PS 3531 
 .E445 
 S5 
 1917 
 Copy 1 
 
 Wfhort Poems 
 at 
 Odd Hours 
 
 D. $. pet)t)v 
 
The Author's Birthplace, Des Moines Co., la. 
 
Copyright 
 
 J. S. PKNNY 
 
 1917 
 
SHORT POEMS 
 
 at 
 
 ODD HOURS 
 
 By 
 
 J. S. PENNY 
 
 FORT SCOTT, KANSAS 
 1917 
 
fv1 
 
 .^^^^ 
 
 If these children of my brain, 
 Should the reader entertain, 
 I will feel myself repaid 
 For the efforts I have made. 
 
 —The Author. 
 
 ©GI.A467324 
 
 ^^fi -4 fSI7 /^ 
 
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 SHORT POEMS 
 AT ODD HOURS 
 
 IF I COULD WRITE. 
 
 If I could write a single line, 
 And in it, some great thought combine 
 That might some reader entertain, 
 I'd feel I had not lived in vain. 
 
 If I could write some stirring truth, 
 That might inspire, some erring youth. 
 To live a purer, better life, 
 I'd feel not vain, had been my life. 
 
 If I could write upon this page 
 Some theme, to serve the coming age, 
 I'd feel my life had been made good 
 In serving common brotherhood. 
 
 If I could write a charming book, 
 
 In which kind friends, would some times look 
 
 And read some soul-inspiring thought, 
 
 I'd feel my life, not spent for naught. 
 
 If I could write some thing to please 
 
 Not all, but any one of these, 
 
 I'd feel, that when, my race was run, 
 
 I'd crowned my life with something done. 
 
8 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Wishing to secure the opinion and criticism as well, 
 of my friend, Doctor W. H. ToUiver, pastor of the First 
 Baptist church, of Fort Scott, Kansas, I sent him a few 
 of my little verses, with the following request, and in a 
 few days received his reply which is here appended. 
 
 REQUEST. 
 
 I thought it was the proper caper, 
 
 To send to you a little paper. 
 
 And ask you, when it meets your eyes. 
 
 To kindly, roughly criticise. 
 
 And tell me if you really thought, 
 
 It is good enough, or not. 
 
 When you, your eyes at it have squinted. 
 
 To send it off, and have it printed. 
 
 I've got a notion in my head, 
 
 But never yet, a word have said, 
 
 To have some printing done betimes. 
 
 Of these, my simple little rhymes, 
 
 And I am asking your advice; 
 
 Now, do you yeally think they're nice 
 
 Enough to squander printer's ink? 
 
 Please tell me now, just what you think. 
 
 The Doctor's Reply. 
 
 I've scanned your writings o'er, my friend, 
 And all too quickly reached the end, 
 I gave, to them, the second reading 
 And time passed by, without my heeding. 
 
 My judgment is not worth the time 
 It takes you, to read through my rhyme; 
 But it is settled, firm and strong, 
 To poet's corner, you belong. 
 
 And then, if I am mistaken not. 
 This is the place to cast your lot 
 And in their ranks, you'll some time fill 
 A place beside' our "Iron Quill." 
 i ; 
 
 Then revel in the praise of men 
 That you have merited, with pen, 
 And on their tablets, carve your name, 
 Where love, is greater far, than Fame. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Yes, I do think you're now equipped 
 To gather up, your manuscript, 
 And without culling dow'n, nor stint, 
 Commit the whole of them to print. 
 
 And when the task, for you is done 
 When human laurels you have won. 
 You'll rank above our ancient Chaucer, 
 Say, send a copy to the author. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF EUGENE WARE. 
 "Ironquill." 
 
 I stood, by the grave, of a hero. 
 Who was honored, in his life. 
 By the people of the nation 
 For what he did in the strife 
 
 That united, the North and the South-land. 
 By the victory that was won. 
 And made this the grandest country 
 That lieth under the sun. 
 
 He stood, in the fore-front of battle, 
 Yet escaped the deadly ball, 
 And returned, to the land of his fathers. 
 Beloved and honored of all. 
 
 Yet the praise that is far greater, 
 Than was won by "the wall of men," 
 Or the sword, that he hath wielded, 
 Was won by his fertile pen. 
 
 He has written inuch, that is charming, 
 And the beauty of his verse. 
 In the ag'es, that are coming. 
 The unborn will reherse. 
 
 There is this in the writings left us; 
 A style, that is pure and mild, 
 And is easy of understanding. 
 By the unlearned, and the child. 
 
 Now the life of our hero is ended. 
 Yet to us, will still belong, 
 The sentiments he has written. 
 In poetry, and song. 
 
10 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Fort Scott, Dec. 2, 1916. 
 Mr. J. S. Penny, Fort Scott, Kansas, 
 My Dear Mr. Penny: 
 
 I have read with a deal of pleasure your tribute to my 
 good friend, Eugene Ware. It is worthy of him, knowing 
 him so intimately, I can assure you that is not fulsome. 
 He was a great, big, broad minded, noble man. 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 C. E. CORY. 
 
 Eugene F. Ware — "Ironquill — ",grew to manhood in 
 the city of Burlington, Iowa. There he learned the sad- 
 dlery trade, with his father, there he, at the outbreak ol 
 the civil war, enlisted in the First Iowa Volunteer Infan- 
 try, and was with his regiment at the battle of Wilson's 
 Creek, Missouri, August 10th, 1861, when General Nathan- 
 iel Lyon was killed. 
 
 The Iowa regiment, whoes Colonel had been killed, 
 was standing near where the general was seated on hit- 
 horse, when the enemy were seen coming out of the tim- 
 ber, on the right; Lyon remarked, to a member of his staff, 
 that a detachment ought to be sent to attack them, the 
 Iowa boys said: "Give us a leader, and we will go." 
 Lyon whirled his horse, and waiving his hat uttered these 
 memorable words, the last he ever spoke, "Come on, 
 brave boys, I will lead you." Scarcely had he uttered the 
 words when a ball pierced his breast, and the brave gen- 
 eral fell from his horse, dead. 
 
 Later, he enlisted in the 7th Iowa cavalry and served 
 to the end of the war. Soon after the close of the war, he 
 came, with his father, to Fort Scott, Kansas, where he 
 practiced law for more than twenty years. He and Judge 
 C. E. Cory, who is still living in Fort Scott, were law 
 partners for many years. Judge Cory knew him, more in- 
 timately, than any other man in Kansas, and has written 
 a fine biography of the dead hero, which is now the prop- 
 erty of the State Historical Society in Topeka. 
 
 Besides being a brilliant lawyer, Eugene Ware was an 
 author of national repute, and his poetry gave him high 
 standing among the literary men of his time, many of his 
 poems being gems of the highest order. 
 
 The warior, statesman, poet and lawyer, now sleeps in 
 the beautiful National Cemetery, joining the city of Fort 
 Scott, and his last resting place is marked by a huge 
 granite boulder, bearing this simple inscription: ''Eugene 
 F. Ware, Captain Seventh Iowa Cavalry, May 29, 1841, 
 July 1, 1911. Jeanette Huntington, His Wife." 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 11 
 
 FAIR CENTERVILLE, IOWA. 
 
 (Written by J. S. Penny, Fort Scott, Kan., after spend- 
 ing some time in Centerville on business.) 
 
 The pretty town of Centerville, 
 Girt round by many an ancient hill 
 Was to my mind a glad surprise, 
 First time it met my wondering eyes. 
 
 I'd often passed it on the train. 
 In going forth and back again. 
 But in my passing heretofore 
 I'd only seen the town's back door. 
 
 The worst foot's foremost here I found; 
 When I stopped off to look around, 
 For that part down by the depot. 
 Caused me to think the town was slow. 
 
 But when I rode up on the trolly 
 I met what proved to me my folly 
 For here I saw the streets were paved 
 And all the people well behaved. 
 
 The town is built around a square 
 Like many towns are built elsewhere, 
 There stands the court house, stoutly built 
 With walls of stone and dome of gilt. 
 
 The lawn is sloping nice and clean. 
 And every evening can be seen. 
 The people here on every hand 
 List'ning to music by the band. 
 
 It surely is a pretty sight. 
 To see the ladies dressed in white. 
 The pretty children, men and boys 
 All happy in their passing joys. 
 
 The town is up to date, I find 
 And surely not a whit behind. 
 And leads — if it does not surpass 
 All other towns of its own class. 
 
 The business men are up to date. 
 And not inclined to speculate; 
 Their business, I found nearly whole 
 Is foundad on their mines of coal. 
 
12 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Coal is a great commodity, 
 
 For men of low and high degree; 
 
 The man who only owns a pick 
 
 Can buy his bread and meat on "tick." 
 
 For when the next pay day comes around 
 He always with the cash is found, 
 And as he pays his weekly bill 
 He has the business man's good will. 
 
 I stopped there at a good hotel 
 Where I was treated kind and well. 
 The restaurants all served good hash 
 And like the banks, demanded cash. — 
 
 Speaking of banks, the town has six. 
 And all of them are up to tricks 
 That make their business thrive and grow 
 The business men all told me so. 
 
 As I am traveling up and down 
 The earth, I like to make a town 
 Where everyone bespeaks good will — 
 As in the town of Centerville. 
 
 THESE THREE. 
 
 Hurrah for Iowa, the Hawk Eye State, 
 She always accomplishes something great: 
 She raises big cattle and hogs and corn, 
 And therefore her people all blow their horn. 
 
 Now it's a fact, that in no other place 
 Is black dirt deeper on Mother Earth's face, 
 And in it the com delights to take root 
 And only for this, her people all toot. 
 
 But they must all know, that their bird. Black Hawk, 
 Can't scream any louder than can Jay Hawk; 
 For Kansas has gotten the whole Earth beat 
 In raising the finest and best of wheat. 
 
 Hello, here's the "Puke," with his long eared mule; 
 He's trying to "but in," the great big fool. 
 He thinks that he ought to be heard toot too 
 When all he can toot is "Anheuser Brew." 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 13 
 
 THE ENGINEER'S STEED. 
 
 I have here a wond'rous steed, 
 Noted for her strength and speed; 
 With her massive nerves of steel 
 And her legs an iron wheel. 
 
 She can go a hundred mile 
 In a very little while, 
 With her lungs a flame of fire 
 She can run and never tire. 
 
 All the feed she gets is coal 
 Yet this mighty nimble foal 
 Can go out and win a race 
 At what seems an easy pace. 
 
 She will do a lot of work, 
 And she'll never try to shirk 
 If they'll give her right of way. 
 And she'll do it all the day. 
 
 She can make a rapid stride 
 When I open her up wide 
 Leaving naught behind her trail 
 But a great big smoky tail. 
 
 She can make a wond'rous flight, 
 Clear across a State at night; 
 Be four hundred miles away 
 At the breaking of the day. 
 
 Now she some times has to climb. 
 Cause she always goes 'gainst time 
 For there isn't any steed 
 That can equal her in speed. 
 
 There's no horse that ever strode 
 That can pull as big a load 
 And I never use a whip 
 On her side or on her hip. 
 
 She sometimes, will give a kick. 
 When the track's a little slick 
 Then I coax her with some sand . 
 And she'll go at my command. 
 
 Then again when on the grade 
 And I some times am afraid 
 We'll not make it with the train 
 And I some times am profane. 
 
14 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 She will put out all her strength 
 And we reach the top at length 
 Then I feel a little sad 
 'Cause I got so awful mad. 
 
 Now we both are growing old 
 Yet we go out in the cold, 
 And in every kind of weather 
 This old friend and I together. 
 
 • We have b.een good friends far years 
 And I feel like shedding tears 
 When I think that we must part 
 Bless the dear old engine's heart. 
 
 UNCLE SAM. 
 
 Our Uncle Sam, dear Uncle Sam 
 "Is much too big to fight," 
 
 But he is always on the side 
 Of justice, truth and right. 
 
 The other nations stand around 
 
 And, sometimes give a kick, 
 Yet none of them need ever try 
 Our Uncle Sam to lick. 
 
 The Dutchman says: "If Uncle Sam 
 Should get his "dander up," 
 
 And tell Der Kaiser to behave, 
 "I'll shoot him mit mein Krupp." 
 
 Our Uncle Sam is not afraid 
 
 Of any Dutchman's bluff 
 But if he has to, he will fight 
 
 'Till Kaiser says "enough." 
 
 He "ist ain dummer esel, sure," 
 
 Der Kaiser, if he thinks. 
 Our Uncle Sam will make no note 
 
 Of vessels that he sinks. 
 
 Our Uncle Sam has heard the cry. 
 That came across the wave. 
 
 When murdered innocence went down 
 To find a watery grave. 
 
 Our Uncle Sam don't like to have 
 Nephews and nieces drowned 
 
 By any Dutchman, while they sail 
 Across the ocean bound. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 15 
 
 Our Uncle Sam is a gallant 
 
 But gentle, kind and meek, 
 Yet, like a true Knight, he'll defend 
 
 The helpless and the weak. 
 
 If Uncle Sam should have to fight, 
 
 His honor to defend, 
 Nephews and nieces, one and all, 
 
 Will back him to the end. 
 
 From California's golden sand 
 
 To foaming Kennebeck 
 Ten million volunteers will come 
 At our brave Uncle's beck. 
 
 'Twill be an army that will make 
 
 Der Kaiser wince and whine. 
 When Uncle Sam, with Stars and Stripes, 
 
 Goes marching to the Rhine. 
 
 A LEETLE MO' BE PAYIN'. 
 
 While dis nigger am a workin, in de cotton, 
 
 He am thinkin' all de time, de work am rotten. 
 
 While he's workin' all de day, 
 
 Fo' a leetle bit o' pay 
 
 Den he wish, some time he's dead, an' done forgotten. 
 
 Den some time he go a huntin' fo' de possom, 
 
 In de cane brakes, when de cimmons is in blossom; 
 
 Den he think It am some fun, 
 
 When he goes with dog an' gun. 
 
 Den he think he nebber stop, till he get some. 
 
 When de possom am a cookin' an' a smellin'. 
 An' dis nigger am a wishin' fo' a melon, 
 Den it some times make him feel. 
 If he didn't have to steal. 
 He would take one dat de massa wasn't sellin'. 
 
 When he goes an' hears de music, sees de dancin' 
 An' de ladies an' de gemmen^ go a prancin', 
 
 Den he feel like he am king. 
 
 An' he gib de Hilan' Fling. 
 To he's pard, an' sees de gem men's eyes a glancin'. 
 
 An, when he goes to church, an' hear dem pretty songs. 
 
 Hears de preacher tellin' dat his soul belongs 
 
 To de good Lawd, way up high, 
 
 Who is libbin' in de sky, 
 
 Den he sure knows he's been doin' lots ob wrongs. 
 
16 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 When he hears de preacher talkin' an' a sayin' 
 
 Dat all niggers ought to do a lot o' prayin', 
 
 Den he wishes dat he could, 
 
 If he know how he sure would, 
 
 Pray dat massa would a leetle mo' be payin. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 (Written by J. S. Penny, and read at the funeial of his 
 friend, W. J. Smith, Thursday afternoon, l-8-'15.) 
 
 We know not the time when Death may call; 
 
 It may be at night, 
 
 It may be daylight. 
 It may be springtime, or it may be fall. 
 
 It may come when we are feeling well. 
 
 It may come at noon, 
 
 It may come soon. 
 Yet, when, where and how, no one can tell. 
 
 We know not when we'll be called to go; 
 
 It is not for man 
 
 To know God's plan. 
 But He doeth all things well, we know. 
 
 God never decreed the soul must lie 
 And moulder away. 
 To dust and clay; 
 What Christ hath redeemed shall never die. 
 
 We know Death is silent, and may be near. 
 
 But our Savior died, 
 
 And hath opened wide 
 This way to heaven, then why should we fear? 
 
 We stand in Thy presence, oh Death, today. 
 
 And our hearts from grief 
 
 Can find no relief. 
 For thou hast taken our brother away. 
 
 We will cherish his virtues while life shall last; 
 
 He was always kind. 
 
 And his wonderful mind 
 Could discern the future, and remember the past. 
 
 We know that Death will come to us all. 
 
 To the young and old, 
 
 To the timid and bold, 
 Will we be ready to answer the call? 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 17 
 
 MARKET SQUARE. 
 
 I like to go to Market Square 
 And meet the farmers gathered there; 
 I like to hear them tell of yields 
 They've gathered from the fertile fields. 
 
 I like to see them driving in 
 With oats and wheat from out their bin; 
 I like to hear them blow their horn, 
 And tell about their fields of corn. 
 
 I like to see the pleasant grin 
 Upon their face as they come in, 
 A-driving great big loads of hay 
 On almost every pleasant day. 
 
 I like to hear them tell about 
 
 The wond'rous crops their farms turn out; 
 
 About the cattle and the hogs. 
 
 The braying mules and barking dogs. 
 
 I like to hear them praise the hens — 
 Tell how they lay by fives and tens, 
 And how the basket they will fill 
 With eggs that pay the grocery bill. 
 
 I like to shake their horny hand. 
 See on their face the smile expand 
 When they have sold their loads of grain 
 And figured up the loss and grain. 
 
 I like to hear them crack their jokes 
 When talking 'bout the city folks; 
 They say: "The ladies of the town 
 In hobble skirts, look like a clown." 
 
 When they behold the city man 
 So nicely dressed, so spick and span, 
 They say: "Our overalls of blue 
 Are not so pretty, nor so new. 
 
 ''But then they give us right good wear 
 And if by accident we tear 
 A hole, their cheap make-up is such 
 Another pair won't cost us much." 
 
 I like to see them when they've made 
 Their purchase and their bills have paid 
 Go driving to their country home. 
 All happy in the evening gloam. 
 
18 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 PIOTROWSKI'S HATCHET. 
 
 Fort Scott, Kan., Dec. 4, 1916. 
 J. S. Penny, Fort Scott, Kansas, 
 My Dear Mr. Penny: 
 
 Reading to-day, your little verses, entitled "Piotrow- 
 ski's Hatchet," brings freshly to mind the occasion under 
 which they were written. 
 
 You came into my father's tailor shop and asked him 
 for the loan of an old dull hatchet, and in a short while re- 
 turned with the little poem whith my father read and 
 laughed over heartily. My father loved fun, and when he 
 made a friend he held sacred that friendship as long as 
 life lasted. I thank you, Mr. Penny, for this little token 
 of regard, which was a source of pleasure to my departed 
 father. 
 
 PAUL F. PIOTROWSKI. 
 
 May this hatchet never 
 
 Our good friendship sever. 
 
 But be a good friend. 
 
 Of both to the end, 
 
 And cause us no fear, 
 
 On our pilgrimage here, 
 
 To the end of each life 
 
 In this world of strife. 
 
 May this hatchet, though dull. 
 
 Ne'er pound on the skull 
 
 Of any good man, 
 
 Who tries if he can. 
 
 To be honest and true 
 
 As ever have you. 
 
 I have heard that a fool. 
 Will use a dull tool, 
 (But this don't apply 
 Not to you nor I,) 
 
 To sever the bond ' 
 
 Of hearts ever fond, 
 And cause them to hate, 
 Oh, cruel the fate. 
 I hope that there never, 
 Will come a time ever, 
 When we may both feel, 
 That this piece of steel. 
 Has severed the cord, 
 That finds a reward, 
 i In being good friends 
 
 In life, till life ends. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 19 
 
 THE WELCOME RAIN. 
 
 The welcome rain 
 
 Has come again. 
 
 With a merry splash and clatter, 
 
 We love the sound. 
 
 As on the ground. 
 
 \\'e hear it fall and splatter. 
 
 It fills the cracks, 
 
 And then attacks 
 
 Each hole, and ditch and gutter. 
 
 And fills them up, 
 
 Full as a cup, 
 
 Until they splash and sputter. 
 
 It seems to say, 
 
 I came this way 
 
 Past town and hill and hollow 
 
 To make the fields 
 
 Smile in their yields, 
 
 And soften up the fallow. 
 
 I have been sent. 
 
 With this intent, 
 
 That yields may be the greater. 
 
 Therefore rejoice 
 
 With heart and voice, 
 
 And praise the Great Creator. 
 
 ! SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW. 
 
 This mystery I should like to know, 
 Whence came I, also whither go? 
 To some delightsome spirit land, 
 To walk with dear ones hand in hand? 
 
 Or, go I, like dumb driven brute. 
 To dwell in darkness, destitute 
 Of all that makes existence dear? 
 No sight to see, no sound to hear? 
 
 I know this body must decay. 
 And mingle with its mother clay, 
 But what of life? where does it go? 
 This is a secret, 1 would know. 
 
20 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 No mortal ever has returned, 
 To tell me what he hath discerned 
 Beyond the grave, where all who die. 
 Are ever held from wistful eye. 
 
 I often wonder if new birth 
 Is given to all who tread the earth. 
 And whether, I, again shall see 
 This body, in eternity. 
 
 1 am resultant of power 
 Which keeps, me, safely, every hour — ■ 
 An unseen force obeys my will 
 Within me, and is never still; 
 
 It gives me power to run, to walk, 
 To see, to hear, to taste, to talk. 
 To choose the right, reject the wrong; 
 My weeks, and years, of life prolong. 
 
 Does this mysterious thing called life. 
 When I am done, with mortal strit3, 
 Live some-where in immensity. 
 Or end, in dire nonentity? 
 
 Beyond the reach of finite mind. 
 No mortal ever has defined. 
 What animates me, gives me breath; 
 He only knows, all ends in death. 
 
 Life is a gift of power Divine, 
 And all my faculties combine 
 To prove God holds, within His hand 
 My being. How? None understand. 
 
 KANSAS. 
 
 Here's to the State we love so well. 
 Where many happy people dwell; 
 Here we have lived, here may we die. 
 Where dear ones repose, may you and I. 
 
 Here's to the State, where old John Brown 
 Fought, and bled, and gained renown; 
 Started a war that freed a race. 
 And blotted out, a nation's disgrace. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 21 
 
 Here's to the State, we all love best, 
 The grandest State in all the West; 
 We love her well, from her lowly rills, 
 To the top of her sloping rock-ribbed hills. 
 
 Hooray for Kansas, she always wins, 
 
 In every task she ever begins; 
 
 She has always won, and she always will, 
 
 For her people have got the brains and the skill. 
 
 I HEAR THE SONG. 
 
 1 hear the song 
 
 The eager throng. 
 
 In accents sweet. 
 
 The tones repeat, 
 
 I hear the congregations sing 
 
 Hosannas, to their Saviour King; 
 
 I hear the preacher, in his place, 
 
 Appealing at a throne of Grace; 
 
 I ask, is this reality, 
 
 Or only ideality? 
 
 And can it be, 
 
 Elternity 
 
 Will not reveal 
 
 The joys they feel? 
 
 And were our fore-bearers all mistaught, 
 
 Must faith and trust both, come to naught? 
 
 Shall all the pleasures they have known. 
 
 In trusting God, be over thrown? 
 
 I ask, have all the millions erred 
 
 And have their prayers all been unheard? 
 
 I ask of thee. 
 
 Eternity 
 
 Is Thy decree 
 
 Nonentity? 
 
 And must the body, with the soul. 
 
 In darkness dwell, while ages roll? 
 
 Forever banished from the lieht. 
 
 Be doomed to everlasting night? 
 
 Is this indeed reality. 
 
 Or only ideality? 
 
22 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Perish the thought, 
 
 Hath Christ not wrought 
 
 Salvation free 
 
 For all who flee 
 
 To Him, from out of doubt and strife? 
 
 "I am the way, the truth, the life," 
 
 And thus the congregations sing 
 
 Hosannas, to their Saviour King; 
 
 I ask, cannot this soul of thine 
 
 Assurance have, thou art divine? 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Some day there will be an ending 
 Of this drouth, and we shall hear 
 The sound of rain, descending. 
 On the earth, now brown and sear. 
 
 We will hear the rain-drops falling 
 On the roof, and in the trees; 
 Hear the thunder, so appalling. 
 Feel the cool refreshing breeze. 
 
 Then we'll all forget our troubles. 
 Be rejoicing in the rain, 
 For our troubles, like the bubbles. 
 Will soon, all be gone again. 
 
 Let us up, and all take courage. 
 For showers will come again. 
 And we shall receive demurrage 
 With the coming of the rain. 
 
 If God should list to the praying, 
 
 And give people what they ask, 
 
 The earth would be drowned, with spraying, 
 
 Or dry, as a powder flask. 
 
