you'll do no good by yelling; hush, my baby, dear, be wise! I would give
the soothing syrup that you want, to quell this storm, but I fear that
it would stir up trouble in your darling form. Once I prized that syrup
highly, thinking it was just the stuff, but I wrote to Dr. Wiley, and he
says it's bad enough. Once the doctor, also, prized it, but he found, O
baby fair, after he had analyzed it, that an ounce would kill a bear.
It's supposed to cure the colic, and to check the infant spleen, but
it's strongly alcoholic, and contains some Paris green; it has killed a
frightful number, and will kill a legion more; sleep, my darling, sleep
and slumber, while your daddy walks the floor!
_The School-marm_
The teacher in the country school, expounding lesson, sum and rule, and
teaching children how to rise to heights where lasting honor lies,
deserves a fat and handsome wage, for she's a triumph of this age. No
better work than hers is done beneath the good old shining sun; she
builds the future of the state; she guides the youths who will be great;
she gives the childish spirit wings, and points the way to noble things.
And we, who do all things so well, and of our "institooshuns" yell,
reward the teacher with a roll that brings a shudder to her soul. We
have our coin done up in crates, and gladly hand it to the skates who
fuss around in politics and fool us with their time-worn tricks. In
Congress one cheap common jay will loaf a week, and draw more pay than
some tired teacher, toiling near, will ever see in half a year. If I was
running this old land, I'd have a lot of statesmen canned; and
congressmen, and folks like those, would have to work for board and
clothes; I'd put the lid on scores of snaps, and pour into the teachers'
laps the wealth that now away is sinned, for words and wigglejaws and
wind.
_Poe_
Into this world, the poet Poe was born a hundred years ago; and in this
world he lived and wrought, alone, and, understanding not; his feet
toiled through this vale of tears; his spirit roamed in other spheres. A
dreamer from Parnassus hurled, into a sordid workday world, where gold
the god of all things seems, and men who dream must live on dreams. And
so, with shades the poet talked, and so with ghosts the poet walked, and
watched, with Psyche hand in hand, a world he could not understand.
_Gay Parents_
The children of our neighborhood don't train their parents as they
should; they let the latter go their gait, and do not try to keep them
straight, and so those giddy parents roam, at sinful hours, away from
home. They try to cheer their foolish hearts, joy-riding in the
devil-carts; or you will find, when they are missed, that they are
playing bridge or whist, or wasting all the golden day in some absurd
and useless way. When I was young I seldom saw a sporty pa or giddy ma;
the children of that elder day had parents tutored to obey; the mothers
seldom left their tubs to fool around at euchre clubs, and fathers, when
the day was dead, took off their rags and went to bed. Ah, seldom then
were children seen, with furrowed brow and sombre mien, distraught by
galivanting dads, or mas who played the cards for scads! O children, to
yourselves be true! Round up the galivanting crew of parents who are
trotting fast, before it is too everlast--ing late to give the bunch a
chance; come forth, O children, from your trance!
_Dad_
Dad is growing old and weary and there's silver in his hair, and his
eyes are always solemn, he has seen so much of care; he has seen so much
of sorrow, he has known so much of tears, he has borne the heat and
burden of so many bitter years! Dad's already in the twilight of life's
little fleeting day, and perhaps we'll often ponder, when his load is
laid away, on the steps we might have saved him when his feet and hands
were sore, on the joy we might have given to the heart that beats no
more. We'll recall a hundred errands that we might have gladly run, and
a hundred kindly actions that we might have gaily done; we'll remember
how he labored, while the boys were all at play, when the darkness hides
him from us at the closing of the day.
_John Bunyan_
The village Marshal, watchful wight, was bound to hold his job down
right. He saw John Bunyan running loose, and put him in the calaboose.
Now John, the tinker, had renown for jarring up the little town, and all
the local sages said that he would never die in bed. But when he found
himself in soak, he said: "The sporting life's no joke; here's where I
cut it out and strive to show the world that I'm alive." And in that
dark and dismal den he sat, with paper, ink and pen, and wrote the book
that people hold as being worth its weight in gold. The job was hard; in
cells beneath, they heard the grinding of his teeth; whene'er he wrote a
sentence wise, he had to stop and swat the flies; the grub was poor, the
water foul, the jailer sombre as an owl; the jail was full of dirt and
dust, the chains he wore were brown with rust. Yet through it all, by
hook or crook, he toiled and wrote his matchless book! O, authors of the
present day, whose books are dry as bales of hay, who grind "best
sellers" by the ton, which last from rise till set of sun, who roll in
comfort and ice cream, dictating stories by the ream, try Bunyan's
plan--it may avail--and write a masterpiece in jail!
