<> o 


<^ 


^^0^ 


"hV 


'*-^. '*:^«* .««■' ^q. **Tr; •* ^o 


/ .^'\ 


^ 


Wo 


C* ^^^^^ 


. .vv.-. -^.^/ ..^', ^^^ ^« ,.^., -^^ / 


^'%, V 


' >* 


'o» * 


<^9^ 


f,.r 


^. • 


/• v^\'r.-.V y.!i^*.r^. ..y.-;i-i;.X ,**^ 


^n5 


DRIFTWOOD: 


A MODEST COLLECTION 


RANDOM RHYMES, 


WRITTEN AT ODD TIMES FOR ODD PEOPLE, 


A. L. BIXBV, 

\i 

THE ''Poet Philosopher^' ^^ ^ np gg - ^ 

OF THE \^m 7 1695 

Nebraska State JouRN^t^lS^i^- 


LIN'COLN, NEB. : 
STATE JOURNAL COMPANY, I'RINTEl 
IS'.*:-). 


Entered according to act of Congress in the office of 
the Librarian of Congress, A. D. IS!*."), 

By a. L. BIXBY, 
Lincoln, Nebraska. 


f Jlp ffiotRer, 


WHOSE INSELFISII DEVOTION* TO DUTY AND CHRISTIAN EXAMPLE 

HAS liEEN TO ME A I'lELAR OF CLOL'D HV DAY AND A 

I'lLI.AR OF FIRE I'.Y NIGHT. THIS LITTI-E BOOK 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 


PREFACE. 


The author of this little volume has no apologies to 
offer a generous and long-suffering- public for this in- 
trusion upon its time and attention. Intimate friends 
hav^e done all that could be expected to discourage the 
venture, and enemies have threatened to get even at 
any hazard. In the face of all this the Rubicon is 
crossed and the world is invited to subscribe for this 
first issue and get ready for the next. 

The undersigned, yours truly, does not expect the 
lines recorded herein to meet the approval of the classic- 
ally educated. His literary attainments are not worth 
mentioning. He never attended anything higher than 
a common country school, and that but three months of 
the year for a very brief term of years. This preface 
is written that those who read may be prepared for the 
worst. A preface is not usually read at all. This is 
unfortunate, as in many instances it would save people 
the annoyance of reading the book. In our present 
state of evolutionary civilization there are too many 
books, and people would be happier should they read less 
and think more. 

The frontispiece herein is a profuse illustration of the 
author of this, and that which is to follow. It bears to 
him a family resemblance, but looks a great deal better, 
establishing the fact that sometimes the shadow is more 

(vii) 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


fascinating- than the substance. No lines herein of rec- 
ord were intended for a book when written, but have 
been collected from the files of the Nebraska State 
Journal and other newspapers kind enough to publish 
them without charging space rates. It is the hope of 
the writer that some of them may not be found wanting 
in the elements that make poetry worth reading. He is 
aware that there are numberless crudities and imperfec- 
tions, but nothing is perfect on the earth worth men- 
tioning. If in moments of idleness the one into whose 
hands this volume falls can extract from its perusal a 
crumb of edification, an atom or two of mirth, or a 
frag^ment of hope, the author will feel that he has been 
in some measure rewarded for the trouble experienced 
in making the sale. 

A. L. BIXBY. 
Lincoln, Xeb., Feb7-uary 22, iSc^j. 


CONTENTS 


Retribution 

As It Should Be 

The Colorado Silver King 

Charity 

Growing Old 

To Lizzie 

' ' Looking Backward " 

The Old Book 

To a Princess 

She Drove 

William Allen's Speech 

Nature's Gifts 

A Growing Faith 

Always a Reason 

Pete Masterson 

My Bony Friend 

Emancipated Woman . 

Overwhelmed 

The Better Way 

In Doubt 

Ode to a Tramp 

Retrospective 

One of the Whys 

Kind Words 


PACiE 
I 
2 

4 
6 

7 
7 
9 

lO 

II 

12 

13 
14 
15 
i6 

17 
19 

21 
23 
24 
25 
26 
26 
27 
27 


(ix) 


X CONTENTS. 

I'AGE 

A Hopeful View ...... 2S 

About the Same ...... 28 

Out of Cash ....... 29 

On Presentation of a Cane to Calhoun ... 30 
The Shortness of Life . . . . .31 

To the Departed . . . . . . 31 

Where Science Fails ...... 32 

A Reverie ....... 34 

Women's High Hats ...... 36 

Legend of Two Sticks . . . . . 37 


No Cause for Pride 


An Ideal 


The Sea of Trouble 


39 


A Picture of Heaven ..... 40 

Contentment ....... 41 

The Vanished Years ..... 43 

Anniversary "Sam" ...... 44 

A Cold Climate ...... 46 


47 


Widow's Weeds ...... 47 

He Draws the Line ...... 49 


49 


A Hopeless Case ...... 50 

In the Army . . . . . . 51 

No Fear of Death . . . . . .52 

Human Weakness ...... 54 

The Great White Throne ..... 54 

The Star of Hope . . . . . , 55 

On the Board of Trade . . . . .56 

Hop Lee ....... 57 

The Lord Knows Best . . . . . .58 

vSweet Girl Graduates . . en 


In Secret 


CONTENTS. xi 

I'AGE 

Paving Material . . . . . • 6i 

Agriculture . . . . ■ • .61 

Aflfectation ....... 62 

Single Blessedness . . . . . .63 

Platonic Love ...... 64 

Judge Not . . • . . • -64 

Too Late ....... 65 

Trouble ........ 66 

A Lack of Faith . . . . . • 67 

A Sacred Name ...... 67 

Salvation ....... 68 

Ode to May ....... 69 

Florence Lillian ...... 70 

Man's Vanity ....... 71 

On the Platform ...... 72 

Reconciled ....... 73 

Would Want a Change . . . . . 74 

Hard to Satisfy ...... 74 

Proud Preachers . . . . . . 75 

Ode to Aqua ....... 77 

Rural Joys ....... 78 

The Writer's Lament ...... 79 

The Old and New ...... So 

Birth of a Blue-Blood ...... 82 

Our Law Makers ...... S3 

The Editors ....... 85 

Rich Treasures ...... 89 

A Common Fault ...... 90 

Remenyi ....... 90 

John P. St. John ...... 91 

Incorrigible . . . . ... . 92 


xii CONTENTS. 

I'AGK 

Fortune's Frowns ...... 92 

For Only an Hour ...... 93 

Mary and Pet ....••• 93 

The Wedding Cake ..... 94 

Happy Husbandmen . . . . . -95 

The Bill Collector ...... 9^ 

My New Silk Tile ...... 97 

Approbation ...... 99 

Consolation ....... 99 

The Vanished V . . . . . . loi 

To the Teachers . . . . . .101 

Since Mollie Joined the Club .... 103 

Air Castles ....... 105 

Ole's Heroism ...... 106 

Aspiration . . . . . . ' . 107 

Convinced at Last ...... 108 

Life's Battle . . . . . . .110 

Noah and the Flood . . . . . 1 1 1 

Which Road? ....... 113 

Fads in School . . . . . . 114 

No Death . . . . . . .115 

"Down with Disease" ..... 116 

The Street Corner Statesman . . . . it8 

Minnesota's Desolation . . . . . 119 

Mary's Husband . . . . . ,119 

To Myra E. Olmstead . . . . . 121 

Treasures Beyond . . . . . .123 

That Tired Feeling . . . . . 124 

Tree Planting . . . . . . .125 

The Good Old Way . . . . . 125 

The "Wealers" .' . . . . .127 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


Perfect Peace 
The Nuisance 
Glorious Nebraska . 
Longing- 
Father's Voice 
An Explanation 
Story of Jonah 
House Cleaning 
A Blessed Man 
Distraught 
To a Dead Dog 
A Broken Romance 
Faith 

They All Come . 
Ode to a Hen 
Away Down Yonder 
Self-Sacrifice 
( )ld Times 
Thankfulness 
Theosophy 
The Horrors 
Rather Particular 
The Miner" s Success 
A Christmas Pa^an 
Marked Contrast 
The Square and Compasses 
Cora and Chaska 
The Midwinter Fair 
Going to " Materialize" 
Honor Your Father 
Mourn for the Living 


PAGE 

129 
129 
130 

131 
132 

133 
134 
138 
139 
140 
141 
142 
143 
144 
145 
146 
146 

147 

148 
149 
152 
153 
154 
156 
15S 

159 
162 
163 
164 
165 
166 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


" Plugged to Size " ...... 167 

The Millennium . . . . ■ • 168 

A Pop Legislator . . . . • .169 

Song of a Spendthrift . . . . • 1 70 

The Mounted Brigade . . . . . -171 

Blew Out the Gas . . . . . • 1 73 

Tribute to Dr. Killem . . . . . .174 

Fate of the Elbe ...... 175 

Better Than He Looked . . . . .176 

Theological . . . . . . . i77 

Mary Ellen ....... 180 

The Jonah Act Modernized .... 181 

None Exempt . . . . . . .184 

Full of Prunes . . . . . . 184 

Economy . . . . . . ^ . 186 

Plant Trees ....... 1S6 

Rain Wanted ....... 187 

Experience . . . . . . . 187 

Life's Joys ....... 188 

The Limit ....... 188 

When Summer Comes . . . . . . i8g 

Time to Invest ...... i8g 

A Proviso ....... 190 

Operatic "Squalls" . . . . . 191 

If We Do Our Best ...... 192 

History . . . . . . . 192 


DRIFTWOOD 


RETRIBUTION. 

Come into the woodshed, dear sonny, 
Come into the woodshed with me. 

For I feel it my duty, my honey. 
To double you over my knee. 

There's a shingle prepared for our coming, 
A long one of well-seasoned oak. 

And I purpose to set it a humming. 
And make the dull atmosphere smoke. 

Pause now till I read the indictment. 
Or rather indictments, for sins, 

And cork up your show of excitement 
Until the real circus begins. 

Of late I have noted with sorrow. 

You lingered when school was dismissed, 

And promised each day that the morrow 
Should see you this folly resist. 

I'm also informed by your mother 
That Sunday you went to the spring 

And soused your poor half-witted brother 
And killed a few birds with vour sling; 

(0 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And more, I've been told of your tying 

An innocent frog to a stick 
(Tut, tut, there is no use of lying) 

And letting it float down the creek. 

Moreover, you know what I told you 
The last time we fished at the brook, 

And how I was tempted to scold you 
For putting live frogs on your hook. 

And worse than all that, I'm observing 
Tobacco stains down on your chin. 

And your solid int'rests subserving, 
It's time for the fun to begin. 

So into the woodshed, my beauty. 
We'll go with the steadiest nerves ; 

Now watch your old dad do his duty, 
iVnd try and get onto his curves. 


AS IT SHOULD BE. 

Maud MuUer on a summer's morn 
Jerked the suckers from the corn. 
And walloped the striped bugs that flew 
From the melon vines in the morning dew. 
Her dress, though adjusted with patient care, 
Was, maybe, a little the worse for wear, 
But her face was as fair as the ripe, red rose. 
Though she had a few freckles upon her nose. 
Her father, an honest and kind old jay. 
Was out in the meadow making hay. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And trying" to lift, with his brawny arm, 

The mortgage that covered the dear old farm. 

'Twas an uphill job and it made him swear, 

For he had ten children, and dogs to spare, 

And the crop was large, but the price was not, 

And the annual interest made him hot. 

The judge rode by on his sway-backed horse, 

And saw Maud Muller and changed his course. 

He was struck with her beautiful eyes and hair 

And fell in love with her then and there. 

He stopped and conversed of the growing crops 

And the wavering price and the bucket shops, 

And was quite impressed with her sterling sense, 

As she with his classical eloquence. 

He came each day and longer stayed, 

And offered his hand to the modest maid, 

And she, in true-lover's parlance versed. 

Requested to be a sister first. 

But afterwards yielded, when he demurred, 

Submitted a brief, and her dad concurred; 

And so it was settled the twain should be 

One and the same for eternity. 

The wedding day came — 'twas a grand affair— 

For the cream of the country was gathered there, 

And Mavid was dressed like a fairy queen. 

In the finest togs she had ever seen, 

And the judge was happy and so was she. 

And so was the whole community. 

Meantime the Muller farm seemed to be 

Fresh meat for the ravenous mortgagee, 

But the judge in a dignified legal way, 

Sought the creditor out and advanced the pay. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And gave his wife's father a farm beside, 
Without the least show of judicial pride, 
And said to himself as he wrote the deed, 
" I'll not see my father-in-law in need, 
For he gave me his daughter and she alone 
Is worth many times all the wealth I own." 


THE COLORADO SILVER KING. 

A Colorado financier lay dying in New York ; 

The fire of life was bottled and he couldn't pull the cork, 

But a o-old-buof stood beside him while the sands of life 
ran through 

And wanted to relieve him, but he knew not what to do. 

The dying western silver king looked up in mute de- 
spair, 

And he said: " I never more shall see free coinage any- 
where. 

Take a message and a token to the noble Patterson 

And tell him my last words were these, ' I want sixteen 
to one.' 

Tell Jim Belford, if you see him, he had better stop and 
think, 

^rhat his noisy demonstrations drive the workingmen to 
drink; 

And say to Edward Holden and remark to Mr. Waite 

That this blood up to the bridle deal will never save the 
state. 

And now another word or two and then I'm going to 
quit — 

jMv life has been successful, but I've had enough of it — 


DRIFTWOOD. 5 

I leave four millions to the folks so they will not be flat, 
But with free coinage it had been a great deal more 

than that. 
I weep for my friend Moffat as I see him pace the floor ; 
He is w^orth, say seven million, and it should be seven 

more ; 
But for this unfriendly government, that sought to spoil 

our fun. 
By blocking silver coinage at the old sixteen to one. 
For this, you see, my lamp of life is slowly dying down 
And I'll be deader than a clam before I leave the town, 
But it matters not a little bit, I'd rather go, you see. 
Than linger on and never have my silver coinage free. 
When our mighty vested interests are sat down on this 

way 
You may do as you've a mind to, but I'm not agoing to 

play. 
I feel like hauling in my horns and going on a strike. 
Because my wealth does not increase as fast as I would 

like." 
At this his voice completely failed and cold death took 

the belt ; 
The Colorado silver king lay deader than a smelt; 
And the pale moon rose up slowly with a light as to the 

sun 
That might, transposed, be measured as about sixteen 

to one. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

CHARITY. 

Deal gently with the erring one, 
Whose deeds are dark and grim — 

The best of ns may find when done 
We have no edge on him. 

The purest man, with forehead bare, 

Wherever you may go 
If all his thoughts were printed there 

Would pull his cap down low. 

The mask of charity we spread 

A brother's sin to screen 
Will put us just that much ahead 

When death unveils the scene. 

The weakness of the flesh is great 

And all are prone to stray, 
And none can boast of his estate 

And keep it up all day. 

And when the final race is run 
And Jordan's shore is pressed, 

'Twill be, my bo}^, what have you done 
Not what have you professed ? 

Professions are not worth a straw — 

Don't count a little bit — 
Possession is nine points in law. 

And that's the truth of it. 

So kindly deal with erring man, 
Who stumbles where you might. 

And if you do the best you can 
The Lord will treat you right. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

GROWINCx OLD. 

I'm growing old, that fact is plain, 
My hair is gray that once was red. 
And, soon, alas, I shall be dead. 

And then I may be young again. 

It matters not — all flesh is grass 
And certain to disintegrate; 
What though it happens soon or late, 

So long as it must come to pass ? 

I'd like to live a thousand years 
And see the nations rise and fall — 
'Tis but a moment after all. 

As time in history appears. 

But can it be ? No, not a bit; 

My auburn locks are growing gray 
And soon I shall have lived my day 

And I am mighty glad of it. 


TO LIZZIE. 

They are hunting you to death, 

Lizzie Borden; 
They would like to take your breath, 

Lizzie Borden; 
But their case is not so clear. 
And you need not have a fear 
That they'll hang you up, my dear 

Lizzie Borden. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

There's no evidence of guilt, 

\Az7AQ Borden, 
That should make your spirit wilt, 

Lizzie Borden; 
Many do not think that you 
Chopped your father's head in two, 
It's so hard a thing to do, 

Lizzie Borden. 

You have borne up under all, 

Lizzie Borden, 
With a mighty show of gall, 

Lizzie Borden; 
But because your nerve is stout 
Does not prove beyond a doubt 
That you knocked the old folks nut, 

Lizzie Borden. 

You have suffered quite enough, 

Lizzie Borden; 
An acquittal is the stuff, 

Lizzie Borden; 
Nothing else will satisfy 
Justice, dear, and truly I 
Would not wish to see you die, 

Lizzie Borden. 

There is life and hope ahead, 

Lizzie Borden, 
Though your parents are both dead, 

Lizzie Borden; 


DRIFTWOOD. 

They are bound to set you free; 
And you'll not adorn a tree 
At a private hanging bee, 
Lizzie Borden. 

You'll be glad when you escape, 

Lizzie Borden, 
From this wearisome red tape, 

Lizzie Borden ; 
From expounders of the law 
With their everlasting jaw — 
Oh ! epluribusgobraugh ! 

Lizzie Borden. 


"LOOKING BACKWARD." 

My years are gliding swiftly on, 

I see or seem to see, 
The old frame house, the grassy lawn, 

My seat on father's knee ; 

The stately poplars near at hand, 

The cherry trees hard by, 
The aged oaks so tall and grand 

They seemed to kiss the sky. 

I see my sister kind and true, 

(The only one I had) 
Her dear face passed from mortal view 

When I was but a lad. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

My mother, with her gentle smile, 

Now feeble, old and lame. 
Her hair grows whiter all the while ; 

Her heart is just the same. 

And brothers — what a reckless heap! 

Maurice and Reub and Ed 
And John — the first one is asleep, 

And Charley, too, is dead. 

The boys all grown to bearded men, 
How strange at times it seems, 

To wander way back home again 
And call them in my dreams. 

To wake with teardrops streaming hot 
Adown each florid cheek — 

I ain the youngest of the lot 
And thirty-eight next week. 


THE OLD BOOK. 

This book is all that's left me now. 

Observe the teardrops fall ; 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I hang it on the wall. 

With trembling hands I lift it and 

Suspend it to a tack; 
It's always best to have on hand 

A last year's almanac. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

TO A PRINCESS. 

I do not yearn for glory, 

Nor care to have my name 
And life work carved in story 

Upon the scroll of fame; 
I envy not the banker, 

Possessed of bonds and deeds ; 
For wealth I do not hanker 

Beyond my earthly needs. 
But I am quite enraptured 

To view her swan-like neck 
And wish I might have captured 

The Princess May of Teck. 

It may be quite presumptuous 

For me to thus aspire, 
But May does look so scrumptiou.^ 

It sets my soul on fire. 
Her smile that so entrances. 

Her eyes a silent song, 
Her sky-blue blood that dances 

Each artery along; 
And then the income yearly 

Her other charms to deck — 
It drives me frantic, nearly. 

For Princess May of Teck. 

Why, why did fortune cruel, 
Tear her from my embrace ? — 

I'd gladly fight a duel 

To win that form and face, 


DRIFTWOOD. 

To share her stipend, gaily 

I'd go to war and bleed 
And fight fresh battles daily 

If I could but succeed ; 
I'd scrap with every nation 

And make the world a wreck 
To share the royal station 

With Princess May of Teck. 

Alas, long I have tarried 

It's now too late for that ; 
The dear old girl has married 

A blamed aristocrat; 
A duke with reputation, 

But no intrinsic worth. 
Who owes his rank and station 

To accident of birth ; 
But I'll forget her never, 

Till hens forget to peck. 
And death my heart shall sever 

From Princess Mav of Teck. 


SHE DROVE. 

The sleigh bells jingle in the air, 

I hear them with a sigh. 
Reminding me of days more fair, 

Those happy days gone by, 
When with the girl away back there- 

The one I loved the best — 
We rode behind the old gray mare — 

She drove — I did the rest ! 


DRIFTWOOD. 13 

WILLIAM ALLEN'S SPEECH. 

The poet says that " art is long " 
And " time is fleeting too," 

That human hearts though good and strong- 
Are beating death's tattoo; 

The span of years is often great, 
A mighty stretch of wave. 

That starts a cradle for its freight. 
And breaks upon a grave ; 

Of length and breadth and height, I vow 
I've tried their bounds to reach — 

The longest thing I know of now 
Is William Allen's speech. 

I used to think when but a child 
That sermons were a bore ; 

They almost used to drive me wild 
And in my heart I swore. 

It may have been a wicked thing 
To feel the way I did 

Eut stupid sermons would not bring- 
Much comfort to a kid ; 

And had I strolled the hall about, 
With barrel staves in reach ; 

I should have lammed the stuffing out 
Of William Allen's speech. 

He talked the longest any one 

Was ever known to spout. 
Until his thoughts refused to run 

And he was petered out. 


14 DRIFTWOOD. 

His voice was husky and his face 

Was pale, almost as death, 
Then Mr. Martin took his place 

And Allen caught his breath. 
But then, he did not waste his strength, 

For history will teach 
In all the years to come the length 

Of William Allen's speech. 


NATURE'S GIFTvS. 

Around me johnny-jump-ups grow 

To cheer my pathway here below 

And gorgeous leaves the tall trees mount. 

Presumably on my account. 

Thank heaven the sunlight and the air 

Have been, for man, prorated fair 

And nature's grandest blessings strike 

The rich and poor about alike. 

The lilacs in the garden fair 

Of old Percentum Millionaire, 

The humblest little girl or boy 

Can safely gaze on and enjoy. 

Though fortune wears for me a frown, 

I never more shall feel cast down. 

While trees and flowers and birds and bees 

Are mine, and all such things as these. 

And when I pass from earth, my son, 

ril be as rich as any one. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

A GROWING FAITH. 

How tunefully the Sabbath bells 

Call out for pious men 
To congregate in shady dells, 

Confess their sins and then 
Resolve to lead far better lives 

Than ever they have led 
And be prepared when death arrives 

To be serenely dead. 

I always thought it best for me 

To be prepared to quit, 
And sing glad songs of jubilee 

Where saints and angels flit, 
And I'm not talking through my hat 

(My language pray forgive) 
I think the one not fit for that 

Is hardly fit to live. 

I feel that heaven is a state 

And not a distant land, 
That we can be there while we wait 

And almost hear its band. 
Sometimes in silence most profound 

I hear the drum beats roll 
And I have learned to call that sound 

The music of the soul. 

I shudder not when preachers tell 
The story fraught with woe. 

Of sinners in a seething hell. 
Who have no sort of show ; 


1 6 DRIFTWOOD. 

For somehow I am not impressed 

That death insures for all 
A ' ' fate " from Him in whose kind breast 

Is marked each sparrow's fall. 

And as the years pass swiftly by, 

I grow more reconciled, 
With stronger faith, I can't tell why, 

As when a little child; 
And I shall die without a fear, 

Believing, on the square. 
That He who kindly placed me here 

Will treat me right np there. 


ALWAYS A REASON. 

His hair was red, his freckled face 
Looked coarse, uncouth, and out of place 
His ways were rough and it was plain 
He had a mediocre brain. 
He married, and his wife was fair. 
And had attainments rich and rare. 
She had a clean cut, Grecian mold. 
Her eyes not soft, nor overbold. 
But all who knew her freely said 
vShe was both brilliant and well bred. 
I inarveled much at such a match, 
And how she made so poor a catch. 
And one day boldly asked her why — 
She did not faint, she did not cry. 
But whispered in my waiting ear — 
" His father's bank account, my dear." 