 Let's be thankful God is holding. 
 In the hollow of His hand 
 The earth, and is still unfolding. 
 What in wisdom, He has planned. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 23 
 
 THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 I walked down the streets of a city 
 Whose owners, both small and great, 
 Were resting and slumb'ring in silence, 
 Where all seemed calm and sedate. 
 
 The streets were -deserted and quiet, 
 No buzzing of trade I heard; 
 The doors were all closed, and the owners 
 Spoke never a single word. 
 
 No policeman was at the corner 
 To tell me which way to go, 
 No auto, no wagon, no footman 
 Were there, rushing to and fro. 
 
 No traffic was coming and going; 
 Oblivion seemed to reign, 
 And the people, who live in the city. 
 Never go out, on the train. 
 
 The city has neither a depot, 
 And all trains go rushing by. 
 Yet the city is daily growing. 
 But the owners quiet lie. 
 
 Many come to this quiet city 
 To visit their dearest friends. 
 But the visitors, do all the talking. 
 And in silence, the visit ends. 
 
 DROUTH. 
 
 The earth cryeth out for rain 
 In this with'ring burning drouth. 
 And the hot winds come again. 
 Blowing, from out the South. 
 
 The sun, like a ball of fire. 
 Comes up, in the flaming East, 
 And regardless of man's desire 
 Shines, with a heat increased. 
 
 With a heat, that is increasing. 
 The sky, like molten brass. 
 Merciless and unceasing 
 Burns up the famished grass. 
 
24 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Freshened, by dew, in the morn, 
 C'jrling and twisted, by noon, 
 Strug'ling 'gainst drouth, is the corn 
 Dying, it all will be, soon. 
 
 The farmer looks up in despair. 
 For clouds, but he looks in vain; 
 He knows nothing can repair 
 His loss, but the clouds and rain. 
 
 The horses and cattle seek shade,. 
 Humanity is in retreat; 
 For flesh and blood were not made, 
 To rejoice, in such fierce heat? 
 
 To mortals, it seems a^ shame. 
 That Nature should thus disdain, 
 In playing her fickle game. 
 To send us the latter rain? 
 
 The Earth cryeth out for rain, 
 But never a passing cloud 
 Comes up to cheer us again, 
 With thundering^, deep and loud. 
 
 The Earth cryeth out for rain. 
 For generous showers. Lord, 
 That the people may obtain. 
 For their labors, just reward? 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 If we knew what may befall us. 
 If we knew when death would call us 
 We would be much more respectful. 
 And of friends, much less neglectful. 
 
 If we knew, some time at parting, 
 With dear friends, that they were starting 
 On the way whence none returning. 
 Sad our hearts would be, and yearning 
 
 To be helpful, and forgiving. 
 To them, while they still are living 
 Blessings on them, to o'er flowing. 
 We would want to be bestowing. 
 
 If we knew, that we should meet them, 
 Never more, and never greec them, 
 How our hearts would want to bless them. 
 Arms then lovingly caress them. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 25 
 
 Lives that have been long abiding, 
 And, in us, been long confiding. 
 May be gone, to rest, some morning, 
 May be taken without warning. 
 
 Oh then, when our hearts are broken, 
 How we'll wish that we had spoken 
 Much less harshly, in our talking. 
 While they, by our side, were walking. 
 
 Some day, when we're not expecting, 
 Death may come, without detecting; 
 Some night, when we're tired of sleeping 
 We may wake to bitter weeping. 
 
 Then be kind to one another. 
 Father, mother, sister, brother. 
 For each, may into error fall. 
 Then let us be forgiving all. 
 
 YOUTH AND A MAIDEN— A SPRING IDYL. 
 
 On the outskirts of the town, 
 Stood a cottage, old and brown, 
 In it, dwelt a maiden fair. 
 With bright eyes and golden hair. 
 
 In a quiet useful way. 
 
 Toiled she, patiently each day; 
 
 Educated and refined. 
 
 She had wealth of heait and mind. 
 
 She was graceful as a queen 
 In each movement, and her mein 
 Was attractive to the eye 
 Of each daily passer by. 
 
 Farther down the wid'ning street. 
 
 In a mansion large and neat, 
 
 Dwelt a favored son of wealth. 
 
 Strong of form, and blessed with health. 
 
 Ever new, forever old 
 
 Is the story ever told; 
 
 Love, a sentiment divine. 
 
 Doth all human hearts entwine. 
 
 One day, in the early spring, 
 When the birds began to sing. 
 Gentle doves began to coo. 
 Went the youth, the maid to woo? 
 
26 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Apple blossoms, every where. 
 With sweet perfume, filled the air; 
 Where the grass, with dew, was wet 
 There the youth and maiden met. 
 
 Standing 'neath an apple tree 
 Plighted they their troth, and she 
 Bent two boughs, and bound them true, 
 Bound them, with a ribbon blue. 
 
 Smiling at the youth she said: 
 "When an apple, ripe and red, 
 Hangs upon these boughs, I've tied, 
 I will be your happy bride." 
 
 As the summer days grew warm. 
 Watched they, rounding into form. 
 Two fine apples, of bright hue, 
 On these boughs, bound firm and true. 
 
 When the splendid autumn days. 
 Hung with Indian summer haze, 
 Neath these apples, ripe and red. 
 Standing, youth and maiden wea. 
 
 W. C. GUNN. 
 
 We have in our town, a man named Gunn, 
 Vvlio has, by his acts, distinction won; 
 He labors early, and he labors late 
 To make a deal, or to speculate. 
 
 He n;akes good money, but it doesn't last. 
 For he travels around, and spends it fast; 
 He lays all the agents, in the shade, 
 In making a deal, or a big land trade. 
 
 He's not afraid to work all the night. 
 If he can bring trade around all right; 
 He generally m.akes it to suit his taste. 
 Or else he never makes it in haste. 
 
 And when he has made it, he'll never squeel, 
 If he hasn't just got the best of the deal, 
 But mostly, he gets there, just the same, 
 For he knows just how to play the game. 
 
 And people look up t) him evcrywh^^re; 
 
 He has got of this world a goodly share, 
 
 He's given the city a pretty park, 
 
 Where the people resort, when they want a "lark. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 27 
 
 He didn't wait, to make his will, 
 But gave to the college, on the hill, 
 A good big house, and a plat of ground : 
 His business methods are always sound. 
 
 When he goes to church, and they pass the hat 
 He always gives, to this and thai, 
 When he's got the money in his hand. 
 He deals it out, as the needs demand. 
 
 When a man goes in, to his business place. 
 
 He is always met by a smiling face. 
 
 And if he is, some times, denied 
 
 He doesn't feel bad, because he tried. 
 
 As long as lives Dear Old Fort Scott, 
 
 The name of Gunn will perrish not, 
 
 For the names of both, have together grown, 
 
 And the people wiU neither one disown. 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 In this life, sorrow and joy. 
 Mingled are, in strange alloy; 
 Alternating every day, 
 As the night is, and the day. 
 
 Some lives, seeming have to bear. 
 More of sorrows than their share. 
 While no anodyne of grief. 
 Ever comes to their relief. 
 
 Others, ever seem to be. 
 
 In a state of ecstacy, 
 
 Living ever in the light, 
 
 With no thought of coming night. 
 
 Yet a shadow, sure, must fall, 
 'Cross the path, of one, and all; 
 Never was a day so bright. 
 But was followed by the night. 
 
 Never has there been a night. 
 But was followed by the light, 
 Of a sure returning day. 
 Chasing shades of night away. 
 
 So our lives are spent on earth. 
 Full of sadness and of mirth. 
 As the night follows the day. 
 Alternating all the way. 
 
28 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 THROUGH TIMBER STROLLING. 
 
 I like to go through timber, strolling 
 Down to the river, see it rolling, 
 To hear the wind, through tall trees roaring. 
 Look up, and see, proud birds go soaring, 
 
 See giant trees go bowing, bending 
 Against the free strong wind contending; 
 When Nature is thus all conspiring. 
 Her voice, and tones, are soul inspiring. 
 
 I like to hear the ripe nuts falling. 
 The plaintive notes of Bob White, calling. 
 To hear the frisky squirrel's sharp barking 
 As up a tree, he goes, skylarking. 
 
 Just then it's hard for me to stifle, 
 Desire to shoot him, with my rifle; 
 And then, I like to see the bunnie, 
 Go skipping down the hill, it's funny. 
 
 The river has a fascination 
 For some, but I've no inclination 
 To risk my life, upon its water. 
 In frail boats, that go teeter-totter. 
 
 1 like to see its rolling motion 
 
 But I assure you, I've no notion 
 
 To risk myself upon its billows, 
 
 Nor sleep beneath its weeping willows. 
 
 I like to sit, and fish and angle. 
 With none to bother or to wrangle 
 About what kind of fish are biting. 
 It's then the sport, is sure exciting. 
 
 I like to see the waters gleaming 
 Beneath the sun's rays, always seeming 
 To be in a perpetual motion. 
 As they go rolling to the ocean. 
 
 When everything performs its duty. 
 There is in nature's works rare beauty : 
 Pity the man, who looks, not seeing 
 The Power that spoke them into being. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 29 
 
 THE STORM KING. 
 
 The winter wind, sounds loud to-night, 
 As fiercely it comes roaring 
 Through naked branches, in its flight, 
 With dark clouds, swiftly soaring. 
 
 It gathers force, with each loud blast 
 In maddened fury hurling 
 Against the house, then rushing past 
 It sends the snow flakes whirling. 
 
 Then out across the fields it goes. 
 Big hay stacks, there upsetting. 
 It fills the farmer's heart with woes 
 And leaves him, sore regretting. 
 
 It starts the rich man with a chill. 
 And makes his windows rattle; 
 It freezes up his pond and mill. 
 Disturbs his hogs and cattle. 
 
 It forces itself through the door 
 
 Of many a humble dwelling. 
 
 And creeps up through the naked floor. 
 
 All cheerful warmth expelling. 
 
 O God, have mercy on the poor 
 Where ever they are living. 
 And may they all be kept secure, 
 In mercy, be forgiving. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S CHAIR. 
 
 Many times have I seen my mother sit 
 In you, old chair, with her yarn, and knit; 
 Her fingers would fly, as you would rock 
 While she knit away, at my woolen sock. 
 
 And again, I have seen her sit and spin. 
 In long winter nights, when all within 
 The old farm house, was cherry and bright 
 In the glow of the fire's uncertain light. 
 
 Then I often would play, around your feet. 
 And list to the hum of the wheel, so sweet. 
 And the pure, clear tones, of my mother's voice 
 As she sang, some hymn, of her own sweet choice. 
 
30 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Some times she would sing, "In the Bye and Bye, 
 In a way that would make me want to cry; 
 But the "Rock of Ages," seemed to be, 
 Sweeter than all the rest to me. 
 
 I have heard the choir, of Cathedral grand. 
 When lead by the wave of the master hand, 
 I have listened oft, to the warbling song 
 Of some prima-donna, seen the throng 
 
 Go wild with enthusiastic joy; 
 
 Yet, I never have heard, since I was a boy. 
 
 Any tones that sounded to me as sweet 
 
 As I have heard, when I played, 'round your feet. 
 
 You're lonesome and vacant, old chair, to-night 
 The form you once held, has taken its flight 
 And I listen, in vain, for the clear sweet voice 
 That in childhood oft, bid my heart rejoice. 
 
 Though the form is gone, and the voice is still, 
 Fond mem'ries cling round you, and ever will. 
 When I fancy I see, the dear sweet face. 
 Of my mother, again, in your strong embrace. 
 
 THE FAMILY TABLE. 
 
 Here, 'round this board, we daily meet 
 For some thing always good to eat. 
 For mama has a savory dish 
 Of pork, or beef, or fowl or fish. 
 
 Vv'c always here, talk long, and laugh 
 As from the cheerful cup we quaff 
 The ice cold water, coffee, tea 
 Or what- so ever drink it be. 
 
 Each one in Iiis accustomed place. 
 Bows low his head, while Dad asks grace, 
 And when the meal is done we part. 
 Each satisfied, each stout of heart. 
 
 All go to meet the calls of life, 
 To mingle in its cares and strife, 
 Until the strength that we attain 
 Is wasted, and we meet again. 
 
 Around this board, at noon or eve. 
 Recount the blessing we receive. 
 And tell again of various joys, 
 A merry lot of girls and boys? 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 31 
 
 We all remember, also, this. 
 That life is not one round of bliss, 
 But are reminded that some day 
 Sorrow will lie, across our way. 
 
 Some day, there'll be a vacant place, 
 Some day we'll miss a dear one's face, 
 Some day we'll drop a silent tear, 
 For some loved one will not be here. 
 
 MORNING AFTER A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 O'er all the earth, the snow now lies 
 A blanket, soft and deep; 
 The wind, through naked branches sighs. 
 Like mourners, when they weep. 
 
 The smoke ascends, through mist and clouds, 
 Or wavers in its flight. 
 Else quick descending, close enshrouds 
 The earth, in shades of night. 
 
 'J'ho birds, that lately sang so sweet. 
 Are quiet now and still; 
 Or nestling, in their safe retreat, 
 Beneath the window sill. 
 
 Glad Christmas time will soon be here, 
 To bid our hearts rejoice 
 With all the blessings of good cheer, 
 And presents, rare and choice. 
 
 The girls and boys, with sleds are out. 
 All happy in their joys; 
 I like to hear their merry shout, 
 God bless the girls and boys. 
 
 AN AUTUMN MORNING AFTER RAIN. 
 
 Last evening, when we went to bed. 
 The sky was over-cast 
 With clouds, that hung just over head, 
 And rain was falling fast. 
 
 This morning, when day-light awoke 
 Resplendent in the East, 
 There were no clouds, no fog, no smoke, 
 The falling rain had ceased. 
 
32 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 The sun came up, out of the night, 
 Suffusing all the earth 
 
 With warmth, and splendor, and with light 
 To give to plants new birth. 
 
 All nature seems to be in tune, 
 This splendid autumn morn. 
 All vegetation, looks like June, 
 Except the withered corn. 
 
 The air comes bowling, from the South, 
 Across the country, warm; 
 The rain has put an end to drouth, 
 With no destructive storm. 
 
 As long as earth and sky remain, 
 We can but wait and look; 
 The early and the latter rain. 
 Are promised in the BOOK. 
 
 10-3-16. 
 
 ON A SPREE. 
 
 The wind sprang up, one morning bright. 
 And hurried away, in rapid flight 
 Across the fields, and into the town, 
 Ran a thousand miles before sun down. 
 
 It forced itself through every door. 
 And crept up through the naked floor 
 Of many a dwelling, in its way. 
 Before it sank to rest that day. 
 
 It picked up the hat, of a passed by. 
 
 And carried it upward to the sky. 
 
 Blew through his whiskers, ruffled his hair 
 
 And made him so mad he swore a swear. 
 
 It skipped to the country, and left the town. 
 And turned big hay stacks up side down, 
 That the farniers had placed there, in a low, 
 Then left the owners, all filled with woe. 
 
 It caused the doors and windows to rattle, 
 And swept the pastures, where lowing cattle 
 Were peacefully chewing their savory cud, 
 Then away it went, through the ieafy wood. 
 
 The tall trees sighed, and groaned, and bent 
 Like the keys, of some great instrument. 
 When played by the touch of a master hard. 
 A chorus of nature, wild and grand. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 33 
 
 It came to the ocean, vast and wide, 
 
 And lashed the waves into angry tide ; 
 
 It caught great ships, in furious glee 
 
 And hurried them deep, in the troughs of the sea 
 
 No mortal can measure, nor understand 
 The unseen power that gives command, 
 Yet the winds and the waves obey the will 
 Of Him who said to them, "Peace be still." 
 
 SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 As I go walking down the street, 
 I often, in the morning, meet 
 A lot of girls, all dressed up neat 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 It is a splendid sight, for me. 
 
 So many pretty girls to see. 
 
 With movements blithe, and hearts all free 
 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 It argues well, for this old town, 
 When every girl, in pretty gown. 
 Can analyze a verb or noun, 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 Falicitation would be fine. 
 If both your pretty girl, and mine. 
 Could every vexing verb decline 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 I like to meet the manly boys, 
 Who lately, playing with their toys. 
 Were always making lots of noise. 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 They no doubt thought it fun, last fall. 
 To hustle out, and play foot-ball. 
 Although they some times got a fall 
 Coming up to school. 
 
 I some-times wish for that sweet day. 
 Long years before my hair was gray. 
 When I was learning Wisdom's way 
 Coming up to, school. 
 
 Some-times I look through mists of tears. 
 When I remember earlier years, 
 With all my anxious hopes, and fears. 
 Coming up to school. 
 
34 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 THE MARMATON. 
 
 Thou gently flowing Marniaton, 
 Your journey seaward's just begun, 
 Some day you'll meet the rolling tide. 
 And mingle with the ocean wide. 
 
 Some-times I watch your gentle flow, 
 And wish that I might with you go 
 To meet the margin of the sea, 
 But such a thing can never be. 
 
 For should I launch my feeble boat, 
 Upon your gentle brest to float, 
 You might go on a raging spree. 
 And in your madness, swallow me. 
 
 If this should happen, I can't swim. 
 My chance for life would sure be slim, 
 I guess to go I'd better not, 
 But stay right here, in Old Fort Scott. 
 
 They say you have a wond'rous charm 
 For all who drink, from you, old Marm.. 
 If on your bank they make a track, 
 And go away, they'll sure come back. 
 
 Now I have watched you for some years. 
 Some-times with joy, some-times with tears. 
 For every time I from you drink, 
 I kind 'o believe, I smell a stink. 
 
 The doctors say, you are all right. 
 But some-times, you are sure, a fright, 
 Jutt after some big heaVy rain, 
 Before you settle back again. 
 
 It's then 1 pour jfou in a cup 
 And see that you are all riled up — 
 I kind 'o believe, I won't say why, 
 The doctors all have told a 
 
 I know, that on your banks there live, 
 A lot of farmers, who have "thriv" 
 By feeding horses, cattle, hogs. 
 And some-times half a dozen dogs. 
 
 They feed them close beside your bank. 
 In yards, that's some-times pretty rank, 
 And also, pretty sure to drain. 
 Their essence, after every rain. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 35 
 
 The doctors say ''Don't take alarm," 
 That you will never do us harm : 
 That you will settle, in a tank. 
 They've built upon your dirty bank. 
 
 These doctors sell us lots of pills 
 They say, will cure us of our ills. 
 And then they'll tell us all to drink. 
 Big lots of you, although you stink. 
 
 Now all the people have their fads, 
 And our commission, city dads 
 Are gain' (?) to build a septic tank, 
 Below the city, on your bank. 
 
 And then they'll take the city drain, 
 
 And mix it with the sorghum cane. 
 
 Then what they'll do, with this whole mess, 
 
 No one has yet begun to guess. 
 
 Now all the people. East of town. 
 Are following after Mister Brown, 
 He says your waters we polute, 
 So he's begun a big law-suit. 
 
 He says your surface is all black: 
 
 And, he is making this attack 
 
 Upon the city, and I'm told 
 
 He wants ten thousand plunks of gold. 
 
 He says he's damaged that amount. 
 And says, that you are no account. 
 Since you have been so filthy made. 
 By city garbage much decayed. 
 
 Now I am some-times much amused. 
 To see your w^ater thus abused, 
 By people who don't stop to think 
 Before they stoop, to take a drink. 
 
 Some say your waters are so bad. 
 To drink them makes them awful mad. 
 While others laud you, to the skies. 
 T often wonder which one lies. 
 
 I trust that in the days to come. 
 You'll keep your-self, all free from sciiui. 
 And hope that you will f?till flow on 
 You dirty little Marniaton. 
 
36 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 MARMATON RIVER. 
 
 Marmaton, dear Marmaton, 
 As you flow to the sea, 
 Bear on your swelling bosoni 
 This message, true, for me. 
 
 Tell to the deep this story, 
 Else she may never know 
 About this noble country, 
 Through which your waters flow. 
 
 Tell her you came from Kansas, 
 A State of worth and note, 
 Where every man, and woman. 
 Is given the right to vote. 
 
 Don't say you're from Missouri, 
 The "Puke" you must disown, 
 But say, "I am a Jayhawk," 
 And don't have to "be shown," 
 
 Tell her you flow through prairies— 
 A region smooth and vast, 
 Through valleys rich in vendure 
 That waves as you flow past. 
 
 And towns, and cities, growing 
 In luxury and wealth. 
 To which you're bearing daily, 
 A cooling draught of health. 
 
 Tell her you bear her tidings 
 From out a land of grain, 
 And if she can, you wish she 
 Vould send you back again. 
 
 Tell her you have been flowing 
 For ages on ages past; 
 Before the foot of mortal 
 Had trod this region vast. 
 
 Say to her, no one knoweth. 
 Among the multitude. 
 How long you have been flowing 
 Alone, in solitude. 
 
Short Poams ?t Odd Hours 87 
 
 Long, long before the white man, 
 A hardy pioneer 
 Had coLr.e to vex your waters 
 With boat, or dam or pier, 
 
 You flowed to quench the thirstings 
 Oi buffalo and deer; 
 Hefore he had discovered, 
 This country, you were here. 
 
 You gather up the waters 
 From valley, hill and plain. 
 And bearing them all seaward. 
 The fertile land you drain. 
 
 You flow past no old castle. 
 Renowned on story's page; 
 But, with your cooling waters. 
 You serve the present age. 
 
 Y'ou bear no flaming story 
 Of armies that have crossed 
 Your waters, and have battled 
 To victory, or have lost. 
 
 But you can tell of armies. 
 
 Of panting buffalo, 
 
 x'hat peaceful quenched their thirstings 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Tell her you are expecting 
 To still be flowing on. 
 When cities, that are building. 
 Will crumble and be gone. 
 
 TO TH!! HAWK^YE NATIVES OF BURLINGTON, lA. 
 
 (Read before the Hawkeye Natives Association at 
 tlieir reunion, Sept. 4, 1915.) 
 
 Hawkeye natives of a State 
 That has grown to be so great, 
 Happy I congratulate 
 One and all. 
 
 Flying swiftly as the Auk, 
 From the land of the Jayhawk, 
 To the land of Chief Black Hawk 
 Hear me call. 
 
38 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Thoughts are flying fast this morn, 
 
 Toward the land of growing corn: 
 
 In the land where I was born, 
 
 Moons ago. 
 
 There 1 fein to-day would rest, 
 
 Near the old frequented nest, 
 
 In a land so richly blest 
 
 It 'twer so 
 
 I could flap my wings, and fly, 
 
 Like the Jayhawk, through the sky. 
 
 Or could dart as does the eye 
 
 Of the hawk, 
 
 I would fly across the land. 
 
 Grasp you once more by the hand 
 
 If my wings, when they expand. 
 
 Didn't balk. 
 
 To return to earth, again, 
 
 I should like to be there when, 
 
 You are meeting in your den. 
 
 As of yore. 
 
 But in future, when you meet, 
 
 There will be an empty seat, 
 
 In your wigwam's dim retreat 
 
 Ever more. 
 
 For I never shall return. 
 
 Yet my heart will ever yearn. 
 
 To the land where ever burn 
 
 Fires of love. 
 
 Near the peaceful flowing Kaw, 
 
 And the river Arkansas, 
 
 I am dwelling with my squaw 
 
 Peaceful dove. 
 
 Where the sky comes down to greet 
 
 Verdant fields of growing wheat, 
 
 In a land that can't be beat 
 
 For an hour. 
 
 On the" prairies, stretching west, 
 
 There is wheat, till "you can't rest,' 
 
 Wheat that makes the very best 
 
 Kind of flour. 
 
 Here I'll spend my fleeting days. 
 
 Striving, learning Wisdom's ways. 
 
 Singing long, and loud, the praise 
 
 Of the land 
 
 Which has been my gonfalon. 
 
 In the years that are agon, 
 
 And at last has lead me on 
 
 To this land. 
 
 Now I want to pay respect, 
 To the men of intellect, 
 
Short Poems at Odd Haurs 39 
 
 Who had wisdow to select, 
 
 Hawk-Eye State 
 
 As a good place, to be born. 
 
 As a place, to grow good corn. 
 
 Ana a place to blow a horn 
 
 And relate, 
 
 How the laud of old Black Hawk, 
 
 Will sure raise a bigger stalk, 
 
 And produce a finer flock. 
 
 Than the best. 
 
 It will grow a bigger ear. 
 
 Will produce a bigger steer, 
 
 And will do it every year 
 
 Than the rest. 
 
 Now the land of old Black Hawk 
 And the land of the Jayhawk 
 Seems to "knock the very sock " 
 Off the crowd. 
 
