Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 41397-h.htm or 41397-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/41397/pg41397-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/41397/41397-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See
http://archive.org/details/unclewaltwaltma00maso
UNCLE WALT
[Illustration: To George Matthew Adams
From his Accomplice Walt Mason]
UNCLE WALT
[WALT MASON]
[Illustration]
The Poet Philosopher
Chicago
George Matthew Adams
1910
Copyright, 1910, by George Matthew Adams.
Registered in Canada in accordance with
the copyright law. Entered at Stationers'
Hall, London. All rights reserved.
Contents
A Glance at History 17
Longfellow 18
In Politics 19
The Human Head 20
The Universal Help 21
Little Sunbeam 22
The Flag 23
Doc Jonnesco 24
Little Girl 25
The Landlady 26
Twilight Reveries 27
King and Kid 28
Little Green Tents 29
Geronimo Aloft 31
The Venerable Excuse 32
Silver Threads 33
The Poet Balks 34
The Penny Saved 35
Home Life 36
Eagles and Hens 37
The Sunday Paper 38
The Nation's Hope 39
Football 40
Health Food 41
Physical Culture 43
The Nine Kings 44
The Eyes of Lincoln 45
The Better Land 46
Knowledge Is Power 47
The Pie Eaters 48
The Sexton's Inn 49
He Who Forgets 50
Poor Father 51
The Idle Question 52
Politeness 53
Little Pilgrims 55
The Wooden Indian 56
Home and Mother 57
E. Phillips Oppenheim 58
Better than Boodle 59
The Famous Four 60
Niagara 61
A Rainy Night 62
The Wireless 63
Helpful Mr. Bok 64
Beryl's Boudoir 65
Post-Mortem Honors 67
After A While 68
Pretty Good Schemes 69
Knowledge by Mail 70
Duke and Plumber 71
Human Hands 72
The Lost Pipe 73
Thanksgiving 74
Sir Walter Raleigh 75
The Country Editor 76
Useless Griefs 77
Fairbanks' Whiskers 78
Letting It Alone 79
The End of the Road 80
The Dying Fisherman 81
George Meredith 82
The Smart Children 83
The Journey 85
Times Have Changed 86
My Little Dog "Dot" 87
Harry Thurston Peck 88
Tired Man's Sleep 89
Tomorrow 90
Toothache 91
Auf Wiedersehen 92
After the Game 93
Nero's Fiddle 94
The Real Terror 95
The Talksmiths 96
Woman's Progress 97
The Magic Mirror 99
The Misfit Face 100
A Dog Story 101
The Pitcher 102
Lions and Ants 103
The Nameless Dead 104
Ambition 105
Night's Illusions 106
Before and After 107
Luther Burbank 108
Governed Too Much 109
Success in Life 110
The Hookworm Victim 111
Alfred Austin 112
Weary Old Age 113
Lullaby 114
The School Marm 115
Poe 116
Gay Parents 117
Dad 118
John Bunyan 119
A Near Anthem 121
The Yellow Cord 122
The Important Man 123
Toddling Home 124
Trifling Things 125
Trusty Dobbin 126
The High Prices 127
Omar Khayyam 128
The Grouch 129
The Pole 130
Wilhelmina 131
Wilbur Wright 132
The Broncho 133
Schubert's Serenade 135
Mazeppa 136
Fashion's Devotee 137
Christmas 138
The Tightwad 139
Blue Blood 140
The Cave Man 141
Rudyard Kipling 142
In Indiana 143
The Colonel at Home 144
The June Bride 145
At The Theatre 146
Club Day Dirge 147
Washington 149
Hours and Ponies 150
The Optimist 151
A Few Remarks 152
Little Things 153
The Umpire 154
Sherlock Holmes 155
The Sanctuary 156
The Newspaper Graveyard 157
My Lady's Hair 158
The Sick Minstrel 159
The Beggar 160
Looking Forward 161
The Depot Loafers 162
The Foolish Husband 163
Halloween 165
Rienzi To The Romans 166
The Sorrel Colt 167
Plutocrat and Poet 168
Mail Order Clothes 169
Evening 170
They All Come Back 171
The Cussing Habit 172
John Bull 173
An Oversight 174
The Traveler 175
Saturday Night 176
Lady Nicotine 177
Up-To-Date Serenade 179
The Consumer 180
Advice To A Damsel 181
The New Year Vow 182
The Stricken Toiler 183
The Law Books 184
Sleuths of Fiction 185
Put It On Ice 186
The Philanthropist 187
Other Days 188
The Passing Year 189
List of Illustrations
Page
Frontispiece 12
"A Glance at History" 16
"Geronimo Aloft" 30
"Physical Culture" 42
"Little Pilgrims" 54
"Post-Mortem Honors" 66
"The Journey" 84
"The Magic Mirror" 98
"A Near Anthem" 120
"Schubert's Serenade" 134
"Washington" 148
"Halloween" 164
"Up-to-Date Serenade" 178
[Illustration: _"Uncle Walt" on his favorite steed. Drawn by John T.
McCutcheon_]
A Poet of the People
Walt Mason's Prose Rhymes are read daily by approximately ten million
readers.
A newspaper service sells these rhymes to two hundred newspapers with a
combined daily circulation of nearly five million, and assuming that
five people read each newspaper--which is the number agreed upon by
publicity experts--it may be called a fair guess to say that two out of
every five readers of newspapers read Mr. Mason's poems.
So the ten million daily readers is a reasonably accurate estimate. No
other American verse-maker has such a daily audience.
Walt Mason is, therefore, the Poet Laureate of the American Democracy.
He is the voice of the people.
