From the Evening Star, January 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Father was reciting A speech he had to make. For days he had been writing For patriotism’s sake. With noble self-reliance ‘Gainst tyrants he rebelled And uttered fierce defiance— Just then the baby yelled. Mother was declaring That women ought to vote, Her arguments preparing All earnestly to quote. With reasons energetic, Which could not be dispelled, She spoke in tones prophetic— Just then the baby yelled. They both forgot their speaking And hastened swiftly there To that small infant, seeking To soothe him with their care, Forgetting the oration In which they both excelled— They might have saved the nation If the baby hadn’t yelled.
Author: desperaudio
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Interference
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The Answer
From The Tacoma Times, January 14, 1913. By Berton Braley. If “business” cannot thrive unless It works a child to weariness, If “business” to be “good” demands The toil of little baby hands, And takes the tiny child away From sun and fields and merry play; If “business” makes the young its spoil And drags the mother forth to toil At tasks that rob her eyes of light From bitter morn to gloomy night; If “business” can’t afford to give A wage on which a girl can live, But drives her out upon the street To gain her clothes—and food to eat; If “business” only thus can feed By heartless shame and ruthless greed, Then “business” is a foul disgrace, A menace to the human race Which should be fought with will intense Like some vast, spreading pestilence. But business can be cleansed and purged, Its evils fought, its scoundrels scourged; The Plunderbund may rage and rant, Swearing, “It can’t be done, it can’t!” Proclaiming Ruin and Despair If we should make the game for Square; But, spite of Scribe and Pharisee We strive for right that is to be!
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Father Time
From the Evening Star, January 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We all know a fellow called Old Father Time. He has taught us in prose, he has frivoled in rhyme. One day he will give us a song or a laugh And the next he is writing a short epitaph. The way he jogs on is so quietly queer We seldom remember his presence so near. But he measures our steps as we falter or climb. He keeps tabs on us all, does this Old Father Time. But his hand is so gentle, although it is strong, That he helps us a lot as he leads us along. And the ruins that rise on the hills of the past He covers with ivy and roses at last. He teaches the smiles of the present to glow, While the sorrows are left to the long, long ago. And the knell turns to joy in its merriest chime— He’s a pretty good fellow, is Old Father Time.
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Suffragettes
From the Evening Star, January 12, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Oh, a suffragette will suffer And you need not try to bluff her With remarks about her being out of place. The ballot she will better, She will hand-paint every letter Till it proves a work of rare artistic grace. It is true that some are dashing Madly in for window smashing, And we tremble at reports from far away. But the ladies bent on voting, We are happy to be noting, Manage matters better in the U. S. A. When they go about campaigning They don’t start in with complaining That a man is nothing but “a horrid brute.” It is such an easy matter His intelligence to flatter Till he thinks he’s very wise and something cute. While they’re mighty in convention They can also claim attention By a smile and by a twinkle of the eye. They don’t make ferocious speeches. They’re not lemons. They are peaches. And no doubt they’ll all be voting by and by.
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Nirvana
From the Evening Star, January 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Jes' sittin' still fur a minute or two, Lettin' the world buzz away, As you welcome the shadows that gather anew, And wait fur the close of the day; Watchin' the fire as it flickers an' glows, Hearin' the wind's sullen call, An' not carin' much 'bout how anything goes— Jes' sittin' still an' that's all. Lettin' yer mind drift along with the blaze To follow the sparks as they fly Out with the moonlight that fitfully strays Through the clouds that are crossin' the sky; Out through the year that is hurrying' fast To where memories sorrow and smile; The toil is repaid by the pleasure at last Of jes' sittin' still fur a while.
