From the Perth Amboy Evening News, March 6, 1913. By Walt Mason. They turn out books a-plenty, they print ‘em by the mile, and one, perhaps in twenty is worth a reader’s while. So many books are dizzy, so many books are flat; so many keep you busy a-guessing where you’re at; so many books are sporty, so many books are vile, and one, perhaps in forty, is worth a reader’s while. Translations from the Germans, translations from the Swedes, and masquerading sermons the weary victim reads; translations from the Spanish, translations from the Finns, translations from the Danish, and other bookish sins; and native authors nifty print volumes by the pile, and one perhaps, in fifty, is worth a reader’s while. We’ve books by four time winners who would expound the truth, and books concerning sinners pursued by wondrous sleuth; and we have problem novels and books about the slum, where, down in filthy hovels fierce people live on rum; and we have volumes weighty, and some that make us smile, and one, perhaps in eighty, is worth a reader’s while. We’ve books about the toiler, and books about the dude, and books about the spoiler, and books that shock the prude; and we have books that worry about our modern ways, and other books that hurry us back to ancient days, to lady on her pillion, to knight who scraps in style; and one in fifty million is worth a reader’s while.
Category: Newspapers
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Many Books
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A Simple Prescription
From the Rock Island Argus, March 5, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. The doctor gazed a while at me and gravely shook his head; “You must not work so hard,” said he, “eat only whole wheat bread; Avoid all starchy things and try to take your beefsteak rare; Avoid the deadly stuff they fry, keep in the open air, And cheer up. Clear your frowns away, put all your cares aside: Play golf or tennis every day, or get a horse to ride. “You might take three months off and go to Europe or Japan, Or take a trip to Mexico; you need a change, old man. You have a haggard, weary look, your system’s all run down; Go out and loll beside some brook a thousand miles from town. Take my advice and rest a while, become a man of ease. Quit working and learn how to smile. Three dollars, if you please.” He could not know how glad I was to get his dear advice, Nor that I could not go because I chanced to lack the price; He knew not that if for a space I traveled unconcerned They would inform me that my place was filled, when I returned. By toiling hard and steadily I clung to my position And kept those who were dear to me in fairly good condition.
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The Old Game
From The Seattle Star, March 4, 1913. By Berton Braley. Oh, yes, I had quit it “forever,” The scissors and paste and all that, The haste and the frantic endeavor, The typewriter’s merry rat-tat; I tired of the holler for “copy,” I longed for a life that was tame, And my friends called me shabby and sloppy, So I dropped from the Newspaper Game. But something kept whispering, “Billy, You’re out of your element here. This sinecure’s meant for some Willie Who don’t know a scoop from a beer. This joint is too tied by decorum, This routine is always the same; Your clothes don’t wear out where you wore ‘em When playing the Newspaper Game.” Whenever the newsboys would holler, Whenever the extras came out, I tugged at my unsweated collar And my heart-strings were tugged by a doubt, Till at last—well, I doubted no longer, I passed up my cinch, and I came To the call that I knew was the stronger, And I plunged in the Newspaper Game. The typewriters rattled to greet me, The smell of sour paste-pots was sweet, I found the old “mill” there to meet me, I dropped in my battered old seat. The news room was dingy and smoky, But a shiver of joy shook my frame, For I’d quit the “good job” that was pokey, And was back at the Newspaper Game. Below were the linotypes clicking, And the smell of hot lead came to me; The sport man was nervously flicking The ash from his “cigarootee.” My typewriter acted unruly, My fingers felt clumsy and lame, But I knew I was back again, truly, To the joy of the Newspaper Game. You can swear you will leave it behind you. You can flee to wherever you will, But the newspaper fever will find you, The newspaper fervor will thrill. It makes—or more likely, it breaks you, You die—and leave scarcely a name; But not until death overtakes you Are you free of the Newspaper Game.
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What’s the Use?
From The Topeka State Journal, March 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I thought that I might buy a car and zip around the countryside. I went to see an agent and he took me for a nice long ride. Somehow the news got noised around and fifteen agents called me And took me out in brand new cars, their points of excellence to see. This thing went all year around, and really, folks, it was immense; I toured all over half the state without a nickel of expense. Why should I own a touring car? I am not missing any fun; I can go riding all the time with agents who would sell me one.
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A Possibility
From the Evening Star, March 2, 1913. By Berton Braley. When tariff makers of renown Shall cut each unjust duty down; When landlords ask but little rent; When banks and trusts shall be content With modest profits now and then On trade they do with common men; When railroads cease to charge a rate Almost the value of the freight; When coal men, lumbermen and such Shall cease to waste and spoil so much; When middlemen shall be no more; And he who runs the retail store Shall find a profitable way To scale the prices we must pay; When, in each legislative hall, Our “statesmen” serve us, one and all, Instead of working for the folk Who hold the land beneath their yoke; When you and I, with thrifty care, Shall stop the leakage here and there, Desist from thoughtlessness and haste Which mean extravagance and waste; When all these goodly things are so, The cost of living may get low— But, I dunno!