Put to a vote, Walt would be elected to the Laureate's job, if he got a
vote for each reader. And, generally speaking, men would vote as they
read.
The reason Walt Mason has such a large number of readers is because he
says what the average man is thinking so that the average man can
understand it.
The philosophy of Walt Mason is the philosophy of America. Briefly it is
this: The fiddler must be paid; if you don't care to pay, don't dance.
In the meantime--grin and bear it, because you've got to bear it, and
you might as well grin. But don't try to lie out of it. The Lord hates a
cheerful liar.
This is what the American likes to hear. For that is the American idea
about the way the world is put together. So he reads Walt Mason night
and morning and smiles and takes his knife and cuts out the piece and
carries it in his vest pocket, or her handbag.
It will interest the ten million readers of Walt Mason's rhymes to know
that they are written in Emporia, Kansas, in the office of the Emporia
Gazette, after Mr. Mason has done a day's work as editorial writer and
telegraph editor of an afternoon paper. The rhymes are written on a
typewriter as rapidly as he would write if he were turning out prose.
Day after day, year after year, the fountain flows. There is no poison
in it. And sometimes real poetry comes welling up from this Pierian
spring at 517 Merchant street, Emporia, Kansas, U. S. A.
In the meantime we do not claim its medicinal properties will cure
everything. But it is good for sore eyes; it cures the blues; it
sweetens the temper, cleanses the head, and aids the digestion. In cases
of heart trouble it has been known to unite torn ligaments and encourage
large families.
And a gentleman over there takes a bottle! Step up quickly; remember we
are merely introducing this great natural remedy. Our supply is limited.
In a moment the music will begin.
[Illustration: Signature]
[Illustration: To JAMES C. MASON
For the happy, youthful days
That long since had an end;
For the distant trodden ways
That we no more may wend;
For the dreams of woven gold
And the memories of old,
These little tales are told,
My brother and my friend.]
[Illustration: "_I to swing the shining axe, you to take a few swift
whacks._"]
_A Glance at History_
Charles the First, with stately walk, made the journey to the block. As
he paced the street along, silence fell upon the throng; from that
throng there burst a sigh, for a king was come to die! Charles upon the
scaffold stood, in his veins no craven blood; calm, serene, he viewed
the crowd, while the headsman said, aloud: "Cheer up, Charlie! Smile and
sing! Death's a most delightful thing! I will cure your hacking cough,
when I chop your headpiece off! Headache, toothache--they're a bore! You
will never have them more! Cheer up, Charlie, dance and yell! Here's the
axe, and all is well! I, though but a humble dub, represent the Sunshine
Club, and our motto is worth while: 'Do Not Worry--Sing and Smile!'
Therefore let us both be gay, as we do our stunt today; I to swing the
shining axe, you to take a few swift whacks. Lumpty-doodle, lumpty-ding,
do not worry, smile and sing!"
_Longfellow_
Singer of the kindly song, minstrel of the gentle lay, when the night is
dark and long, and beset with thorns the way--in the poignant hour of
pain, in this weary worldly war, there is comfort in thy strain, courage
in "Excelsior." When the city bends us down, with its weight of bricks
and tiles, lead us, poet, from the town, to the fragrant forest aisles,
where the hemlocks ever moan, like old Druids clad in green, as they
sighed, when all alone, wandered sad Evangeline. Writer of the cleanly
page, teacher of the golden truth; still I love thee in my age, as I
loved thee in my youth. In some breasts a fiercer fire flamed, than ever
thou hast known; but no mortal minstrel's lyre ever gave a purer tone.
Singer of the kindly song, minstrel of the gentle lay, time is swift and
art is long, and thy fame will last alway.
_In Politics_
His days were joyous and serene, his life was pure, his record clean;
folks named their children after him, and he was in the social swim;
ambitious lads would say: "I plan to be just such a worthy man!" But in
the fullness of his years, the tempter whispered in his ears, and begged
that he would make the race for county judge, or some such place. And so
he yielded to his fate, and came forth as a candidate. The night before
election day they found him lying, cold and gray, the deadest man in all
the land, this message in his icy hand: "The papers that opposed my race
have brought me into deep disgrace; I find that I'm a fiend unloosed; I
robbed a widow's chicken roost, and stole an orphan's Easter egg, and
swiped a soldier's wooden leg. I bilked a heathen of his joss, and later
kidnapped Charlie Ross; I learn, with something like alarm, that I
designed the Gunness farm, and also, with excessive grief, that Black
Hand cohorts call me chief. I thought myself a decent man, whose record
all the world might scan; but now, alas, too late! I see that all the
depths of infamy have soiled me with their reeking shame, and so it's
time to quit the game."
_The Human Head_
The greatest gift the gods bestowed on mortal was his dome of thought;
it sometimes seems a useless load, when one is tired, and worn and hot;
it sometimes seems a trifling thing, less useful than one's lungs or
slats; a mere excuse, it seems, to bring us duns from men who deal in
hats. Some men appreciate their heads, and use them wisely every day,
and every passing minute sheds new splendor on their upward way; while
some regard their heads as junk, mere idle knobs upon their necks; such
men are nearly always sunk in failure, and are gloomy wrecks. I know a
clerk who's served his time in one old store for twenty-years; he's
marked his fellows climb, and climb--and marked with jealousy and tears;
he's labored there since he was young; he'll labor there till he is
dead; he never rose a single rung, because he never used his head. I
know a poorhouse in the vale, where fifty-seven paupers stay; they paw
the air and weep and wail, and cuss each other all the day; and there
they'll loll while life endures, and there they'll die in pauper beds;
their chances were as good as yours--but then they never used their
heads. O human head! Majestic box! O wondrous can, from labels free! If
man is craving fame or rocks, he'll get them if he uses thee!
