From The Topeka State Journal, November 6, 1912. By Olive Martin. Gone is the loud din and noise, Put away are all the toys. All youthful things are out of sight, One can’t find a ball or kite. No cap lays on the parlor chair, No jacket on the front hall stair. No one slams the kitchen door, No one spots the hallway floor. I strain my ears to catch the sound Of footsteps down the stairway bound, But all is quiet overhead; I cannot hear the slightest tread. I miss my boy’s loud, cheery call, His whistle, merriment and all. I miss the boyish face so dear, The big gray eyes, serene and clear. You wonder that I am not sad And that my heart is very glad? You think I should regretful be, And in my loss no goodness see? To you the secret I will tell, Assuring you with me all’s well; My boy has grown to manhood tall, So I am happy after all.
Category: Newspapers
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My Boy
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Grandpa and Me
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 5, 1912. My grandpa says that he was once A little boy like me. I s’pose he was, and yet it does Seem queer to think that he Could ever get my jacket on Or shoes, or like to play With games, and toys, and race with Duke, As I do every day. He’s come to visit us, you see, Nurse says I must be good And mind my manners, as a child With such a grandpa should. For grandpa’s very straight and tall, And very dignified. He knows most all there is to know, And other things beside. So, though my grandpa knows so much I thought that maybe boys Were things he hadn’t studied They make such an awful noise. But when at dinner I asked for Another piece of pie, I thought I saw a twinkle In the corner of his eye. So yesterday, when they went out, And left us two alone I was not quite so much surprised To find how nice he’d grown. You should have seen us romp and run; My, now I almost see That perhaps he was long, long ago A little boy like me.
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Beyond the Sunset
From The Washington Herald, November 4, 1912. By John A. Joyce. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the summer never ends And ingratitude is absent Among all celestial friends And our earthly tribulation Is forgotten on that shore, With happiness in splendor And sweet rest forever more. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the flowers ever bloom, And pure love is everlasting To dispel the shades of gloom, Where the soul is plumed with beauty In an atmosphere of peace, And greed and vicious malice Shall forever fade and cease. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where suspicion cannot go And hypocrisy is never known To entrap with nameless woe, And where conscience ever lingers As transparent as the sun With hope and faith forever When this sordid life is done. There’s a land beyond the sunset And as bright as morning dew, With immortal angels singing For the faithful, brave, and true, Who never sold their honor On this venal, vernal sod But in the silence of their soul Held worship for their God. There’s a land beyond the sunset And another land up higher Where the soul is ever soaring And infused with heavenly fire, Where other suns and planets Roll around in mystic sway In their brilliant evolution And eternal right of way.
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The Alchemist
From the Evening Star, November 3, 1912. By Marlin Ward. My simple say-so makes the truth, It also makes the lie; And all things bad transmute to good When they are done by I. Bill Flinn was just a common boss Until he followed me, But now he’s clean and beautiful As any one can be. Perkins had predatory wealth Until I sanctified His tainted cash and made it pure By use upon my side. Thus, that all men and measures, too, Are made, for bad or good, As they are for me or against, Is plainly understood. By all who get pure politics Direct from Flinn and me, The grand originators of Political purity.
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Serving It
From the Rock Island Argus, November 2, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Lift up your eyes and look about And get your money’s worth, For lying fair before you see A great old little earth. The view is very wide and bright And pulsing everywhere, And not a picture in the world Can with the sight compare. Lift up your eyes. Don’t focus them Upon the lowly ditch The while you brood upon your woes And wish that you were rich. Before you lies a waiting world, All joyous, bright and fair, And, with the others of your kind, In it you own a share. Lift up your eyes and take a look, For everything is free, And no admission need be paid And no outgoing fee. The brook, the meadow and the lake, The clouds that grace the air, The mountains and the restless sea Are there for you to share. Lift up your eyes unto the hills And let your soul expand As in the broader, wider view A man newborn you stand. Take heed of nature’s wondrous works, Whose beauties you now miss, And, though you may be poor in purse, You shall be rich in this.