 In producing wheat, and corn. 
 In the land where we were born. 
 So we like to blow our horn. 
 Long and loud. 
 
 We have lived for fifty years. 
 
 Midst life's hopes, and joys and fears; 
 
 Looking back, through mists of tears. 
 
 We can see. 
 
 How the land, we loved the best. 
 
 In the Golden, glowing West, 
 
 In the land that most has blest 
 
 You and me. 
 
 Fifty years, when we were boys. 
 
 Seemed as long as Illinois, 
 
 When we played with simple toys. 
 
 In that day. 
 
 We all thought the time was slow. 
 
 Fifty years, and more ago 
 
 When we started out to go 
 
 On life's way. 
 
 Now we're going at a rate, 
 
 I am sorry to relate. 
 
 We would like to hesitate 
 
 If we could. 
 
 W^e are going down the grade. 
 
 At the fastest rate we've made. 
 
40 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 And we soon, will reach the shade 
 
 At the end, 
 
 In the land, of bye and bye, 
 
 Where the natives never sigh, 
 
 Never have to say good bye 
 
 To a friend. 
 
 HAWKEYE NATIVES. 
 
 The Hawkeye Natives Association, of Des Moines 
 County, Iowa, is composed of members who were born in 
 Iowa, fifty years ago. The following verses were read at 
 a reunion of the association, held February 23d, 1915, in 
 Burlington: 
 
 I wish I could meet you all to-night 
 As in the days of yore, 
 'Twould fill my soul with pure delight 
 To see you all once more. 
 
 It would be a :oy and pleasure 
 To grasp you by the hand. 
 To see in fullest measure 
 Bright smiles your face expand. 
 
 I trust you'll have a royal time, 
 
 I know indeed you will. 
 
 For you've got a splendid State and clime. 
 
 And "pep" and brains and skill. 
 
 There never was a truer set, 
 
 Of men. In any town. 
 
 Than the Hawkeye Natives are, "you bet," 
 
 Who gave the State renown. 
 
 We've always stood, in the foremost ranks 
 A great common brotherhood. 
 And though we've often been called cranks, 
 All wrongs we have withstood. 
 
 We have helped to make the country great; 
 Foundations deep, we laid. 
 And we all know how this splendid State, 
 Of Iowa, was made 
 
 We have labored on, for fifty years 
 
 But still we're brave and strong; 
 
 Some times we've had to look through tears, 
 
 When things have all gone wrong. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 41 
 
 And now we want to give this toast, 
 To the State that gave us birth. 
 And shout her praises in the boast. 
 She's the greatest State on earth. 
 
 So here's to the State, where we were born. 
 Where we've lived through griefs and joys. 
 Where we raised big fam'lies, and big corn 
 God bless our girls and boys. 
 
 AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 
 
 When, at close of day, the sun 
 Has gone down, and night begun. 
 Then I like to hear the feet. 
 Of the people, on the street. 
 Hear them passing, to and fro 
 Hither, thither, homeward go. 
 
 Then I like to hear the talk. 
 Of the people on the walk; 
 Hear the buzzing of the car, 
 And its honking, near and far; 
 Hear the inmates laugh and sing 
 Till they make the echoes ring. 
 
 Night is tilled with many joys. 
 For the youthful girls and boys. 
 Who are merry, every where, 
 With no thought of life's dull care; 
 Let them have their fun and joys. 
 Blessings on the girls and boys. 
 
 Later, when the shades of night. 
 Have shut out all rays of light. 
 Then again, I hear the feet. 
 Of the people, on the street. 
 Many going home to sleep. 
 Others, going home, to weep. 
 
 For the burdens of the day. 
 
 Often chase the joys away. 
 
 For the older, ones who go. 
 
 To their homes, at night, and know 
 
 All alone, with none to share. 
 
 They have loads that they must beiir. 
 
42 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Never since creation's morn, 
 When our parents, were first bcrn. 
 Has there been, a day, so bright 
 But was followed by the night; 
 Never been, so great a joy, 
 But had in it, some alloy. 
 
 Many carry, to and fro. 
 
 Cares and sorrows, we don't know. 
 
 And we, carry, all alone. 
 
 Cares and sorrows of our own. 
 
 And forever will it be. 
 
 As it's been, to you and me. 
 
 Therefore let us keep in touch, 
 With the world, and get as much 
 Of the joys, out of this life, 
 As we can, 'twixt care and strife; 
 For, we know, that soon the light, 
 Must be followed by the night. 
 
 THE COUNTRY'S CALL. 
 
 1 hear the breeze. 
 
 Among the trees, 
 
 I hear the country calling, 
 
 And feel as though, 
 
 I'd like to go. 
 
 Out where the nuts are falling. 
 
 This autumn haze. 
 And dreamy days, 
 Are certainly inviting; 
 To take a roam. 
 Away from home, 
 
 I know would be exciting. 
 
 i sure would like 
 
 To take a hike 
 
 Across the country trailing. 
 
 Or in a boat. 
 
 Go on a float, 
 
 Adown some river sailing. 
 
 II would be :oy. 
 Without alloy. 
 
 To leave the city's humming 
 
 And hear around. 
 
 The pleasant sound, 
 
 Of pheasant in his drumming. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 43 
 
 I only wish, 
 
 That I could fish, 
 
 For bass, or carp or grayling. 
 
 In some dark nook, 
 
 Or quiet brook, 
 
 \\ ith no bad luck assailing. 
 
 I'd like the fun, 
 
 W ith dog and gun, 
 
 Of hunting frisky bunnie; 
 
 To cast aside 
 
 All care and pride 
 
 Oh, wouldn't it be funny? 
 
 I hope I may. 
 
 Some pleasant day. 
 
 Enjoy the country's calling, 
 
 Where I may be 
 
 From care set free 
 
 Out where the nuts are falling. 
 
 A DILEMA. 
 
 We are all striving for existence. 
 
 But most of us meet such resistance. 
 
 That we can't make ends meet 
 
 By a good many feet. 
 
 So we have to bridge over the distance 
 
 We need a new coat, but can't muster 
 
 The price, so we get out the duster 
 
 And go over our hat, 
 
 With such vigor that. 
 
 We think we can give it new lustre. 
 
 The wife needs a new cloak, and a bonnet, 
 So she sings us a nice little sonnet, 
 Says she can't go to "club" 
 And she won't cook our grub 
 Unless there's a new hat, dog on it. 
 
 The family says: ''We need an auto; 
 
 I know it, and I hadn't ought to 
 
 For there's so many bills, 
 
 They give me the chills. 
 
 To pay them will not be my motto. 
 
44 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 We don't want him to grow up a fool, 
 So we've sent our big boy off to school, 
 Now he's writin' for mon. 
 
 The son of a 
 
 He must think I'm just made for a tool. 
 
 Our daughter can sing, like a Linnet, 
 
 And we do not doubt, for a minute. 
 
 She can win a great prize. 
 
 Give the world a surprise, 
 
 But we don't think she'd better begin it. 
 
 Now this seems about all there is to it, 
 
 And good people soon may all rue it; 
 
 For they're going it blind 
 
 And are running behind 
 
 And argue "because they all do it." 
 
 FACT AND FANCY. 
 
 The smallest flower that ever grew, 
 
 Some say, proclaims that God is true. 
 
 And proves, to every life and soul. 
 
 That He is ever in control 
 
 Of nature, and is giving growth 
 
 To plant and animal, and both 
 
 Are proving, in their life and worth. 
 
 The power tha-t gave such wond'rous birth. 
 
 Did'st ever think what power Divine 
 Controls and keeps this life of thine? 
 What unseen force around thy way 
 Prolongs thy life, from day to day? 
 This strange mysterious force, unknown. 
 Is not within thee, not thine own; 
 Does not this force, you cannot see, 
 Give ample proof of Deity? 
 
 Some say, this force comes from above. 
 From God, who is the source of love 
 And not of justice, as some say. 
 And try to prove it in this way: 
 "That man is only a machine, 
 Placed here, upon the earth, between 
 God and the angels, to fulfill 
 The mandates of a sovereign will. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 45 
 
 Some say, "salvation is for all, 
 
 Man never transgressed, did not fall. 
 
 Did not surrender paradise, 
 
 Is not condemned, by sin and vice ; " 
 
 Thus believing, Christ hath died in vain; 
 
 And all men, dying, will obtain 
 
 Life universal, and be saved 
 
 No matter how vile, and depraved. 
 
 BRAVE MEN OF SIXTY-THREE. 
 
 Ye valient )iien of sixty-three. 
 
 We come to-day, to honor thee; 
 
 In presence of thy honored dead 
 
 We stand, with reverence, and bowed head. 
 
 We come to strew with flowers, the grave, 
 Of him, who in his life was brave; 
 Who went to fight in Freedom's cause, 
 And won a nation's loud applause. 
 
 We owe a debt we fain would pay. 
 Here, on this decoration day 
 To you, brave men of sixty-three. 
 Who went to fight for Liberty. 
 
 We well remember how, you all. 
 Responded to dear Lincoln's call; 
 Of how you all went forth to fight, 
 Subdue the wrong, uphold the right. 
 
 The nation's life, was then at stake. 
 And many hearts seemed near to break 
 When fathers, brothers, lovers-all 
 Responded to the country's call. 
 
 In many homes, are hearts as brave. 
 
 As are the ones who march to save 
 
 Their country from the cruel foe; 
 
 And, these brave hearts, are filled with woe. 
 
 Because they do not know what breath, 
 Some loved one may be cold in death; 
 Oh, sad and cruel is the fate, 
 Of dear ones left, at home, to wait. 
 
 A father, brother, youthful son 
 May never know of vict'ry won: 
 A comrade, marching by his side 
 Can only say: "The dear one died. 
 
46 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 While fighting, and I saw him fall, 
 His brave heart pierced by cruel ball." 
 And thus, are many hearts forlorn 
 And left at home to grieve and mourn. 
 
 To roll of drum, and scream of fife. 
 You weLt. to save your country's life. 
 In camp, on march, or on the field 
 You never faltered, did not yield. 
 
 In either army. East or West 
 
 You always did your very best; 
 
 No matter if you "fought 'gainst Lee," 
 
 Or marched "with Sherman to the sea." 
 
 Where tasks were hard, and you were sent. 
 You never faltered, always went; 
 And where "Old Glory" waved, there you 
 Were found to do your duty true. 
 
 And when the crvel y ar is o'er, 
 And you were safe at home once more, 
 Fond hearts rejoiced, and were made glad. 
 While others mourned, O God, how sad. 
 
 So is it with us here to-day. 
 Some loved ones here, some are away. 
 And so we come, with you to weep. 
 About brave comrades, now asleep. 
 
 They live with us, in thought and deed. 
 Therefore we bring this simple meed 
 Of flowers, above their graves to strew. 
 To honor them, and honor you. 
 
 There comes to all, through lapse of year? 
 This sentiment, the soul reveres. 
 The North, the South, the Blue, the Gray 
 Clasp hands above no foeman's grave. 
 
 From North to South, from East to West 
 Shall be emblazoned on the crest 
 Of this grand country. LIBERTY 
 Land of the Brave, Home of the Free. 
 
 WHY SWEAR? 
 
 Some men declare. 
 And then will swear. 
 To back the declaration. 
 That they are right, 
 And in God's sight. 
 Are clear of condemnation. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 47 
 
 I'HE BOOK declares 
 The man who swears, 
 Is in a state ot dying, 
 And that the oath. 
 And cursing, both. 
 Are near akin to lying. 
 
 I cannot see 
 
 Why man should be. 
 
 So anxious to be reeking 
 
 In sin and shame 
 
 And take the name 
 
 Of God in vain, thus speaking. 
 
 An oath's a prayer, 
 
 And every where. 
 
 If God should heed the calling. 
 
 The world would be 
 
 In misery 
 
 To human mind appalling. 
 
 There's no defense 
 
 For this nonsense, 
 
 Of adding to each sentence. 
 
 This little word. 
 
 So often heard. 
 
 With men, before repentence. 
 
 A man may make. 
 
 This bad mistake 
 
 In talking to another. 
 
 So let's beware. 
 
 And never swear 
 
 When talking to a brother. 
 
 FRIENDS OF YOUTH. 
 
 All the friends of youth are dying, 
 And to-day, for them, I'm sighing. 
 Will forever more be crying. 
 Since they'll ne'er come back to me. 
 
 A kind father, loving mother. 
 Gentle sister, stalwart brother. 
 Have all followed one another 
 To that bourn I cannot see. 
 
48 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 All the joys of youthful greeting, 
 Of kind friends, and neighbors, meeting, 
 Have gone bj- with years that's fleeting, 
 Joys I never more can know. 
 
 Many cups, of pain and pleasure, 
 We have drained of fullest measure. 
 These are now the only treasure 
 Sweet remembrance can bestow. 
 
 There can now be no mistaking. 
 That each step I'm daily taking. 
 Will soon lead where is no waking 
 And I know I must be near 
 
 To the place where, none returning, 
 To give light, and truth, concerning, 
 And to which all feet are turning 
 With reluctance and with fear. 
 
 Yet I feel myself relying 
 
 On my Saviour, who in dying, 
 
 Satisfied the law, complying 
 
 With demands none else could meet. 
 
 And I know my friends are living, 
 That my. Saviour is forgiving, 
 And that there will be thanksgiving 
 When at Jesus' feet we meet. 
 
 ON LOOKING AT THE PICTURE OF AN OLD FRIEND 
 
 Old picture, thou hast brought to mind 
 Remembrance of a friend most kind; 
 A friend most loyal, true and tried 
 Who for long years walked by my side. 
 
 In years agone, when we were boys, 
 We played together, with our toys; 
 In after years, when we were men. 
 We often romped, together, then. 
 
 I thank the artist and the art. 
 That here so wond'rously impart. 
 The features of his manly face. 
 Depicted with such easy grace. 
 
 We both were raised upon the farm 
 Surrounded by sweet nature's charm; 
 We had our horses, and could ride, 
 Across the country, far and wide. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 49 
 
 We often rode with rapid speed 
 With tightened rein, and foaming stead; 
 And, when again, we'd want to talk, 
 We'd let our horses, slowly, walk. 
 
 Thus we have ridden many a mile 
 Across the country, and the while 
 Be talking what we'd like to do 
 When we a little older grew. 
 
 As we were riding out one day, 
 We passed a home, not far away 
 And met two sisters, by the style, 
 So lingered there a little while. 
 
 We often used to go this way. 
 In after years, so here one day,' 
 My friend got married, such is life, 
 And took one sister for his wife. 
 
 When he had taken home his bride, 
 We never took another ride. 
 Across the country, as of yore, 
 We'd taken many times before. 
 
 For many years, he and his wife, 
 Together lived, a happy life; 
 Not many years ago they died. 
 And now lie buried side by side. 
 
 Not far from where they lived, for years. 
 We laid them down, with sighs and tears, 
 To wait the day, when they shall rise, 
 To meet their Saviour in the skies. 
 
 Although they're mouldring back to clay 
 I hope to meet my friends some day. 
 Where friend meets friend, and we shall be 
 Redeemed through all eternity. 
 
 I'll keep thee, likeness of my friend. 
 Through life, until my life shall end. 
 Still trusting, we may meet some day, 
 Where sorrow's tears are wiped away. 
 
 FORTNEY'S FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 In my strolls around the town, 
 I am often caused to frown. 
 By unsightly crops of weeds 
 
50 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Growing up, and scatt'ring seeds 
 On almost every vacant lot, 
 Where the owner has forgot 
 To get out, with scythe, and mow 
 But has let the big weeds grow. 
 
 But I'm happy to relate, 
 
 I have found a diff'rent state. 
 
 Out upon a pretty street. 
 
 Where all things, are nice and neat, 
 
 There's a spot out there that's bright 
 
 And it's sure a great delight, 
 
 And it real'y seems to me. 
 
 Worth a trip, out there, to see. 
 
 There, for weeds you'll see instead 
 Flowers, blooming in a bed, 
 All of ver'ing shades and hue, 
 . Crimson, red, and white and blue — 
 Growing out there in the street 
 With their perfume rare and sweet ; 
 And you'll see, there hath been wrought, 
 By much skill, a beauty spot 
 
 Out of what, has been before, 
 Uglintss, and an eye sore; 
 And I'll venture, there is not, 
 In tne town, a lovelier spot. 
 It was all done by a man. 
 Guess his name, now if you can. 
 May he grow to wealth and fame, 
 William Fortney, is his name. 
 
 Here's example, that should be 
 
 Followed up, by you and me; 
 
 It would make a beauty spot 
 
 Out of our dear old Fort Scott. 
 
 It's a worthy enterprise, 
 
 Looking pretty to the eyes. 
 
 And should all the people make 
 
 Plant bright flowers for BEAUTY'S sake. 
 
 FATHOMLESS. 
 
 No theme, in all the world of thought 
 Is with such wond'rous mis'try frought, 
 No human mind can ever be 
 The guardian of its mystery. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 51 
 
 It is an attribute Divine, 
 No mortal ever can define; 
 'Twas never grasped by human mind, 
 Yet it embraces all mankind. 
 
 Before the world it had its birth, 
 We live a part of it, on earth, 
 And every soul must ever be 
 A part of it — Eternity. 
 
 "I CAN FETCH IT! I CAN FETCH IT!" 
 Have you ever noticed how an engine, in climbing a 
 hill, will emit a series of accented puffs, which by a little 
 stretch of the imagination, you can easily discern closely 
 resembles the declaration, ''I can fetch it." 
 
 If you never have indulged your plastic fancy thus, 
 listen, some still morning, to an engine, as it goes pulling 
 its ponderous load up the hill, and you can easily detect 
 the "I can fetch it." 
 
 Hear that engine, on the hill? 
 She is workin' with a will. 
 And is sayn', I can fetch it, 
 I can fetch it; 
 Hear her Bill? 
 
 She is engine number nine. 
 And she's workin' mighty fine. 
 Hear her sayin', I can fetch it, 
 I can fetch it 
 Up the line. 
 
 Now, I often have allowed. 
 That her engineer is proud. 
 When she's sayin', I can fetch it, 
 I can fetch it. 
 Clear and loud. 
 
 And I calculate he'll brag, 
 When he sees the heavy drag. 
 And can hear his engine sayin' 
 I can fetch it, I can fetch it. 
 And not fag. 
 
 Now, I like to hear her say, 
 Just about the break of day, 
 I can fetch it, I can fetch it, 
 I can fetch it. 
 All the way. 
 
52 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 It is music to my ear, 
 
 In the morning, still and clear, 
 
 When her merry I can fetch it, 
 
 I can fetch it, 
 
 I can hear. 
 
 It is then I listen long. 
 
 To the rhythm of her song, 
 
 Hear her sayin', I can fetch it, 
 
 I can fetch it, 
 
 All along. 
 
 'Bove the rumble of the train, 
 
 I can hear the faint refrain, 
 
 I can fetch it, I can fetch it, 
 
 I can fetch it, • 
 
 The whole train. 
 
 INDEPENDENCE DAY. 
 
 (Written in the beautiful park, in the town of Camer- 
 on, Missouri, the morning of July 4, 1915.) 
 We come to celebrate the day. 
 Made sacred to us all. 
 By what our honored fathers did 
 In Independence Hall. 
 They signed a document, this day, 
 Which gave a nation birth. 
 That since that day has grown to be 
 The greatest one on earth. 
 We celebrate, to-day, beneath 
 Our starry flag unfurled, 
 And proud are we, that flag to-day 
 Is floating round the world. 
 Where'er it's streaming out to-day. 
 O'er home, or land or sea 
 It bears to all the pleasing thought 
 Of Freedom's Jubilee. 
 Come celebrate our nation's birth. 
 With flags and banners gay. 
 And shout the anthem of the free 
 This Independence Day. 
 
 WHEN SCHOOL IS OUT. 
 
 On almost every pleasant day, 
 As I am going on my way, 
 I pause to see the children play 
 WTien school is out. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 53 
 
 I like to see them, one and all, 
 I like to see them, big and small, 
 Come rushing out, with bat and ball. 
 When school is out. 
 
 I like to see them have their fun, 
 I like to see them jump and run. 
 And often wish, that I was one. 
 When school is out. 
 
 I like to see them with their toys, 
 All glad and happy in their joys, 
 God bless the pretty girls and boys 
 When school is out. 
 
 happy childhood, may thy days. 
 We spent in learning Wisdom's ways 
 Call forth our longest, loudest praise. 
 When school is out. 
 
 When I recall life's earlier years. 
 
 All free from cares, and doubts and fears, 
 
 1 often look through mists of tears 
 When school is out. 
 
 I know what multitudes have done, 
 I know these boys and girls will run 
 The path of life they've now begun, 
 When school is out. 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 Ambition, thou art truly great; 
 Proud men, and nations, on thee wait; 
 You build the kingdoms of the earth, 
 Destroy, and make them of no worth. 
 
 You climb the mountains, cross the seas; 
 
 You issue edicts and decrees, 
 
 You make, and build, a prosp'rous State, 
 
 And then destroy it, in your hate. 
 
 With guns, and men, and flags unfurled. 
 You fight the battles of the world; 
 You leave destruction in your path. 
 While nations wonder at your wrath. 
 
 Inspiring millions, with a greed 
 Of conquest, which has been their meed. 
 You've been the cause of all the wars 
 The world has seen, and still abhors. 
 
54 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 You fill the lives of men with woe; 
 Else, richest blessings you bestow; 
 You never are quite satisfied, 
 Your wants are never gratified. 
 
 You are the source of constant strife 
 In every heart, in every life; 
 You never seem to give consent, 
 To live, the life, of sweet content. 
 
 You are the power within each brain 
 WhicJi elevates to higher plain; 
 You are the source, of all that's great. 
 In every man, in every state. 
 
 You are the source of all that's good. 
 In every quiet neighborhood. 
 Where peace, and plenty doth abide. 
 And you work quietly beside. 
 
 You are the power within each man. 
 Which makes him do the best he can 
 In any task, or enterprise. 
 Where duty calls, and virtue lies. 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 Morning. 
 
 Thanksgiving Day has come again 
 The turkey gobbler has been slain 
 And now is boiling in the pot. 
 Or roasting in the stove red hot. 
 
 The children are all coming home, 
 Those living near and those who roam. 
 There's Sue and Nell, Tom and Jack 
 All wrote that they are coming back. 
 
 Just twenty years ago today 
 
 Since Tom and Jack both went away 
 
 To settle on a claim out West, 
 
 And now they're coming home to rest. 
 
 They say they've raised a lot of wheat 
 Their hogs and cattle can't be beat. 
 And now they're coming home, they say. 
 To spend with us Thanksgiving Day. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 55 
 
 There's brother Jim and Nell and Sue 
 All coming with their babies, too, 
 To spend the day with me and Dad — 
 1 feel like cryin' I'm so glad. 
 
 I 'spect they'll be a noisy crowd, 
 They'll all be talkin' long and loud. 
 1 know they'll make a lot of noise. 
 Just like a lot of girls and boys. 
 
 They often used to make me mad 
 But now I know they'll make me glad; 
 The pleasure only lasts today, 
 Tomorrow they'll be gone away. 
 
 Dad just went driving up the road 
 To meet the train and bring a load 
 For Tom and Jack have got some kids 
 They say can sing like Katydids. 
 
 OE, there they come, a jolly crowd. 
 With every one a talkin' loud. 
 I'll go and meet them with a kiss. 
 Oh, goodness gracious this is bliss. 
 
 Evening. 
 
 Well, this has been a noisy day 
 With all the children here at play. 
 The older ones all talkin' loud, 
 Well sure it was a merry crowd. 
 
 They all came with an appetite — 
 The way they ate was sure a fright, 
 They ate the turkey breast and thigh 
 And gobbled up the pumpkin pie. 
 
 I'm wishing now, as I sit here 
 They all may come again next year 
 And fill the old house full of noise 
 God bless the pretty girls and boys. 
 
 I think they all are pretty fine, 
 Grandchildren all are twenty-nine. 
 And I have got a great big "hunch" 
 There never was a finer bunch. 
 
56 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 KANSAS. 
 
 From any angle viewed, she's great; 
 The big quadrangle, called the State of 
 Kansas, where the finest soil 
 Is recompensing honest toil; 
 Wherein the corn, and oats and rye 
 Are growing more than ten feet high. 
 And many great, and wond'rous yields. 
 Are gathered from her fertile fields. 
 
 Here corn will grow a bigger ear. 
 
 Her fields produce a bigger steer. 
 
 Her farms will yield more good sound wheat. 
 
 And furnish more good things to eat; 
 
 Her spuds will grow a bigger root, 
 
 And then will have some left toboot 
 
 Than any other piece of grund. 
 