_The Universal Help_
My cow's gone dry, my hens won't lay, my horse has got the croup; the
hot winds spoiled my budding hay, and I am in the soup. And while my
life is sad and sore, and earthly joys are few, I'll write a note to
Theodore; he'll tell me what to do. I wasn't home when Fortune called,
my feet had strayed afar; I fear that I am going bald, and I have got
catarrh. The wolf is howling at my door, I've naught to smoke or chew;
but I shall write to Theodore--he'll tell me what to do. My Sunday suit
is old and sere, I'm wearing last year's lids; my aunt is coming for a
year, to visit, with her kids. They will not trust me at the store, and
I am feeling blue, so I shall write to Theodore--he'll tell me what to
do. When we are weary and distraught, from worldly strife and care, and
we're denied the balm we sought, and given black despair, ah, then, my
friends, there is one chore devolves on me and you; we'll simply write
to Theodore--he'll tell us what to do.
_Little Sunbeam_
She was sweet and soft and clinging, and he always found her singing,
when he came home from his labors as the night was closing in; she was
languishing and slender, and her eyes were deep and tender, and he
simply couldn't tell her that her coffee was a sin. Golden hair her head
was crowning; she was fond of quoting Browning, and she knew a hundred
legends of the olden, golden time; and her heart was full of yearning
for the Rosicrucian learning, and he simply couldn't tell her that the
beefsteak was a crime. She was posted on Pendennis, and she knew the
songs of Venice, and he listened to her prattle with an effort to look
pleased; and she liked the wit of Weller--and he simply couldn't tell
her that the eggs he had for breakfast had been laid by hens diseased.
So she filled his home with beauty, and she did her wifely duty, did it
as she understood it, and her conscience didn't hurt, when dyspepsia
boldly sought him, and the sexton came and got him, and his tortured
frame was buried 'neath a wagon-load of dirt. O, those marriageable
misses, thinking life all love and kisses, mist and moonshine, glint and
glamour, stardust borrowed from the skies! Man's a gross and sordid
lummix--men are largely made of stomachs, and the songs of all the
sirens will not take the place of pies!
_The Flag_
Bright-hued and beautiful, it floats upon the summer air; and every
thread of it denotes the love that's woven there; the love of veterans
whose tread has sounded on the fields of red; and women old, who mourn
their dead, but mourn without despair. Bright-hued and beautiful, it
courts caresses of the breeze; and, straining at its staff it sports, in
flaunting ecstasies; and other flags, that once were gay, long, long ago
were laid away, and many men, whose heads are gray, are thinking now of
these. Serene and beautiful it waves, the flag our fathers knew; in
Freedom's sunny air it laves, and gains a brighter hue; and may it still
the symbol be of all that makes a nation free; still may we cherish
Liberty, and to our God be true.
_Doc Jonnesco_
"O Doc," I cried, "I humbly beg, that you will amputate my leg." The
doctor cheerfully complied, and shot some dope into my hide, and made
his bucksaw fairly sail, until it struck a rusty nail. "Hoot, mon!" he
said, quite undismayed, "I'll have to finish with a spade." And as he
dug and toiled away, we talked about the price of hay, the recent
frightful rise in pork, the sugar grafters in New York, the things we
found in Christmas socks, the flurry in Rock Island stocks, the hookworm
and the hangman's noose, the bright career of Captain Loose. I felt no
pain or ache or shock; it pleased me much to watch the doc; and when the
job was done, I said: "Now that you're here, cut off my head." With
skillful hands he wrought and wrought, and soon cut off my dome of
thought, and when I asked him for his bill: "There is no charge,
already, still; I work for Science, not for scads, so keep the dollars
of your dads; to banish pain is my desire; to nothing more do I aspire;
if I may win that goal, you bet, I'll be so happy, always, yet!" Is
there a more heroic game? Could any man have nobler aim? One poet, old,
and bald and fat, to this great man takes off his hat!
_Little Girl_
Little girl, so glad and jolly, playing with your home-made dolly, built
of rags and straw, fill the sunny air with laughter, heedless of the
sorrow after--that is childhood's law! Let no sad and sordid vision
cheat you of the joy Elysian that to youth belongs; let no prophecy of
sorrow scheduled for a sad tomorrow still your joyous songs! Soon enough
will come the worry, and the labors, and the hurry, soon you'll cook and
scrub; soon with milliners and drapers you will fuss, and read long
papers, at the Culture Club. Lithe your form, but soon you'll force it
in a torture-chamber corset that will make you bawl; and those little
feet, that twinkle, you will squeeze, until they wrinkle, into shoes too
small. And those sunny locks so tangled will be tortured and kedangled
into waves and curls; and you'll buy complexion powder, and your bonnets
will be louder than the other girl's. Little girl, with home-made dolly,
cut out woe and melancholy, jump and sing and play! Fill the rippling
air with laughter! Tears and corns will follow after! This is
childhood's day!
_The Landlady_
I run a hash bazaar, just up the street; there all my boarders are
yelling for meat; boarders carniverous, boarders herbiverous; Allah
deliver us! just watch them eat! Boarders are ravenous, all the world
o'er; "feed till you spavin us," thus they implore; boarders are
gluttonous, roastbeef and muttonous; "come and unbutton us, so we'll eat
more!" Little they pay me for chicken and rice; yet they waylay me for
dainties of price; "bring us canary birds"--these are their very words,
bawling like hairy Kurds--"bring them on ice!" I give them tea and
toast, jelly and jam, some kind of stew or roast, codfish or ham; their
words are Chaucerous: "Dame Cup-and-Saucerous, bring us rhinoceros,
boiled with a yam!" I run a boarding booth, as I have said; there Age
and Smiling Youth, raise the Old Ned; maybe the clamoring, knocking and
hammering bunch will be stammering, when I am dead!