[Illustration: "_My country, hear my word! you are a humming bird, also
a peach!_"]
_A Near Anthem_
My country, beauteous land! I'll sing, if you will stand, a song to
thee! My harp is rather coarse, my voice is somewhat hoarse, yet will I
try to force some melody. Fair land that saw my birth, gem of the whole
blamed earth, hark to my screeds! Tell me, O tell me why prices have
soared so high that man can scarcely buy things that he needs. Things
that a man must eat--lemons and prunes and meat--cost like Sam Hill;
carpets and rugs and mats, neckties and shoes and hats, shirting to hide
his slats, empty his till. All through the week I work, like an
unlaundered Turk, for a few bucks; no odds how hard I try, of wealth I'm
always shy, and when I travel I ride on the trucks. They say that half a
plunk bought more and better junk, in the old days, than will two bones
or more, in the big modern store, since prices learned to soar, five
hundred ways. My country, hear my word! You are a hummingbird, also a
peach! Splendid in peace and war, thou most effulgent star--tell me why
prices are clear out of reach!
_The Yellow Cord_
When a tiresome Chinese statesman bores his queen or overlord, he
receives a little package that contains a yellow cord; and the statesman
realizes that it is no use to roar, so he hangs himself in silence to
the nearest sycamore. Let us borrow from the wisdom of the rulers of
Cathay! Let us put this grand old custom into common use today! Let the
President distribute samples of the saffron string, to the statesmen who
have bored us since the early days of spring, with their figures and
statistics and their buncombe and hot air, and their misfit oratory
which won't lead us anywhere. We might all, perhaps, be rescued, from an
ordeal that's abhorred, if Big Bill would send the talkers twenty feet
of yellow cord!
_The Important Man_
You know the man of kingly air? You run across him everywhere. He seems
to think his hat a crown; he talks as though he handed down most all the
wisdom that the seers have gathered in a thousand years. His dignity is
most sublime; to joke about him is a crime, and when you meet him it is
wise to lift your hat and close your eyes; and it would please him if
you'd just lie down and grovel in the dust. That is the wiser course, I
say, but I'm a feeble-minded jay, and when I meet the swelled-up man, I
jolly him the best I can; I would to him the fact recall that he's but
mortal, after all. He's naught but bones and legs and trunk, and lungs
and lights, and kindred junk; he breathes the same old germy air that's
breathed by hoboes everywhere. And when he dies, as die he must, he'll
make as cheap a grade of dust as any Richard Roe in town; the monument
that holds him down may tell his glories for a while, but folks will
read it with a smile, and say: "That dead one must have thought that he
was Johnnie on the spot, when he was on this earthly shore; I never
heard of him before."
_Toddling Home_
A thousand cares oppress the mind, in life's long summer day; we weary
of the galling grind, and endless seems the way. The journey's really
not so long; we have not far to roam; and soon we'll hear the evensong,
and then we'll toddle home. Our burdens seem an awful pile, and yet
they're not so great; if we would pack them with a smile, we would not
feel the weight. We murmur as we hold the plow, and guide it through the
loam; but dusk is coming, even now, and soon we'll toddle home. We see a
cloud of sullen gray, and straightway we repine; "the storm is rising
fast," we say, "the sun no more will shine." But in a space his golden
beams will light the azure dome, until shall come the time for dreams,
and then we'll toddle home. No trouble lasts if we are brave, and take a
manly stand; and Fear becomes a cringing slave, if we but raise a hand;
the evil that disturbs our rest is but a shadow gnome; the sun is
sinking in the west, and soon we'll toddle home. Then let us toddle home
as gay as birds, that never weep; as glad as children, tired of play,
who only wish to sleep; and while Recording Angels write our names in
heaven's tome, we'll seek our couch, and say good night when we have
toddled home.
_Trifling Things_
The Wise Man, with some boys in tow, beheld a pin upon the ground. "My
lads," he said, his face aglow, "come here and see what I have found!
