stars begin parading, each one in its distant sphere; and the city's
strident voices dwindle to a gentle hum, and the heart of man rejoices
that the hour of rest has come. Thrown away is labor's fetter, when the
day has reached its close; nothing in the world is better than a weary
man's repose. Nothing in the world is sweeter than the sleep the toiler
finds, while the ravening moskeeter fusses at the window blinds. Nothing
'neath the moon can wake him, short of cannon cracker's roar; if you'd
rouse him you must shake him till you dump him on the floor. Idle people
seek their couches, seek their beds to toss and weep, for a demon on
them crouches, driving from their eyes the sleep. And the weary hours
they number, and they cry, in tones distraught: "For a little wad of
slumber, I would give a house and lot!" When the long, long day is
dying, and you watch the twinkling stars, knowing that you'll soon be
lying, sleeping like a train of cars, be, then, thankful, without
measure; be as thankful as you can; you have nailed as great a treasure
as the gods have given man!
_Tomorrow_
"Tomorrow," said the languid man, "I'll have my life insured, I guess; I
know it is the safest plan, to save my children from distress." And when
the morrow came around, they placed him gently in a box; at break of
morning he was found as dead as Julius Caesar's ox. His widow now is
scrubbing floors, and washing shirts, and splitting wood, and doing
fifty other chores, that she may rear her wailing brood. "Tomorrow,"
said the careless jay, "I'll take an hour, and make my will; and then if
I should pass away, the wife and kids will know no ill." The morrow
came, serene and nice, the weather mild, with signs of rain; the
careless jay was placed on ice, embalming fluid in his brain. Alas,
alas, poor careless jay! The lawyers got his pile of cash; his wife is
toiling night and day, to keep the kids in clothes and hash. Tomorrow is
the ambushed walk avoided by the circumspect. Tomorrow is the fatal rock
on which a million ships are wrecked.
_Toothache_
Now my weary heart is breaking, for my left hand tooth is aching, with a
harsh, persistent rumble that is keeping folks awake; hollowed out by
long erosion, it, with spasm and explosion, seems resolved to show the
public how a dog-gone tooth can ache. Now it's quivering or quaking; now
it's doing fancy aching, then it shoots some Roman candles which go
whizzing through my brain; now it does some lofty tumbling, then again
it's merely grumbling; and anon it's showing samples of spring novelties
in pain. All the time my woe increases; I have kicked a chair to pieces,
but it didn't seem to soothe me or to bring my soul relief; I have
stormed around the shanty till my wife and maiden auntie said they'd
pull their freight and leave me full enjoyment of my grief. I have made
myself so pleasant that I'm quarantined at present, and the neighbors
say they'll shoot me if I venture from my door; now a voice cries: "If
thou'd wentest in the first place, to a dentist--" it is strange that
inspiration never came to me before!
_Auf Wiedersehen_
"Farewell," I said, to the friend I loved, and my eyes were filled with
tears; "I know you'll come to my heart again, in a few brief, hurried
years!" Ah, many come up the garden path, and knock at my cottage door,
but the friend I loved when my heart was young, comes back to that heart
no more. "Farewell!" I cried to the gentle bird, whose music had filled
the dawn; "you fly away, but you'll sing again, when the winter's snows
are gone." Ah, the bright birds sway on the apple-boughs, and sing as
they sang before; but the bird I loved, with the golden voice, shall
sing to my heart no more! "Farewell!" I said to the Thomas Cat, I threw
in the gurgling creek, all weighted down with a smoothing iron, and a
hundredweight of brick. "You'll not come back, if I know myself, from
the silent, sunless shore!" Then I journeyed home, and that blamed old
cat was there by the kitchen door!
_After The Game_
When I cash in, and this poor race is run, my chores performed, and all
my errands done, I know that folks who mock my efforts here, will
weeping bend above my lowly bier, and bring large garlands, worth three
bucks a throw, and paw the ground in ecstasy of woe. And friends will
wear crape bow-knots on their tiles, while I look down (or up) a million
miles, and wonder why those people never knew how smooth I was until my
spirit flew. When I cash in I will not care a yen for all the praise
that's heaped upon me then; serene and silent, in my handsome box, I
shall not heed the laudatory talks, and all the pomp and all the vain
display, will just be pomp and feathers thrown away. So tell me now,
while I am on the earth, your estimate of my surprising worth; O tell me
what a looloo-bird I am, and fill me full of taffy and of jam!