_Twilight Reveries_
At that hour supremely quiet, when the dusk and darkness blend, and the
sordid strife and riot of the day are at an end; when the bawling and
the screaming of the mart have died away, then I like to lie a-dreaming
of my castles in Cathay. I would roam in flowery spaces watered by the
fabled streams, I would travel starry spaces on the winged feet of
dreams; I would float across the ages to a more heroic time, when
inspired were all ages, and the warriors sublime. At that hour supremely
pleasing, dreams are all knocked galley west, by the phonograph that's
wheezing: "Birdie, Dear, I Love You Best."
_King and Kid_
The king sat up on his jeweled throne, and he heaved a sigh that was
like a groan, for his crown was hard, and it bruised his head, and his
scepter weighed like a pig of lead; the ladies smirked as they came to
beg; the knights were pulling the royal leg. The king exclaimed: "If I
had my wish, I would cut this out, and I'd go and fish. For what is pomp
to a weary soul that yearns and yearns for the fishing hole; the
throne's a bore and the crown a gawd, and I'd swap the lot for a bamboo
rod, and a can of worms and a piece of string--but there's no such luck
for a poor old king!" And a boy who passed by the palace high, to fish
for trout in the streamlet nigh, looked up in awe at the massive walls,
and caught a glimpse of the marble halls, and he said to himself: "Oh,
hully chee! Wisht I was the king, and the king was me! To reign all day
with your crown on straight is a whole lot better'n diggin' bait, and
fishin' round when the fish won't bite, and gettin' licked for your luck
at night!"
_The Little Green Tents_
The little green tents where the soldiers sleep, and the sunbeams play
and the women weep, are covered with flowers today; and between the
tents walk the weary few, who were young and stalwart in 'sixty-two,
when they went to the war away. The little green tents are built of sod,
and they are not long, and they are not broad, but the soldiers have
lots of room; and the sod is part of the land they saved, when the flag
of the enemy darkly waved, the symbol of dole and doom. The little green
tent is a thing divine; the little green tent is a country's shrine,
where patriots kneel and pray; and the brave men left, so old, so few,
were young and stalwart in 'sixty-two, when they went to the war away!
[Illustration: "_The Judge who knows the hearts of men may find a desert
or a glen for souls that love the wild._"]
_Geronimo Aloft_
The sod is o'er the dauntless head, the fierce old eyes are dim and
dead, the martial heart is dust; they say he died in sanctity, and his
wild soul, of fetters free, went forth to join the just. But will the
joys of Paradise, as we imagine them, suffice to hold Geronimo? Will
joyous song and endless calm to that bold spirit be a balm, while silent
eons flow? But Heaven is a region fair, and there may be long reaches
there, to give the savage space to ride his steed o'er field and fell
and raise his fierce, defiant yell, in foray and in race. The Judge who
knows the hearts of men may find a desert or a glen for souls that love
the wild; and through the gates perchance may jog the hunter's pinto and
his dog, his painted squaw and child.
_The Venerable Excuse_
You say your grandma's dead, my lad, and you, bowed down with woe, to
see her laid beneath the mold believe you ought to go; and so you ask a
half day off, and you may have that same; alas, that grannies always die
when there's a baseball game! Last spring, if I remember right, three
grandmas died for you, and you bewailed the passing, then, of souls so
warm and true; and then another grandma died--a tall and stately dame;
the day they buried her there was a fourteen-inning game. And when the
balmy breeze of June among the willows sighed, another grandma closed
her eyes and crossed the Great Divide; they laid her gently to her rest
beside the churchyard wall, the day we lammed the stuffing from the
Rubes from Minnepaul. Go forth, my son, and mourn your dead, and shed
the scalding tear, and lay a simple wreath upon your eighteenth
grandma's bier; while you perform this solemn task I'll to the
grandstand go, and watch our pennant-winning team make soupbones of the
foe.
_Silver Threads_
Sing a song of long ago, now the weary day is done, and the breeze is
sighing low dirges for the vanished sun; sing a song of other days, ere
our hearts were tired and old; sing the sweetest of old lays: "Silver
Threads Among the Gold." We who feebly hold the track in the gloaming of
life's day, love the songs that take us back to life's springtime, far
away, when our hope had airy wing, and our hearts were strong and bold,
and at eve we used to sing "Silver Threads Among the Gold." Then our
hair no silver knew, and these eyes, that shrunken seem, were the
brightest brown or blue, and old age was but a dream; but the years have
taken flight, and life's evening bells are tolled; so, my children, sing
tonight, "Silver Threads Among the Gold."
_The Poet Balks_
If old Jim Riley came to town, to read a bundle of his rhyme, I guess
you couldn't hold me down--I'd want to hear him every time. I wouldn't
heed the tempest's shriek; I'd walk ten miles and not complain, to hear
Jim Hoosier Riley speak. But I would not go round a block to see a
statesman saw the air, to hear a hired spellbinder talk, like a faker at
the county fair. For statesmen are as thick as fleas, and poets, they
are far between; one song that lingers on the breeze is worth a million
yawps, I ween. If John McCutcheon came to town, to make some pictures on
the wall, I'd tear the whole blamed doorway down to be the first one in
the hall; you couldn't keep me in my bed if I was dying there of croup;
the push would find me at the head of the procession, with a whoop. But
I won't push my fat old frame across a dozen yards of bricks, to list to
men whose only fame is based on pull and politics.