DRIFTWOOD. 17 

PETE MASTERvSON. 

It was night, and the storm had abated ; 

The rain over Denver that poured, 
And friends of departing ones waited 

To hear the "con" shout "AH aboard." 

Though madly the torrents were flowing, 
The throttle was pulled without fear 

By one who possessed without knowing 
The heart of a brave engineer. 

Soon out in the darkness appalling 

The train to our vision was lost, 
While lightly on ear drums kept falling 

The sound of its trembling exhaust. 

Four miles out of Denver a trestle 

The dry bed of Sand creek towers o'er, 

But that night compelled it to wrestle 
'Gainst ten feet of water or more. 

By force of the cloud burst terrific. 

That formed such a torrent below. 
The train on the Union Pacific 

Was saved by a sacrifice blow. 

The headlamp the farther shore lighted, 

As brightly, almost as the day. 
When Engineer Masterson sighted 

A span of the bridge washed away. 

Who knows what his thoughts when the danger 
Flashed clear to his brain on that night ? 

Can one be to terror a stranger 

When knowing and doing the right ? 
3 


1 8 DRIFTWOOD. 

Does any one think it appalled him — 
The last thoug-ht of children and wife — 

When the voice of the fireman called him, 
"Quick! Masterson, jump for your life I 

With air brake and throttle and lever 
He stopped that long train in a breath, 

But more was a fruitless endeavor — 
He went with his engine to death. 

We write of the heroes that battled 

'Gainst Beauregard, Jackson, and Bragg 

And fell where the minie balls rattled 
Defending our national flag. 

Each year a memorial token 

Is placed o'er the graves of these men, - 
And hearts that were years ago broken 

Are started to bleeding again. 

I would not detract from their daring, 
Nor spare the poor meed of our tears, 

But, while for these heroes we're caring, 
Let's think of our dead engineers 

Who died as Pete Masterson perished, 
To save lives by losing their own ; 

His memory ought to be cherished, 
His resting place honored and known. 


His deed was unselfish as any 
Recorded on history's scroll ; 

His poor life went out to save many — 
Sweet rest to Pete Masterson 's soul I 


DRIFTWOOD. 

MY BONY FRIEND. 

I once possessed a skeleton 

For which I had to pay ; 
I boug-ht it with the flesh all on 

And carved the flesh away. 

I wondered who the man might be ; 

His name and age and lot 
In life were not revealed to me 

By those from whom I bought. 

I cannot say that I enjoyed 
Dissecting my good friend, 

Because the features that annoyed 
Were almost without end. 

To trace each muscle to its source, 

The arteries and veins. 
Was something of a task, of course. 

To student and "remains." 

But through it all the human wreck 

Was calm as he could be ; 
The boy upon the "burning- deck " 

Was no more firm than he. 

The bones of his I polished white. 
And fastened each in place ; 

To me it was a pleasant sight — 
His cheerful form and face. 

The last a trifle gaunt and slim, 

Of human life the dregs. 
But in my room I'd talk to him 

When night winds swayed his legs. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

I used to say to him, " Well, pard. 

How goes it to be dead ? " 
I used to think he labored hard 

To answer what I said. 

For maybe then the night wind strong 
Would make a sad response. 

As mournfully it coursed along 
The hollow of his sconce. 

For many months this silent friend 
Hung in that room near me, 

Until our lives appeared to blend 
To quite a strange degree. 

A silent partner he had been. 

Not given much to talk. 
Nor fretting me by bolting in 

Half drunk at one o'clock. 

I traded off my bony friend 

In months and years long past. 

But I shall miss him to the end. 
Until we meet at last. 

Safe on that upper, better shore, 

Beyond this vale of tears, 
Where bones and flesh unite once more 

And stav that wav for vears. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

EMANCIPATED AVOMAN. 

My wife has joined the woman's club, 

Of which its patrons write, 
And now I stay at home and scrub 

While she stays out at night. 

I wash the evening tableware, 
And "set" to-morrow's bread. 

Then sweep and dust each parlor chair 
And pat the kids to bed. 

And many weary, wakeful hours 

I watch for her return 
From those up-town Elysian bowers, 

Where women live and learn. 

I fancy I can hear them speak, 

In unison, a score, 
Like Minnesota winds that shriek, 

Or like the ocean's roar. 

Unmindful of the gavel's fall, 
The din receives no "hitch," 

For women when they talk at all. 
All talk at concert pitch. 

And so each night I sit up late. 

With seeming unconcern, 
And sew on buttons while I wait 

My precious wife's return ; 

For well I know the nation's life, 

(Its hope of purer laws) 
Hangs on the efforts of my wife 

And others in the cause. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


ve 


The problems men could never sol 

They settle one by one ; 
She tells me that the mists dissolve 

Like dew before the sun. 

And what my wife says has to go, 

Without an argument, 
And when she says a thing is so 

I cheerfully assent. 

She rules me with an iron hand 
Who once was less severe. 

And gives me now to understand 
The limits of my sphere. 

Superior intelligence 

Now radiates her face. 
As with less grace than eloquence 

vShe indicates my place. 

The woman's club I call a fad. 

And, honestly, I think 
The married men who don't go mad 

Must drown their grief in drink ; 

For all the charm of home is dead 

When I am at the tub — 
My wife should be at home instead 

Of gabbing at the club. 

But if she does not care to stay 

That settles it, of course, 
I'll pack my grip and go away — 

Divorce or no divorce. 


DRIFTWOOD. 23 


To spend my life in single bliss 
Upon the raging deep, 

Is better than to live like this, 
Or die for want or sleep. 


OVERWHELMED. 

The poets have peopled this region- 
Alas, that they are not in jail — 

Their names may be mentioned as legion. 
Their products come in on each mail. 

I'm quite overwhelmed — (thunderation! 

Here comes a consignment, that's plain) 
Lord save me from nervous prostration. 

And keep me from going insane ! 

There are epics and lyrics and sonnets 
And jingles and jangles all sorts. 

Descriptive of new-fangled bonnets 
And caricaturing the courts; 

Yet others with deep melancholy 
Are covered from pedals to "phiz," 

And show up the world and its folly 
A little bit worse than it is. 

If this thing keeps up through hot weather. 
My recourse is clear as the air — 

In Abraham's bosom I'll "gather," 
And slumber with Lazarus there. 


24 DRIFTWOOD. 

THE BETTER WAY. 

I do not yearn for untold wealth 
In stocks and bonds and land ; 

I only ask for robust health 
And cash enoug-h on hand 

To pa}^ my bills as they come in, 
vSupply my house with cheer, 

And have a little surplus tin 
To help the poor down here. 

I see the rich man, pale and wan, 

Nor envy him his hoard ; 
He fears some day it will be gone. 

He dreads to pay his board. 

He toils to save what he has got 
With such unceasing strain, 

He looks down-trodden and distraught 
With money on the brain. 

He struggles hard to scrimp and save. 

And swell the useless pile, 
And drifts into an early grave 

And stays there quite a while. 

The prudent man deserves respect. 

Who sees the rainy day 
When strength is gone, and caput decked 

With tangled locks of gray. 

But man requires no mighty sum 

His hunger to assuage, 
That gnaws between the kingdom come 

And palsied arm of age. 


DRIFTWOOD. 25 

So, when we have an income fair, 

Beyond the needs of earth, 
For those in want we ought to spare 

According- to our worth. 

This cup of pleasure I have supped 

And have some stores, I hope. 
Where moth and rust do not corrupt 

Nor thieves break in and swope. 

And now, as Christmastide draws near 

And we prepare to blow 
A little dust for friends down here 

Let's think of those who go 

In sorrow down life's dreary road. 

With sigh and sob and groan — 
In helping to make light their load 

We lighten up our own. 


IN DOUBT. 

One fact alone cannot be hid, 
This poor old earth is dross, 

I cry aloud each day as did 
The thief upon the cross. 

And for the dead I'd cease to grieve- 
There'd be no cause for grief — 

Could I but say, " Lord I believe, 
Help thou my unbelief." 


26 DRIFTWOOD. 


ODE TO A TRAMP. 

Give me the spirit of content 

That makes the tramp feel strong, 

Who marches forth without a cent 
And fills the land with song-. 

He may not fill a hero's grave 
Nor strike a nation dumb, 

But what he gets he tries to save 
And takes things as they come. 

I'd like to have the patient hope. 

The restful trust he hath. 
Who never frets for want of soap 

Nor cares to take a bath. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

I once was young who now am old, 

My eyes were brighter then than now ; 

These straggling locks of gray were gold 
That rest upon my wrinkled brow. 

It seems so short a time ago 

That I was full of health and cheer, 

And now I'm full of pain and woe 
And growing foolish every year. 

But such is life, a waking dream, 
A cheerless journey, all alone, 

Upon a restless, turbid stream 

That empties in the great unknown. 


DRIFTWOOD. 27 

ONE OF THE WHYS. 

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 

I've tried it and can't make it go — 
The time is so short 'twixt the cradle and shroud 

And the resting place under the snow. 

We die as the cattle that graze on the plain, 

Our bones to the boneyard we give: 
This life is too short to be foolish and vain 

And puffed up with pride while we live. 

Perhaps after death, when we sail through the sky 

Buoyed up by the ambient air. 
We'll have ample reason to hold our heads high 

And sense our importance up there. 


KIND WORDS. 

Speak kindly to your fellows here, 

No matter how you feel ; 
Harsh words hurt you and them, my dear. 

And love's soft charms congeal. 

Kind words to those, are meat and drink, 

Who follow wretched lives, 
And I have heard some men, I think, 

vSpeak kindly to their wives. 

A kind word never dies, they say — 

It may or it may not — 
But one thing's sure in life's short day 

It never is forsfot. 


28 DRIFTWOOD. 


A HOPEFUL VIEW. 

AVith all its ills it seems to me 
The world improves each day, 

More g-enuine humanity, 
More light upon the way ; 

A little less of cruel wrong, 

Of cunning, scheme, and greed, 

A little more of hope and song, 
And work and worth and deed. 

The cannon's ugly voice is dumb 
Throughout the hallowed land; 

And I think the millennium 
Is pretty close at hand, 

When all the nations will rejoice 

At heaven's open gate 
And we shall no more hear the voice 

Of " Bloody Bridles " Waite. 


ABOUT THE SAME. 

" The life that is " concerns us most; 

Though filled with zealous trust, 
No man aspires to be a ghost 

And crumble back to dust. 

We rest our hope on things unseen. 

Or try to feel that way, 
The while on earth's cold arms we lean 

And do our best to stay. 


DRIFTWOOD. 29 

O, what ivS faith that it starts back 

Before the grave and shroud ? 
It ought its supple heels to crack 

And say " This does me proud." 

Elias had a faith so strong 

That when he passed on high, 
He took both flesh and blood along, 

And never stopped to die. 

But that iinniortal type of trust 

Is difficult to strike. 
For now the wicked and the just 

Are mighty near alike. 


OUT OF CASH. 

Break, break, break 

On thy pebbly sands, oh rill ; 
I imagine my heart would flutter 

At the sight of a dollar bill. 

O, well for the farmer lad, 

Who sits on a bale of hay, 
And well for his hump -backed dad 

With devil a debt to pay. 

So plunk, plank, plink. 

Like the weaves of the restless sea 
But the prosperous times once mine I thinly 

Will never come back to me. 


30 DRIFTWOOD. 

ON PRESENTATION OF A CANE TO CALHOUN. 

The saddest scenes of life are those 

When friends must meet to say farewell, 

When words alone cannot disclose 
A half of what the heart would tell. 

Words fail at this time to express 

The depth of friendship that we owe, 

To one who in our games of chess 
Was counted on in weal or woe. 

This is no time for praise or blame, 

While smiling through our tears, old friend, 

We know you played an honest game 
And swiped to profit — not offend. 

Now you are going from our sight, 

Again we may not see you soon — 
A little longer in the night 

Our lamps will burn for you — Calhoun. 

We'll miss you when the roses bloom. 
Along the highways where we pass ; 

We'll miss you always in this room 
While burning Peter's midnight gas. 

And may this token that we give 

Of our regard — before we part — 
Stake out our claim, while you shall live 

In one small corner of your heart. 

May roses drop along your track 
With greater joy and less of cares, 

And some day may 5^ou wander back 
In answer to our fervent prayers. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 
The summer days are almost past, 

The autumn will be here 
Full soon, with chilly northern blast 

And hazy atmosphere. 

Then winter, with its ice and frost 
And winds that moan and moan, 

^^^ coal— I shudder at the cost 
Of that one thing alone. 

How swift the years their circuits wing- 
It's but a breath that blows 

Betwixt the span from balmy spring 
To winter with its snows. 

And human life, how short it is! 

Man rises in his might 
And struts that little strut of his 

And then— out goes the light 1 

TO THE DEPARTED. 

My brother Ed— h 
A few short weeks ago he talked with me, 
And now his soulful eyes I almost see 
And, wondering, ask if it can really be 

That he is dead. 

Since father died— 
How many weary years have intervened. 
How many precious harvests death has gleaned 
On Ed's strong shoulders I have always leaned. 

On him relied. 


2,2 DRIFTWOOD. 

He was a friend I 
No one in trouble sought his help in vain, 
His great heart throbbed for other hearts in pain, 
And sympathetic tears fell like the rain 

At his sad end. 

I walk in doubt 
And only know religious cant and creed 
Brings naught of comfort in my sorry need ; 
I seek no heaven by faith or hope or deed 

With him left out. 

vSince he passed on 
The earth has seemed a wilderness of woe, 
The very stars have lost their old-time glow, 
iVnd when I die I am content to go 

Where he has gone. 

Dear brother Ed — 
Hope will assure, though tears of sorrow blind, 
That He who placed us here is not unkind 
And I shall sleep and waking yonder find 

He is not dead. 


WHERE SCIENCE FAILvS. 

Science has made great strides no doubt 
In searching life and finding out 
The truth of nature's mystic laws. 
Effect, and its preceding cause. 
It traces back creative force 
Clear to its protoplasmic source. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

But then it can't, to save its phiz, 

Explain what protoplasm is, 

And how from that chaotic mass 

vSnch wondrous works have come to pass. 

We see the rocks disintegrate 

To feed the pine trees, tall and straig'ht; 

From out the dark, forbidding sod 

vSpring- grass and flowers that wave and nod. 

And grain that sprouts in early spring, 

And weeds and all that sort of thing ; 

And science tries to make it plain 

Explaining what it can't explain, 

With new- coined phrases of its own 

To sound the depths of the unknown. 

And make as clear as " if " and "and " 

The things it does not understand. 

The Lord, who doeth all things well. 
Knows some few things He will not tell. 
And that's why science with its drag 
So often runs against a snag, 
Tries to unwind the twisted skein 
Of tangled theories in vain. 
And makes another random guess 
From protoplasmic nothingness. 
It always stumbles in its plan 
To track the origin of man, 
Back, with the tree toad and the tree, 
To nebulous obscurity; 
But then, as science only deals 
In what it sees and hears and feels, 
And takes no stock in evidence 
That beats upon the finer sense, 
4 


34 DRIFTWOOD. 

Its friends will be a little slow- 
To blame it what it does not know. 
It is enough for those who trust 
To feel that " He who knows is just," 
And that intelligence had birth 
Beyond the nebulae of earth; 
And when we shuffle off the clod 
That binds us to the soulless sod, 
And hustle upward to a sphere 
Where things aren't run as they are here 
Drink water of eternal youth 
And feed on everlasting truth, 
The science we have here been taught 
Will be half error, like as not. 
And solid facts will better please 
Than long, hard words and theories. 


A REVERIE. 

They tell me of a land of cheer 
Beyond this vale, so sadly mixed. 

Where we shall wake who sleep down here 
And find ourselves immensely fixed ; 

No toil without its recompense, 
No salty tears for eyes that weep, 

No short weight income, no expense. 
No danger of eternal sleep. 

I sometimes weary here below 

And strain my eyes to catch the light ; 

One glimpse and I would gladly go 
And cease to wander in the night. 


DRIFTWOOD. 35 

My body turning back to dust, 

I wonder if I'd like the trip ? 
Ascending- skyward with the just 

On wings ten feet from base to tip. 

Betimes 1 think it all a dream 

That springs from clockwork in the head, 
And hard it is to make it seem 

That one can live and still be dead. 

For evidence I ask the star 

That some have called the "star of fate " 
To answer, " Is the gate ajar ? " 

And if £0 let me see the gate. 

In dreams at night I often pray 

The Lord my follies to forgive, 
And that my friends long passed away 

May bring some token that they live. 

And silence only makes reply, 

As onward roll the months and years, 

But hope assures — I don't know why — 
A life beyond this vale of tears. 

And with it fears of death give way. 

Great peace encircles me about. 
And I feel pretty middling gay 

And am not easily put out. 

just as it comes this world I clasp 
And seek its beauties, hit or miss — 

If tliere's another I will grasp 
And drink its jovs as I do this. 


36 DRIFTWOOD. 

But should deep sleep encompass me 
And I stay dead as Kelsey's cat, 

There'd be no sense, as I can see, 
In kicking up a row at that. 


WOMEN'S HIGH HATS. 

Take off, dear sisters, if you please. 
Those high, ung-ainly hats you wear, 

And I'll get down upon my knees 

And pray for you in heartfelt prayer. 

And nevermore with disrespect 
About your clubs will I declaim, 

For even now I recollect 

What I have said with grief and shame. 

My wife may go each night and stay 
Until the cows come home, nor fear 

That I will ever say her nay 

Nor check her in her mad career. 

I paid a dollar t'other night, 

When Sol Smith Russell had the hall ; 
The show was simply ''out of sight,"' 

I heard all right, but saw not Sol ; 

For, right in front of where I sat 
Two yards beyond, or thereabout, 

A female, with a four-foot hat, 

Obscured mv view and " shut me out." 


DRIFTWOOD. 37 

" Dear madam," in my soul I said, 

( )r rather thought — I dare not speak — 

" I wish that mountain on your head 
Had greater base and less of peak." 

She answered not, she did not hear, 
And more, I fear, she did not care ; 

I swore a little then, I fear. 

For what less could I do than swear ? 

Could I have shrieked I would have shroke 
A wild, Comanche whoop right there. 

But just then Sol Smith Russell spoke 
And I sank down in mute despair. 

The clubs no more will I defy 

It women folks will just agree 
To wear no hats that scrape the sky, 

Or take them off, so I can see. 


LEGEND OF TWO STICKS. 

Old Two vSticks was a warrior bold 
In whose veins flowed a flood 

Of rich and very rank and old 
Red Sioux-satanic blood. 

Upon Dakota's Bad Lands he, 

With others of his band. 
Subsisted upon charity 

And prairie dogs and sand. 


38 DRIFTWOOD. 

The weaker tribes he used to fleece, 
The Pawnees were a snap, 

Until Old Time began to crease 
The features of this chap. 

And then he didn't giveadam 
For murder-dealing prank ; 

He drew his grub from Uncle Sam 
And bootleeeed what he drank. 


;~>t> 


Four cowboys came along one night 

And slept within his tent ; 
He thought at first to treat them right 

But when to sleep they went 

He filled his hide with stolen gin, 
And then, to hide the theft. 

With stealth the tent he entered in 
And slashed them right and left. 

They did not know that he was nigh, 

So stealthily he crept ; 
He raised his tomahawk on high 

And smote them as they slept. 

'Twas this that got him in a fix — 
'Twas what they killed him for — 

They hung him up between two sticks, 
And Two Sticks was no more. 

An angel now, beyond life's din 

And cruel cark and care, 
His nightly tent he pitches in 

The bad lands over there. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

NO CAUSE FOR PRIDE. 

I'd liate to feel puffed up with pride 

And full of vain conceit ; 
I know the grave stands open wide — 

Its depth about six feet — 

And I shall occupy the place, 

No one may know just when, 
And sleep, when through with this short race. 

The same as other men. 

A little brief renown may please 

The fancies of the brain, 
Like perfume from a passing breeze 

Or sunlight after rain. 

But man at best is but a wave 

Upon life's ocean grand. 
Blown into a forgotten grave 

Of breaker-beaten sand. 

As well might white-capped waves feel proud, 

So short is man's career 
Betwixt the cradle and the shroud, 

The birth-place and the bier. 

No pride of station, rank or birth 

Should make one feel sublime. 
For no man living owns the earth 

For any length of time; 

And greatness passes with the man 

When those who knew him go 
To join the silent caravan 

That sleeps beneath the snow. 


39 


40 DRIFTWOOD. 

And having" an immortal name 

Coimts little after all — 
When one can't answer to the same 

Nor hear when thousands call. 

Like horses, cattle, sheep and goats 

Man is and then is not, 
So, why should mortal feel his oats 

Or boast above the rot 

Of centuries of fell decay, 

Of ruin and of rust ? — 
All greatness past, but common clay, 

Dust turned again to dust. 

When I am done with worldly care 
And joy and grief and mirth, 

This only let my tombstone bear, 
" Here lies a lump of earth! " 


A PICTURE OF HEAVEN. 

There could be no heaven over there for me 

Unless I could sit by the sad, salt sea, 

Or wait till the light of the sun is gone 

And splash in the surf with my night-gown on. 

Far dearer to me than the prairie's sweep 

Are the billowy waves of the briny deep, 

Where the white gulls circle about each spar, 

And shriek at the sight of a jolly tar; 

Where the ship rides high when the night winds rav( 

Then plunks in the trough of a fat old wave ; 


DRIFTWOOD. 41 

Where the great whale spouts in the twiUght gray, 

And you throw up your boots when you feel that way. 

If there is a future beyond this sphere, 

A home for the decent who dwell down here, 

That is hot for the fellows who doubt and scoff, 

And the rest are a little bit better off, 

I beg one boon and that boon is this— 

A home near the ocean of endless bliss, 

A brownstone front in a shady glen 

And a pair of wings that are eight-foot-ten. 

And a yacht that is safe on the stormy deep 

And a crew that will man it and let me sleep. 

I don't want to dwell in a great big town 

And put in my time wdth a harp and crown, 

Or sit in a crowd of ten million blest 

And hear people sing when I long for rest. 

I picture no heaven of which to boast 

Unless there's an ocean along the coast, 

And hills that are rugged and hard to climb 

And billows that break on the sands of time. 

And places for meeting, say once a year, 

The ones that we cherished and lost down here. 


CONTENTMENT. 

A common fate awaits us all, 
The high and low, the short and tall ; 
We struggle onward for a day 
And then keel up and pass away. 
In vain we try to pierce the gloom 
And see what lies beyond the tomb, 


DRIFTWOOD. 

AVhen we are numbered with the just 

And dust returns to kindred dust, 

Hope may suggest an end of grief 

And faith build up a strong beHef. 

But mankind always will be vexed 

With thoughts of — well, " what of the next ? " 

Who thinks must doubt, who doubts must be 

Betwixt somebody and the sea. 

And never feels just right about 

The future which he can't find out. 

This little thought affords me cheer 

That He who kindly placed us here 

And gave us power of thought and sense 

And gifts of lesser consequence ; 

That He who marks the sparrow's fall, 

With supervision over all, 

Will in His gracious goodness try 

To do what's square by you and I. 

And in that simple thought I rest — 

The Lord is good and He knows best. 

If it is given me to sleep 

Ten thousand years, I will not weep, 

Nor raise a useless fret and row. 

But sleep the best that I know how. 

If, on the other hand, when dead 

I find myself alive instead, 

With golden crown and purple wings 

And other hallelujah things. 

I'll do my level best to be 

Contented with what falls to me. 


DRIFTWOOD 43 

THE VANISHED YEARS. 