 That boasting man, has ever found. 
 
 More manly boys, and pretty girls. 
 With rosy cheeks, and hair that curls 
 Around the brightest set of brains. 
 Are raised upon her pretty plains. 
 Than can be found in any place 
 Upon earth's broad and smiling face; 
 So, long, we'll sing the worthy praise 
 Of a State, that such fine crops, can raise. 
 
 KANSAS PRAIRIES 
 
 KANSAS prairies, stretching wide. 
 We are filled with honest ptide. 
 And are held, as in a trance 
 Viewing now thy wide expanse. 
 
 Many fields of growing grain. 
 Cover valley, hill and plain; 
 Filling every heart with joy. 
 Father, mother, girl and boy. 
 
 Endless prairies stretching west 
 Yielding wheat, "till you can't rest; 
 Corn, and Kafir, oats and rye 
 All seem piling mountain high. 
 
 Here Is food for man and beast; 
 Here are train loads, rolling East, 
 Where are millions to be fed 
 Crying out for Kansas bread. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 57 
 
 Many homes, across the sea, 
 Are receiving aid from thee; 
 And all nations of the earth 
 Are acknowledging thy worth. 
 
 Ships are plowing deep the sea. 
 And are carrying from thee 
 Corn and flour, bread and meat 
 To the starving ones to eat. 
 
 Though a young and growing State 
 Kansas, thou art truly great; 
 Of the contintent thou art 
 The life giving, pulsing heart. 
 
 Thou art holding, in thy might. 
 Gift of heaven, thy own birth-right; 
 Proud position, which shall be, 
 Ever more accorded thee. 
 
 THE TOWN WE LOVE. 
 
 Here's to the town we all love best. 
 The dearest town in all the West; 
 We love her well, from her lowly rills, 
 To the top of her sloping rock-ribbed hills. 
 
 We love her, because she tries to be, 
 
 A pleasant place, for you and me 
 
 To dwell, and where the Marmaton flows, 
 
 To slake our thirst. Is it clean? Who knows? 
 
 We love her because her streets are clean; 
 Her beautiful lawns are clothed in green, 
 Because her street-cars are so slow, 
 And never in haste, when we want to go. 
 
 We love her because her churches and schools 
 Are open wide, to the wise, and to fools; 
 Because her members all try to sing. 
 And her crack ball players, can't win a thing. 
 
 We love her because her people scorn 
 
 To drink, with the fake, John Barleycorn, 
 
 Because they vowed by majority vote. 
 
 That if John sneaked in, they would get his "goat. 
 
 We say again, we love Fort Scott, 
 
 She is to us all, a very dear spot; 
 
 For here we have lived, and her may we die, 
 
 Where dear ones repose, may you and I. 
 
58 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 LUSITANIA. 
 
 Mein Fatherland, dear fatherland. 
 What stain is this I see 
 Upon thy banners, now unfurled. 
 O'er home, and land and sea? 
 
 Murder! mein Gott, and can it be 
 Mein fatherland has lent 
 His armies, and his ships of State, 
 To slay the innocent? 
 
 Mein fatherland, dear fatherland. 
 The world is all aflame 
 With indignation, and all view 
 Thy murd'rous act with shame. 
 
 The people of the earth condemn 
 And look with stern disdain; 
 Nor all the waters of the Rhine 
 Can wash away the stain. 
 
 The noble ship, with all on board. 
 The murd'rous shot sent down; 
 But, deeper than the ocean's depth 
 It sank the German Crown. 
 
 The federation of the world. 
 When this great conflict ends. 
 Will never countenance the act 
 Mein fatherland defends. 
 
 METHOUGHT THE ANGELS SINGING. 
 
 I heard a maiden singing, 
 Her notes were clear and ringing. 
 As she was blithly bringing, 
 A bucket, from the well. 
 
 Unconscious, she was praising. 
 In notes that she was raising 
 Her God, with voice amazing. 
 In tones clear as a bell. 
 
 Methought the angels list'ning, 
 In all their garments glist'ning. 
 Were eagerly enlisting 
 To strike their harps of gold 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 And joining in the chorus, 
 With heaven bending o'er us, 
 Were making eai'th sonorous 
 With melody untold; 
 
 Because, the simple singing 
 Of a maiden, now, was bringing 
 The heavenly chorus, ringing. 
 With a story that is old 
 
 To earth, where men are dying. 
 And ever there is sighing, 
 By many now denying 
 There is a God of love 
 
 Who listens to the praying. 
 Of many now essaying. 
 To please Him in obeying 
 Who is a God of love. 
 
 MUTIBILITY. 
 
 We write our names upon the sand. 
 Quick foll'wing, and with ruthless hand 
 Another comes, to write his name. 
 And struggle, both for place, and fame. 
 
 He too, \yill find, as we have found, 
 There is no place, no solid ground; 
 His life will, in another age. 
 Like ours, be an unwritten page. 
 
 There are but few, who after death. 
 Live longer than their fleeting breath; 
 Of millions who have trod the earth 
 But few have left a name of worth. 
 
 Some men have founded here a State, 
 We chant their names, and call them great; 
 While untold millions, strove and grieved, 
 Yet ne'er a meed of praise received. 
 
 Some men, who's skill a war could wage. 
 Have written names upon the page 
 Of hist'ry, and for this cause 
 Have gained a nation's loud applause. 
 
 But hopes of life fall thick and fast. 
 Like leaves in bleek December's blast; 
 And like them, quiv'ring in the fall. 
 We soon must go, both great, and small. 
 
60 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 'T were better in the ranks of earth, 
 They never had been given berth, 
 [f numbers, which no one can tell, 
 Are only food for death and hell. 
 
 'Twere blessing, if beyond this life. 
 There is existence with no strife. 
 And where our names may some-time be 
 Enscribed for all eternity. 
 
 FORTY YEARS. 
 
 For forty years and more, dear wife. 
 In every kind of weather. 
 We've traveled down the road of life 
 Just you, and I, together. 
 
 Dost mind when yoU were scarce nineteen, 
 And I was somewhat older, 
 We plighted troth, but were not seen — 
 Your head upon my shoulder. 
 
 I asked you then to be my wife, 
 You said you would, demurely. 
 Since then we've trod the way of life 
 Both trustingly, securely. 
 
 Some times the days have all been fair. 
 Some times they have been dreary; 
 Some times we've felt like pulling hair 
 When we've been cross and weary. 
 
 Some times our lives have been made glad 
 And filled to fullest measure; 
 And sometimes, both have been made sad. 
 When loosing some rare treasure. 
 
 You've always been most kind to me, 
 
 Fulfilling every duty, 
 
 The best I have to offer thee 
 
 Is love, for worth and beauty. 
 
 Now dear, we both are growing old. 
 Soon death our lives will sever. 
 But never shall our love grow cold 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 We'll travel on, with tired feet, 
 
 Until we reach Death's river; 
 
 Your heart, and mine, will cease to beat. 
 
 Our souls go to the Giver. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 61 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 I've visited the old homestead. 
 The place where I was born; 
 So many that I knew are dead 
 I felt myself forelorn. 
 
 I walked up to the old front gate, 
 'Twas hanging by one hinge; 
 The place now looks so desolate 
 It almost made me scringe 
 
 To see what changes had been wrought 
 In less than twenty years; 
 And, standing there, there came a thought 
 That filled my eyes with tears. 
 
 Full sixty years, and more ago. 
 My parents landed here 
 To make a home, to plow and sow, 
 Each one a pioneer. 
 
 They prospered here, and blest of heaven, 
 Through all their griefs and joys, 
 They raised a family of seven 
 All rugged girls and boys. 
 
 But none of them were standing by 
 Oh, cruel, cruel fate, 
 And this is why, I had to cry. 
 While standing at the gate. 
 
 A stranger met me at the door, 
 But no familiar voice 
 Was there to welcome, as of yore. 
 And bid my heart rejoice. 
 
 I saw the house, walked to and fro 
 Where both my parents died. 
 And where each sister, long ago, 
 W^as wed, a happy bride. 
 
 Not one of them is living now. 
 All have been dead for years; 
 And as I write, I sor'wing bow 
 And look through mists of tears. 
 
 I visited the big old barn, 
 
 Where oft I used to play 
 
 With ball my mother made of yarn, 
 
 Oh, blessed boyhood day. 
 
62 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 The dear old barn is standing now, 
 Just as it stood the day 
 I turned the handspring, from the mow, 
 And romped amidst the hay. 
 
 I wandered out across the fields 
 Where first I learned to plow, 
 Where oft I gathered in the yields 
 I well remember now. 
 
 I trod again the old back lane 
 With measured step and slow, 
 And Oh, I wished them back again. 
 The days of long ago. 
 
 1 went down to the dear old spring 
 Where oft I used to drink. 
 And then in boyish glee would fling 
 Myself upon its brink. 
 
 Oh, joyous were the days I spent 
 In this old pleasant home. 
 Before the demon, discontent 
 Had caused me far to roam. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 There's beauty in the country now 
 These splendid Autumn days. 
 The fields' and woodlands all are wrapi 
 In Indian Summer haze. 
 
 There's tonic in the atmosphere 
 There's splendor in the trees. 
 The nuts are falling one by one 
 In every passing breeze. 
 
 Last night the Master Painter 
 Went out with frost and cold 
 And painted all the forest trees 
 In crimson and in gold. 
 
 The sweet perfume of rip'ning fruit 
 Is floating in the air 
 And filling richly all the earth 
 With sweetness everywhere. 
 
 The faithful farmer now is cheered 
 While working in the fields 
 And sees great wealth while in his mind 
 He figures up the yields. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 63 
 
 The frost is on the pumpkin vine — 
 Is hanging on the trees 
 In drops that sparkle in the sun 
 Like pearls of Orient seas. 
 
 Let's all go out and spend the day 
 And have some jolly fun, 
 And get a right gocd welcome tan 
 While romping in the sun. 
 
 You take along your fishing rod 
 And I will take my gun; 
 We'll fish and hunt and hunt and fish. 
 Oh, won't we have some fun? 
 
 We'll take a basket full of "grub" 
 In auto or on train 
 And bid farewell to every care 
 Till we come back again. 
 
 FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 
 
 I remember well, my first day at school; 
 I went with my sister, in the morning cool ; 
 We walked straight in, at the open door. 
 And she whispered to me, "Sit by Billy Moore." 
 
 Billy sat alone, on a low front seat. 
 He had no coat on, was in his bare feet; 
 His legs were too short, by a foot or more. 
 To reach to the school house, oaken floor. 
 
 My mother had told me, before I went, 
 
 Not to whisper without the teacher's consent, 
 
 Eut Billy began to talk, right away, 
 
 "You can whisper when teacher, is turned away,' 
 
 But I was afraid, so sat there dumb, 
 Rememb'ring my mother's command was, "mum' 
 Pretty soon the girls, and all the boys. 
 Jumped up and began to make a noise. 
 
 They all ran out, through the open door. 
 And among the rest, went Billy Moore; 
 I didn't know what all this movement meant. 
 So sat there, feeling a discontent; 
 
 At last my sister came over to say, 
 "It's recess now, you can run out and play," 
 So I made a dash, through the open door. 
 And there, just outside, stood Billy Moore. 
 
64 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 We scajtnpered out, together, to play 
 And a friendship was firmly sealed that day 
 That lasted' through all these fleeting years. 
 And to-day I look through a mist of tears. 
 
 And feeel, in my soul, a sad lament. 
 For kind friends, to-day, a message sent 
 And this is the words the message bore, 
 "To-day died your school mate, Billy Moore.' 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death, 
 And we are standing, with bated breath. 
 In Thy dread presence, again today. 
 For thou hast taken our brother away. 
 
 Our hearts are riven with sorrow and grief. 
 
 And no mortal can come to our relief; 
 
 But, we have a Comforter, who can save. 
 
 For Jesus has triumphed o'er Death and the grave. 
 
 We know our brother hath given his heart. 
 To his Saviour, and chosen that better part, 
 Like the sister, in that sweet story of old. 
 And for this, today, are our hearts consoled. 
 
 1 come today to mingle my tears. 
 
 With all who have known him for many years. 
 
 And am consoled as together we weep 
 
 With the knowledge, our brother hath fallen asleep 
 
 To arise again, in some bright day. 
 
 Where sorrow's tears are wiped away 
 
 By Him who hath given his life to save, 
 
 The soul of our brother, from Death and the ^rave 
 
 Though his manly form we no more shall greet 
 Neither in God's house, nor on the street; 
 Yet his upright life has left its impress 
 In blessedness words cannot express, 
 
 The sweet remembrance of his pure life 
 Is consolation to children and wife, 
 And may its influence, over all. 
 Like a silent benediction fall. 
 

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Short Poems at Odd Hours 6'" 
 
 THE OLD GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS ON PLAZA. 
 
 Old houses I wish you could tell 
 The hist'ry you all know so well. 
 I wish that you had speech and voice 
 That you might cause us to rejoice 
 
 By telling stories of the past, 
 The secrets you are holding fast, 
 Of men v.^ho built you, how and when, 
 Now passed the reach of mortal ken. 
 
 Whence came the man of cunning hand. 
 Who built you, and who now command 
 The homage of a grateful state 
 That since your birth has grown so great 
 
 I wish you'd tell us, if you know, 
 The names of men who long ago 
 Went forth in Freedom's cause to fight, 
 Subdue the wrong, uphold the right. 
 
 Their names are on the honor rolls 
 A grateful country now extols 
 And generations yet to be 
 Will honor them, will honor thee. 
 
 For many years around your base 
 Dwelt men whose names we now can trace, 
 And many we will never know- 
 Went forth to battle long ago. 
 
 Full fifty years, and more have past 
 Since all the people stood agast 
 To see the South, in discontent, 
 Ceceed and leave the country rent. 
 
 The North sent out a call to arms. 
 And "Brave men used to war's alarms" 
 Went out to fight in Freedom's cause 
 And gain a Nation's loud applause 
 
 Brave Lyon then was in command 
 And said, "My men, let's take a hand 
 In this great deadly nortal strife." 
 So all marched out with drum and fife. 
 
 It wasn't far they had to go 
 At Wilson's Creek they niet the foe, 
 And early in the awful strife 
 Brave Lyon yielded up his life. 
 
 A regiment from Hawkeye State 
 
 Had lost their Colonel, cruel fate. 
 
 Then Lyon, seated on his steed 
 
 Cried, "Come, brave boys, I row will lead." 
 
 Scarce had been uttered this last word 
 When scream of minie-ball was heard. 
 With deadly aim the ball was sent 
 To kill the general, the intent. 
 
66 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 O, God! it seems an awful shame 
 That r'ellow man should take cool aim 
 And send a ball to take the life 
 Of fellow man in deadly strife. 
 
 Old houses, if you all could tell 
 Of other men you knew so well 
 Your tales would make a mighty book 
 In which we all would often look 
 
 To read about the great and rmall 
 Whose names are written on your wall. 
 You'd tell us of the pioneer 
 Whose life you've sheltered when in fear, 
 
 You'd tell of men of great renown 
 Who often used to come to town, 
 And tell us of the gala day 
 Before the rail road came this way. 
 
 You've watched the immigration tide 
 G-o flowing past you far and w'de 
 You've seen the wilderness subdued 
 By men who came here well imbued 
 
 With enterprises truly great 
 To found a young and growing state, 
 Vou've seen the city of Fort Scott 
 Grow up around your Plaza lot. 
 
 You sure have done your duty well 
 Have stood a silent sentinel 
 Upon the prairies vast and wide 
 To men a silent, faithful guide. 
 
 Now, since you're growing old and brown 
 I hope the people of this town 
 Will not permit you to decay 
 But save you for the coming day 
 
 When generations yet to be 
 May look upon you and may see 
 Grow up around on every side 
 A city that may long abide. 
 
 With veneration and with pride 
 May men be honored who have died 
 To found a nation that si^all be 
 The guardian of ovt liberty. 
 
 THE OLD FARM IN KANSAS. 
 
 We went out today, to see the old farm; 
 The place that still holds, for us all. a charm. 
 Where we spent pleasant days, in the years gone by. 
 Mamma, and Guy, and Hubert and I. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 67 
 
 We came there to live, twenty years ago, 
 Before we were gray, and our steps were slow, 
 Mamma, and I, with our two boys, who then 
 Were little chaps, now they are both grown men. 
 
 We left the fair land of the Chief Black-Hawk, 
 And came to dwell, with the Kansas Jay-Hawk 
 Not knowing what kind of a neighbor he'd make. 
 But soon, we found we had made, no mistake; 
 
 For, he was as kind, as a neighbor could be, 
 Was always pleasant, and we could agree; 
 Thus joyful, and glad, were the days that we spent 
 0:i the farm, and were sad, when away we went 
 
 We left the old farm, with a sigh of regret. 
 And often we yearn, to return to it, yet. 
 But the cares of life, and the burden of years. 
 Fill our hearts with sadness, our eyes with tears. 
 
 Tlie barn still stands, in its coat of red. 
 But the neighbor, wno built it has long been deaa; 
 Tlie orchard, that yielded such luscious fruit, 
 v.i gone, and the voice of the planter, is mute. 
 
 1 gazed at the fields, where in days gone by 
 
 I had plowed, with the trusted Mat and Fly — 
 
 The team I brought from the Iowa farm — 
 
 They were gentle and true, and were void of harm. 
 
 We met kind friends there, to-day, who were quick 
 'J"o minister to us, when we were sick; 
 Their kindness has formed a friendship, that ever, 
 Hhall last, until death, alone shall sever. 
 
 WIND AND SEASONS. 
 
 In the winter, I come with a train 
 Of snow, I pile in ridges. 
 In summer, I come with the rain 
 That washes out the bridges. 
 
 In winter, I come with a blast 
 That freezes up the rivers; 
 In summer time, when I blow past 
 The water shakes and quivers. 
 
 In spring-time, when the buds come out, 
 
 And roses bloom and blossom, 
 
 I linger lazily about 
 
 And some times play the possom. 
 
68 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 But when a cloud comes floating by. 
 Before you think, I've met it. 
 And where the earth is parched and dry 
 We send the rain to wet it. 
 
 And when beneath the summer drouth. 
 The earth crys out for water, 
 I fiercely blow, from out the South, 
 Until each day seems hotter. 
 
 I pity all who thus complain: 
 "We cannot stand this weather," 
 So then we bring the gentle rain. 
 The clouds, and I, together. 
 
 At last, when Autumn days are born, 
 To cloth the earth in beauty, 
 1 blow amongst the rip'ning corn. 
 And thus fulfill my QUty. 
 
 And when the winter comes again, 
 And snow, the whole earth covers, 
 I come from out the Arctic plain, 
 And blow for winter lovers. 
 
 OUR FIREMEN. 
 
 We often think the fireman's lot 
 
 An easy one, but it is not; 
 
 For, he may be called, in noon day bright. 
 
 Or in the middle of the night. 
 
 He always comes, at our frightened call. 
 When fire breaks out in room or hall; 
 At tap of the bell, he comes with speed. 
 With clanging gong and foaming steed. 
 
 We see him sitting, as we pass by 
 Close by the door, and we wonder why; 
 He is sitting there, so he may hear. 
 The wild alarm, we so much fear. 
 
 He knows the dreaded call, of fire. 
 May come any minute, o'er the wire, 
 So he watches our property, day by day. 
 While we are at home, or when away. 
 
 We never think of his weary days, 
 'Till we see our home enveloped in blaze; 
 We call for him then, with all our might, 
 At noon-day, or in darkest night. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 69 
 
 Let's be considerate of his lot, 
 And in our homes forget him not; 
 A pleasant word, a fragrant flower, 
 May cheer him, in some watchful hour. 
 
 THANKSGIVING TIME. 
 
 One by one the leaves are falling; 
 'Caw, caw, caw,' the crows are calling 
 Across the fields, to one another 
 As brother calleth unto brother. 
 
 The wind through naked branches sighing 
 Sounds like the voice of human crying; 
 The song birds, all have ceased their singing 
 And Southward now, their way are winging 
 
 That turkey gobbler now is shying 
 Around the barn, there's no denying; 
 Just like he thought there'd be a wedding. 
 And that would spell his dire beheading? 
 
 The little duck, keeps up a squaking. 
 Until you can't hear yourself talking; 
 The njisy rooster keeps on crowing. 
 And never sees where he is going. 
 
 Until the owner's reckless chopping 
 
 Cuts off his head, and leaves him flopping, 
 
 The owner next, with ax, will tackle 
 
 The duck and gobbler, while hens cackle. 
 
 Oh, awful is the slaughter raging. 
 That men and hungry boys are waging 
 Upon the birds of every feather 
 Each day, this cool November weather. 
 
 Out in the pen, fat pigs are grunting. 
 And in the woods Nimrods are hunting 
 For quail, or duck or frisky bunny 
 And thinking all the time it's funny. 
 
 The farmer now, his corn is shucking, 
 Or from the trees ripe apples plucking; 
 All happy in the act of living, 
 And getting ready for Thanksgiving. 
 
70 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 SLEIGHING. 
 
 It's fun to go sleigh riding 
 O'er creking snow swift gliding. 
 To hear the sleigh bell jingle. 
 While happy voices mingle 
 In laughter, loudly ringing. 
 Or sweet melodious singing. 
 It's fun to hear the talking. 
 Or pretty girls, all squaking, 
 Their cheery voices mingling 
 With bells so clearly ringing. 
 Until the sled upsetting. 
 Turns joy to loud regretting. 
 But who would think of grumbling. 
 When in a snow bank tumbling? 
 If other party's willing, 
 Although it's somewhat chilling, 
 Y^u gather up with pleasure, 
 A whole arm full of treasure. 
 Your treasure may be weighty, 
 If it is Nell or Katy, 
 And because she isn't lighter. 
 You have to hold the tighter. 
 And troth may there be plighted 
 Before the sled is righted. 
 
 HEART AND I. 
 
 For sixty years, and more dear heart. 
 We've been good friends till now, 
 And never have we been apart, 
 Nor ever had a row. 
 
 You've some times filled me with alarm 
 When you have ceased to throb, 
 Just for a moment, but no harm, 
 Since you've been on the job. 
 
 Of all my friends you are the best, 
 You've worked both night and day, 
 You've never taken any rest, 
 Nor tried to run away. 
 
 You always seem to be at work, 
 Not often to be told; 
 But some times now, you try to shirk. 
 Since we are growing old. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 71 
 
 You neyer used to try such tricks 
 When we were young and gay. 
 But now you do it "fiddle sticks," 
 Well, almost every day. 
 
 The doctors said I musn't run, 
 To make me out of breath, 
 For you might quit me, just for fun. 
 And that might cause my death. 
 
 They told me you might stop some day 
 And never more would beat; 
 They told me that might be the way 
 You'd knock me off my feet. 
 
 You havn't done so yet, old friend, 
 I hope you never will, 
 But keep on beating to the end 
 And thus your task fulfill. 
 
 A DAY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 It was a joyful day we spent, 
 Out in the country, sure; 
 Fishing and hunting on the lake, 
 Breathing the air so pure. 
 
 As we went sailing up the road, 
 At thirty miles about. 
 We met the farmers coming in. 
 As we were going out. 
 
 At evening, when we turned about, 
 To make our homeward spin, 
 We met the farmers going out 
 As we were coming in. 
 
 We saw great fields of rip'ning grain 
 Now waiving in the sun; 
 The farmer, with his sickle keen 
 The harvest just begun. 
 
 It was a goodly sight to see 
 Long rows of growing corn; 
 The playful colts, the gentle lambs, 
 Creations newly born. 
 
72 Short Poems at Odd Houis 
 
 The sky was clear, and every where 
 We felt the gentle breeze 
 Come stealing round us, as we sat 
 Beneath the spreading trees. 
 
 The cricket, in the matted grass. 
 Was cherping his delignt, 
 While just above him, on the fence 
 The quail piped out. Bob White. 
 
 A bull frog, in a near by lake, 
 Was croaking long and loud; 
 The pea-cock, in his loroiy strut, 
 Was doing himself proud. 
 
 It truly was a gorgeous day; 
 All nature seemed in tune, 
 For what is rarer than a day 
 In this grand month of June? 
 
 The finny tribe was rather shy. 
 And must have taken fright, 
 For though we angled, with all skill. 
 We never got a bite. 
 
 Although we never caught a fish 
 We had a lot of fun. 
 And got a right good wholesome tan. 
 While romping in the sun. 
 
 KANSAS AND HER PEOPLE. 
 