_The Penny Saved_
It is wise to save the pennies when the pennies come your way, for
you're more than apt to need them when arrives the rainy day; and when
Famine comes a-whooping with the cross-bones on her vest, then the
fellow with the bundle has the edge on all the rest. I admire the man
who's saving, if he doesn't save too hard, if he doesn't think a dollar
bigger than the courthouse yard; and I like to see him salting down the
riches that he's struck, if he always has a quarter for the guy that's
out of luck. When the winter comes upon us, yelling like a baseball fan,
then it's nice to have some boodle in an old tomato can; when there's
sickness in the wigwam, and we have to call the doc, then it's nice to
have a package hidden in the eight-day clock; when Old Age, the hoary
rascal, comes a-butting in at last, then it's nice to have some rubles
that you cornered in the past; and the man who saves the pennies is a
dandy and a duck--if he always has a quarter for the guy that's out of
luck.
_Home Life_
Now the nights are growing longer, and the frost is in the air, and it's
nice to hug the fireside in your trusty rocking chair, with the good
wife there beside you, feeding cookies to the cat, while the energetic
children play the dickens with your hat. O, it's nice to look around
you, and to feel that you're a king, that your coming home at evening
makes your joyous subjects sing! So you read some twenty chapters of old
Gibbon's dope on Rome, and you know what human bliss is in your humble
little home! There is really nothing better in the way of earthly bliss,
than to toddle home at evening, and to get a welcome kiss, and to know
the kids who greet you at the pea-green garden gate, have been wailing,
broken-hearted, that you were two minutes late! There is nothing much
more soothing than a loving woman's smile, when she sees your bow-legs
climbing o'er the bargain counter stile! If you don't appreciate it,
then the bats are in your dome, for the greatest king a-living is the
monarch of a home!
_Eagles and Hens_
The eagle ought to have a place among the false alarms; we place its
picture on our coins, and on our coat of arms; but what did eagles ever
do but frolic in the sun? They'd be in jail for larceny if justice
should be done. They are not half so good to eat as mallard duck or
grouse; they'd surely cause a panic in a section boarding house; and
never in this weary world was farmer seen to go, to trade a pail of
eagle eggs for nails or calico. The humble hen, on t'other hand, still
helps the world along; she lifts the farmer's mortgage as she trills her
morning song; she yields the fragrant omelet, and when reduced to pie,
she makes the boarder feel that he at last is fit to die. The eagle does
not stir the souls of earnest, thoughtful men; and so let's take him
from the shield and substitute the hen.
_The Sunday Paper_
I spent five cents for the Sunday "Dart," and hauled it home in a
two-wheeled cart; I piled the sections upon the floor, till they reached
as high as the kitchen door; I hung the chromos upon the wall, though
there wasn't room to hang them all, and the yard was littered some ten
feet deep with "comic sections" that made me weep; and there were
sections of pink and green, a woman's section and magazine, and sheets
of music the which if played would quickly make an audience fade; and
there were patterns for women's gowns and also for gentlemen's
hand-me-downs; and a false mustache and a rubber doll, and a deck of
cards and a parasol. Now men are busy with dray and cart, a-hauling away
the Sunday "Dart."
_The Nation's Hope_
The nation's sliding down the path that leads to Ruin's lair, and all of
Ruin's dogs of wrath will chew its vitals there; each day we deeper
plunge in grief; we'll soon have reached the worst; why don't we turn,
then, for relief, to William Randolph Hurst? It seems we haven't any
sense, that we these ills endure; he's told us oft, in confidence, that
he alone is pure; he is the bulwark of our hope--our last shield and our
first; then let's rely upon the dope of William Randolph Hurst. He
offers us the helping hand, he fain would be our guide; and still we
wreck this blooming land, and let all virtue slide; of all that is the
country's best we're making wienerwurst; O let us lean upon the breast
of William Randolph Hurst! He stands and waits, serene, sublime, he
beckons and he sings! He wears a halo all the time, and he is growing
wings! So let us quit the course that harms, forsake the things accurst,
and rest, like children, in the arms of William Randolph Hurst!
_Football_
The game was ended, and the noise, at last had died away, and now they
gathered up the boys where they in pieces lay. And one was hammered in
the ground by many a jolt and jar; some fragments never have been found,
they flew away so far. They found a stack of tawny hair, some fourteen
cubits high; it was the half-back, lying there, where he had crawled to
die. They placed the pieces on a door, and from the crimson field, that
hero then they gently bore, like soldier on his shield. The surgeon
toiled the livelong night above the gory wreck; he got the ribs adjusted
right, the wishbone and the neck. He soldered on the ears and toes, and
got the spine in place, and fixed a gutta-percha nose upon the mangled
face. And then he washed his hands and said: "I'm glad that task is
done!" The half-back raised his fractured head, and cried: "I call this
fun!"
_Health Food_
The doctor is sure that my health is poor, he says that I waste away; so
bring me a can of the shredded bran, and a bale of the toasted hay; O
feed me on rice and denatured ice, and the oats that the horses chew,
and a peck of slaw and a load of straw and a turnip and squash or two.
The doctor cries that it won't be wise to eat of the things I like; if I
make a break at a sirloin steak, my stomach is sure to strike; I dare
not reach for the luscious peach, or stab at the lemon pie; if I make a
pass at the stew, alas! I'm sure to curl up and die. If a thing looks
good, it must be eschewed, if bad, I may eat it down; so bring me a jar
of the rich pine tar from the Health Food works up town; and bring me a
bag of your basic slag, and a sack of your bolted prunes, and a bowl of
slop from the doctor's shop, and ladle it in with spoons! I will have to
feed on the jimson weed, and the grass that the cows may leave, for the
doctor's sure that my health is poor, and I know that he'd not deceive.