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Good Resolutions
From the Perth Amboy Evening News, January 10, 1913. By Walt Mason. At 8 o’clock on New Year’s day, I heard Bill Wax, my neighbor, say: “This year will see me leave the hole In which I’ve long immersed my soul; That hole is Debt, and from its deeps I’ll drag myself, this time for keeps. My bank account must be enlarged; I’ll buy no goods and have them charged; Collectors won’t be on my track, Nor bailiffs camped around my shack. I’ll cut out porterhouse and pie, And pay for everything I buy, And when the year is growing gray I’ll have a bundle put away. This vow I surely won’t forget— I’m bound to take a fall from Debt!” For many years on New Year’s day Old William Wax has talked this way; He’s asked the gods to witness vows As rigid as the law allows, And for two weeks or maybe three Old Bill’s as righteous as can be. And then he sees a watch or gun He needs so bad! He has no mon, And so he has the blame thing chalked; And then, such weary roads he’s walked, He buys a horse to rest his frame, And gives his note—the same old game; And when the year is growing old The merchants clamor for their gold, And Bill’s afraid to go out doors To be run down by creditors. Alas for Bill! Alas for all Who have their backs against the wall, Their noses on the grinding stone, Because they can’t let Debt alone!
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I Will Not Doubt My Kind
From The San Francisco Call, January 9, 1913. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If bread is poison, what is food? If man is evil, what is good? I’ll cultivate a friendly mind. I see not far, but this I see: If man is false, then naught is true; If faith is not the golden clue To life, then all is mystery. I know not much, but this I know: That not in hermit’s calm retreat, But in the storied, busy street The angels most do come and go. Who to the infinite would rise Should know this one thing ere he starts: That all its steps are human hearts; To love mankind is to be wise. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If man is false, then false am I; If on myself I can’t rely, Then where shall faith a foothold find?
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Vanished Dangers
From the Rock Island Argus, January 8, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. He used to hate the idle rich, And often spoke with dread About the fearful dangers which Were looming up ahead; He saw a time when blood would flow, And anarchy be rife; But that was when his funds were low, He had the luck a year ago To get a wealthy wife. He used to say the millionaires Were blinded by their greed; He thought the world and its affairs Were managed wrong, indeed; He saw the time when class and mass Would wage a bloody strife, When chaos would prevail. Alas! Since then a change has come to pass! He has a wealthy wife. He cannot understand today Why those who toil complain; The ills he feared are cleared away, No signs of strife remain. Content to let things drift along, He lives an easy life, Forgetting, if sometimes the strong Oppress the weak, that it is wrong: He has a wealthy wife.
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The Ignoramus
From The Tacoma Times, January 7, 1913. By Berton Braley. I don’t know nuthin’ about yer books, An’ I don’t much care to know ‘em. I’m scarcely wise to a novel’s looks, An’ I never has read a poem. Them written things is Greek to me, I’m mightily shy on learnin’, But I know the woods, an’ the wind that’s free An’ the smell of the wood fires burnin’. I know the call of the matin’ bird An’ the trail of the stag to water, An’ the ways of the wild things, winged an’ furred, That all of you “wise” folks slaughter. I know the song of the wind at night In the pine trees softly stirrin’, An’ I know the cry of the ducks in flight An’ the sound of the wings a-whirrin’. Do you know the way to pack an’ camp When there ain’t no friend beside you? Kin you keep yer route on an all-day’s tramp With never a trail to guide you? You can’t? Well, mebbe, I’m quite a chump To you an’ yer learned brothers, But let me tell you sir, plain an’ plump, There certainly are some others!
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Butterflies
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 6, 1913. By Harlowe Randall Hoyt. Butterflies, golden, and red, and brown, Dancing delirious to and fro, Light as the ghost of a thistle down, Where do you come from, where do you go? Flitting your fairy minuette, Silent as sunbeams you seem to be, Catching their gossamer gleams; and yet You are the spirit of melody. Back through the dark of the ages fled, When the world was young in its coat of green, Bearded Pan raised his shaggy head By the reedy marshes of Thrasymene; And seized his pipes, for his heart was rife With the thrill that pulsed through each leaf and tree, And he piped of Spring and the joy of life Till the forest echoed his melody. And the quiet people flocked forth to hear: Dryad and nymph, from wood and stream; Satyr, and faun, and the timid deer, Harking with velvet eyes agleam. As if ‘twere the ghost of the tune, indeed, Each liquid note, as it raised on high, Sprang from the end of the brown, dead reed, Into a fluttering butterfly. No more they listen to shaggy Pan, Piping his lilt by the water there; Ages ago they fled the van Of mortals, freightened with woe and care. But still from the reeds of the riverside, When the winds are whispering fancies free, Butterflies, fluttering far and wide, Spring from the magic melody.