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Prominence
From the Rock Island Argus, March 1, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. I have a cousin twice removed who lacks a jaunty air; He lives in Turnipopolis and is a leader there; Here in the city he would stand back in some safe retreat And look with bulging eyes and be afraid to cross the street. He moves with very little grace, his clothes are cheaply made, But he has money in the bank and all his debts are paid. He lives at Turnipopolis, where daily, wet or dry, The people of the town turn out to watch the train go by; And there at times when flags are raised and thrilling songs are sung, ’Tis he that makes the speeches to the old and to the young; He is the leading citizen, he strokes the children’s curls And proudly claims a leader’s right to kiss the pretty girls. I sometimes wonder if it pays to toil and moil and fret Where virtue is so very cheap and life is cheaper yet; Where thousands come and thousands go, unnoticed and unknown, Where, lacking room a man may still be friendless and alone— I sometimes wonder if it pays to merely live for this When each might be a leader in some Turnipopolis.
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The Chauffeur’s Story
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 28, 1913. By Ted Robinson. “I shudder yet,” the driver said, “whene’er I tell the tale— I’ll think of it till I am dead! Its memory turns me pale. ’Twas when I drove old Brown’s imported high-power racing car— And I was young and reckless—courted all the thrills there are! “Upon the day this occurred, I’d fifty miles to go Ere lunch and you can take my word, I wasn’t driving slow. The road was good but narrow. A rail fence on either side And the car sped like an arrow in a swift and easy glide. “I took the curves at forty miles, then at our highest speed— I shot along those forest aisles with just the road to heed— When suddenly there stepped into our track a little child With golden hair and eyes of blue—just looked at us and smiled! “Not fifty feet ahead was she—and I, too scared to touch Or think of the emergency, or e’en throw out the clutch; And even when it was too late—no time to turn aside— No space, no field, no open gate—the road was ten feet wide! “All these I saw as in a dream—the lassie’s happy face One of those moments that will seem to hold a lifetime’s space— ’Twas just one smile of innocence—ah, would it be her last? And then—she climbed up on the fence and watched me thunder past!”
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A Long Wait
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 27, 1913. “In twenty years from now,” said Pete, “Just look for me on Easy street.” The time went by, with hopeful air We looked and found he wasn’t there. But one whom we did question said, The while he wagged a hoary head, “I once did know a fellow who Lived back this way, a mile or two, “He might have been the man you seek. He earned, I think, twelve plunks a week. “And had so large a family, From debt he never did get free. “And when at last he closed his eyes And went, I hope, to Paradise, “He whispered, ere his spirit passed, ‘I’ve come to Easy street at last!’”
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Living Too Long
From the Evening Star, February 26, 1913. By Walt Mason. I would not care to live, my dears Much more than seven hundred years If I should last that long; For I would tire of things in time And life at last would seem a crime And I a public wrong. Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom you know Was born a hundred years ago And states the fact with mirth; He’s rather proud that he has hung Around so long while old and young Were falling off the earth. But when his boastful fit is gone A sadness comes his face upon That speaks of utter woe; He sits and broods and dreams again Of vanished days, of long dead men, His friends of long ago. There is no loneliness so dread As that of one who mourns his dead In white and wintry age; Who when the lights extinguished are The other players scattered far Still lingers on the stage. There is no solitude so deep As that of him whose friends, asleep Shall visit him no more; Shall never ask, “How do you stack,” Or slap him gaily on the back As in the days of yore. I do not wish to draw my breath Until the papers say that death Has passed me up for keeps; When I am tired I want to die And in my cozy casket lie As one who calmly sleeps. When I am tired of dross and gold When I am tired of heat and cold And happiness has waned, I want to show the neighbor folk How gracefully a man can croak When he’s correctly trained.
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Well and Ill
From the Rock Island Argus, February 25, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. When I am well I think with pity Of those who have to work away As I do, in the busy city Week in, week out, day after day. It seems so futile to be moiling And I am tempted to rebel Against the ones who keep me toiling Relentlessly—when I am well. I think with envy of the wealthy Who for their health seek distant climes And wish that I were not so healthy So that I might fare sometimes; I long to leave the noise and rattle To get away from all the strife Forgetting that the ceaseless battle The toilers wage is all of life. I see about me weary faces That show the need of change and rest; I wonder why men cling to places Whose profits are but small at best. “Poor fools,” I say, “they are but wasting Their strength where toil is profitless When each might far from here be tasting The sweets of well-earned carelessness. When I am ill, and cannot hurry With those who haste away to town To toil and moil and scheme and worry I curse the fates that keep me down; It seems a pity to be quiet While there the wheels are whirring still; And thinking of the rush and riot I scorn repose—when I am ill.