Class _„r 
 Book_ 
 
 r\ r" i'\ 
 
 Gopyiight}]". 
 
 1^4. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
This 
 That 
 
 ana the 
 
 Other 
 
 By D. 7^. Ashmore 
 
 Decatur, IJJinois 
 
/9c ^ 
 
 SrbiraUi to mg hswc fpftttJi. iotfti iKooig. 
 
 
 (0) >.^ 7, /ffl^ 
 
 Cla.A, 243G49 
 
 JUL 12 1909 
 
;5 
 
 -i - 
 
 D. N. ASHMORE 
 
^^^HIS little Volume makes no great pretense as 
 ^^^ to literary merit and the critic that is simply 
 a teacher and teller of things had just as well lay it 
 down and go put his trolley on the old wire and 
 continue to get his literary energy from some old 
 and well established literary power plant that bears 
 the approval of several past generations as being 
 classic and entirely conventional. The only class of 
 readers that it desires to interest is the plain, com- 
 mon people — people that do things — toilers and 
 workers that move the world along — people who 
 don't mince, but whose every appetite has been 
 sharpened by the honest expenditure of physical and 
 mental energy combined. Such people's judgment 
 of true values are the only ones to be respected be- 
 cause they are constantly rendering honest returns 
 by the sweat of their brows for all values received. 
 
 — The Author. 
 
SUCCESS 
 
 Success is succeeding; 
 Success is unneeding; 
 Yet it seems its our plan, 
 To ever be feeding 
 The successful man. 
 
 Success is so nerving; 
 Success is deserving; 
 And we love to caress, 
 By continually serving 
 The man of success. 
 
 In business or deeds 
 The man that succeeds. 
 Is the man we admire. 
 He is the hero that leads. 
 And we hoist him the higher. 
 
 If they fail to succeed 
 And are really in need 
 We refuse their demand, 
 And smile at the speed 
 Of the down going man. 
 
 Success is the steed 
 That's far in the lead. 
 As the maxim suggests, 
 There is nothing succeeds 
 Like this thing called success. 
 
STRENGTH IN STRIFE 
 
 I'll just be bound 
 
 That you have found 
 Much of sorrow in this life; 
 
 But don't you know 
 
 It's surely so, 
 You are strengthened by each strife? 
 
 Why! Can't you see 
 
 That you'd just be 
 A weak and frail affair, 
 
 If you'd just sit 
 
 And never get 
 All shook up like you are? 
 
 Why, really man, 
 
 Some hidden hand 
 Has made your road thus rough, 
 
 So it would serve 
 
 To give you nerve, 
 And make you strong and tough; 
 
 That you might meet 
 
 And well compete 
 With the fearless of your race, 
 
 And hold despite 
 
 Life's bitter fight, 
 And earn an honored place. 
 
 FISHING IN THE SPRING 
 
 I love to go a fishing, in the gentle spring, 
 
 Along the river banks, where the big mosquitoes sing. 
 
 And sit me gently down on the mossy logs. 
 
 And have my soul enchanted by the music of the frogs. 
 
 I love to go a fishing, and take the greasy worm, — 
 String him on my hook, and watch the "booger" squirm, 
 Then drop him in the water, and wait with all my might 
 For about an hour, and never get a bite. 
 
 I love to go a fishing, when the evening's damp and cool. 
 And I have to sit a standing. O, the joy untold. 
 And then the quiet zephyrs that waft the gentle gnats. 
 Interspersed with hooting owls and darting, screeching 
 bats. 
 
 I love to go a fishing; it's only just too nice. 
 
 I speak from my experience; I've been there once or twice. 
 
 But instead of fish I caught a cough; so I've sold my hook 
 
 and pole. 
 And invested all the money in syrups for my cold. 
 
EDUCATED FOOL 
 
 Educated, yes very fine, 
 He's a flaming light to shine, 
 
 Let him glow. 
 For a man's mighty smart, 
 To learn another's piece by heart, 
 
 Don't you know? 
 
 He is proud of what he's got. 
 
 He has grasped another's thought, 
 
 Yes. he's proud. 
 And he feels so mighty good. 
 When he's chewing another's quid, 
 
 Champing loud. 
 
 He's grammatically a speller. 
 A nobbie educated feller. 
 
 Understand; 
 Yet within his noble heart 
 He pities those that're not so smart. 
 
 Considerate man. 
 
 But there're things he hasn't got. 
 And one of them's original thought, 
 
 That's a part. 
 And another thing that's no expense, 
 For he hasn't common sense. 
 
 Yet he's smart. 
 
 Oh, this educated fool. 
 
 He's the exception, not the rule. 
 
 Yet it's true, 
 I've seen some that understand. 
 That education makes the man. 
 
 Haven't you? 
 
FOGIES 
 
 You may think it's all a hoax 
 About those funny fogyish folks, 
 But I'll tell you what, I've seen them, 
 And I am not going to screen them. 
 
 Not at all. 
 What, convince them? men have tried them. 
 They have "hobbies," and will ride them 
 
 In spite of all. 
 
 I've seen some men that says, 
 That there're some unlucky days, 
 And they'll start no enterprise 
 Except on days luck justifies, 
 
 Fogies sure. 
 It's my common sense that says, 
 There's more unlucky fools than days. 
 
 Doesn't yours? 
 
 Why, there's Uncle Billy Purch 
 Can't bear a fiddle in the church, 
 And he would not go about 
 Till they took the old thing out, 
 
 That is true. 
 I'd rather hear a fiddle goin' 
 Than to hear a fogy blowin'. 
 
 Wouldn't you? 
 
 I know a funny fog^yish loon 
 That plants his taters in the moon. 
 He has never missed a crop. 
 But he's hit it every pop, 
 
 Big un's, too. 
 In my experience I have found, 
 I'd rather plant them in the ground, 
 
 Wouldn't you? 
 
 10 
 
EXTREMITY 
 
 When man steps out 
 And turns his face, 
 To look above 
 In open space, 
 While thus engaged 
 His searching eye 
 Soon forms a dome. 
 That's called the sky. 
 
 Each have a sky. 
 It's exact height 
 Is measured by 
 The strength of sight; 
 As we look up 
 That dome we see 
 Is but our vision's 
 Extremity. 
 
 It's just as true 
 Of firiite mind 
 When it looks out 
 There is a line, 
 A mental sky 
 That seems to be 
 Just at our minds 
 Extremity. 
 
 In strength of thought 
 And mental might 
 The learned of earth 
 At grander height 
 With radius large 
 And sky more free. 
 Find there, the same 
 Extremity. 
 
 Just at this line 
 This dome, the sky, 
 This outer verge 
 Of mind and eye, 
 We find our God 
 In that, that we 
 Have reached our own 
 Extremity. 
 
 11 
 
CATCHIN' THINGS 
 
 I've been visiting to my Aunt Lucile's, 
 And I'm hurrying home across the fields, 
 For Aunty says I've got the mumps. 
 As she can tell by these big bumps 
 Here at each side upon my jaw; 
 So I'm hiking home to see my Ma. 
 
 Poor Aunt Lucile ain'.t got no kids, 
 
 Just birds and cats and coverlets, 
 
 And spreads and quilts and home-made lace; 
 
 There's lots of things about her place 
 
 What Aunty's made — she's mighty slick, 
 
 But she can't cure no kid that's sick. 
 
 Yet Aunty's kind — good-hearted, too, 
 But she don't know just what to do; 
 Instead of showing that quilt she pieced, 
 I'd rather seen some goose's grease, 
 Or rabbit oil, like Mother fried 
 That other time I liked to died. 
 
 Two years ago from this here spring, 
 I caught the measles — old red things; 
 I lost my taste for cake and pie 
 And thought for once I'se bound to die; 
 My Ma made tea and I took lots 
 Till I broke out in great red spots. 
 
 It wasn't long when I'd got well. 
 That I caught somewhere — we can't tell. 
 The chicken pox, just the rooster kind, 
 For I nearly croaked when I got mine, . 
 I speckled up and scratched and howled. 
 For the pleged things they had me foul. 
 
 Then the whoopin' cough it came around. 
 And my Ma said she'd just be bound 
 That I'd get it; and I got it right. 
 For about six weeks whooped day and night, 
 My Ma staid up; what we went through 
 There's no one knows but just we two. 
 
 I jaundered once for a week or so; 
 My liver balked and wouldn't go. 
 It wouldn't stir the bile oflf right. 
 So I yellowed up till I's a sight. 
 But my mother gave me calomel. 
 And it wasn't long till I got well. 
 
 12 
 
I've had the hives and scarlet rash. 
 
 When I cut my teeth I had the thrash; 
 
 Just everything like children get, 
 
 And I bless my Ma that I'm living yet. 
 
 If you just knowed what she's went through, 
 
 And knowed my Ma, you'd bless her too. 
 
 For my Ma knows she's always fetched 
 Me heretofore through all I've ketched. 
 And I've had them all except the mumps. 
 And I guess they're here in these big lumps, 
 At least my Aunty told me so; 
 When I get home, my Ma she'll know. 
 
 I'm good to catch, it's about my forte, 
 I guess some day I'll be a sport. 
 And play base ball and such as that; 
 I'd like to catch behind the bat. 
 But I must go and see my Ma 
 And have her doctor on my jaw. 
 
 FEELING RIGHT 
 
 I don't care how I'm looking. 
 
 So I'm feeling at my best. 
 If my liver's good and active 
 
 And my food will just digest; 
 When my lungs are working fine. 
 
 And my heart is beating light, 
 No matter how I'm looking. 
 
 It is then I'm feeling right. 
 
 You may talk about your riches, 
 
 With your stomach full of bile; 
 Of your mansions and your acres. 
 
 And keep squirming all the while 
 With your aches, pains and catches, 
 
 'Till I'm sickened at the sight. 
 For I know you can't be happy. 
 
 Unless your liver's working right. 
 
 I don't care how I'm looking, 
 
 If I've only got my health. 
 Some common clothes and eating. 
 
 You are welcome to your wealth; 
 Just enough to last me. 
 
 Through the day until the night, 
 I can earn some more tomorrow. 
 
 If I'm only feeling right. 
 
 13 
 
SHIFT OF THE BLAME. 
 
 It's the boon of the world, 
 
 Man, woman and child, 
 From Adam on down 
 
 With no change in the style; 
 It's an unaltered rule, 
 
 Aged and famed. 
 That no one's been found, 
 
 Who'd shoulder the blame. 
 
 It's the dodge of the failer, 
 
 And financial wreck 
 In the course of his reasoning, 
 
 From cause to effect; 
 He admits of no instance 
 
 Where his methods were lame, 
 But favors bad luck 
 
 In the shift of the blame. 
 
 It's the comfort of the toper 
 
 In his greed for the bowl. 
 He'll slander his ancestry, 
 
 Both respected and old; 
 And claim he has inherited 
 
 His debauchery and shame, 
 And burden transmission 
 
 In the shift of the blame. 
 
 It's the bridge of the sinner 
 
 At the River of Death; 
 In the face of his fate 
 
 He is wasting his breath, 
 On the faults of the church; 
 
 Its members he'll claim. 
 Are no better than he. 
 
 Thus he shifted the blame. 
 
 It's the fort of the parent. 
 
 In the plea for their child 
 As they waywardly wander 
 
 To the bad and the wild; 
 He's been led, they will say, 
 
 And give you the name 
 Of the one they suspect. 
 
 Thus shifting the blame. 
 
 It's the trick of the world. 
 
 Every woman and man, 
 From Adam on down. 
 
 Yes all take a hand. 
 And play with, and will 
 
 At this all-around game. 
 Call it cheat if you can, 
 
 By the shift of the blame. 
 
 14 
 
QUITE A DIFFERENT THING 
 
 Once I went to meeting 
 
 To hear the word expounded, 
 And was pleased to see the greeting 
 
 Of the preacher, when surrounded 
 By his flock, before the preaching, 
 
 In the altar near the stand 
 And see them all a reaching 
 
 To shake his friendly hand. 
 
 They seemed so open hearted, 
 
 In their taking of a hand 
 Before the meeting started, 
 
 A how'ding of the man. 
 That I myself bethought me, 
 
 They're wonderous kind and clever, 
 And their spirit rather caught me 
 
 Just like it will a fellow. 
 
 But when they started singing, 
 
 While the preacher took the stand. 
 And the deacons went to bringing 
 
 In the money for the man, 
 I noted quite a contrast 
 
 And it rather seemed to me. 
 While the hat was being passed, 
 
 They were hardly quite so free. 
 
 Then I again bethought me: 
 
 How cheap are all pretenses; 
 And the idea rather sought me. 
 
 If not coupled with expenses. 
 We are free and quite unheedful 
 
 And all have much to bring 
 Except, when reaching for the needful, 
 
 And that is quite a diflferent thing. 
 
 15 
 
HELL AND NOT SHEOL 
 
 They're getting mighty smart; 
 
 It seems so dreadful strange 
 To think some fool upstart 
 
 Would have the gall to change 
 A name that's been in use. 
 
 From Adam's early fall; 
 And now to think the goose 
 
 Would change it to sheol. 
 
 And just to think they'd take 
 
 The sulphur clear all out, 
 And calm the raging lake 
 
 And change it all about. 
 'Twould suit them well no doubt 
 
 To modify that clime; 
 They'd kick the fire all out 
 
 And have a sheol time. 
 
 It sounds so harsh and rough 
 
 To minds that're so profound! 
 Perhaps it's well enough 
 
 To sort 'o tone it down; 
 But then just bear in mind 
 
 When Gabriel pipes his call, 
 These toney ones will find 
 
 It's a dreadful warm sheol. 
 
 I remember it so well — 
 
 It's just a little while — 
 They used to call it hell, 
 
 As hot as it could bile. 
 'Twould just git up and git 
 
 And singe and fry and scald 
 And sizz and hiss and spit, 
 
 'Twas hell — and not sheol. 
 
 16 
 
A LITTLE PETTY OFFICE. 
 
 You have likely seen the man, 
 
 A justice of the peace, 
 Perhaps a school trustee 
 
 Or a town police; 
 Just any little office, 
 
 With a title that will ring, 
 Will make him feel as great 
 
 And honored as a king. 
 
 Of course you have seen that man, 
 
 He is seen in every town. 
 He forms acquaintance quick. 
 
 He is always nosing 'round. 
 Perhaps he is city clerk; 
 
 He has an office all the same, 
 A little petty office. 
 
 And is a man of fame. 
 
 I mean that honored man 
 
 That's bloated up so large; 
 Who feels so mighty grand 
 
 Beneath his weighty charge. 
 He has a petty office. 
 
 Perhaps he is a city dad, 
 At least he has an office 
 
 And has it very bad. 
 
 I know you have seen the man. 
 
 I am sure you have heard him talk. 
 And, if you want to kill him. 
 
 Just add to his weighty stock. 
 Inflate him a little larger 
 
 By increasing his public trust 
 With another petty office, 
 
 And the fool is sure to bust. 
 
 17 
 
STICK 
 
 Would you like to make money, 
 
 Young man? I mean you; 
 If so, my dear sonny. 
 
 There's one thing that's true 
 And essential to gain. 
 
 But it's quite a hard trick 
 For an unsettled brain 
 
 To be able to stick. 
 
 Would you like to make money? 
 
 Well, likely you would, 
 And you will think it quite funny, 
 
 When I tell you you could, 
 If you'll make up your mind 
 
 To strike a square lick, 
 In some certain line, 
 
 And strike it to stick. 
 
 Yes, stick is the thought, 
 
 And success is the end, 
 It's the thing that has brought 
 
 Wealth to all men; 
 That being true to work 
 
 Or the cause they would pick, 
 While the fool and the shirk 
 
 Are unable to stick. 
 
 You say, why exact us 
 
 To stick like a leech? 
 And ask that I practice 
 
 The theory I preach; 
 But I'll make interference 
 
 And answer you quick, 
 That I speak from experience 
 
 As one that can't stick. 
 
 18 
 
TO CRITICISE 
 
 We love to criticise, 
 
 It's an easy thing to do 
 To look so mighty wise 
 
 And find a fault or two. 
 When another's job's completed, 
 
 That perhaps is very good; 
 At least we could not beat it, 
 
 Or are too lazy if we could. 
 
 We love to criticise. 
 
 It's everybody's failing. 
 At work we are very slow, 
 
 At talk we go a sailing. 
 To comment is a pleasure; 
 
 There is lots of fault to find. 
 If we haven't got the leisure 
 
 We will sacrifice the time. 
 
 We would better call a halt, 
 
 And turn ourselves about, 
 Instead of finding fault 
 
 Find a good lay out, 
 And take the thing in hand 
 
 Us critics every one, 
 And show our fellowmen 
 
 Exactly how it is done. 
 
 SWEET LITTLE CHILD 
 
 We touch tender chords of sorrow or joy. 
 When we speak of the child, that dear girl or boy, 
 With sweet dimple face all radiant with smiles. 
 For who has not loved some sweet little child. 
 
 We touch tender chords in the home that is bright. 
 With the mirth of the child in innocent delight. 
 With the voice of its glee in accents so wild; 
 All joy to the home with a sweet little child. 
 
 We touch tender chords in the home that's bereft. 
 Whose darling's asleep in the cold arms of death, 
 With its bright circle darkened by the shadow of trial, 
 And its fond hearts saddened by the loss of its child. 
 
 We touch tender chords and the tears are falling fast, 
 And their minds called away to that once happy past; 
 As in sorrow they're waiting only just for awhile, 
 And then they shall go to that sweet little child. 
 
 19 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 
 'Tis Christmas? well what of it? 
 
 Haven't we Christmas every year? 
 How comes this great ado; 
 
 Why is it we thus revere, 
 As a day of much rejoicing, 
 
 With gifts and great display, 
 Forever the annual coming, 
 
 Of our traditional Christmas day? 
 
 'Tis Christmas in the palace. 
 
 And the hovel just as well. 
 O'er city and through country. 
 
 There resounds the Christmas bell. 
 As it's pealing forth the tidings, 
 
 Its echoes far away. 
 Give notice of the dawning 
 
 Of another Christmas day. 
 
 'Tis Christmas and the foolish, 
 
 Yea, the thoughtless fool that thinks 
 That he can celebrate it 
 
 By the use of poisonous drinks 
 He is a holy desecrater, 
 
 And unworthy of a place 
 Among the grateful minded 
 
 Of his fellow race. 
 
 'Tis Christmas and the Christian 
 
 Should celebrate the birth 
 Of Him that went about. 
 
 Doing good upon the earth. 
 By following in His footsteps, 
 
 'Mid sickness and distress, 
 Giving gifts of kindness 
 
 To those that are oppressed. 
 
 'Tis Christmas and the children, 
 
 'Mid toys, with sport and play, 
 Will lend their merry voices 
 
 To celebrate the day 
 In memory of the anthems 
 
 Of the angelic band. 
 Proclaiming the birth of Christ. 
 
 On this day to fallen man. 
 
 'Tis Christmas, merry Christmas, 
 
 Wishing you many joys, 
 Hoping amid your mirth. 
 
 And above your gifts and toys. 
 You'll remember with grateful hearts, 
 
 And look with thankful eye. 
 To the giver of perfect gifts. 
 
 In the land beyond the sky. 
 
 20 
 
CHRISTMAS IN THE CABIN 
 
 When the Christmas dinner's ready, 
 
 With its turkey on the platter, 
 And I sit and sip and listen 
 
 To the hearty childish chatter 
 Of the hungry, happy children, 
 
 As they talk about their plays, 
 It sets my mind a-thinking 
 
 Of my early Christmas days; 
 
 Of those early Christmas dinners 
 
 In the very long ago, 
 In that cozy country cottage 
 
 With its rustic loft so low; 
 With the clapboards on its roof 
 
 And its squeaking puncheon floor, 
 Its majestic wooden chimney 
 
 And the latch string on its door. 
 