The moaning- of the wintry wind 

Is in my ears, 
Its mournful cadence calls to mind 

The vanished years. 

I see again the dear old farm, 

Just as of yore. 
The home — that safe retreat from harm— 

My home no more. 

I see the lake with its broad sweep 

Of white-capped waves, 
The claybanks where the willows weep 

O'er unknown graves. 

I see dear faces smiling on 

The old home nest, 
Though one by one the most have gone 

To their long rest. 

I see an aged face aglow 

With honest pride, 
And yet 'twas many years ago 

That father died. 

I see a patient mother's face, 

Now wrinkled grown. 
And she is left in life's sad race 

Almost alone. 
How little time to stop and weep 

For those who die, 
The next who may be called to sleep 

Are vou and I. 


44 DRIFTWOOD. 

AVe try in vain to pierce the gloom 

Enshrouding" death. 
If there is naught beyond the tomb, 

We waste our breath. 

" Yet love will dream and faith will trust, 

Among all men. 
That soul shall rise above the dust 

And live again. 


annivp:rsary "vSam." 

To-day I'm thirty-eight years old; 

How fast the years speed on 
That drift us toward the dim and cold 

Dark regions of the "gone I " 

It only seems a day or two. 
At most a brief, brief span, 

vSince I was feeling sad and blue — 
I wished to be a man. 

I trace again the fleeting weeks 
At school— to Elder Strong; 

My restless and mischievous freaks, 
The lessons overlong ; 

The punishment he meted out 

For trifles, like as not. 
The red hair scattered all about, 

Torn from my dome of thought. 


DRIFTWOOD. 45 

And then those little love delights 

That drifted m my way — 
The girls I dreamed about all night 

x\nd talked about all day. 

The ardor of my childish flame, 

Knew neither mete nor bound ; 
I loved the daughter of each dame 

For miles and miles around. 

Not as the streams of water run 

Were my affections poured ; 
I loved them all, but there was one 

Among them I adored. 

And thought unless in time we wed 

In answer to my prayers, 
For me, I might as well be dead 

And close up my affairs. 

But in those shifting scenes of life 

When I was young and gay, 
The one I wanted for a wife 

Was sure to move away. 

And for a season I would wilt 

With deep impassioned grief, 
And find, when all my tears were spilt, 

Immediate relief. 

And my oft-broken heart would place — 

That bleeding heart of mine- 
Its keeping in some other face 

And female form divine. 


46 DRIFTWOOD. 

And so I lived and loved and grew 
To man's sublime estate, 

And married when but twenty-two 
And drifted to this state. 

And settled down, like all, to fish 
For fortune's fickle cup, 

And now my creditors all wish 
That I would settle up. 

But, as I said, I'm thirty-eight, 
And still the time rolls on. 

And I can't tell to save my pate 
Where all these years have gone. 


A COLD CLIMATE. 

Cold blow^s the wind across the plain. 
Its breath the dead leaves sporting 

And even on the salty main 
It keeps up its cavorting. 

It moans through gable, roof and dome. 
O'er hillside, mead and river. 

And through the tree-tops here at home 
Until the branches quiver. 

It chills the form of man and beast, 
It plugs the stream of laughter, 

And reconciles the mind at least, 
To sultrv thines hereafter. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

For hades' geogTaphic form, 

I have no adoration, 
But if the climate there is warm. 

It meets my approbation. 

And if the people there are vile, 

I'll institute a movement 
That in a very little while 

Will show a marked improvement. 


AN IDEAL. 

Give me a farmer's happy life, 

'Mongst pitchforks, hoes, and plows 
A six-foot woman for a wife, 

Who does not fear the cows. 
A stalwart team of iron grays, 

Some cattle, hogs, and sheep, 
And I'll be happy all my days 

And never weep a weep. 


WIDOW'S WEEDS. 

I hate to see the weeds of grief 

Worn after one has fled. 
And when I'm gone I'd just as lief 

My wife would dress in red. 

When I have breathed my latest breath 

'T would be a useless bore, 
For friends to grieve themselves to death 

Because I am no more. 


48 DRIFTWOOD. 

The stars will shine as brig-ht and fail- 
Above the pavement stone, 

When I am laid away with care, 
As stars have ever shone. 

The weary world will wag along, 
With just as calm a mien. 

As when I filled the land with song 
From this old song machine. 

I know my friends will weep for me. 
And say kind words and sob, 

When I have crossed the Jasper sea 
And jumped my earthly job. 

All that the kindly thought reveals 
And very seemly seems. 

But I don't like the grief one feels 
When carried to extremes. 

And should my better half survive 

And I go first instead, 
I hope she'll weep for me alive 

And sing when I am dead. 

Beyond this earth all troubles cease, 
x\ll doubt and fear and gloom, 

And there is rest and perfect peace 
Within the tranquil tomb. 

In joyful silence underground 
We wait for Gabriel's trump. 

Nor hear the melancholy sound 
Of pops upon the stump. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

HE DRAWS THE LINE. 

How restful is the lazy life 

A tramp enjoys these days; 
None but himself — no child or wife, 

No family to raise ; 
No work to do, no debts to pay. 

No trouble for the scamp ; 
I think if I could have my way 

I'd like to be a tramp. 

He has but one sad song' to sing, 

And sings it to all men ; 
He hasn't had a bite since spring 

And didn't have much then. 
He feels a horror toward a beat, 

Has no desire to shirk. 
But when he gets enough to eat 

He draws the line at work. 


THE SEA OF TROUBLE. 

The sea of trouble rolls along. 

Its waves beat firm and high ; 
It buries hopes that once grew strong. 
It stills the voice of love and song, 
And baffles you and I. 

It washes all the shores of life. 
Stirred by an unseen breath. 

Its marshes breed the germs of strife ; 

Its depth conceals the cutting knife 
And cruel hand of death. 

5 


49 


50 DRIFTWOOD. 

Who lives must sail that dismal deep 

Without a landino- plaee, 
Must work and watch and wait and weep 
Until his soul is rocked to sleep 

And rests in its embrace. 


A HOPELESS CASE. 

I knew him years ago 

When we boys were at the show 

From afar. 
And I've seen him once again 
As he stood and sipped his gin 

At the bar. 

He was fair to look upon 
In the years so long agone 

But, oh, m}'! 
He is now a common bloat 
And he wears an overcoat 

In July. 

Now if I should live to be 
Such a blasted wreck as he, 

vSuch a sot, 
You may take me off alone — 
With a club break every bone 

I have eot. 


I know it is a shame 
;hus be makin: 
All the while, 


To thus be making game 


DRIFTWOOD. St 

But the hat and boots so tall 
And the breath he wears are all 
Out of style. 

Full a year I think it is 

Since he graced that face of his 

With a shave ; 
And he never can be. blessed 
Till he stops a while to rest 

In the erave. 


IN THE ARMY. 

Summer is dead and the breezes are bio win o- 

Cold from the land of the storm-king afar ; 
Soon on the streets 'twill be drifting and snowing 

Filling the highways and stopping the car ; 
Soon will this troublesome journey be ended, 

Soon will I climb up the gold-standard stair, 
Soon with the angels this voice shall be blended, 

Singing away like a bird over there. 

Elegant thoughts of a genial hereafter 

Keep me from fainting as onward I fly, 
Waking the echoes from ceiling to rafter, 

Breaking great holes in the dome of the sky ; 
Nothing on earth, I am certain, can harm me. 

Nothing confuses, though what will may come 
See ? I belong to the Salvation army — 

I am the rooster who carries the drum. 


52 DRIFTWOOD. 

TEMPUwS FUGIT. 

These lovely days, away they steal ; 

Full soon we'll hear the sickle 
And seek the leafy shade and feel 

The perspiration trickle. 

And after that the blighting frost, 
The harvest time of pleasure, 

And then the aggravating cost 

Of coal — scant weight and measure. 

And so the years creep on and on. 
With records fair and rotten, 

Till all of us are dead and gone. 
And most of us forcrotten. 


NO FEAR OF DEATH. 

When I am dead and laid away to sleep, 
With pretty posies growing all about me, 

I do not want my relatives to weep. 

But do their best to get along without me. 

I used to shudder when the preacher said 
That we must slumber till the resurrection, 

At which the ashes of the quick and dead 
Would be stirred up for proper disinfection. 

I then was young and life was doubly dear, 
Ambition lured with siren song and laughter, 

I had no wish to let go of the here 

And swap the present for the great hereafter 


DRIFTWOOD. 53 

Now I am old — at least I seem to be — 

My step is slow, my system fat and wheezy ; 

The things that once afforded joy to me 
Serve now to make me restless and uneasy. 

I cannot join the children in their sport, 
For weariness of flesh that always follows; 

I'm a back number in the tennis court, 

No strength to wander over hills and hollows. 

My hopes have scarce a one been realized ; 

Where once I ran I now must humbly plod. 
The friends of youth, by me most dearly prized, 

To-day are sleeping underneath the sod. 

Sometimes I see them walking by my side, 
And stretch my hand for a familiar " shake," 

Forgetful that so long ago they died — 
That only dawns upon me when I wake. 

What wonder, then, that I have weary grown. 
And sometiines long to shuffle off the coil. 

To go to rest some quiet day alone. 

And sleep while soil returns again to soil. 

I do not know when Gabe his horn will toot, 

The future has its elements of doubt. 
But when he does I'll take an upward shoot 

If I am here or anywhere about. 

But, as I said, I do not fear to sleep 

For any length of time that suits my case; 

And, friends, when I am dead pray do not weep. 
Nor be too noisy near my resting place. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

HUMAN WEAKNEvSS. 

Man's wants are great, his needs are few, 
Yet true it is, the more he's worth, 

The more he seems to have in view 
Possession of the earth. 

Though maybe old, and quite infirm. 
He pushes on with added vim. 

And when he's almost caught the worm 
It turns and catches him. 


THE GREAT WHITE THRONE. 

It is a blessed thought to think 

This earth-life does not last ; 
That we shall swash about and drink 

Of Jordan's flood when passed 
All are the ills that smite us, dear, 

And make our spirits groan ; 
Things run as smooth as grease, I hear, 

Around the great white throne. 

What, though the wintr)^ winds blow cold. 

Upon our dreary way? 
Calamity can't keep its hold 

Forever and a day. 
What though when we are after bread 

The world gives but a stone ? 
There's quail on toast, when we are dead 

Around the great white throne. 


DRIFTWOOD. 55 


I'm getting weary, weary worn 

And long to reach the goal ; 
I haven't had, since I was born, 

A minute's rest of soul. 
I've had to struggle, tooth and nail, 

To keep and hold my own, 
But I'll be happy when I sail 

Around the great white throne. 

Good bye, old earth ! I seem to see 

You slipping from my view I 
I guess you've had enough of me 

And I enough of you. 
I'm going where, the preachers say, 

" We reap as we have sown ; " 
That makes my chances all O K 

Around the great white throne. 


THE STAR OF HOPE. 

I'm glad we are not doomed to stay 

Forever in this cumbrous clay; 

This world, though most serene and fair, 

Is not like that one over there. 

All things are so uncertain here — 

To-day the skies are fair and clear, 

To-morrow cyclones lie in wait 

To wreck our high-priced real estate. 

Rip up our growing corn and oats 

And kill our cows and William goats. 

And scatter on its deadly route 

Our wives and children all about. 


56 DRIFTWOOD. 

Then look at all our other woes — 

No safety even in repose, 

No time that we may feel secure 

'Gainst troubles that we must endure 

From time to time as on we scud 

And leave our footprints in the mud, 

The footprints that some struggling cuss 

May see and warning take from us. 

Wherefore I'm happy, then, I say, 

To witness signs of swift decay 

And note the things, without a start, 

That cheer the undertaker's heart, 

As white hairs growing in apace 

And wrinkles in my once fair face, 

From which I know, beyond a doubt, 

The sands of life are running out, 

And soon upon fair Jordan's strand 

ril shake Elijah by the hand 

And talk with Moses all about 

How Egypt's seven plagues came out. 

And with the patriarchs of old 

ril promenade the streets of gold. 

Or join in singing loud and clear 

The anthems I was taught down here. 


ON THE BOARD OF TRADE. 

The melody of life with me 

Has petered out, 
Things are not as they used to be — 

Well, I should shout! 


DRIFTWOOD. 

I had a small financial stack 

Laid by last fall 
But struck the board of trade a whack 

And lost it all. 

And now to get another pull 

I try in vain ; 
All went in an attempt to bull 

The price of grain. 


HOP LEE. 

The torrents fell down in the mountains, 
The mighty Arkansas rose high ; 

As waters gush forth from the fountains 
So fell the dread floods from the sky. 

Pueblo, the proud mountain city, 

Beside which the "Arkansaw" flows, 

Was scarcely aware — more's the pity — 
How swiftly the dark waters rose. 

In basement, unmindful of danger, 
A Chinaman worked at his " wash," 

To all things but labor a stranger. 
With uninterrupted kerswash. 

Grown weary, at last — no one missed him- 
He put up his washboards and "flats," 

And paused to upholster his system 
With boiled rice and fricasseed rats. 


57 


58 DRIFTWOOD. 

x\nd then for his pipe he went gunning, 
To take a brief narcotized ride, 

For, sad to relate, he was running 
An opium joint on the side. 

He smoked till it caused him to slumber; 

Death looked on his features and laughed- 
He should have been hustling for lumber 

To build him a Kellyweal raft. 

While sleeping and dreaming, the river 
Beyond its environments crept, 

Until it forced in with a shiver 

The door where John Chinaman slept. 

He woke as the waters came pouring 
Through windows in elegant shape ; 

He stifled a moment his snoring 
And tried like a fiend to escape. 

Vain, vain was his mighty endeavor. 
The waters rolled in like a sea ; 

They shut off his breathing forever, 
And that was the last of Hop Lee. 


THE LORD KNOWS BEST. 

All night the dizzy snowflakes flew 

Across the arid plain ; 
It was the best the Lord could do 

To answer prayers for rain. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And all agree it's just the thing, 

Desired by all mankind, 
A full, fair crop next year to bring, 

And help out those behind. 

So we observe in every haunt 

Where hungry spirits bleed. 
Men pray for what they think they want 

And p'et the eood they need. 


SWEET GIRL GRADUATES. 

O, sweet girl graduates it seems, 
Though I am "brown and sere," 

Your lovely faces haunt my dreams 
About this time of year. 

I seem to hold you in my arms. 

As in the vanished years, 
And mingle, heedless of alarms, 

A tub of farewell tears. 

Age cannot wither, custom stale, 
(My heart remains the same,) 

Nor can decrepitude prevail 
Against love's ardent flame. 

Platonic sentiment to-day 

Is just as strong I know 
With me, though weak and halt and gray 

As fortv years ago. 


59 


6o DRIFTWOOD. 

We may not bow or smile or speak, 
Acquaintance is unsought. 

But I adore each classic cheek, 
Each marble dome of thought. 

Each highly cultured gesture, too, 

Each educated pose ; 
O, girls, the more I see of you 

The more my ardor grows ! 

But you have done with college cares. 
One word before we part, 

Of course it's none of my affairs, 
But — keep an honest heart. 

The giddy world's temptations shun, 

Be noble to the end, 
And I will love you, every one. 

And be a first class friend. 


IN vSECRET. 

No life, however bright it glows. 

But has its hidden griefs, 
And some whose mirth unbidden flows 

Have sorrows past belief; 
This world is not a paradise. 

Although it might be worse. 
And all, however, free from vice. 

Still suffer from the " curse ; " 
And none are free, not one, my dear, 

No odds how pure and true. 
And every closet has, I fear, 

A skeleton or two. 


DRIFTWOOD. 6 1 

PAVING MATERIAL. 

The New Year's resolutions made, 

In words with earnest spoken, 
About to-morrow, I'm afraid, 

Will nearly all be broken. 

But what great paving- they will make, 

(The future home of Grover) 
For smoky streets along the lake 

That never freezes over. 

A New Year's oath should be secure. 
Though I should hate to make it ; 

But if I did, there's one thing sure, 
I'd die before I'd break it. 


AGRICULTURE. 

I envy, even in my dreams 

The farmer's happy lot, 
Along his way the sunlight streams 

Though school lets out or not. 

He raises what he needs to eat, 

And never has the gout. 
While we who walk the city's street 

Must buy or go without. 

And if there is a farmer now 
Who does not like his biz. 

If he will furnish team and plow 
I'll swap my job for his. 


62 DRIFTWOOD. 

AFFECTATION. 

' I think no man should try to preach,' 

Said honest A. M. Baird, 
"Who hasn't first the power of speech. 

And shows himself prepared ; 
It makes me weary to the core 

And sick at heart and faint 
To hear a gospel pilot roar 

And rave without restraint. 
I used to think the man inspired 

And all O K, I own, 
Who by much training had acquired 

' That blessed heavenly tone. 

In these cold, infidelic days 

Of practical affairs, 
We judge a man by what he says 

And not the voice he wears ; 
We walk by reason to the brink 

Of the great unknown hence. 
And its immortal waters drink 

Through classic eloquence ; 
By keen, incisive thoughts we train 

To view the great white throne, 
And it is counted loss to gain 

" That blessed heavenly tone." 

An honest preacher need not change 
The voice that nature gave ; 

For, one more sibilant and strange, 
Has no more power to save. 


DRIFTWOOD. 63 

It may be well to dress it up, 

As carpenters do boards, 
And pare and scrape and bleed and cup 

The rag-ged vocal chords. 
But better to be dead and gone. 

To rot beneath the stone. 
Than down here trying to "put on '" 

" That blessed heavenly tone." 


SINGLE BLESSEDNESS. 

'Twas always my notion 

That wifely devotion 
Would show itself only in silence and tears, 

When husbands, through folly. 

Came home too (hie) jolly 
And comfort'bly maudlin, but now it appears 

That courtship's fond cooing 

And love's tender wooing 
Are basely deceptive and only skin deep, 

P'or, homeward departing, 

I know before star tin g 
The long curtain lecture will rob me of sleep. 

And if I were single 

No more would I mingle 
With fair, fickle woman — not one would I trust — 

I'd buy a small cottage. 

Prepare my own pottage. 
And slumber in peace the sweet sleep of the just. 


64 DRIFTWOOD. 


PLATONIC LOVE. 

Bless the schoolma'ams who are coming- 
One by one and two by two ; 

As I sit here I am humming 
Pleasant little tunes for you. 

Many years ago I married 
A fair patron of your crowd, 

And if I had longer tarried — 
Hush I I must not speak so loud. 

If she knew my admiration 

For the fair ones, then, of course, 

I should fear the consummation 
Of an action for divorce. 


JUDGE NOT. 

A dual life is this we lead 

With good and evil sadh^ blent ; 

None perfect are in word or deed 
Beneath the heavenly firmament. 

The best of men will go astray. 
The meanest are not always vile; 

They both swap places on the way, 
vSay one or two times in a while. 

Man cannot judge a human life. 

In our short span of time and sense ; 

The hand that holds the pruning- knife 
Is guided by omnipotence. 


DRIFTWOOD. 65 

AVhen this cold world gives up its bones, 
And all have passed to skies more fair, 

And Gabriel toots the horn he owns, 
Look out for new surprises there. 

Then he with sanctimonious face. 

Who worships self with all his might. 

Will have an everlasting place 
With Dives rushing anthracite. 

While he who raa3^be here was known, 

A rather free and easy cuss, 
Will skip around the great white throne 

With Abraham and Lazarus. 


TOO LATE. 

He is dead! In life's stern battle 
He was fighting lone and grim ; 

On his casket cold clods rattle 
And the people weep for him. 

Few the smiles for him while living. 
Few the handshakes true and warm 

Now the world is all forgiving — 
He has passed beyond the storm. 

Scarce an emblem or a token 
Of the friendships all hold dear, 

And the kindly words are spoken 
All too late for him to hear. 
6 


66 DRIFTWOOD. 

There are hearts all torn and bleeding, 
Souls that hunger, as for bread, 

Only asking, only needing. 

Kindly words that might be said ; 

Words of cheer that should be uttered, 
Every hour and every day, 

Kept back till the soul has fluttered 
From its tenant house of clay. 

Friends, if you would guard my lashes 
From the tears of heartsick grief, 

Do not wait until my ashes 
Are displayed in bold relief 

Ere you give the friendly greeting 
And the kindly word that knocks. 

But remark right out in meeting— 
" You are iust the stuff, old sox ! " 


TROUBLE. 

We've borne with drouth and famine, too. 

We've suffered sandstorms not a few, 

And now and then a blizzard bold 

Has desolated barn and fold ; 

The fierce tornado's withering touch 

Has twisted postholes in its clutch, 

But nothing so disturbs our peace 

As Greenback Jim and Mary Lease. 


DRIFTWOOD. 67 

A LACK OF FAITH. 

The faith I had when but a child 

Upon my mother's knee 
Who sang- of " Jesus, meek and mild," 

Is now denied to me. 

Perhaps when I have fought the fight 

To pay for clothes and board, 
I'll settle down once more all right 

With " confidence restored." 

But now I doubt — and why deceive ? — 

Though doubting brings me grief, 
I cannot say, "Lord, I believe. 

Help Thou my unbelief." 

The tumult of religious thought 

Has rattled me a bit. 
And if I could untwist the knot 

I'd be right glad of it. 


A SACRED NAME. 

I love the bold and manly youth 

With open, candid face, 
Who, fearless, speaks the "honest truth 

At every time and place ; 
Who shows respect for all mankind, 

And has more brains than maw — 
Such youths you scarcely ever find 

Who call their father "paw." 


68 DRIFTWOOD. 

I cannot muster words to rate 

My estimate of he 
Whose hollow voice effeminate, 

At times distresses me ; 
I feel like hunting for a club, 

Unmindful of the law, 
And swiping the infernal dub 

Who calls his father ''paw." 

The name of father has for me 

A sacredness profound — 
In dreams alone I seem to see 

His form now "neath the ground — 
And though in sin I lead the van. 

At this the line I draw- — 
I never uttered " my old man," 

Nor called my father "paw." 

The spirit moves me to forgive 

Mistakes of tender age — 
No small offenses, as I live, 

Can put me in a rage ; 
But, by the whichness of the whence 

And seeness of the saw, 
I want to whip a man of sense 

Who calls his father "paw." 

SALVATION. 

If life everlasting is gained through belief, 
And works are but ashes and dross, 

Then what will become of the millions of men 
Who never have heard of the cross ? 


DRIFTWOOD. 69 

Christ set an example, and those who obey 
In deeds, though their Hps may be mute, 

Shall dwell in a land of perpetual day 
And play the triangle and flute. 

Alas, for the poor, cringing worm of the dust. 

Who, fearing the torments of hell, 
Gets after salvation with wordy pretense — 

Professions that sound very well- 
But clings to the sordid desires of the flesh. 

And works (for himself) like a slave; 
That man has no promise of life over there— 

His journey ends short at the grave. 

"The wages of sin," says the book of the law, 
"Are death," which means nothing but death; 

The soul is destroyed by the canker of sin, 
And yields up its job with its breath; 

But he who does right for the sake of the right 
And seeks not for plunder and pelf— 

That man will survive while eternity rolls, 
And be strictly in it himself. 


ODE TO MAY. 

vSweet month of budding trees and waving grass 
And opening flowers and all that sort of thing, 

Of rhubarb fresh and other garden "sass" 
That helps to mould the harmony of spring. 


70 DRIFTWOOD. 

Thou art, indeed, the month of all the year, 
Replete with joy and happiness profound; 

No fierce mosquito armed with deadly spear. 
Troubles the night with its discordant sound. 

