PS 3531 .fl588 F3 1921 Copy 1 ^^p ^^^H^ip llje Jf armer^g ^ ^nb otfjer Efjapsobtesf b? jf. TO. barker #uest THE FARMER'S GUEST AND OTHER RHYMES BY F. W. PARKER T. G, ROBISON, PRINTER 226 ALDER STREET PORTLAND, OREGON ^% DEDICATION. To my loyal brother J. B. Parker, who knows farming from A to Z, and has a good picture of what a snap it is, these rhymes are affectionately dedicated by the author. F. W. P. Copyright, 1921 by F. W. Parker. g)C!.A6245^8 SEP 26 i32i FOREWORD. There is in me a streak of pure meanness and that accounts for my having these rhymes published. F. W. Parker. The Farmer's Guest. THE FARMER. He was a prosperous farmer, a man just passing his prime; And still a husky fellow who was always pressing the time. From early morning hours his pace would weary a fox, He worked with a three man power as patiently as an Ox. He had the mind of a Plato, the loins of Hercules; He had the smile of a master and the art of working with ease. He could laugh at rain out of season and grin each day of the drouth; Was always on taps at meal time and seldom down in the mouth. For years, perhaps about forty, he fought with weather and soil; Attained success as a farmer and had considerable spoil. He was not classed as a Christian, for he never joined the church; And he had slipped his religion beyond the clergyman's perch. He was very exact in observing and ever playing his game. For coining some good farm proverbs he won considerable fame. He worked over time sufficient to take his turn at the bat; And found some time for picnics and fairs and frolics like that. He missed the school at Corvallis, and so for labor was fit; Nor asked his State to provide him a well filled government teat. At night when he hit the pillow he slept the sleep of the kind, A more real likeable fellow is not so easy to find. HIS WIFE. His wife just baffles description, her soul of infinite worth; Made home a branch of her heaven, that filled its mission on earth. She laid upon love's great altar, in spite of the work of years, A group of five little Yankees, the fruit of her hopeful tears. She thought her John was a wonder, a real Goliath of Gath, And both were strong in their loving and walked side-by-side in life's path. THE FARMER'S GUEST SUMMER TIME. The time, if informed correctly, was about the middle of June, All nature had gorgeous colors and promised her harvest soon. The birds were busy prospecting the chances of raising their young. The stock were leisurely feeding and care to the breezes was flung. The lambs and kids were cavorting because of their well filled maws The colts at physical culture, according to nature's own laws. The swine were stretched in their wallow and taking their daily bath. The bull was loudly defying the fabled giant of Gath. The hens were joyfully singing, the rooster crowing his best, The doves were lovingly cooing and feeding their young in the nest. And Tom, the mammoth bronzed turkey, was strutting around like a prince While his wives were feeding their babies on grasshoppers, beet- les and chinch. The guinea hens kept up their clatter, a noise that often grows stale, The peacock was viewing with pleasure the rainbow tints of his tail. The farm had every appearance of blissful comfort and wealth. The farmer, his wife and his children, enjoying the very best health. THE EDITOR AND HIS SON. One day a man drove his auto up to the farmer's front gate, And he and a kid alighted and said, "Kind friend are we late?" Of course they were out on business, but meals are always thrown in; All farmers take that for granted and meet their fate with a grin. His wife set a bountiful table, it did not* fret her a mite, I When hungry folks from the city chanced in to get a wee bite. THE FARMER'S GUEST The man was Editor Jinkins, who lived by pushing his pen, The boy was a city cipher that fate will produce now and then. Now Jinkins had sized up his hopeful and sought the place he could fill, And so concluded that farming was the proper thing for his Bill. He was far too fat and too awkward, too tired and slow to play ball, He shrank from games that were manly, was too big a coward that's all. For tennis, swimming and skating he had not the slightest taste. He lacked the right disposition — was much too large in the waist — Croquet he sometimes could manage, providing stools were near by, And the sun in mercy hastened to hide back of clouds in the sky. But Jinkins thought Bill was a hummer and so, for farming was fit, For like the good bear-dog of fable, for everything else he was nit. MR. JINKINS IN HIS OFFICE. The editor sat in his sanctum and penned some wonderful dope, Which proved the farmers were holding the nation's only hope. When springtime came in its gladness rewarming the passions of earth; It always set him to dreaming of the farmer's fortunate birth. How he longed to grasp the plow handles and work in the ground with a spade, Or strip some cows (about twenty) and then sit around in the shade. He saw the crops grow while he slumbered, he counted the chickens not hatched; And sighed for the pure air and sunshine, and health that could not be matched. THE FARMER'S GUEST His daughter went to Corvallis and this obliged him to rave, And tell this good wife of the farmer that she should learn how to save. So he wrote and he kept on