 Oh, that cozy country cottage! 
 
 I can see it in my mind; 
 It now is called a cabin — 
 
 '_Twas then a mansion fine. 
 With its ever happy Christmas, 
 
 I then was just as gay, 
 As the happy modern children 
 
 With their Christmas of today. 
 
 I can see that old pone-oven 
 
 Of the Christmas, long ago, 
 With the coals upon its lid 
 
 And beneath it all aglow; 
 And the hoe-cake in the skillet, 
 
 I can see them sitting there 
 On that cozy cottage hearth — 
 
 Those dainties rich and rare. 
 
 Then the candlestick and snuffers, 
 
 And the hooks up o'er the bed 
 That held the trusty rifle, 
 
 And the scuttle over head. 
 The fire-dogs in the chimney 
 
 And the back-log o'er behind, 
 I can see them just as plainly 
 
 In that cabin home of mine. 
 
 I can see the spinnin' wheel 
 
 And my mother at her spinnin'; 
 I can hear the hum and buzzin' 
 
 Of the spindle when beginnin'; 
 I can see her as she's passin' 
 
 Up and down the puncheon floor; 
 I can see her every movement 
 
 As she sends it wabblin' o'er. 
 
 21 
 
The loom back in the corner, 
 
 Where I handed in the threads; 
 Those old-fashioned ruffled curtains 
 
 As they hung beneath the beds; 
 And the striped linsey dresses 
 
 On the pins around the cabin; 
 And the hole back in the corner 
 
 Where the chink had lost its dabbin' 
 
 It makes me just as happy — 
 
 The memory of the joy, 
 Of my early country Christmas 
 
 When I then was just a boy. 
 Oh. that cabin and its memory! 
 
 They are ever dear to me; 
 I was then and there as happy 
 
 As a boy can ever be. 
 
 When I see the children nlayin' 
 
 With their toys about the floor. 
 With their little eyes a shinin' 
 
 As they turn them o'er and o'er; 
 When I hear their childish laughter 
 
 Mingled with their gabbin'. 
 It sets my mind a thinkin' 
 
 Of my Christmas in the cabin. 
 
 EVOLUTION 
 
 Evolution is a theory that is hard to comprehend, 
 Yet when we closely study a certain class of men 
 We see the old baboon creeping out so plain, 
 That we begin to fear they are drifting back again. 
 
 Evolution is a theory that is hard to understand, 
 Yet when we try to separate the animal from the man. 
 We are tempted to make a rush upon a certain class, 
 Put them on all fours and turn them out to grass. 
 
 Evolution is a theory that saps the gentry's pride 
 
 And makes the gluttonous lord a common beastly snide. 
 
 It traces the prided ancestor of the duke that thinks he's 
 
 some, 
 Back to the ancient days of evolution monkeydom. 
 
 Evolution is a theory, disbelieve it if you can; 
 
 But I will find a dozen beasts while you will find a man. 
 
 Whose greed and self don't predominate and leave the 
 
 man so frail. 
 That the evolution of his race has scarcely clipped his 
 
 tail. 
 
 22 
 
SPOONING SEASON 
 
 When the springtime comes a laughing 
 
 And the frost is smiled away; 
 While the summer winds are wafting 
 
 Back those birds that ought to stay 
 Among us through the season 
 
 With their songs and pretty lays. 
 And those melodies so pleasing 
 
 In those balmy springtime days; 
 
 When sir robin with his red breast 
 
 And his mate have now returned, 
 Both are busy with their nest, 
 
 And all nature seems concerned 
 In the planting and the sowing. 
 
 For the seed time is at hand, 
 And the sap is upward flowing; 
 
 It is nature in command. 
 
 The geese have all been mated. 
 
 And the strutting turkey cock 
 Spreads his tail and seems elated 
 
 With the beauties of his flock, 
 While the doleful turtle dove 
 
 In a sprightlier, gayer vein. 
 Cooes a tale of happy love 
 
 To his mate in sweet refrain. 
 
 And the polen lies in waiting 
 
 For the opening of the flowers 
 While the sun's invigorating 
 
 All those active, potent powers 
 With liberties presuming 
 
 There is relenting of restrain, 
 And a magic superhuman 
 
 Floats in every throbbing vein. 
 
 The spring is spooning season; 
 
 There's a tendency to mate. 
 All nature's bright and pleasing 
 
 And attracts in spite of fate. 
 And if your feelings are still morbid 
 
 And unsociably inclined. 
 Then your liver must be torpid, 
 
 For it is spring and spooning time. 
 
 23 
 
LET HER GRIND 
 
 This world's a great wheel 
 
 Revolving each day 
 In its summer set speal 
 
 Turning flips as they say. 
 Don't fear any crash 
 
 Keep cool, never mind. 
 Hold tight to the grass 
 
 And just let her grind. 
 
 If your mind is impressed 
 
 With a poem yet unsaid 
 You will never get rest 
 
 Till the fool thing is made. 
 You need not refuse 
 
 If there's one on your mind, 
 Only call up the muse 
 
 And just let her grind. 
 
 If you're the butt of some scandal 
 
 That's going the round 
 Let it stay in the channel 
 
 Where such things are found; 
 'Twill only get louder 
 
 If disputed, you'll find 
 But will soon go to powder 
 
 If you'll just let her grind. 
 
 If its ever your lot 
 
 To get badly mixed 
 In the boil of that pot 
 
 They call politics, 
 Though by chance unforseen 
 
 You are caught by combine 
 If you can't stop that machine 
 
 You had best let her grind. 
 
 Tho' this world may not please you 
 
 For its folks won't do right 
 They fret and they tease you 
 
 And you groan at their plight; 
 You can't fix it or run it 
 
 Take a load from your mind 
 Trust the one that began it 
 
 And just let her grind. 
 
 When your final days come; 
 
 And the mills of the gods 
 Would turn you out from 
 
 The mash of the cogs 
 Its fixed, understand, 
 
 You've no choice in this line. 
 Meet your fate like a man 
 
 And just let her grind. 
 
 24 
 
LAY OF THE HEN 
 
 The beautiful lay 
 
 Of the birds in the spring, 
 As their gay cheerful songs 
 
 Through the woodlands do ring, 
 In those bright days so lovely, 
 
 In their fullness is heard, 
 With endless variety. 
 
 The lay of the bird. 
 
 The lay of the lark 
 
 In his sweet twitting song, 
 Is a musical lay 
 
 As he's flitting along. 
 O'er meadows so green, 
 
 From morning till dark. 
 We hail with delight. 
 
 The lay of the lark. 
 
 But the lay of the hen. 
 
 Will down all the lays. 
 All the fine birds 
 
 In creation can raise, 
 Just try a cool dozen. 
 
 For all grocery men. 
 Keep goods on exchange 
 
 For the lay of the hen. 
 
 OPINION 
 
 Our opinion or belief is a thing we highly prize. 
 Whether based on education, experience or otherwise. 
 We are ever very sanguine and press our fellow man 
 With the weight of our opinion on the issue just at hand. 
 
 An opinion's just a notion, and there is where we lack 
 In the power to make discernment between a notion and 
 
 a fact. 
 A fact is as shining gold, while opinion will often go. 
 But it's fraud to pass opinion on a man for what we know. 
 
 In opinion there is clashing, while a fact stands boldly out, 
 A towering up above a cavil or a doubt. 
 It needs no recommends, but looks honest on its face. 
 And ten thousand wise opinions could never take its place. 
 
 An opinion is a notion, or an idea we have gained 
 
 By the action of surroundings on the judgment through 
 
 the brain. 
 It's a circumstantial creature, hence, it's often very wrong, 
 So we should never press our opinion over-strong. 
 
 25 
 
ADVICE 
 
 It's cheap, so very cheap 
 
 It isn't hard to find 
 Men that ever keep 
 
 A large assorted line 
 Of the very latest style, 
 
 Free, and without price: 
 And they're seeking all the while 
 
 Those that need advice. 
 
 The rich, successful man, 
 
 With money that he's made. 
 Always keeps on hand 
 
 A stock, and's in the trade. 
 He thinks there's but one need, 
 
 And all would go so nice, 
 If every one would heed 
 
 The weight of his advice. 
 
 The unsuccessful man 
 
 Can tell you just exact, 
 The most successful plan. 
 
 And precisely how 'twill act. 
 He can answer any question. . 
 
 It's wonderous what he knows, 
 And yet, his whole possession, 
 
 Consists of what he owes. 
 
 In advice we have producers, 
 
 And consumers just as well. 
 Those with constant uses. 
 
 For things you do not sell. 
 They get advice of you, 
 
 Which seemingly just agrees, 
 And then they go and do 
 
 Exactly as they please. 
 
 Should it be that you 
 
 Need advice of any kind. 
 The proper thing to do. 
 
 Is draw upon your mind. 
 Try it once or twice, 
 
 Play your hand alone. 
 And take a fool's advice. 
 
 Not mine, but take your own. 
 
 26 
 
PRETTY AND SWEET 
 
 To be pretty and sweet is a woman's desire, 
 In feature and manner and personal attire; 
 But many a woman in her eagerness, makes 
 Unfortunate blunders, and awful mistakes. 
 
 Their ideas of beauty and sweetness are queer; 
 They unheed advice from friends that are dear; 
 They disregard nature and tramp her laws low, 
 And their only reason is "Fashion says so." 
 
 It surely is nice to look pretty and sweet. 
 Providing you do so without any cheat; 
 But remember my girl that nature best knows. 
 So you'd better be natural in manners and clothes. 
 
 I believe that woman was created with man 
 To help carry out the Maker's wise plan; 
 That he well understood the creatures He made. 
 And had wisely considered the part to be played. 
 
 Your form is as perfect as perfect can be, 
 If only left natural, untrammeled and free. 
 Uncumbered by fashion and left to itself. 
 It will develop a womanhood perfect in health. 
 
 Good health is a thing which beauty requires. 
 And the moment it's gone your beauty expires. 
 Health is the sunshine that lights up the features. 
 And gives spirit and life to the dearest of creatures. 
 
 Some ladies use cotton, while others use paints; 
 Some wear stolen curls, yet look harmless as saints; 
 They practice deception in various ways, 
 That tend to degrade them and shorten their days. 
 
 It's a very nice thing to look pretty and sweet, 
 But give me the woman that is clear of deceit; 
 Whose bloom is not measured by the brush as she dips 
 The rose to her cheek and the tint to her lips. 
 
 27 
 
"GET THERE." 
 
 I've been trying all the means 
 
 Near on to twenty years; 
 I've been through revival scenes 
 
 That awakened many fears; 
 I've sought and sought in vain 
 
 In a manner fair and square; 
 I've tried and tried again, 
 
 But never quite got there. 
 
 I've seen heaps of people blest 
 
 Through their asking for the good; 
 I've tried and tried my best 
 
 As any honest fellow would. 
 In a mind of desperate frame 
 
 On the verge of dark despair; 
 But I found out just the same 
 
 I could never quite get there. 
 
 I've heard so many s^. 
 
 And they seemed to believe it too, 
 That there's only just one way 
 
 For a fellow to get through. 
 They talked as if they knowed 
 
 And they'd earnestly declare, 
 If I did not take their road, 
 
 I never would get there. 
 
 I sometimes think perhaps 
 
 Just like as anyway. 
 When all the different chaps 
 
 In the final wind up day 
 Are placed along with me 
 
 On the road that's pretty fair, 
 They'll be surprised to see 
 
 That I've managed to get there. 
 
 28 
 
COASTING 
 
 When the winter comes a howling 
 
 With its fierce and bracing blast 
 And the sultry, dusty days 
 
 Of the summertime is past; 
 The corn has all been gathered 
 
 And the winter's wood is got 
 With the stock beneath the shelter 
 
 In the barnyard's handy lot; 
 And the business of the farm 
 
 Is suspended until the spring 
 Except the little choring, 
 
 Which is quite a trifling thing; 
 The country boy is at leisure 
 
 And he wanders free at will 
 But his grandest joy is coasting 
 
 Up and down some frosty hill. 
 
 When the winter comes a romping 
 
 And a blustering o'er the field 
 And you see the boy a scampering 
 
 Just as tight as he can heel 
 With his sled and dog following 
 
 As he is making for the hill 
 Where the fun is just a flying 
 
 And where he can get his fill; 
 As he is sliding down it 
 
 Just as fast as he can go 
 With his frosty sled a squeaking 
 
 As it's gliding o'er the snow 
 O! he's happy, yes, he's happy 
 
 For there's nothing half so gay 
 As coasting o'er some hill side 
 
 On a frosty winter's day. 
 
 Oh. I love the thoughts of coasting 
 
 For I used to be a boy, 
 And my heart is stirred within me 
 
 By the memory of the joy 
 Of the many happy hours 
 
 That we spent upon the hill 
 Just as our boys are doing 
 
 And I love to watch them still; 
 For it's fun — well I should say so — 
 
 Of the fierce and daring kind, 
 And I'll tell you what's the matter 
 
 I'd just whale a boy of mine. 
 If he did not have the grit 
 
 To slip his sled and steal away 
 For an evening's sport a coasting 
 
 On a frosty winter's day. 
 
 29 
 
A FAR AWAY NOTION 
 
 There's a far away notion 
 
 In the brain of mankind, 
 All out of proportion. 
 
 For there ain't no denying. 
 That the idea of importation. 
 
 Inflates every mind 
 In its foreign relation, 
 
 As exquisitely fine. 
 
 There's a far away notion. 
 
 Respecting all worth. 
 A peculiar devotion. 
 
 For the blood and the birth, 
 Of some far away land. 
 
 Where we fancy by luck, 
 The great and the grand 
 
 Are a natural product. 
 
 This far away notion 
 
 Makes home things so tame, 
 Putting people in motion 
 
 In hope of the gain, 
 Of some far distant clime. 
 
 Where all is serene. 
 But in searching they find 
 
 Its a fancified dream. 
 
 This far away notion 
 
 Reaches down the dark ages. 
 With superstitious devotion. 
 
 For those barbarian sages. 
 It hints Inspiration, 
 
 And asks that we pay 
 Homage as an enlightened nation 
 
 To that dark far away. 
 
 This far away hobby 
 
 Is much a petted thief, 
 That continues to rob you. 
 
 Through the silly belief 
 That the present is lacking 
 
 And your surroundings inferior 
 While the foreign is striking 
 
 And the old is superior. 
 
 30 
 
BETHANY 
 
 You may talk about your cities, 
 
 In our grand old Illinois. 
 Of their gay and charming lassies, 
 
 And their hustling, rustling boys. 
 But our girls are a good deal sweeter, 
 
 And our boys are far ahead. 
 Of those dudes and butterflies, 
 
 In your grand old city bred. 
 
 You may talk about your cities. 
 
 And the bustle of its people, 
 Of its stately, handsome houses, 
 
 And the towering of its steeples. 
 Its nice and haughty, but its selfish. 
 
 There's no friendship to be found. 
 So you're welcome to your city 
 
 But I'll stick to my old town. 
 
 You may talk about your ladies. 
 
 Yes your stylish city women, 
 About the draperies of their dresses. 
 
 With their bonnets and their trimmin', 
 But our ladies though a trifle plain. 
 
 Are the best I've ever found. 
 And we're noted for the female beauties 
 
 Of our good, old-fashioned town. 
 
 You may talk about your children, 
 
 O, those cute and cunning cases. 
 And smooth down their golden hair 
 
 And kiss their sweet and dimpled faces, 
 But our town is all a swarming. 
 
 And its streets are just teeming, 
 With the finest, loveliest children. 
 
 And our future's, fairly gleaming. 
 
 You may talk about your cities 
 
 With their rush and daily storm. 
 It's push and greed for business, 
 
 And its systematic form. 
 But I'm kind o' on the quiet, 
 
 And I'd rather muse around 
 Among the quaint and happy people 
 
 Of my own old-fashioned town. 
 
 You may talk about the amusement 
 
 Sights, parks, and grand to-doos. 
 Until you give a village codger 
 
 The old-fashioned country blues, 
 But I'll tell you they cost money, 
 
 And us poor would run aground, 
 So just take your sight cities, 
 
 But I'll stick to my old town. 
 
 31 
 
You may talk about your cities 
 
 But I'll own that I am free 
 To admit, I'd rather live. 
 
 In the good old town of Bethany, 
 For somehow, I love its people, 
 
 And I've sort o' settled down 
 To live and die here with them. 
 
 For I am stuck on this old town. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE PEDDLER 
 
 The music of the peddler 
 
 Is dreadful dear to learn, 
 Just as you think you have it 
 
 'Twill take a graceful turn, 
 On a new and different key, 
 
 In a soft melodious strain, 
 But the outcome is sure to be 
 
 The same old thing again. 
 
 The music of the peddler. 
 
 As he sweetly sings his piece 
 In the hearing of the farmer, 
 
 Whom he dearly hopes to fleece, 
 Is a dandy little sonnet 
 
 Of the most expensive kind; 
 Yes, you can bank upon it, 
 
 It's a luxury in its line. 
 
 The music of the peddler 
 
 As it wafts upon the air. 
 In grand descriptive praises 
 
 Of the merits of his ware. 
 May have a note within it 
 
 That's high, yet can be raised, 
 And should you try to chin it. 
 
 You'll get wonderfully amazed. 
 
 It's the music of the peddler. 
 That's exactly what you buy; 
 
 He may throw you in a chromo 
 As the music may look high. 
 
 No difference what he's told you, 
 Or what impressions he has wrought, 
 Two-thirds of all he's sold you 
 Is the music you have bought. 
 
 32 
 
SINGING IN THE CHOIR 
 
 It's kind o' ostentatious; 
 
 It's an elevated place. 
 To sit behind the Preacher 
 
 Before the congregation's face, 
 For there isn't any honor, 
 
 Any greater, grander, higher, 
 Than the honor thus accruing, 
 
 From belonging to a choir. 
 
 It's a graceful combination. 
 
 And it fills a useful sphere; 
 AflFording beauties for the lookers 
 
 While it soothes the listening ear. 
 And those ribbons, silks, and draperies, 
 
 Have a motion all admire, 
 As they rustle, flit, and mingle. 
 
 With the music of the choir. 
 
 It's doubtful if the listeners 
 
 In the common pews below. 
 Have a proper appreciation 
 
 Of the music, but you know, 
 There are other compensations 
 
 As no selfish vain desire 
 Could actuate a person 
 
 Who'd be singing in a choir. 
 
 Sometimes we think they're jealous. 
 
 Of this gay and favored few. 
 Because they render music 
 
 So difficult and new. 
 And the uncultivated ear. 
 
 Gets many an unpleasant jar 
 Before it becomes accustomed 
 
 To the music of the choir. 
 
 When you speak to me of honors 
 
 Yes the grandest honors known. 
 In the sphere of human greatness 
 
 Where they make the gayest showing. 
 When asked the greatest height 
 
 To which earthly hopes aspire, 
 I would answer with all candor; 
 
 It is singing in a choir. 
 
 33 
 
A NUT TO CRACK 
 
 Don't you ever once think 
 
 You're ahead of your wife, 
 She's sure to get even 
 
 Some time during life. 
 It has fully been proved 
 
 As a sure, certain fact, 
 By the late Mrs. Goudy 
 
 In her last dying act. 
 
 Her husband was bossy 
 
 And stubborn in mind; 
 Evasive in his answers 
 
 Of the brow-beating kind. 
 When she asked him a question 
 
 On some matter of fact, 
 He would always just answer, 
 
 "That's a nut you can crack." 
 