No house flies dart about on gruesome wing, 
Intent on eating at first table, then 

Loafing all day in offices to bring 

Grief to the hearts of poor bald-headed men. 

Speed on, O Time, in thy remorseless flight. 
Hasten the dawn of the millennial day — 

In the new home of everlasting light 

There we shall have one grand, eternal May. 


FLORENCE LILLIAN.* 

She came to our home when the skies were fair 
In the spring, and the breath of morn 

Was sweet as the roses that scent the air 
When the month of the rose is born. 

vShe came and we looked on as sweet a face 

As parentage ever blessed, 
And opened our bosoms to find a place 

For her whom we loved the best. 

She grew and we watched her with fondest care, 

As year after year crept on — 
Sweet child, with the tresses of dark brown hair, 

Asleep with the lost and gone. 


* Florence Lillian Bixby, third child of the author, died August 
27, 1894, aged eleven years. 


DRIFTWOOD. 71 

She hears not the moan of the nig-ht wind now, 

The sighing- of those who weep, 
The pallor of death is upon her brow — 

vShe sleeps an eternal sleep. 

In dreams we may see the sweet face ag-ain, 

In dreams we may meet to part. 
In dreams we may reach for her hands and then 

Awake with a sudden start 

To know she is sleeping beneath the sod. 

No long'er our lives to bless, 
And pray to a merciful, unseen God 

For help in our deep distress. 

And, maybe, a hope will the years give birth 
That when we have met the " sword," 

Somewhere in the future, beyond this earth, 
Our loved one will be restored. 


MAN'S VANITY. 

To see a case of bighead, dear, 
It makes me truly sad — 

No one is so important here 
As to be missed, my lad. 

We strut about in lordly grace 
And think our native land 

Would be a melancholy place 
If we were not on hand. 


72 DRIFTWOOD. 

But this is a mistake, my son, 
And such is not the case 

For when our short career is done 
Another takes our place. 

The minute we are well laid out 
And once begin to rot 

We may, perhaps, be talked about 
Three days, and then forgot. 


ON THE PLATFORM. 

Upon the lecture platform Mary Lease 

Now makes a gentle roar, 
And talks of matters bordering on peace 

Where once she howled for war. 

Her temper softened and the star of hope 

Gleaming from azure skies. 
She's a dear creature — this is no soft soap — 

Where e'er she flies. 

The field of politics is not the place 

For birds like her, so fair — 
Who can the literary circles grace 

And gather shekels there. 

In halls of state — amidst the dizzy whirl — 
Her feet the Brussels carpet may not press, 

But as a lecturer, ah there, old girl. 
We wish you an abundance of success. 


DRIFTWOOD. 73 

RECONCILED. 

I would not be a pessimist 

And make myself believe 
The bright things of the world a grist 

Of follies that deceive. 

I've tasted of the bitter fruit 

Of hopes born but to die ; 
I've whistled dirges on my flute 

From August till July; 

The forms of loved ones I have laid 

Beneath the silent cla}^, 
Till sight of coffin, shroud and spade 

Obscured the light of day. 

Ambition's luring star has been 

Completely blotted out, 
And I engulfed to neck and chin 

In seas of dread and doubt. 

And yet, as years creep on apace 

And I approach the hence, 
Time seems to crown with saving grace 

My sad experience. 

The things that put me in a stew 

Are to my soul a prop, 
And that which caused me to be blue 

Now makes me feel tip top. - 

And so I wander down the way, 

Contented with my lot, 
Prepared when death shall call, to say 

" I'd rather die than not." 


74 DRIFTWOOD. 

WOULD AVANT A CHANGE. 

They say beyond our earthly ken, 

Among the ever blessed, 
That all days will be Sundays then 

And every one can rest. 

How sweetly grand the thought appears, 
But this thing makes me sob — 

When I have loafed ten thousand years, 
Perhaps I'll want a job. 

With nothing but to sing and shout 
And twang the lyre always, 

Would pretty nearly wear me out 
Inside of thirtv davs. 


HARD TO SATISFY. 

Rich and rare were the gems he wore, 

And he carried a diamond locket. 
But he never had tramped through the world before 

With so little inside his pocket. 

And he muttered a curse as he tried to find 

The price of a modest dinner, 
And thought how he always came out behind 

When the other chap turned up winner. 

They buried him deep in the church yard old, 

'Neath the heavenly blue pavilion, 
For he shot out his liver, so I am told, 

For the want of a cool half million. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


PROUD PREACHERS. 

The vSabbath bells — I hear their chimes, 
I like to write them up in rhymes ; 
To go to church and drop my dimes — 

That also gives me joy; 
But more than all I like to hear 
The organ's intonations clear 
That rise and fall upon my ear 

As when I was a boy. 

I used to go with father then 
And, O, the satisfaction when 
The preacher said his last amen 

And we were homeward bound ; 
He led me then — my father did. 
For I was just a little kid — 
No organ pealed when he was hid 

From us beneath the ground. 

I call to mind the good old way 
When preachers humbly knelt to pray 
And talked three-quarters of a day 

When the long prayer was said ; 
And I would grow uneasy, quite, 
Unsanctified and full of fight. 
It was my soul's desire to smite 

That preacher on the head. 

The modern man, less humble grown 
Stands up before the great white throne 
As though he and the Lord had known 
Each other since their birth: 


75 


76 DRIFTWOOD. 

He meets our Father, seems to me, 
On terms of class equality 
And offers pointers fluently 
On how to ran the earth. 


But now the service has more song, 
The preachers do not preach so long-^ 
And these two points are very strong- 

In favor of our day ; 
But, 'midst the clash of cruel creeds, 
The faith alleged and dearth of deeds, 
I fear, despite my sorry needs, 

That I have lost the way. 

My path is dark, my clothes are torn. 
My large feet pierced with many a thorn, 
I haven't felt since I was born 

So " cast away and lost; " 
I know each day I near the goal 
Where I must either shovel coal 
Or find the rest my fagged-out soul 

AVould have at any cost. 

Betimes upon my wear}-^ way 
I stop and meditate and pray 
For just one little glimpse of day 

To feast my aching eyes ; 
Perhaps in answer to my prayer 
The skies will seem more bright and fair 
And then the light that filled the air 

Just fades away and dies. 


DRIFTWOOD. 77 

I know I soon shall seek my rest 
In mother earth's indulgent breast, 
There nevermore to be distressed 

By musee bands below; 
To square myself for future bliss 
The church I must in nowise miss, 
But, kind sir, will you answer this— 

To what church should I go ? 

The Catholics believe that they 
Own and control the right of way 
From here to where the good folks stay 

Forever and all that ; 
And other isms just as pure, 
Proclaim for sin the only cure — 
Betwixt them all I am not sure 

And don't know where Fm at. 


ODE TO AQUA. 

To sparkling water let me pay 

The tribute of my song; 
I sing its praises all the day 

And drink it all night long. 

The hydrant on the public square 
I view with keen delight ; 

You often see me drinking there 
The latter part of night. 

Great draughts of liquid water then 

I swallow fit to burst 
And marvel that my fellow men 

Are sleeping when I thirst. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

O, water — substitute for "rye " — 
My ardor please forgive — 

I think one-half the men who die 
Might drink the stuff and live. 

Of all the woes that follow man 
Along life's hills and draws, 

The "rushing" of the fatal can 
vStands as the great first cause. 

Man's inhumanity to man 

Is almost past belief — 
The onward rushing of the can 

Has clothed a world in grief. 

And so I plead for water pure, 
That bev'rage heaven blest. 

Of half the ills of life a cure 
A solace for the rest. 

But, as I've often said before. 

Go seek salvation first. 
Then eat and never hunger more. 

Drink, then, and never thirst. 


RURAL JOYvS. 

Within my breast a longing steals 

Back on the farm to go. 
Where I can have each day three meals 

And hear the rooster's crow. 


DRIFTWOOD. 79 

And walk barefoot where the soft mud 

Can soothe my fevered feet, 
And watch old Brindle chew her cud 

And eat, and eat, and eat. 

Alas, the dear old farm can give 

To me no pleasure now, 
Some other man while I shall live 

Will hold the stirring plow. 

While I am doomed by cruel fate 

To sit beside my bench. 
And wrench the thought wheels in my pate 

At fifteen cents a wrench. 


THE WRITER'S LAMENT. 

() give me a song that was never sung, 
A thought through the years unthought, 

A novel conception to weave among 
The woof of eternal "rot." 

I'm tired of singing the same old tune, 
Though changing, perhaps, the time, 

From early July to the last of June, 
Ridiculous and sublime. 

I'm weary of thumbing the long "exchange. 

The Bugle and Bungtown Bee, 
For something exciting or new or strange 

That readers are "dead to see." 


8o DRIFTWOOD. 

I long for a homestead upon the plain, 

That never can grow a crop, 
Where people do nothing but pray for rain 

And never expect a drop. 

AVhere cactus grows rank as the pigweeds here, 

Or moss on the backs of men ; 
If I shall go out there and howl one year 

They'd send me to congress then. 

And there with McKeighan and O. M. Kem 

And Peffer and Mr. Kyle, 
And Windy V. Allen and men like "them," 

I'd sport in a new silk tile. 

And talk of reform in an off-hand way 

And scrap with a show of grit, 
The while I would savagely draw my pay 

And salt down the most of it. 


THE OLD AND NEW. 

Nebraska's learned medics are once more in touch, 

All men of the regular brand. 
To talk of necrosis and tumors and such 

Like subjects, so I understand. 

The regulars once were a pretty tough lot. 

With blisters and calomel pills. 
And lance always ready to bleed on the spot — 

And now they draw blood with their bills. 


DRIFTWOOD. 8 1 

It once was their practice, wlien fever ran high 

Enough a brass monkey to melt, 
To keep away water and let them go " dry " 

Till patients were dead as a smelt. 

They purged and they bled and they blistered and then 

Kept track of the pulse — if a throb, 
They purged and they bled and they blistered again, 

Till death kindly finished the job. 

A change came about in the regular school, 

And reason at last holds full sway, 
And he would be branded a consummate fool 

Who followed the old beaten way. 

The lance is reserved for the tuiuor and boil. 

And purges for cattle, I "think, 
While fever-SCO urged patients are rubbed well in oil 

And given wet water to drink. 

Dyspeptics are counselled to diet with care, 

And give greasy cooking the shake, 
And pay more attention to sunlight and air 

And less to the "stuff" that they " take." 

My fear of these sawbones abates with their zeal 

For learning the science of life. 
And if we were sick, I'd employ them to heal 

M3^self and iny children and wife. 

Their ardor for knowledge with confidence fills 

My soul, for I plainly can see 
That it is alone when they bring in their bills. 

They purpose to "salivate" me. 

7 


DRIFTWOOD. 

BIRTH (jF a BLUE-BLOOD. 

The Duchess of York is a heroine now, 

Her beauty was never denied, 
But lately vShe's lifted immensely somehow 

In popular glory and pride. 

The story is short, though a beautiful one, 

As all royal subjects must own ; 
It simply relates to the birth of a son 

And possible heir to the throne. 

We wonder how people can worship the kings 
And take off their hats to the earls; 

The people don't do such ridiculous things 
Where starry "Old Glory" unfurls. 

No birthright alone can an honor bestow 

Where freedom is felt in the air; 
Its gem-spangled mountain we climb as we grow 

And win the bright spurs that we wear. 

We treat every birth in a business like way, 

No matter how htmible the source. 
Or whether its folks have more money than hay. 

The same as a matter of course. 

We honor no man by the deeds of his dad, 

He stands or he falls by his own. 
We offer true genius the best to be had 

Excepting a dukedom or throne. 

No title descending from father to son 

Our loyal, free people will stand 
Excepting the highly-prized warranty one 

To several sections of land. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

The Duchess of York {^ncc the Princess of Teck) 

I earnestly hope will not bring 
An action for damage in that I would wreck 

vSo sacred and solemn a thing 

As that of the birth of a blue-blooded brat, 

Whose name is direct in the line, 
A heaven-sent standard-bred aristocrat 

With mouth like the pit of a mine. 

I'm glad that the duke and the duchess enjoy 

The brightest of prospects ahead ; 
I'm not feeling sad that their child is a boy, 

But rather elated instead. 

But gladder than ever I am that I live 
Where honor is purchased by worth, 

And there are no profligate plaudits to give 
To those merelv luckv bv birth. 


OUR LAW MAKERS. 

The legislators nearly all are here, 

The hotel lobbies swarm with statesmen grand 
I wish we had a session every year ; 

I like to take great people by the hand 
And whisper in each sympathetic ear 

My views of laws most needed for the land, 
Or walk with them beneath the shining stars 
And smoke the choicest brands of good cigars. 

Of all the men elected to make laws 

I love the man with youth and beauty blessed. 


84 DRIFTWOOD. 

Who feels himself a greater man because 

His name receives a handle planed and dressed : 

Who stands with dignity and wags his jaws 
A little bit more frequent than the rest, 

And seems to feel what others may not sense, 

The matchless depths of his own consequence. 

Strange people fill our legislative hall, 
A few with quiet, unobtrusive ways. 

And others yet who think that they must bawl 
To merit popular applause and praise ; 

And some few wait till duty seems to call 
And then let forth a meteoric blaze 

Of eloquence that glimmers like the light 

Of the bright orb that dissipates the night. 

vSome make a record introducing bills 
That cover every question in the state. 

From licenses for selling liver pills 

To rates on common perishable freight ; 

If passed, these laws would tax the legal mills 
Until the resurrection day and date. 

But then, of course, their only consequence 

Is to enlarge the printing and expense. 

'Twas ever thus and ever will be so, 

Our legislators are a funny mess, 
vSome few are known for what they really know 

And some for crazy things at which they guess 
No wonder that our statutes grow and grow 

With laws that are as apt to curse as bless ; 
The coming man, if I could have my way, 
Is he who silent sits and draws his pay. 


DRIFTWOOD. 85 


THE EDITORS.^ 

New themes no more inspire the pen, 

Nor fill with a diviner grace 
The lives of literary men, 

For now all thoughts are commonplace. 

Who strives to rise where none may soar 
Except himself in tuneful rhymes 

Finds others have been there before 

And thouo-ht his thouq-hts a thousand times. 

I claim no credit for this song, 

Nor scarce expect that it will please, 

I only hope to limp along 

Where others may have walked with ease. 

When Adam ate the orange crop 
That grew on the forbidden tree, 

All human values took a drop 
As measured by Divinity. 

With one exception, men have been, 
Since F'ather Adam lost his grip. 

As hopeless as a wharf rat in 
The ballast of a sinking ship. 

For untold ages nations dwelt 

In darkness blacker than the night. 

And none have lived who have not felt 
A something of the need of lio-ht. 


* Annual poem delivered at the meeting of the vState Press As- 
sociation, January 28, 1894. 


86 DRIFTWOOD. 

To Adam's fall we sadly trace 

The source of all that we have lost; 

He set the world to ruin's pace 

And never stopped to count the cost. 

But ig-norance has had its day, 

Children of men see their redress, 

When sin and misery give way 
Before the modern printing press. 

The beauties of the life to be, 
The terrors of an endless hell, 

Flash clear to our humanity 
When set in leaded nonpareil. 

It lifts the curtain of the world. 
Our narrow vision to enhance, 

And we behold events unfurled 
Ofttimes a few weeks in advance. 

A man can scarcely seek repose 
In peace and quiet any more, 

Till in some wild reporter blows 
To ask him what he did it for. 

The press reveals the thoughts of men, 
Interprets motives at its will. 

Inspires the hopes of some and then 
Conspires those very hopes to kill. 

The keen Damascus blade was strong 
In olden time to rule the horde. 

But now the goosequill comes along 
And broken lie the spear and sword. 


DRIFTWOOD. 87 

O, noble soldiers of the press ! 

The world will some day know your worth, 
A band of brothers in distress, 

The salt and sugar of the earth. 

A thankless task is Amours always — 

But few with worldly goods are blest — 

You work ten-tenths of all the days 
And sit up nights to do the rest. 

Nat vSmails, the democratic sage. 

Of him no good can here be said ; 
He's been unmarried for an age 

Because, forsooth, he will not wed. 

And G. M. Hitchcock — what of him ? 

Through good or evil, shine or storm, 
He's always strictly in the swim 

With new-hatched notions of reform. 

Tim Sedgwick, every now and then. 
Gives way to fancy's sterner flights ; 

In sulphur fumes he dips his pen 

And there is smoke on what he writes. 

But why attempt to name them all 

And give to each a little drive, 
'T would take from now until next fall 

And might infringe on '95. 

I sing the praises of the press, 

I love the men who wield the shears, 

I love the women folks no less. 

But I am married — spare these tears. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

Less than a hundred years ago, 

There were no country papers "took," 

And men imbibed the most they knew 
From Webster's famous spelling book. 

But through the papers of this age 

The world with knowledge comes in touch, 

And erudition is the rage — 

The trouble is, some know too much. 

By reason of the benison 

Of cheaper learning, well diffused, 
Quaint isms are having quite a run 

While abstract logic is abused. 

But out of all these theories, 

Some vague and some by reason backed, 
Like dewdrops shaken from the trees 

Will fall the gems of concrete fact. 

The editor, though roundly cursed. 

Should keep his nerve and bare his breast 

And face the storm and do his worst. 
For e'en the worst may prove the best. 

Let honest thought his pen inspire 

And virtue be his guiding star; 
He may not set the world on fire. 

But he can give it quite a jar. 

What though rewards are poor and slim, 

For work to elevate the race; 
Be sure it matters not to him, 

His joy comes in the other place. 


DRIFTWOOD. 89 

Beyond the pale, cold orb of night, 
In that bright world of endless bliss. 

Where all may go who love the right 
And find repose when done with this ; 

With crown and harp and tambourine 

And halos brighter than the day. 
The editors will all file in 

Announcing they have "come to stay." 


RICH TREASURES. 

I hope for nothing more on earth 
Than just my clothes and board ; 

Which I have rustled since my birth — 
The best I could afford. 

Of treasures I have quite a load 

In yon land of the leal, 
Where moth and rust may not corrode, 

Nor thieves break in and steal. 

To save some here I have the will, 

My wardrobe to enhance. 
But that infernal Wilson bill 

Has robbed me of the chance. 

But what are earthly stores to me ? 

It naught but trouble brings, 
I'll store up millions yonder, see ? 

And blow it in for wings. 


90 


DRIFTWOOD. 

A COMMON FAULT. 

When the church bells loud are beating 

And the sunbeams kiss the lawn, 
Then I hustle off to meeting- 

With my Sunday breeches on ; 
'Tis a joy to hear the preacher, 

His theology unfurl 
As I ponder how to reach her — 

And walk home with — my best girl. 


REMENYI. 

I heard the great Remenyi play 

With execution fine ; 
It made some strange emotions sway 

This calloused heart of mine. 

It seems almost the grandest gift 

That heaven can bestow, 
To give the sentiments a lift 

In this cold world below. 

Remenyi has much older grown 

vSince I first saw his face. 
And soon he'll wander off alone 

To some secluded place. 

And when he climbs the golden stair, 

Above this world of sin 
I hope in time to meet him there 

And hear his violin. 


DRIFTWOOD. 91 

JOHN P. vST. JOHN. 

Last night I listened to vSt. John, 

I've heard the man before, 
And think as added years roll on 

He's getting young once more. 

His whiskers, maybe, are more sere 

Than that first day he tried 
To argue water versus beer, 

With coffee on the side. 

But he has made a great success 

In fighting old Jams Jim, 
And I can surely do no less 

Than say that much for him. 

Full many people, gone astray, 

His eloquence has made 
To turn and walk the other way 

And spoil the liquor trade; 

And all this time St. John has made 

A pretty handsome sum 
In greasy dollars upward laid 

For rainy days to come. 

He mixes business with reform 

In equal parts about — 
A safeguard for the coming storm 

When that rich voice gives out. 

When that strong tongue shall cease to stitch 

The fabric of his thought — 
I know that I'd feel mighty rich 

With half vSt. John has got. 


92 


DRIFTWOOD. 

INCORRIGIBLE. 

Oh where is my wandering- boy to-night, 
The pride of my household, Jim ; 

The last thing I knew he was howling- tight, 
And they threatened to run him in. 

I think I shall see him in court, my dear, 

To-morrow at half past nine, 
And if he discovers that I am near. 

He'll want me to pay his fine. 


FORTUNE'S FROWNS. 

When hope ran high within my breast 

In youthful days of long ago. 
And I packed up and came out west. 

My own unhappy row to hoe ; 
Before my auburn locks were gray, 

I looked upon it as a joke 
To plod along life's drear}' way. 

And sing glad songs when I was broke. 

I do not feel so any inore ; 

Since, withered by the hand of fate. 
The wolf that scratches at my door 

I fain would slaughter at the gate ; 
I groan when fortune frowns upon 

My path in life's unequal rush, 
And weep and weep, as I go on, 

But feel first-rate when I am flush. 


DRIFTWOOD. 93 


FOR ONLY AN HOUR. 


Just once again I would be found 
Wa)- back at old ''Chain Lakes," 

To chase the pickerel around 
Among the reeds and brakes. 

To spear the muskelonge and perch, 
That swim so near the shore, 

And feel the tough paternal birch 
Wind round my limbs once more. 

O, father, you have slept so long 
Beneath the greenwood bower ! 

I'd take a whipping good and strong 
To be back home an hour. 


MARY AND PET. . 

Mary had a poodle dog, 
His hair was black as jet. 

And everywhere that Mary went 
She took that dog, you bet. 

She carried him to school one day. 
Which was a grave mistake ; 

The bad boys tied him to a stone 
And threw him in the lake. 

It grieved the heart of Mary sore 

To lose her sable pet. 
So she, too, hopped into the pond 

And both are in there yet. 


94 DRIFTWOOD. 

THE WEDDING CAKE. 

A little piece of wedding cake 

Came in the mail to-day, 
It's something that I like to take 

In life's uneven way. 

It calls to mind a circumstance 

In my eventful life 
When I put on my wedding pants 

And married me a wife. 

The years have crept away with speed 

And I am free to own. 
My wife and I are not, indeed, 

What you might call alone. 

Five others claim the right to stay — 
AVe would not drive them hence — 

And manage in their own sweet way 
To multiple expense. 

The blessings temporal have been 

At times a little slow, 
And I have had to work like sin 

To keep up those I owe. 

But were the wheels of time turned back 

And I a little kid, 
I'd follow up the beaten track 

To wed the one I did. 

It's grand to love a woman true 

And suffer for her sake, 
A pleasure and a duty, too — 

Hold on ! let's eat that cake. 


DRIFTWOOD. 95 

HAPPY HUSBANDMEN. 

The horny-handed sons of toil, 

Who dwell upon the blooming- prairie, 

And inake their living' from the soil 
Have every reason to feel merry. 

For them the choicest gifts unfold. 

That lie in nature's storehouse hidden, 

And want can get no vital hold 

Where wealth springs up almost unbidden. 

Not so with those who pace the marts, 

Where men are bunched like droves of cattle. 

The dearth of labor chills their hearts, 

The cold winds through their dry bones rattle. 

The skies are overcast with gloom, 

Soul-sorrows all are unabating; 
They wait to profit by a boom, 

And stand around and starve while waiting. 

The farmer's lot is best, that's right; 

And no sane person will deny it. 
He has a first-class appetite 

And means at hand to satisfy it. 

But here amidst the city's din, 

The masses live on expectations. 
And when the hunger gnaws like sin 

Are in great luck to get half rations. 

So if I had a team and cow, 

A house with front yard clover-scented, 
And forty acres tmder plow 

rd live in peace and die contented. 


96 DRIFTWOOD. 

THE BILL COLLECTOR. 