 Hurrah for Kansas! she always wins 
 
 In every task she ever begins; 
 
 She has always won, and she always will, 
 
 For she's got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 Her men and women stand in foremost ranks 
 
 And they mind it not, if they are called "cranks, 
 
 They are independent, and know their heeds. 
 
 In politics, or religious creeds. 
 
 The early settlers, on her fertile plains. 
 
 Oft carried scars; and with bloody stains. 
 
 They started a war, that freed a race. 
 
 And blotted out a nation's disgrace. 
 
 Up from the soil, of her treeless plains, 
 
 Has sprung a race, with brawn and brains: 
 
 Treading the paths their forbears trod. 
 
 With faith in themselves, their State and God. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 73 
 
 They love their State, from her tiny rills 
 To the top of her sloping, rock ribbed hills, 
 And where ever the Stars and Stripes may wave. 
 It will not be over hearts more brave. 
 They gave their vote to honest Woodrow, 
 Because they are wise, and always know 
 How to give accent to their own broad views, 
 Therefore they didn't all vote for Hughes. 
 
 The ladies who came, in a palace train. 
 From "away down East," were a iittie too vain. 
 They made all the Kansas ladies smile. 
 When they found no brains, but lots of style. 
 The ladies "from way down East," said: "Vote 
 tor the honor of all our sires, remote;" 
 Then the Kansas ladies, said: "We know 
 Whom to vote for, his name is Woodrow." 
 
 They further said: "He kept us from war. 
 
 The awful thing we all abhor, 
 
 So we will help our men elect 
 
 This man Woodrow, whom we all respect." 
 
 So the ladies in the palace train, 
 
 All turned around, and went home again; 
 
 And they said: "We abandoned to their fate. 
 
 Those people out in the Jayhawk State." 
 
 "The people out in the Kansas State 
 Seem all, to be getting along first rate; 
 And each one has a mind of his own, 
 So we made up our minds to let them alone; 
 The people of that Western section 
 Will vote as they please, at the election." 
 And that is so; the women and men 
 Have sent our \\ oodrow back again. 
 
 November 7, 1916. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 There was beauty out of doors last night; 
 
 Stars winking. 
 
 And blinking, 
 
 While sinking. 
 
 Westward, the pale moon shed her silvery light. 
 
74 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 All the million stars were standing still, 
 
 Not sighing, 
 
 Nor crying, 
 
 Each trying 
 
 His silent mission to fulfill. 
 
 I stood outside the door, 'twas grand. 
 
 With awe, 
 
 I saw, 
 
 A million worlds all move at God's command. 
 
 Half way up the Northern sky, alone 
 
 Standing, 
 
 Commanding 
 
 The Seven stars, Polaris shone. 
 
 1 turned, and turning looked across 
 
 The sky. 
 
 On high 
 
 And there beheld the beautious Southern Cross. 
 
 Above, by mortals never trod. 
 
 Still lay. 
 
 Milky way 
 
 Like Jacob's ladder, leading up to God. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 What is this thing called life? 
 Also, what is the soul. 
 Which in this world of strife. 
 Is given, to my control? 
 
 I did not ask to live. 
 
 Nor do I ask to die; 
 
 No human e'er can give. 
 
 Knowledge, for which I sigh. 
 
 Must soul and body part, 
 When death shall come to me. 
 And ever dwell apart 
 Throughout eternity? 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 75 
 
 This body must decay, 
 Must cease, this beating heart, 
 And be of lifeless clay, 
 Initismal part. 
 
 Returned again to earth. 
 An inannimate clod. 
 Shall I again have birth. 
 From my creator, God? 
 
 If God had power to give, 
 This life, I now enjoy, 
 To cause me thus to live, 
 My body to destroy 
 
 Can not He recreate. 
 This body, and control 
 In reunited state. 
 This body, with the soul? 
 
 Existence is to me 
 A thing I cannot know — 
 A fearful mystery! 
 Perhaps 'tis better so. 
 
 PREPAREDNESS. 
 
 Our Uncle Sam is "too big to fight, ' 
 Vet he's always found on the side of right; 
 His nephews and nieces need not be scared; 
 It makes no difference if he's not prepared; 
 The stalwart man, from the Western plain, 
 Will march by the side of the man from Maine; 
 They have always won, and they always will, 
 For they've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 Hail! Proud Columbia; she always wins. 
 
 In every task she ever begins; 
 
 She wins with ease, for brave Uncle Sam 
 
 Is her escort, and he's no spring lamb. 
 
 His nephews and nieces need not be scared, 
 
 It makes no difference if he's not prepared; 
 
 He has always won and he always will. 
 
 For he's got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 We needn't be scared for old John Bull 
 Has certainly got both his hands full; 
 And der kaiser, who lives in old Berlin, 
 Is not in shape to get his knife in 
 
76 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 To Uncle Sam, who is always prepared 
 
 So his nephews and nieces need not be scared. 
 
 For he's always won and always will, 
 
 For he's got the "pep", the brains and the skill. 
 
 The people say, and they utter the facts, 
 
 "We all love peace, and don't want to be taxed 
 
 To build a navy to make a great show. 
 
 So now, Uncle Sam, you'd better go slow; 
 
 Don't get excited and don't get scared, 
 
 For don't you know, we're always prepared, 
 
 We have always won and we al-ways will, 
 
 For we've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 If there's no God, no first great cause, 
 
 Why should men try to gain applause? 
 
 Why should they labor to attain 
 
 To more exalted state and plain? 
 
 If death ends all, and there shall be 
 
 Eternal night — nonentity. 
 
 What need for preacher, priest or saint? 
 
 Why need be holden in restraint? 
 
 If only for the praise of men, 
 
 Man holds himself in bounds, what then 
 
 Would be the state, if man should break 
 
 The laws of God, and man, and take 
 
 .The reins of universe, and strive 
 
 All hope of future to deprive? 
 
 Would not men every where rebel. 
 
 And turn this earth into a hell? 
 
 If this vast universe is ruled 
 
 By chance, and ignorance unschooled. 
 
 And thus, be over thrown the thought 
 
 That God omnipotent hath wrought 
 
 Creation, in His mighty power, 
 
 And doth maintain i: every hour, 
 
 Then what inducement, in the strife, 
 
 To live a better, purer life? 
 
 The wisest man who ever wrote 
 
 Along this line, in age remote 
 
 Had this to say, I quote in part, 
 
 "The fool hath said in his own heart. 
 
 There is no God;" and, many still 
 
 Are saying this, and ever will; 
 
 But many more find sweet content 
 
 In believing God Omnipotent. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 77 
 
 A LITTLE WORD. 
 
 A little word, 
 
 So often heard, 
 
 May change the current of our thought 
 
 To channels that have long been dry, 
 
 And cause us oft to wonder why 
 
 Some old time friend has been forgot. 
 
 We look through tears. 
 
 To other years, 
 
 And long to see, yet long in vain 
 
 For friends, who walked close by our side, 
 
 In other years, at Christmas-tide, 
 
 For friends who'll ne'er come back again. 
 
 Father, mother. 
 
 Sister, brother. 
 
 Who often held us by the hand, 
 
 Have gone the way of all the earth; 
 
 Remembrance of them checks our mirth, 
 
 But why, youth cannot understand. 
 
 A mist of tears. 
 
 In later years. 
 
 May dim the youthful eyes, now bright. 
 
 When cold experience has cast 
 
 A shadow o'er their lives, at last 
 
 They'll know then, Avhy we're sad tonight. 
 
 THE NEW BORN KING. 
 
 The stars were shining brightly. 
 The night was calm and still. 
 The moon was slowly sinking 
 Behind the western hill. 
 
 There were, in that same country. 
 Abiding in the fields 
 The shepherds, who were watching 
 Their flocks, with crook and shields. 
 
 When lo' the angels coming, 
 Shed 'round them wond'rous light; 
 And heavenly hosts appearing 
 Filled them with sore afright. 
 
78 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 "Benolu we bring good tidings" 
 The herald angel sang, 
 Until the arch of heaven. 
 With wond'rous music rang 
 
 Thei'e never was such music 
 As filled the earth and sky, 
 "When, "Glory in the Highest," 
 Was chanted from on high. 
 
 PEACEFUL RIVER. 
 
 Oft times I've crossed the prairies wide. 
 And climbed the rugged mountain side: 
 Have heard the sullen ceaseless roar 
 Of sea waves, beating on the shore; 
 Have traversed valley, hill and plain, 
 Yet, always have come back again 
 To where the river, running down. 
 Is singing past my old home town. 
 
 I've listened to cathedral bells, 
 To organ, when it grandly swells. 
 To trumpets, when they loudly crash. 
 In tones that seemed to go to smash; 
 But none of these are half so sweet 
 As are the tones that always greet 
 Me from the river running down 
 And singing, past my home and town. 
 
 I've listened to the reverned preach 
 In very eloquence of speech, 
 Have heard the learned ones define 
 In isms that seemed almost Divine; 
 And, now I do not here complain, 
 But nature's language seemed more plain 
 From out the river, running down, 
 And singing past my old home town. 
 
 I've heard the loud Niagara roar. 
 
 Have seen the waves, beat on the shore 
 
 From out the ocean; heard complain 
 
 The baffled waters, in refrain. 
 
 Yet naught in nature is more grand, 
 
 When God lets filter through His hand 
 
 The peaceful river, running down 
 
 And singing, past my old home town. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 79 
 
 Our proud position is the heart 
 Of this grand continent; the part 
 That gives us life, and here is seen 
 Great fields, arrayed in living green. 
 And coursijig through the wide expanse 
 The river flows, and doth enhance 
 The wealth of all, and running down 
 Goes singing past my old home town. 
 
 Were Volga, Danube, classic Rhine 
 And all the other rivers mine, 
 I'd gladly change them for the one. 
 That shim'ring, murm'ring in the sun. 
 Goes hurrying onward to the sea, 
 And gleaming, gleaming, says to me, 
 "I'm busy now, and running down. 
 Am singing past your home and town." 
 
 CHRISTMAS MUSINGS. 
 
 Christmas has come and gone again. 
 With joy to some, to others pain. 
 For mingled in our lives, so brief. 
 Is much of joy, is much of grief. 
 
 In this bright home, a happy bride, 
 In yonder home some one has died; 
 This year your boy, with dog and sled 
 Is happy, next, he may be dead. 
 
 This year your little girl so fair 
 With dimpled cheeks and curly hair. 
 May be your joy, your only pride, 
 Next Christmas, she too may have died. 
 
 What doom awaits us in each life. 
 So full of sorrow and of strife. 
 No one can tell, no one declare; 
 It may be joy or black despair. 
 
 It is not best for us to dwell 
 Upon the things we cannot tell 
 May come to pass, so let's rejoice 
 With gladness in each heart and voice. 
 
 Look up, brave heart, do not repine. 
 Behind the clouds the sun must shine. 
 We all must feel the chast'ning rod — 
 All joys and sorrows come from God. 
 
80 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Of all glad seasons, this should be 
 The gladest one to you, and me, 
 It celebrates the wonderous birth 
 Of Him who came to save the Earth 
 
 From sin and death, from dark despair; 
 The wonderous love of God declare; 
 Give promise of a future life 
 Beyond the grave, where is no strife. 
 
 On Beth'lem's plains, with sore affright 
 The shepherds saw a wonderous light. 
 Heard all the choirs of heaven sing 
 Hozannas to the new born King. 
 
 No mortal ears have ever heard 
 Such music, and such wonderous word. 
 As angels sang and chanted then 
 "Peace on the Earth, Good Will to Men." 
 
 A D.AY IN THE PARK. 
 
 I spent the day out under the trees. 
 With birds, and flowers and humming bees; 
 Where the air was lad'ned with perfume rare 
 Of roses, blooming everywhere. 
 
 I heard the song of the merry lark, 
 The Bob-White's call, the red squirrel's bark; 
 While the croaking frog, on the near by brink 
 Joined in chorus loud, with the Bobolink. 
 
 All nature there seemed in accord. 
 From the cricket, down in the verdant sward. 
 To the crane, with his note, distinct and loud. 
 Sailing away, 'neath the passing cloud. 
 
 Looking up, to the great blue firmament, 
 I saw the tall trees gently bent 
 By the wind; heard tones, eolean grand. 
 Played by the sweep of the Master's hand. 
 
 They came in cadences soft and low, 
 Like tones of the sweet pianissimo 
 Before they break into chorus grand 
 When led by the Great Conductor's hand. 
 
 I love to stand 'neath the spreading trees 
 And feel the North wind's cooling breeze. 
 When it sounds in a wild tumult'ous roar. 
 Like sea waves, breaking, upon the shore. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 81 
 
 It comes like the charge of tramping feet, 
 Yet does no harm, and is soon in retreat 
 To gather new forces, as before 
 Or going on we hear it no more. 
 
 IS LIFE A GAMBLE? 
 
 This life seems all a gamble, 
 And, some-times, the biggest prize 
 Goes to some one in the scramble, 
 Who is neither smart nor wise. 
 With no reason for the turning, 
 Will the wneel of Fortune move. 
 And some one, without discerning. 
 Will my proposition prove. 
 
 One may easy gain distinction, 
 And the world will call him wise, 
 While his brother meets extinction 
 In a worthy enterprise. 
 One may be an honest neighbor. 
 And may work, and strive and save; 
 Yet, with all his strife and labor 
 Fill a worthless pauper's grave. 
 
 No one thanks him for his labors, 
 Though he always took a part. 
 In the welfare of his neighbors — 
 He was big and strong of heart. . 
 He lived there in a humble way, 
 Down by the river side. 
 Not many people called the day 
 He lay down, there, and died. 
 
 His brother drew a bigger prize. 
 
 Was honored in his day; 
 
 Was prospered in each enterprise 
 
 He undertook to sway. 
 
 And when he died the people came. 
 
 And with streaming eyes. 
 
 For he was rich, and in life's game 
 
 Had drawn a richer prize. 
 
 FAREWELL TO MR. BENNING. 
 
 Mr. Benning, we should like to know 
 If, when you gather up and go 
 Away from our dear old Fort Scott, 
 iOU'll some times think of us, or not? 
 
82 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 We'd like to keep you, all right here. 
 For when you go we'll drop a tear; 
 And lids, that have for years been dry. 
 Will moisten, when we say good-bye. 
 
 You've been most kind, to all the boys. 
 You've mingled in their griefs and joys; 
 You've not been stingy of your means 
 But fed them, lavishly, on beans. 
 
 We're glad of this, and glad to know 
 That when you reach New Mexico, 
 Your eyes will rest on pretty scenes. 
 Among them, whole big fields of beans. 
 
 When you, at last, have settled down 
 To live in Albuquerque town. 
 We hope kind friends will clasp your hand 
 Beyond the River Rio Grande. 
 
 And say to you: "We're migty glad 
 To have you come," so don't be sad; 
 You'll meet true hearts, out where you go. 
 For we have lived there, and we know. 
 
 We know you'll soon be hard at work. 
 For this we know, you never shirk; 
 Where tasks are hard and duty calls 
 There you'll be found, what'er befalls. 
 
 The many friends, you leave behind, 
 Will cherish memories most kind; 
 Your prayers, your joyful voice in song 
 Are treasures, which to us belong. 
 
 Now, as we look through mists of tears. 
 There comes this thought, the soul reveres, 
 It's this, that we shall meet, some day, 
 Where parting tears are wiped away. 
 
 We say to you, good-bye, dear friends. 
 And trust that God, who still defends 
 His chosen ones, will be your guide. 
 And that no evil may betide 
 
 You, as you go upon your way 
 But may your lives, from day to day 
 Grow brighter, like the rising sun, 
 Until you hear the words, "Well done." 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 83 
 
 A HOME IN THE COUNTRY FOR ME. 
 
 Give me a home in the country side, 
 
 With fields stretching out, on every side, 
 
 Where cattle roam, o'er grassy hills. 
 
 And at night come home, with milk, that fills 
 
 Huge buckets up, to the very brim, 
 
 And also, the stomachs, of Tom and Jim. 
 
 And when the shafts of the morning light. 
 Are chasing away the shades of night, 
 I love to list to the merry lark 
 And the pleasing sound of Towser's bark, 
 Then to feed the horses, in their stalls, 
 All before a voice, to breakfast calls. 
 
 And then, I like to go out to plow. 
 To raise more corn, to feed the old sow; 
 ^ier grunt I like, 'tis a pleasant sound. 
 Since she is worth fifteen cents a pound; 
 And too, the hen, with the yellow leg, 
 Pays for her corn, when she lays an egg. 
 
 I know the cost of living is high. 
 
 And pity all those, who have to buy; 
 
 But when I have some produce to sell. 
 
 These high prices, please me mighty well; 
 
 I also know: If we raise a crop 
 
 The soaring of prices, soon must stop. 
 
 Then here's to the country — its the place 
 To raise boys and girls, a sturdy race 
 Since up from its homes have come the men 
 And women, who've stood in the front ranks when 
 The Nation needed a strong right arm 
 To shield it from every foe, and harm. 
 3-18-17. 
 
 FACES OF LONG AGO. 
 
 Where are the faces of long ago. 
 Familiar faces that I loved so? 
 Beautiful faces, serene and bright, 
 That filled my soul with a strange delight? 
 
 There were Tom and Jim, and Kate and Nell, 
 Henry, Billy and Joey, and Belle; 
 Of all I recall, there are but few. 
 Where are the others? I wish I knew. 
 
84 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 While sitting here, by the cheerful fire, 
 My thoughts run back, with longing desire. 
 To the days of youth, and I long to know. 
 Where are the faces, of long ago? 
 
 We often met, at the school house door. 
 But now alas! we shall meet no more. 
 For some are away, in foreign lands. 
 And some are sleeping, with folded hands. 
 
 Some are still living, back there today. 
 Near the old school house, but heads are gray; 
 The ancertral acres, they still own. 
 And have big families of their own. 
 
 Their children meet at the school house door. 
 As did their forebears, in days of yore; 
 Their feet today, tread paths as they go, 
 Made sacred by parents, long ago 
 
 And now, as I write, oh, how I'd like 
 
 To go across the field, on a hike, 
 
 Down to the dear old school house, once more. 
 
 And meet the boys and girls at the door. 
 
 I fancy now, I could pick the face 
 Reflecting the mother's easy grace; 
 And also think, I could know, and tell 
 The daughters of Joey, Kate and Nell. 
 
 And then, when the boistrous boys come in. 
 With merry shout, and familiar grin, 
 I think I'd have no trouble to know 
 By faces, the sons of Tom and Joe. 
 
 And then, I should like to see the place 
 I carved my name, while the teacher's face 
 Was turned away; now the patient soul 
 Is sleeping up yonder, on the knoll. 
 
 And then I should like to drink my fill. 
 From the bubbling spring, just under the hill. 
 Then scamper away, through the naked wood. 
 Oh, that would be joy, now, if I could. 
 3-4-17. 
 
 SON.G OF LIBERTY. 
 
 The scream of the fife, and the roll of the drum 
 Are calling again, to brave countrymen, come 
 And join in the columns, now forming to fight 
 In the cause of humanity, justice and right. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 85 
 
 Awake, ye brave sons of Columbia, wake; 
 
 The cause of your liberties, now is at stake; 
 
 The kingdoms of earth, are arrayed in their might, 
 
 Shall Tyranny reign, or shall Justice and Right? 
 
 Our fore-fathers fought that this country be free; 
 
 Established their rights, on the land and the sea. 
 
 The covenant sealed, with the blood of their slain. 
 
 And shall we not fight, these great rights to maintain? 
 
 Yes, we've heard the call, and with hearts brave and tiup. 
 
 We're coming to carry the Red, White and Blue, 
 
 Our glorious emblem of world liberty. 
 
 To the banks of the Meuse, and the Rhine, if no.-d be. 
 
 united and loyally taking our stauu, 
 
 We rally today, neath the flag of our land, 
 
 And with malice toward none, hence-forth this sliall be 
 
 Our motto: "The paths of the sea shall be free" 
 
 4-9-17. 
 
 THE FARMER'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 The year of 1915 was a very wet one, during the 
 early months of the summer, and frequent complaints 
 were heard from the farmers about the condition of tlieir 
 crops. 
 
 Old nature's irrigation plant 
 Has started, and won't stop, or can't 
 It rains now, almost every day, 
 And nearly washes us away. 
 She's causing all the corn to burn, 
 Until it won't be worth a durn; 
 She's making lots of farmers mad, 
 She's acting up, so awful bad. 
 The farmers, now, begin to swear, 
 When they come down to market square; 
 And some are feeling all forlorn, 
 And say, "We won't raise any corn." 
 They say, "This irrigation plant 
 Has got to let up, or we can't 
 Get out to cut our crop of oats, 
 Unless we get a lot of boats. 
 It's not so bad, some others say. 
 For "Mr. Chintz bug's washed away; 
 If't hadn't been for this here rain. 
 We couldn't a raised a bit of grain." 
 It's an ill wind that blows no good, 
 We'd stop this raining, if we could. 
 But since it's certain that we can't 
 Why, what's the use for us to rant? 
 
86 Short Pcems at Odd Hours 
 
 GREAT MEN AND CHAUTAUQUA. 
 
 I have mingled with great inen, 
 
 And have listened to them, when 
 
 They have uttered some great truth, 
 
 For the aged and the youth. 
 
 They can make a man feel bad; 
 
 And, some-times a little mad 
 
 At Chautaqua, when they talk, 
 
 And where all the people gawk. 
 
 They have filed on this old saw, 
 
 'Till the theme has gotten raw, 
 
 Tellin' how each man and wife 
 
 Should live happily in life. 
 
 They say, "the men are always cross. 
 
 And that they always watn to boss, 
 
 And that their wives they never kiss," 
 
 And do other things amiss. 
 
 They all say, "You old man go 
 
 Home, and try to act the beau; 
 
 Take your wife right in your arms. 
 
 Tell her, she has many charms; 
 
 And you great big ugly man, 
 
 ^Smile as sweetly, as you can. 
 
 Act just as you used to do, 
 
 Yhen your wife, you went to woo. 
 
 Squeeze her hand, and tell her she 
 
 Is as sweet as she can be; 
 
 Tell her nice things, like you said. 
 
 In the days before you wed." 
 
 Now the people think it fun, 
 
 Pay their money by the ton. 
 
 Go in crowds and in a rush, 
 
 All to hear this kind of gush. 
 
 All the people are so queer, 
 
 And, all want to see and hear 
 
 What the smart men have to say. 
 
 In their pleasing kind of way. 
 
 This Chautauqua is the thing. 
 
 Where they talk, and play and sing; 
 
 Where the men of tongue and brain. 
 
 Always, nicely, entertains. 
 
 There they pass the pleasant days. 
 
 Learning much of Disdom's ways, 
 
 From smart men, who talk aloud, 
 
 And thus please, the eager crowd. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 87 
 
 People like to be amused, 
 
 But don't like to be abused; 
 
 So they pay their money out, 
 
 And, will laugh, and cheer and shout. 
 
 When the smart man, tells them how 
 
 To prevent, a family row 
 
 In a way, that pleases all, 
 
 And no one gets mad at all. 
 
 A MOOTED QUESTION. 
 
 All nature seems to be disjointed, 
 
 And many who seem disappointed 
 
 In the faiths, that teachers teach, 
 
 And the gospel preachers preach 
 
 Say these teachings, they're not believing. 
 
 And that the preachers, are deceiving. 
 
 They say, these faiths are all bravados; 
 
 When storms, and floods and fierce tornados 
 
 Go sweeping over homes and land, 
 
 Destroying much on every hand, 
 
 Refute the teachings, of the teacher. 
 
 And all the preachings of the preacher. 
 
 Thoy say, "There is no God of feeling; 
 
 Disasters are the facts revealing." 
 
 While Christians say, "the God above 
 
 Is truly, a great God of love. 
 
 And all these floods, and dire disasters. 
 
 Are only proofs that God still masters." 
 
 That man is only circumstantial; 
 
 Not all his aims should be financial. 
 
 That money's not the only goal. 
 
 But greater is the worth of soul 
 
 Than all the wealth that world can offer. 
 
 Despite the scoff'ring of the scoffer. 
 
 The logic of the disbeleiver 
 
 Is worthless, and a vile deceiver, 
 
 "There is no God, the fool hath said," 
 
 Is a vile doctrin, long since dead," 
 
 Declare the teaching of the teacher, 
 
 As do the preaching, of the preacher. 
 
 This is a question long debated, 
 
 And by the orthodox man hated. 
 
 Because it seeks to undermine 
 
 The teachings of the Word Divine; 
 
 And still the skeptic is contending 
 
 The faith the preacher is defending. 
 