 The good lady seemed passive, 
 
 And took it all kind; 
 Yet feeling she was wronged. 
 
 Deep down in her mind 
 She was saying "It's borrowed, 
 
 I'll pay it all back; 
 There'll sure be a time 
 
 When a nut he can crack." 
 
 The years sped along 
 
 And the family it grew 
 Till they doubled their number, 
 
 As most families do. 
 They were blessed with two daughters. 
 
 Bright, pretty and smart, 
 That held equal share 
 
 In their fond father's heart. 
 
 And a day finally came 
 
 When the good mother fell 
 A victim of sickness. 
 
 A dire, fatal spell. 
 As she saw her end nearing 
 
 She remembered her vow 
 And said it was time 
 
 To get even now. 
 
 She called her dear husband 
 
 To the side of her bed, 
 And, taking his hand, 
 
 In her weakness she said, 
 "It's my dying request. 
 
 Without reference to claim. 
 That you treat both my daughters 
 
 Exactly the same." 
 
 34 
 
"Of course." he replied, 
 
 "That's long been my plan; 
 But you'll please to explain, 
 
 As I can't understand 
 Why you make such request; 
 
 What thing have I done 
 To make you suspicion 
 
 I would slight either one?" 
 
 Then she said. "Dear husband. 
 
 To make matters more clear, 
 There's one that aint your's, 
 
 I'm sorry, my dear." 
 "What! What!" he repeated. 
 
 "Which! Which! tell me which!" 
 Then she smiled, faintly smiled, 
 
 And her mouth slightly twitched. 
 
 Her breath it grew shorter, 
 
 And, gasping, she said, 
 "I am dying, dear husband, 
 
 Will you please raise my head?" 
 And, with a great effort. 
 
 'Twas her last dying act. 
 She answered him kindly. 
 
 "That's a nut you can crack." 
 
 CHEWING GUM 
 
 The miserable practice is common, indeed. 
 Among all the vices it's far in the lead; 
 For the dainty and pretty and the girl with the bangs 
 All crush the quid with their glowing white fangs. 
 
 It's amusing to sit. and look down the rows 
 Of lassies a chewing and eyeing their beaux. 
 And see their chins timing the tune of the choir 
 As they sit up in church chewing quids they admire. 
 
 This jaw-aching gum is a curse and a blight. 
 Its sweet little victims crush, crush with delight 
 The sweet-scented gum distilled from old grease, 
 And the mania for the stuff is on the increase. 
 
 It's strange, very strange, and we can't understand, 
 But nature is cute in her probable plan. 
 To set the girl chewing and so strengthen her jaw. 
 That when she gets big, she may out-gossip her ma. 
 
 35 
 
ITCH AND LICE 
 
 There's an old and shaky ladder 
 
 That I sometimes like to climb, 
 Leading way up to a garret 
 
 In the store house of my mind, 
 Where I've stored some rusty relics, 
 
 All so carefully hid away 
 'Neath the webs and dusts of years; 
 
 And I've climbed up there today. 
 
 As I ramsacked through the garret, 
 
 And was dusting off some pieces 
 That I found way up there, stickin'. 
 
 In the set-offs and the creeses, 
 There were some that set me smilin' 
 
 In an old-time happy vain. 
 And a feeling all so childish 
 
 Kindly swept me back again. 
 
 Well, my flesh it sorty tingled, 
 
 And I kindy moved about 
 When I happened onto a saucer 
 
 With its edge just stickin' out, 
 Mussed up with old stick sulphur, 
 
 Way up almost out of reach, 
 That mother used when we were children, 
 
 When she'd grease us for the itch. 
 
 It set my fingers sorty curvin', 
 
 With their nails bowed up to scratch; 
 And I look between my fingers 
 
 For that angry old red patch. 
 While I took that stick of sulphur 
 
 I could hear the cut and screech 
 Of the knife, as mother mixed it. 
 
 When us children had the itch. 
 
 I can see us children gathered 
 
 Just before we'd go to bed. 
 And by turn our mother lookin' 
 
 Fumblin' nimbly through our head; 
 I can hear them nits a crackin' 
 
 When her nails closed like a vice; 
 There was death and dire destruction 
 
 To them nits and fat old lice. 
 
 When the crackin' act was over, 
 
 And our "lay-me-downs" were said. 
 After she had took an' stripped us; 
 
 But before we'd go to bed, 
 If she's sittin' by the mantel. 
 
 She would take her arm and reach 
 And get the saucer and the sulphur, 
 
 Then she'd grease us for the itch. 
 
 36 
 
Well its sorty set me squirmin' 
 
 Its those old memories, I suppose; 
 And there's little itchy quivers 
 
 Chasin' 'round beneath my clothes. 
 It has sorty raised my dander, 
 
 And I've fancied once or twice 
 That I again was fighting 
 
 With our old time itch and lice. 
 
 Are you fifty? Even forty? 
 
 If you are I'm pretty sure 
 That you will understand it, 
 
 As you've seen it all before. 
 It's just children that aint seen it. 
 
 It's only them I hope to teach; 
 For I know that you old people 
 
 Have had lots of lice and itch. 
 
 I am sorry for these children; 
 
 O, poor things, they'll never know 
 What great things we used to have, 
 
 In the good old long ago. 
 They, of course, have many blessings 
 
 That are changeable and nice, 
 But they've nothing that stays with them 
 
 Equal to our itch and lice. 
 
 WHERE IS MY BOY 
 
 "Oh, where is my boy tonight?" 
 Has been sung all over the land. 
 
 And no one has thrown any light. 
 On the question as I understand. 
 
 "Oh, where is my boy tonight?" 
 
 The song makes the fond mother ask. 
 
 To answer this question aright 
 Has been a long dreaded task. 
 
 "Oh, where is my boy tonight?" 
 Poor mother he is badly astray. 
 
 I'll tell you. although I dislike 
 To give the young hopeful' away. 
 
 No one knows where your boy is tonight, 
 As the grand jury has him at bay. 
 
 Fond mother, your darling's been tight, 
 And the druggists have sent him away. 
 
 Z7 
 
MAN IS A MITE 
 
 Man is a mite. 
 
 A mere little speck, 
 So trivial and slight 
 
 You can hardly detect 
 That he's ever lived here; 
 
 Few that will know — 
 When he's dead for a year 
 
 There'll be little to show 
 That he ever had birth. 
 
 That he lived and he died 
 On the face of this earth; 
 
 Swallowed up by the tide 
 Of the great human throng, 
 
 In the surge and the strife, 
 As it goes moving on 
 
 In its struggle for life. 
 
 In the fullness of years. 
 
 His three score and ten, 
 He just disappears 
 
 And's unthought of again 
 His place will be filled 
 
 By a more recent man 
 With far greater skill — 
 
 An up-to-date hand. 
 And he in his course 
 
 Will meet the same fate, 
 When he's spent all his force, 
 
 And slackened his gait 
 He'll find he's been passed 
 
 By the man of the age; 
 The world has got fast, 
 
 And the New is the rage. 
 
 It's so with them all — 
 
 They come and they go. 
 They rise and they fall — 
 
 It has ever been so. 
 If a man will reflect 
 
 On the worth of his life, 
 He'll find he's a speck, 
 
 Just a mote in the strife. 
 He may live or may die, 
 
 It will make little odds; 
 Only those that are nigh 
 
 To the path that he trods 
 Will know when he goes. 
 
 Or remember him long; 
 His rank will be closed 
 
 By the surge of the throng. 
 
 38 
 
He'll pass out of thought, 
 
 Be he humble or great, 
 It's the one common lot 
 
 Of mankind with his fate. 
 
 There's exceptions, of course, 
 
 Some live that are dead, 
 Whose lives are in force. 
 
 They have lived far ahead 
 Of their day and their age. 
 
 Been born out of time. 
 Are still on the stage. 
 
 And now in their prime. 
 They hand something down 
 
 Proving novel and new. 
 That the people have found 
 
 To be useful and true — 
 By the more recent light, 
 
 As the age has progressed. 
 Has sprung into sight 
 
 And the world has been blessed 
 By the train of their thought, 
 
 Or discoveries they've made — 
 Things that they've wrought 
 
 That their age was afraid 
 To accept there and then. 
 
 But their thoughts were refused. 
 And the far-seeing men 
 
 Were likely abused 
 In the narrow confines 
 
 Of the thought of suppress 
 By the men and the minds 
 
 Their aim was to bless. 
 
 But the man that's in tune 
 
 With his age and its men. 
 Live he long, die he soon. 
 
 Then his life it shall end 
 If he fails to observe. 
 
 Or forecast what's to come, 
 With the age he has served, 
 
 When its past he is done. 
 
 The fate of this earth 
 
 With mankind, it implies, 
 First, he has birth. 
 
 Then he lives and he dies. 
 Though his learning be great, 
 
 Havmg honor and fame. 
 Is rich in estate. 
 
 His fate is the same. 
 
 39 
 
In the prime of this man 
 
 He's a speck, nothing more, 
 Like a grain of the sand 
 
 Heaved up on the shore, 
 Swept back by the tide 
 
 As receding again — 
 In his pomp and his pride 
 
 He is simply a man, 
 With the history that's covered 
 
 At its end by the gloom 
 That forever has hovered 
 
 O'er the one common tomb. 
 His funeral is preached 
 
 When his death has occurred. 
 And the conclusion's been reached 
 
 That a speck has been blurred. 
 
 "HEN-PECKED." 
 
 You may talk of your heroes 
 
 That're valiant in strife; 
 Of the pains they endured 
 
 In their struggle for life. 
 When their battles were o'er 
 
 They had peace and respect. 
 But there's no honor nor rest 
 
 For the man that's hen-pecked. 
 
 You may sing of your martyrs, 
 
 Once burned at the stake, 
 And talk of the horrors 
 
 That followed their wake; 
 Their suffering was dreadful, 
 
 But then recollect, 
 There are martyrs that're daily 
 
 And hourly hen-pecked. 
 
 He is a martyr indeed, 
 
 Poor pitiful soul, 
 A picture of suffering 
 
 That's sad to behold. 
 By the look of his countenance 
 
 You can easily detect 
 The unceasing anguish 
 
 Of the man that's hen-pecked. 
 
 40 
 
WHEN THE SUGAR'S ON THE PUNKIN 
 
 (A Parody.) 
 
 Wlien the sugar's on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 beef, 
 And the corn is in the pork, and the winter brings relief 
 From the cacklin of the ginney and the cluckin' of the hen; 
 And the rooster's halylooyer has grown a little thin; 
 For the weather's stopped their racket and housed them 
 
 up for rest; 
 Oh. then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best. 
 Of course we can't say sartin about the Hoosier boys, 
 But that's the way we like it over here in Illinois. 
 
 Before the frost has struck the punkin we have it in the 
 
 pot, 
 And when it's stewed enough we put sugar on the lot, 
 And the punkin butter's done, its then we roast or bake 
 Or fry or broil the beef the fodder helped to make. 
 And when it's on the table and you see it settin' there 
 It's a better appetizer than any autumn air. 
 And if you're fond of eatin'. 'tis then you'd just as lief. 
 When the sugar's on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 beef. 
 
 You may talk of Injeanny with its many hills and rocks. 
 Its puny, frost bit punkins and its fodder in the shocks, 
 Its struttin' turkey gobblers and its halylooyer cocks. 
 Till you set your heart a clickin' like the tickin' of the 
 
 clocks. 
 And work yourself all up in one of your Hoosier pets, 
 And imagine you're as happy as a creature ever gets; 
 But our joy is less spasmodic — a little gentler, not so 
 
 brief — 
 When the sugar's on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 beef. 
 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock. 
 It's then the cheeky Hoosier would make a holy mock, 
 And invite the holy angels to help him loaf awhile. 
 With his fodder takin' water and his punkins 'bout to 
 
 spile. 
 Did you ever! ever! ever! see such a stock of gall? 
 A right industrious angel isn't very apt to call. 
 Oh. that's a Sucker's notion, and we're firm in our belief. 
 When the sugar's on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 beef. 
 
 41 
 
The silly bareheaded Hoosier may monkey with his stock; 
 And let his punkins spile, with his fodder in the shock. 
 It's a picture of neglect that no inky pen can paint. 
 With which the thrifty Sucker is wholly unacquaint. 
 There is no such procedure on his pretty prairie farm; 
 He puts them under cover, safe from frost and storm. 
 .And the Sucker as a farmer is the king, the boss, the chief, 
 When the sugar's on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 beef. 
 
 ILLINOIS IS THE CHEESE 
 
 She's a state of wellbeing, 
 She's the center of earth. 
 For a year in attraction. 
 Forever in worth. 
 
 Don't you make 
 A mistake. 
 And go moving around 
 In search of a better. 
 It cannot be found, 
 
 For Old Illinois, 
 I will tell you my boys, 
 Is the boss of the lot. 
 Now remember that's what. 
 
 She's a state of advancement. 
 
 And moves with great stride. 
 She's a marvel in resource, 
 A great nation's pride. 
 
 But don't you get gay 
 Only mind what I say. 
 And come to our show. 
 
 Where you'll find every word 
 I have told you is so, 
 
 For there you'll behold 
 That the half was not told. 
 
 She's a state, with a city 
 That is called Chicago, 
 Whose fame for her greatness. 
 Caught the world with her show, 
 And I'll bet 
 If you get 
 To visit her sights. 
 
 In their fullness of splendor. 
 When her show's at its heights; 
 'Mid amazement and wonder; 
 I know you will say, 
 Illinois is the cheese 
 While the world is the whey. 
 
 42 
 
THE TRAMP 
 
 The tramp is a nuisance 
 To be pitied, poor thing; 
 Has his bread for its asking — 
 
 In fact he's a king 
 That levies a tribute 
 
 On the subjects he meets. 
 Wherever he's hungry 
 
 There he stops and he eats. 
 
 With an eye to his health 
 
 He requests a hand out, 
 Knowing kings that are feasted 
 
 Are subject to gout; 
 And are unable to visit 
 
 Through their kingdom, at all; 
 But confined in a mansion, 
 
 To chafe and to gall 
 
 Beneath dire affliction 
 
 That has surely been bred 
 By the cream of the land 
 
 Upon which they've been fed. 
 But the tramp is much wiser; 
 
 By experience he's found 
 That he has his health better 
 
 When he's moving around. 
 
 His kingdom is wide, 
 
 And his subjects are rich. 
 He can stop with just any. 
 
 And he doesn't care which. 
 He's in touch with his subjects 
 
 In his official acts. 
 Which mainly consist 
 
 In collecting his tax. 
 
 He asks not for silver. 
 
 And he doesn't want gold, 
 As they neither stop hunger, 
 
 Or keep out the cold. 
 But for pressing necessities 
 
 And immediate demands. 
 He requests of his subjects 
 
 From their charitable hands. 
 
 That they give him directly 
 
 Old shoes for his feet, 
 Old clothes for his body. 
 
 And cold victuals to eat. 
 As he knocks in his meekness. 
 
 You may know by the taps 
 On the back kitchen door 
 
 That His Majesty raps. 
 
 43 
 
And your heart will melt kindly 
 
 When you hear how he says, 
 With a touch of humility 
 
 In his manner and ways — 
 In a voice that is pleading, 
 
 Low, musical and sweet, 
 "Could you help a poor fellow 
 
 To a morsel to eat, 
 
 That is looking for labor, 
 
 And is honest though poor?" 
 You have heard it so often 
 
 From the tramp at your door. 
 That I'll not recite further — 
 
 Those tales of his woe. 
 But when you have fed him 
 
 And he's ready to go. 
 
 As you watch him departing. 
 
 Have you ever once thought 
 That this man has a history, 
 
 Though sad be his lot? 
 Away back at the end 
 
 Of this long, lonely road, 
 In its winding descent, 
 
 Is his childhood's abode. 
 
 Sometime and somewhere 
 
 This tramp you have fed. 
 Has been loved by a mother. 
 
 And has nestled his head 
 In a bosom that has heaved 
 
 With its love for a boy. 
 He has basked in the smiles, 
 
 And the love, and the joy 
 
 Of a home far away. 
 
 Where a mother's kind hand 
 Has supplied all the wants 
 
 Of this low, aimless man. 
 Away down in his heart 
 
 There is smouldering away 
 Fond memories in sadness 
 
 As he wanders today. 
 
 There's a spot in his heart. 
 
 And a spark, yet, that's true — 
 A cord you could touch, 
 
 If you only just knew 
 That part of his history 
 
 That's led him astray. 
 And made him the vagrant 
 
 You see him today. 
 
 44 
 
As he tramps, all alone. 
 
 Down the road to nowhere. 
 With no hope of reward, 
 
 When he's finally got there. 
 For his life has been blighted 
 
 By some act in the past — 
 He is scorned and rejected 
 
 As a worthless outcast 
 
 That is fed out of pity, 
 
 For the resemblance he bears 
 To the man that's been faithful 
 
 To this life with its cares. 
 And God, only, knows 
 
 What's behind and before 
 In the long, lonely route 
 
 Of this tramp at your door. 
 
 HAPPINESS 
 
 There is nothing satisfying 
 
 In this fleeting world of ours; 
 The joy is all in trying 
 
 The tension of our powers. 
 It's the act. the exercising. 
 
 The satisfaction of employ. 
 And not the realizing 
 
 That brings a person joy. 
 
 There's no happiness in leisure, 
 
 It's a stale unnatural state; 
 If your seeking after pleasure 
 
 Just brisken up your gate. 
 For the air, the streams, the ocean 
 
 Fan and sparkle with the thought 
 Of the wholesomeness of motion 
 
 That the slothful hasn't got. 
 
 If it's happiness you are wanting. 
 
 Then to business I would say; 
 Never ceasing, nothing daunting, 
 
 Continual every day. 
 It's effort, not the getting. 
 
 It's pursuit not to possess. 
 That's so helpful and so fitting 
 
 In the line of happiness. 
 
 45 
 
"BACK THERE." 
 
 "Back there" is quite a place — 
 
 I suppose it is at least 
 As I've heard of it so much — 
 
 It's somewhere over east: 
 And the very smartest folks, 
 
 That's found most anywhere, 
 Have lots of things to tell 
 
 About a place they call "back there." 
 
 I've tried to find it on the map 
 
 But I fear I never will. 
 Our school marm says she thinks 
 
 It's somewhere near Brazil, 
 In that noted hoop pole state 
 
 Among the clayie hills so bare. 
 Perhaps the man that makes the maps 
 
 Has never been "back there." 
 
 I'd love to see the place, 
 
 I know it must be great. 
 The way they do things up 
 
 From what I've heard them state. 
 It surely beats the world. 
 
 And I really do declare 
 That the only wonder is 
 
 They did not stay "back there." 
 
 MAN LIKE THE MOON 
 
 Oh the beautiful moon with its borrowed light! 
 The brilliant moon, the queen of the night! 
 Beaming so proudly, yet softly the ray. 
 Lent her so kindly by the great king of day. 
 
 The beautiful moon reminds us of men. 
 That are borrowing their light from one that can lend. 
 They are groping in darkness endeavoring co shine 
 By reflecting the brightness of light that's divine. 
 
 Like the moon, so the man, in splendor arrayed; 
 His light is another's, his fullness shall fade, 
 And back in the darkness he will pass very soon 
 To wait for his change like the beautiful moon. 
 
 46 
 
DECORATION POEM 
 
 'Tis the thirtieth day of May 
 
 In this month of blooming flowers, 
 
 'Tis a national holiday, 
 
 And this national heart of ours. 
 
