From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913. By Grantland Rice. The grey wind sings its song of hate— The white snow leads a spectral dance; We seek—but find no Open Gate Through which to make a last advance; Lost—on the Threshold of Romance— But not as heroes come to die— Just say for us—they took a chance And lost—without an alibi. The dusk grows deeper where we wait And homeward speed one final glance— ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate— The luck which broke us—lance by lance; Around us creep the endless trance Of silent heart and sightless eye— ’Tis but our score—we took a chance And lost—without an alibi. So, Scorer of the Final Slate— Last Marker of each circumstance— When at the Road’s end, soon or late, We stand before the mystic manse— Across the limitless expanse This is enough—from hell to sky— If you should write—“He took a chance And lost—without an alibi.”
Author: desperaudio
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Ballad of the Game’s Break
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An Opinion From Punkin Hollow
From the Rock Island Argus, February 13, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. There’s always something goin’ on to make the cowards quake with dread And set around and talk about the dangers that are on ahead; I’ll bet you that when Caesar fell the folks who kept the stores in Rome Expected that the mobs would rise to drive them out of house and home; But things kept goin’ right along, the old world never swerved a jot And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot. When Cromwell got his dander up and went to knockin’ things about I’ll bet that lots of folks supposed the world was goin’ up the spout; The radicals, I s’pose, were blamed for recklessly destroyin’ trade And probably wild howls went up for all the changes that were made. But England didn’t go to smash. In fact the rip-up helped a lot, And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot. It’s always been the same old cry. We hear it every now and then; Some man that ain’t afraid steps out and does things for his fellow men. And they throw up their hands and say, because his way is strange or new, That he has knocked the bottom out and things will soon be fallin’ through. But gener’ly it happens that what needs upsettin’ gets upsot, And when the crowds get back to work the whole affair is soon forgot.
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Big Game Hunters
From The Tacoma Times, February 12, 1913. By Berton Braley. We are looking, we are looking for the Masters of Finance, And it’s no use fleeing from us as we dauntlessly advance With a summons and subpoena and a warrant in our hand And with double-barreled questions and an air of stern command; We are trailing wily captains of the wicked system camp And the malefactors tremble when they hear our sturdy tramp; There are men of mighty millions who were never known to quail Till they heard us stepping softly as we hit upon their trail. Let the Wall Street powers thunder, we are not a bit afraid, We’re the bravest little hunters that you ever saw arrayed. We’ve been probing, poking, peeking through the jungle where they roam The fierce and savage monsters who are feared in every home; And when we’ve got ‘em captured through our skill and courage high We’ll put ‘em on the witness stand and make ‘em testify. We’re out for big game hunting—there’s a lot upon our list And when at last we’ve got ‘em, WE SHALL SLAP ‘EM ON THE WRIST!
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When I Left School
From the Bisbee Daily Review, February 11, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I remember, I remember the day that I quit school I got a nice diploma for minding every rule. I was the wisest mortal who ever left the place There was no person like me in all the human race. I had old Homer faded and Solomon as well The real reach of my knowledge would take too long to tell. And I was downright sorry. It really seemed a shame That I should have to go out and teach the world its game. For I was tenderhearted and couldn’t bear to see The looks of jealous anger when people heard of me. The teacher, to assure me, was kind enough to say The other folks would manage to get along some way. I couldn’t quite believe him. You see that was before I’d taken my first toddle outside the college door. Then I set forth to conquer the poor old easy world With wind and weather charming and every sail unfurled. ’Twas several long years ago, how many I forget But still I don’t mind ownin’ the world ain’t conquered yet. I remember, I remember the day that I quit school; Since then I have been learnin’ how not to be a fool.
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His Day of Triumph
From the Rock Island Argus, February 10, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. He left her at the gate, one day Because his plea she had denied; But as he turned to go his way His breast, though sad, was filled with pride. “Some time,” he said, “you shall regret; Some time the world shall grant me fame Upon a height my goal is set And well won honors I will claim.” She merely smiled and let him go. He went out in the world to strive. Though fortune dealt him many a blow He bravely kept his hopes alive. He toiled for years with all his might And thought of her and of his vow His goal still gleaming on the height And deep lines forming on his brow. At last his day of triumph came. He was rewarded with success; The world accorded him the fame Which he had sworn he would possess; Through ceaseless efforts he had won The crown of honor for his own; For splendid things which he had done His name o’er all the land was known. Then, having played a splendid part He turned from where his goal was set And started back to break her heart To overwhelm her with regret. He found her, but unhappily Discovered that she did not care. The crown of fame was his, but she Was married to a millionaire.