_Nero's Fiddle_
We have often roasted Nero that he played the violin, while his native
Rome was burning and the firemen raised a din; there he sat and played
"Bedelia," heedless of the fiery storm, while the fire chief pranced and
sweated in his neat red uniform. And I often think that Nero had a
pretty level head; would the fire have been extinguished had he fussed
around instead? Would the fire insurance folks have loosened up a shekel
more, had old Nero squirted water on some grocer's cellar door? When
there comes a big disaster, people straightway lose their wits; they go
round with hands a-wringing, sweating blood and throwing fits; but the
wise man sits and fiddles, plays a tune from end to end, for it never
pays to worry over things you cannot mend. It is good to offer battle
when catastrophes advance, it is well to keep on scrapping while a
fellow has a chance; but when failure is as certain as the coming of the
dusk, then it's wise to take your fiddle and fall back on "Money Musk."
_The Real Terror_
If you should chance to mention Death, most men will have a grouch; and
yet to die is nothing more than going to your couch, when you have done
your little stunt, performed the evening chores, wound up the clock,
blown out the light, and put the cat outdoors. The good old world jogged
smoothly on before you had your fling; and it will jog as smoothly on
when you have cashed your string. King Death himself is good and kind;
he always does his best to soothe the heart that's sorrowful, and give
the weary rest; but there are evils in his train that daunt the stoutest
soul, and one of them may serve to end this cheerful rigmarole. I always
have a haunting dread that when I come to die, the papers of the town
will tell how some insurance guy, paid up the money that was due to
weeping kin of mine, before the funeral procesh had fallen out of line;
and thus they'll use me for an ad, some Old Line Life to boom, before
I've had a chance to get acquainted with my tomb!
_The Talksmiths_
In the hour of stress, when the outlook's blue, and the nation's in a
box, there's always a statesman, strong and true, who comes to the front
and talks. If wind would banish the ills we see, and drive all our
troubles hence, then the talksmith's tongue would our bulwark be, and
his larynx our chief defense. We groan and sweat at the forge and mill,
to see that our tax is paid, and the money all goes to pay the bill for
the noise in congress made. Wherever you go the talksmith stands, with
his winning smile and smirk, and busts the welkin and waves his
hands--but doesn't get down to work. Ah, well, my friends, we shall
scrape and peck along till the judgment day, when the talksmith climbs
on the old world's wreck, and talks till he burns away!
_Woman's Progress_
It is woman's firm ambition to attain a high position, and he surely is
a caitiff who regrets to see her rise; I for one will hand her praises,
load her down with cheering phrases, if, in seeking higher levels, she
does not neglect the pies. Let her study art and science, read up
Blackstone and his clients, soak herself in Kant or Browning and the
truth that in them lies; she may dote on Keats or Ruddy--if she doesn't
cease to study worthy books and able pamphlets treating of uplifting
pies. Now and then my spirit, shrinking, gets to doubting, brooding,
thinking that the pies we have at present are not like the pies of yore;
modern dames are good at making crusts for pies, and good at baking, but
they buy the stuff to fill them at the nearest grocer's store. Are our
pies as good as ever? Do our modern dames endeavor to produce the pie
triumphant, pies that make us better men? If they do, then who would
chide them, who would blame them or deride them, if they turn from pies
and cookies to their Ibsen books again?
[Illustration: "_I saw the form of a cringing bum all crumpled and
soaked with gin._"]
_The Magic Mirror_
I went one night with my high-priced thirst to loaf in the booze bazar,
and as I sampled the old red dope I leaned on the handsome bar. My purse
was full of the good long green, and my raiment was smooth and new, and
I looked as slick as a cabbage rose that's kissed by the nice wet dew.
Behind the bottles a mirror stood, as large as your parlor floor, and I
looked and looked in the shining glass, and wondered, and looked some
more. My own reflection did not appear, but there where it should have
been, I saw the form of a cringing bum all crumpled and soaked with gin.
His nose was red and his eyes were dim, unshorn was his swollen face,
and I thought it queer such a seedy bo would come to so smooth a place.
I turned around for a better look at this effigy of despair, and nearly
fell in a little heap, for the effigy wasn't there! The barkeep laughed.
"It's the Magic Glass," he said, with a careless yawn; "it shows a man
how he's apt to look years hence when his roll is gone!"