 Beats and throbs with patriotism, 
 
 And we lay aside all care. 
 Our politics and creeds and isms. 
 
 And there's gathering everywhere. 
 
 Through the length of this great nation 
 In loyal concourse so sublime 
 
 Of every shade, from every station 
 They have met and with one mind 
 
 They are gathering, sadly bearing 
 
 From the hill and dellside bowers, 
 All bedecked and many carrying 
 Wreaths and garlands of bright flowers. 
 
 They are coming in their reverence 
 For a nation's honored dead. 
 
 With no special thought or preference 
 For the rank of those that led. 
 
 But they're mourning with the widow 
 ' And that orphan by the tomb 
 'Neath the bending, weeping willow. 
 Mid the sadness of the gloom. 
 
 All are joining with that brother 
 
 And that sister here today; 
 That aged father and that mother 
 
 That still linger by the way. 
 
 All in reverence broad and sweeping. 
 They're our kindred and our pride, 
 
 All our loved ones peacefully sleeping, 
 Though their graves are scattered wide. 
 
 Some unknown, unmarked by marble 
 Where stray roses sweetly bloom 
 
 And the wild birds only warble 
 There today above their tomb. 
 
 While there's music sadly stirring 
 Memories of our brave ones gone; 
 
 Many speeches all referring 
 To our valiant ones beyond 
 
 47 
 
This low vale of strife and battle 
 And the missiles that they throw 
 
 From the musketry and rattle 
 Of the cannons of the foe. 
 
 They are sleeping peaceful slumbers; 
 
 We are honoring them today. 
 Though we know not all their numbers 
 
 Or some graves wherein they lay. 
 
 Yet we know their fight was gallant 
 And that life they had to give 
 
 Was the all of him so valiant 
 
 Who died that we today might live 
 
 In this free and happy sunshine 
 Of this compact firm and grand; 
 
 God's most favored of all climes — 
 Our Columbia's happy land. 
 
 Undivided in one Union; 
 
 That's the gift they had to give; 
 Interstate and free communion, 
 
 Yes, they died that we might live. 
 
 And today we're humbly paying 
 
 Out paltry gifts of flowers and thought, 
 
 By these acts we're yearly saying 
 Such deeds and men are not forgot. 
 
 We will make their lives immortal. 
 We'll perpetuate their name. 
 
 And if they live beyond yon portal 
 They have each a double fame. 
 
 And we look away up yonder 
 While we try to part that vale 
 
 We cannot — we're only mortal 
 And our sight is short and frail. 
 
 But we wonder if they know them. 
 
 And what great battles they have won; 
 Do the angels up there show them 
 
 Much respect for what they've done? 
 
 Have they rank or have they station. 
 
 And are some respected more? 
 If they are this loyal nation 
 
 Has many heroes on yon shore. 
 
 48 
 
Where flowers bud and bloom forever 
 
 And there's music all the time; 
 Where cruel war can never sever 
 
 Are there no tombs in yonder clime? 
 
 In our faith we make the query 
 
 And these comrades here today 
 With their wars and trials weary 
 
 Are only waiting by the way 
 
 For the long role's final beating 
 That shall summons them away 
 
 To a last and happy meeting, 
 Where there's one eternal day. 
 
 And our answer to this query 
 
 Is that all up there is right. 
 There're no marches long and dreary, 
 
 There's no death and there's no night. 
 
 When we weave them, kindly weave them 
 Garlands froin our choicest bowers. 
 
 We can but leave them, thankfully leave them 
 Beneath a wilderness of flowers 
 
 And turn to mingle. with these living 
 
 Grand old heroes glorified 
 In the proffer not the giving 
 
 Just as much as though they'd died. 
 
 They've made their country that same tender; 
 
 They have braved the lead and steel 
 In their struggles to defend her 
 
 On many a bloody battlefield 
 
 Just the same as these have done 
 
 Whose honored graves we strow today. 
 
 Let's thank them all. yes everyone; 
 'Tis a debt we cannot pay. 
 
 All these heroes, they are ours 
 
 And with pride we sing their fame 
 
 These noble dead, they ask but flowers 
 These living, they have many claims. 
 
 We should show them special greeting, 
 
 Go and take them by the hand; 
 Let them know by the way we treat them 
 
 That they're honored in this land, 
 
 49 
 
Where they've suffered much privation 
 
 In their patriotic strife. 
 We should show by our relation 
 
 With them in our daily life 
 
 That we love them and respect them 
 
 As we love our liberty, 
 And hold them fond in recollection 
 
 For what they've done for you and me. 
 
 For a day will shortly dawn 
 
 When it's beyond our human powers; 
 
 Our last old hero will soon be gone, 
 Then we can give them only flowers. 
 
 But while we bask in all these favors 
 With our abiding sense of right 
 
 Secured by those that never waver 
 From the fierceness of the fight, 
 
 We should not become so narrow 
 
 With our honors for the true 
 That we turn our face in horror 
 
 From that other point of view. 
 
 May God in his kindness 
 
 Forgive their cruel prison crimes 
 
 While there's living to remind us 
 Those that died a thousand times, 
 
 In those hell holes of cecession. 
 
 Darkest spot that will e'er disgrace 
 God Almighty's broad creation. 
 
 In any age or any race. 
 
 Infinite love alone can pardon; 
 
 Human heart demands revenge. 
 If there's a hell beyond the Jordan, 
 
 Where flames ever leap and singe 
 
 You and I would there consign 
 
 To that everlasting death. 
 Where imps would tauntingly them remind 
 
 Of our heroes they starved to death. 
 
 But we are neither judge or jury. 
 
 And 'tis well we have no say; 
 We'd be biased in our fury. 
 
 But there's a coming judgment day 
 
 50 
 
And a judge whose find is final 
 
 All according to their deeds; 
 It's a comforting remindal 
 
 That exactly fits our needs. 
 
 But their soldiers fought us grandly 
 In open field although deceived, 
 
 Rebel soldiers fair and manly 
 For the right, as they believed. 
 
 All beliefs of education 
 
 Surroundings are apt to bias mind; 
 A heart with loyal aspiration 
 
 Is akin to the divine. 
 
 That would die for its conviction 
 And best conception of the right, 
 
 Today is safe without restriction 
 In a higher and holier light. 
 
 Although mistaken, they were daring; 
 
 Acting valiantly their part; 
 Upright and brave in all their bearing, 
 
 'Twas just the head and not the heart. 
 
 Let's mingle pity with our reverence 
 And exchange them flowers today; 
 
 Our own in blue, they have the preference 
 Yet we're mindful of the gray. 
 
 'Tis just in thought we disagree; 
 
 We dare not judge their inward powers, 
 Let's spread the cloak of charity 
 
 Today along with all our flowers. 
 
 ODE TO THE MULE 
 
 O, the mule, the quiet mule. 
 Kind, submissive, firm and cool; 
 But a prudent man will not fool 
 About the heels of a gentle mule. 
 
 O, the mule is a dandy brute. — 
 The comic mule in his woolly suit. — 
 A combination that's just too cute, — 
 A horse and donkey in cahoot. 
 
 I had a friend that once was fond 
 Of the gentle mule, but went beyond 
 Proper bonds, so now he's gone 
 By the kick of a mule to the great beyond. 
 
 51 
 
CROAKERS OF 1891 
 
 A croaking, grumling farmer, 
 
 Is a real mean disgrace 
 To a happy, prosperous country, 
 
 And is badly out of place. 
 In this, our Illinois, 
 
 He's a liar by the year. 
 And should move out to Kansas 
 
 To keep his conscience clear. 
 
 Last spring the wheat froze out. 
 
 The oats, they would not do. 
 The cut worm squirmed about 
 
 And the chinch bug. it came to. 
 Then the drought, it just set in. 
 
 And the croaker raised a bawl, 
 But I'll tell you, sir, old Illinois 
 
 Was too much for them all. 
 
 Its worms, and drought and chinch bugs, 
 
 You've heard it o'er and o'er. 
 Next spring just lay for him, 
 
 He's sure to croak some more 
 That same old silly song. 
 
 But now he'd better stop 
 And go to building bins 
 
 To hold his this year's crop. 
 
 And yet this year, I must admit, 
 
 At times it looked as though 
 The annual lies these croakers tell 
 
 For once might turn out so. 
 But since we've growed so grand a crop 
 
 Despite their bugs and drought, 
 I now propose for Illinois 
 
 These croakers shut their mouth. 
 
 52 
 
THE BOYS THAT'S GETTING GRAY 
 
 I wonder what's the matter, 
 
 What's the difiference now and then, 
 To me they're only boys 
 
 While others call them men. 
 They are bigger, perhaps they're wiser, 
 
 Yet their heart still beats away 
 With that same old childish impulse. 
 
 Though their heads are getting gray. 
 
 I wonder if they're busy. 
 
 Have they time to turn about. 
 And take a little ramble 
 
 O'er that old familiar route. 
 To those happy homes of childhood 
 
 I invite them back today. 
 There is recreation in it 
 
 For those boys that'r getting gray. 
 
 I wonder what they're thinking. 
 
 Does their memory run 
 With mine way back through childhood 
 
 Those scenes and times of fun. 
 In those barefoot winds and wanders 
 
 With the frolics by the way. 
 Have they ever thought them over 
 
 Since their heads are getting gray. 
 
 Have they dogs and bows and arrows, 
 
 Have they horses that they race. 
 Have they hooks and poles and fish-lines. 
 
 Are their guns about the place. 
 Are they having kissing parties 
 
 Where there're pawns to sell and pay, 
 I mean just in their mind 
 
 Since their heads are getting gray. 
 
 Do they want a whiff of sunshine. 
 
 Don't they want to whit their heart, 
 Do they want to feel their blood bound. 
 
 With a childish flit and start. 
 Wouldn't they like to come and ramble 
 
 For awhile they cannot stay 
 O'er childhood's happy playground 
 
 Since their heads are getting gray. 
 
 53 
 
Are their lives and days as happy, 
 
 Are their prospects just as bright, 
 Do they romp as much in day-time, 
 
 Can they rest as well at night. 
 Have they got that same old sweetheart, 
 
 With which they used to play, 
 Does she love them true as ever 
 
 When their heads are getting gray. 
 
 Do they ever go a skating, 
 
 Are they sly and crafty still. 
 Do they steal away on Sunday, 
 
 With their sled upon the hill. 
 Do they ever steal tobacco 
 
 And slyly hide away 
 To enjoy the bliss of smoking, 
 
 Since their heads are getting gray. 
 
 Are their parents still a living. 
 
 Where's their brothers, do they know, 
 And those sisters that we played with 
 
 In that childhood long ago. 
 Are they living well and hearty, 
 
 Perhaps some have passed away. 
 And they now are lonely orphans 
 
 When their heads are getting gray. 
 
 Well to me they're simply children. 
 
 Only boys, that's all they are. 
 They may boast of noble manhood 
 
 With its ponderous weight of care. 
 There's a telltale air about them 
 
 And unconsciously they say, 
 We still are boys together 
 
 Though our heads are getting gray. 
 
 Well, their heads will get grayer 
 
 And their teeth will all fall out. 
 Their bodies bowed and weary 
 
 Will go totteringly about. 
 But I beg you please, in memory 
 
 Of our happy childhood days 
 That you keep your heart still youthful 
 
 When your heads have grown gray. 
 
 54 
 
WHAT IT SAYS 
 
 If a man would preach the Bible, 
 
 And have other people believe it, 
 He must preach it as he finds it. 
 
 And not ask them to receive it. 
 After he has changed the wording, 
 
 Where its often disagreed, 
 With those precious doctrines taught 
 
 In his church's holy creed. 
 
 If a man would preach the Bible, 
 
 He must preach the whole, entire, 
 As the language of the Lord, 
 
 Through the one he would inspire. 
 And claim the whole Book means 
 
 Exactly what it says, 
 And should not be translated 
 
 Over fifty different ways. 
 
 If a man would preach the Bible, 
 
 He should never vainly seek 
 To show his little smattering 
 
 Of the Latin and the Greek. 
 The pulpit is no place 
 
 For him to make displays. 
 And try to prove the Bible 
 
 Don't mean just what it says. 
 
 If a man would preach the Bible, 
 
 He must tend his own affairs; 
 For the skeptics will not thank him 
 
 For his meddling thus with theirs, 
 As this has been their business 
 
 At which they ever play. 
 To pervert, and claim the Scriptures 
 
 Don't mean just what they say. 
 
 55 
 
THE POLLIWOG 
 
 I've been ou: around the country-. 
 
 Up abont the polliwog. 
 That used to be the happy heme 
 
 Of the noisy, jolly frog. 
 In the settlin' of the countrj-. 
 
 When the weeds grew rank and tall 
 Along its boggy edges. 
 
 With rosin weeds and alL 
 
 That yearly bloomed and blossomed 
 
 Up the slope and o'er the way. 
 By the mound that marked the den 
 
 Wliere the wolf in safety lay. 
 On. and out a little further — 
 
 O'er the hill, and just beyond. 
 Could be seen as they were feeding 
 
 There, the buck, the doe, the fawn. 
 
 And further up around the hillside. 
 
 Where they'd mowed and made the hay. 
 Could be heard the prairie chicken 
 
 In his ta la b€K>m be la; 
 With here and there a little shanty. 
 
 And an ox-team — several yoke 
 Slowly moving up the furrow 
 
 That the other round had broke. 
 
 On the high ground just adjacent 
 
 To this muddy polliwog. 
 Lay the farms then fenced and guarded 
 
 By the faithful yaller dog. 
 While that bird they caU the pump-suck — 
 
 Much too smart for aU decoys. 
 With his rip-saw sort of raspin' 
 
 Of a hideous kind of noise, 
 
 Wotild so loudly pipe his music 
 
 For that farmer on the hill. 
 Till the cranes would come and light — 
 
 Kind o' jump, and dodge, and trill. 
 All dance and chatter gaily 
 
 In a half quadrille and dialogue 
 To the music of the pump-suck, 
 
 'Mid the flags of polliwog. 
 
 56 
 
And the ducks and geese came flying 
 
 With the coming of the spring — 
 There to loaf, and dive and chatter; 
 
 And the polliwog would ring 
 With their peculiar kind of music 
 
 Till some hunter from the shore 
 Would raise his gun and shoot among 'em 
 
 And the crack, the bang, the roar, 
 
 Would send 'em off a flyin.' 
 
 Till the air was black and blue 
 With their bodies and their quackin', 
 
 As only geese and ducks can do. 
 And the sun would shine and sparkle 
 
 Thro' the mist, the spray, the fog, 
 Putting rainbows just behind them 
 
 As they left the polliwog. 
 
 And it nearly sets me shoutin'! 
 
 Oh, the fun so wild and gay, 
 As I sit and think about it — 
 
 But it all has passed away. 
 For there's ditches, tile and drainage. 
 
 And she's farmed from shore to shore; 
 Instead of frogs there's corn and millet, 
 
 And the polliwog's no more. 
 
 To the south, upon its hillside. 
 
 On a once wild, lovely mound 
 That's been spoiled by a little burg, 
 
 For its all growed up in town. 
 And my heart is filled with sorrow 
 
 As I sit in solitude. 
 And look across the once grand country 
 
 With its wildness all subdued. 
 
 And they're scarce that's left to tell 'em, 
 
 All those early happy tales. 
 Just a few of us old duflfers. 
 
 And the rabbits and the quails 
 Are all that's left today as relics 
 
 Of that age of marsh and bog — 
 As today we look in sorrow 
 
 On the ruins of polliwog. 
 
 57 
 
WHAT IS MAN? 
 
 What is man and what's his mission? 
 
 Why is he here in this condition? 
 What can he hope, or what's his pleasure? 
 What's his reward or what's his treasure? 
 
 What is man, how came he here 
 In this cold world so dark and drear? 
 So full of pain and bitter grief, 
 From which there can be no relief. 
 
 What of man, what of his knowledge? 
 What can they do for him at college. 
 Except to teach him he's a fool, 
 Just starting out in life's great school. 
 
 A silly boy may oft surmise. 
 That he is smart, or even wise; 
 But experience — school of after days — 
 Will change the boy and mend his ways. 
 
 The boy a man, his mind will change. 
 When once at large on life's broad range. 
 He will be astonished at what's before, 
 Compared with what he has in store. 
 
 The smartest man when at his best 
 
 Is but a step before the rest; 
 
 For all are but a stupid mass 
 
 Of brother fools in one great class. 
 
 Then what of man. where is he tending; 
 
 That gray haired man which age is bending, 
 What can he hope but pain and sorrow. 
 Has the grave for him lost all its horror? 
 
 Ha! see him smile and slowly mope, 
 
 Tho' bent with age, inspired with hope; 
 Yes, hope still tells him, never fear. 
 Thou, yet, shall live for many a year. 
 
 O cruel hope of human heart. 
 Thou cans't a world of joy impart 
 Through idle fancies of the mind. 
 And thus deceive poor weak mankind. 
 
 O silly man, that foolish hope, 
 
 Within thy breast is but a rope 
 
 Around thy neck and o'er a beam — 
 
 Time's trap is sprung and where's thy dream. 
 
 58 
 
BACHELORS 
 
 Bachelors are very scarce, 
 
 And yet there are a few, 
 Scattered here and there 
 
 With no. special end in view. 
 They seem to be meandering 
 
 Along the shores of time. 
 Waiting for a passage 
 
 To a more congenial clime. 
 
 A bachelor is a fellow, 
 
 Who hasn't got the sand 
 To obey his Maker's voice, 
 
 Or carry out his plan. 
 He fails to act his part 
 
 And does not take his place 
 Among the noble men 
 
 Who benefit their race. 
 
 Bachelors are very scarce. 
 
 And yet there are enough; 
 For the kind of men we want 
 
 Are made of different stuff; 
 They are men with sense enough, 
 
 And who are not afraid 
 To nobly fill the place, 
 
 For which a man is made. 
 
 MENTAL HASH 
 
 In thought as well as food, there seems to be a waste. 
 That's easily seasoned o'er to suit the people's taste. 
 Old and time-worn thoughts from out the stacks of trash, 
 Are slyly forced upon us in the shape of mental hash. 
 
 Yes, slyly forced upon us by many clever crooks. 
 They feed it from the rostrum, they dish it up in books. 
 On paper plates and spoons; and it's come to such a pass. 
 That the mental man must starve or feed upon the hash. 
 
 Our mental world's a waste; it once was highly blest 
 By great and shining lights that's gone to perfect rest; 
 And their mantle has fallen upon a very inferior class, 
 That's stealing from the dead to feed the living, hash. 
 
 We need original thoughts from independent minds. 
 That's not afraid to step beyond the day and times, 
 And give us something fresh from nature's rich repast 
 Spread for hungry minds that's foundered out on hash. 
 
 59 
 
A LEAK IN THE HEAD 
 
 Only a leak, — what a funny disease. 
 
 You may scoff at the thought, and laugh if you please; 
 
 And call it bad luck. But when properly said, 
 
 The term that is used is a leak in the head. 
 
 Many a man, and that unawares, 
 Complains at his chance and growls at his cares; 
 And calls failure fate, when really, instead. 
 The man is at fault. — There's a leak in his head. 
 
 When you hear a man talking, as if he just knew 
 Exact to a scratch how others should do. 
 You can bet he's a failure, and not worth a red, 
 And is badly afflicted with a leak in his head. 
 
 Then take the man who is badly abused. 
 Awfully imposed upon, and cruelly misused, — 
 Has been slighted, neglected, defrauded and bled; 
 Yes, all in his mind. There's a leak in his head. 
 