Lve had enough of life's stern fret 

To kill a dozen men ; 
I've waded deeply into debt 

And worried back again, 
My way has been an uphill stretch 

Of trackless, treeless sod : 
Each foot I've climbed some heartless wretch 

Has pulled m.e down a rod ; 
Yet cheerfully within my den 

I figure out life's "sums," 
And terror strikes me only when 

The bill collector comes. 

At home, abroad, or when at work, 

Or when prepared for play. 
Right cheerfully my coat I jerk 

And gladly whale away. 
Attempting in all ways I know 

To break the bonds of sin, 
And make this wilderness of woe 

A place worth living in. 
My spirits rise and fall, but then 

I never get the " glums " 
And fall clear down excepting when 

The bill collector comes. 

And so it is I jog along 

And pour my soul in rhymes; 
My voice somietimes attuned to song 

And not at other times. 


DRIFTWOOD. 97 

Some day when I have weary g-rown 

With work, Til lay it by, 
And wander off somewhere alone 

And plume my wings and fly 
Up there with saints and goodly men 

And halos, harps and drums, 
There'll be no further trouble when 

The bill collector comes. 


MV NEW vSILK TILE. 

The tile Eve prayed for all these year 

Ls mine, at last, to-day; 
Now w^atch me dry my falling tears — 

Ta-ra ra-boom-de-ay ! 

I smooth its glossy sides in glee, 
Its height is three-foot-nine; 

I never had a hat fit me 

Like this new "plug" of mine. 

No garment with it can compare, 

It discounts all the rest, 
But, with that hat on, I don't care 

For coat or " pants " or vest. 


To Robert Eurnas thanks I give, 

Eor this colossal gift, 
And hope that he may always live 

Eor giving me this lift. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

To-day I walk the streets in style, 
Who yesterday was scorned, 

And giddy maids and matrons smile 
On virtue thus adorned. 

No longer faithless fortune's frown 
Shall make my poor heart sick ; 

This hat is worth in any town, 
A whaling lot " on tick." 

With dignity a man can tread 
'Midst life's financial wrecks, 

And make the hat upon his head 
Redeem his worthless checks. 

Its shape and size commands respect 
For him who bears its weight; 

It makes him one of the elect 
And pretty middling great. 

It gives one an exalted sense 

Of his importance here. 
His consequential consequence 

In his peculiar sphere. 

He is no longer commonplace. 

But, in his new estate. 
Looks scornfully upon the race 

Who take their " derbys " straight. 

And so this hat was just the thing. 
For which I used to pray — 

All mine at last — now hear me sing 
Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-av I 


DRIFTWOOD. 99 

APPROBATION. 

I used to think the woman's elub 

A dangerous attraction 
But now, an artist at the tub 
I stay each week one day and scrub 
And boil and swash and rinse and rub 

With solid satisfaction. 

My wife has grown so strong and wise, 

By this new elevation, 
That, though we have no home-made pies, 
No love-light greets me from her eyes, 
The club deserves, as I surmise. 

My feeble approbation. 


CONSOLATION. 

Election is over — the fellows who won 
Are feeling as good as they can ; 

The other poor devils are wholly undone, 
And such are the sorrows of man. 

To-day we are building the castles of hope. 

In highest Corinthian art — 
But find on the morrow, like bubbles of soap. 

The structure has fallen apart. 

We feel pretty sore over happiness fled, 

But such was the voters' decree 
vSo, let us not suffer the wheels in our head 

To make thino'S seem worse than they be. 


oo DRIFTWOOD. 

Political preferment does not imply 

That virtue has won in the fight 
And some of the best of us wait till we die 

Before the world uses us right. 

We suffer and bleed for the good of the men 
Who scourge us and put us to death ; 

And, guarding the cradle of liberty, then 
They chase us and beat out our breath. 

Thank heaven our name on eternity's scroll 
Will shine like the stars in the night, 

And when Mr. Gabriel sounds the last roll 
We'll wear a great halo of light. 

A crown of pure gold, fourteen feet in the clear, 
A harp strung with threads of pure steel, 

A halo (dimensions unknown) something near 
As high as old Ferris's wheel. 

With prospects like these let us gather fresh hope, 

And never look down in despair, 
Assured for all losses of honor and " soap " 

We'll be "reimbursed" over there; 

Beyond the cold range of earth's turbulent things, 

Where all the old prophets await 
To furnish new angels with halos and wings 

And Peter presides at the gate. 

i\ssurance of sitting up there at the feast 
Of endless and nameless good cheer 

I'm thinking should fully compensate at least 
The loss of an office down here. 


DRIFTWOOD. loi 

THE VANISHED V. 

Where are the £riend.s of other years, 

The loved of long- ago ? 
I g-aze back through the streaming tears, 
But no familiar form appears, 
The echo beats upon my ears, 

Of my own wail of woe. 

I call to mind the parting day, 

And never can forget 
The last sad words of Comrade Ray; 
He said, " Old boy, I grieve to say 
I need five dollars right away! "^ — 

He has not paid it yet. 

And so I mourn, both day and night — 

There's sadness in my song- — . 
I mourn for faces out of sight, 
For darkness where there should be light, 
But if I had that five all right, 

I'd trv and o-et alonof. 


TO THE TEACHERS. 

The school ma'ams come on every train, 
(Dear girls — it gives me satisfaction, 

But not without a hidden pain — 
Once I adored you to distraction). 

The institutes of long ago 

To me were fraught with joy unbounded 
I'd walk barefooted through the snow 

To be bv such sweet charms surrounded. 


I02 DRIFTWOOD. 

But now I'm old— the years have sped 
And left their trace of care and sorrow, 

But sentmient is not yet dead 

And I'll be with you, girls, to-morrow. 

If blushes to my thin cheeks rise, 
As in the days so long departed, 

Don't taunt me with your laughing eyes 
And drive me homeward brokenhearted. 

The city bids you welcome, dears, 
A noble band of educators! — 

This is the home of prophets, seers — 
The hunting ground of legislators. 

This is the Boston of the west ; 

A college stands on every section. 
Sit down a day or two and rest — 

You do not need police protection. 

The fountain of eternal youth. 
Is here, right at our very portal, 

Drink, for I tell you of a truth, 

The taste is next thing to immortal. 

Welcome ! and may your profit be 
Great as the needs of education. 

While knotty problems have a free 
And full and fair elucidation. 

AVelcome, I give, on my own hook. 
In mem'ry of old times and places ! 

Gosh ! but it does me proud to look 
Into so manv handsome faces ! 


DRIFTWOOD. 103 


SINCE MOLLIE JOINED THE CLUB. 

This life has been an empty dream 

vSince Mollie joined the club, 
With not of hope a single g-leam 

vSince Mollie joined the club; 

My togs are worn out at the knees, 

My tattered coat-tails kiss the breeze, 

I know when winter comes I'll freeze 

Since Mollie joined the club. 

I see no more her face at night 
Since Mollie joined the club, 

The clothes she wears are out of sight 
Since Mollie joined the club. 

At daylight when the rooster crows 

She does not rise as once she rose — 

It's intellectual repose 

Since Mollie joined the club. 

I breakfast at a cheap cafe 

Since Mollie joined the club, 

At home I'd have to eat baled hay 
vSince Mollie joined the club; 

The children say she sleeps till ten 

That baby howls for hash till then — 

I'm the unhappiest of men 

vSince Mollie joined the club. 

At 10:15 I homeward trudge 

vSince Mollie joined the club, 

I know I soon shall take to budge 
Since Mollie joined the club; 


I04 DRIFTWOOD. 

1 feel like filling up with gin — 
Thus loaded I could sleep like sin, 
And not wake up to let her in 
Since ]\lollie joined the club. 

They say the world has better grown 

Since Mollie joined the club, 
Our wives will run this earth alone 

Since Mollie joined the club; 
Poor souls, for sustenance in need, 
Starved by man's cruelty and greed, 
Are free and running on full feed 
Since Mollie joined the club. 

But home is not what home should be 

vSince Mollie joined the club; 
Nobody now looks after me 

Since Mollie joined the club; 
I never get a good warm meal, 
Or kindly look, or honest deal — 
Lord, no one knows how mean I feel 
Since Mollie joined the club. 

I see great wisdom in her face 

Since Mollie joined the club. 
It gives her step an added grace 
Since Mollie joined the club; 
She now communes with sages dead 
While I am fast asleep in bed — 
No wonder we have soggy bread 
vSince Mollie joined the club. 


DRIFTWOOD 105 

My eyes are open to the lig-ht 

Since Mollie joined the club, 
I want to do what's fair and right 

vSince Mollie joined the club; 
That she has climbed so high a horse 
My only safe and sure recourse 
Is alimony and divorce 

Since Mollie joined the club. 

AIR CASTLEvS. 

A man will walk three miles at night 

To steal of unripe melons one, 
When just a block around the right 

A dollar buys a half a ton. 

And so we all from day to day 
Will wander, do and dare and die 

In search of pleasures far away. 
And miss the comforts nearer by. 

We think of heaven as a spot 

Beyond the blue ethereal dome. 
When, if we would, as like as not. 

We might attain it here at home. 

But man's a fool, no discormt net — 

He hasn't just a little sense — 
And all his happiness must get 

In the sad school — experience. 

The castles that his fathers built 

He builds with calculation cool 
And as they saw, he sees them wilt — 

That's whv I sav tliat man's a fool. 


io6 DRIFTWOOD. 


OLE'vS HEROISM. 

The boy stood on the burning deck — 

The rest of them had fled — 
The flames that ht the battle wreck 

Rose higher than his head. 

He was obedient and good, 

And hadn't much to say, 
But kept serenely sawing wood 

To pass the time away. 

He called aloud, "Ay, say, may boss, 

Dese bane too hot fare may I 
Yo' don't cum poorty quvick I yoost 

Skall yump ento de say! " 

He little knew that down below • 

His father slept in death ; 
That it had been a month or so 

wSince he had drawn a breath. 

Once more he cried in accents low, 
" Dese smoke he bane so tick 

Ay tank may ef ay don't skall go. 
He make may poorty sick." 

Then came a burst of thunder sound 
With wondrous power and speed. 

But the noblest remnants scattered round 
Were the limbs of that youne Swede. 


DRIFTWOOD. 107 


AvSPIRATION. 


I'll to the sanctuary go, 

This blessed Sabbath day, 
Where Jordan's healing waters flow, 

That wash our sins away. 

For am I sorely hedged about 
With vices great and small, 

And vainly strive to struggle out 
And perch on Zion's wall. 

So long my feet have walked astray, 

If any one should ask, 
To keep the straight and narrow way 

Is quite an awkward task. 

It's nip and tuck to make the race. 
Against such odds as these. 

And hit a steady, winning pace, 
Without a favored breeze. 

My soul aspires to higher things 
Than this world has in store ; 

I sometimes long to put on wings 
And fly and flit and soar; 

To view the city fair and fine 
And walk its pearly street, 

Nor be confronted with the sign 
" Please pay before you eat." 


io8 DRIFTWOOD. 


CONVINCED AT LAST. 

At last am I conquered, converted, 
Convinced by mere logical force, 

The woman's club is, as asserted, 
Great stuff, as a matter of course. 

M}" wife has grown mentally stronger 
Since she has embraced the new fad; 

Her reach is a little bit longer 
And I have less hair than I had. 

Last night when I came home from meeting, 

Revived by the spirit of truth. 
And hoped for an old-fashioned greeting. 

So freely bestowed in my youth, 

vShe met me with haughty demeanor 
That filled me with infinite dread ; 

Be darned if I ever had seen'er 

vSo mad since the day we were wed. 

All vain were my piteous pleadings, 
A clear waste of words to beseech, 

She gave me six weeks of "club readings" 
\\\ one awful ten-minute speech. 

She called me a snake and a lizard, 

A bacillioginous lout, 
vShe belted me over the gizzard 

And pasted me one in the snout. 


DRIFTWOOD. 109 

" O, woman," I moaned in my sorrow, 

" Though only a masculine knave, 
Let up, I implore, till to-morrow 

And I'll 0-0 and dig me a grave! 

'' I ])ray you be just and forgiving 

And henceforth your dutiful hub 
Has only one object in living 

And that is to strengthen the club." 

That speech showed my skill diplomatic. 

As one may with justice infer; 
vShe sent me to bed in the attic. 

While victory roosted with her. 

Hereafter this fact may be noted 

(The compact shall date from to-day) 

To woman's clubs I am devoted 
And nut in a half-hearted way. 

It makes the nerves buoyant and steady. 

And each little feminine spat 
Makes clubwomen willing and ready 

To fight at the drop of the hat. 

Those grand intellectual graces. 

That spring from the readings sublime, 

Have smoothed the sharp tracks in their faces, 
Marked there by the ruins of time. 

And, woman, my ardor forgiving, 

I pray you abandon the tub. 
For life is unworthy the living 

Unless vou belong to the club. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


LIFE'S BATTLE. 

I mourn not for the vanished years, 
Though death is on my trade, 

But all the stuff I've blown for beers — 
I'd like to get that back. 

It is not that the silent grave 

Before me seems to yawn, 
My bank account — that's why I rave — 

Is slightly overdrawn. 

Thoughts of eternity's dark brink 
To some bring dire dismay, — 

I only shudder when I think 
Of bills I cannot pay. 

Leaves have their time to fall and rot 
And man his life to give — 
makes me tremble at the thought 
Of managing to live. 

The preacher says, " Prepare you must 
To meet an angry Lord " — 

It takes the time of most of us 
To meet our bills for board. 

If rich and prosperous we might 

Salvation's proffer try — 
Instead we labor day and night 

To LIVE until we die. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


NOAH AND THE FLOOD. 

Long years ago, before the days of steam and tele- 
graph, 
Before the prodigal returned to eat the fatted calf, 
A multitude of years before the wise King Solomon 
Had reared his costly temple, with its spires that kissed 

the sun, 
Ere Samson slew the Phillistines with jawbones, there 

appeared 
A flood of such dimensions that the oldest settlers feared 
'Twould drown the whole creation, from the greatest to 

the least. 
Except, perhaps, the fishes — well, old Noah gave a feast, 
Inviting all his neighbors to come in and share his 

spread ; 
And while they drank his hoine-made wine and ate beef- 
steak he said: 
' ' My friends, and fellow-citizens — the fact to me is 

plain. 
Unless this dry spell hangs right on, we're going to have 

some rain, 
And Fm impressed that it will be no ordinary thing; 
I more expect to see it stay right with us through the 

spring. 
Yon mighty river sweeping by in majesty sublime 
Ls as a rivulet to-day— just wait until the time 
That it has rained, say forty days and forty nights — I 

think 
The peaks of those tall mountains will not reach above 

the brink. 


ri2 DRIFTWOOD. 

Now you can do as you think best, but rig-ht here let mc 

say 
That while the sun is shining- is the time to put up hay; 
I'll build a craft of seasoned oak and cover it with bark 
With room enough to store my sheep and cattle in the ark ; 
For, should it, as I fear, turn out a universal rain, 
I want to be prepared, you know, to "stock the farm 

again. " 
vSo, Mr. Noah and his sons and sons-in-law as well 
Went right to work, and night and day the heavy ham- 
mers fell, 
Until the vessel was complete as anything could be, 
And warranted to stand the storms on any kind of sea. 
Then Noah and the boys went out and rounded up the 

stock. 
And chose from every kind a pair, nor missed a^single 

flock; 
The wild beasts of the forest, smelling something in the 

wind 
Came up and clambered the gang-plank, a pair of every 

kind; 
And when the boat was loaded quite with bird and beast 

and fowl, 
Then Noah took the folks on deck, and hallooed " Let'r 

howl! " 
And, sure enough, a heavy rain began at once to fall. 
But neighbors laughed and said it wouldn't rain much 

after all ; 
The night came on, then morning broke, but still it 

poured and poured 
And Mrs. Noah said, '' I'm glad we brought the stove on 

board." 


DRIFTWOOD. 1 13 

At eight-fifteen a neiglibor passed, his clothes wet 

through and through ; 
He called aloud, "Say, Noah, is this wet enough for 

you ? " 
That man is still alive, for since the late persistent rain 
Has pattered, pattered, night and day, upon each win- 
dow pane, 
The same voice that accosted Father Noah and his crew. 
Has questioned everybody, "Is this wet enough for 
you ? " 


WHICH ROAD? 

Now nightly on the frosty street 
I see the "army" come, 

I hear the patter of their feet, 
Their tambourine and drum. 

I see the sinner go his way, 

Unmindful of the call. 
And wonder if at judgment day 

He'll show up, after all. 

Or will the wicked man who dies 

As he has lived, in sin, 
Be burned to ashes where he lies 

And never live " agin " ? 

Is immortality for those 
Alone who join the church, 

And are the rest, do you suppose. 
Forever in the lurch ? 


114 DRIFTWOOD. 

I've done some sinning now and then, 

And sadly I repent, 
But I expect to sin again — 

At least to some extent ; 

For man is weak and prone to lean 

Upon forbidden stays, 
And no exceptions have I seen 

In all of my born days. 

Now what I want to know is this. 
Before I am called hence, 

Where is the road to perfect bliss. 
And what is the expense ? 

If there's a land of future bliss 
I want to make the trip ; 

If not, the "army" boys in this 
vShould pack their drums and skip. 


FADvS IN SCHOOL. 

I love to hear the children sing. 

And know that they can paint a chigger. 
But mathematics is the thing 

To serve them when they want to ' ' figger. 

I wish they'd drop the useless fads 
That take up time without requiting. 

And give our little girls and lads 
Instructions in the art of writing. 


DRIFTWOOD. 115 

If teachers do not like to be 

So criticised in public places, 
I pray that they will come to me 

And let me roast them to their faces. 

A pupil of these schools of late, 

Who hopes some day to go to college, 

Is bent of form and bald of pate, 
Awaiting- rudimental knowledge. 

He learns to march, to mould in clay. 

And sing — that fact there is no dodging — 

His parents then, grown old and gray. 
Depend on him for food and lodging. 


NO DEATH. 

Good Elijah was a fellow 

Free from taint of vice or crime. 
With a heart and soul as mellow 

As a mushroom all the time. 

He was one among the chosen. 
Pure without and white within ; 

Not one person in a dozen 

So abhorred the thought of sin. 

And the story is related 

That Elijah did not die. 
He was bundled up and freighted. 

Boots and breeches, to the sky. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And he left no trace behind him 

Of his mortal hair and hide. 
And the ones that tried to find him 

Could not think that he had died. 

I have worked on the cadaver, 
When I had to hold my breath, 

And can say, without palaver, 

That I don't think much of death. 

And a subject for dissection 

I should rather hate to be. 
Though my friends might give direction 

That way to dispose of me. 

If I can control the forces 

Of creation I shall wire 
For a sky-blue span of horses 

And a chariot of fire. 

And I'll take my trip up yonder 

Just as good Elijah did, 
While my friends and neighbors wonder 

Where in blazes I have hid. 


"DOWN WITH DISEASE." 

In sore distress not long ago 
I called on Dr. " Mc " ; 

I had a corn upon each toe, 
A badly broken back. 


* Dr. J, S. JNIcAUister issued an address to the sick with the 
above heading, and called upon all invalids to get in out of the 
wet and receive good health at his hands at a nominal cost. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

One eye was out, the other blind, 

My liver would not act, 
The convolutions of my mind 

Were palsied, for a fact ; 

I had enlarg-ement of the heart, 

A cancer of the nose, 
Past all relief by human art. 

As one might well suppose. 

For ages I had sought relief, 
But 'twas no use to try — 

The doctors added to my grief 
And gave me up to die. 

Then to McAllister I "goes," 

Believing all he said ; 
He took the corns from off my toes 

And straightened up my head ; 

The cataract he carved that day 
And put in one new eye — 

To read fine print a mile away 
I scarcely have to try. 

He deftly opened up my side — 
That was his winning trump — 

Cut out my heart and just supplied 
An automatic pump. 

He cleared my liver with a hose 
And made its action grand, 

Then took the cancer from my nose 
By magic sleight of hand. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

He made me fat and ruddy-faced 
Who once was lean and slim ; 

My confidence was not misplaced- 
I owe my life to him. 

This testimony that I bring 
Is of his matchless worth, 

And I shall never cease to sing 
His praises while on earth. 

He has the only balm and salve 

For every ill that is, 
And I would give all that I have 

For such a head as his. 


THE STREET CORNER STATESMAN 

The farmer statesman comes to town 
And spends his spare time now. 

The while his wife, in faded gown, 
vSets out to milk the cow. ' 

She cleans the stable, feeds the kine. 
Of hen's eggs goes in quest — 

He lumbers in at half past nine, 
And kindly does the rest. 

There's evidence on every hand — 

It almost takes my breath — 
While some men work to save the land 

Their poor wives work to death. 


DRIFTWOOD. 119 

MINNESOTA'S DESOLATION. 

The forest fires have died away 

And those wlio met tlie flame 
Will crumble back to senseless clay 

Much faster than they came. 

And through the charred and smoky trail 

The winter winds will moan, 
While those who fled before the gale 

Will suffer on alone. 

It matters not- — we all must go 

And leave our friends in gloom, 
And soon the winter's chilling snow 

Will drift above our tomb. 

And other forms and faces spread 

Where ours were wont to gleam ; 
I guess we're better off when dead — 

This life is but a dream. 


MARY'S HUSBAND. 

I seldom see my wife, dear sirs, 

I miss her fond caress, 
But mem'ry of that voice of hers 

Consoles me in distress. 

By night I seem to hear her call 
The cows three miles away. 

And when the daylight comes her bawl 
Assures me it is day. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

Imagination brings to mind, 

In almost wild alarm, 
When our finances ran behind 

Upon the dear old farm. 

The old sod house — the dog and gun- 
My side — the same old stitch — 

And Mary Ellen on the run 
With voice at concert pitch, 

A-chasing cattle from the oats 
And then without a pause, 

A-rushing back to feed the shotes 
And cuss the nation's laws. 

But Mary Ellen always was 

A faithful wife to me, 
And I'll not go to picking flaws 

Because we don't agree. 

It was her money set me up 

In business at this place. 
And there's a fortune in this cup 

And old prescription case. 

In paints and oils I also deal 

And that removes the sin 
And stain of what I always steal 

In big per cents on gin. 

By talking, Mary makes the cash 

That all our fears disarm. 
And watered whiskey beats to smash 

The profits of a farm. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

And while her mellow voice I miss, 
And grieve from day to day, 

I'm willing to keep on like this 
As long as it will pay. 

While Mary's voice is good and strong 
And profit brings the while, 

I'll try somehow to get along 
Without her sunny smile. 

And though I cannot hear her beef, 

Her oft-told tale of woe 
Is consolation to my grief, 

For what it yields in "dough." 


TO MYRA E. OLMSTEAD. 

Of course I am anxious and willing 
My wife should develop her mind, 

And I have blown many a shilling 
For books of the classical kind. 

I wish you might see the collection. 

Of history, science and art, 
I bought to give upward direction 

To her indestructible heart. 

And they were a constant attraction 

That kept me at home — don't you see ?- 

Explaining to her satisfaction 

Abstractions "too many" for me. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

Her mind has developed like thunder 
Since joining- the ckib, I confess; 

Her lectures to me are a wonder 
And fill me with mental distress. 

Before that she almost would eat ine 
When parting at evening and morn, 

And now she does nothing but treat me 
With cold, intellectual scorn. 

The children are sorely neglected, 
Uncombed is the hair on each head. 

Had this been foreseen or expected 
Be darned if I ever had wed. 