writing, of health and wealth on the farm, To him it was ever a garden which held a heavenly charm. WHERE HE LEARNED TO FARM. He mastered the art of farming and its positive path to fame. Of college-trained college professors who only play at the game. He learned how to kill the aphis, to miss the smut and the drouth. And when he harnessed the horses to put the bit in the mouth. He learned how to beat the markets, to buy and sell at the sales, And why when the lambs were nursing they always wiggled their tails. He could plan a fancy cow-stable or a modern chicken coop, He knew why hens went to setting and how to doctor the roup. He learned that when hens went to crowing they'd as well be knocked off their pegs; That roosters would sometimes cackle, but never would lay any eggs. He was sure that his faultless knowledge would place him in the front rank Of farmers who revel in comforts and have large rolls in the bank. HIS REQUEST. So he came to this thrifty farmer, not to learn the game you know. But to see if his son William could borrow a hunk of his dough. He said, "You see I'm planning to place my son William quite well, I know the ruthless city is sure to land him in hell. THE FARMER'S GUEST 9 He's too kind hearted and gentle to gore his way like a bull, The games in the city are heartless and all good places are full. He's sympathetic by nature and has a dislike for strife; But he'll take to the farming business, its luxuriant easy life. The farmer, you know, is not tempted to swear or even to hate. And Bill don't like excitement, he'd rather sit down and wait. He's also adverse to fighting, to dicker and quarrel like a Turk, But he'd fall in love with farming for nature will do all the work. He knows how to manage the dairies, the foods that make most butterfat, He'll marry a girl from the college, and we're mighty proud of that. I'm sure you'll want to be helping a boy you know isn't rash, And all we seem to be needing is some of your surplus cash. We've figured our plan out fully and figures you know won't lie, We've learned the cost of production, have lists of all we must buy. We find three years is sufficient, allowing a five per cent loss; When William will cancel the mortgage, and meanwhile be his own boss. And seeing you with these comforts, I'm anxious the chance to seize, And place my Bill in the saddle, I'm sure he can sit there with ease. BILL'S PROSPECTIVE WIFE. "The woman that William will marry, stood high in the domestic grade. She learned the need of protein and how baby's food should be made. She makes the daintiest biscuits, and salads, cock-tails and pies. Her jellies and sauces and puddings will give her a seat with the wise. She makes such beautiful doilies and tats such elegant lace. 10 THE FARMER'S GUEST She'll lift the wives of the farmers and give them a wonderful place. She learned the laws of eugenics and this has had its effects, She has fixed the size of her family and also determined the sex. And now that bountiful nature has brought great wealth to your hand, I fancied that you would be anxious to help us in buying the land. We've dickered with farmer Perkins, who owns the farm by the mill. And that is the one we are wanting, for the home of Susan and Bill. This Perkins is one of many who, timely advice won't heed. My editorial leaders he would not take time to read. His farm is badly depleted, the buildings are all run down, And he, like a fool, is anxious to make his abode in town. So if you will loan us the money we'll close with Perkins at once. For fear he should change his notion and see that he is a dunce. 'Twill take a lump of ten thousand to buy all the stock and the farm, And we'll have it back with interest, in just three years like a charm." THE FARMER'S REPLY. The farmer's face was now wearing the smile of a man born to win. And one who could sense misfortune and foretaste the acids of sin. He said, "I see, Mr. Jinkins, your plans are the plans of a man, And to give you some real good counsel, I'll do the best that I can. 'Tis true our friend Perkins has sadly neglected his place, And none of the boys would master the slow agricultural pace. But before your Bill takes to farming let me ask a question or two, To help determine his fitness and then you will know what to do. THE FARMER\^ GUE^T 11 "Can Bill get up in the morning at four o'clock, all the time, And work till nine in the evening and feel that it isn't a crime ? Can he keep the pace each minute of a wolf that sights his meat ? Can he smile at the drouth, or showers that threaten to spoil his wheat? Can he work overtime for picnics and fairs and frolics like that. And milk twenty cows each morning to fit himself for the bat? Can he choke unbidden cuss words, when the cow kicks over the milk. Or dress his wife in gingham when he knows she's worthy of silk? Can he judge seed-corn and potatoes, and the fittest grade of plants, And wear out his clothes completely except the seat of his pants ? Can he smile at the city women who growl at the price of eggs. Or smell of his good wife's butter as if 'twas walking on legs ? Can he work till dark in the harvest, then rest while doing the chores. Or smile while boarding the threshers when the rain just comes down in pours? Can he buy of city merchants at prices less than the cost. Then go to his