 When you hear a man blowing, without a cent in his jeans, 
 What he would do. if he only had means. 
 You may set it right down, every word that he's said, 
 Is only a pointer to the leak in his head. 
 
 Simply a leak, — yet. the man never sees 
 
 That the trouble all lies in that awful disease. 
 
 He is looking abroad for the cause in a dread. 
 
 When the fault is at home. — There's a leak in his head. 
 
 60 
 
SPRING POET 
 
 The beautiful spring is sure to bring 
 The musical ring of the poet, poor thing; 
 
 You bet the poet 
 
 Will take a dead set, 
 When he sees the beautiful trees. 
 He'll be so pleased that he will squeeze 
 
 His prolific brain for a strain 
 
 Of verse again. 
 
 In the beautiful days when the poet plays 
 In the mystic haze that springtime sways, 
 
 Roaming o'er as heretofore 
 
 Up and down the beautiful shore, 
 Where the grass grows and the zephyr blows 
 And the fragrant rose perfumes his nose; 
 
 Beautiful clime, most sublime 
 
 Where poets chime. 
 
 The suffering Ed. provoked till he said 
 'Wish they were dead, these poets that's fed 
 
 On inspiration from creation's 
 
 Vegetation.' 
 With maddened haste his poem was placed 
 In the basket among the waste; 
 
 And had the poet known it 
 
 He would not have wrote it. 
 
 POVERTY 
 
 O poverty! it seems that fate 
 Has chose thee for my constant mate, 
 Or why abide thou thus with me. 
 Unbidden guest of poverty? 
 
 poverty! thou fiend accurst, 
 
 Of all my foes thou art the worst. 
 
 1 dread thee, hate thee, yet with delight 
 Thou tauntest me by day and night. 
 
 When all compassed in want's dark storm, 
 'Tis then I see thy jeering form 
 That sports about with fiendish glee — 
 Thou starving fiend of poverty. 
 
 When in my rags I view the form 
 Of others clothed so snug and warm, 
 'Tis then in wrath I turn on thee — 
 Thou freezing fiend of poverty. 
 
 There's just one hope, that by and by 
 In peaceful rest I soon shall lie 
 Beneath rich earth; I then shall be 
 Hid from thy sight. O poverty! 
 
 61 
 
THE PERSECUTED MAN 
 
 Good morning, Mr. Pawnbroker, 
 
 You are the man I want to see; 
 It's protection that I want, 
 
 For my wife is after me. 
 You have likely had experience, 
 
 As you are married, I suppose; 
 My life is not in danger. 
 
 But she's tearing up my clothes! 
 
 I do not want to borrow — 
 
 Just storage, understand — 
 That I may save my clothing 
 
 From a swift, destructive hand, 
 That already has played havoc 
 
 With all its fell upon; 
 The carpet is just commenced, 
 
 And still she's tearing on! 
 
 The carpet is well enough 
 
 And my wife is very good, 
 I have supplied her with the chain 
 
 And helped her all I could. 
 But I think she's ofif her base — 
 
 She's "cranky." goodness knows- 
 At least her mania after rags 
 
 Is riddling up my clothes. 
 
 She took my Sunday coat 
 
 And tore it into shreds; 
 It wasn't much account. 
 
 And, besides, she calmly said: 
 "Suppose it was, 
 
 Why, husband dear, indeed, 
 (Still holding up the ball,) 
 
 It's just the stripe I need." 
 
 First one and then another, 
 
 My wardrobe's nearly gone — 
 Excepting those few pieces, 
 
 And these that I have on — 
 And as I like a change, 
 
 I'll leave them here in store, 
 'Till that confounded carpet 
 
 Is down and on the floor. 
 
 62 
 
THE CLERGY 
 
 We're indebted to the clergy 
 
 In our nation of today; 
 We owe them quite a debt 
 
 Which we justly ought to pay. 
 It's a debt of gratitude, 
 
 Or money, if you choose. 
 And in the name of honesty 
 
 I demand they have their dues. 
 
 We're requiring of the clergy 
 
 That they be educated. 
 Which means years and years of study, 
 
 For which they ne'er get compensated. 
 For a thousand dollars yearly 
 
 In the clergy, we expect 
 That which, in secular life. 
 
 Would be a ten thousand intellect. 
 
 We're exacting of the clergy, 
 
 In a very thoughtless way, 
 Many little duties 
 
 For which they get no pay. 
 We give them special notice 
 
 With a confidential air, 
 That so and so is sick 
 
 And they're expected there. 
 
 We expect the noble clergy 
 
 To linger by the bed 
 Of the slowly dying man. 
 
 And when he's finally dead, 
 He's expected at the grave. 
 
 In a complimentary way. 
 With a handsome funeral sermon 
 
 Without the thought of pay. 
 
 We're imposing on the clergy 
 
 I'm very sad to say. 
 We're quick to increase their labor, 
 
 But slow to raise their pay. 
 We allow them just a living, 
 
 'Tis all they need, of course. 
 And support them then as paupers 
 
 When their life has spent its force. 
 
 63 
 
EXCUSES FOR THE SHOW 
 
 It's curious, it's very curious, 
 
 Nevertheless it's true; 
 I've seen it Oh. so often, 
 
 And I wouldn't doubt but you 
 Have wondered, often wondered 
 
 How a heart would come and go. 
 And be stirred with parental kindness, 
 
 By the coming of a show. 
 
 The father then grows fonder 
 
 Of his children than before, 
 As the show day draws the nearer 
 
 He loves them more and more. 
 He has business in the city. 
 
 But cares nothing for the show; 
 He wants the children to see the animals, 
 
 So they might as well all go. 
 
 The stingy, brutal father. 
 
 That bangs his boy around, 
 And never allows the lad 
 
 To go with him to town 
 On ordinary occasions; 
 
 When a show is once at hand. 
 He is bound his boy shall see it, 
 
 And is quite a liberal man. 
 
 He bu3's them cheese and crackers 
 
 And bologna like as not. 
 And peanuts if they want them. 
 
 It makes no difference what; 
 His purse strings are unloosened. 
 
 And his heart is all aglow; 
 He's nowhere half so happy 
 
 As with his children at the show. 
 
 Most times there's lots of children, 
 
 But there's a time when they're scarce 
 And I'll tell you then they'll miss them, 
 
 If there's none about the place. 
 It's then I pity childless parents, 
 
 And I really do not know 
 How they manage for excuses. 
 
 When they want to see the show. 
 
 64 
 
THE ASPIRING BOY 
 
 You'd scarce expect one of my age 
 To cope or equal any sage. 
 In depth of thought or pleasant tone, 
 Or soar in mind to lands unknown. 
 
 They say it's dangerous for a boy 
 
 To allow himself thus to decoy. 
 
 His infant mind so far away. 
 
 To worlds of thought where great minds play. 
 
 We boys must stay where we belong, 
 Unless we take our mas along, 
 And they all seem so very shy. 
 And won't be caught out on a fly. 
 
 It's a funny thing how mind can soar. 
 As quick as thought from shore to shore, 
 And then at will come back with ease, 
 Or go just where and when they please. 
 
 Wisdom and knowledge will so inflate. 
 And place the mind in such a state 
 That it with ease and grace will rise. 
 And soar aloft among the skies. 
 
 So I'll be big and wise, right soon. 
 And take a trip up to the moon. 
 And go from there to planet Mars, 
 And then come back by other stars. 
 
 And on my way encounter minds, 
 In search of thoughts of different kinds. 
 Some loaded down with mental stores 
 And pressing back for native shores. 
 
 I'll encounter none but master minds. 
 As there's no chance for the weaker kinds. 
 Large, inflated and well balanced 
 Are the only kind of flying talents. 
 
 In mind and thought on brilliant wings 
 I'll take a trip for what it brings, 
 Happy flight yes bye and bye. 
 I'll wing a way to yonder sky. 
 
 65 
 
HUMAN NATURE 
 
 Human nature is human nature, 
 
 All the world around, 
 And men are simply men. 
 
 No difference where they're found; 
 They are pretty much the same. 
 
 You'll find each mother's son. 
 Has an object of his own, 
 
 And looking out for number one. 
 
 Human nature is human nature, 
 
 And it's selfish to the core, 
 And when you're flattered by a human, 
 
 You may bet its pretty sure, 
 His attentions have an object, 
 
 And you're very apt to find. 
 He would simply set you turning, 
 
 While he held his ax to grind. 
 
 Human nature is human nature, 
 
 Friends are friends for what they gain, 
 There's little use for much palaver. 
 
 Just as well to put it plain. 
 What's the use to make pretense, 
 
 That bears upon its face the lie. 
 While by our daily life we're saying. 
 
 Every hog must root or die. 
 
 TOBACCO 
 
 Tobacco, thou shouldst know thy place. 
 Why seekest thou thus to disgrace 
 Decent folks, while yet there's room 
 Among the low to spread thy gloom? 
 
 Tobacco, O thou dirty stuff. 
 
 Go fumigate the rabbling rough. 
 
 Go seek those haunts that suit thee well, 
 
 And there among the filthy dwell. 
 
 Go fasten thy fangs upon the snobs. 
 Go poison the throat of him that swabs. 
 Go shed thy stench on him that snuffs 
 And make thy home among the toughs. 
 
 Accursed stuff, most vile indeed; 
 Thou nasty, dirty, filthy weed 
 Thou art a plague, a thief, a curse. 
 That wrecks the man and robs his purse. 
 
 66 
 
THIS WORLD CANNOT DEFINE 
 
 Mankind! O, foolish man! 
 
 I ask no help of thee, 
 Thou canst not understand 
 
 These things that trouble me; 
 Thy wisdom is but naught, 
 
 Thy theories are unsound; 
 I care not for thy thought, 
 
 On speculative ground. 
 
 Mankind! Thou egotistic man! 
 
 Explain this present life. 
 Then claim to understand 
 
 What lies beyond this strife; 
 Tell how the grasses grow, 
 
 Explain this throbbing heart. 
 First tell me what you know. 
 
 Of the world in which thou art. 
 
 Mankind! Poor ignorant man! 
 
 O, jabbering, braying crank! 
 Thy precepts. I understand, 
 
 By far thy walk out-rank, 
 Profess, assume and blow; 
 
 I have no use for such. 
 Tell only what you know, 
 
 And do not guess so much. 
 
 I long for later news, 
 
 I am foundered out on stales, 
 I'm sick of these reviews, 
 
 Of old and absurd tales. 
 Any inan. is but a man. 
 
 And knows no more than I. 
 Of the way, or a better land, 
 
 (So said) beyond the sky. 
 
 I look beyond the man. 
 
 With a longing, wishful mind, 
 To a world more wise and grand; 
 
 And would that perfect clime 
 Might send some witness down, 
 
 With answers of all kind, 
 To the questions that belong 
 
 To the weak and finite mind. 
 
 I wish that I could meet. 
 
 Some saved and happy soul, 
 Whose fair and tender feet 
 
 Had trod those streets of gold; 
 And hear them tell the tale 
 
 Of rapture and of bliss, 
 Beyond the Jordan's vale; 
 
 In a better world than this. 
 
 67 
 
O, how I'd dearly love 
 
 To meet an all-wise mind, 
 Infinite and above 
 
 Our weak and mortal kind. 
 With knowledge sure and sound, 
 
 Who'd understand the task, 
 To properly expound 
 
 The questions I would ask. 
 
 I ask to meet one saint 
 
 From wisdom's happy world, 
 With words and manners quaint, 
 
 That would for me unfold. 
 The mysteries, that so long 
 
 Have hovered in my mind. 
 Where queries crowd and throng. 
 
 "This world cannot define." 
 
 CANDIDATE 
 
 Who is that man with smiling face. 
 That friendly man with bowing grace. 
 
 That here of late 
 Is shaking hands with all about? 
 He's the nicest man and there's no doubt. 
 
 He's a candidate. 
 
 Who is this man — its Oh so sad 
 
 To think his friends — its just too bad — 
 
 How he did hate — 
 But then his friends, they did insist; 
 The obliging man could not resist 
 
 Being a candidate. 
 
 Most noble man! He's much abused, 
 His friends did call — they wish to use — 
 
 He has the trait — 
 He loves his friends — they make demands, 
 And he's today just in their hands 
 
 As a candidate. 
 
 Go slow poor man. there's much depends; 
 The boys must smoke; you'll find your friends 
 
 Would badly hate 
 To furnish means — the ready tin — 
 Which you must have if you would win 
 
 As a candidate. 
 
 68 
 
'WHERE DO YOU GO FROM HERE?" 
 
 When the season comes for starting, 
 
 With his grip upon the road, 
 And the traveling man is parting, 
 
 With those of his own abode; 
 It is quite a solemn task, 
 
 To part from those that're dear. 
 And tell each one that asks, 
 
 "Where do you go from here?" 
 
 As he takes his common round. 
 
 And meets the usual trade, 
 Perhaps in the same old town 
 
 That he for years has made, 
 As he bids them each, good-day, 
 
 And leaves his customer, 
 They're always sure to say, 
 
 "Where do you go from here?" 
 
 When he wants to quit the town. 
 
 And orders out his grip. 
 While the porter lingers 'round, 
 
 Awaiting his usual tip. 
 If his hotel bill is paid, 
 
 The coast will now be clear, 
 As soon as all have said, 
 
 "Where do you go from here?" 
 
 When his work is finally closed. 
 
 His grip is packed away. 
 And he's turned up his toes, 
 
 As his fellows lightly say. 
 It's over, understand. 
 
 For it doth not yet appear; 
 What becomes of the traveling man. 
 
 When he's finally gone from here? 
 
 69 
 
EVENING THOUGHTS 
 
 It was one September evening, 
 
 On a very pleasant night; 
 The moon vi^as at its fullest 
 
 And shining very bright; 
 Not a cloudlet could be seen, — 
 
 The evening very fair, 
 And the flowers had lent their fragrance 
 
 To perfume the evening air. 
 
 All nature seemed at rest, — 
 
 In a still and deep repose; 
 And the gentle falling dew drop 
 
 Had silvered o'er the rose. 
 And sparkling on the grasses 
 
 That gracefully bow'd assent, 
 To the balmy evening zephyrs 
 
 That gently came and went. 
 
 As I strode among the scenery 
 
 On that delightful night 
 And breathed the fragrant air. 
 
 And viewed the dazzling sight, 
 My mind was called away. 
 
 To the evening time of life, — 
 That hoary silver eve. 
 
 Of rest that's after strife. 
 
 The morning time of youth, 
 
 With its hopes and joys are past. 
 The noon of strength is reached. 
 
 And its fortunes are amassed. 
 And the evening sun is sinking 
 
 Down life's western slope. 
 And the night time is nearing 
 
 With its bright halo of hope. 
 
 May thy evenings grow the brighter 
 
 As thy sun slowly sets. 
 And the glory of the twilight 
 
 Banish fears and regrets. 
 Be thy last hours the brightest 
 
 As ye near the eve and end. 
 Is ever the desire 
 
 Of the writer and your friend. 
 
 70 
 
WITH NOAH'S HOARD 
 
 Although a tale contains some whacks 
 
 It may convey a line of facts 
 That's worth our while in spite of doubt 
 
 To sift the chafif and sort them out. 
 
 If Noah's ark should prove a fake, 
 That awful flood a big mistake, 
 
 And all that rain a temperance joke, 
 A nightmare dream of some old soak; 
 
 Those ponderous beams and all that pitch 
 
 Within and out in every nitch, 
 And all those speals that Noah made 
 
 To all those folks that weren't afraid 
 
 To stand about and joke and laugh, 
 
 All poking fun at Noah's craft 
 And watch him as he put on board 
 
 By twos and pairs that mighty hoard, 
 
 Of every beast of every kind 
 
 And creeping things that he could find 
 All snugly stored, also with feed 
 
 As suited to their special need. 
 
 And watch him as he shut the door 
 And when the rain begun to pour 
 
 It was Noah's time to crack a joke 
 He says "You all go take a soak." 
 
 The first day out he struck the trail 
 Of Jonah's ark, a monstrous whale; 
 
 It was spouting high up in the air 
 He just rescued a royal pair. 
 
 He was sighting land, it was hard to find 
 The nice and dry he had in mind. 
 
 His passengers, a queen, a duke, 
 
 Were anxious he should make his puke. 
 
 This whale had learned on rescue lines 
 Some things about these great combines 
 
 Of twos and pairs how life was gave 
 
 Likewise sustained and should be saved. 
 
 And people too with thinking brains 
 Could also learn by taking pains 
 
 That nature's facts likewise were stored 
 In twos and pairs with Noah's hoard. 
 
 71 
 
THE BOOZER 
 
 There is nothing to a boozer 
 
 So there's nothing much to say 
 If I'm to be the chooser 
 
 Of the advice we give today. 
 To this brute that swills the liquor, 
 
 I'd increase it if I could, 
 For the more he drinks the quicker 
 
 He'll be down and out for good. 
 
 Just his friends I would advise 
 
 That they leave him all alone 
 Or he'll shortly put them wise 
 
 To some troubles of their own, 
 For if you monkey with a boozer 
 
 Or befriend him in a pinch, 
 At the windup you're the loser; 
 
 Now remember — that's a cinch. 
 
 N. B. 
 
 Everybody's hollowing "hello" 
 
 In manner, speech or ways 
 They are beckoning for attention, 
 
 Recognition, notice, praise, 
 All have something they are proud of, 
 
 Little difference what they've got, 
 What its worth or what its value. 
 
 Just a hobby like as not. 
 
 Some 're possessed of pretty features, 
 
 Others form artistic shape; 
 Some have turns and gifts of mimic 
 
 And are proud that they can ape; 
 Some have horses, some have money; 
 
 Some have kindred rich and grand; 
 All are clamoring for attention. 
 
 Can't you see their beckoning hand? 
 
 Everybody's proud of something 
 
 And are bound to make a show. 
 Just as well to stop and notice; 
 
 Little use to tell them "no." 
 Nod a smile of recognition. 
 
 Let them move their hobby on. 
 For you are sure to meet another 
 
 Slightly different when they're gone. 
 
 n 
 
SUBMISSION 
 
 Submission, boys, submission. 
 
 Submit like little men. 
 Its just a lottery, boys. 
 
 Where the largest number wins, 
 And we have stood our chance, 
 
 But another party won it; 
 So we should stand aside, 
 
 And let the victors run it. 
 
 Submission, boys, submission. 
 
 With patience wait our time. 
 Of course it is pretty tough. 
 
 But what's the use to whine. 
 Do not meddle with them, boys, 
 
 Let's tend our own affairs, 
 Just let them run it, boys, 
 
 They have won it, and its theirs. 
 
 Submission, boys, submission. 
 
 Dry your parting tears: 
 We have had it all our own 
 
 For over twenty years. 
 And since the tables turned. 
 
 Let's act the part of men. 
 And gracefully step aside. 
 
 And let the hungry in. 
 
 Submission, boys, submission. 
 
 Ye boys of the postal clan. 
 Be ye ever ready 
 
 Your exit is near at hand. 
 You will hear the words depart 
 
 For an offensive partisan, 
 Is a synonymous term. 
 
 And means republican. 
 
 Submission, boys, submission. 
 
 Let's live by faith a while. 
 In three short years, my boys, 
 
 We will do them up in style. 
 We will man the ship again. 
 
 We will bounce them every one, 
 And a democrat will then 
 
 Be an offensive partisan. 
 
 73 
 
LET DRUNKARDS DECORATE 
 
 The drunkards of our nation 
 
 Should set apart a day, 
 For special commemoration, 
 
 Of their comrades passed away; 
 And decorate the graves 
 
 With flowers fresh and bright, 
 Of the many fallen braves, 
 
 In their war with appetite. 
 