She knows all that Darwin professes. 
She's long on the knowledge of Rome 

And science that Huxley possesses, 
But short on the science of home. 

Her mind, I presume, has grown stronger, 
Great truths are so woven in it 

That housewifely duties no longer 
Concern her the least little bit. 

Her youthful attractions have faded 
From late hours and deep study both, 

She makes up for bod}^ so jaded 
By great intellectual growth. 

Of course I am proud of her knowledge, 
But don't think so much of the cost, 

For women break down in that college 
And all their good learning is lost. 


DRIFTWOOD. 123 

The home is our country's salvation, 

And that's why I shudder to think 
How women are saving the nation 

By driving- their husbands to drink. 

By letting- their wealth of affection 
For home at the club room dissolve, 

While talking- with rising inflection 
On problems that no one can solve. 


TREASURES BEYOND. 

Cast your bread upon the ocean. 
On the wild sea cast your bread ; 

It will yield you, I've a notion, 
vSatisfaction when you're dead. 

Blocks of land nor herds of cattle 
Can with righteousness compare, 

When your shrunken dry bones rattle 
And your home is over there. 

What we need, oh, craven mortals. 
Is the wealth no man can buy — 

Bank drafts sent though heaven's portals, 
Credit vouchers stored on high. 

Life on earth is short, my brother. 

Fleeting as a summer song. 
But t?ie happiness of t'other 

Lasts thedevilknowshowlong. 


124 DRIFTWOOD. 

And to lay up riches yonder 

Should our earnest thoughts employ, 

For our earthly kin will squander 
All we pile up here, my boy. 


THAT TIRED FEELIXG. 

Some years ago, when I was young, 

And lived upon the farm, 
I used to chase the hills among 

Without a thought of harm ; 
The blood coursed freely through each vein. 

My appetite was great, 
I suffered not a single pain, 

But always felt first-rate. 
Through storm or shine, it mattered not, 

I always bared my brow 
And faced the worst, but I have got 

That tired feeling now. 

Before me all the world looked fair — 

O, days, return again ! 
I never dreamed of tainted air, 

I loved my fellow-men; 
My fellow- women I adored. 

With such platonic grace. 
That those dear angels could afford 

To trust me any place. 
My latter days with pain are fraught, 

I feel morose and sad. 
And don't deny that I have got 

That tired feeling bad. 


DRIFTWOOD. 125 


TREE PLANTING. 

Then go with me and plant a tree 
Upon the old school section, 

And watch it grow when ice and snow 
Come down for our inspection. 

For what can please like thrifty trees 
That keep all winter growing, 

Whose branches spread wide overhead 
And stop the wind from blowing ? 

In spring we tap for maple sap 

The oak tree in its glory, 
While acorns drop from out the top 

Of poplars tall and hoary. 

From out the sod of prairies broad 

Let tamarack and sages 
Grow tall and grand to bless the land 

Through all the coming ages. 

Who plants a tree will some day see 
The fruits of his endeavor. 

And, way up there, a halo wear 
Forever and forever. 


THE GOOD OLD WAY. 

Do not neglect the means of grace. 

But, stranger, let me see 
Your rounded form and cheerful face 

At church along with me. 


126 DRIFTWOOD. 

There let us sing the hymns we sang 
When you and I were young, 

To old-time minor tunes that rang 
Our native hills among. 

We may not sing them right out loud 
In accents shrill and clear, 

But we can breathe them in a crowd 
So low that none can hear. 

And call from out the faded past, 
Long buried 'neath the snow, 

vSweet faces from the silence vast — 
The ghosts of long ago. 

The anthem with the long ah-men, 

The operatic gush, 
Has changed the thisness of the then 

Like solid ice to slush. 

The so-called sacred s^miphony 

Inclines to make me hot. 
And anthems do not wake in me 

One reverential thought. 

Their knees the preachers used to press 
To earth as humble " worms," 

But now they stand up and address 
The Lord on equal terms. 

And should He have a second birth 
They scarce would hear His tread. 

Nor speak to Him who had on earth 
Not where to lay His head. 


DRIFTWOOD. T27 

Unless his salary is paid, 

Unless his sermons "draw," 
The modern preacher quits his trade 

To try his hand at law, 

And does not seem to quite possess, 

With its seraphic fires. 
The measure of unselfishness 

The sacred law requires. 

Yet will I go to church this day 

And lay aside my grief, 
And do my level best to pray, 

" Lord, help my unbelief ; 

" Remove the motes my optics out 

That I may clearly see. 
And then I'll try and be about 

As good as I can be." 


THE "WEALERS." 

Let Coxey's commonweals disperse, 

Eor howsoe'er well meant. 
Their demonstrations make things worse 

By forty-five per cent. 

It fills this country with distrust 

To see men pass the mart 
With "On to Washington, or bust," 

And "busted" when they start. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

It menaces the public peace 

And makes the whole world hiss 

When proselytes of Mary Lease 
Go on a tramp like this. 

The needy I would not deride, 

For have I not fared slim ? 
And I am willing to divide 

My bread and meat with him. 

But trouble does not come to stay 

With any honest man 
Who keeps despondency at bay 

And does the best he can. 

For such as he kind friends are near 

When business seems to lag, 
To whisper counsel in his ear 

And fill his jeans with swag. 

But men who follow in the lead 
Of Coxey, Browne, and such, 

AVho work the country for their feed 
And cripple those they "touch," 

Are doing more to keep times dead 

Than any cause in sight. 
While wheels roll round in each fat head 

All day and then all night. 

You've no idea how I have laughed, 
Though sad it makes me feel, 

To see so many go plumb daft 
On Coxey's commonweal. 


DRIFTWOOD, ' 129 


PERFECT PEACE. 

Contentment is a thing that sets 

The weary heart at rest, 
And reconciles one to his debts 

And soothes his troubled breast. 

But when a fellow owes us cash, 

We'd rather, I'm afraid, 
Submit to see his conscience lash 

Until the debt is paid. 

So goes this wicked world hotbent, 
Toil, troubles, loss and gain. 

And what to one man brings content 
Gives someone else a pain. 

No perfect rest and peace is found 
Until, with friends who weep. 

We reach the dark house underground 
And tumble in and sleep. 


THE NUISANCE. 

I can sit in a car with the man who smoke? 

And nothing my glad soul frets, 
Until there is mingled with bearded joke:, 

The odor of cigarettes. 

An odor suggestive of boorish ways, 
The swagger and manners rude 

So characteristic of those who play 
The role of a Broadway dude. 


,3o DRIFTWOOD. 

Oh, the lubberly dude with a single brain 
And his hat on his right ear thrown ; 

It gives me the rasp of a mighty pain 
To see him turned out alone. 

To know how the world must fume and fret 

And suffer and die, my dear, 
So long as the dude and his cigarette 

Is running at large down here. 


GLORIOUS NEBRASKA. 

Oh, the balm-laden air in Nebraska, 
That rests on the land in the fall, 

There is nothing from here to Alaska ' 
Compared with its glories at all. 

And its leaves painted crimson and yellow, 
That drop from the hickory tree, 

Red pumpkins and such make a fellow 
As happy as happy can be. 

But the sunset's red glow — did you ever 

See anything grander below ? 
It tells of a land where they never 

Have sorrow or sickness or — snow. 

Its splendor no artist can measure, 
With stencil or cra}^on or paint ; 

It furnishes infinite pleasure 

To prophet and sinner and saint. 


DRIFTWOOD. 131 

This land of Nebraska in autumn 

Has glories almost without end ; 
Name any attractions, we've got 'em, 

And don't you forget it, my friend. 


LONGING. 

The coming Christmas will to me 

No added comfort bring. 
Except the knowledge that we " be ' 

just one week nearer spring. 

When hollyhocks will bloom again 
And robins chirp in song, 

And these Salvation Army men 
Get up and move along. 

I like their bold assaults on sin 
Inside their walled retreat, 

But darn the everlasting din 
They make upon the street! 

The very horses snort in fright. 
The while their drum-beats roll. 

And I can't make it seem just right 
To save my sinless soul. 

That we may have an early spring- 
Is all the boon I crave, 

If not, O come on swiftest wing 
And trot me out a grave. 


32 DRIFTWOOD. 

FATHER'S VOICE. 

Only dreaming- — nothing more — 
Back again, so many years, 

Herding sheep — 'twas when the war 
Filled the land with blood and tears. 

Just a little boy again, 

Chasing sheep with brother John — 
(Both of lis are grown up men 

And the years creep on and on). 

But I dreamt with strange delight 

Of the scenes of long ago, 
There the woodland to onr right. 

There the cherry grove below; 

There the school house by the lane, 
AVhere I learned my A B C's; 

There the clearing where the grain 
Nodded to the summer breeze ; 

There the happy childhood home. 

There the sheep-vShed long and wide, 

There the creek that tossed its foam 
'Gainst the rocks on either side. 

In my dream I saw it all. 

Lived my childhood hours in one, 

Heard the voice of father call, 
" It is daylight — come, my son! " 

O'er his grave the rain and snow 
Many years have fallen deep. 

And I only see him now — 
Only hear him in my sleep. 


DRIFTWOOD. 133 

And the old home doesn't seem 

As it did in other years, 
Only when I sleep and dream, 

Dreams of joy to wake in tears. 

When upon the bed of death 

I, at last, am called to lie, 
And my slowly ebbing breath 

Comes with labored sob and sigh. 

I can in my pain rejoice 

That my last day's work is done 

If I hear my father's voice — 

" It is daylight— conie, my son ! " 

AN EXPLANATION. 

The woman's club, as seen with my new eyes, 
"Old," I should say since given such a blacking, 

Was formed to make both men and women wise; 
In nothing consequential is it lacking. 

Except no man can enter if he tries. 

No matter what his record or his backing ; 

And that is why I thought it was my mission 

To wage a war of candid opposition. 

I thought at first to drown the club in song 

And tuned my harp, the merry echoes waking, 

Nor dreamt it would be doing an}^ wrong 
To give the girls a little friendly "shaking," 

But, here they come, about ten thousand strong — 
What wonder to the timber I am taking ? 

Hell hath no fury — I'm convinced of it — 

Like women when their heads are turned a bit. 


134 DRIFTWOOD. 

Each mail contains of poems, good and bad, 
Enough to tax the patience of old Grover ; 

Some make me laugh and others are so sad 
I swim in tear-drops as I look them over; 

'Tis strange how just a foolish little fad 
To womankind seems like a field of clover 

Or crystal palace, high above the rabble. 

Where those who feel that way can meet and gabble. 

I'm now convinced the club is just the thing; 

(You see I do not lack in craft and cunning) 
And I shall much prefer its praise to sing 

Than be a target for their awkward gunning ; 
I beg that now no one will pull the string 

And let their arrow fly while I am running, 
For thus assailed, it baffles honest dodges, 
And might do heavy damage when it lodges. 


STORY OF JONAH. 

It was in the month of April, many centuries gone b}^ 
Before America had been discerned by mortal eye. 
All nations were uncivilized from Bering sea to Spain, 
From Sodom to St. Petersburg and half way back again. 
About this time Herr Jereboam was ruler of the land 
And went about his kingdom with a coach and four-in- 
hand. 
The grossest wickedness was rife — all men defied the 

law — 
And it was said to Jonah: "You must go to Nineveh, 


DRIFTWOOD. ^-T^s 

And tell the people, high and low, of certain wrath ta 

come — 
Bring every man and child to terms before you strike 

for home." 
But Jonah didn't like the deal — he sought a softer 

snap — 
And, after searching till he found the latest railroad map,. 
He thus addressed his weeping wife : " My dear, 1 think 

it best 
For me to go to foreign parts and take a few weeks" 

rest. 
To-morrow, if the weather is propitious, I will sail 
From Joppa — do not worry. I will write you every 

mail; 
The truth is, dear, I must escape from taking any hand 
In spreading civilizing light through this benighted land. 
Let some one else, with stronger frame, take the allotted 

task, 
And give me two months' stroll abroad is everything I 

ask." 
At half past ten the boat pulled out, with Jonah safe on 

deck; 
wSoon, fast asleep, he little dreamed of danger and vShip- 

wreck. 
A storm came up, the winds blew fierce and waves 

rolled high and deep. 
The rigging cracked and sailors howled, but Jonah lost 

no sleep. 
At last the captain, water soaked and filled with mighty 

fear, 
Looked down and saw the sleeping man and hallooed 

in his ear: 


136 DRIFTWOOD. 

" Hi, there! wake up, yon sinful wretch, and tell us why 


von snore 


I half believe your presence is the cause of all this war 
Among the raging elements — come, get a move on you ! 
Wake up, turn out, and lend a hand to help the worn 

out crew! " 
He stretched and gaped and yawned aloud and rubbed 

his sleepy eyes ; 
Then looked around with undisguised amazement and 

surprise. 
Reflecting on the state of things he caught on in a 

minute. 
And sadly said, " Here, gentlemen, this boat, while I am 

in it. 
Will never have a moment's peace — there's but one 

thing to do — 
Throw me into the brine — I'll die to save the rest of 

you ! ' ' 
Four stalwart sailors buckled in and, with a heave-o-he, 
The mortal form of Jonah threw ker-plimk into the 

sea. 
A hungry catfish sized him up and, with distended jaws, 
Approached and gulped him down without a thought of 

whom he was. 
Imprisoned in the stomach of this monster of the deep, 
Poor Jonah sat him down awhile to meditate and weep. 
He thought of all his past career, of how he tried to 

sneak 
Away from honest duty, and a tear bedewed his cheek ; 
And there and then he proinised, if he ever got on 

shore. 
He'd labor in the vinevard of his master ever more. 


DRIFTWOOD. 137 

Meantime the fish was taken siclc and seemed about to 
die — 

The dinner of three days before would not digest, and 
why ? 

The reason was self-evident ; it was no earthly use 

To think that sin and clothes could be dissolved in gas- 
tric juice. 

Forthwith the fish approached the land, within a league 
or more, 

Oagged once, heaved twice and landed Jonah safe upon 
the shore. 

And Jonah kept his promise, for he started out to 
preach. 

Proclaiming joyful tidings to all men within his reach. 

Success was with him from the start; he never lost his 
hold 

Till every soul in Nineveh was safe within the fold. 

Now, mark the change ! When trouble overtakes a mod- 
ern man, 

And no escape seems possible by any earthly plan. 

Like Jonah, he will promise better things, if one more 
chance 

Is given as an answer to his humble " song and dance. " 

But let the wave of trouble spew him out upon the 
strand, 

And all his resolutions are as shifting as the sand. 

Since then when April comes about and people congre- 
gate 

Upon the river banks to fish and heavy yarns relate. 

Both old and young have striven to concoct a fishing- 
tale 

More taxing to credulity than Jonah and the whale. 


138 DRIFTWOOD. 


HOUSE CLEANING. 

Now cleaning honse is all the rage 

Tear up the carpet wide, 
Give me a club and I'll engage 

In walloping its hide. 

This is a time that fills me up 

With terrors all its own, 
And drives me to the flowing cup 

And makes my spirit groan. 

It fills my lungs with poison dirt, 

It drives me to despair! 
There's soot upon my linen shirt 

And cobwebs in my hair. 

Disorder reigns in every room; 

No wonder I feel blue, 
vSurrounded thus with doubt and gloom 

And bedbug poison, too. 

I go to bed to snarl and growl 

And cough and sneeze and swear. 

And lie there blinking like an owl 
And breathing tainted air. 

I wonder if the life to be 

Has any of these woes ; 
If so, I'll none of it for me — 

Annihilation o-oes ! 


DRIFTWOOD. 139 


A BLEvSvSED MAN. 

That man is blessed beyond compare 
Who always holds his temper down, 

Who does not lie nor cheat nor swear 
Nor kick and kick about the town ; 

Who wears a face of sweet content, 
No matter how the times provoke, 

And feels good when he has a cent 
And just the same when he is broke ; 

Who patient works each day along. 
His glad heart full enough to burst, 

And fills the neighborhood with song 
And whistles when he feels the worst. 

That one who down life's weary way, 

Though poor in purse and plain of dress, 

But conquers self from day to day 
Has made of life a grand success. 

But what of him who frets and stews 
And wears a scowl upon his face, 

And gives the very air the blues, 
And never tries to take a brace ? 

Who frets away from morn till night. 
And hates the melody of song. 

And feels as bad when things go right. 
As some folks do when things go wrong 


I40 DRIFTWOOD. 

Who has no sort of feelings in 

Things that concern the common weal, 

And only lives to hoard up tin 

AVhere sordid thieves break in and steal? 

Though dressed in broadcloth, neat and trim, 
Possessed of wealth and free from debt, 

At death it can be said of him 
His life has been a failure, net. 


DISTRAUGHT. 

I am not always at my best, 

Some days I cannot write 
My weary brain goes off in quest 

Of something out of sight ; 

Of forms and faces dear to me 

In times of long ago, 
Now sleeping 'neath the vine and tree — 

The sunlight and the snow. 

I often wonder, after all, 

If life is worth the cost. 
Since Father Adam's fateful fall 

When all the world was lost. 

The loves and friendships born down here 

So quickly pass away. 
And all the joys that make life dear 

But blossom to decay. 


DRIFTWOOD. 141 

And when the thought of heavenly bliss 

Makes light on earth our load, 
We grieve to see so many miss 

The strait and narrow road. 

And so betwixt the duplex ills 

That all my pleasures rob, 
I feel like taking morphine pills 

And giving up the job. 

But when I think of future woe, 

I take another tack. 
And call the doctor, for I know 

My liver's out of whack. 

TO A DEAD DOG. 

I am sitting, sad and weeping, 

Where the pumpkin vines are creeping 

And the hollyhocks are sleeping 

In this garden spot so lone, 
For 'twas here, among the clover. 
Something like a year or over 
That my bob-tailed bull- dog. Rover, 

Choked to death upon a bone. 

Oh, he was a self-made creature. 
Of majestic form and feature 
And as gentle as a preacher 

When he chose to be sedate. 
But he'd make the night air quiver 
Like the rushing of a river 
And he'd pulverize his liver 

If a tramp slid through the gate. 


42 DRIFTWOOD. 

Now my poor old dog is taking 

The last sleep '' that knows no waking," 

And with grief my heart is breaking, 

And his mellow voice I miss. 
But I hope to see old Rover 
Chasing vagrants through the clover 
When the storm of life is over, 

In a better land than this. 

A BROKEN ROMANCE. 

It was night and the silence of darkness 
Hung over the world like a pall, 

And solitude stretched its dark fingers 
O'er forest and river and hall. 

All hushed was the voice of the wild wind 
And naught broke the stillness complete 

Except the low murmur of waters 

That bathed the white sand at their feet. 

Together they sat in the darkness, 

These lovers with hand clasped in hand. 

And each felt a strong thrill of passion, 
The heart can alone understand. 

But hark ! a strange sound in the distance 
A step like the tread of a horse. 

And ears drop to catch the position 
And mark its precarious course. 

" I have it ! " the youth whispered hoarsely 
And planted a kiss on her snout ; 

'' That hoof is your dad's for a dollar — 
Excuse me, I'll have to light out." 


DRIFTWOOD. 143 


FAITH. 


That it has been denied me all these years 

Is a misfortune — for the falling- tears 

Have dropped on faces long since gone before 

That, doubt has whispered, I might see no more. 

In vain I've pleaded for one ray of light 

To pierce the gloom — one star to deck the night, 

But one assurance has my spirit blessed 

I know, or I think I know, they are at rest. 

There'd be small comfort in the thought to me 

That some must roast throughout eternity. 

While others, full of faith, but no more pure, 

Are happy viewing their discomfiture. 

These cruel creeds that good men carp about 

Afford me half the elements of doubt; 

The other half is not alone for me — 

Most people doubt unless they hear or see. 

If I could pierce the everlasting gloom 

And catch one little glimpse beyond the tomb, 

Or feel upon my cheek the gentle kiss 

Of one whose lips had pressed my face in this; 

If in the silence I might sometime hear 

My dear dead baby whisper in my ear, 

Or father's voice above the din and strife, 

I think I would not doubt a future life. 

But maybe it is best that we should grope, 

Half-hopeless, yet not always lost to hope. 

And wake, perhaps, to find when we are dead 

That life, with us, has just begun, instead. 


144 DRIFTWOOD. 


THEY ALL COME. 

The friends of my youth have all left me — 
In silence and sadness to weep — 

Oh, why have the fates so bereft me ? 
Oh, why do I wail in my sleep ? 

Though lonely one great consolation 

My grief -laden senses afford, 
" 'Twixt now and their next year's " vacation, 

I won't have to pay for their board. 

The friends of my youth are all living — 
Not one to the grave has gone down — 

And Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, 
They all come to visit the town ; 

They come on the train in the morning 
With bundles and babies immense, 

And I must prepare without warning, 
A boarding house free of expense. 

They stay when they come, without reason. 
They do me for meal after meal ; 

That's why I wear clothes out of season, 
And look all run down at the heel. 

The friends of my youth, I am wishing 
AVould give me a little more rope. 

Take their recreation a-fishing 
And let me accumulate "soap." 


DRIFTWOOD. T45 


ODE TO A HEN. 

Of robin and bluebird and linnet, 
Spring poets write page after page, 

Their praises are sounded each minute 
By prophet, soothsayer and sage ; 

But not since the stars sang together, 

Not since the creation of men, 
Has any one drawn a goose feather 

In praise of the patient old hen. 

All honor and praise to the singing 

That cheers up the wildwood in spring— 

The old recollections oft bringing 
Of childhood and that sort of thing; 

But dearer to me than the twitter 

Of robin or martin or wren 
Is that motherly cluck when a litter 

Of chickens surround the old hen. 

And her midwinter cackle, how cheery, 
Above the new nest she has made, 

It notifies hearts all aweary 

Another fresh ^<g<g has been laid; 

And when the old bird waxes heavy 

And aged and lazy and fat, 
Well cooked with light dumplings and gravy 

There's great consolation in that. 


146 DRIFTWOOD. 


AWAY DOWN YONDER. 

We are weary pilgrims toiling- for our daily bread and 

butter, 
And the thorny road we travel and the griefs we cannot 

utter 
Fill the span of life with sorrow as adown its hill we 

wander ; 
But there's always joy in thinking of the rest away down 

yonder, 
Where they sleep whose gentle voices linger still in 

dream and vision ; 
Whose sweet faces in the shadows seem to smile from 

lands Elysian ; 
And the world is bathed in glory and we bid farewell to 

sorrow. 
And the heavy load grows lighter in the thoughj: of rest 

to-morrow. 


SELF-vSACRIFICE. 

The bloomers add no beauty to the female form divine, 

But these new-fashioned women will advance ; 
If emancipation notions ever strike that wife of mine 

She is welcome to my Sunday broadcloth pants. 
She can have my broadcloth breeches, she can have my 
coat and vest, 

She can have my laundered linen and all that ; 
vShe can have my stand-up collars and new necktie and 
the rest, 

But be darned if she can have my stovepipe hat.* 

*I must wear something-. 


DRIFTWOOD. 147 

PLD TIMES. 

How time flies on and on and on — it scarcely seems a day 
Since at the old farm by the lake we children used to 

play. 
Strange that I could not bring myself to realize it then^ 
How soon "us" thoughtless boys would be full-grown 

and bearded men. 
Yet often when, in boyish sport, a little war arose, 
That ended in a free-for-all of well directed blows, 
Our mother with a tear-stained face would say, ' ' Oh, 

boys, do right ! 
You'll not be long together and I grieve to see you fight ! 
Deal gently with each other, now, for when the years 

are gone 
'Twill grieve each heart most deeply at the way you 

carr}' on. " 
T see it now all clear enough, the partings, far from gay, 
As one by one the boys grew up and went from home to 

stay ; 
The short and sad reunion when the telegram was read, 
Announcing, unexpectedly, this only, "Father's dead.'' 
Since then each one has walked alone in life his chosen 

track, 
And three have wandered through the gate that never 

opens back ; 
And all are growing old and gray and soon must gath- 
ered be 
Where saints in glory whoop it up throughout eternity. 
In looking backward through the mists and cobwebs of 

my brain. 
The little tilts of boyhood life are all revived again. 