church on Sunday and make up for sleep he has lost? Can he smile when paying his taxes, well knowing that many misfits. Will suck up the most of his money by means of government teats ? HIS WIFE. "Can Susan get up in the morning along with her husband Bill, And do the scrubbing and washing while planning their stomachs to fill? Can she boil a pot of potatoes or roast a good chunk of meat, And really provide her table with food that is fit to eat? Can she feed the trifling loafers and still like a Christian feel. 12 THE FARMER'S GUEST Or nurse her baby while ironing and change it while eating her meal? Can she feed the ducks, and chickens, the calves, the geese and the swine, Or do out a ten pound churning, while babies with colic whine ? Can she take to linsey dresses and heavy shoes like a sport. Then go to bed at night time with a prayer of the proper sort? When harvest is finely ready, will she see that Bill has hands. While she, lone handed keeps playing and meets all the increased demands ? When frost has nipped the potatoes, will she smile like a frisky pup, And furnish the grit for the battle when Bill has given it up ? Can she and Bill pull together, like a faithful well broke team. Or laugh when they learn that farming is not just what it may seem ? If you answer yes to my questions, you'll have no need of my cash. And if no, then know that farming would be a venture quite rash." "Come William, we must be going," the editor finally said, "This man is badly demented, I'm sure he is out of his head." THE FARMER'S GUEST 13 The Call of the City. I say, my strong brave country lad, Why play the game of luck? Ignore the would-be-farmer's fad And bring to me your pluck. Come take a chance with me in life Where thieves and sycophants play; Where man meets man in deadly strife, And wit must win the day. Come play the game for woe or weal, Where giants feast on blood; Come cope with foes well worth your steel, In my commercial flood. Give up the farm, its trivial chance, Of wealth or glittering fame; Give up its grinding slow advance. And play a real man's game. The farm well suits the fragile reed. Who fears to bleed and die; For real red blood it has no need, I'll give the reason why. The farmer fights the gods of fate. Who flatter and entice; And promise a rich luring bait, At less than half my price. The farmer's hands may rend and tear. While fate sits by and grins; She knows how small will be his share. How lean the prize he wins. 14 THE FARMER'S GUEST My war is fierce, the foes you'll stem Are neither mild nor meek; No quarter is ever asked by them, For here the Greek meets Greek. The farmer, forced by need of gold. Must play a higgler's part; He works for me through heat and cold, Then finds my stingy mart. The farm gives you a chance to win A prize of meagre worth; While I have fortunes vast within, And oceans full of mirth. The farm may give you many years. Of never ending toil; But neither mirth or scalding tears Are wrung from stubborn soil. My busy, thrilling, treacherous mart, Gives you ten years in one; And by the strong and brave of heart Is the rich guerdon won. The farmer's game is all a chance, For fate may shift the deal; He pays the fiddler while I dance The grand commercial reel. I call you to a real man's game Demanding brains and pluck; It's best to lose to wits I claim, Than win a game of luck. THE FARMER'S GUEST 15 Uncle John's Philosophy. If other folks were just like me, We'd soon be rid of that blame bunch Of profiteers called lawyers, see! And all their blamed tomfoolery. Each mother son of them, by jing. Would have to do some useful thing; They would not strut around like scholars I would make them earn their dollars. If other folks were just like me. There wouldn't be one bit of need For those fellows they call preachers. I'd set all such well fed leachers To doing what the Lord would be A lot more pleased, it seems to me. To see them do, than have them playing With the creeds and prayers they're saying. If other folks were just like me, There'd be no sheriffs hanging 'round. Ever anxious to be med'ling With a fellow who is peddling The best blamed remedy for flu That any mortal ever knew: We lost our old Democracy, When robbed of personal liberty. If other folks were just like me, The editors would have to stop Printing in their daily papers All of man's unseemly capers; Such stuff as folks should never know For, more than likely it ain't so. They'd not dare to be so gushy. And call all my poems mushy. 16 THE FARMER'S GUEST If other folks were just like me, There would be no wealthy bankers either. There's a trick in their free giving Us advice to make THEIR living. They counsel us to save our dimes And thus prepare for real hard times, Then strut around in their white collars Because we save for them our dollars. I wish all men were just like me, I'd let each mother's son of them Live like the birds in yonder tree. Supremely happy and care-free; And singing while they search the lea For stuff to build a cozy nest, Or worms their babies love the best. Alas, there ain't no more like me. I asked the Lord once why it was; He smiled and answered, "Just because, If I hold the rest undaunted, One like you was all I wanted." THE FARMER'S GUEST 17 Introducing Edward Markham AT OREGON CITY, OREGON. I have been persuaded