From The San Francisco Call, February 4, 1913. O’er many a weary, aching mile The parcel postman ambled And when he reached our domicile The eggs he brought were scrambled. The hat he left for Mabel, too, Caused her poor heart to flutter; ’Twas saturated through and through With some one’s melted butter. And Brother Bill is tearing hot He doesn’t think it’s funny The socks and ties and shirts he got By mail were smeared with honey. But father’s smile is soft and bland; We all know by that token His snake bite cure, though contraband, Came through the mail unbroken.
Author: desperaudio
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Parcel Postludes
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Grand Opry
From The Topeka State Journal, February 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Grand Opry as a form of entertainment can’t be beat. I love to cough up ten good bones and buy myself a seat. To hear some howling tenor from some low-browed foreign land Come forth and yell a lot of stuff that I can’t understand. I simply dote on listenin’ for several mortal hours While them high-priced sopranners exercise their vocal powers. I think I get my money’s worth. Oh yes, of course I do And I am always sorry when the jamboree is through. There’s nothing I like half so well and for a chance to go I’d walk five miles in my bare feet right through the ice and snow. I know what you are thinking, I’ve got your thought wave quite- You’re thinking I’m a liar and I guess you’re thinking right.
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A Wet Sheet and Flowing Sea
From the New York Tribune, February 2, 1913. By A. Cunningham. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for the soft and gentle wind! I hear a fair one cry; But give to me the morning breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free— The world of waters is our home And merry men are we. There’s a tempest in yon hornéd moon And lightning in yon cloud But hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free— While the hollow oak our palace is Our heritage the sea.
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Zoological Myths
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 1, 1913. Certain creatures oft heard of, pray who ever saw? There’s the camel whose back broke beneath the last straw. There’s the wonderful goose that laid eggs of pure gold, And the bull that got in where the china was sold. There’s the ass that the skin of a lion doth wear, And the wrong pig we frequently get by the ear. The wild horses that never, no never could drag Us somewhere—there’s the cat we let out of the bag. There’s the bird that goes whispering secrets around, Whoever has seen it, whoever has found? There’s the oft-mentioned dog in the manger that stands, And the elephant someone has got on his hands. There’s the ravenous wolf from our doors that we keep, And the wolf that goes round in the clothing of sheep. There’s the nightmare that somebody tells us they’ve had. There’s the cat with nine lives and the March hare that’s mad. And the fox that declared that the high grapes were sour, And the grim dogs of war—it would take quite an hour Just to list all the odd, freakish creatures that we Nearly every day hear of, but never once see.
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The Believer
From The Detroit Times, January 31, 1913. By Berton Braley. The game may be a hard one and the cash come slow You may be hoeing bravely on a long, long row. Perhaps the goal you’re seeking seems so far away That you wonder if the effort can be made to pay. But just when you are weary and the world seems vile, There’s something happens to you and it’s all worth while; For love comes in the picture, and your dreams come true When you find a little woman who believes in you. When the world is blind and careless through the long, long years When it doesn’t seem to bother with your hopes or fears When your friends are very doubtful and your foes are grim And everybody jeers you till your hopes grow dim; Still, you can make the riffle, you can come out best In spite of many doubters and of all the rest There’s nothing under heaven that a man can’t do If you have a little woman who believes in you!
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The Artistic Temperament
From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 30, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Maggie Jones studied music and learned how to sing. And she went in quite strong for grand opera thing. When she visited home her reception was grand, But her language the old folks could not understand; For she spoke with a strange, almost foreign accent On account of her artistic temperament. Henry Peck was the pride and the joy of his town, ’Til one day he leaped into a sudden renown When he drew a cartoon which called forth glad acclaim, And secured a half-Nelson on old Mistress Fame. Then he quit work and hasn’t a single red cent, On account of his artistic temperament. Katie Binks made good money type-writing until Some one told her she had a fine artistic skill; And she went in for painting just three months ago And she spent all her coin on a fine studio. Katie’s just been ejected for missing the rent, On account of her artistic temperament. William Hanks was a blacksmith and was all the rage With the home talent shows, so he went on the stage. Now his wife has divorced him and he’s had a hunch That he’s well on the road to the gin mill free lunch. For hard work has not recently been Williams bent, On account of his artistic temperament. In the works of the slangist high art is a “shine,” And hereafter it’s naught but the old fame for mine. For three square meals a day and a quiet home game Is a mighty sight better than laurels and fame. For there’s no peace of mind and no lasting content, When you’re stung by the artistic temperament.