148 DRIFTWOOD. 

I see the bloodless battle-grounds where many a coat 

was shed 
And almost feel again the "pelts" on my defenseless 

head. 
I mark again the picnic ground, where, for some foolish 

break, 
My brother Maurice deemed it best to duck me in the 

lake. 
And all the bitter feelings then engendered I dismiss 
And look upon the boyhood fights as little short of bliss. 
And so I think the ills of life that magnify our fears 
Will prove but blessings in disguise as viewed in after 

years. 
And year by year I gather hope, and in that hope grow 

strong. 
That there must be a recompense for every earthly 

wrong — 
A soothing balm for every pain, a cure for every sting ; 
If not, then life is a mistake and death is just the thing. 


THANKFULNESS. 

I was thankful all day as a poor man can be, 

And rejoiced in the fullness of joy. 
That fairly good health kept up friendship with me 

And enemies did not annoy. 

I was glad when I went to the house of the Lord, 
And heard the sweet paeans of praise, 

The music was good and the minister "soared" 
In highly rhetorical ways. 


DRIFTWOOD. 149 

I was glad when I sat down to turkey and pie 

And ate till it clogged in my throat, 
Then washed it all down with a nip of old rye 

Concealed in the tail of my coat. 

I was glad when the evening was pretty well gone 
And I couldn't tell straight up from south ; 

But when I woke up what a head I had on 
And O, such a taste in my mouth. 


THEOSOPHY. 

I have sought theosophical knowledge 
To lighten the woes I endure, 

But theories taught in that college 
Have little of comfort I'm sure. 

They say man has always existed. 
And never is dying or dead ; 

This thing is a little bit twisted — 
I can't get it through my fat head. 

It is funny what fanciful beings 
We are in this great world below ; 

How much the " preceptors " are seeing, 
How little the wisest ones know. 

For me, I am sick and disgusted. 
And mentally riven and racked, 

By feeding on theories rusted 
While starving for palpable fact. 


50 DRIFTWOOD. 

A dear "Advent" lady presented 
A bundle of tracts that I read 

Until I was sick and demented 

And palsied with doubt and with dread, 

And then came an ardent believer 

In cold " Christian science " — she tried 

My soul, but I cared not to grieve her 
And let her go on till she died. 

Then one to John Calvin devoted 
Came into my office and raved 

How great theologians noted 

That some were ordained to be saved, 

While others, by foreordination, 

Were booked for the general roast — 

The thought was a sad contemplation ; 
I told him I thought so, almost. 

And lastly, to add to my sorrow, 

There came in a friend, old and gaunt, 

Who wanted to loan, if I'd borrow, 
The writings of Mrs. Besant. 

To bear this, my brain was not able ; 

I seized a large club as he spoke, 
And first kicked him over the table — 

Then felled him with one cruel stroke. 

In spite of his manner appealing, 
I threw all restraint to the birds, 

And sat on his lungs while revealing 
My hope in the following words : 


DRIFTWOOD. 151 

" You old theosophical duffer, 

You came here to bring me to grief — 

To cause me, by reading, to suffer 
The gloom of your dismal belief. 

Well knowing my skeptical notions, 

Both you and a lot of your kind, 
Have flooded my office with oceans- 

Of theories — now do you mind. 

My research henceforth and forever 

Is where solid reason is backed 
By mere speculation — no never — 

But clearly demonstrable fact. 

I know that behind all creation 

There must be intelligent force, 
That rules every people and nation — 

That's true as a matter of course. 

I know that I came into being 

Without any will of my own ; 
With notions for grasping and seeing 

And knowing w^hat is to be known. 

I know that this life is a bubble 

That bursts when we shuffle the coil, 

And give up the toil and the trouble 
Connected with animate soil. 

I know the sweet loves that we cherish 
Endure while the * lovers ' have breath, 

And never, no never can perish 
Unless all things perish at death. 


152 DRIFTWOOD. 

I know there's an infinite yearning 

For something- this earth cannot give — 

A prayer-laden longing concerning 
A life where the livers can live. 

I know if we sin we must suffer, 

At least in a physical way, 
That when we are 'tough ' we feel tougher 

For it on the following day. 

But as to the future, resplendent, 

The wisest and strongest must grope, 

Or cling to the happy, transcendent 
Illusion ? (we hope not) of hope." 


THE HORRORS. 

I had a horrid dream last night, that haunts me even 

yet. 
It seemed that I was wandering and stopped to rest a 

bit. 
I saw an open doorway in a vacant house near by 
And entered it unmindful of all danger lurking nigh. 
There, all alone, I sat me down to meditate o'er life, 
Though darkness was so thick that one could cut it with 

a knife. 
Vague fears stole over me that made cold chills creep 

through my hair. 
And horror sealed my ashen lips and froze me to the 

chair. 
I struck a match — -and by its light could all too plainly 

see 
The features of a half-clad man as dead as he could be. 


DRIFTWOOD. 153 

His eyes were orlazed and staring- and his face, oh, holy 

smoke! 
(Forbid that I should suffer such another midnight joke. ) 
And as he raised and glared at me, I gave a mighty 

scream, 
wSat up in bed, and thanked my stars that it was all a 

dream. 
I seldom have a fear of death or tremble at the thought — 
In fact, quite frequently it seems I'd rather die than not, 
But since last night I'd be excused from dying without 

cause. 
For darned if I would like to be as dead as that man 

was. 


RATHER PARTICULAR. 

They picture heaven as a place beyond the sun and 

stars, 
With gates of pearl and streets of gold and diamond- 
studded bars, 
There saints immortal surge about, filled with celestial 

fire, 
And every one who enters there must join the heavenly 

choir. 
No rest the weary spirit knows when from the earth set 

free, 
But one eternal, never-ending year of jubilee. 
Sing on, ye hosts above the skies, and let the chorus 

break, 
Throughout the upper realms to keep the happy folks 

awake ; 


154 DRIFTWOOD. 

But when I croak, forgive me if I ask the boon of rest, 
Within the silent confines of Dame Nature's kindly 

breast. 
I want to sleep a thousand years in undisturbed repose 
Beneath the stately evergreen and perfume-laden rose. 
I do not want a harp or crown, or any foolish thing. 
But when I wake I'd like a pair of regulation wings, 
And liberty to soar about, at will, from zone to zone — 
In brief, I'd like a little sawed-off heaven of my own. 


THE MINER'S SUCCESS. 

In my dreams last night I wandered where the snow- 
capped mountains high, 
In the land of Colorado lift their peaks to kiss the sky ; 
Where the Grande and the Arkansas through the mighty 

canons roam. 
And the frowning rocks and boulders beat their waters 

into foam ; 
Where the red man in his glory found a safe and sure 

retreat 
From the cruel storms of winter and the summer's 

blighting heat ; 
Where a wealth of precious metals by the hand of nature 

stored. 
Yield to man unnumbered comforts through the inercy 

of the Lord. 
I had pitched my tent at Aspen, just beyond the great 

divide. 
And was shocked to note the absence of its former pomp 

and pride. 


DRIFTWOOD. 155 

For the furnace fires smoldered and the mines were all 

closed down, 
And the words " for rent " were painted on each window 

in the town, 
And the streets were all deserted save one ragg-ed, gray- 
haired bum, 
Who appeared to haVe been sent for at a time he could 

not come. 
Save myself he represented all the signs of life around. 
And the winds blew through his whiskers with a melan- 
choly sound. 
And he asked in accents broken what my views were on 

repeal, 
And the chances for obtaining an unlimited square meal. 
He had been a silver miner for a lengthy term of years 
And the loss of work accounted for the present waste of 

tears. 
Then I pointed to the mountains farther east, and said, 

"My friend. 
Take fresh heart, these hills are groaning from rich 

treasures without end. 
You have banked too much on silver — dug up more than 

can be sold. 
Now suppose you change your tactics — try your luck at 

digging gold ? " 
* ' That's a new idea, " he muttered, ' ' but I think that you 

are right," 
And the man and my provision seem to vanish out of sight. 
Time passed on — I was transported to another shifting 

scene 
Where the sparkling Clear Creek waters shoot the 

jagged rocks between. 


156 DRIFTWOOD. 

There were miners without number, each with shovel, 
pick and pan, 

And I saw among the others, my old friend, the gray- 
haired man. 

He was cheerful, even jolly, and the winds no longer 
raved 

Through the tangled mass of whiskers as of yore, for he 
had shaved ; 

And he had a well fed bearing as of one who gladly feels 

The contented independence of a cinch on three square 
meals. 

And he shook my hand with fervor, and escorted me to 
see 

A new mansion reared by reason of his late prosperity. 

Then he said, "I've been here working nigh about three 
years this fall, 

And though most have prospered greatly, I have done 
the best of all ; 

I have washed and saved the gold dust from the earth 
that filled yon ditch, 

Nor deny the soft impeachment that I'm pretty mid- 
dling rich." 


A CHRLSTMAvS P.^AN. 

Come, children, gather round me now and lend a patient 
ear 

To what your uncle has to say about the glad new year. 

We're happy all of us, no doubt, because of Christmas- 
tide, 

With all its oifts and memories and other things beside ; 


DRIFTWOOD. 157 

Yet "Christmas comes but once a year," and hasn't long 

to stay, 
And when it does it simply leaves the mem'ries of the 

day. 
Soon after comes the dying of the old, bald-headed year, 
And then the new one opens with its promise of good 

cheer. 
How swiftly move the passing months, each sun, suc- 
ceeding sun, 
Brings morning's dawn almost before the last day's work 

is done. 
Time never stops, but moves along with smooth and 

even tread. 
And seems to leave no gap between the living and the 

dead. 
The year most fitly represents the span of human life, 
With all its sharp vicissitudes and never ending strife. 
As measured by eternity 'tis but a passing breath— 
A few brief, shifting scenes that mark the line from birth 

to death ; 
A little, changeful vision fills the span of life below. 
Between the budding springtime and the winter with 

its snow. 
The lesson then is this, to make each moment count for 

good. 
Give folly no attention, but keep right on sawing wood ; 
To help the needy, cheer the sad, and never seek to lay 
Up treasures that when life is done we cannot take 

away. 
The path of duty always leads where angels light the 

glim. 
And he who travels that alone is always in the swim. 


158 DRIFTWOOD, 

Then it is fun, when throug'h with earth to pass from 

mortal view, 
*' Where life's celestial mountains lift their peaks above 

the blue," 
And with an overflowing heart meet Peter at the gate 
And let the winds of heav'n blow through your whiskers 

while vou wait. 


MARKED CONTRAST. 

I admire a legislator who is boldly for the right, 
Who is always up and doing in the thickest of the fight. 
Who despises deals and combines for disreputable gain, 
And is not averse to solving knotty problems with his 

brain. 
Such men seldom say but little, but they make that little 

tell, 
For they speak when speech is golden and perform their 

labors well. 
I despise a legislator of melodramatic air 
With his right hand always waving for attention from 

the chair, 
With his motions and objections and whereases and all 

that. 
And his self-sufficient habit of conversing through his 

hat. 
What is lacking in discretion he makes up in play of 

mouth. 
As he saws the air about him east and west and north 

and south; 


DRIFTWOOD. 159 

And he strives to win a record that shall make his name 

renowned, 
By obeying every impulse of the wheels that whirl 

around ; 

And he blocks wise legislation for a chance to catch the 

ear 
And to play for the approval of the benches in the rear. 


THE SQUARE AND COMPASSES.* 

If streams of argument that men 
Have poured forth time and time again 
To show just where, and how and when 

This secret order 
Began — if made a river, then 

No man could ford 'er. 

The fact is, friends, and brethren too, 

It matters not to I or you 

But what does Masonry now do — 

That is the question — 
To make man's moral chicken stew 

Fit for digestion? 

Each church has its peculiar creed, 
Which all who run that way may read, 
And advocates belief and deed. 

In combination, 
As the essential daily feed 

For man's salvation. 

* Delivered at a Masonic banquet in FuUerton, Neb.. December 

24, 1888. 


i6o DRIFTWOOD. 

The Catholics believe all hope 
For man is centered in the pope, 
Who holds salvation in the scope 

Of his great hand 
For sinners who in darkness grope 

In every land. 

The Methodists believe a man 

Must get to heaven through a " plan " 

Laid down when Christ's great work began. 

In their opinion 
Open confession breaks the ban 

Of sin's dominion. 

The Baptist is inclined to think 
That only at the river's brink 
Or in a patent water sink — 

Peculiar schism — 
Soused in all over can you drink 

The full baptism. 

vSome hold the Calvinistic thought 

That, ere God's wondrous works were wrought, 

'Twas planned some should and some should not 

Have life eternal, — 
Those not "elected'" reach the hot 

Regions infernal. 

While on these "schemes" we meditate 
And wonder how to reach the gate 
Of pearl, quite often 'tis too late 

Before we travel ; 
Grim death at last decides our fate — 

Gone to the devil. 


DRIFTWOOD 16 1 

The points of doctrinal dissension 

Almost too numerous to mention 

(In part no doubt frail man's invention) 

Still vex the mind — 
To get at truth the full intention 

Of all mankind. 

Now Masonry does not pretend — 
In fact its object, aim and end 
Is not exactly in the trend 

Of doctrine teaching ; 
That work is left for those they send 

To do our preaching. 

Masonry teaches us that all, 
Since Adam's most disastrous fall 
That sent whole nations to the wall — 

A common curse — 
Are equal in our Mason's hall — 

The universe. 

It teaches — truth of moral worth — 
That no man living "owns the earth " 
Or any part by right of birth 

Or worldly station — 
A man's a man throughout the girth 

Of all creation. 

It teaches trust in God on high, 
Who hears the mournful raven's cr}' 
And w^ho will take us, by and by. 

We hope and pray, 
To the eternal sunlit sky 

Across the way. 


62 DRIFTWOOD. 


CORA AND CHASKA. 

When Cora Belle Fellows was wedded to Chaska 
And came with her dusky liege lord to Nebraska 
The skies were bedecked with a constant aurora 
And the little log- hut seemed a palace to Cora. 
Months passed and a cloud grew above the horizon 
In the form of a squaw (and those women are " pizen ") ; 
Her eyes were as dark as the dismal hereafter 
And her hair was as straight as a two by six rafter. 
The stout heart of Chaska succumbed to her graces, 
For an Indian knows what an elegant face is ; 
And they met when the moon the calm atmosphere mel- 
lows, 
Nor cared for the heart-ache of Cora Belle Fellows. 
One night when the storm king the coal scuttle looted 
This Chaska put on his red blanket and scooted 
Away to the north with this maiden, nor tarried 
Till he and fair Minnekadinctum were married. 
And Cora, she waited and bore his abuses, 
And hoped he'd return to his wife and pappooses; 
But weeks rolled away till the looks of her cupboard 
Reminded her sorely of Old Mother Hubbard. 
Then Cora, disheartened, disgusted and gaunted, 
Deserted the home that her Chaska once haunted. 
And mingled again with her friends, broken-hearted, 
And Cora and Chaska forever are parted. 
A moral this tale bears to girls who, through folly 
Or strange love of romance, imagine it jolly 
To cast their sad lot with the sons of the wildwood 
And seek a divorce from the friends of their childhood. 


DRIFTWOOD. 163 

The romance is short, as in this case related, 

For Cora now knows she was sadly mismated. 

And has, with the rest, the unhappy reflection 

Of duty to half-breeds that need her protection. 

The question of Indian civilization 

Involves not the horrors of mixed procreation. 

An Indian has to be dead to be decent. 

Which fact has been known a long time — is not recent — 

And history shows, from the best observations. 

That half-breeds are worse than their tribal relations. 

I weep for poor Cora and both her pappooses ; 

I shudder to think what a gosling- a goose is; 

I feel indignation that Chaska should leave her, 

And skip with another and basely deceive her, 

And think that the law should receive a few patches 

To shut off these semi-barbarian matches. 


THE MIDWINTER FAIR. 

I have been to the place where the oranges grow, 
Where the limbs of the trees by the fruit are bent low ; 
W^here the perfume of blossoms is borne on the breeze. 
And they charge thirty cents for a dime's worth of cheese. 
'Tis the home of the tall, towering palm and the vine. 
The land of great verdure and warmth and sunshine ; 
Where roses are blooming the whole year around, 
And fresh country butter is forty a pound. 
The home of the lemon and orange and prune — 
Where November is May and December is June^ 
Of the olive and pear and the walnut and fig, 
And they charge seven dollars a day for a rig. 


i64 DRIFTWOOD. 

Where the streams from the mountains in winter are 

high, 
And as dry as a bone on the 4th of July; 
Where they raise a fair crop when the}^ water the grain, 
And the rainmakers cannot induce it to rain ; 
Where the hedges of cypress are trimmed very nice, 
And they charge you a dollar a hundred for ice. 
I have been down to 'Frisco and out on the coast, 
Have been kicked round the city from pillar to post, 
But of all the raw fakes I encountered out there, 
O. the worst deal I struck was the midwinter fair. 


GOING TO "MATERIALIZE." 

If this old world was always bright, 

No darkness to obscure the light, 

No unkind words to make us grieve, 

No hopes that lure but to deceive ; 

If all the paths of life were strewn 

With thornless roses fully grown. 

And friendship's links were strong as steel 

And all felt as they ought to feel ; 

If no cross words w^ere ever spoke, 

No cutting jibe or cruel joke, 

And no one ever felt a pain 

Shoot crossways through a tired brain ; 

If nothing ever went awry. 

No one would ever want to die. 

Wherefore am I content to grope 

Part hopeless and part full of hope. 

Taking the bitter with the sweet. 

To sense no happiness complete. 


DRIFTWOOD. i6. 

Well knowing- that our earthly stay 

At best is only for a day, 

And then we plume our wings and go — 

just where no one can ever know 

Till he has shuffled off the coil 

And soil returns again to soil. 

I sometimes dream the strangest things 

Of azure robes and six-foot wings, 

And oft in such a dream appears 

A face I have not seen for years, 

And treasured forms that long ago 

Were laid beneath the drifting snow. 

And if there is a future life. 

When I am done with all this strife, 

I'll come back here or break my neck 

And let folks know I'm still on deck. 


HONOR YOUR FATHER. 

When addressing your poor father, do not call him the 

" old man," 
For it grieves him with a sorrow that should touch your 

spirit, Dan. 
You will be as old as he is, maybe older, by and by. 
And you'll hear through your own whiskers autumn 

breezes sob and sigh. 
^' Honor thou thy aged parents" is a precept hard to 

beat. 
Pointing out a path of safety for the tread of youthful 

feet. 


1 66 DRIFTWOOD. 

Therefore, speak in tones respectful of your father, 

though he may 
Be a Httle slow in " catching on " to styles that rule to- 
day. 
He may have some ancient habits, may not care for 

cigarettes. 
But he's straight and square and candid, and he pays his 

honest debts. 
He may be a little rusty in the rules of government, 
And for text-books old and dusty may not care a single 

cent, 
But he knows the Bible, laddie, clear from Genesis to 

Luke, 
And you ought to call your daddy "honored sire" or 

"noble duke." 

MOURN FOR THE LIVING. 

I long since ceased to mourn for friends within the 

house of clay, 
Where souls have kissed the sunlit skies beyond the 

milky way. 
The calm repose beneath the sod, where marble glistens 

white. 
Where flowers bloom and whip-poor-wills chant wildly 

through the night ; 
Where sleep is undisturbed by dreams that vex with 

false alarins — 
Seems like a benediction that all doubt and fear disarms. 
And so I do not weep for those in nature's kind embrace, 
Though many a well remembered voice and many a 

kindlv face 


DRIFTWOOD. 167 

Have vanished as the fading years passed one by one 

away — 
I cannot sorrow if I would because they did not stay. 
It makes me glad when aught of good befalls a weary 

soul, 
And blessings strike humanity as one united whole ; 
I cannot cry for saintly souls in realms of heavenly bliss— 
I mourn for those compelled to stay in such a world as 

this. 

"PLUGGED TO SIZE." 

I am weary, mother, weary of this wrangle in the state, 
Of the long drawn out impeachment and all such, 

And if you will kindly let me, I will join the good and 
great, 

' In a land where people do not talk so much. 

I'm sick of hearing nothing but impeachment all day 
long 
From windy men who are not overwise. 

I am sick of reading nothing but the same dolorous song 
Of rubble, and "dimension plugged to size." 

Forgive me, gentle mother, but you know my nerves are 
weak 

Since I was in the railroad wreck last spring. 
But had I died I feel it would have been a lucky streak 

And saved the torture of this other thing. 
So farewell, angel mother, I am going to the land 

Where briny tears are wiped from weeping eyes. 
Where there is no more trouble over prices paid for 
sand, 

And no one wants "dimension plugged to size." 


1 68 DRIFTWOOD. 

I hope you'll not forget me when I'm laid beneath the 
sod, 

But plant a sprig of myrtle at my head 
A pansy or a rose bush or a smiling golden rod — - 

Most anything will do when I am dead; 
But as you love me, mother, as you reverence your son, 

And hope to meet me yonder in the skies, 
In purchasing a headstone for my grave when I am 
done. 

Don't buy one of "dimension plugged to size." 


THE MILLENNIUM. 

I long to see the happy day when all the world shall be 
United in the wedlock of a broad Christianity ; 
When men will cease to harbor hate and when the can- 
non's roar 
Will wake discordant echoes on this bright old world no 

more. 
I want to live to celebrate the advent of a day 
When general prosperity will settle down to stay ; 
When there shall be no watered stock, no speculation 

craze. 
And all mankind will be content with what they earn or 

raise. 
I yearn to see the golden rule become a living force. 
And have unbounded license to pursue its God-like 

course ; 
I want to feel the glad surprise when dealers, as a whole, 
Weigh out full twenty hundred when they sell a ton of 
coal ; 


DRIFTWOOD. 169 

When butchers to make money will not violate the law. 

By killing, on the quiet, beeves that have the lumpy- 
jaw; 

When drug-store men and healers will abjure mysterious 
signs. 

For selling sweetened water at the price of highest wines ; 

When porters on the palace cars, with large morocco 
lips, 

Shall have a salary outside of everlasting " tips; " 

When the church organ's melody and velvet-cushioned 
pew 

W^ill be for all the multitudes and not the favored few. 

In short, to state it tersely, in this brief and modest 
rhyme — 

T want to see a perfect world without much loss of time. 


A POP LEGISLATOR. 

If you think, Mr. Zink, 

You can sit there and blink. 
Like a toad in an ash heap forsaken, 

Drawing pay, like a jay. 

Every day that you stay. 
Let me say you are sadly mistaken. 

On the stump, like a chump. 
You did nothing but hump, 

With the fierceness of windy pretension ; 
Now you're slow, don't 3^ou know, 
vSprouting blossoms to grow 

On the pledges you made the convention. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

Not a snort, my old sport, 

Or a thing of that sort 
Has come up from the seat you are filUng-, 

While the law lets you draw. 

Like a kid through a straw. 
The hard cider of many a shilling. 

Is it right, honor bright, 

To sit round, day and night 
On Nebraska's munificent bounty ? 

Then you ought — but will not, 

And that thought makes me hot — 
To return to your home and your county. 