88 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 THE BOY AND THE CLOCK. 
 
 Ticking away, at a rapid rate, 
 Gettin' nowhere, seems to be thy fate; 
 Tellin' us when to go to bed, 
 Tellin' us when we ought to be fed. 
 
 Sometimes we think you're a little fast, 
 When we're havin' fun and want it to last; 
 Then ag'in, we think, you are a little slow. 
 When we are ready and want ta go. 
 
 You keep on tickin and never hush; 
 When we look in your face, you never blush; 
 You keep right on workin' through the night 
 And never quit, when it comes day-light. 
 
 I wonder sometimes, if you don't get tired, 
 Or if you're afraid you will get fired, 
 Or if you're too proud, to ever shirk, 
 Is this the reason you're always at work? 
 
 I g'et mad, sometimes, when I go to play 
 And an hour's as long as I can stay; 
 We don't get started 'till you but in 
 And say, "It is time to go home again." 
 
 And then, when I go to bed at night, 
 It's no time at all, 'till its day light; 
 And then Ma says I'm a lazy pup. 
 If I don't jump right out, and get right up. 
 
 Then I've got to hurry, down stairs, and wash 
 My face, when it isn't dirty, at all, by gosh; 
 Then Ma says, "Hurry, and feed your flock, 
 For don't you see it's eight o'clock?" 
 
 Then I've got to hurry and go to school. 
 
 Or else, they say, I'll be a fool; 
 
 I'd rather be a fool, any day. 
 
 Than haft to hurry, this here way. 
 
 I wish, old clock, you'd stop your tickin'; 
 I'd stop you, if 't wasn't, I'd get a lickin' 
 Then if I did stop your dogon workin' 
 Dad'ed loose out, fer he is a clerkin'. 
 
 Guess, may be, I'd better just let you run, 
 And keep on tickin, you son of a gun; 
 'Cause if you stopped we wouldn't know, 
 If time was fast, or if 'twas slow. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 89 
 
 THE TORNADO. 
 
 We watched the cloud, but little thought 
 Such awful ruin had been wrought 
 Within the path, where its foul breath. 
 Had ruined homes, and delt out death. 
 
 We saw the lightning's lurid flash, 
 We heard the thunder loudly crash. 
 But never knew, until next day. 
 Of ruin where the storm held sway. 
 
 The stoutest heart cannot but quake. 
 When viewing ruin in the wake 
 Of this great storm, whose cruel wrath, 
 Hath left destruction in its path. 
 
 The pleasant homes, where long hath dwelt 
 A happy people, and where knelt 
 The humble Christian, at his prayer 
 Are scattered, lying, everywhere. 
 
 Just God, is this Thy righteous plan. 
 In dealing thus with helpless man. 
 To teach him how, each day and hour. 
 He is the creature of Thy power? 
 
 About four o'clock on the afternoon of April 27, 1916, 
 a tornado swept across Southeastern Kansas, destroying 
 houses, barns and every other thing that stood in its path, 
 it passed north of Fort Scott, demolishing many of the 
 linest houses in the country. 
 
 JOHN BULL AND KAISER, 
 
 Der Kaiser said to Jonnie Bull: 
 
 'Til surely pole your head. 
 
 Saw off your horns, so you can't hook,' 
 
 To which, brave Jonnie said: 
 
 "My 'orns are long, and mighty sharp. 
 Well fastened on my 'ed. 
 Before you get them, I will fight 
 Until I am quite dead." 
 
 Der Kaiser started through the fields 
 To get at Jonnie's head. 
 And now they're fighting, and we guess. 
 They'll fight 'till both are dead. 
 
90 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 CHAMPION CHECKER GAME WAS PLAYED. 
 
 From the Centerville, la., lowegian: — The recently 
 published verses written by J. S. Penny of Fort Scott, 
 have attracted attention in this paper, and here comes 
 another story t^ld in rhyme that all will appreciate who 
 know something of the checker playing ability of the part- 
 ies concerned. A "chanpion" game was played last night 
 at the office of the Merchant's hotel and is described in 
 the following verses:- 
 
 The Champion Game. 
 
 Two champion players, sat down to play 
 
 In the town of Centerville, one day; 
 
 One said, "I'll bet you can't beat me," 
 
 The other said, "Let's try and see." 
 
 So they began, with wonderous skill, 
 
 One's name was Frank — the other Bill. 
 
 Bill beat Frank three games, or four, 
 
 Then Frank said, "You can't do it more." 
 
 So they kept at it, "nip and tuck," 
 
 Each champion having equal luck — 
 
 Bill beat Frank and Frank beat Bill, 
 
 Thus playing till each had his fill. 
 
 At last Bill said, "let's go to bed," 
 
 "All right," said Frank, "I'm one ahead." 
 
 Bill said, "You're not, and I will play 
 
 Right here, until the bieak of day." 
 
 And so they played right through the night, 
 
 Until t:ie morning brought daylight; 
 
 Bill beating Frank, Frank beating Bill, 
 
 So equal matched, were they in skill. 
 
 As I remember, Frank Silknetter, 
 
 Could play a little bit the better, 
 
 But he acknowledged that Bill Smith, 
 
 Was the best player, he'd played with. 
 
 Bill said, Silknetter was hard to beat. 
 
 And added, "I will have to treat," 
 
 So both went out to get a drink, 
 
 And thus the game was done — I think. 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL BELL. 
 
 The old bell which did duty for so many years, in 
 the old Normal school building on South Main street, that 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 91 
 
 called so early in the mornings, many of the boys and 
 girls of the times of "long ago," is still doing duty in the 
 Central school, and its clear, sweet tones ringing out one 
 morning, called forth the little tribute here appended. 
 
 Dear old school bell, dear old school bell, 
 You've done your duty long and well; 
 In other days, when we were young, 
 To call us, you have often rung. 
 
 You've often called us out to go. 
 Up to the school house, in the snow; 
 iou've calied us out at eight o'clock, 
 And made us mad enough to knock 
 
 You out of your old school house tower — 
 
 You seemed too early, by an hour; 
 
 At noon, we listened for your sound, 
 
 And thought the time would ne'er come round 
 
 When you, you lazy pokey thing, 
 Would wake up and begin to ring; 
 But when, at last, your tones rang out 
 We all went rushing, with a shout, 
 
 And hurried home, along the street, 
 To get a little bite to eat; 
 And some times 'fore we were half done 
 You'd ring, and then we'd have to run 
 
 Right back, into the old school house. 
 And sit there, still as any mouse 
 When we were nearly dead to play. 
 Out in the yard, the whole long day. 
 
 Long may your brazen tongue ring out, 
 To call the children, here about 
 As you did us, in earlier days. 
 When we were learning wisdom's ways. 
 
 Some of us now, though unaware 
 
 Are growing old, and silver hair 
 
 Is creeping in upon our head, 
 
 And some whom you called then, are dead. 
 
 We hear you ringing yet, each day, 
 And wish that we might skip away 
 And over to the school house go. 
 As in the days of long ago. 
 
92 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Eternal God, hear us today, 
 While in Thy house we humbly pray. 
 Fill all our hearts with holy zeal, 
 Lord, Thy great presence here reveal. 
 
 We come to dedicate to Thee, 
 This house, and pray that it may be 
 A place where we may eA'er meet 
 Around Thy common mercy seat. 
 
 Re-dedicated, Lord to Thee, 
 
 May all our hearts forever be, 
 
 Here may the theme of grace abound, 
 
 Here may these walls with praise resound. 
 
 Within this house forever dwell 
 And when we come, Thy love to tell, 
 May children's children learn to sing 
 Hozannas to their Saviour King. 
 
 Sung by the congregation at the opening and re- 
 dedication of the Baptist church in Fort Scott, Kansas, 
 Dec. 5th, 1915. Tune, "Old Hundred." 
 
 THE SWARM. 
 
 This life is a gamble. 
 And the fellows who win 
 Are the ones who scramble 
 Amidst strife and sin. 
 
 The ones who are lucky. 
 Do not always, comprise, 
 The ones who are plucky. 
 Nor always the wise. 
 
 The man with the money. 
 Never lacketh for friends; 
 Like bees around honey. 
 They swarm, till it ends. 
 
 A GOOD COUNTRY. 
 
 I've never seen a fairer land. 
 Where everything goes hand in hand. 
 To make contentment and great wealth, 
 With all the blessings of good health 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Than Iowa, with her corn in ear, 
 Missouri, with her mule and steer, 
 And Kansas, with her wond'rous wheat — 
 A trio sure, that can't be beat. 
 
 Here, in this restless growing "West, 
 Is found a quality the best 
 Of corn, and oats, and wheat and rye. 
 Now p'led in heaps near mountain high. 
 
 Here in this land, on every side. 
 Doth peace and plenty now abide; 
 The farmers all, on every train 
 Are shipping out great loads of grain. 
 
 To give the people of the East, 
 Abundance, that they too may feast 
 Upon the fatness of the land, 
 Which here abounds, on every hand. 
 
 It is a goodly sight to see; 
 
 The mule says, "hee, haw, haw hee, haw heel' 
 
 Ten million porkers eat, and grunt 
 
 And thus perform their daily stunt. 
 
 The helpful hen, with yellow leg, 
 Loud cackles when she lays an egg. 
 And thus the family basket fills 
 With eggs, that pay the grocery bills. 
 
 The faithful cow, in giving milk, 
 Is clothing all the girls in silk; 
 While her big brother, in content, 
 Is eating corn to pay the rent. 
 
 The farmer also takes delight 
 In driving, and it is a fright; 
 For he goes faster than he ought to 
 While riding in his Ford, or auto. 
 
 THE BRIDGE. 
 
 The great flood of September 7, 1915, said to have 
 been the greatest ever known, the bridge over the Mar- 
 maton river was left in the mud at the bottom of the 
 turbulent stream, and some of the citizens were in favor 
 of erecting, instead of the old steel bridge, a concrete 
 structure, while others argued in favor of erecting a tem- 
 porary bridge, and during the argument the city commis- 
 
94 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 sion built a wooden bridge to do duty temporarily, and 
 during the time the citizens indulged in considerable argu- 
 ment pro and con. 
 
 I stood on the bridge and wondered, 
 
 If the thing would stand, when i: thundered. 
 
 And we had a big rain; 
 
 Would it stand the strain? 
 
 And whether the builders had blundered. 
 
 I don't like to talk of disaster, 
 
 But think, that cement and plaster 
 
 If it had to be daub, 
 
 On this kind of a job. 
 
 Would have held the thing, much taster. 
 
 I hav'n't got any "white liver," 
 
 But the looks of the thing made me shiver. 
 
 When I thought the next flood. 
 
 Might land in the mud. 
 
 The bridge, in the Marmaton river. 
 
 I'm not of this bridge, a defender, 
 
 I think the whole thing is too slender. 
 
 Don't think there's a show 
 
 But out it will go 
 
 When the river gets up, on "a bender." 
 
 Now, don't think I'm off'ring objection, 
 
 Neither casting any reflection, 
 
 For the builders no doubt, 
 
 Know what they're about, 
 
 While the people still hope for protection. 
 
 The people are right in demanding 
 
 Protection; but there's no understanding; 
 
 And never a man, 
 
 Has offered a plan. 
 
 And it seems, there is no one, commanding. 
 
 A SPRING IDYL. 
 
 On the outskirts of the town. 
 Stood a cottage, old and brown; 
 In it dwelt a maiden fair. 
 With bright eyes, and golden hair. 
 
 In a quiet, useful way, 
 
 Toiled she patiently, each day; 
 
 Educated and refined. 
 
 She had wealth of heart and mind. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 95 
 
 She was graceful as a queen, 
 In each movement, and her mein 
 Was attractive to the eye, 
 Of each daily passer by. 
 
 Farther down, the wid'ning street. 
 In a mansion, large and neat, 
 Dwelt a favored son of wealth. 
 Strong of form, and blest with health. 
 
 Ever new, forever old. 
 Is the story ever told; 
 Love, a sentiment divine, 
 Doth all human hearts entwine. 
 
 One day, in the early spring, 
 When the birds began to sing. 
 And the doves began to coo. 
 Went the youth, the maid to woo. 
 
 Apple blossoms, every where 
 With sweet perfume, filled the air; 
 Where the grass, with dew was wet. 
 There the youth, and maiden niet. 
 
 Standing 'neath an apple tree, 
 Plighted they their troth, and she 
 Bent two boughs, and bound them true, 
 Bound them with a ribbon blue. 
 
 Smiling at the youth, she said 
 "When an apple ripe and red. 
 Hangs upon these boughs, I've tied, 
 I will be your happy bride." 
 
 When the summer days grew warm. 
 Watched they, rounding into form, 
 Two fine apples of bright hue. 
 On the boughs, bound firm and true. 
 
 When the splendid autumn days 
 Hung with Indian Summer haze, 
 'Neath the apples, ripe and red. 
 Standing, youth and maiden wed. 
 
 A STRANGER. 
 
 Strange rock, something was doing 
 When elements were brewing 
 In liquid form, to make thee, 
 In fervent heat to bake thee. 
 
96 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 We gaze with admiration, 
 Upon thy strange formation, 
 And ask thee, with persistence, 
 Who gave to thee existence? 
 
 Was it when some world dying, 
 Was through vast ether flying, 
 A fragment disunited. 
 You on this earth alighted? 
 
 Came ye, from some cavern rude 
 Where only gloomy solitude 
 Dwelleth? Where no sound is heard. 
 Voice of man, or beast or bird? 
 
 , Or from the depth of ocean. 
 
 When in a wild commotion. 
 The earth in fierce convulsion 
 Left thee here by explusion? 
 
 Or came thee from eternal 
 Regions of the infernal? 
 From some vast caldron, seething, 
 Where dwelleth nothing breathing? 
 
 We look at thee and wonder, 
 If just beneath, and under. 
 Earth's surface there is burning 
 Eternal fires; and, yearing 
 
 For knowledge we are seeking. 
 We wish that you could, speaking. 
 Give us some information 
 About your strange creation. 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE DESERTED. 
 
 I wonder why 
 
 As 1 pass by. 
 
 Old house, you're left alone 
 
 To meet decay, 
 
 This cruel way, 
 
 With none to care nor own. 
 
 I wonder who 
 
 He was built you. 
 
 If he is yet alive. 
 
 Or if he left 
 
 You all bereft. 
 
 And went elsewhere to thrive. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 97 
 
 If he built you 
 
 With this in view, 
 
 To live in your inside, 
 
 It were a shame, 
 
 If when he came 
 
 He sickened here and died. 
 
 Had he a wife 
 
 Whose very liie 
 
 Was filled with joy and pride 
 
 And she came here 
 
 Without a fear, 
 
 And too, lay down and died. 
 
 cruel Fate, 
 
 1 speculate. 
 
 On what you here have done. 
 
 Did you demand 
 
 Witn cruel hand 
 
 The lives of both, or one! 
 
 Did man and wife 
 
 A prosp'rous life 
 
 Live here within this wall? 
 
 Did they succeed. 
 
 Beyond their need. 
 
 And leave you here to fall? 
 
 Did here one day 
 
 Bright children play 
 
 Around your open door? 
 
 I'd love to see, 
 
 In childish glee, 
 
 Them playing here once more. 
 
 KANSAS WHEAT FIELDS. 
 
 We had heard about the wheat 
 In the little coimty seat 
 Where we'd lived in Illinois 
 Since the time when we were boys. 
 So we thought we all would like 
 Very much to take a hike 
 Out upon the Western Plains 
 Where they say "it never rains." 
 
 So we traveled all the night 
 That we might behold the sight 
 Of the young and growing West 
 Which so wonderously is blest. 
 
98 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Bright the day had just begun, 
 With the rising of the sun, 
 When we reached the western side 
 Of Missouri's rolling tide. 
 
 Here our train came to a stop 
 When we all began to hop 
 And with rapid hurrying feet, 
 Went for something good to eat. 
 Here is Kansas City great 
 Sitting at the open gate 
 Of the restless growing West 
 Which is never more at rest. 
 
 For the richly laden trains 
 Rolling in from off the plains 
 Keep the gates of commerce wide 
 To the ever-moving tide. 
 On our journey at this stage 
 We could stop and write a page 
 But we haven't time to stay 
 So we're up and on our way. 
 
 We had hardly turned about 
 When conductor gave a shout, 
 "All aboard a-going West!" 
 So we heeded his behest. 
 When the engine gave a puff 
 We all said "We've had enough," 
 Then we scrambled on the train, 
 Going out to see the grain. 
 
 Here we struck the western trail 
 
 On the train and on the rail, 
 
 Where the hardy pioneer 
 
 With his plodding mule and steer. 
 
 More than sixty years ago. 
 
 Went with measured step and slow. 
 
 And by traveling hard all day 
 
 Got but twenty miles away. 
 
 We have here a mighty steed 
 Who has wondrous strength and speed 
 Breath of flame and nerve of steel 
 And his fleety legs a wheel. 
 We went whirling up the Kaw 
 With a whoop and a "Rah! Rah!" 
 Toward the broad and thirsty plains 
 Where they say "It never rains." 
 
 We were on the Santa Fe 
 And were going 'bully gee' 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 99 
 
 At a rate that we still think 
 
 Seemed a mile at every wink. 
 
 So it wasn't very long 
 
 Till we heard the merry song 
 
 Of the reapers in the fields 
 
 Talking ever of their yields 
 
 That they'd have ai tAreshing time 
 
 In this grand and glorious clime 
 
 Where the sky comes down to greet 
 
 Glowing fields of growing wheat. 
 
 We were looking with all might 
 
 To the left and to the right 
 
 And were learning something new, 
 
 As each turn brought into view 
 
 Something we as country boys 
 
 Never saw in Illinois, 
 
 For you know we had been born, 
 
 In the land of growing corn. 
 
 Here was something simply grand, 
 
 Here was wheat on every hand, 
 
 Rolling in the morning breeze 
 
 Like the waves of Orient seas. 
 
 Sure enough we're on the plains. 
 
 Where they say "It never rains." 
 
 Where not very long ago 
 
 Ranged the giant buffalo. 
 
 Here today on every side, 
 
 Peace and Plenty doth abide, 
 
 Where the richness of tLe soil 
 
 Recompenses honest toil. 
 
 Here the wondrous sky above. 
 
 Seems to be in ardent love. 
 
 With the wheat fields nearly done 
 
 Rip'ning out there in the sun. 
 
 When the curtain of the night 
 
 Shut the wheat fields out of sight 
 
 All declared in accents bold 
 
 That the half had not been told. 
 
 Now we're going to relate 
 
 What we saw in this great State 
 
 And be telling all the boys 
 
 In the state of Illinois 
 
 What we saw beyond the Kaw 
 
 And the River Arkansas 
 
 And the grandeur of the plains 
 
 Where they say "It never rains." 
 
100 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 COLABORERS. 
 
 "Other men have labored, and ye are entered into 
 their labors." — Jesus. 
 
 I buy for a dollar and fifty cents, 
 Results of some man's thought; 
 The price I pay is recompense 
 For time he spent and wrought 
 
 In giving the world some invention great, 
 A book, a poem, a song; 
 Or it may be a problem, that seals the fate 
 Of nations, great and strong. 
 
 He may many a sleepless night, have lain, 
 While other mortals slept. 
 Sore vexed at heart, and with weary brain 
 'Have toiled, and prayed, and wept. 
 
 He may thus, have struggled long, to make 
 His thoughts fall into line, 
 And have gone to sleep, at last, to wake 
 To grieve, and sore, repine. 
 
 Great thoughts are born in times of straits, 
 
 When men are hard put to; 
 
 It is then the soul and brain dilates 
 
 To bring great thoughts to view. 
 
 For filthy lucre, I buy a book, 
 Some one, through hope and fear 
 Has written, and I can through it look 
 And see great truths appear. 
 
 It may have taken him years to write 
 The truths I there can read; 
 And, may be, what gives my soul delight, 
 Was written in his need. 
 
 The loftiest sentiment ever heard 
 
 Has come from soul distrest. 
 
 When out of the darkness, has come the word 
 
 That all the world, has blest. 
 
 I cannot tell the worth of a book 
 Until its truths unfold; 
 Then, I may see in it, when I look, 
 Gems, worth far more than gold. 
 
 Some one may have toiled, for years, to learn 
 What I learn, in an hour 
 By reading his book; and thus I discern 
 What lies beyond my power. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 101 
 
 Inventive genius, oft labors long 
 To perfect some great thought 
 That sojn, to all people, will belong, 
 Though none of them e'er wrought, 
 
 I may ride across the continent 
 In some fine palace train, 
 And never think of the labor spent 
 By some great busy brain 
 
 That brought to perfection the wondrous power 
 Combined in steel and steam. 
 That enables men to do more, in an hour. 
 Than all day, with a team. 
 
 We read in the evening papers, word 
 That comes from distant lands — 
 Word flashed beneath the sea, unheard. 
 Upon the cable's strands. 
 
 But as we thus read, we never think 
 Of the labor that was spent 
 In laying the cable, strong in link, 
 That binds the continent. 
 
 And thus the labors of other men 
 
 We daily, now employ 
 
 And have entered into their labors when 
 
 These pleasures we enjoy. 
 
 HUNTING FOR VILLA. 
 
 In the land of Montezuma 
 Just beyond the Rio Grande 
 They have gone to hunt for Villa, 
 And his roving robber band. 
 
 They have gone out with their cannon 
 And their rapid firing guns. 
 And are hunting Mr. Villa 
 Who is going on the run 
 
 Through the cactus and the mountains 
 Where our army with its train. 
 Will still be hunting, years from now. 
 Still be hunting, but in vain. 
 
 For the bandit is in hiding. 
 Where our army cannot go, 
 And can get away from danger, 
 For our army is too slow. 
 
102 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 He can ride across the country 
 And around the mountain side. 
 And elude our pond'rous army, 
 For he knows just where to hide. 
 
 It looks like utter foolishness 
 And a waste of means and time, 
 To be hunting for this bandit 
 In that semi arid clime. 
 
 Where the cut throat knows the country 
 And can ride a hundred miles, 
 While our army is still floundering 
 In the mountains and defiles. 
 
 This is not the kind of warfare 
 That can win in such a fight, 
 If they ever catch this Villa 
 It will be while he's in flight. 
 
 It will be the cow boy tactics 
 That will round this "maverick". 
 And no pond'rous army cannon 
 That will do the little trick. 
 
 Many think it patriotic. 
 To be hunting for this man, 
 And sincerely hope to catch him 
 I, too, hope so if they can. 
 
 It will be expensive hunting. 
 And the cost will be a fright, 
 Yet some people seem to want it. 
 And are anxious for a fight. 
 
 Want to shoot a Mexicano, 
 And involve us in a war. 
 To enrich the iron monger, 
 That is what it will be for. 
 
 Did you ever stop to think that 
 It might be our money trust 
 That is causing Mr. Villa 
 To be kicking up this dust? 
 
 A few hundred thousand dollars, 
 Would create a sumpt'ous feast 
 If, were slipped to Mr. Villa. 
 By our money trust down east. 
 
 It would gather in more millions 
 Making guns and armor plate; 
 If it could only cause a war 
 It would only say, "now this is great." 
 I 4-15-16 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 103 
 
 MR. SMALLWOOD. 
 
 I know Mr. Smallwood is engaged in "the art that 
 doth improve nature," and I also know that he is a good 
 humored man, slow to anger and plenteous in forgiveness, 
 so sent him the following little effusion, and next day 
 received in return the letter appended. 
 
 There is a man called Mr. Smallwood, 
 
 Who lives, out near the Lath-Branch, tall wood, 
 
 He'd raise bigger berries if he could. 
 
 Than the ones he calls the Beder Wood. 
 
 He has a berry called Brandywine, 
 So big, it takes only eight or nine. 
 To fill a quart, they are so fine. 
 This berry, called the Brandywine. 
 
 He has another, called the Burt, 
 If you dropped it on your toe, 'twould hurt; 
 If you stick your tooth in it will spurt 
 So juicy is the one called Burt. 
 
 He raises berries, black and red. 
 And is so tired, when he goes to bed. 
 He feels like he is three-fourths dead. 
 Raising berries, black and red. 
 
 Next morning, when the shafts of light, 
 Have chased away the shades of night. 
 He jumps up and says, "I'm all right, 
 And never felt in better plight." 
 
 He feeds the horses, cows and yup 
 And then he takes a little sup 
 Of coffee, then a whole big cup. 
 Before he loads his berries up. 
 
 When he comes up to town, he knocks 
 That under garment, called the socks. 
 Off other growers, for ten blocks, 
 'Cause he puts his fruit, in a clean box. 
 