 Would the living tippling sot, 
 
 Now in his bibling strife, 
 Have a comrade's grave forgot. 
 
 That's sacrificed his life 
 For the cause of drink, 
 
 Mid the tremens, imps and horrors, 
 And when dying have them think 
 
 They'd be denied the flowers? 
 
 They have fallen, bravely fallen, 
 
 When the battle heat was high; 
 And from their graves they're calling 
 
 With a comrade's claim and tie; 
 To the living drinking braves 
 
 They call with silent powers, 
 To meet around their graves, 
 
 And strew them o'er with flowers. 
 
 They need not wait for spring, 
 
 Just as well in winter's hours; 
 As the drunkards have a ring, 
 
 A corner on the flowers. 
 They are ever fresh and pricely, 
 
 They put to shame the roses. 
 They could strew their graves so nicely 
 
 With those blossoms on their noses. 
 
 74 
 
A NIGHTMARE 
 
 You may talk about your horses 
 
 That's born and bred to speed, 
 But I'll tell you what's the matter, 
 
 I once owned a flaming steed, 
 A fierce and fiery nag 
 
 As glib as she could be; 
 I did not own her long 
 
 She was too swift for me. 
 
 A fierce and fiery gray 
 
 With long and flowing mane. 
 She carried her sweeping tail 
 
 In a style so proud and vain; 
 I can see her prancing form, 
 
 My pride my own delight, 
 Of the noted nightmare stock; 
 
 I owned her just one night. 
 
 You may talk about your deal.s. 
 
 And tell of driving trade. 
 Of the many horses bought, 
 
 And the greatest bargains made; 
 But you'll find your cheapest nag, 
 
 Compared with mine, is high. 
 As I purchased my nightmare 
 
 With a piece of rich mince pie. 
 
 BANGS 
 
 Pretty little bits of bangs, 
 Wavy, shining, glossy hangs. 
 As they lie in flowing curls 
 On the brows of pretty girls. 
 
 Dear old maid, the gay old girl. 
 With mouth so full of dentist's pearl. 
 Since fashion has the forelocks hung, 
 She bangs her hair and looks so young. 
 
 Then the mother, fond old wife. 
 She's battling in the common strife 
 Of women kind 'mid clash and clangs 
 With her silvery, flowing bangs. 
 
 Waving, tossing in the air. 
 
 Hiding marks of time and care. 
 
 Expecting victory most sublime. 
 
 With bangs and paint they're battling time. 
 
 75 
 
THE WOMEN'S AID 
 
 When we think and speak of women 
 
 We almost get dismayed 
 At the magnitude and greatness 
 
 Of this thing called Women's Aid; 
 For they're truly on the hustle 
 
 And we all should do our best 
 To aid them in their undertaking, 
 
 In any way that they suggest. 
 For we sure can trust the women, 
 
 As their hearts and heads are right, 
 And when their hands get mixed up in it, 
 
 Why, I tell you, sir, there's might. 
 
 They are nimble with their fingers. 
 
 They have, each, a desperate pull — 
 All you husbands understand it, 
 
 As you've had them in your wool. 
 But there's this thing in their favor 
 
 They are not eternally cross, 
 And you will find them very docile 
 
 If you'll only let them boss. 
 And tonight we have them happy 
 
 As they're running undismayed. 
 And everybody's paying tribute 
 
 To these women and their Aid. 
 
 And we see their smiling faces 
 
 All about us here tonight — 
 It's all the proof I need to of¥er 
 
 That my view of this is right. 
 Well, I'd like to pay a tribute 
 
 Here tonight, this very hour. 
 To this creature they call woman — 
 
 But I can't. I've not the power. 
 I dare not call them angels. 
 
 They have faults, you know, poor things, 
 They they're sitting all around you, 
 
 You can see they've not the wings. 
 They have things, of course, about them 
 
 That's a sort of make believe, 
 If you'll examine them right closely 
 
 You will find it's just a sleeve. 
 Its a help to their appearance 
 
 That Dame Fashion's lately made. 
 It's in point, therefore, I notice. 
 
 Just another women's Aid. 
 
 76 
 
No offense is meant, dear ladies, 
 
 As I love you every one 
 And I only call attention 
 
 To these little points for fun; 
 As the ladies who invited me 
 
 To come and make this talk. 
 Request I give them something funny 
 
 If I had it in my stock. 
 
 So, you see, it's all the woman; 
 
 She's at fault, that's pretty sure — 
 I believe a man named Adam 
 
 Played that same dodge once before. 
 Yes. he dodged behind the woman 
 
 In that awful break they made 
 That plunged the world in sin and ruin — 
 
 Another case of Women's Aid. 
 
 These women, they are getting desperate 
 
 They go out upon the street. 
 Get down upon their very knees. 
 
 And black the shoes upon your feet; 
 Go around among the merchants 
 
 And shops about the town — 
 Black the stoves and clean the cases. 
 
 And they wash the windows down. 
 Do any sort of labor 
 
 Where there's money to be made, 
 And we men are getting jealous 
 
 Of this thing called Women's Aid. 
 
 I have a friend, that here right lately 
 
 Lost his job, he was a clerk; 
 His boss employed a nice young lady 
 
 That he thought could do his work 
 Just as well, and likely better. 
 
 For less money than he's paid. 
 So he now has gone off loafing 
 
 Through this woman's friendly Aid. 
 
 And I know another fellow 
 
 With a family on his hands; 
 He had a job of keeping books. 
 
 And that is all he understands. 
 But the place where he'd been working, 
 
 Why, the business had increased 
 Until they needed a short bander. 
 
 Or they thought they did, at least. 
 So his place has been supplied 
 
 With a miserly old maid. 
 And his family's now in misery 
 
 Through this single Woman's Aid. 
 
 n 
 
Running way back to creation 
 
 When this woman first was made, 
 We find the idea then was simply 
 
 Just a help-mate and an aid. 
 But it seems that doesn't suit her, 
 
 And she's reaching up aloft, 
 So we men are getting desperate 
 
 And we want her headed off; 
 For she's daring and she's grasping, 
 
 And we're honestly afraid 
 That she soon will run this country 
 
 Without any of our Aid. 
 
 I see a future just out yonder, 
 
 Where the women have combined — 
 While the men in leisure wander 
 
 Up and down the shores of time. 
 And I see within this future. 
 
 Faintly through the hazy dawn. 
 This new woman in her bloomers, 
 
 As she's hustling fiercely on 
 With the world upon one shoulder 
 
 And a scepter in her hand; 
 Standing idly in the background 
 
 I can see her fellow man — 
 With his clothes and victuals furnished 
 
 All they do is eat and dress, 
 While away the happy hours 
 
 While the women do the rest. 
 They chop the wood and build the fires, 
 
 And they bring the water in, 
 Buy the grub and cook it nicely 
 
 For their pets, us darling men. 
 They milk the cows and hay the calves, 
 
 Feed the hogs and slop the pigs, 
 Harness up and hitch the horses, 
 
 Drive us men around in rigs. 
 Oh, its a sort of male millenium 
 
 Where men go out on dress parade — 
 Fold their arms and thank great goodness 
 
 For this blessed Women's Aid. 
 
 78 
 
A MUGWUMP 
 
 The mugwump as a kicker 
 
 Has a world wide fame. 
 He turned a democrat. 
 
 And kicked on Jimmie Blaine. 
 He voted for Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 And now he shoves his claim 
 For office and such like, 
 
 And is kicking for the same. 
 
 A mugwump is a kicker, 
 
 Whose hoof is flaunting high, 
 A banging around the stars 
 
 In the democratic sky; 
 Of course he is but a guest. 
 
 But he thinks the time is nigh 
 When the democratic host 
 
 Should pass around the pie. 
 
 A mugwump is a kicker 
 
 With a Jackson party notion. 
 He claims to be a victor, 
 
 And is kicking for his portion 
 In the division of his spoils; 
 
 He fails to find his quotion. 
 So he is kicking Mr. Cleveland 
 
 For party indevotion. 
 
 The mugwump kicks against 
 
 Those civil service foils. 
 He kicks for recognition 
 
 Among the party royals; 
 He would really like to ask, 
 
 After all our recent toils, 
 "Cleveland", what are we here for?" 
 
 And echo answers, "spoils." 
 
 79 
 
ADDRESS TO THE SCHOOL BOYS 
 
 Well, boys. I'd like to try 
 
 To write a little poem. 
 Just to see how nigh 
 
 I could come of showin' 
 How it used to was, 
 
 In the days that's past and gone, 
 Compared with what you does 
 
 An' how you're getting on. 
 
 Now boys, you musn't grin, 
 
 For what I'm telling's true. 
 An' you can bet I've been 
 
 To school as well as you; 
 And learned a heap of stuff, 
 
 As every chap must do. 
 From hands more rude and rough 
 
 Than them that's teaching you. 
 
 The master, for that's his name — 
 
 Anyway it used to be — 
 Was a man, too, just the same 
 
 As your present teacher, he, 
 I hope, is far more kind, 
 
 And's not so prone to fight 
 Bad kids that will not mind 
 
 And learn their lessons right. 
 
 I want to tell you lads. 
 
 Some people think you're mean, 
 An' say you're just as bad 
 
 As the worst they ever seen; 
 But boys, I'm very free 
 
 To own it isn't true, 
 Your daddies, they used to be 
 
 A good deal worse than you. 
 
 They used to cut up pranks 
 
 To make the teacher treat. 
 And now the gray-haired cranks. 
 
 In their fogyish freaks, 
 Would try to thus deceive 
 
 The unsuspecting youth. 
 An' make you boys believe 
 
 A thing that ain't the truth. 
 
 80 
 
I wish I had a picture 
 
 Of the schools that used to be, 
 If I did. I'd take and stick her 
 
 Up where you boys could see 
 The old-fashioned four-legged slab 
 
 On which your daddies sot, 
 And learned the little dab 
 
 Of education that they got. 
 
 I know you boys would smile, 
 
 If you could only peep 
 At a school of the old style, 
 
 Those masters used to keep. 
 And see the great long gads, 
 
 Those implements of war 
 In the schools of your good dads, 
 
 You'd wonder what they're for. 
 
 But their sums have all been done. 
 
 And they are big and smart. 
 And now they want to run 
 
 Down the young upstart. 
 It's jealousy, perchance 
 
 They see the coming chap 
 Has made a grand advance 
 
 And's smarter than his pap. 
 
 Its always been the style, 
 
 Of the masses in the past. 
 To keep retarding all the while 
 
 The progressive, thoughtful class. 
 And it seems a second natur'. 
 
 Of men in a general way. 
 To keep sticking and to cater 
 
 To the hobbies of their day. 
 
 Let fogies crank and howl. 
 
 Their noise has just begun. 
 You boys have got them foul, 
 
 Your chance is two to one. 
 The world is broad and wide. 
 
 Success comes by and by. 
 Advance with rapid stride 
 
 And place your mark up high. 
 
 There's a quagmire, please avoid, 
 
 For it's easy to get in. 
 This quagmire has decoyed 
 
 An' floundered lots of men. • 
 So forward boys, don't lag. 
 
 For back in rear, you see 
 Is found this old time quag. 
 
 Of how things used to be. 
 
 81 
 
Don't get behind your age, 
 
 For there's danger if you do. 
 You'll turn a moss-back sage, 
 
 An' take to howling too. 
 Be studious and hold your place, 
 
 For the kickers, you will find, 
 With the dummies of the race. 
 
 In the rear rank back behind. 
 
 Now boys, do your best, 
 
 Work with hands and minds, 
 And keep yourself abreast 
 
 The progress of your times. 
 For there will be demand 
 
 For men in comin' time. 
 And the boy that's got the sand 
 
 Is the one that's bound to climb. 
 
 Great duties soon will rest 
 
 Upon you boys that's here, 
 Them that's prepared the best 
 
 Will find the way more clear. 
 To places high and grand 
 
 In nation and in state. 
 Look sharp my little man, 
 
 Who knows you may be great. 
 
 Your future's bright, I'll say. 
 
 Advancement marks the age. 
 Each dawn's a better day 
 
 And records a grander page. 
 There's springing ever more. 
 
 For boys that's yet to be. 
 Grander things from nature's store, 
 
 Than comes to you or me. 
 
 Progress boys, you bet 
 
 The world is on the move, 
 'Twill get the better yet. 
 
 The watchword is improve; 
 There's always something new 
 
 As time goes flitting on. 
 Compared with how you do 
 
 And how you're getting on. 
 
 82 
 
A BAD CASE 
 
 I know a big "provoking case" 
 That is the pest of all his race. 
 When teasing, taunting with his jokes 
 And throwing dirt at meetin' folks. 
 
 He is terrible mean and rude, they say. 
 And awfully set in his own way; 
 And then he is dreadful big and stout, 
 And there is no hauling him about. 
 
 It's a fearful shame the way he acts, 
 If all that's told on him are facts. 
 He denounces Jonah and his whale, 
 And says it's all a big fish tale. 
 
 He says there isn't a place like hell; 
 And talk like that don't take so well; 
 It's making some folks mighty mad, 
 And they're talking rough about the lad. 
 
 He got reproved, and that severe. 
 At our church by the preacher here. 
 He was severely stunned, I do declare, 
 But I could not see. for he wasn't there. 
 
 He is awful bad, but what's the use 
 For churches to act the goose. 
 And turn out pulpit, pew and all 
 To advertise Bob Ingersoll. 
 
 83 
 
AN INVENTIVE AGE 
 
 How reversed to my mind 
 
 Are the things of my childhood; 
 How crude and uncouth 
 
 Were the tools that we used; 
 And we smile at the ideas 
 
 That were then quite good, 
 But now are laid up 
 
 With the old and refused. 
 
 When I think of the candle 
 
 That we used in that day, 
 With its poor flickering light 
 
 As it stubbornly burned; 
 As compared with the light 
 
 This age can display. 
 Produced by the dynamo 
 
 Electrical concern. 
 
 The lightning express, 
 
 As it glides swiftly on 
 With its magnificent sleepers 
 
 And diners so grand, 
 Compared with the carts 
 
 Of the days that are gone, 
 Then the best known convenience 
 
 For conveyance by land. 
 
 Today, I look out 
 
 On the proud reaping binder 
 Successfully gathering 
 
 And binding the grain; 
 With no tottering slave 
 
 Bending tiredly behind her, 
 As they have been spelled 
 
 By the inventive brain. 
 
 It is inventive genius, 
 
 That so kindly has lifted 
 The heft of the burden 
 
 From the back of mankind; 
 Through modern appliance 
 
 It's weight has been shifted 
 And matter is servant 
 
 Today of the mind. 
 
 It's an age of improvement 
 
 And we rightly should pride. 
 That our lot has been cast 
 
 With an inventive age; 
 When old tools and old hobbies 
 
 Are pushed back by the tide. 
 And the new and the novel 
 
 Are the mania and rage. 
 
 84 
 
TOM EDISON 
 "King of His Kind." 
 
 It's been left for this age 
 
 To proudly give birth, 
 To Tom Edison the giant, 
 
 And genius of earth; 
 The peer of all men 
 
 In the realm of mind. 
 Mighty in research. 
 
 King of his kind. 
 
 He's a worker in wonders, 
 
 Successful and sure. 
 With completeness and fitness 
 
 His ideas mature. 
 In devices of newness, 
 
 With blessings for man 
 Excelling, in genius 
 
 And skillful in hand. 
 
 In the fullness of time 
 
 When his mission's complete, 
 And his wonders are done; 
 
 Then his fellows shall meet 
 To rear him a shaft. 
 
 They'll inscribe on its shrine, 
 "Tom Edison, the genius. 
 
 King of his kind," 
 
 WEARY OF LIFE 
 
 I'm weary of life. 
 
 With its drearysome strife. 
 And my heart nearly breaks, 
 
 For it sinks at the thought 
 As I think of my lot 
 
 With my life and mistakes. 
 
 Life's view has been turned 
 And I've duly discerned; 
 
 My side is that of despair. 
 For its light's almost gone, 
 
 And its night has come on 
 O'er my life with its care. 
 
 My face is aglare 
 
 With the trace of despair; 
 My eyes are beclouded, with gloom; 
 
 In the scope of my breast 
 Is the one hope of rest. 
 
 In the dark dismal tomb. 
 
 85 
 
TREE PEDDLER 
 
 The lightning-rod dispenser, 
 
 Has almost had his day; 
 But it seems the dread tree peddler, 
 
 Has surel}'^ come to stay. 
 And is bound to work his racket 
 
 In spite of will or wish. 
 And finds the honest farmer 
 
 His ever ready fish. 
 
 He drives the finest horses, 
 
 And is one among the swells, 
 He snarls at common livery. 
 
 And always stops at good hotels, 
 He refers to wine and sherry 
 
 When he's speaking of "refills." 
 In short he's a princely Nabob. 
 
 And the farmer pays his bills. 
 
 He has flattery for his fort, 
 
 Yet he's working all the joints. 
 He will talk and feel about you, 
 
 Till he finds your weakest points, 
 He will say you're influential 
 
 And your neighbors he'll claim 
 Would be far more easily sold to 
 
 If he only had your name. 
 
 He's an educated talker. 
 
 With a new and likely scheme. 
 That will captivate some persons, 
 
 That you'd very little dream 
 Could be fooled or flattered by him. 
 
 With his bland and polished talk. 
 About the various merits t 
 
 Of his budded nursery stock. 
 
 He will talk of horticulture 
 
 And the new and improved ways 
 By which his stalks produced 
 
 In these late and modern days. 
 And will tell of high-toned shade trees 
 
 That will grow off in a rush 
 And then send you scrubby maples, 
 
 That's been dug up in the brush. 
 
 86 
 
He's persistent in his efforts 
 
 And is reckless with his breath, 
 He will either sell his victims 
 
 Or he'll talk him plum to death, 
 And then turn upon the widow 
 
 In a manner brazen, brave. 
 And try to sell her weeping willows 
 
 For her murdered husband's grave. 
 
 As all have had experience 
 
 With this tree man and his ware, 
 His apples, quinces and peaches, 
 
 His cherries, shrubs and pears. 
 And if a single one has found them 
 
 Half so good as what he said 
 You will please to indicate it. 
 
 By simply standing on your head. 
 
 A TICKLE IN ITS TAIL 
 
 Come and see him, papa. 
 
 It's a pretty humming bug 
 That's pulling at the roses 
 
 Just as hard as he can tug; 
 All mussing up the flowers, 
 
 And just playing whale, 
 I'm afraid to shoo him, papa, 
 
 There's a tickle in his tail. 
 
 Come and see him, papa. 
 
 That's exactly just the way 
 The other one was acting. 
 
 That I caught the other day, 
 But I sent him off a flying, 
 
 As high as he could sail, 
 I could not hold him. papa. 
 
 For the tickle in his tail. 
 
 O dear, my silly boy. 
 
 You're mistaken, yes. I see, 
 It's not a humming bug. 
 
 But a vicious bumble bee; 
 Of course, you're but a boy. 
 
 But your human nature, frail. 
 Will find many a tempting thing 
 
 Has a tickle in its tail. 
 
 87 
 
BOARD OF TRADE 
 
 Any man can well afford 
 To place his money on the board. 
 It simply is a lone of trust; 
 Don't be afraid it will not bust. 
 
 The board of trade is safe and good, 
 You couldn't break it if you would, 
 It's a savings bank, if you wish to hoard, 
 Just place your money on the board. 
 
 Lots of men each year lay by 
 
 A little sum just on the sly. 
 
 As they do not like to have it said 
 
 They're banking with the board of trade. 
 