Do you fly ? Then good bye, 

I will try not to cry — 
But, old man, I'm afraid that you joke, sir; 

Just in fun ? Where's my gun ? 

Can you run ? This is one 
On the bard, and I'll pay for the smoke, sir. 


vSONG OF A SPENDTHRIFT. 

Of blasted hopes I've had my share. 
Of blasted hopes and tainted air. 
Yes, my full stock and some to spare. 

Without a question ; 
And I would like for just one day 
To see things coming all my way — 
Success is good, the doctors say, 

For man's digestion. 


DRIFTWOOD. 171 

I'd like enough of worldly tin 

To keep the wolf from gnawing in 

And swiping pantry, crib and bin 

From A to izzard ; 
For try the hardest I may try, 
And save and scrimp I can't lay by 
A coffin's price if I should die, 

To save my gizzard. 

vSome men the faculty possess 
To hoard up money more or less, 
For use in days of deep distress, 

Or rainy weather; 
But when I go to put away 
A dollar for a foggy day, 
Some creditor demands his pay 

And gets my ''leather." 

My " togs " are worn out at the knees. 
My tattered coat-tails kiss the breeze — 
Methinks when winter comes Fll freeze — 

But well I know it. 
If gold was piled in every plate, 
And tons of boodle came by freight — 
If I had Vanderbilt's estate 

I'd go and " blow it. " 

THE MOUNTED BRIGADE. 

I am thinking of joining the mounted brigade. 
To go with Bill Greene on his matchless parade. 
Where the dust from the sand hills curls up to the sky 
And the pops are as plenty as bugs in July; 


172 DRIFTWOOD. 

Where the green wavinj^ fields kiss the dew-drops at 

morn 
And the farmers will furnish our horses with corn. 
In fancy I picture the scene as we 'go — 
The blue skies above us, the green earth below, 
The landscape- oft changing as hellityscoot 
We gallop along with hilarious hoot, 
Or talk at the towns of the plutocrat's greed 
And wait for pop farmers to bring in our feed. 
O, lend me a charger at once — let me skip. 
For Greene has decreed I shall pilot the ship, 
While he, in the lead, with his shoulder straps bright. 
Takes charge of the three-gallon jug of delight. 
With Greene and Bill Dech and such people as " them " 
We'll sail through the sand hills a-howling for Kem. 
And praising up Coxey and Kelly and Browne 
And foraging freely on country and town. 
Of all the grand schemes for a good time below, 
Not One like this one ever tickled me so ; 
For though I have traveled in many a state 
I always have paid for the grub that I ate ; 
(Besides the mere matter of bread, come to think 
No inconsequential expenses for drink). 
But now, Greene informs me that everything goes — 
The farmers will put up provisions and clothes, 
And in the small towns our supporters will try 
To pan-handle something to take on the sly. 
Here's luck to Bill Greene and his cavalry steeds, 
Long life to the farmers supplying our needs, 
Success to the crowds that flock in where we stop, 
And peace to the poppy old poppers who pop. 


DRIFTWOOD. 173 


BLEW OUT THE GAS. 

The last rays of the setting sun 

Had ceased to paint the glass 
When good old Hayseed Cornstalk Dun 

Rose and blew out the gas. 
'Twere better he had kept his bed 

Than thus to douse the glim, 
The coroner and jury said 

Who sat next day on him. 
But soine, it seems, will never learn 

Till shortly after death, 
'Twere better that the jets should burn 

Than be put out with breath. 
It may be that the pop was right 

Who tried a year ago 
To force soine other kind of light 

On hotels here below. 
For he it was without a doubt 

Who tried in various ways 
By power of lung to worry out 

An incandescent blaze. 
But all our warnings are amiss. 

No odds how it applies, 
Where poppy " ignorance is bliss 

'Tis folly to be wise," 
And if in blowing out the gas 

These fellows will persist, 
We'll meet them over there at last 

And here thev won't be missed. 


174 DRIFTWOOD. 


TRIBUTE TO DR. KILLEM. 

For twenty years I suffered most excruciating- pain, 
That pinched my system up one side, and rent my soul 

in twain. 
I had lumbago, prairie itch, poll-evil, heart disease. 
Enlargement of the liver and a thousand things like 

these. 
The doctors gave me up to die and mourners stood 

about. 
Expecting any minute that the lamp would flicker out. 
I had a new prescription every hour in the day. 
And not a week went by without a doctor's bill to pay. 
I took large doses of quinine and calomel, of that, 
The quantity that I consumed would fill a stove-pipe 

hat; 
And moiphine, why, I gulped that down as some folks 

swallow pie. 
From Independence day until the fourth of next July ; 
And after all it seemed that death was howling on my 

track, 
And all my efforts were in vain to drive the monster 

back. 
One evening just a month ago while glancing o'er a page 
Of that new paper, called, I think, the Populistic Age, 
I saw an advertisement of a remedy that kills 
All forms of deadly microbes — " Dr. Blowhard Killem's 

Pills. 
For sale by druggists far and near and warranted to be 
A dead sure cure for everv ill that haunts humanitv." 


DRIFTWOOD. 175 

I took three boxes just before at prayers that night 1 
knelt, 

And woke next morning just as strong as vSamson ever 
felt. 

And since that time I've gained in flesh three pounds a 
day, I know, 

And look some ten years younger than I did ten years 
ago. 

And now I want to urge the sick to cast aside their fears, 

Take Doctor Blowhard Killem's pills, and live a thou- 
sand vears. 


FATE OF THE ELBE. 

How often that proud ocean vessel 
Has safely crossed over the foam, 

While those in its great berths could nestle 
And feel as secure as at home! 

The waves of the ocean it breasted. 
No matter how fierce the wind's wail, 

Until in the harbor it rested. 
Away from the pitiless gale. 

How cruel the fate that awaited 
This once noted steamer Elbe, 

With scores of humanity freighted, 
Now buried and lost in the sea. 

The storm king, so often defeated. 
Arose in its strength and its might, 

With cold, heartless terror it greeted 
The ship that went down in the night. 


176 DRIFTWOOD. 

What horrors appear to the vision I 

'Two ships on the angry waves tossed; 
Midst darkness the awful collision, 
The heart-rending shrieks of the lost. 

The madness, confusion, despairing, 
The last hopeless struggle for life, 

The mob in its mad frenzy tearing 
The husband from children and wife. 

Brief moments, but moments of pleading 
For mercy, the cold billows sweep 

iVcross, and these hearts, torn and bleeding, 
Go down to their grave in the deep. 


BETTER THAN HE LOOKED. 

When I have lived my little life, checkered with good 
and ill, 

And joined the silent multitude that sleeps beneath the 
' hill; 

When my sad voice no more is heard in melancholy 
song, 

And these large feet no longer trudge the pavement 
blocks along; 

When summer suns no longer beam upon this dome of 
thought 

And ice and snow have covered up the sweet forget-me- 
not ; 

When nature's debt is paid in full and I am once more 
free. 

Don't let the papers say ''he was his own worst enemy," 


DRIFTWOOD. 177 

But rather let them simply state the fact, as fact now 

goes, 
That he who is became who was by turning- up his toes ; 
That dust he was and unto dust he has returned at last — - 
"Let all forgive as he forgets the wrongs done in the 

past," 
I want a slab of polished oak to mark the grave, and trust 
No one will cart it off to burn until these bones are dust ; 
And on the slab, I'd have engraved in four-line pica, 

"Ray," 
My name and age, and mention too that I have come to 

stay. 
And if it would not cost too much and I could get it 

booked, 
I'd have engraved these words: " This man was better 

than he looked." 


THEOLOGICAL. 

I read the -sermon of that good man Groh, 

Elaborating on predestination ; 
A sermon like that always seems to draw 

The close attention of a congregation ; 
To understand the Giver and the law 

Has been the strong desire of ev^ery nation 
Since theologians began to ponder 
On man's condition in the great up yonder. 

All must agree that ere this world began, 

Though other worlds might then have been a-going. 

The Master hand that fashioned mortal man, 

Performed the work, undoubtedly, well knowing 
13 


1 78 DRIFTWOOD 

That he would be, according to the plan, 

Like the small tree that in the tempest blowing- 
Grows straight or crooked in its cramped position 
By circumstances other than volition. . 

All are not bad who tread this thorny vale 
Beyond the reach of gospel consolation ; 

All are not good who stay outside of jail 

And give some time to prayer and meditation ; 

The best of us have reason to bewail 

The outlook if our future rank and station 

Is foreordained, for, thinking we're elected, 

We may awake to find ourselves rejected. 

If I should think I had a harp and crown 
Stored for my service in the great hereafter, 

I know I'd make things merry in the town 
With joyous peals of rich, sonorous laughter; 

But if the judge beyond should send me " down," 
I'd want to break my head in with a rafter 

For having judged, by reading the "old story," 

That I no doubt was foreordained for glory. 

The preacher said, as I recall it now. 

That few, indeed, would pass through heaven's portal 
Nine-tenths of all the people, anyhow. 

When at the judgment day they come to sort all, 
Will struggle in the river Styx — I vow 

It's hardly worth one's while to be immortal, 
And I should think it pretty cold salvation 
To be cut off from most of my relation. 


DRIFTWOOD. 179 

"If we are saved," the preacher further said, 
" It is because ordained from the beginning," 

We get no credit if we forge ahead — 

Condemned, though, if we're predestined for sinning; 

We say, "give us this day our daily bread," 
And then proceed to get it by the " winning; " 

That rule don't work when one would shape his plastic 

And warm young heart in moulds ecclesiastic. 

I must confess I cannot kindly take 

To those conflicting theologic notions ; 
I used to think there was a burning lake 

That wicked men were dumped in by the oceans, 
Forever there to blister, broil and bake — 

To-day such thoughts would break up my devotions ; 
I cannot think a merciful Creator 
Could be more cruel than a Roman pr^tor. 

And so I lay aside all morbid fears 

Born of a prehistoric superstition. 
And trust that He who made and guides the spheres 

And understands man's weak and frail condition, 
Is not inclined to take him by the ears. 

For what he is and bounce him to perdition ; 
I can't believe, though doubting may be treason. 
Mere doctrine where it doesn't stand to reason. 


I think there is in all of nature's laws, 
When violated, certain retribution, 

A bad effect that follows evil cause, 
I note in many a broken constitution ; 


i8o DRIFTWOOD. 

But in this life a weak man's moral flaws 

Can scarce deserve perpetual ablution 
Within the seething", molten vStygian river. 
Where everv nerve of those engulfed must quiver 

I like to think the Lord is good and kind 
And just and merciful and most forgiving; 

He knows that we are poor and weak and blind. 
He knows this life is hardly worth the living; 

And knowing this, according to my mind. 
He would not doom that any, after striving 

To learn the lesson on life's blotted pages 

vShould live to suffer through eternal ages. 

Of course I do not know — I cannot tell — 
The future is not perfectly revealed ; 

There may or may not be an endless hell 
For wicked man when he is ausgespielt ; 

But I can trust — He who doth all things well 
Has not a heart like adamant congealed. 

And will in time His flock from sorrow sever, 

Or let it go to sleep and rest forever. 

MARY ELLEN. 

" I mourn no more my vanished years " 
For they were passed in peace ; 

The cause of these exotic tears 
Is Mary Ellen Lease. 

I mourn to think a cruel crank 
Should give so great offense ; 

He threatened, I am told, to yank 
Her soul bevond the hence. 


DRIFTWOOD. i8i 

I do not want to see her slain 

To grieve her lonely mate, 
But if she opens Kern's campaign 

I'll chase her from the state. 

Armed with a tomahawk and oim 

Out west I'll gallivant 
To see if Mary Lease can run 

As loud as she can rant. 

But should she stand her ground, my brave. 

And laugh my threats to scorn, 
I'd come away and let her rave 

Till Gabriel blows his horn. 


THE JONAH ACT MODERNIZED. 

The democratic party has been swallowed by the pops, 

That Bryan further honors may obtain. 
'Twill be a worse calamity than all our loss of crops — 

To any thinking man that fact is plain. 

If Holcomb is elected we will bleed as Kansas bled, 
And lose the public credit that we need. 

So vote for Thomas Majors that the state may forge 
ahead, 
And not like Colorado stop and bleed. 

The democratic party honored Bryan in the past 
And sent him twice to congress without fear ; 

His oratoric splendors were too flatulent to last, 
And he was turned down early in the year. 


1 82 DRIFTWOOD. 

But like Prometheus of old he rose up from the dead, 
And took advantage of our loss of crops. 

The record has been written, Billy Bryan rose and fed 
The democratic party to the pops. 

Last night the ghost of Jefferson came to me in my sleepy 

With his distorted features partly hid ; 
He sat upon the pavement cold, where I could see him 
weep — 

I never saw one weep as that ghost did. 

'Twas pitiful to watch him and appreciate his grief, 
But such I did without a single pause, 

Until I turned my eyes, and there — 'tis almost past be- 
lief- 
Was Jackson, feeling worse than Thomas was^ 

I said to Jefferson, said I : " What is it, my old friend. 
That causes you to blubber in this way ? 

If you are out of money I imagine I can lend 
Enough to keep you going for a day." 

From out his eye he brushed a tear much larger than a 
gourd 

That fell upon the pavement with a thud. 
And said, said he : "I don't see how our party can afford 

To have its name hereafter written mud. 

" I put my trust in Bryan and my mantle to him loaned, 

And often has he worn it on the stump. 
And after all that I have done to bolster him," he 
groaned, 

" The cuss has gone and played me for a chump. 


DRIFTWOOD, 183 

"He and his poor deluded dupes have used my sacred 
name 

And that of my friend Jackson, whom you see, 
To cover up the party with a six-foot coat of shame 

And bring but grief to Andrew, here, and me. 

"And as things are," he added, in a voice of better 
cheer, 
"And were it not that I am only dust. 
Were I alive, and living in your state the current year, 
'd vote for Strode and Majors, too, or bust! 

' ' I never, while I lived on earth, was known to change 
my coat. 

Because I did not think that it was right. 
But were I in Nebraska now I'd cast a freeman's vote 

To knock Bill Bryan higher than a kite! " 

He spoke no more, but turned about and buckled on his 
wings. 

And bowed and started toward the ether dome ; 
I knew that he had gone away where everybody sings 

Both day and night until the cows come home. 

And then I turned to Jackson, who I thought had gone 
away. 

But there he sat still weeping, sure enough, 
And when I gently asked him if he had a word to say, 

He said, " By the Eternal, this is tough! " 


1 84 DRIFTWOOD. 


NONE EXEMPT. 

Why do we start and fear to die, 

And cling to life tenaciously 
When habitations in the sky 

Are offered us so graciously ? 

There, with the friends of other years, 
We romp in joyousness for aye, 

While on the earth, bedewed with tears, 
We seek to stay and stay and stay! 

The man who sings in loudest tone 
" I would not always live," ah, no; 

If called at once to die alone 

Would be the last to want to go. 

He'd plead with his expiring breath 
For life, with all the strength he could- 

The man who has no fear of death 
Feels so because his health is good. 


FULL OF PRUNEvS. 

Lieutenant Colby still is here 

'Though in my dreams but yester' night, 
I saw him ride and heard him cheer 

His greaser cohorts in the fight. 

Before the famous Linden Tree, 
With dashing Colby well astride, 

I saw the Guatemalans flee 

And rush into the foaming tide. 


DRIFTWOOD. T85 

I saw ten thousand bleeding lie 

Upon a field by cannon plowed 
While Colby flashed his sword on high 

And cried, " This business does me proud ! '" 

I said to him, said I, '' Old man. 

It grieves me much to see this thus; 

And tell me, tell me, if you can 
The good results of all this muss ? 

'' You see the dead and wounded there — 
You haven't stopped to count the cost — 

You see the widows in despair. 

And children weeping for the lost. 

" Is all the glory you have gained. 

By such a bloody sacrifice, 
Worthy the loss of thousands slain. 

Of hungry mouths and weeping e3'es ? 

" To me, old man," I fairly shrieked, 

" 'Tis murder in the first degree! " 
I noticed that his saber reeked 

With blood, and it was drawn on me. 

" Strike! coward! " then, I bravely said. 

And bared my bosom as I spoke ; 
He raised his sword above his head 

And pierced me through — and I awoke ! 


There stood my ever helpful mate 
With hand upon my fevered brow — 

She said, "I guess those prunes you ate 
Are wormy — are you better now ?" 


1 86 DRIFTWOOD. 


ECONOMY. 

I'd like a winter overcoat, 

My rugged frame to fit, 
If some kind friend will sign my note 

Or kindly pay for it. 

Bnt if that boon must be held back — 

Excuse the tears I shed — 
I'll make one out of gunny sack 

And be that much ahead. 


PLANT TREES. 

Woodman, spare that tree. 

Hack not a little bit, 
It makes no odds to me 

But Morton planted it. 
Upon Nebraska land 

He dropped the seed all right- 
There, woodman, let it stand. 

Unless you want to fight. 

'Twas Sterling Morton's hand 

That chucked an acorn here, 
And this is Morton's land 

That you are on, my dear; 
Go, sheathe your rusty blade 

And lay it on the shelf; 
Go forth with hoe and spade 

And plant some trees yourself! 


DRIFTWOOD. 187 

Woodman, these prairies bare 

Need trees as corns need salve, 
And yet — it makes me swear — 

You'd cut down what we have. 
Go back to Iowa, 

Or anywhere you please, 
But if you're going to stay, 

Plant trees, old man, plant trees! 

RAIN WANTED. 

Must we forever plead in vain 

For one more fall of needed rain. 

While turnips wither and decay 

And men dry up and blow away ? 

Our pasture lands are short of grass 

The hot winds wilt our garden " sass " 

And whirl through screen and keyhole great 

Fine tracts of high-priced real estate. 

O, for a Minnesota town. 

Where lakes rise up and then fall down 

And every fleeting cloudlet flaunts 

More rain than anybody wants ! 

EXPERIENCE. 

Methinks were I again to wed, 

I'd coyly seek love's fount; 
Nor care so much for maid well bred, 
With wealth of tresses on her head. 
But I'd investigate instead 

Her father's bank account. 


1 88 DRIFTWOOD. 


LIFE'vS JOYS. 

Tell me not in tones of fretting- 
"Any one can plainly see 

Life's a fraud — it's safe in betting- 
'Taint what it's cracked up to be. 

Life has much of joy and gladness, 
Much to make us g"ood and wise, 

And, ofttimes, I think its sadness 
Is a blessing in disguise. 

" Let us then be up and doing-, 
With a heart for any fate," 

All our mortgage notes renewing — 
Let the venal vampires wait. 


THE LIMIT. 

You can beat a child for lying-, 
Far beyond the ag-e of youth, 

But you can't, with all your trying. 
Make the youngster tell the truth. 

You can cultivate the flowers 
On the barren western plains, 

And receive, without fresh showers. 
Only labor for your pains. 

You can jail the red-flag flyers 

Of Chicago's smoky air, 
And its anarchistic liars — 

But you cannot keep them there. 


DRIFTWOOD. 189 


WHEN SUMMER COMES. 

When summer comes again 

With flowers and growing grain 
And cattle on a thousand hills 
And leafy shades and whip-poor-wills 
And babbling brooks and running rills, 

I'll stifle this rheumatic pain, 

When summer comes again. 

When summer comes once more 

With garden truck galore, 
And fruits from plants and vines and trees, 
And onions rank and luscious peas, 
Potatoes and such things as these, 

I will no longer roar 

When summer comes once more. 

When summer breezes blow 

On this old world below 
And all around is green and fair 
I'm going to climb the golden stair; 
I've had enough of this cold air, 

And so I'm bound to go 

When suminer breezes blow. 


TIME TO INVEST. 

When hope lies buried in the tomb, 
And all the world is filled with gloom, 
And thoughts of horses, bridles, blood, 
Surge through the senses like a flood, 


I90 DRIFTWOOD. 

And clouds obscure the lig-ht of day 
From Broken Bow to Buzzard's Bay ; 
When cash is hid away in socks 
And creditors come round in flocks, 
And famine stares us in the face 
While wealth secures a hiding place ; 
When day brings but financial fright, 
And burglars whoop things up £it night, 
And panic stalks its gruesome beat 
Across the country and repeat, 
And wheels of commerce cease to roll. 
And man can't laugh to save his soul ; 
. I say when things run on this way, 
Then is the time to watch and pray, 
And make a profit while you wait 
In Lincoln's gilt-edged real estate. 
Which now is scarce!}^ half as high 
As 'twill be when the clouds roll by. 
And it is shown, as some assert. 
That we are all more scared than hurt. 


A PROVISO. 

In the gloaming, O, my darling. 

When the lights are dim and low 
I will join the Lincoln "army" 

If they give me half a show ; 
If they want, then must they call me, 

Call me and I'll quickly come. 
With this one proviso only, 

I alone shall beat the drum. 


DRIFTWOOD. 191 


OPERATIC "SQUALLS." 

I love to steal a while away 

From every cumbering care 
And spend three-quarters of the day 

Within a house of prayer. 

I love to hear the same sweet psalms 

They sang away back there 
When church was held among- the palms 

Out in the open air. 

The gray-haired preacher long ago 
Passed through the portals wide, 

And most who heard him then I know 
Are on the other side. 

The rest of us are moving fast 
Toward the sun-crowned ridge 

And like as not, Til be the last 
To cross the dizzy bridge. 

So while I wait with patient trust 
"The boatman's muffled oar," 

I want to hear them sing, or bust. 
The old-time songs once more. 

But if the singers lift each voice 

Li operatic squall, 
rd rather, if I had my choice, 

They wouldn't sing at all. 


192 DRIFTWOOD. 


IF WE DO OUR BEST. 

This life is a queerly mysterious thing 
And another — well, some people doubt it, 

And we plunge deeper into a fathomless spring 
The longer we stud}" about it. 

But I think it is well that we all have a care 
To make this short life worth the trying, 

And should we run into a home over there. 
It will pay us immensely for dying. 

I hold, if we all do the best we know how, 
And cause less of sorrow than laughter, 

There's no great occasion to kick up a row 
For fear of a sultry hereafter. 

I trust that the Providence by whose decree 
I came to this land with dove meekness. 

Will offer a kindly reception for me 
Nor be too severe on mv weakness. 


HISTORY. 

In the spring the maiden dizzy 

Let's her thoughts on courting stray, 
In the summer she is busy 

Keeping gnats and flies away ; 
In the fall she's melancholy. 

For her locks are growing white; 
In the winter, then, by golly, 

vShe gets married — that's all riglitl 


C -il 89 


^v 


"'* <^ •• *^ •" 


'^c, 


4> .» 


i J-^^^ V 


.."' .^0 


*• 

I •!.*»» 


•* .# 


6°^ ,'■ 


i'^ ... 


by 


o*. '♦.To^ .^0" ^^ 


^ <^ 


lO* ^1V- "^ 


^'^ 


v-^^ 


^c,' 


9.. '«»•** .v'V <> *'TC 


•i:;^'* "^c 


4.^ . 


.»* A 


,^ ... 


V^. "^ • • • jt 


\- .^' 


,-^q. 


'/ ^^-^^^ ^^ 


A 9^ 


K. ^^-^^.y V'^r^* J^ V ^^•*\^'^' 


% 


>^.*L-A' 


r ... 


o^ -^^ 


^ 'et. ^ ♦*^5ife^^ '^^^^ .'^^ .^^Va\ 'ee. A^ - 


v^^..-:;^^.'^ 


^t ^-.^ •< 


HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

^ DEC 88 


N. MANCHESTER 
^^^ INDIANA 46962