 When he comes driving up to town. 
 He goes up this street, and then down; 
 His berries have such great renown 
 The people buy and never frown. 
 
 Fort Scott, K,an., Sept. 7, 1916. 
 Mr. J. S. Penny, 1233 S. Judson St., Fort Scott, Kan. 
 
 Dear Mr. Penny: — I received your piece of poetry 
 today, and I think it describes the situation here exactly. 
 I was especially pleased with the verse in which "He 
 
104 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 feeds his horses, cows and pup, and then he takes a little 
 sup of coffee, then a whole big cup." You must have "been 
 there" some time or other yourself, or you could not 
 aescribe it so true to life. That "tired feeling" which we 
 have at night, "about three-fourths dead" is a good des- 
 cripitive proportion, but after the night's rest and the 
 "whole big cup" at breakfast, we are as fresh as the ber- 
 ries in our load arid come to town with the "freshness" 
 still clinging to us (some of it). But we don't feel quite 
 so "fresh" when we find that our friend Drake has "beat 
 us to it" by about ten blocks. Then "nix" what we say; 
 it all is "guff." Drake has "got there with his stale stuff." 
 Our fresh stuff isn't "cheap enough", the customer will 
 "bellar." "That tired feeling" then comes back, the 
 day looks gray; the night looks black; we dumbly seek 
 our humble shack; and feel we'd like to sell' er. 
 Yours for fun, 
 
 T. H. SMALLWOOD. 
 
 THE COLONEL. 
 
 We have in our town, a colonel named Macon, 
 He loves good coffee, and he loves good bacon; 
 Of the former, he likes a strong concoction, 
 Before he goes out to hold an auction. 
 
 He has a voice, like a great Nor'wester, 
 And of all auctioneers, he is the nestor; 
 When he begins, you should hear him holler; 
 If it's worth a dime, it sells for a dollar. 
 
 And then, when he comes to sellin' a boss, 
 1 tell you, the Colonel is sure the boss, 
 He makes him bring, every dollar is in him. 
 But if a man bids, he'll not try to skin him. 
 
 Then the Colonel will sell a cow, or a hog. 
 Just as easy as you could fall off of a log; 
 He is "Simon pure," and without alloy. 
 Can tell a story, and laugh like a boy. 
 
 Did you ever see the Colonel in action? 
 Well, he certainly is a splendid attraction; 
 When he gets up steam, and comes down the pike. 
 He is faster than auto, or Ford or bike. 
 
 Now the Colonel has lately been detected 
 
 In trying to get himself elected 
 
 To office, and he is crtain to win. 
 
 If he doesn't he is sure to run like sin. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours lOi 
 
 I know that if all the people vote 
 As they should, he'll not have to buy a boat 
 To sail up Salt River, in cool November, 
 If he does, he'll not go alone, remember. 
 
 A FAST RIDE. 
 
 I know a man who has an auto; 
 He drove it faster than he ought to. 
 He went so fast, and then some faster, 
 He met at last with a disaster. 
 
 Now this disaster, was a mule 
 A boy had ridden down to school; 
 The man said: "Hello! here's an ass. 
 Now see how easy I can pass." 
 
 The mule said, "Hee haw hee, haw hee, 
 You think you auto, but you can't pass me!' 
 The auto gave a great big honk. 
 Which made him faster go, the donk. 
 
 John Gilpin never rode so fast 
 Until a bridge was reached, at last; 
 The mule was in the lead, and stopped 
 So sudden, that the auto flopped 
 
 Right over in the dirty mud. 
 Beneath the bridge, with a big thud; 
 The mule said, "Hee haw, hee haw hee, 
 I wonder what it was hit me?" 
 
 KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY. 
 
 During the political campaign of 1914, U. S. Guyer 
 of Kansas City, came to Fort Scott, and made a speech on 
 the street. Mr. Guyer was a candidate for Congress and 
 was telling the people just how to run the affairs of the 
 government, and after listening to him for a short time, 
 I went across the street to my office, and picked out on 
 the typewriter, the following verses: 
 
 The politician's voice is heard 
 Just now, throughout the land; 
 He's telling how, upon his word. 
 He'll save this glorious land. 
 
106 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 He's telling us, just how to vote. 
 And how we ought to see 
 If he gets in, he'll sure devote 
 His time to you and me. 
 
 He says, if we will turn about. 
 And to his voice give heed. 
 He sure will turn the rascals out, 
 And give us what we need. 
 
 He'll grow enthusiastic, sure, 
 Gesticulate and rave; 
 Declare that he is "Simon pure," 
 His opponent, is a knave. 
 
 I've often listened to his speech, 
 But never have forgot. 
 That very much we get from each 
 Is nothing but mere "rot." 
 
 Now do not harken to his cry. 
 Nor in your mind debate, 
 But always keep your powder dry. 
 And vote your ticket straight. 
 
 FORT SCOTT WALKS IN FEBRUARY. 
 
 Walking down to town, today, 
 I was almost led to say, 
 As 1 waded snow and slush, 
 That was softer much than mush. 
 That all men to jail should go, 
 Who don't clear away the snow 
 Prom the front of their own door, 
 And sometimes a little more. 
 
 Now, it wouldn't be much work. 
 For the man who doesn't shirk. 
 To get out and shovel snow. 
 For a full half hour, or so; 
 It would be a righteous act 
 And would certainly attract 
 Many people past the door. 
 Who would bless him, ever more. 
 
 So, next time we have a snow 
 Let each man get out and throw. 
 In his boots and over-alls, 
 All the "beautiful" that falls. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 107 
 
 Then the people, all will talk, 
 When they see the clean side walk, 
 And will say, "How nice it is. 
 When we all attend to biz." 
 
 We've an ordinance, they say, 
 
 But the people always pay 
 
 Slight attention to the thing 
 
 'Till some man falls, with a "bing," 
 
 And then he gets so awful mad 
 
 That he swears and says "Be Gad, 
 
 I will sue the blasted town, 
 
 'Cause I slipped and fell clear down." 
 
 Have you ever noticed, "pard," 
 
 That walk, through the Court House yard, 
 
 In the heart of old Fort Scott 
 
 Should be cleaned, but it is not? 
 
 Ought the county to be made 
 
 To get out, with broom and spade. 
 
 And clean off this dirty walk? 
 
 Let's not let this end in talk. 2-15-16. 
 
 MAJOR DOKE OF BLOOMFIELD, IOWA. 
 
 We have in our town, a Major, named Doke 
 
 He loves a good horse, and he loves a good joke; 
 
 He is "Simon pure," and without alloy, 
 
 Can tell a story, and laugh, like a boy. 
 
 He blackens his shoes until they shine, 
 And, although his age is seventy-nine, 
 His form is erect, and his step is quick, 
 And he never uses a walking stick. 
 
 He owns a hack and meets all trains. 
 Sometimes he drives and holds the reins; 
 He never likes to see a man walk. 
 Says, he looks to him like a great big "gawk." 
 
 If he sees a man walking down his way. 
 He says: "Do you see that great big jay?" 
 The Major, a jolly man is he. 
 And he likes to gather in a big fee. 
 
 OLD TOOTH, GOOD BYE. 
 
 Last Sunday morning, an old tooth that had done 
 duty in my head for more than sixty years, became so 
 
108 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 loose that I pulled it out with my fingers. I was sorry to 
 be so inhuman, but had to be, under the circumstances, 
 which I will not take time here to relate. 
 
 Old tooth, you've always been to me 
 As near a friend, as friend could be; 
 For sixty years, and more, forsoot'i 
 You've done your duty well, old tooth. 
 
 I well remember when you cam.e. 
 With others, and all looked the same; 
 You stood, above a pretty row 
 Your neighbors stood just down below. 
 
 I often sank you in my meat. 
 And other things, all good to eat; 
 A sour pickle, or a cake. 
 Before you used to pain and ache. 
 
 One morning, when the air was cooi, 
 And we were going down to school. 
 You made a jump, and then you ached 
 Until I thought the earth had quaked. 
 
 You surely gave me grev'ous pain. 
 Until you settled back again. 
 And I had given you a lot 
 Of medicine, that sure was hot. 
 
 They say, "the best of friends must part," 
 And surely it doth grieve my heart; 
 To separate, it seems a sin, 
 Such friends, as we have always been. 
 
 They say, that you will have to waltz, 
 Give up your place to teeth that's false ; 
 Be yanked out, by the dentist's claws, 
 From upper and from lower jaws. 
 
 Now this seems cruel, and I fear 
 That when you go, I'll shed a tear; 
 I know I'll feel an awful pam. 
 And often wish you back again. 
 
 But then I know you'll never ache. 
 And keep me lying wide awake 
 Throughout the night, then why should I 
 Be weeping; so, old tooth, good bye. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 109 
 
 IF CHRIST SHOULD COME TODAY. 
 
 If Christ should come to earth today 
 What would you do, what would you say? 
 Would you, rejoicing, crown Him king, 
 Alth lansomed hosts His praises sing? 
 
 If He should meet you face to face. 
 Would you still spurn His offered grace? 
 And would you rudely turn away 
 If Christ should come to earth today? 
 
 Or would you kindly take Him in, 
 And kneeling there confess your sin? 
 Would you accept Him, brother, say. 
 If Christ sliould cjme to earth today? 
 
 He's coming, and He may come soon, 
 It may be morning, night or noon. 
 Prepare to meet Him then I pray 
 For what if He should come today? 
 
 MAN'S ENEMY. 
 
 Since the days of righteous Abel 
 Whether truth or whether fable, 
 Men have hated one the other; 
 Have been slaying each his brother. 
 
 Not all the animals that walk. 
 
 Are fiercer, than the ones that talk 
 
 And have dominion over all. 
 
 The strong, the weak, the great, the small. 
 
 Yet man, with all this power Divine, 
 Still worships at ambition's shrine, 
 Exaulting in his power to kill 
 Should brother man oppose his will. 
 
 All along the path of Nations, 
 Men have poured out blood obligations; 
 Written in the blood of Martyrs 
 Have been all the Nation's charters. 
 
 His own brother, man has hated. 
 Since the day he was created; 
 And now, striving to be master. 
 He is bringing world disaster. 
 
 In the war, that now is raging, 
 
 All the kingdoms, there engaging. 
 
 Are proving this, that steeped in woe 
 
 A man's own brother is his foe. 8-12-16. 
 
110 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 WHICH ONE IS PROUD. 
 
 Many good fellows are kept away 
 From church, because unable to pay 
 The price a new suit will cost, so feel 
 They'll not be welcome, as quite gentole 
 
 When they appear in the crowded aisle. 
 And fear they may cause a learing smile 
 In younder church, that is built to please, 
 The worshiper, who can sit at ease 
 
 They do not like to sit in the pew 
 
 With the man whose suit is tailored and new; 
 
 They think, some one is ready to stare 
 
 At them, and their clothes, now worn thread bare. 
 
 And then when the contribution plate 
 Is passed before them, they rather hate 
 To not drop in, a nickle, or two 
 Although, they know, their nickles are few. 
 
 And so, they never are quite at ease 
 With cold church people, who often freeze 
 The spirit, beneath the thread bare suit. 
 Thus giving the church a bad repute. 
 
 So, many good men, in overalls 
 
 Go out on Sunday, where nature calls. 
 
 And spend the day 'neath tree and cloud 
 
 Leaving the church, with its well dressed crowd. 
 
 THE RACE. 
 
 A little boy, with bare feet, brown. 
 Came leading up the street of town 
 A cow, which did not want to pass 
 A freshly growing bunch of grass. 
 
 The little boy, with bare brown feet, 
 Said to the cow: "You cannot eat 
 Until you reach the pasture gate, 
 So come along, I cannot wait." 
 
 The cow still paid but little heed. 
 Until the boy, with seasoned weed. 
 Began to flay her, then 'twas fun 
 To see how fast the cow could run. 
 
 The boy, still holding to the rope. 
 Was going now, at no slow mope, 
 I knew the race could not last long, 
 So rapid went the cow along, 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 111 
 
 I saw at once the bare brown feet 
 Such rapid rate could never meet; 
 His head went faster than his legs 
 And soon he went clear off his pegs. 
 
 He reached the ground, with sudden thud, 
 And landed squarely in the mud; 
 Mad? boy never could be n.adder, 
 Nor do I think, ever look sadder 
 
 Than when he saw, what had been done, 
 And how the cow, the race had won 
 Laughed? sure I did, right in his face. 
 When I saw his safe landing place 
 
 And knew the boy had not been hurt. 
 By this fast unexpected spurt. 
 The cow now, standing at the gate. 
 Looked unconcerned about the fate 
 
 Of 'tother party to the race. 
 Who, keenly feeling his disgrace, 
 Was breathing out, something 'bout fools 
 In language never learned at schools. 
 
 Although the race was fun for me. 
 It wasn't for the boy, you see. 
 So as the boy, with bare brown feet, 
 Went madly up along the street 
 
 I fell to thinking how one half 
 The people in the world would laugh 
 To see the other half fall down 
 And act the part of foolish clown. 
 
 I BELIVE, JIM, THEY TOLD A LIE. 
 
 Hello, here Jim, I've been a wishin' 
 You'd come and go with me a fishin'; 
 They say, that up above the dam 
 They're ketchin' fish as big's I am. 
 
 Gee, Jim, now say, let's you an' me 
 Go over there and see if we 
 Can't ketch a fish as big as that; 
 I'd like to ketch a great big cat. 
 
 Say, let's go out behind the barn. 
 An' dig some bait, an' take some yarn, 
 An' make some lines 'bout ten feet long. 
 We'll haft to make 'em good an' strong 
 
112 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 'Cause them big fish kin pull like sin, 
 Gee, what, if one 'ed pull me in; 
 I'd haft to drown, 'cause I kan't swim, 
 Not a dog on bit, can you swim, Jim? 
 
 Well, we kin both get holt the line; 
 
 'Geewhilkins, Jim, won't it be fine 
 
 If we kin land a great big cat. 
 
 An hear dad say: "What 'dy think o' that?" 
 
 Say, Jim, you dig, I'll haft to rest, 
 I'm gettin' hot here under my vest, 
 Be careful, Jim, don't break that fork. 
 Or dad'll paddle me clear 't New York. 
 
 I never see such a man as oaa, 
 He some times makes me wish I had 
 No buay 'tail but you an' me; 
 Couldn't we have fun, oh, hully gee. 
 
 Say, Jim, I guess we got bait enough; 
 You're just like me, beginnin' to pu,.i. 
 Set here in the shade, say, ain't this fine! 
 Now, let's go to work an' make a line. 
 
 Say, Jim, come up here where I am, 
 An' throw in just above the dam; 
 Hurry up here, Jim, I've got a bite. 
 Get holt an' pull, with all your might. 
 
 He's the biggest fish that ever was ketcht. 
 Just see, Jim, how the line is stretcht; 
 Now, pull down stream, an' let him float. 
 He looks to me as big as a goat; 
 
 Just look there, Jim, d'ye see his head? 
 Its stickin' out, an' his eyes is red — 
 0:1, blast the luck; d'ye see what we've got? 
 It's an old dead dog, an' no fish, by rot. 
 
 Jim, let's go home an' get sumpin' to eat, 
 I'm tired an' hungry, an' got cold feet; 
 Let's slip in the kitchen, kind o' sly, 
 I believe, don't you Jim, they told a lie. 
 
 THE POULTRY SHOW. 
 
 Let's go over to the show, 
 See the chickens, hear them crow; 
 They are making lots of noise, 
 Merry as some girls and boys. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 113 
 
 They are looking mighty proud, 
 And are crowing long and loud; 
 While the hen, with yellow leg. 
 Cackles like she'd laid an egg. 
 
 There are chickens, large and small, 
 And their owners, one and all. 
 Are a claiming they've the best 
 Hens that lay right in the nest. 
 
 There's the owner of the rock, 
 Says he's got the only stock; 
 While the owner of the Buff 
 Says his stock is good enough. 
 
 There's the pretty Wyandotte; 
 Black Manorca's red topknot, 
 Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds 
 With their crowns upon their heads 
 
 All contending for a prize. 
 Looking pretty in the eyes. 
 Of their owners who declare 
 Never was a bird so fair. 
 
 There's the turkey, all sedate. 
 Gobbling, 'cause he wasn't ate 
 On the last Thanksgiving day; 
 Sure he's feeling pretty gay. 
 
 And the stately little duck 
 Seems to think he's in good luck, 
 'Cause the ax, with murd'rous whack. 
 Didn't cut off, his quack, quack. 
 
 MARKET SQUARE. 
 
 I often go to Market Square, 
 
 To meet the farmers, gathered there; 
 
 I like to hear them tell of yields 
 
 They've gathered, from their fertile fields. 
 
 I like to see them driving In, 
 With oats and wheat from out their bin; 
 I like to hear them blow their horn, 
 And tell about their fields of corn. 
 
 I like to hear them tell the tail 
 Of how their cows will fill the pail 
 With milk, that turns out butter fat. 
 In chunks as big as my old hat. 
 
114 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 I like to see the pleasant grin 
 Upon their face as they come in 
 All driving great big loads of hay 
 On almost every market day. 
 
 I like to hear them tell about 
 
 The wond'rous crops their farms turn out 
 
 About the cattle and the liogs 
 
 The braying mule and barking dogs, 
 
 I like to hear them praise the hens 
 Tell how they lay by fives and tens 
 And how the basket they will fill 
 With eggs that pay the grocery bill. 
 
 I like to shake their horney hand, 
 See on their face the smile expand. 
 When they have sold their loads of grain 
 And figured up the loss and gain. 
 
 I like to hear them crack their jokes 
 When talkin' 'bout the city folks, 
 They say the ladies of the town, 
 In hobble skirts, look like a clown. 
 
 When they behold the city man 
 All nicely dressed so spick and span, 
 They say "Our overalls of blue. 
 Are not so pretty nor so new 
 
 But then they give us right good wear 
 And if by accident we tear 
 A hole, their cheap make up is such 
 Another pair won't cost us much. 
 
 I like to see them when they've made 
 Their purchase and their bills have paid 
 Go driving to their country home, 
 All happy in the gathering gloam. 
 
 The lucky farmer need not wail 
 He's got the whole earth by the tail 
 He's got the bread, he's got the meats 
 And every thing that makes good "eats." 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Savior, wilt Thou go with me 
 Through my dark Gethsemane? 
 May I feel Thy presence near 
 Banish every doubt and fear. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 115 
 
 rhrough this life what'er betide. 
 
 May I walk close by Thy side? 
 Thou hast trod this way before, 
 May I trust Thee ever more? 
 
 When the clouds of doubt appear, 
 May I feel Thee ever near? . 
 Wilt Thou show Thy smiling face, 
 And sustain me by Thy grace? 
 
 When I reach Death's sullen stream 
 And the dark'nd waters gleam, 
 Wilt Thou bear me o'er the tide, 
 Land me safe on Caanan's side. 
 
 May I there, a ransomed soul, 
 While eternal ages roll, 
 Give Thee everlasting praise, 
 Mighty God, ancient of days. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 We stand in thy presence, O Death, today 
 
 And mourn, for thou hast taken away 
 
 Our father, our neighbor, and cherished friend; 
 
 And never again will he extend 
 
 His hand, to welcome us at the door, 
 
 As he often did, In the days of yore. 
 
 We never again shall his presence greet 
 
 As in former years, when we used to meet; 
 
 We never shall hear his pleasant voice 
 
 Bidding again, our hearts rejoice; 
 
 And never again, shall we meet to play, 
 
 Our innocent games, at the close of day. 
 
 He was not afraid of death, I know. 
 
 Of this he told me, not long ago; 
 
 His peace, and election he had made sure 
 
 With God, and felt his soul secure; 
 
 He told me this, as we talked one day 
 
 Not long before he was taken away. 
 
 This fact is consolation now. 
 
 As to the will Divine we bow; 
 
 Like a benediction may it fall 
 
 On the lives of you, and me, and all 
 
 Who came on contact day by day 
 
 With him whose life has been taken away. 
 
116 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 A PRAYER FOR WAR TO CEASE. 
 
 God of nations, we adore 
 Thy Great Name, and now implore 
 Thee to cause all wars to cease. 
 Give us universal peace; 
 
 Jesus Savior, hear the prayer 
 Of Thy people every where, 
 Now ascending to Thy throne. 
 Thou canst save, and Thou alone. 
 
 Many hearts are rent with grief, 
 Speedy come to their relief; 
 In this bloody awful strife 
 Comfort mother, comfort wife. 
 
 They are crying out to Thee: 
 Fill our hearts once more with joy, 
 "Lord have mercy now on me. 
 Save my husband, save my boy." 
 
 Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall. 
 Have Thou mercy on us all; 
 Hear the widow's lonly cry, 
 "God have mercy or I die." 
 
 We are weak, but Thou art strong, 
 Oh! may not this war prolong; 
 Bid this awful carnage cease. 
 Mighty Sovereign, Prince of Peace. 
 
 Written when President W^ilson appointed a day 
 of prayer for war to cease in Europe. 
 
 THE CURSE OF WAR. 
 
 In this tumult and this strife. 
 Where the curse of war is rife. 
 With its awful loss of life, 
 Let the warring nations pause. 
 
 May the kindred leaders learn. 
 May they speedily return, 
 To their senses and discern, 
 They are fighting without cause. 
 
 They are killing brother, friend, 
 In their madness to defend, 
 Each his country, but the end 
 Who can know, or who declare? 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 117 
 
 Many lives are being lost 
 
 In the awful holocaust; i 
 
 And, who counts the awful cost 
 
 Will be maddened with despair. 
 
 There be millions unborn yet, 
 Who will struggle, with the debt. 
 Which this war will sure beget. 
 On the nations that contend. 
 
 And at last, when vict'rys won. 
 Father, brother, husband, son. 
 Will be sacrificed as one. 
 In a cause none comprehend. 
 
 Federations of the earth. 
 Will be formed, where there is worth. 
 That will give new nations birth 
 Out of kingdoms that must fall; 
 
 For, they're piling up, today. 
 Debts they never can repay. 
 And there'll be no other way 
 If they pay these debts at all. 
 
 BRAVE HEARTS AT HOME. 
 
 We sing of heroes in the field, 
 Wl^c skillfully the sword can wield; 
 Of valliant deeds, that they have done. 
 Of brilliant vict'ries they have won, 
 But never do we stop to think 
 Of dear ones, trembling on the brink 
 Of black despair, and filled with dread 
 Fearing some loved one, may be dead. 
 
 A father, brother, youthful son 
 May never know of vict'ry won, 
 A comrad, marching by his side. 
 May only know, "the dear one died 
 While fighting, and I saw him fall. 
 His fond heart pierced by cruel ball;" 
 And thus, are many hearts forelom, 
 And left at home, to grieve and mourn. 
 
 In many homes, are hearts as brave 
 As are the ones who march to save 
 Their country, from the cruel foe; 
 These hearts, are always filled with woe 
 
118 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Because they never know what breath, 
 Some dearly loved one may meet death. 
 Oh, sad, and cruel, is the fate, 
 or dear ones, left at home, to wait 
 
 Just God! must vengeful man thus slay. 
 
 His fellow man, this cruel way 
 
 That proud ambition, may receive. 
 
 The honor which it may achieve? 
 
 Is this the way a nation thrives. 
 
 By wasting, slaying, human lives? 
 
 Is this the way a country grows. 
 
 By filling homes, with griefs and woes? 
 
 The longings of this life must be 
 
 Forever hidden God, with Thee; 
 
 We never know, nor can we see 
 
 The depth of this great mystery; 
 
 Why Thy strong arm. Thou dost withhold. 
 
 While many millions, brave and bold. 
 
 Are daily murdered in Thy name; 
 
 To us it seems an awful shame. 
 
 Dost Thou rejoice, when in a breath, 
 So m?.ny mortals meet their death 
 In dreadful combat, we call war, 
 Dost Thou exult, or dost, abhor? 
 Ts this resultant of the sin 
 Of all men, and does hell begin. 
 When man lays down this mortal life. 
 In peaceful mood, or cruel strife? 
 
 All nations daily pray to Thee 
 
 To give to them the victory; 
 
 And, also ask Thee to forgive 
 
 Their awful sins, and let them live. 
 
 And then go forth, to slay and kill; 
 
 In doing so, do they fulfill 
 
 Their part, in Thy great earthly plan. 
 
 Which man n'er knows, nor ever can. 
 