[Illustration: "_O, it may be all right for a woman so old, to leap o'er
the table and chairs._"]
_Physical Culture_
My grandmother suffered and languished in pain, till she read in a
magazine ad, that a woman should put on a sweater and train, and help
the Delsartean fad. And now when I go to my midday repast, no meal is
made ready for me; my grandmother's climbing a forty-foot mast or
shinning up into a tree. The house has a stairway that she will not use
she always slides down on the rail; she's spoiled all the floors with
her spiked sprinting shoes, and she laughs when I put up a wail. O, it
may be all right for a woman so old, to leap o'er the table and chairs,
while I try to fill up on the grub that is cold, with the dishes all
piled on the stairs. Today I protested with many a tear, made a moan
like a maundering dunce; and she kicked all the lights from the brass
chandelier, and turned forty handsprings at once. I told her I never
could prosper and thrive, on victuals unfit for a man; she offered to
throw me three falls out of five, Graeco-Roman or catch-as-catch-can.
_The Nine Kings_
Nine monarchs followed in the gloom when Edward journeyed to the tomb;
nine monarchs walked, as in a dream--enough to make a baseball team--and
cast upon King Edward's bier the futile tribute of a tear. And at his
task the sexton sings (the man who digs the graves for kings): "Nine
monarchs, in their brave array, are bending over Edward's clay; and does
the silent sovereign care, or does he know that they are there? And can
the tears of monarchs nine make those dim eyes of Edward's shine? And if
they give their nine commands, can they bring life to those cold hands?
Can all their armies and their ships bring laughter to those dead white
lips? Can their nine crowns and sceptres nine, bring to the dead the
life divine? Nine paupers at a pauper's grave, who claw their rags and
weep and rave, can do as much to help the dead, as those nine kings at
Edward's bed."
_The Eyes of Lincoln_
Sad eyes, that were patient and tender, sad eyes, that were steadfast
and true, and warm with the unchanging splendor of courage no ills could
subdue! Eyes dark with the dread of the morrow, and woe for the day that
was gone, the sleepless companions of sorrow, the watchers that
witnessed the dawn. Eyes tired from the clamor and goading, and dim from
the stress of the years, and hollowed by pain and foreboding, and
strained by repression of tears. Sad eyes that were wearied and
blighted, by visions of sieges and wars, now watch o'er a country united
from the luminous slopes of the stars!
_The Better Land_
There is a better world, they say, where tears and woe are done away;
there shining hosts in fields sublime are playing baseball all the time,
and there (where no one ever sins) the home team nearly always wins.
Upon that bright and sunny shore, we'll never need to sorrow more; no
umpires on the field are slain, no games are called because of rain. So
let us live that we may fly, on snowy pinions, when we die, to where the
pitcher never falls, or gives a man first base on balls; where
goose-eggs don't adorn the score, and shortstops fumble never more.
_Knowledge is Power_
One day a farmer found a bone; he thought at first it was a stone, and
threw it at a passing snake ere he discovered his mistake. But when he
knew it was a bone, and not a diamond or a stone, he took it to an
ancient sage, who said: "In prehistoric age, this was the shin-bone of a
Thor-dineriomegantosaur-megopium-permastodon-letheriumsohelpmejohn." The
farmer cried: "Dad bing my eyes! Was ever man so wondrous wise? He gazes
on a piece of bone, that I supposed to be a stone, and, with a
confidence sublime, he looks across the void of time, and gives this
fossil bone a name, the fragment of some creature's frame! To have such
knowledge, sir, as thine, I'd give those fertile farms of mine." "Don't
envy me," the sage replied, and shook his weary head, and sighed, "Your
life to me seems full and sweet--you always have enough to eat!"
_The Pie Eaters_
A sport in New Jersey, whose name is mislaid, has issued a challenge,
serene, undismayed. He claims he can shovel more pies in his hold than
any man living, and puts up the gold to back up his challenge, so here
is a chance for pie eating experts their fame to advance. Now here is a
sport that I like to indorse; a man can eat pies and not work like a
horse; no heart-breaking training for wearisome weeks; no sparring or
wrestling with subsidized freaks; no rubbing or grooming or skipping the
rope, no toning your nerves with some horse doctor's dope; no bones
dislocated, or face pounded sore, no wearing gum boots in a whirlpool of
gore. The pie eater's training no anguish implies; he starves till his
stomach is howling for pies; he loosens his belt to the uttermost hole,
and says to the umpire: "All right! Let her roll!" There's gold for the
winner, and honor and fame, and even the loser's ahead of the game.
_The Sexton's Inn_
Only a little longer, and the journey is done, my friend! Only a little
further, and the road will have an end! The shadows begin to lengthen,
the evening soon will close, and it's ho for the Inn of the Sexton, the
inn where we'll all repose. The inn has no Bridal Chamber, no suites for
the famed or great; the guests, when they go to slumber, are all of the
same estate; the chambers are small and narrow, the couches are hard and
cold, and the grinning, fleshless landlord is not to be bribed with
gold. A sheet for the proud and haughty, a sheet for the beggar guest; a
sheet for the blooming maiden--a sheet for us all, and rest! No bells at
the dawn of morning, no rap at the chamber door, but silence is there,
and slumber, for ever and ever more. Then ho for the Inn of the Sexton,
the inn where we all must sleep, when our hands are done with their
toiling, and our eyes have ceased to weep!