 It looks as if its just the plan, 
 As there's no doubt the Bradstreet man, 
 Is pretty sure to keep your dust 
 While you'll be very apt to bust. 
 
 The board of trade is just immense, 
 And all you need is confidence; 
 Some men have given their entire pile 
 To the board of trade to keep awhile. 
 
WHO IS WRONG 
 
 In all cases of differences 
 
 Where folks disagree, 
 And can make no adjustments. 
 
 As neither can see 
 But one side at once, 
 
 And they argue it strong, 
 Both sure they are right, 
 
 Yet some one is wrong. 
 
 For a point in religion 
 
 Some are ready to die. 
 They know it's correct 
 
 And show you just why. 
 Yet others dispute it. 
 
 And have all along, 
 With plenty of proof, 
 
 So some one is wrong. 
 
 Then the question of tariff 
 
 Is two sided, you know; 
 Some want it up high. 
 
 While others talk low; 
 It's a practical question. 
 
 To be settled e'er long. 
 Yet neither party will ever 
 
 Admit it was wrong. 
 
 It's so all along. 
 
 And it ever has been; 
 There's always been differences 
 
 In the judgment of men; 
 Yet in all of these ages 
 
 There is no one to awaken 
 To the thought they are human 
 
 And might be mistaken. 
 
 So this man they call wrong 
 
 Is a myth and a mirth, 
 Yet he's in every case 
 
 Of trouble on earth. 
 If you want money, go search 
 
 Through the great human throng. 
 There is a big reward offered 
 
 For the man that is wrong. 
 
 89 
 
WATCHING OUT 
 
 The devil's mighty dangerous 
 
 When he's out upon a raid, 
 When he goes a roaring 'round, 
 
 Then's the time to be afraid. 
 Then hie you clear away, 
 
 From his regular beaten route, 
 For you might be caught a nappin', 
 
 If you don't be watching out. 
 
 Just look a little out, 
 
 It's better that you would 
 Keep old Beelzebub at bay, 
 
 And make your distance good. 
 For the devil's out a lookin', 
 
 And a prowlin' all about. 
 And he'll get his hooks upon you 
 
 If you don't be watching out. 
 
 The devil is goin' around. 
 
 Just like a roarin' lion. 
 He's out upon the warpath, 
 
 Seekin' whom he'll find. 
 And you had better keep a watchin' 
 
 There's danger that he mout. 
 For the devil's sure to get you 
 
 If you don't be watching out. 
 
 NATURE'S BRUSH 
 
 Nature's brush has struck the pane; 
 
 'Tis silvered o'er with frost again; 
 She took the brush and made those flowers 
 
 That mocks the painter's grandest powers. 
 
 Nature in the depth of night 
 
 Has pointed yonder dazzling sight. 
 
 Those pretty flowers and blades of grass 
 On yonder sparkling window-glass. 
 
 The handy brush in Nature's hand 
 Has put to shame conceited man, 
 
 Who prides himself on some set line. 
 While Nature paints a new design. 
 
 Go view that scene on yonder pane, 
 It ne'er will be produced again. 
 
 As nature from her endless store 
 
 Will draw new scenes when frosting o'er. 
 
 Thou fool, who said within thy heart, 
 "There is no God," go view that art 
 
 Upon those panes, and you will find 
 There is a God in their design. 
 
 90 
 
OUR WOMEN FOLKS 
 
 Our women folks are surely rising, 
 
 They are just a wading in, 
 I'll tell you sir, it's plumb surprising, 
 
 How they're knocking out the men; 
 In each and every avocation. 
 
 Where thought and labor's needing. 
 Women seek for situation. 
 
 And I'll tell you they're succeeding. 
 
 In the school-room, with its cares, 
 
 In the office, with her pen. 
 In the factory, 'mid its wares, 
 
 Side by side with skillful men, 
 Woman wages competition. 
 
 She has raised the standard higher, 
 And all sort of light positions 
 
 Can be filled the better by her. 
 
 Sober woman without vices, 
 
 Neat and speedy with her hand. 
 Performs her work so much the nicest, 
 
 That I fear her fellow man 
 Must reform and mind his knittin'. 
 
 Look out sharp where danger lurks, 
 Or he'll get the entire mitten 
 
 While the women hold the works. 
 
 It's serious, boys, no need of scorning, 
 
 There is danger, mark my word. 
 You would better heed the warning. 
 
 It's the truest you have heard. 
 For the girls are on the hustle. 
 
 She's at school, her plans are laid, 
 You will shortly find your muscle 
 
 All the stock you have in trade. 
 
 I will say in this relation. 
 
 That I see in each report 
 Of every class in graduation. 
 
 That the girls have got the fort 
 By three to one, and sometimes greater. 
 
 Shame on you boys, where've you been? 
 You'll feel this odds in life on later. 
 
 When you've grown to useless men. 
 
 91 
 
THEN AND NOW 
 
 I cannot be accurate in date 
 
 But before the rebellion broke out, 
 'Twas perhaps in the year fifty-eight 
 
 Or somewhere along thereabout. 
 
 During the last week in December 
 
 It seems such a long time ago, 
 Though a child, I now well remember 
 
 And I'm getting quite aged, you know. 
 
 Yet memories are firm and unshaken, 
 
 Their name and their features are plain, 
 
 Though a child, I was not mistaken 
 As I think them all over again. 
 
 I can see them as they hurriedly gather 
 
 At the church; no, it isn't the same, 
 Through the chill of the cold winter weather; 
 
 Entertainment — no, that isn't the name. 
 
 Exhibition I believe as they style it, 
 
 Dialogues, tableaus and such things. 
 No music to mar or to spoil it 
 
 Except an old fiddle with strings. 
 
 Some people just raised the old dickens 
 
 And got on a mighty high perch. 
 They humped for a year with their kicking 
 
 About that old fiddle in church. 
 
 No organ — for no one could play it. 
 
 And the singing was wonderfully tame. 
 If they knew any piece they could sing it 
 
 And the show it went on just the same. 
 
 There were benches with a platform strung on them 
 
 Where the old pulpit stood. 
 Two posts and a wire with curtains hung on them 
 
 That hid all the stage very good. 
 
 They were handled with some sort o' strings 
 By some boys that were concealed. I suppose, 
 
 That they pulled when they heard the bell ring 
 For the curtain to open and close. 
 
 They are now old women and men. 
 
 I know them by name, every one. 
 They were only young people then 
 
 And full of their frolic and fun. 
 
 92 
 
Just a match for the sports of today. 
 
 No better or worse as I know. 
 Perhaps just a trifle more gay 
 
 As I saw them that night at their show. 
 
 'Twas a warm little thing for its time. 
 
 Tho' old people — well, you know what they did, 
 They made things just get up and climb. 
 
 The actors all slid off and hid 
 
 And chuckled at the din they had raised 
 With their show and old fiddle mixed in 
 
 I doubt if clear down to this day 
 They have ever repented their sin. 
 
 The piano of that day was the loom 
 
 Where the dresses of the beauties were made, 
 
 Accompanied by the wheel in the room 
 Making music back then was a trade. 
 
 That, the women all learned very young 
 Made mostly with their hands and their feet 
 
 All was marked with a rest for their tongue 
 And I tell you 'twas wonderfully sweet. 
 
 To have danced in that day was a sin. 
 
 An unpardonable one, too, at that. 
 Any mirth where there's music mixed in 
 
 And the feet went pit-a-pat. 
 
 Would have sprung then to a high fever heat 
 And cost well your life for its worth. 
 
 They'd simply get on their hind feet 
 And kick a great hole in the earth. 
 
 There were no bands in that day, not a band, 
 Not a note of that kind had been played. 
 
 Just the wolves all abroad in the land 
 Only them for a night serenade. 
 
 And prairies would ring with their howling 
 In a voice that was hideous and deep 
 
 Yet no worse than that gang that was prowling 
 In the garb of the innocent sheep. 
 
 Those old times seem very strange 
 
 With all their fuss and noise 
 Tonight we note a happy change 
 
 We proudly greet the boys. 
 
 93 
 
With all their music gay and grand 
 
 Their melodies so nice, 
 We hail with joy our city band 
 
 And gfladly pay the price. 
 
 For these treats are grand, indeed, 
 
 They tend to better things. 
 Sweet harmony is what we need 
 
 With all the joy it brings. 
 
 O, I love harmony, I know its best. 
 
 It's soothing to the weary heart. 
 We cease our strife and sink to rest. 
 
 The gloom and sadness will depart. 
 
 Beneath its tender strains sweet sounds 
 We feel, we know we cannot tell, 
 
 Within our heart a chord is found, 
 
 There comes a charm we love the spell. 
 
 It seems of heaven, a tender thrill, 
 
 It mounts aloft in sweet refrain. 
 We lend our ear, yes, sweeter still 
 
 It lifts us to a higher plane. 
 
 This earth of ours with kindred spheres 
 That's whirling on through endless space 
 
 Ages unknown a billion years 
 
 Though each must run a diflferent race. 
 
 Some radius large and some radius small 
 Circling around one common sun 
 
 Yet harmony pervades them all 
 Without a jar since time begun. 
 
 They're keeping time to God's own plan 
 
 In unison each runs his race. 
 So accurately that finite man 
 
 Can give their time and point their place. 
 
 Foretell eclipse most accurately. 
 
 He knows just when and where they're due. 
 Or find his course when lost at sea, 
 
 Then comes this thought — I and you. 
 
 If it so pleased that master mind 
 That tossed them to their given course. 
 
 To so arrange that whole combine 
 And give to each that exact force. 
 
 That drives each one to special time, 
 'Tis proof and enough to you and me 
 
 If worlds must play in regular chime 
 Then God above loves harmony. 
 
 94 
 
ROBBERS AND ASSASSINS 
 
 Some people's very visage 
 
 Has a woe-behaunted look. 
 Spreading gloomy sadness 
 
 In every bright and sunny nook. 
 They are robbers and assassins: 
 
 They will murder joyous light, 
 Turning bright and jolly sunshine 
 
 Into dark and dismal night. 
 
 You'll find these social cut-throats 
 
 In every walk of life: 
 Their tongue is far more deadly 
 
 Than the dark assassin's knife, 
 Their work is one of misery. 
 
 They have meanness in their mind; 
 They face you full of friendship, 
 
 Yet they'll strike you from behind. 
 
 They'll rob poor simple childhood 
 
 Of its bright and happy charms, 
 And fill their souls with horror, 
 
 And fill their minds with false alarms; 
 They crush and trample virtue. 
 
 Suppress and strangle mirth; 
 They would wipe all joy and gladness 
 
 From ofif the face of earth. 
 
 These social fiends and lepers 
 
 You'll find there's many such. 
 With a doleful malady. 
 
 That will poison by the touch. 
 Their work is that of misery, 
 
 And murdering joyous light. 
 Turning bright and jolly sunshine 
 
 Into dark and dismal night. 
 
 95 
 
A NICKEL 
 
 Only a nickel, 
 
 A tiny five cents, 
 Fleeting and fickle, 
 
 Of slight consequence; 
 Shifting and turning, 
 
 Bringing sorrow or joy; 
 Blessing or burning 
 
 The hand of the boy. 
 
 A tiny five cents; 
 
 Small, it is true. 
 Yet a good recompense 
 
 For the beer that they brew. 
 A most potent factor 
 
 At the bar of the man 
 That sells brain destracter 
 
 To the youth of our land. 
 
 This nickel is good 
 
 At the tobacco-man's bar, 
 In exchange for the quid 
 
 And filthy cigar 
 That shatters the nerve 
 
 And poisons the breath 
 Of the youth that would serve 
 
 Those agents of death. 
 
 Take care of the nickel, 
 
 Look sharp to its use. 
 You may get in a pickle 
 
 By its constant abuse. 
 There is honor and wealth 
 
 In its judicious care. 
 But dishonor and death 
 
 In its cheap little snare. 
 
 96 
 
THE ELOCUTIONIST 
 
 The elocutionist in his fine art 
 
 Has the muscles of his face 
 So well trained that they'll distort 
 
 And pull his features out of place. 
 They're computed very wise, 
 
 There's refinement in their craft, 
 They can roll their cultured eyes 
 
 Up just like a dying calf. 
 
 The elocutionist. I conclude. 
 
 In his pomp and strut parade, 
 Is a literary dude 
 
 In a garb another's made. 
 Although his address is very fine. 
 
 And there's grandeur in his tone, 
 Yet he fails to give a line 
 
 Or a thought that is his own. 
 
 He is just a phonograph — 
 
 A machine that sort o' grinds. 
 In a style that makes you laugh. 
 
 Out the thoughts of other minds. 
 He is just a mirth producer, 
 
 When you've said it, that is all; 
 A sort of struttin' crowin' rooster 
 
 With great hunks of lung and gall. 
 
 The elocutionist, as an artist. 
 
 Would be hard to over-rate. 
 That is, you take the smartest; 
 
 They have a memory, sir. that's great. 
 They can memorize Poe's "Raven" 
 
 From beginning to its end. 
 And repeat it off just stavin'. 
 
 With the flubdubs all mixed in. 
 
 Poor Edgar meant no such aflFliction 
 
 When he posed the raven there 
 Above the door, in his depiction 
 
 That so long has rent the air. 
 He'd made people quite a savin' 
 
 If he'd only told "Lenore" 
 Of this elocution raven. 
 
 And wrote "Raven, Nevermore." 
 
 They have a new one on the string 
 
 That they'll soon have memorized; 
 It is quite a touching thing, 
 
 And will prove a great surprise 
 When they spring it on the people; 
 
 It's a lover out of sight. 
 Swaying, shouting from the steeple — 
 
 "Curfew must not ring tonight." 
 
 97 
 
Then them bells, you've heard 'em ring 'em. 
 
 Seen them string out in their chimes; 
 Throw their arms and sway and swing 'em 
 
 Like they're flyin', most, sometimes. 
 Then light again so antic. 
 
 Oh, those cute and cunning things! 
 Winding up in some gay prantic 
 
 Just like cutting pigeon wings. 
 
 Poor old Darwin must have met one 
 
 When he got his inspiration 
 As to how mankind had sprung. 
 
 Looking back to first creation 
 He saw the monkey and the ape, 
 
 And got his ideas as an evolutionist, 
 From their resemblance, in the shape 
 
 Of some noted elocutionist. 
 
 HARD ON THE SOCKS 
 
 Have you seen 
 
 The gay toboggans 
 On the ladies' 
 
 Frizzed up noggins? 
 They're the gayest thing 
 
 Of the bonnet kind 
 That's struck the town 
 
 In the fashion line. 
 
 They're just too cute. 
 
 And made so cheap, 
 Of ravelins colored 
 
 Both pale and deep — 
 Raveled from old socks 
 
 Of any kind, 
 When made right nice 
 
 Will loom up fine. 
 
 One old lady 
 
 Here in our town 
 Made seven daughters 
 
 One each, around. 
 The girls all shine 
 
 To beat a fox. 
 But their poor old ma 
 
 Has got no socks. 
 
 98 
 
WOMEN IN PANTS 
 
 In looking back to the garden 
 
 Way down through the age, 
 When the fashionable fig leaf 
 
 Was the mania and rage, 
 We see woman in gowns 
 
 Just plucked from the branch, 
 With no thought that her daughter 
 
 Would some day wear the pants. 
 
 Sweet primitive woman 
 
 With thy meek trusting way. 
 According thy husband 
 
 Both the scepter and sway; 
 For Adam, as we have it, 
 
 Was boss of the ranch, 
 And held, undisputed, 
 
 A right to the pants. 
 
 But fashion will change, 
 
 And the last shall be first; 
 In this world with its hurry. 
 
 Some things get reversed. 
 We move with great strides; 
 
 Its an age of advance, 
 But its summit's been capped 
 
 With a woman in pants. 
 
 Wilkey Collins may sing 
 
 Of his woman in white, 
 But the poor little thing 
 
 Is a mighty tame sight. 
 He may prefer her 
 
 But she's no circumstance 
 To our modern holy terror, 
 
 Of woman in pants. 
 
 You may talk of cyclones, 
 
 Tornadoes and winds, 
 Their destruction of homes. 
 
 Helpless children and men. 
 Of the lightning's zig zag. 
 
 With its glitter and dance, 
 But all horror to that hag 
 
 Of a woman in pants. 
 
 99 
 
A GOODY, GOODY FELLOW 
 
 He's a goody, goody fellow, 
 
 So pure and free from sin, 
 And thanks his blessed maker 
 
 He is not as other men. 
 He's bubbling o'er with goodness, 
 
 In a saved and happy state, 
 Only waiting for the angels 
 
 To push ajar the gate. 
 
 He is wholly consecrated. 
 
 And is working for the Lord 
 Without any solicitation, 
 
 Free, and of his own accord. 
 He's a jewel, bright and shining. 
 
 Flashing, sparkling in the light, 
 Down among his lowly fellows 
 
 In their dark and sinful plight. 
 
 I sometimes sit and wonder, 
 
 Why they ever dropped him here. 
 As he surely was intended 
 
 For a higher, brighter sphere. 
 And I wonder that the angels 
 
 In concourse grand, sublime, 
 Don't come and take him bodily 
 
 To a more congenial clime. 
 
 OUR SILENT HERO RESTS 
 
 Our military world is bowed in recent grief; 
 
 Whereas the hand of death has stricken down its chief, 
 And laid to peaceful rest its pride and very pet, 
 
 And filled admiring hearts with sorrow and regret. 
 
 A noble spirit flown to a wider, grander field; 
 
 Where right is recognized without the clash of steel. 
 Beyond these peaceful portals within that haven blest; 
 
 They bid the weary spirit of the silent hero rest. 
 
 Kind heaven's ways are strange and we must simply yield, 
 No matter how they seem or how they make us feel, 
 
 It's probably all for good, of course, we can not tell. 
 Of this at least v/e are sure God doth all things well. 
 
 Therefore, resolved, we bow to that we can not avert, 
 And be we also ready and ever on the alert. 
 
 That when our time shall come and we are called to go 
 There may be joy in heaven and sorrow here below. 
 
 100 
 
CONFIDENCE 
 
 We are resting, peacefully resting, 
 
 Waiting for the consequence 
 Of that promised coming blessing, 
 
 Known and named as "confidence" 
 That they say is always hidden 
 
 Where low tariff shadows fall, 
 And comes forth upon the biddin' 
 
 Of high tariff for us all. 
 
 We are resting, simply waiting, 
 
 Shall we find it's been in vain? 
 Are these tidings so elating, 
 
 That we've heard and heard again? 
 Are we fooled in our confiding? 
 
 Where's the end of this suspense? 
 Is it fleeting or abiding 
 
 Where, O where's this confidence? 
 
 We are resting on that promise, 
 
 We've performed our sovereign task, 
 In that vote that they got from us, 
 
 We have paid them all they ask. 
 All are kings within this country, 
 
 Mighty Sovereigns. Sir. and prince; 
 Will you please to trace and hunt her? 
 
 We demand our "confidence." 
 
 We're confiding, simply trusting, 
 
 'Neath this dire financial strain. 
 Some assigning, others busting. 
 
 Anguish, misery, hunger, pain. 
 We implore you on your honor. 
 
 For our votes in recompense. 
 O, be quick, we're most a gonner; 
 
 Please restore that "confidence." 
 
 101 
 
WONDERFUL TIME 
 
 Wonderful, wonderful time, 
 
 So powerful, yet slow in thy ways! 
 
 Thy movements are grand and sublime; 
 Thy workings are worthy of praise. 
 
 All praise to thy progress so grand, 
 
 As it slowly crumbles to dust 
 The hobbies and errors of man. 
 
 And makes him more wise and just. 
 