'Tis but a pin, a humble pin, on which the passing thousands tread, and
some unthinking men would grin, to see me lift it from its bed. And yet,
my lads, the trifles count; the drops of water make the sea; the grains
of sand compose the mount, and moments make eternity. Each hour to man
its chances brings, but he will gain no goodly store, if he despises
little things, nor sees the pin upon his floor. I stoop and grasp this
little pin; I'll keep it, maybe, seven years; it yet may let the
sunshine in, and brighten up a day of tears." The Wise Man bent to reach
the pin, and lost his balance, with a yell; he hit the pavement with his
chin; his hat into the gutter fell; he rolled into a crate of eggs, and
filled the air with dismal moans, and then a dray ran o'er his legs, and
broke about a gross of bones. They took him home upon a door, and there
he moans--so tough he feels: "Those dad-blamed children never more will
listen to my helpful spiels!"
_Trusty Dobbin_
They doom you, Dobbin, now and then, they say your usefulness is gone;
some blame fool thing designed by men has put the equine race in pawn.
They doomed you, and your hopes were low, when bicycles were all the
rage; they said: "The horse will have to go--he lags superfl'ous on the
stage!" They doomed you when the auto-car was given its resplendent
birth. "Thus sinks the poor old horse's star--he'll have to beat it from
the earth!" And now they're dooming you some more, there are so many
motor things; men scorch the earth with sullen roar, or float around on
hardware wings. They doom you, Dobbin, now and then, and call you
has-been, and the like; but while this world is breeding men, the horse
will still be on the pike. No painted thing of cogs and wheels and
entrails made of noisy brass can e'er supplant a horse's heels, or make
man grudge a horse his grass. No man-made trap of bars and springs can
love or confidence impart, nor give the little neigh that brings emotion
to the horseman's heart. O build your cars and ships and planes, and
doom old Dobbin as you will! While men have souls and hearts and brains,
old Dobbin shall be with us still!
_The High Prices_
At the hash-works where I board, but one topic now prevails: "How the
price of grub has soared!" Drearily the landlord wails. In his old,
accustomed place, he is sitting, at each meal; sad and corpse-like is
his face, as he carves his ancient veal. When I ask that solemn jay, if
he'll pass the butter 'round, "butter costs," I hear him say, "almost
half a bone a pound." When I want a slice of duck, his expression is a
sin; "this thin drake cost me a buck, and the quacks were not thrown
in." Through the muddy coffee's steam, I can hear him saying now: "I
desired a pint of cream, and they charged me for a cow." "Let me have
some beans," I cried--I was hungry as could be; "sure!" he wearily
replied; "shall I give you two, or three? Beans," he said, "long years
ago, of rank cheapness were the signs; now they cost three scads a
throw--and you do not get the vines." Once, at morn, I wished an egg,
and the landlord had a swoon; with his head soaked in a keg, he regained
his mind by noon; "once," he moaned, "an egg was cheap; times have
changed, alas! since then; now the price would make you weep--and they
don't throw in the hen!"
_Omar Khayyam_
Omar, of the golden pen, come, O come to us again! 'Neath thy fig-tree
and thy vine, with thy bread and jug of wine, seat thyself again, and
write, in the caustic vein, or light. Thou who swatted many heads, tore
so many fakes to shreds, made the ancient humbugs hump, kept the wise
guys on the jump--come, great Omar, from the mists, come and swat thy
parodists! Come and give the rhymesters fits--all the jingling,
grass-fed wits, who profane thy noble verse; come and place them in the
hearse! They who love the Khayyam strain, treasure from a master's
brain, satire keen as tested steel--they who love old Omar feel that the
imitative crew should receive the wages due, be rewarded for their toil
with a bath in boiling oil. But the law is in the way; if the poets we
should slay, we'd be pulled by the police for disturbance of the peace.
Come, then, Omar, from the shade, where thou hast too long delayed, and
with sundry skillful twists, wipe out all those parodists.
_The Grouch_
It's all very well to be nursing a grouch, when everything travels awry,
and you haven't the pieces-of-eight in your pouch to pay for a cranberry
pie; it's all very well to use language galore, and cover your whiskers
with foam; you may prance around town with a head that is sore--but it's
beastly to carry it home! You may be discouraged and worn by the strife;
then make all your kicks on the street, for the man who will wear out
his grouch on his wife, isn't fit for a cannibal's meat; if troubles and
worries are beating you down, and bringing gray hairs to your dome,
'twill do in the office to carry a frown, but it's ghoulish to carry it
home! The Lord, who made sparrows and Katy H. Dids, loves the man who is
stalwart and brave, who cheerily goes to his wife and his kids, though
his hopes may be fit for the grave; but the Lord has no use for the
twenty-cent skate, whose courage is weak as the foam; who piles up his
sorrows, and shoulders the weight, and carefully carries it home!