_He Who Forgets_
The merchant said, in caustic tones: "James Henry Charles Augustus
Jones, please get your pay and leave the store; I will not need you any
more. Important chores you seem to shun; you're always leaving work
undone; and when I ask the reason why, you heave a sad and soulful sigh,
and idly scratch your dome of thought, and feebly say: "Oh, I forgot!"
James Henry Charles Augustus Jones, this world's a poor resort for
drones, for men with heads so badly set that their long suit is to
forget. No man will ever write his name upon the shining wall of fame,
or soar aloft on glowing wings because he can't remember things. I've
noticed that such chaps as you remember when your pay is due; and when
the noontime whistles throb, your memory is on the job; and when a
holiday's at hand, your recollection isn't canned. The failures on
life's busy way, the paupers, friendless, wan and gray, throughout their
bootless days, like you, forgot the things they ought to do. So take
your coat, and draw your bones, James Henry Charles Augustus Jones!"
_Poor Father_
Children, hush! for father's resting; he is sitting, tired and sore,
with his feet upon the table and his hat upon the floor. He is wearied
and exhausted by the labors of the day; he has talked about the tariff
since the dawn was cold and gray; he has lost eight games of checkers,
for his luck today was mean, and that luck was still against him when he
bucked the slot machine; so his nerves are under tension, and his brow
is dark with care, and the burdens laid upon him seem too great for him
to bear. Stop the clock, for it annoys him; throttle that canary bird;
take the baby to the cellar, where its howling won't be heard; you must
speak in whispers, children, for your father's tired and sore, and he
seems to think the ceiling is some kind of cuspidor. Oh, he's broken
down and beaten by the long and busy day; he's been sitting in the
feedstore on a bale of prairie hay, telling how the hungry grafters have
the country by the throat, how the tariff on dried apples robs the poor
man of his coat, how this nasty polar rumpus might be settled once for
all--and his feet are on the table, and his back's against the wall; let
him find his home a quiet and a heart-consoling nest, for the father's
worn and weary, and his spirit longs for rest.
_The Idle Question_
I'm tired of the bootless questions that rise in my vagrant mind; I gaze
at the stars and wonder how many may be behind; a myriad worlds are
whirling, concealed by the nearer spheres; and there they have coursed
their orbits a million million years. I gaze at the spangled spaces, the
bed of a billion stars, from the luminous veil of Venus, to the militant
glare of Mars, and wonder, when all is ended, as ended all things must
be, if the Captain will then remember a poor little soul like me. I'm
tired of the endless questions that come, and will not begone, when I
face to the East and witness the miracle of the dawn; the march of the
shining coursers o'er forest and sea and land; the splendor of gorgeous
colors applied by the Captain's hand; the parting of crimson curtains
afar in the azure steep; the hush of a world-wide wonder, when even the
zephyrs sleep. And I look on the birth of morning as millions have gazed
before, and question the wave that questions the rocks and the sandy
shore. "When all of these things are ended, as ended these things must
be, will the Captain of all remember a poor little soul like me?"
_Politeness_
In my youth I knew an aleck who was most exceeding smart, and his
flippant way of talking often broke the hearer's heart. He was working
for a grocer in a little corner store, taking down the wooden shutters,
sweeping up the greasy floor, and he always answered pertly, and he had
a sassy eye, and the people often asked him if he wouldn't kindly die.
Oh, the festive years skedaddled, and the children of that day, now are
bent beneath life's burdens, and their hair is turning gray; and the
flippant one is toiling in the same old corner store, taking down the
ancient shutters, sweeping up the greasy floor. In the same old sleepy
village lived a springald so polite that to hear him answer questions
was a genuine delight; he was working in a foundry where they dealt in
eggs and cheese, and the work was hard and tiresome, but he always tried
to please. And today he's boss of thousands, and his salary's sky
high--and his manner's just as pleasant as it was in days gone by. It's
an idle, trifling story, and you doubtless think it flat, but its moral
might be pasted with some profit in your hat.
[Illustration: "_We are weary little pilgrims, straying in a world of
gloom._"]
_Little Pilgrims_
We are weary little pilgrims, straying in a world of gloom; just behind
us is the cradle, just before us is the tomb; there is nothing much to
guide us, or the proper path to mark, as we toddle on our journey,
little pilgrims in the dark. And we jostle, and we struggle, in our
feeble, futile wrath, always striving, always reaching to push others
from the path; and the wrangling and the jangling of our peevish voices
rise, to the seraphim that watch us through the starholes in the skies;
and they say: "The foolish pilgrims! Watch them as they push and shove!
They might have a pleasant ramble, if their hearts were full of love, if
they'd help and cheer each other from the hour that they embark--but
they're only blind and erring little pilgrims in the dark!"
_The Wooden Indian_
A poor old Wooden Indian, all battered by the years, was seated on a
pile of junk, and shedding briny tears. "What hurts you?" asked the
Teddy Bear, "why are you thus distressed? Why do you tear your willow
hair, and smite your basswood breast?" "Alas, my occupation's gone," the
Indian replied; "cigar men now refuse to keep red warriors outside; I
used to stand in pomp and pride before a stogie store; but times have
changed, and those glad days will come to me no more. I'm waiting here
among the junk in mournful solitude, till some one breaks me into chunks
to use for kindling wood." "Cheer up!" exclaimed the Teddy Bear, "don't
break your heart, old sport! You yet may have a chance to serve as
juryman, in court."