that the believers in evolution, as God's method of creation, get more inspiring thrills out of their conclusions than any other class of thinkers. The idealist is like a mechanic working on a sky scraper; he is ever rising with each story he builds, but when he stands erect, he can only reach out into what seems empty space. The materialist is like a man anchored to earth and minding the things of time and place; while the naturalist may be likened to a man climbing a steep mountain, his feet on the solid earth, his hands grasping the living shrubbery about him and his eye fixed on the summits to be attained. In his efforts to find the origin of poetry, the naturalist goes back into the past until he finds the first human mother; and as he listens to her rhythmic crooning over her little babe,' he forms the conclusion that poetry springs from the maternal instinct. For ages these mothers were the only poets the world knew. One day, long, long after these mothers had been singing songs to hush the crying of their little ones, a savage was pass- ing a cave where a mother had hid herself and babe from a hungry lion; her soothing song attracted his attention and he stood at the opening of the cave to meet her enemy. It was a life and death struggle; but the savage won. And when the happy mother had expressed her gratitude he went away a larger and nobler savage. Doubtless this savage often recalled the tragic fight, the song that inspired him and the woman whom he had made so happy; and he must have felt that pride which is ever the after- math of chivalry. When lonely he longed for the song' and doubtless returned betimes to the cave to see if all was well. In time he developed enough of the maternal instinct to sing; and so we conclude that poetry comes from that soul, from which comes all good things, the soul of motherhood. 18 THE FARMER'S GUEST If the world had never known an aching heart, a troubled soul, a crying babe, an anxious mother and what we call sin sickness and death; it would never have known poetry. For the first object of every poet is to calm man's anxious fears, quicken his lifeless faith, plant the seed germs of hope, inspire manly courage and thus prepare the way for love's development. It is the opinion of the naturalist that the world is yet to hear sweeter and more inspiring songs than ever have been sung; for there is an ever growing number of men who are developing the maternal instinct and some of them are singing songs almost as sweet as the mother's lullaby. A poet is not one who is ever embosomed in idealian bowers, or walking in those paths that wend through flowered meadows or by placid streams. Having deep emotions and lofty concep- tions he is sure to have a larger round of experiences. To give these experiences expression and thereby inspire others to seek after those things that edify, become the most thrilling pleasures of his life. In pursuit of these pleasures, he becomes a coiner of words, an inventor of expression and a critic of literature; because the vocabulary of man does not keep pace with the visions and dreams of the poet. Like the Apostle Paul, he fre- quently finds himself in the third heaven, where his dreams and experiences are beyond his power to express and he must leave them forever untold. We have the delightful privilege, this day, of hearing one of our real poets read his inspiring lines, for which we indeed feel thankful; for all of us have been guilty of boasting of the fact that Mr. Markham first saw the light of day here in our beloved city. We will admit that it is more fitting for us to boast than for him, because he had nothing to do with the event except to answer the roll call. When Joaquin Miller said that, "Mr. Markham's poem, "THE MAN WITH THE HOE, was the whole Yosemite," he did not know, or had forgotten, that Mr. Markham was born on the banks of "THE BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE." Doubtless, in those days just prior to his birth, his mother frequently walked along that path at the crest of the bluff, and, while hopefully THE FARMER'S GUEST 19 waiting, expecting, dreaming, communing with God and fore- planning for her babe, poet as she was, the grandeur of the scenery from the bluff must mightily have moved her and un- wittingly she planted in the mind of her little unborn son, those seed germs of thought and vision that afterward produced "THE MAN WITH THE HOE." As I read that great poem I can see in it the placid waters above the falls waiting for the tragic plunge over the rocky ledge and feel the force of the seething current in the deep gorge below; and then, even hear, the silence of the centuries as the waters of the Willamette and Columbia mingle and silently move on to the great ocean. Listen to the last lines of the poem: "O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. How will the future reckon with this man?" See in these two lines the still waters above the falls. "How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?" See in these two lines the turbulent water plunging over the rocks. "How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — With those who shaped him to the thing he is — " See in these two lines the seething waters in the deep gorge below. "When this dumb terror comes to judge the world After the