 It all looks strange to mortal man. 
 That God, in working out His plan 
 Should sanction what, to us is crime; 
 Yet, we have records, all sublime. 
 Of how great nations, of the earth. 
 Were all destroyed, and how new birth 
 Of others, though not counted great, 
 Were in their turn left desolate. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 119 
 
 O, God, Is war the scourge of sin. 
 Which constantly, is creeping in, 
 fo parliaments of every state. 
 Among the nations, we call great? 
 Do leaders worship at the shrine 
 Of proud Ambition, or at Thine'' 
 Is this the reason, all forlorn. 
 Sad hearts are left at home to mourn? 
 
 THE EUROPEAN WAR. 
 
 English, Irish, Belgian, French, 
 Fighting, dying in the trench, 
 German, Prussian, fighting Turk, 
 Cease your bloody, awful work. 
 
 Listen to the plea of reason. 
 
 You will not be charged with treason 
 
 If you for a moment, pausing. 
 
 Look upon the wreck you're causing. 
 
 Here a city or a town, 
 Shot and shell, have battered down; 
 War is awful to behold, 
 Maiming, killing, young and old. 
 
 Anxious you should cease this killing. 
 
 Other nations, all are willing. 
 
 To assist, in understanding 
 
 What you each, is now demanding. 
 
 In your madn.ess, and nonsense, 
 You're not fighting in defense 
 Of a principle that's right — 
 Merely domineering might. 
 
 Tn the wake of war is weeping. 
 Saddened hearts their vigils keeping, 
 Old men, women, children praying 
 "O, God! stop this awful slaying." 
 
 Thou who marks the sparrow's fall, 
 O, have mercy on us all; 
 Hear the widow's lonely cry, 
 ' Lord have mercy or I die.' 
 
 People every where are calling, 
 Stop this carnage so appalling. 
 You are causing, in your madness. 
 Filling all the arth with sadness. 
 
120 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 If you'll listen to the prayer. 
 Of the people every where, 
 You will learn they all abhor 
 What you're doing, in this war. 
 
 You will find, they are demanding, 
 In a tone loud and commanding, 
 There shall be a speedy checking 
 Of this war, the world is wrecking. 
 
 You are piling up today. 
 Debts, you never can repay, 
 For which millions, yet to be. 
 Ever will be cursing thee. 
 
 Leaders, of the nations striving. 
 You, in madness are depriving, 
 Many of the right of living; 
 Think thee, God will be forgiving? 
 
 THE CURSE OF WAf^. 
 
 In the wake of war is weeping. 
 Sad hearts then, their vigils keeping 
 Are weary, and no sleeping 
 Comes to the tired soul. 
 
 A mother's heart is breaking, 
 A lather's heart is aching, 
 While sadness, overtakliiL-, 
 Is ever in control. 
 
 Forever there is sorrow 
 While war, with all its horror 
 Is raging, for tomorrow 
 In coming may brin.j word 
 
 Of some loved one, then lying 
 With no kind hand supplying. 
 His needs, and slowly dying. 
 His last faint moan unheard. 
 
 He may be lying wounded. 
 Upon the field, surrounded 
 By many, all confounded, 
 Near by a friend or foe. 
 
 O God! are men in killing 
 Their fellow men fulfilling 
 Thy plan, and art Thou willing 
 That they should cause this woe? 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 121 
 
 Is it because of sinning 
 And are we all beginning 
 To learn, that we are winning, 
 Thy curse, instead of bliss 
 
 In striving with each other — 
 A brother 'gainst his brother? 
 O, save us, Holy Mother, 
 From such a curse as this 
 
 May we all come confessing, 
 That we have been transgressing; 
 And, wilt Thou grant Thy ble.'-sing 
 In bidding war to cease? 
 
 If this is our affliction. 
 And this Thy malediction 
 We feel our own conviction, 
 O, Mighty Prince of Peace. 
 
 WAR. 
 
 O man, why art thou fo dfcraved. 
 Why dost thou seek to kill? 
 Dost think that in the murd'rous act. 
 Thou do'st thy Master's will? 
 
 Thy daily prayers ascend to Him, 
 Imploring help Divine, 
 To aid thee in thy awful work 
 Of murder and repine. 
 
 Ambition seems to be the force 
 That leads thee on, each day; 
 To gain distinction, is thy aim, 
 For this you only pray. 
 
 To slay and kill, your fellow man, 
 You deem a righteous cause. 
 If by so doing you can win 
 A nation's loud applause, 
 
 O heart of man! you only kneel 
 At proud ambition's shrine. 
 And never will your prayer be heard 
 By the Great Power Divine. 
 
 Ye leaders, in this awful strife, 
 Yoi:r prayer must be in vain. 
 While on your hands you bear the blood. 
 Of millions, you have slain. 
 
122 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 The sorrows you are causing now. 
 Must be your funeral knell. 
 And in the great beyond, will be. 
 Your banishment to hell. 
 
 WINTER WIND. 
 
 When the earth is under snow, 
 I come from the North and blow 
 Over river, vale and hill 
 A blast ,that is swift and chill. 
 
 I come from where Northern Lights 
 Send their spears through winter nights; 
 From beneath the Polar star. 
 Where the Esquimo's huts are. 
 
 I come from the frigid zone, 
 Where the sun has never shone. 
 And blow from the fields of ice 
 To the fields of rip'ning rice. 
 
 I blow past where shadows fall, 
 From town and castled wall; 
 '\':ih a frosty breath I come 
 And freeze all the waters dumb. 
 
 I start from my home at morn. 
 And at night around Cape Horn 
 I, calm o're the ocean glide, 
 Or lash it to angry tide. 
 
 I come with a roaring sound, 
 And circle the earth around; 
 I wait not for day nor night 
 In my hilarious flight. 
 
 I come like a reinless steed, 
 
 But I never stop to feed; 
 
 And with frost on back and mane, 
 
 1 travel the trackless plain. 
 
 My eyes have an icy glare, 
 
 While my breath, blows every where. 
 
 And thus, I race o're the turf, 
 
 To bathe, in the ocean's surf. 
 
 I've nothing to do but run, 
 Until the rays of the sun, 
 Have melted my breath away 
 In the heat of summer's day. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 123 
 
 JOHN HALL. 
 
 I know a man they call John Hall, 
 
 He is big and strong, and six feet tall; 
 
 He works awful hard, both summer and fall. 
 
 His neighbors say, "He don't stop at all." 
 
 Now John, a mighty good man is he, 
 He don't come to town, to get on a spree, 
 But saves his money, and don't you see 
 ,He is getting as rich as he needs to be. 
 
 Now John is certainly full of biz. 
 And surely knows what a good thing is. 
 And when he takes hold he makes things fiz 
 In the morning bright, when he has ariz. 
 
 He goes to bed, some times after dark. 
 In the morning he's up and out with the lark; 
 You can hear him laugh, if you will but hark. 
 As far, as you can hear his big dog bark. 
 
 In the winter, you meet him every day. 
 Coming to town on a load of hay; 
 He has good teams, either black or bay, 
 I never have seen him drive a gray. 
 
 He feeds his horses, his cows and pup 
 And then he goes in, and takes a sup 
 Of coffee, then a whole big cup. 
 Before he goes out, to load his hay up. 
 
 Now John has neither deceit nor guile, 
 He always wears, on his face a smile. 
 But he's sharp, as any three cornered file. 
 When he sees a bargain he thinks worth while. 
 
 Now John is a model citizen, sure 
 He never has taken the Keely cure, 
 John Barleycorn has for him no lure 
 Of this I am certain, he's "Simon pure." 
 
 I kind o' like John, he always makes 
 A lot of fun. When my hand he shakes. 
 And I'm not surprised if some one takes 
 Us to be a couple of country Jakes. 
 
 John likes to have fun, and so do I, 
 
 And we'd just as well laugh, as stand and cij% 
 
 For the time is coming, by and by. 
 
 When fun will cease, for John and I. 
 
124 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 WELCOME THE STRANGER. 
 
 At the cooling end of summer, 
 
 When the heat is dying out, 
 
 Come and meet the bright new comer, 
 
 Who is smiling all about. 
 
 In the cool September twilight, 
 When the grass is wet with dew. 
 And the firey burning sunlight 
 Fast is fading from the view 
 
 Then come out, and feel returning 
 In the soft autumnal breeze, 
 Tfie sweet air, that late was burning. 
 Hear it murmur in the trees. 
 
 It is bringing with it healing. 
 And is driving out the heat; 
 Is creating a new feeling. 
 Come, enjoy the splendid treat. 
 
 Come and welcome now, the stranger. 
 With a joyous evening song, 
 For his life is oft in danger 
 In the summer hot and long. 
 
 It may be the heat returning 
 Soon will drive him clear away; 
 And again, the sun be burning, 
 By tomorrow, or next day. 
 
 Let us all enjoy the pleasure 
 Which this stranger brings so free; 
 Fill the cup, to fullest measure. 
 For tomorrow he may flee. 
 
 YE WINDS. 
 
 Ye winds, that round my pathway roar. 
 
 Is there some place, beyond our shore 
 
 Supremely blest, 
 
 A place of rest. 
 
 Where mortals grieve and weep no more? 
 
 Where ills of life are all unknown, 
 
 Where never comes a sigh nor groan; 
 
 Pray tell me so, 
 
 I long to know 
 
 If such a place you've ever known. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 125 
 
 When you go sweeping o'er the sea, 
 
 And such a place you find, tell me 
 
 In whispers still, 
 
 And thus fulfill 
 
 The task, I trusting, give to thee. 
 
 When you go rushing, and come back 
 
 From round the world, upon the track 
 
 Mortals n'er trod, 
 
 That leads to God, 
 
 Then tell me if I nothing lack 
 
 To fit me, for a place like this. 
 
 Where I may dwell in endless bliss 
 
 From sin set free, 
 
 And ever be, 
 
 Where I may anxious fears dismiss. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 When the sun is slowly sinking 
 In a flame of fire, out west, 
 And the stars again are winking. 
 Then come out, and look and rest. 
 
 There is magic in the twilight. 
 When the sun is painting red 
 With rich gorgeousness, the skylight 
 And the stars come out o'er head. 
 
 When the day 13 slowly dying. 
 And the wind, among the trees. 
 In deep tones, is softly sighing. 
 With a cool refreshing breeze. 
 
 Then come out, with me and listen 
 To the music, soft and low; 
 See the moon beams, glint and glisten 
 On the river, down below; 
 
 Come, enjoy, in fullest measure, 
 All the beauties of the night. 
 For we find joy's rarest pleasures 
 In the beauties of twilight. 
 
 TO THE KANSAS GOOD ROADS DELEGATION. 
 
 H VRRAH FOR KANSAS! She always wins. 
 In every task she ever begins, 
 
126 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 For the sturdy men of her Western plains 
 Have got the "Pep," the vim and the brains. 
 And they always win, and they always will 
 For they've got the "pep", the brains and the skill. 
 
 They captured the boss of the Philippines, 
 
 They captured the prize at New Orleans, 
 
 They captured the prize for the finest wheat, 
 
 And did because they couldn't be beat, 
 
 They always win, and they always will, 
 
 For they've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 They captured the prize for the biggest ear. 
 
 They captured the prize for the biggest steer; 
 
 Her men always stand in the foremost ranks, 
 
 And it makes no difference if they are called cranks, 
 
 They always win and they always will. 
 
 For they've got the ' pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 There never went out a brainier set 
 
 Than went to capture this road, you bet. 
 
 They went like a jolly hilarious mob 
 
 And that is the way they landed the job. 
 
 They always win, and they always will. 
 
 For they've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 Hurrah for Kansas, again she's proud 
 
 For the work of this brainy hilarious crowd; 
 
 She offers you thanks, a whole big load, 
 
 For the work you did in securing this road; 
 
 You always win, and you always will. 
 
 For you've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 And now all the people of old Fort Scott 
 Are offering thanks for your work, why not? 
 Because you have landed another prize. 
 Yet Ave do not know what will be the size. 
 But we know you have won and always will. 
 For you've got the "pep," the brains and the skill. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL STAR. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful star. 
 Brilliantly shining afar. 
 We gaze at thy face. 
 Through vastness of space. 
 Ever wondering what you are. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 12^ 
 
 Were you given your lofty station, 
 
 In the morning of creation, 
 
 When the stars all sang, 
 
 And heaven rang, 
 
 With the mighty intonation? 
 
 Were you then among the stars, 
 
 Singing with mighty Mars? 
 
 And did you shine, 
 
 With light divine, 
 
 To illume the notes and bars? « 
 
 In the light of sacred story. 
 Are you shining to the glory, 
 Of Him who in that hour, 
 Gave to thee power, 
 To shine through the ages hoary? 
 
 Didst shine on creation's morn? 
 
 Did'st shine when Jesus was born? 
 
 Will you be gone. 
 
 Or still shine on. 
 
 In the resurrection morn? 
 
 This mystery I would know 
 
 If not shining, whither go? 
 
 Shall darkest night, 
 
 Shut out thy light. 
 
 In the realms of endless woe? 
 
 THINGS I LIKE. 
 
 I like to stroll out o'er the hill, 
 As the sun is coming up; 
 Pluck, here and there, a daffodil. 
 Or brimming butter cup. 
 
 I like to see the smokey trail. 
 The engine leaves behind 
 As it goes speeding o'er the rail, 
 Swift as the passing wind. 
 
 I like to see the frisky lamb 
 
 Go skipping o'er the green; 
 
 To see the colt, play 'round his dam. 
 
 In his sleek coat of sheen. 
 
 I like to hear the farmer say, 
 Familiar words to me. 
 As he commands his black or bay 
 "Get up, woa, haw, woa, gee!" 
 
128 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 I like to feel the soft south wind 
 Come in a gentle breeze, 
 As if it came, new life to find 
 Among the leafy trees. 
 
 There's tonic in the atmosphere. 
 And all the earth is rife. 
 With recreated nature, here, 
 Just waking into life. 
 
 I like the odor of the wood, 
 As I, through forests tread. 
 The fragrance there, is always good, 
 . From last year's leaves, though dead. 
 
 I like to see the nimble squir'l 
 Go climbing up a tree. 
 With bushey tail, all in a curl. 
 He saucily barks at me. 
 
 I like to see the river go 
 Alone in majesty, 
 A steady, ceaseless, sullen flow 
 Rushing to meet the sea. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The yellow leaf. 
 
 With life £o brief, 
 
 Now pensively is falling. 
 
 And on the ground, 
 
 All scattered 'round, 
 
 Lies dead, beyond recalling. 
 
 The pretty vines. 
 
 That close entwines. 
 
 Around the trees, are dying; 
 
 And every breeze, 
 
 That shakes the trees. 
 
 Through naked boughs is sighing. 
 
 Summer is past. 
 
 And winter's blast 
 
 Will soon be fiercely blowing 
 
 Across the fields, 
 
 Shorn of their yields, 
 
 And soon we'll see it snowing. 
 
 We are not ill, 
 
 Yet feel the chill. 
 
 In every joint and member; 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours 120 
 
 Put on more clothes, 
 And blow your nose, 
 For this is bleak November. 
 
 LAYING THE CORNER STONE. 
 
 Written for the exercises at the laying of 
 the corner stone of the Shiloh Baptist church. 
 
 Since the morning of creation, 
 Every tribe and every nation, 
 Have been making sacrifices, 
 To their god, for sins and vices. 
 
 So today, in congregation. 
 Offer we our soul's oblation 
 To our God, who we beleiving. 
 Is our sacrifice receiving. 
 
 In a solemn convocation, 
 We are laying this foundation; 
 Praising God for righteous living 
 In the means that we are giving. 
 
 True hearts, swelling with emotion 
 Here, are proving their devotion 
 To their God, whom they are praising, 
 In the building they are raising. 
 
 Many, who have long been praying 
 For this day of corner laying. 
 Are rejoicing now, and bringing 
 Praises, to their God, in singing. 
 
 When this house has been completed. 
 May all feel that God has meeted 
 Out to us, His richest blessing, 
 For the faith we are professing. 
 
 May we in this house, when meeting. 
 Know that we are not entreating 
 Some strange god, but One who knoweth, 
 And His rarest gifts bestoweth. 
 
 Here may we sing, with those we lovo. 
 Anthems of praise, to God above; 
 Come fill our hearts, with holy zeal. 
 And Lord, Thy presence, here reveal. 
 
 BERGSTRESSER. 
 
 I know a doctor, whose name is Bergstresser. 
 He looks and acts like a college profeseor- 
 
130 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 He is trim, and neat, and withall a good dresser; 
 Can yank out a tooth, and put in a compresser 
 
 About as quick as the next man I know. 
 When he gets you down, he gives you no show. 
 You've got to lie still and just let him go. 
 And when he is done, you will certainly know 
 
 You've been to the dentist, and had your tooth out; 
 Pulled by a man, who knows what he's about; 
 But, when you have turned your purse in side out. 
 You'll wish you had kept your old teeth, no doubt. 
 
 Now, Doc a mighty good fellow is he; 
 He was never known to go on a spree, 
 But is saving his money, and don't you see 
 He's getting as rich, as he needs to be. 
 
 If he tells me a fact, now don't you know 
 I never ask again, "Is that so!" 
 For if I did, he no doubt would throw 
 His forceps at me, and tell me to go. 
 
 And I would go, no doubt about that. 
 
 Just as soon as I could get under my hat. 
 
 For if I stayed, I might get a spat 
 
 From him, that would lay me out, limp and flat. 
 
 Now Doc, is not one bit of a crank. 
 Nor will he try to play you a prank. 
 But he sure can, from its morings yank 
 A tooth so quick, you will want to thank. 
 
 Your lucky stars, that the work is done, 
 Although you are certain, it was no fun, 
 And you'll feel, like you will want to run. 
 And leave Bergstresser, the son of a gun. 
 
 THE YOUTH, THE MAID AND CUPID. 
 
 'Twas in the month of roses, when 
 A youth and maiden met; 
 Were introduced by cupid, then. 
 He caught them, in his net. 
 
 And this is how is came about; 
 The maid had come to see 
 Her sister, when her school was out. 
 Thus Fate willed it should be. 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hoius 131 
 
 The youth, whose name was simply Brown, 
 Lived on a near by street; 
 He brought his heart, and laid it down 
 At this fair maiden's feet. 
 
 They sat down then, the proper thing, 
 Their troth both then to plight; 
 Oh, they were happy, and the swing, 
 Kept squeaking, late at night. 
 
 We do not know, what tiien was said. 
 But no doubt it was good: 
 We could not hear the youth nor maid, 
 Nor would not, if we could. 
 
 It no doubt was the story old 
 To lovers always sweet, 
 That has so often been retold, 
 When two hearts loving meet. 
 
 It is a story, I think wrought. 
 With consequences great, 
 Demanding much of gravest thought 
 Before it is too late; 
 
 For when the ceremony's said 
 There's no time to regret, 
 For youth and maiden, then are wed — 
 Their seal, for life, is set. 
 
 And when they come to celebrate 
 (It is no matter small). 
 
 While we, their friends, congratulate. 
 
 They pledge their lives, their all. 
 
 Now Miss Katherene, and Mr. Brown, 
 I'll gratulations bring, 
 When you are wed, and come to town 
 And sit in the old swing. 
 
 THE BLACKMAN'S TREASURE. 
 
 In the mornin' when the roosters 'gin to crow 
 
 And de whissels, ober town begin' to blow; 
 
 Den dis nigga likes to lay, 
 
 On his bed, in de sof hay, 
 
 While de chillen, an' de kitten, roun' him play. 
 
132 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 An' at noon again', when dem big whissels blow 
 
 And I's diggin' taters out of de long row, 
 
 It am a sound I do much like, 
 
 And it makes me take a hike. 
 
 An' immediate I go right down de pike. 
 
 In de evenin' when the sun am hangin' low, 
 
 An' I looks down to de end of de long row; 
 
 Den I's glad to hear de soun' 
 
 Ob dem whissels in de town. 
 
 Den I leab de taters layin' in de groun'. 
 
 An' I walk right down de road, an' it am fun. 
 
 See the chillun come to meet me, on de run; 
 
 Den I forget that I am tired, 
 
 An' feel like I am inspired. 
 
 With my chillun I have all can be desired. 
 
 When I get down home an' see my littl' wife, 
 
 Standin' in de doer an' smilin' for her ilic, 
 
 J en I think I am the best, 
 
 Ob de niggers, dat am blest, 
 
 When my wife, an' chillun, I have done carress'd. 
 
 Den I thank the good Lord He has gib to me 
 Wife an' chillun, that's as dear as they can be; 
 Though their faces are not white. 
 They hab souls that am as bright. 
 As de wh'.te folks hab done got, in God's own 
 sight. 
 
 THE BLACK MAN'S LAME.yT. 
 Yes, I know I's growin' old, 
 Soon de story will be told, 
 Ob my life, an' how I libed, away down souf ; 
 I were born in ole' Car'line, 
 In de shade of dem big pine 
 Dat am what my mudder tole me, wid her mouf. 
 
 Now it soun' a little queer 
 
 Cause I cannot tell de year 
 
 I were bo'n in, so now I'll tell you why; 
 
 In my day no one could read. 
 
 An' we had no church nor creed, 
 
 When I think of it, it makes me want to cry. 
 
 So we couldn't keep no count 
 
 An' we didn't know de 'mount 
 
 Dat's de reason I can't tell how ole I am; 
 
Short Poems at Odd Hours loo 
 
 All we knowed was how to work 
 
 An' we neber couldn't shirk 
 
 'Cause de white man sure would hit us wid a slam. 
 
 Den de white man come one day, 
 
 An' he took me far away, 
 
 An' I nebber see de ole folks any mo'; 
 
 Now I cannot tell you why, 
 
 But I wish dat I might die 
 
 'Cause I neber had such feelin's oust befo. 
 
 Oh, I wish dat I could know. 
 
 Now befo' I's called to go. 
 
 If de ole folks bofe are sleepin' neath de pine; 
 
 Dat would fill my soul wid joy, 
 
 If I, onest their lettle boy, 
 
 Knowed they're layin' side by side in ole Car'line. 
 
 THE TRAVELING MAN. 
 
 I buy from the agent, a railroad ticket. 
 He pushes it out, to me, through a wicket, 
 I get on the train, with my handy grip. 
 And hasten away, on a business strip. 
 
 I often wish, I could stay at home. 
 And not go out, through the world, to roam; 
 But such is the fate of the traveling man, 
 He can't stay at home, like other men can. 
 
 I say goodbye to my flaxen haired wife, 
 
 And go out to earn the bread of life. 
 
 Some times through rain, sometimes through sno' 
 
 For the boss says: 'John, you will have to go." 
 
 Sometimes it is late, when I get to bed, 
 Sometimes I go, with an aching head, 
 Sometimes I get out before day light, 
 Sometimes in the middle of the night. 
 
 And some times I get a little mad, 
 
 When I strike hard luck, and the trade is bad. 
 
 And I hit a bum meal, at the best hotel, 
 
 I am tempted to say: "Oh, isn't this — well." 
 
 CAN YOU TELL ME WMYr 
 
 Good friend, can you tell me why 
 Farm land is not a good buy. 
 
134 Short Poems at Odd Hours 
 
 Now when corn, and oats and rye 
 Are selling so very high? 
 
 Did you ever see the day, 
 When a wagon load of hay. 
 Would bring as much good pay 
 As it brings right now, eh? 
 
 Did you ever see a cow. 
 
 Sell for more, than she does, now? 
 
 Or a little old fat sow. 
 
 Bring the price of a riding plow? 
 
 THE LAND MAN'S SONG. 
 
 If you've got a little sand, 
 I can sell you some good land, 
 That will raise alfalfa hogs. 
 On the hills and in the bogs. 
 
 You can easy make it pay. 
 Raising corn, and oats and hay; 
 Feeding cows, and sellingi milk, 
 You can live as fine as silk. 
 
 Should it take you years to pay. 
 Then you'll have, for a wet day. 
 Something better than pure gold, 
 To rely on when, you're old. 
 
 So you need not wonder why 
 I am asking you to buy. 
 And you need not take alarm 
 When you're asked to buy a farm. 
 
 It will not be many years, 
 'Till we'll all be shedding tears, 
 Kicking hard, and wond'ring why. 
 We'd not sense enough to buy. 
 
ERRATA. 
 On page 32, 9th line "bowling" should be blowing. 
 Page 38, 5th line, "fine" should be feign. 
 Page 63, 8th line of First Day at School T should 
 
 be To. 
 Page 75, 4th line, Initesmal, should be Infinitesimal. 
 Patge 79, in Peaceful River, the word gleaming is 
 
 used twice, first time sho»ild be glancing. 
 Page 86, at beginning of last line of verse 6, y 
 
 should be w.