_The Misfit Face_
A certain man, who lived some place, was gifted with a misfit face; when
Nature built his mug she broke all rules and tried to play a joke; of
pale red hair he had a thatch, his eyes were green and didn't match; his
nose was pug, his chin was weak, and freckles grew on either cheek, and
sorrel whiskers fringed his chop, too thin to ever make a crop. And
people, when they first beheld his countenance, just stopped and yelled.
But when they'd known him for a while, and marked his glad and genial
smile; when passing time had made them wise to all the kindness in those
eyes; and when they found that from his face there came no sayings mean
or base, that misfit mug they'd often scan, and cry: "He is a handsome
man!"
_A Dog Story_
A large black dog, of stately mien, was walking o'er the village green,
on some important errand bent; a little cur, not worth a cent, observed
him passing by, and growled, and barked a while, and yapped, and howled.
The big one did not deign a look, but walked along, like prince or dook.
The cur remarked, beneath its breath: "That big four-flusher's scared to
death! Those great big brutes are never game; now just watch Fido climb
his frame!" The big black dog went stalking on, as calm and tranquil as
the dawn; he knew the cur was at his heels; he heard its yaps and snarls
and squeals, and yet he never looked around, or blinked an eye, or made
a sound; his meditations had a tone that mangy pups have never known.
The cur, unnoticed, lost all fear; it grabbed the big dog by the ear;
the latter paused just long enough to take the small one by the scruff,
and shake him gently to and fro; and then he let poor Fido go, and said,
in quiet tones: "Now get!" And Fido's doubtless running yet. Suppose you
see if you can nail the moral hidden in this tale.
_The Pitcher_
I'd like to be a Pitcher, and on the Diamond stand, a cap upon my
Forehead, a Ball within my Hand. Before Applauding Thousands, I'd throw
the Curving Sphere, and From the eyes of Batsmen, bring forth the Briny
Tear. I'd make my Occupation a thing of Pomp and Dread, I'd tie Myself
in Bow-Knots, and stand upon my Head; a string of wild Contortions would
mark my Every Throw, and all the Fans would Murmur: "Oh, Girls, ain't he
a Jo?" And when I left the Diamond, on Rest or Pleasure bent, the Kids
would trail behind me, and Worship as they went; and all the Sporty
Grownups would say: "He's Warm Enough!" and fair and Cultured Ladies
would cry: "He is the Stuff!" I'd like to be a Pitcher, while I Remain
Below; by day to Gather Garlands, by night to Count the Dough.
_Lions and Ants_
Once a hunter met a lion near the hungry critter's lair, and the way
that lion mauled him was decidedly unfair; but the hunter never
whimpered when the surgeons, with their thread, sewed up forty-seven
gashes in his mutilated head; and he showed the scars in triumph, and
they gave him pleasant fame, and he always blessed the lion that had
camped upon his frame. Once that hunter, absent-minded, sat upon a hill
of ants, and about a million bit him, and you should have seen him
dance! And he used up lots of language of a deep magenta tint, and
apostrophized the insects in a style unfit to print. And it's thus with
wordly troubles; when the big ones come along, we serenely go to meet
them, feeling valiant, bold and strong, but the weary little worries
with their poisoned stings and smarts, put the lid upon our courage,
make us gray, and break our hearts.
_The Nameless Dead_
We only know they fought and died, and o'er their graves the wind has
sighed, for many a long, slow-footed year; and winter's snow has drifted
here; and in the dawning warmth of spring the joyous birds came here to
sing; we only know that rest is sweet to weary hearts and toiling feet,
and they who sleep beneath the sod gave all they had to give to God. And
in the radiance of the Throne, their names are known--their names are
known! We know not from what homes they came; we can but guess their
dreams of fame; but lamps for them did vainly burn, and mothers waited
their return, and listened, at some cottage door, for steps that sounded
never more; and loving eyes grew dim with tears, and hearts grew old
with grief of years. And here they sleep, as they have slept, since
legions o'er the country swept; where mothers wait before the Throne,
their names are known--their names are known!