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The Flow of the River
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 9, 1913. By Dr. W. E. Evans. I have followed the flow of the river From the springs and the rills, where at first Through the grasses and ferns all entangled As a stream into sunlight is burst; I have followed its devious windings ‘Neath the bending of boughs interlaced And have marked how it deepened and widened As its course to the ocean was traced: And so wide and so deep is the river As it surges and flows to the sea That the springs and the rills are forgotten— E’en the place where it first came to be. I had often o’erbounded the river, With a sportive and boyishlike pride But today only line as of shadow Marks the far away opposite side. We were children, and stood by the river, Then a narrow and silvery band— I suggested we follow the water While we held one another by hand: Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered By the banks of the musical stream As it tinkled, and murmured, and cadenced Like the mystical tones in a dream: Ah, the day was so fair! I remember It was early in blossoming June And the soft vernal zephyrs were fragrant— All the world with its God was in tune! And I loved her—as man loves a woman— Not as boys often love and forget; I was old for my years and was thoughtful And I fancied she loved me, and yet— Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered As we each kept an opposite side— Loosing hands just a little-by-little Where the water was swifter and wide; Till at last only tips of the fingers Could be touched—then the hands idly fell And she merrily said as we parted— “We shall meet nevermore,” and “Farewell!” O, the long, lonesome walk by the margin! O, the piteous call to return To the spot where the stream had beginning ‘Mid the grass, and the vine, and the fern! But away in the distance she faded— Where the river drops into the sea And dividing us rolled the wide waters Leaving memory and heartache to me.
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Cyrus Bottsford’s Candid Opinion
From the Rock Island Argus, February 8, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. There’s a lot of folks who always keep a-growlin’ at the rich; Every man who has a million they’d have put in boilin’ pitch; They will not forgive a person who contrives to get along But I don’t believe that havin’ lots of cash is always wrong. Mind I don’t pretend to argue that the rich are always right; There are lots of men with millions that have souls as black as night; But I’ve studied the thing over, and I guess there’s one thing sure: It’s no sign a man is noble just because he’s keepin’ poor. I’ve a sort of crazy notion that there may be here and there Some rich man who’ll go to heaven and secure a crown to wear For I’ve met some wealthy people as I’ve traveled round about That I don’t believe that heaven can afford to do without. And I’ve got another notion which I’d like to have you know- All the poor may go to heaven; I can’t half believe it, though. There are poor men who are worthy, but I can’t help feelin’ sure That you’ll not get past St. Peter just because you have been poor.
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The Indian Rancher
From the Washington Standard, February 7, 1913. My fathers roamed the prairie In the days when men were free, But a hundred and sixty acres Is the home that must do for me; I must master the plow and reaper, Nor look at the winding trails, And thousands there are to jeer me In case the red rancher fails. My fathers dwelt in the open, But I have a stifling shack; I dream of the shining tepees, But the morn brings sharply back The fences that clip one’s freedom— The ranch and the toil that waits— And I say farewell to my fathers When I open the barnyard gates. But visions still overwhelm me In spite of my will to win And the fences and buildings vanish And the village comes trooping in; The tepees gleam in the meadow The children shout by the stream But I wake at the clank of the harness— ’Tis only a red man’s dream!
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Bedouin Love Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 6, 1913. By Bayard Taylor. From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry; I love thee, I love thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! My steps are nightly driven By the fever in my breast, To hear from the lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold!
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When Pa Was My Age
From the Rock Island Argus, February 5, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. When pa was my age he was glad To do just as they told him He never made his parents sad They never had to scold him. He never, never disobeyed Nor punched his little brother And day and night he always made Things pleasant for his mother. When pa was my age he would clean His shoes when they were muddy. He never thought his folks were mean Because they made him study. He always tried his best to be For goodness celebrated And he was praised by all—but, gee! How pa’s degenerated!