_The Pole_
I'm glad I didn't find the Pole, up there where Arctic billows roll.
When first I heard the Pole was lost, for one brief day my wires were
crossed; I said: "Methinks I'd better go across the weary wastes of
snow, along the white bear's lonely track, and find the Pole, and bring
it back. Thus shall I scale the heights of fame, and grow sidewhiskers
on my name. I'll be a bigger man than Taft; I'll work the soft
Chautauqua graft, and earn a package of long green by writing for a
magazine; I'll have some medals in my trunk, and silver cups, and other
junk; and kings and queens will cry, with pride, that I'm all wool and
three yards wide. So let me hire some Eskimos, and hit the nice cool
Arctic snows." But here my granny intervened, and said: "Those
stovepipes must be cleaned; you haven't mowed the lawn this week, and
it's a sight to make one shriek; there's something clogging up the
flue--you ought to wash the buggy, too, and there are forty thousand
chores, and here you stand around outdoors, and mumble like a heathen
Turk"--and then, my friends, I got to work.
_Wilhelmina_
Long life to you and Holland's heir, Wilhelmina! May all your days be
bright and fair, Wilhelmina! And may the babe grow wise and great, and
chic and slick and up-to-date, and learn to keep her crown on straight,
Wilhelmina! O bring her up with steady hand, Wilhelmina! And train her
mind, to beat the band, Wilhelmina! And if you catch her chewing gum, or
flirting with a rah-rah chum, then take a strap and make things hum,
Wilhelmina! Don't let her fool away her time, Wilhelmina, in painting or
in writing rhyme, Wilhelmina; but let her know that glory lies in
knowing how to make mince pies, and stews and roasts and fancy fries,
Wilhelmina. And if by worries you're perplex'd, Wilhelmina, and don't
know what you should do next, Wilhelmina, then come to us for good
advice--we always keep a lot on ice--we'll solve your problems in a
trice, Wilhelmina.
_Wilbur Wright_
He's won success where others failed; he's built a weird machine,
composed of cranks and doodads and propelled by gasoline, that circles
proudly overhead, as graceful in its flight, as any eagle that cavorts
along the airy height. When Wilbur and his brother bold began their
march to fame, the sages of the village sneered, and said: "What is
their game? Do these here loonies really think that they can make a trap
of iron and brass and canvas things, and junk and other scrap, with
which to leave the solid earth, and plow the atmosphere? By jings! It
isn't safe for them to be at large, that's clear." But Wilbur and his
brother bold, whose courage never fails, kept on a-patching up their
trap with wire and tin and nails, they built a new cafoozelum, improved
the rinktyram, and tinkered up the doodlewhang until it wouldn't jam;
and then one morning up they flew, and all the village seers just stood
around and pawed the ground and chewed each other's ears. Good luck be
with those Dayton boys--good luck in every flight! It is a pleasant rite
to write that Wright is strictly right!
_The Broncho_
You haven't much sense, but I love you well, O wild-eyed broncho of
mine! Your heart is hot with the heat of hell, and a cyclone's in your
spine; your folly grows with increasing age; you stand by the pasture
bars, and bare your teeth in a dotard rage, and kick at the smiling
stars. As homely you as the face of sin, with brands on your mottled
flanks, and saddle scars on your dusky skin, and burs on your tail and
shanks! and old--so old that the men are dead, who branded your neck and
side; and their sons have lived and gone to bed, and turned to the wall
and died. But it's you for the long, long weary trail, o'er the hills
and the desert sand, by the side of the bones of the steeds that fail
and perish on either hand. It's you for the steady and tireless lope,
through canyon or mountain pass; to be flogged at night with a length of
rope, and be fed on a bunch of grass.