_Ambition_
When I hear a noble singer reeling off entrancing noise, then I bend in
admiration, and his music never cloys. And I feel a high ambition as a
singer to excel, and I put my voice in training, and I prance around and
yell; oh, I dish up trills and warbles, and I think, throughout the day,
that I'll have Caruso faded ere a month has rolled away. Then the
neighbors come and see me, and they give me stern reproof, saying I am
worse than forty yellow cats upon the roof. When I see a splendid
painting it appeals to brain and heart, and I blow myself for brushes
and decide to follow Art. With a can of yellow ochre and a jug of
turpentine, I produce some masterpieces that would make old Rubens pine,
and I talk about Perspective and the whatness of the whence, till a
neighbor comes and asks me what I'll take to paint his fence. When I
read a rattling volume I invest in pens and ink, and prepare to write
some chapters that will make the nation think; and I rear some Vandyke
whiskers and neglect to cut my hair, and I read up Bulwer Lytton for
some good old oaths to swear; when I get the proper bearing, and the
literary style, then I'm asked to write a pamphlet booming some one's
castor ile!
_Night's Illusions_
At night you seek your downy bed, and ere you sink to sleep and dreams,
that strange machine you call your head is full of weird and wondrous
schemes; they seem too grand and great to fail; they'll fill your
treasury with dough; but morning shows them flat and stale--I often
wonder why 'tis so. At eve you are a blithesome soul, your future is the
one good bet; you gaily quaff the flowing bowl, or dance the stately
minuet; your joy's obtrusive and intense; but morning finds you full of
woe; you'd sell yourself for twenty cents--I often wonder why 'tis so.
At night you walk beneath the stars, and high ambitions fill your soul;
you'll batter down opposing bars, and fight your way, and win the goal;
but morning passes you the ice, your visions fade, your spirit's low;
you spend the long day shaking dice--I often wonder why 'tis so. At
night you think of things sublime, and inspiration fills your heart; you
think you'll write a deathless rhyme, or cut a swath in realms of art;
but morning finds you looking sick; you feel you haven't any show; you
dig some bait and seek the creek--I often wonder why 'tis so.
_Before and After_
Before the fight the bruiser said: "I'll surely kill that aleck dead! He
thinks he has a chance with me! His gall is beautiful to see. His
friends are betting quite a stack, and say that I cannot come back. I'm
better now, I say right here, than ever in my great career; I'm sound
and good in wind and limb, and I will put the lid on him. Just take it
from me, take it straight; I'm fit to lick a hundredweight of wildcats,
wolves or rattlesnakes; I'll whip him in a brace of shakes!" The fight
was o'er; the bruiser sat, his head too large to fit his hat, his eyes
bunged up, his teeth knocked in; he muttered, with a swollen grin:
"Well, yes, he licked me, that blamed ape! But I was badly out of shape;
I didn't train the way I should; my knees were stiff, my wind no good; I
had lumbago and the gout--no wonder that he knocked me out! But just you
wait ten years or more! I'm after that four-flusher's gore! When I have
rested for a spell, and when my face is good and well, I'll spring a
challenge good and hard, and whip him in his own back yard!"
_Luther Burbank_
The wizard of the garden, the scientist who found a way to raise a
peartree with branches underground, who gave us boneless pumpkins and
non-explosive peas, and gutta-percha lettuce, and beets that grow on
trees--this wizard of the garden, with venom is assailed, by lesser
lights of science, who tried his stunts and failed. And thus it was
forever, and thus 'twill always be; the man who wins must suffer the
shafts of calumny. We're mostly small potatoes, we critters here on
earth; we kick at big achievements, we snarl at sterling worth; we view
the greater triumphs of industry and art, and if we find no blemish, it
nearly breaks our heart. Go on, O Luther Burbank, the Wizard of the
West! Heed not the hoots of people by jealousy oppressed; send forth
your sea-green roses, to scent a thousand Junes, produce your horseless
radish, and double action prunes!
_Governed Too Much_
I love the sun and the gentle breeze, and the brook that winds through
the pleasant vale; and I love the birds, and I love the trees, and I'm
always glad when I'm out of jail. We are governed now by so many laws
that liberty's dead, and we've heard its knell, and the wise man carries
a set of saws, to cut his way from a prison cell. The grocer wails in a
dungeon deep, for he sold an egg that was out of date; the baker's
fetters won't let him sleep, a loaf of his bread was under weight. The
butcher beats at his prison door, and fills the air with his doleful
moan; they'll cut off his head when the night is o'er, for he sold a
steak that was mostly bone. The milkman's there in the prison yard, and
the jailers flog him and make him jump; it seems to me that his fate is
hard, though he did draw milk from the old home pump. A sickly weed,
that was lank and thin, embellished my lot, at the edge of town, and the
peelers nabbed me and ran me in, because I neglected to cut it down. I
dropped a can as I crossed the park, and that is a crime that's against
the law; so they shut me up in a dungeon dark, with its rusty chains and
its moldy straw. I love the brook and the summer breeze, and I'm rather
mashed on the howling gale; and I'm fond of robins and bumblebees, and
I'm always glad when I'm out of jail.
