From The Seattle Star, December 6, 1912. By Berton Braley. The artists and critics my rave as they will Of prudishness prim and precise, They claim that it hampers their art and their skill To have to be proper and nice. But for all of its squeamishness, all of its cant, It holds us to decency, plain, And I’m willing to lift up my voice in a chant, A hymn to the “Puritan Strain.” It may be a trifle too rigid and grim And hard on the spirit of Youth, But it keeps the commandments from growing too dim And it holds to the right and the truth. It’s harsh and unyielding in many a way That causes but worry and pain, But a man or a nation won’t go far astray If controlled by the “Puritan Strain.” It’s helped us to conquer the country we own Which stretches from sea unto sea, It’s sobered and tempered us while we have grown A nation united and free. It’s grappling undaunted with problems most vast, With power of hand and of brain; That grim, granite purpose will save us at last— Thank God for the “Puritan Strain!”
Category: Newspapers
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The Puritan Strain
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Bohemia
From The Tacoma Times, December 5, 1912. By Berton Braley. They eat off a trunk and they sit on a box, The floor is all cluttered with fish-nets and socks, They live on spaghetti and red ink and cheese And talk about “Art” with some unction and ease. Their hair’s never trimmed, and it’s seldom they shave, At “puritan morals” they sneer and they rave; They care not to sweep or to scrub or to dust, They never pay bills till they find that they must, They go in for fads in their manner of dress, They revel in dirt and they’re fond of a mess. Of “base money grubbers” they frequently rant, Referring to artists who “sell”—which they can’t! Yet give them a chance where the cash is the test, They’re just as commercial as all of the rest. They strut and they swagger, they poise and they pose, And each has a horn which he constantly blows, Their minds and their rooms with disorder are rife— And they call this “Bohemian Life!”
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A Diagnosis
From The Topeka State Journal, December 4, 1912. I didn’t know I had it till a little while ago— I haven’t been sure of it till within a day or so. I’d felt some symptoms of it, in a dim, uncertain way, Since first I read the ad about the medicine one day. Last week, however, I struck on the most convincing ad And now I know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad. At first I thought I saw some floating specs before my eyes, And then I’d feel that lassitude each morning when I’d rise; And so I kept on reading ads about man’s awful ills Until I found I suffered from dumb fever, aches and chills; I noticed that full feeling for an hour succeeding meals— I felt the way a man in gravest illness aways feels. Why, I’ve had the symptoms; I’ve had buzzing in the head, And sudden loss of temper; can’t remember what I’ve read; My feet will often “go to sleep”; my fingertips get numb— I shouldn’t doubt if I should be both paralyzed and dumb. And, as I say, last week I struck the most convincing ad— I don’t know what may ail me, but I know I’ve got it bad. I’ve written to the doctor for that medicine of his— I’m ready to acknowledge that it’s what he says it is. I’ve got my letter written, telling what I have endured; My picture has been taken, and I’m ready to be cured. I’ve suffered all the symptoms that the other patients had— I only know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad.
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A Dream of Tophet?
From the New York Tribune, December 3, 1912. I had a dream. It was not all a dream. Methought I wandered in some dreadful land Where deep crevasses yawned on either hand, Belching forth clouds of hot, malodorous steam. O’er craggy piles of stone my path now lay, Oft forming barriers high above my head, ‘Mid smoky fires that burnt a lurid red, And pools of slimy mud that barred my way. The heavy air was filled with sulfurous stench; My nostrils spurned it, as I drew my breath, My heart turned faint, and I was sick to death. Such awesome smells might make the boldest blench! Where lies the land with horrors thus replete; Which gaping pits and piles of granite grace? Can you not answer? Lo, New York’s the place; I did not dream—I wandered down the street!
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A Sermon to the Traveler
From The Tacoma Times, December 2, 1912. By Berton Braley. Don’t be a clam when you travel, Don’t sit like a mute in your seat; There’s a lot you can learn If you’ll pleasantly turn And talk to the folks you will meet; There’s a heap of good tales will unravel If you’ll merely be cordial and kind, For a wise man can gain From his talks on the train A whole bunch of food for his mind. Some people could travel forever And never be wiser at all Though they covered the map While the sociable chap Will gain by a journey that’s small. It’s well to make every endeavor To let down the conventional bars, For you’ll benefit, if You don’t act like a stiff With the folks that you meet on the cars.