silence of the centuries?" See in these two lines the mighty current moving on to the ocean. I am persuaded that the poem's force, its majesty of rhythm, its volume of music and its mighty current of love is due to his mother's thoughts and visions, during those prenatal hours of hopefully foreplanning. But of one thing we are sure, that is, Mr. Markham is a real old time Webfooter; and his poetic gift is due to his having been bom in Oregon City on the banks of "THE WILLAM- ETTE." I am very happy to introduce to you at this time this product of Oregon City's climate and scenery, America"s greatest living poet, Edwin Markham 20 THE FARMER'S GUEST Our Poet. We claim you, Edwin Markham, not because you've won renown; But because our favored city, while 'twas just a frontier town, Was the place our God selected when He thought to send you down To live on earth. Although you've long been roaming you're a webfooter for sure, We sense it in your humor and your love unfeigned and pure. By all the laws of birthright we will make our claim secure O'er all the earth. We love you Edwin Markham, not because the halls of fame Are open to you now; but because you've played a royal game. And fought, with open hardy courage, love's battles since you came To live on earth. Your stately well known verses have revealed to us your heart; From it have come the messages, touched by poetic art, Which help us live more God-like and the better play our part While on the earth. We love you Edwin Markham and we'll say it o'er and o'er. As we come to know you better; for your heart's wide open door, Assures that webfoot welcome which shall live forever more On our good earth. THE FARMER'S GUEST 2l The City Without a Flag. When I was told that our City had to borrow a flag to float at half mast the day Captain Blanchard was buried, I was inspired to write the following: I have heard of poltroon slackers and of people without pep, I have heard of pin-head knockers, striving hard to make a rep; I have heard of hard-boiled fellows, who were low enough to slam Their ov/n country's holy emblem, nor for it cared a damn; But I stubbed my toe last evening on a most uncommon snag, When they told me that our city really did not own a flag. I have lived among cow-punchers, followed cattle o'er the hills, I have roamed the sea with sailors and I know they're all hard pills. Worked with lumber-jacks so wicked they would drink old crow, by jing, And with miners who were happy when they did the same darned thing; But in spite of their shortcomings, for which I cannot brag, I never knew these fellows when they did not own a flag. I have heard of men forgetting that they really were alive. Till they chanced to stumble backward on a lively old beehive; I have heard of folk so sleepy that they missed the fire bell. Till Satan forked them over and they found themselves in Hell; But they knocked me out last evening, left me limp as an old rag When they told me that our city really did not own a flag. I can hear our country calling for our laddies brave and true, I can hear our white-haired veterans shouting "Yankee-doodle- do," Hear the boys who whipped the Spaniards and the Germans over seas, Shouting loudly for Old Glory, as she unfurled in the breeze. But my eyes are dim with weeping and I cannot shout or brag. Since they told me that our city really does not own a flag. 22 THE FARMER'S GUEST Uncle John on Woman's Dress. I'm not so sure that women dress Especially to please me; But I am sure their modern style Is what I like to see. Now I have passed my eightieth year, But, when ladies pass me by, I always view what they expose, To catch a fellow's eye. 'Tis said that women love to dress To please fastidious man, They seem to know there are some things He'll look at if he can. And when they don their usual togs For street parade or ball, I wouldn't see much more, by jing. If they wore no dress at all. But women are considerate, And have a lot of grace. The only thing they daub with paint Is their once pretty face; And one need waste no time to view Their dimpled cheek and chin, But gaze at what they fain would hide With gossamer so thin. THE FARMER'S GUEST 23 Just Good Luck. If, when you bet and win a good fat boodle, you can refuse to take another chance; If you can coax your pal to play the fiddle, while with his charm- ing sweetheart you may dance; If you can make your many acts of meanness appear as things your neighbors think quite fit; If you can swipe the other fellow's ace while dealing, and be able to get neatly by with it; If you can wed a real sweet handsome widow, who has not spent her former husband's dough; If you can live so she will not be learning what all your neigh- bors 'round the country know; If you can win a crown of magic glory, to cheer you down your fast declining years; If you can be what most men call successful while handing out to others your bum steers; If when you're passing out beyond life's portal your many friends are there to say good-bye; If some good priest assures you a safe passage, so you can calmly close your eyes and die; Perhaps you'll think yourself a fair ensample of rugged industry and manly pluck; But when you pass the pearly gate St. Peter will then explain to you, 'TWAS JUST GOOD LUCK. For Sale by THE J. K. GILL CO., Portland, Oregon.