_Home and Mother_
"What is Home Without a Mother?" There's the motto on the wall, hanging
in a place obtrusive, where it may be seen by all; and the question's
never answered--we can't know what home would be, if its gentle guardian
angel in her place no more we'd see. Mother washes all the dishes and
she's sweeping up the floors, while the girls are in the parlor doing
Paderewski chores; mother's breaking up some kindling at the woodpile by
the gate, while the boys are in the garden with their shovels, digging
bait; mother's on her knees a-scrubbing, where the careless footprints
are, while the father sits in comfort, toiling at a bad cigar. Mother
sits with weary fingers, and with bent and aching head, sewing, darning,
for the children while they're all asleep in bed; mother's up before the
sunrise, up to labor and to moil, thinking ever of the others, in the
weary round of toil. What is home without a mother? That we'll never
realize till the light of life has faded from the kind and patient eyes;
when the implements of labor fall unheeded from her hand, and the loving
voice is silent--then, at last, we'll understand.
_E. Phillips Oppenheim_
I have read your latest book, Oppenheim; it involves a swarthy crook,
Oppenheim; and a maid with languid eyes, and a diplomat who lies, and a
dowager who sighs, Oppenheim, Oppenheim, and your glory never dies,
Oppenheim. Oh, your formula is great, Oppenheim! Write your novels by
the crate, Oppenheim! When we buy your latest book we are sure to find
the crook, and the diplomat and dook, Oppenheim, Oppenheim, and the
countess and the cook, Oppenheim! You are surely baling hay, Oppenheim,
for you write a book a day, Oppenheim; from your fertile brain the rot
comes a-pouring, smoking hot, and you use the same old plot, Oppenheim,
Oppenheim, but it seems to hit the spot, Oppenheim! You're in all the
magazines, Oppenheim; same old figures, same old scenes, Oppenheim; same
old counts and diplomats, dime musee aristocrats, same old cozy corner
chats, Oppenheim, Oppenheim, and we cry the same old "Rats!" Oppenheim.
If you'd only rest a day, Oppenheim! If you'd throw your pen away,
Oppenheim! If there'd only come a time when we'd see no yarn or rhyme
'neath the name of Oppenheim, Oppenheim, Oppenheim, it would truly be
sublime, Oppenheim!
_Better Than Boodle_
If you help a busted pilgrim, who's been out of luck a while, if you
stake him with a dollar and a stogie and a smile, and you see his
haggard features light up with a glow of joy, and you hear him try to
murmur that you are a bully boy, then you'll get a lot of pleasure from
the life you're leading here; there are better things than boodle in
this little whirling sphere. If you write a friendly letter to some
fellow far away, who's so weary and so homesick that his hair is turning
gray, he will feel a whole lot better, and the cheer-up smile will come,
and he'll sail into his duties in a way to make things hum; then you've
done a thing to help you when St. Peter calls your name; there are
better things than boodle in this little human game. If you see a man
a-struggling to regain some ground he's lost, some one who's been up
against it, knocked about and tempest tossed, and you turn around and
help him to his place with other men, crying shame upon the knockers who
would drag him down again, then you've shown that you're a critter of a
princely strain of blood; there are better things than boodle on this
little ball of mud.
_The Famous Four_
John and Peter, and Robert and Paul, what in the world has become of
them all? How are they stacking, and where are they gone--Paul and
Robert and Peter and John? Paul was a poet, and labored and wrought over
his harp, and he kept its strings hot; haunting and sad was his music,
though sweet--bards can't be glad when they've nothing to eat. Peter
made pictures and painted them well; 'twasn't his fault that they never
would sell; 'twasn't his fault that he took a brief ride out to the
poorhouse, where later he died. Robert taught school till he died of old
age; hard were his labors and scanty his wage; we laid him to rest in a
grave on the hill; the county was called on to settle the bill. John was
a pitcher, whose curves were immense; he was the pet of the bleachers,
and hence he was the owner of riches untold; diamonds and rubies and
sapphires and gold. John and Peter and Robert and Paul! Through the long
years we've kept cases on all!
_Niagara_
I gazed upon that mighty flood, that writhed as though in pain or woe,
and fell with dull and sick'ning thud, into the chasm far below. If
there's a man with soul so dead that he unmoved can view that scene, he
surely has a basswood head, and had it carved when it was green. O noble
falls! Stupendous sight! Dame Nature's most emphatic fact! The gods were
on their job all right when they designed that cataract. All other
wonders are a dream, a foolish, feeble phantasy! The pauper falls of
Europe seem absurd when they're compared with thee! Had I but seen thee
in thy prime, when this proud nation had its dawn, in that fair,
distant, golden time, before they strapped thy harness on, then I'd have
written thee an ode, to make thy waters pause a while; but go and drag
along thy load, since beasts of burden are in style. Alas, that two such
handsome falls, that should be kicking up their heels, come forth like
horses from their stalls, to turn a million greasy wheels! To grind up
glue, make lightning rods, and furnish cheap electric light--no wonder
that the nine great gods look down in anger at the sight!
_A Rainy Night_
I hear the plashing of the rain upon the roof, upon the pane, it murmurs
at the door; it patters forth a futile boast; it whispers like a timid
ghost; it streams upon the floor. And as I sit me here alone, and listen
to its monotone, strange fancies come and go; I seem to see, distinct
and plain dim faces drawn upon the pane, of friends I used to know. Soft
voices whisper in the rain, and friends I ne'er shall see again, are
crying bitterly; the raindrops seem to be their tears, and o'er the
misty void of years, they're calling, calling me. O shadows from a
starless shore, begone, and torture me no more, and leave me here alone!
I fear the voices in the rain, the voices vibrant with their pain--I
fear the spectres that complain, in weary monotone! But still they chide
me at the door, and whisper there for evermore, and murmur in their woe;
I hear them in the tempest's swell, I hear them sigh, I hear them yell:
"Where is that old green umberell, you swiped two years ago?"
_The Wireless_