faltering head among the drift. Which put new life in living when The fallen shall arise again. How strong is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path!
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Fifty Years Apart
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 29, 1913. They sit in the winter gloaming, And the fire burns bright between; One has passed seventy summers, And the other just seventeen. They rest in a happy silence As the shadows deepen fast; One lives in a coming future, And one in a long, long past. Each dreams of a rush of music, And a question whispered low; One will hear it this evening, One heard it long ago. Each dreams of a loving husband Whose brave heart is hers alone; For one the joy is coming, For one the joy has flown. Each dreams of a life of gladness Spent under the sunny skies; And both the hope and the memory Shine in the happy eyes. Who knows which dream is the brightest? And who knows which is the best? The sorrow and joy are mingled, But only the end is rest.
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Rock Me to Sleep
From The Detroit Times, March 28, 1913. Backward, turn backward, Oh time, in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight! Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, Oh tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain— Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, Oh mother! My heart calls for you. Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I tonight for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.
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The Gladdest Time
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.