_Success In Life_
The hero of this simple tale was born of parents beastly poor; they
toiled and wrought without avail to scrape a living from the moor. Our
hero early made resolve that he would strive for greater heights; "let
others in these ruts revolve, and carry on their puny fights; to gather
wealth, to live in state, is all that makes this life worth while; and
when I'm grown I'll pull my freight, and try to raise a mighty pile."
His dreams came true, in every way, as visions came, in days of old; he
took no time for rest or play, but gathered in fat, yellow gold. By
steady steps our hero rose, to heights of usefulness and fame; he put
the kibosh on his foes, and held the ace in every game. He laughed at
figtrees and at vines, and all domestic, trifling things; he owned some
railways and some mines, and was among the copper kings. But why detail
his glories so? Why should we try to count his dimes? It is enough for
us to know he's been indicted twenty times.
_The Hookworm Victim_
He was a mournful looking wreck, with yellow face and scrawny neck, and
weary eyes that looked as though they had monopoly of woe. Too tired to
get his labors done, all day he loitered in the sun, and filled the air
with yawns and moans, while people called him Lazybones. One day the
doctor came, and said: "Brace up, my friend! Hold up your head! The
hookworm, deadly as an asp, has got you in its loathsome grasp! But I
will break the hookworm lose, and cook its everlasting goose! Swing wide
your mouth, and do not cringe--" and then he took his big syringe, and
shot about a quart of dope, that tasted like a bar of soap, adown the
patient's yawning throat--"I guess I got that hookworm's goat!" One
gasping breath the patient drew, and bit a lightning rod in two, and
vaulted o'er his cottage roof; and then, on nimble, joyous hoof, he sped
across the windswept plain, and burned a school, and robbed a train. The
doctor watched his patient streak across the landscape, sere and bleak,
and said: "It makes my bosom warm! What wonders Science can perform!"
_Alfred Austin_
O Alfred, of the withered bays and harp of nice clean celluloid, why do
you spend the passing days in singing of an aching void? Why sing a
roundelay that means no more than Choctaw to a Turk? Is it because the
magazines will pay you kopecks for your work? O Alfred, of the bloodless
rhyme, that savors more of milk than fire, bethink you of the olden time
when poets really smote the lyre, producing strains of noble swell, that
touched and stirred the hearts of all, and made the soulful people yell,
and bat their heads against the wall! We listen to the songs you croon
among the fogs across the sea; your poor old harp is out of tune, its
strings were made in Germany. Far better poets roam the hills of this
fair land, and feed on hope and write wild songs of liver pills, or
Jimson's Non-Explosive Soap.
_Weary Old Age_
It was a bent and ancient man who toiled with spade and pick, and down
his haggard features ran the sweatdrops, rolling thick. And, as he
toiled, his gasping sighs spoke darkly of despair; a hopeless look was
in his eyes, a look of grief and care. He toiled, all heedless of the
crowd that journeyed to and fro; "it is a shame," I said, aloud, "that
Age should suffer so." He overheard me, and he said: "I earned this
fate, in truth; when young I stained the landscape red; I was a Gilded
Youth. I bought the merchandise that's wet, I fooled with games of
chance; and now, in misery and sweat, I wear the name of Pance. I was a
rounder and a sport, a spender and a blood, and now, when I loom up in
court, my only name is Mud. I filled my years with gorgeous breaks, I
thought my life a game; I threw my money to the drakes, and wallowed
deep in shame. I used to hate the sissy-boys, those molly-coddle lads,
who were content with milder joys, and salted down the scads; and now I
see them passing by, in opulence and ease, while I, too luckless e'en to
die, am doing tasks like these. Sometimes, in racking dreams I see the
money that I burned; but do not waste your tears on me--I'm getting what
I earned!"
_Lullaby_