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Compensation
From the Evening Star, November 1, 1912. By Philander Johnson. For the leader of a nation There’s a wonderful elation When he gets the news of victory complete; But there’s also comfort waiting For the man who hears them stating That his efforts have resulted in defeat. He can be an eight-hour sleeper, He can sit down to his “three per,” Far distant from the bustle and the roar. It will not be found essential To meet people influential Who hammer with petitions on his door. He can play the games that please him, And indulge the moods that seize him If he wants to take a trip to foreign lands. He can give a cheery greeting To each friend he may be meeting And not put in the whole day shaking hands. There is joy in the endeavor To be powerful or clever; But when the struggle has been gotten through There is surely compensation In the blissful relaxation Of the man who hasn’t very much to do.
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Halloween
From the New York Tribune, October 31, 1912. Ah! What a night was Halloween At our home up the state! The night we told ghost stories, Huddled close about the grate. Odd taps came on the window pane, Queer creakings on the stair; You never knew what minute You would get an awful scare. On Halloween, in our old home, We daren’t raise the shades For fear we’d see a pumpkin head, With eyes and nose ablaze. But here in town we raise the shade, And all that we can see Is ‘cross the shaft, a table set And people having tea. At our old home on Halloween The gate would disappear And hide itself behind the barn. That couldn’t happen here. Our home is in a Harlem flat, Up five flights, down the hall; We have no gate, no yard, no barn; Just doors and stairs and wall. On Halloween, in our old home, We had a feast of grub; We ate our fill of nuts and ducked For apples in a tub. But here we play no tricks at all; No ghosts are heard or seen. New York’s a lonely place to be On dear old Halloween!
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The Dog Under the Wagon
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 30, 1912. “Come, wife,” said good old farmer Gray, “Put on your things, ’tis market day; And we’ll be off to the nearest town, There and back ere the sun goes down. Spot? No, we’ll leave old Spot behind.” But Spot he barked and Spot he whined, And soon made up his doggish mind To follow under the wagon. Away they went at a good round pace, And joy came into the farmer’s face, “Poor Spot,” said he, “did want to come, But I’m awful glad he’s left at home. He’ll guard the barn, and guard the colt, And keep the cattle out of the lot.” “I’m not so sure of that,” thought Spot. The dog under the wagon. The farmer all his produce sold And got his pay in yellow gold; Home through the lonely forest. Hark! A robber springs from behind a tree: “Your money or else your life,” says he. The moon was up, but he didn’t see The dog under the wagon. Spot ne’er barked and Spot ne’er whined But quickly caught the thief behind; He dragged him down into the dirt And tore his coat and tore his shirt, Then held him fast on the miry ground; The robber uttered not a sound While his hands and feet the farmer bound And tumbled him into the wagon. So Spot he saved the farmer’s life, The farmer’s money, the farmer’s wife, And now a hero grand and gay, A silver collar he wears today. Among his friends, among his foes— And everywhere his master goes— He follows on his horny toes, The dog under the wagon.
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The Leaves Give Thanks
From The Topeka State Journal, October 29, 1912. By Georgia Wood Pangborn. All the cheerful little leaves Were lying mute and slain, Their tender summer faces Marred with age and pain. Through the threadbare forest Strode the wind and rain. I wept because the sky was gray, Because the leaves were dead, Because the winter came so fast, And summer’s sweet was sped; And because I, too, was mortal— “All flesh is grass,” I said. But while I was lamenting The woods began to sing. The voice of all dead leaves came up As when they sang in Spring: “Praise God,” they sang, “for Winter And stormy harvesting: “Praise God, who uses old things To serve the new things’ need And turns us into earth again That next year’s roots may feed; Roots but for us and our decay Would shrivel in the seed. “To the thousand summers Our summer has been thrust, But the snow is very gentle Above its rags and rust. Lie down, lie down, oh, brothers, With the thousand summers’ dust.”
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When Nellie Dresses
From The Topeka State Journal, October 28, 1912. When Nellie goes upstairs to dress, I take a magazine, And read about the wonders of Some far-off foreign scene; An article of men who graft, The Wall Street system, too; Also the editor’s remarks On what next month he’ll do. I light my pipe and puff away The while the page I scan, And read a Robert Chambers tale About some love-sick man. A muck-rake expert leads me through A bale of torrid stuff Explaining how a lot of men Got rich upon a bluff. I read the advertisements next, Of collars, kodaks, cars, And breakfast foods and underwear, Tobacco and cigars. A liberal education I Obtain, I must confess, The evening we are going out And Nellie starts to dress.