[Illustration: "_And then I float away, away, to moonlit castles in
Cathay._"]
_Schubert's Serenade_
There is no tune that grips my heart, and seems to pull me all apart,
like this old Serenade; it seems to breathe of distant lands, and orange
groves and silver sands, and troubadour and maid. It's freighted with a
gentle woe as old as all the seas that flow, as young as yesterday; as
changeless as the stars above, as yearning as a woman's love for true
knight far away. It seems a prayer, serene and pure; a tale of love that
will endure when they who loved are dust, when earthly songs are heard
no more, and bridal wreaths are withered sore, and wedding rings are
rust. It's weary with a lover's care; it's wailing with a deep despair,
that only lovers learn; and yet through all its sadness grope the
singing messengers of hope for joys that will return. O, gentle,
soothing Serenade! When I am beaten down and frayed, with all my hopes
in pawn, when I've forgotten how to laugh, I wind up my old phonograph,
and turn the music on! And then I float away, away, to moonlit castles
in Cathay, or Araby or Spain, and underneath the glowing skies I read of
love in damsels' eyes, and dream, and dream again!
_Mazeppa_
Mazeppa, strapped upon a steed, made sixty miles at frightful speed;
through lowland, valley and morass, through verdant strips of garden
sass, o'er mountain, brake and flowing stream, he sped, as though
propelled by steam. The bear sat up to see him go, the wolves pursued,
but had no show; and when at last he reached a town, his dying charger
tumbled down. Mazeppa rose, without a scratch, and swiftly wrote a long
dispatch, which reached the Sporting Ed. that night: "I've knocked the
record flat, all right. No other fellow, anywhere, has traveled on a
knee-sprung mare o'er sixty miles of right of way, while trussed up like
a bale of hay. Please hire a hall; a statement write, that I will
lecture every night, for twenty years--my lecture's fine--the moving
picture rights are mine. If any challenger should come, and put up a
substantial sum, and say that he'd be glad to ride, upon a raw-boned
hearse horse tied, for sixty miles or maybe more, for money, marbles,
chalk or gore, just say my last long ride is made, until the lecture
graft is played."
_Fashion's Devotee_
She called upon her lawyer, and said to him: "Of course this visit will
surprise you--I want a nice divorce." "Why, madam," cried the lawyer,
"you're talking through your hat; your husband just adores you, and all
the town knows that." "Of course I know he loves me," she answered, with
a smile, "but that will cut no figure--divorces are in style. Decrees
were won in triumph by friends of mine, of late, and every time I meet
them I feel so out of date! I've just come from a party--the swellest of
the town; I felt like some old woman who wears a last year's gown; and
all the ladies chattered of husbands in their string, decrees of
separation, and all that sort of thing." "But, madam," said the lawyer,
"what reasons can you give? For better, finer husbands than yours, I
think, don't live." "What do I want with reasons?" she answered, in a
huff; "I want a separation, and that should be enough; I want the rare
distinction a court of justice lends; I'm feeling too old-fashioned
among my lady friends. I must have some good reasons? I do not think
you're nice; his name is William Henry--that surely will suffice?"
_Christmas_
The Christmas bells again ring out a message sweet and clear; and
harmony is round about, and happiness is near; so let us all sing, once
again, as on an elder day: "God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing
you dismay!" Forget the office and the mart, the week-day hook and
crook, and loosen up your withered heart, as well as pocketbook; forget
the ledger and the pen, and watch the children play; God rest you, merry
gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! The Christmas time with peace is
fraught, from strife and sorrow free; and every wish and every thought
should kind and gentle be; in worlds beyond our mortal ken this is a
holy day; God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! Today,
from Eden's plains afar, the shepherds converse hold, and watch again
the risen star, as in the days of old; and as those shepherds watched it
then, so may we watch today; God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing
you dismay!
_The Tightwad_
The Tightwad is a pleasant soul who freezes strongly to his roll, until
he hasn't any; his bundle colors all his dreams, and when awake he's
full of schemes to nail another penny. He counts his roubles day by day,
and when a nickel gets away, it nearly drives him dotty; he grovels to
the man of biz who has a bigger roll than his, and to the poor he's
haughty. All things upon this earth are trash that can't be bought or
sold for cash, in Tightwad's estimation; the summer breeze, because it
turns the cranks of mills and pumps and churns, receives his toleration;
the sun is useful in its way; it nourishes the wheat and hay--so let the
world be sunny; he likes to hear the raindrops slosh; they help the
pumpkin, beet and squash, and such things sell for money. The tightwad
often is a bear around his home, and everywhere, and people hate or fear
him; since kindness has no market price, it's waste of effort to be nice
to victims who are near him. Methinks that when the tightwad dies, and
to his retribution flies, his sentence will be funny; they'll load him
with a silver hat, and boil him in a golden vat, and feed him red-hot
money!
_Blue Blood_