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His Woeful Fate
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 29, 1913. The horns were blaring, loud and long, The drum went “Oom-ta-ta!” I saw a melancholy man Stand in the orchestra. He bowed him o’er his big bass viol And sadly sawed away, Although a show was on the boards ’Twas thought extremely gay. The chorus kicked so high, so high, The funny men came out, The audience roared its applause With laughter-laden shout; Contagious mirth filled all the air, Increasing all the while, But he who played the big bass viol Was never seen to smile. He ne’er looked upward to the stage, Where festive maidens danced, Though at his cold impassive face The leading lady glanced. Oblivious to all around And heedless of the crowd, His eyes scarce wandered from his notes, His head was ever bowed. Oh, what could be the tragedy Which held this man in thrall, Who seemed so passionless and calm And yet so sad withal? Had some great sorrow ruined his life, Or scandal’s tainted breath? Ah, no, we rather think that he Was simply bored to death. How oft he’s toiled through scenes like these Let no one try to say; His soul on such fare surfeited, He longs to slip away. And doubtless never again be forced To earn his daily bread Where banal jokes and “ragtime” songs Roll o’er his hapless head.
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The Critic
From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 28, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. My father says the paper somehow ain’t got up just right. He finds a lot of fault with it when he reads it at night. He says there ain’t a gol dum thing in it worth while to read, And that it doesn’t print the kind of stuff the people need. He tosses it aside and says it’s strictly “on the bum”— But you ought to hear the holler when the paper doesn’t come. He reads about the weddin’s and he snorts like all git out. He reads the social doin’s with a most derisive shout. He says they make the papers for the wimmen folks alone. He’ll read about the parties and he’ll fume and fret and groan; He says of information it does not contain a crumb But you ought to hear him holler when the paper doesn’t come. He’s always first to grab it and he reads it plumb clear through. He doesn’t miss an item or a want ad—that is true. He says, “They don’t know what we want, them durn newspaper guys; I’m goin’ to take a day some time and go and put ‘em wise. It sometimes seems as though they must be deaf and blind and dumb”— But you ought to hear him holler when the paper doesn’t come.
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A Parable for Reformers
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1913. ’Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; But over its terrible edge there had slipped A duke, and full many a peasant. So the people said something would have to be done But their projects did not at all tally. Some said, “Put a fence around the edge of the cliff”; Some, “An ambulance down in the valley.” But the cry for the ambulance carried the day And it spread through the neighboring city. A fence may be useful or not, it is true But each heart became brimful of pity For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff And the dwellers in highways and valley Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, But an ambulance down in the valley. “For the cliff is all right if you’re careful,” they said, “And if folks ever slip and are dropping, It isn’t the slipping that hurts them so much As the shock down below when they’re stopping.” So day after day as those mishaps occurred, Quick forth would these rescuers sally To pick up the victims who fell off the cliff With their ambulance down in the valley. Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, For the voice of true wisdom is calling: “To rescue the fallen is good, but it’s best To prevent other people from falling.” Better close up the source of temptation and crime Than deliver from dungeon or galley; Better put a strong fence around the top of the cliff Than an ambulance down in the valley.
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The Happy Wayfarer
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 26, 1913. Bill Wanders was smoking And thusly he spake: The high cost of living Ne’er keeps me awake, I travel wherever It suits me to go— Far south when the blizzards Of winter time blow, Then north in the summer, To ‘scape from the heat. I sleep when it pleases, I’ve plenty to eat. I never pay money For riding on trains, A fight with the brakeman The worst of my pains. No hotel clerk flaunts me, No head waiter frowns, I tarry quite cheaply In dozens of towns. ’Tis true that my garments Aren’t always well pressed; It frequently happens I’m carelessly dressed. And needing a bath and A shave, maybe, too. But granted these hardships, My troubles are few. O glad is the life of A knight of the road, Though little respected At home or abroad. Let socialists rave and Economists fight, Bill Wanders will tell you This world is all right!