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Old Bill Schipke’s Dream
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 1, 1912. By Girard Coburn Griswold. Old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, sat one day by the Smokehouse stove, A look of eagerness on his face, as his thoughts hied on to the coming race, And he sighed for the days on the diamond green, and he sighed for the spot that is fair and clean— For the long winter days, and the winter chill, had roused a feeling that naught could fill— But the touch of the ball as it hurtling spat, from the mighty swing of some warrior’s bat Into his glove, there, fast to cling, till propelled to Kane, from his arm’s sure swing. And he dreamed of the ninth, with the bases filled by the slashing hits of his comrades skilled— Of two men down, and naught to erase the opponents’ lead, but a hit, well placed. A hit from his bat, which, ‘twixt hands gripped tight, he cautiously swung from left to right, As with careful eye each pitch he scanned, for the one that was right for the scores to land. The first ball sped toward the plate, at which Bill swung at a terrific rate, Meeting the sphere with an awful crack— The chair gave way, and upon his back old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, ‘roused from his dream by the Smokehouse stove.
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The Other Fellow’s Fault
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 30, 1912. The other fellow’s faults loom big There is no doubt of that We always see him at his worst And have his flaws down pat. We’re always quick to recognize The weaknesses he’s shown But, after all, they’re not so big When measured by our own. If we would take the other chap And size him up by us And think about the things we’ve done When he does so and thus, And note the selfish ways we have, We might not throw the stone; His flaws might not appear so great When measured by our own. It’s mighty easy to map out The other fellow’s way, To say what virtues he should have, What he should do today. But we should always bear in mind The pitfalls we have known, And judge his weaknesses by those Decidedly our own. When we are on life’s level path, The other chap may be Down on the rough and rugged road, And all those faults we see Are, no doubt, faults we too had When fighting on alone, And maybe, too, they’re very small When measured by our own.
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Hitchin’ ‘Em Up
From The Topeka State Journal, November 29, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. The marriage microbe is a bird that’s hard to understand. The short man always asks the tall skyscraper for her hand. The man who’s six feet in his socks will wed for good and all Some maiden who is passing fair, but only four feet tall. The brilliant girl who takes the prize and outshines all the school Is more than apt to cast her fate in marriage with some fool. The learned man who knows his books and has a sober mind Most like weds the dizziest young damsel he can find. The prettiest of all the girls will wed some cross-eyed gink Who doesn’t look as though he knew enough to even think. The homely girl most likely hooks the handsome millionaire. The frivolous maid weds a man who’s loaded down with care. The pious girls is apt to draw some old night prowlin’ skate Who doesn’t think that 3 o’clock is anywhere near late. The pastor of the church may draw a social butterfly Who thinks more of her new fall hat than mansions up on high. The more you try to solve the thing, the less you really know. Philosophers all gave it up some centuries ago. The mystery is fathomless, as much now of yore. It’s only human nature, pure and simple, nothing more.
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Thanksgiving
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 28, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit. A little road that winds its way Around the hill The old, old trees that swing and sway The crumbling mill The drowsing fields where drifts of snow The rambling lane The heart that thrills all quickly; so We’re home again! And old-time songs we had forgot— This is our shame Hushed speech of friends who now are not The ruddy flame Of great logs in the fireplace there And sparks that fly The creak of an old rocking chair A smile, a sigh. To gaze out through the frosted pane And trace the ways We rambled in the sun and rain In olden days To hear the old gate click, and all The olden sounds To sit and silently recall Life’s varied rounds. To see the twilight creeping down From out the sky To see the twinkling lights of town To start reply To see gray hairs where none were then And wrinkles, too— To think how has the world of men Held me and you! And to be glad for all of this For all the glow That lives to bless us from what is The long ago— To be glad that the wandering ways O’er land and foam Have led us through the circling days And brought us home!
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Thanksgiving
From The Detroit Times, November 27, 1912. By Margaret Florence McAuley. We thank Thee, God, for every gift Thou hast bestowed on man Through all the years, in every clime Since this strange world began. We thank thee for the prosperous year Now nearly at an end For all the comfort, peace, and joy Which Thou did’st freely send. We thank Thee, too, for each good deed Each helpful kind reform Which served to guide poor, struggling men To shelter ‘mid earth’s storm. We thank Thee that no earthly woe Can harm eternally But that the very pain we dread Binds us more close to Thee. Behind the cloud is light, behind The sorrow there is joy And all the foolish wrongs of earth Thy right hand can destroy. Thou Who hast guided in the past Wilt lead us to the end Power is Thine eternally To take, withhold, or send. And so our heart must still rejoice Since Thou art at the helm Guiding and lifting all mankind Up to a happier realm.