 O, time, we bid thee rule on. 
 Thou refiner of man and his mind, 
 
 Until all his drosses are gone 
 And the man is entirely refined. 
 
 Rule on, O time in thy might. 
 
 Dealing justice to the great human throng. 
 Rewarding, encouraging the right — 
 
 Reproving, avenging the wrong. 
 
 LIKE YOUR DADDIES USE TO BELIEVE 
 
 Are you Democrat — Republican, 
 
 Or what's your politics? 
 Have you ever taken a step. 
 
 Or do you firmly stick 
 To the notions of your daddies? 
 
 Are you holding to his sleeve? 
 Aren't your ideas just the same 
 
 As your daddies used to believe? 
 
 Are you Methodist or Catholic, 
 
 Or what's your favorite church? 
 Is it your father's choice. 
 
 Or have you thought to search 
 Their claims and make a choice 
 
 Or would you just as leave 
 Accept those old time creeds. 
 
 Your fathers used to believe. 
 
 Have you ever had a notion. 
 
 Or an independent thought? 
 Any ideas of your own, 
 
 Except those your daddy taught? 
 H you have, you're an infidel. 
 
 And lost beyond retrieve. 
 For not thinking just the same 
 
 As your daddy used to believe. 
 
 102 
 
A QUEER WIFE 
 
 I've the queerest wife you've ever seen; 
 She continually wants a magazine. 
 It's just the height of all her glory 
 To get and read some thrilling story. 
 
 She likes a tale of love the best, 
 No matter how absurd the mess; 
 She takes it in with eager haste, 
 To gratify her novel taste. 
 
 She avows to hate a common liar. 
 And wonders why they thus desire 
 To verbally tell some frivolous tale. 
 And thinks it all because they're frail. 
 
 But a nicely framed and painted lie 
 Is just the thing to take her eye. 
 As written by some skillful hand 
 Upon some artful, pleasing plan. 
 
 She hates the man who stoops to tell 
 A little story not worded well, 
 But likes a liar whose aim is high. 
 Not only him, but likes his lie. 
 
 103 
 
THE KIND OF SENSE HE NEEDS 
 
 Though you have a thousand talents 
 
 And a genius well defined, 
 Are ranked among the gallants 
 
 With a superior sort of mind: 
 Have good ideas and suggestions, 
 
 And are classed among the scholars. 
 Yet your senses will be questioned 
 
 If they don't count into dollars. 
 
 'Tis the cents that makes the mare go, 
 
 That are counted by the tens, 
 They're the only kind the world knows — 
 
 And your life and all depends 
 On your shrewdness to acquire them, 
 
 And lay them safely by, 
 For the world it does admire them, 
 
 It esteems their owners high. 
 
 'Tis the cents that make the dollars, 
 
 They're the only ones that count; 
 No matter what he follows. 
 
 Or how he got his big amounts. 
 If they're large and safely cared for, 
 
 He's a brainy man, indeed, 
 And's on to what we're here for. 
 
 With the kind of cents he needs. 
 
 SWEET HOME 
 
 You may write of sweet home. 
 
 Set it nicely to note; 
 It looks fine in a poem. 
 
 But I'll bet if the poet 
 That so gayly has said it 
 
 Has a home of his own, 
 He has bought it on credit 
 
 It is all in the loan. 
 If he sticks to his rhyme 
 
 And keeps musing about 
 He will have a sweet time 
 
 Before his home is paid out. 
 
 104 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 Merry Christmas, happy day, 
 Day of leisure, mirth and plaj', 
 With happy heart and gleeful tongue 
 Thy welcoming song is ever sung. 
 
 Happy Christmas, day that lifts 
 
 The selfish heart to noble gifts, 
 
 And puts the friend where self belongs, 
 
 And fills the world with happy throngs. 
 
 Blessed Christmas, how children long 
 To feel thy mirth and hear thy song; 
 At early dawn the little flocks 
 Search for thy joys among their socks. 
 
 Christmas, blessed day for man. 
 Low here's a gift — the time's at hand — 
 A Savior came, a king was born — 
 Best gift of all — on Christmas morn. 
 
 Holy gift! Indulgent heaven! 
 The choicest gift that e'er was given. 
 On Christmas day God did bestow 
 On fallen mankind here below. 
 
 105 
 
THE MORNING GLORY'S STORY 
 
 Morning-glories as they cling, 
 
 With their tiny tender clutch, 
 Creeping up the dangling string 
 
 Until the eave their branches touch. 
 Gentle zephyrs set them swaying, 
 
 Beneath the wall their flowers shading, 
 O'er and o'er they're daily saying, 
 
 "Beauties fading, beauties fading." 
 
 Come and see the morning-glory 
 
 As its creeping up the wall. 
 To repeat its daily story. 
 
 For the benefit of all. 
 In its gay and gaudy hues 
 
 There's a lesson pretty maiden, 
 Come quickly and peruse. 
 
 For its fading, surely fading. 
 
 Come and see the lovely flowers 
 
 On the pretty morning-glory. 
 As they breathe with silent powers. 
 
 Their oft repeated story. 
 As they're saying, daily saying. 
 
 "Beauteous tints, with which we're ladened, 
 Like all beauty is decaying. 
 
 It is fading, surely fading." 
 
 A TIME TO SWEAR 
 
 There is a time for everything; 
 
 And the cursing time is in the spring. 
 
 When the matron turns things upside down 
 
 Scrubs and scolds and bosses round. 
 
 O, how we dread house cleaning time! 
 
 There's straw, tacks, and white-wash lime; 
 
 Wall-paper too, and paint and paste; 
 
 Muscle, hustle, growl and haste. 
 
 Poor husband! if he's time to spare. 
 
 O then's the time he'll curse and swear! 
 
 106 
 
MARRIAGE BELL 
 
 The marriage bell with its merry peal, 
 Has much of mirth and joy to yield. 
 To the gathering throng of young and gay 
 At yonder house across the way, 
 Where sits the bride in silks and lace 
 Arranged in style with care and taste; 
 With a happy heart and a hopeful mind 
 Impatiently waiting the appointed time. 
 
 Another peal and the wedding o'er, 
 She, once a maid is now no more. 
 She took the vow. she is a wife. 
 Has entered now an unknown life. 
 Hark! hear that bell, its peal resound 
 And echoes back for miles around 
 Its murmurs chants a happy lay 
 For that young bride across the way. 
 
 But Oh. how changed and dull it sounds 
 To many an ear within its bound, 
 That once has heard it with heart as light 
 And full of hope as her's tonight. 
 Many a widow within her home 
 Recalls the peals from that same dome. 
 Her once fair cheeks are bathed with tears 
 As she wonders back to bygone years. 
 
 She wonders back to the day and year 
 
 When that bell pealed more gay and clear. 
 
 She sits and listens and thinks it strange 
 
 That once sweet chime is now so changed. 
 
 Her heavy heart once gay and light 
 
 Her lean sad face, once plump and bright, 
 
 Her laughing eyes, once wavy hair. 
 
 Are blurred and dimmed with time and care. 
 
 She wanders back to her wedding day 
 When all went fine and bright and gay. 
 Her countenance lights with a half sad smile 
 As her memory rests from her last sad trial. 
 That same bell rang on her wedding day, 
 That same bell tolled all her hopes away. 
 It sounds full of joy when happy and gay 
 But sounds very dull when hope's laid away. 
 
 107 
 
GAMING 
 
 The boys have been gaming, 
 
 It's a fact we can't deny, 
 Betting of their money 
 
 At cards upon the sly. 
 And the people got to kicking; 
 
 They wont allow it. just because 
 It seems to be theirbusiness 
 
 To be dealing out the laws. 
 
 They used to have a corner 
 
 On the business heretofore. 
 The boys seemed to be united, 
 
 When they were called before 
 The court, with minds benighted 
 
 And memory clouded o'er; 
 So they could scarcely answer 
 
 To anything, for sure. 
 
 But it seems they got to quarreling. 
 
 And could none of them be trusted; 
 And the people got the truth — 
 
 The combination's busted, 
 And the law has had it's course 
 
 With a sad, but wiser lot. 
 For the Judge held four big aces 
 
 And the county took the pot. 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 January has come again, 
 
 And the duty now devolves 
 
 On frail and fickle man 
 To make his new resolves. 
 
 Eighty-six has surely caught 
 Those chronics that yet survive 
 
 Who carelessly have put to naught 
 Their pledges made in eighty-five. 
 
 The tobacco-loving slave 
 
 Will again his pledges show 
 
 Upon the tomb of those he gave 
 Last January, a year ago. 
 
 The drunkard and the swearing rake 
 Will now reform some more. 
 
 And keep the pledges that they make, 
 Just as they did before. 
 
 108 
 
A SIDE SHOW 
 
 Did you ever once abide 
 
 Where they're always sorter mussin'; 
 Where they took a special pride 
 
 In one continual string of fussin'; 
 Where there's pullin' and see-sawin', 
 
 And could never quite agree; 
 Just a scoldin' and a jawin'. 
 
 All as cross as they could be? 
 
 Do you know there're families soured, 
 
 That have actually sorter spoiled. 
 They have rangled and they've joured, 
 
 And have mingled in turmoil 
 'Till they've all got sorter chronic. 
 
 Are only normal when they're mad. 
 And take to fussin' as a tonic 
 
 When they're feeling sorter bad. 
 
 Do you know there're lots of cases, 
 
 Yes whole families out of sorts. 
 Where they've always got mean faces, 
 
 And they cave and just cavort. 
 With cross eyes that's always gleamin', 
 
 And its one continual spell? 
 They are living human demons 
 
 In a sort of side show hell. 
 
 109 
 
ODE TO THE WIND 
 
 O the wind, the gentle wind. 
 Waving, tossing, passing on. 
 
 Nature's robes in reverence bend 
 As it's sweeping over the lawn. 
 
 O the wind, the rising wind, 
 We shudder at its doleful wail, 
 
 As with it the roaring blends 
 Of the coming dashing gale. 
 
 O the wind, the terrible wind. 
 Tearing on in desperate form, 
 
 Making boards and trumpery give 
 To the music of the storm. 
 
 O the wind, the desperate wind, 
 
 Sweeping on with power unknown. 
 
 Protect us from the dreadful din 
 
 Of the twisting, twirling dread cyclone. 
 
 O the wind, the horrible wind. 
 
 We will meet the cyclone hand to hand 
 
 But save Oh! save, should he begin, 
 That windy, breezy, traveling man. 
 
 110 
 
A LITTLE STRANGER 
 
 The nicest little stranger 
 
 Has called at our place. 
 A bouncing baby boy 
 
 With the sweetest dimple face. 
 He is a little landlord 
 
 And would have us understand 
 That we are only servants. 
 
 While he is in command. 
 
 He's the most familiar stranger 
 
 That we have had to call; 
 He's not at all particular 
 
 With orders to us all. 
 He seems to forget the "pleases," 
 
 But when his head is set 
 He gets his little wishes 
 
 Without the use of etiquette. 
 
 This noisy little stranger 
 
 Is trying with all his might 
 To set this piece to music, 
 
 That I am trying to write. 
 But I think I understand him: 
 
 He wants me to hurry up 
 And stop this foolishness. 
 
 And give him soothing syrup. 
 
 HUMAN CLOTHES-RACK 
 
 Mighty swell, this human clothes-rack. 
 
 Highly prized for just their pelts. 
 Just the goods upon their back. 
 
 Simply that and nothing else; 
 A common form for self-confessing 
 
 That they've taken special pains 
 To apologize, by over dressing, 
 
 For the lack of worth or brains. 
 
 Ill 
 
JONES AND HIS NEIGHBORS 
 
 (A Romance) 
 Chapter I. 
 
 A regular rhyming romance, 
 
 With a rhyming ring, 
 Is rather a departure 
 
 A real novel thing; 
 Although it's out of style, 
 
 It's a right that we shall claim, 
 And if it isn't regular 
 
 We shall meekly bear the blame. 
 
 In our regular rhyming romance, 
 
 We shall need a heroine. 
 And shall use as nice a lady 
 
 As anyone can find. 
 We found her in the country. 
 
 And she's pretty, by the way. 
 She is not so very flip. 
 
 And yet she's pretty gay. 
 
 As we found her in the country, 
 
 She is a trifle plain, 
 But we'll style her up a little. 
 
 For our reader, that is vain. 
 It's just as cheap as any, 
 
 So just you wait awhile. 
 Until she makes her toilet. 
 
 Then she's coming out in style. 
 
 So while the reader's waiting 
 
 We will introduce her "pap;" 
 He's something of a fogy, 
 
 An old fashioned country chap. 
 That has an eye for business 
 
 And not for all the world; 
 Would he allow a lazy loafer 
 
 A loitering 'round his girl. 
 
 He has the prettiest farm. 
 
 In just the loveliest spot; 
 He bought it long ago. 
 
 When the best was easily got 
 And his house is situated 
 
 On the nicest little mound. 
 That towers up above, 
 
 And overlooks the neighboring town. 
 
 112 
 
His house, though not the finest, 
 
 Looks very snug without, 
 Some distance from the road 
 
 With its shade trees all about. 
 And it has an air of comfort 
 
 That strikes the passer-by, 
 Combined with simple neatness 
 
 That captivates the eye. 
 
 And flowers bestrew the walk. 
 
 On each and every side. 
 As it stretches up the slope 
 
 Among the trees, so dignified; 
 And the grass a trifle tall, 
 
 Is bowing to the breeze, 
 As it plays among the leaves 
 
 And sways the towering trees. 
 
 It's not so very strange 
 
 That anyone should find. 
 In such a lovely spot. 
 
 A pretty heroine. 
 Whose life has been enshrouded 
 
 In a romance — yes a mystery; 
 Whom I now will introduce, 
 
 And proceed to give her history. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 In the coming introduction. 
 
 Of our pretty heroine. 
 We shall simply introduce her, 
 
 As we have her now in mind. 
 In person with exactness, 
 
 But in dress, not so minute. 
 As it takes a modern expert 
 
 To describe a lady's suit. 
 
 We shall call her Katie Jones, 
 
 Of course it's not her name. 
 But then it's just as handy. 
 
 And will answer all the same. 
 It's sound is quite familiar, 
 
 But we will take the chance, 
 And trust to coming events 
 
 For the "Simon Pure" romance. 
 
 Of the family's former history 
 
 There is very little known. 
 It's Mr. Jones' secret, 
 
 And he keeps it all his own. 
 Perhaps he has acted wisely. 
 
 At least, I'm frank to say. 
 If I had been intrusted, 
 
 I should give him "dead away." 
 
 113 
 
There is a common story, 
 
 In regard to Mr. Jones, 
 As to how he got the money 
 
 To buy the land he owns. 
 And it's said that pretty Katie, 
 
 Is not a daughter of his own; 
 But then it's simply gossip, 
 
 As there's nothing certain known. 
 
 He chose the lovely section, 
 
 On which his present cottage stands, 
 From among the million acres 
 
 Of the pretty prairie lands, 
 He was thought a speculator. 
 
 In that very early day. 
 As he suddenly came, entered, 
 
 And quickly went away. 
 
 But then, he came again, 
 
 In another year or two, 
 And acted just as if. 
 
 He had an end in view. 
 And fenced this lovely mound. 
 
 And planted out his shade, 
 As if he aimed to build, 
 
 But left and never said. 
 
 It seemed to worry his neighbors. 
 
 And they could not understand. 
 Why he blufifed them off so gruff. 
 
 When they pumped him for his plan. 
 But, what's this to do with Katie, 
 
 With her history for our text; 
 You will understand it better 
 
 When you have read our next. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 Time will work its changes. 
 
 As the years go rolling 'round, 
 It has gradually made a grove, 
 
 Of Mr. Jones' prairie mound. 
 On each and every spring, 
 
 There comes a husbandman. 
 To tend and trim the trees, 
 
 And beautify the land. 
 
 So finally, one Monday morning. 
 
 The neighbors heard upon the road, 
 A string of chuckling wagons, 
 
 Bearing each a heavy load; 
 They were freighted down with lumber, 
 
 And lime and brick and stones. 
 Slowly moving up the mound; 
 
 That belonged to Mr. Jones. 
 
 114 
 
Then shortly came the workmen, 
 
 And the work at once began; 
 Under the directions 
 
 Of a skilled and special man, 
 Who moved it smoothly on, 
 
 Unto entire completion. 
 And there it stood, a type 
 
 Of architectural neatness. 
 
 And the neighbors, all the while, 
 
 Were slyly prying 'round. 
 They talked among each other, 
 
 But no one could be found 
 To give the slightest inkling. 
 
 From which to reason by, 
 As to why the house was built. 
 
 Or who would occupy. 
 
 The foreman said a banker 
 
 In a neighboring town. 
 Had furnished him the plan, 
 
 And had "planked" the money down, 
 And bound him by a bond 
 
 To do the work "just so;" 
 And that was just as much. 
 
 And all he wished to know. 
 
 But the public strain was short, 
 
 As, soon there came a man 
 And a little girl, 
 
 And they seemed to understand 
 That the house was built for them, 
 
 Beyond a doubt or question, 
 As they proceeded to the mound 
 
 And took entire possession. 
 
 It is hardly necessary 
 
 That we should stop to state 
 That this was Mr. Jones 
 
 And his little daughter Kate, 
 As she was afterwards known. 
 
 For 'twas generally understood 
 That she was Jones' daughter 
 
 Throughout the neighborhood. 
 
 The neighbors were baffled once 
 
 In this particular case, 
 As each mystery passed away 
 
 Another took its place. 
 They got but little comfort. 
 
 For all their many cares 
 And troubles, for their pains 
 
 They took with his affairs. 
 
 115 
 
There, Mr. Jones attended 
 
 So strict his own affairs, 
 That the neighbors took the hint 
 
 And attended more to theirs. 
 They seemed to recognize 
 
 His drive and acquiesce, 
 In his silent intimation 
 
 That he knew his business best. 
 
 But time will do its work. 
 
 In spite of crafty man. 
 No matter how still, or deep, 
 
 He hides his evil plan. 
 His sin will find him out, 
 
 His secret shall be free; 
 Time will rend the veil. 
 
 As we shall shortly see. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 A childless man and wife 
 
 Were employed upon the mound; 
 The lady to keep the house 
 
 And the man to chore around. 
 He had little else to do, 
 
 As the section was seeded down, 
 And covered with grazing herds 
 
 All the year 'round. 
 
 And these formed Katie's circle. 
 
 In which she lived and grew; 
 These were all the friends 
 
 She really had. or knew. 
 As the world stood coolly barred, 
 
 Beyond her father's gate. 
 And spread with many charms 
 
 Before the eyes of Kate. 
 
 She often wandered to the fence. 
 
 Along the big road side. 
 And looked across the country 
 
 That stretched away so wide. 
 She viewed the neighboring houses, 
 
 And wondered if their little girl 
 Was allowed to sit upon the fence, 
 
 And view the pretty world. 
 
 And again she watched the neighbors, 
 
 As they went passing by; 
 They looked upon her pretty face 
 
 With a mystifying sigh; 
 While she was wondering who they were. 
 
 And if their little Kate. 
 Was waiting for them, on the fence. 
 
 Out by their front door gate. 
 
 116 
 
We will drop our childish Katie; 
 
 And return to Katie Jones, 
 As introduced in evening toilet, 
 
 More matured and larger grown. 
 A perfect type of female beauty, 
 
 And withall. a pretty lass, 
 With this bit of childish history 
 
 We shall drop the early past. 
 
 Beauty always has its charms. 
 
 It will attract in spite of fate, 
 The rule has no exceptions, 
 
 'Twas true with pretty Kate. 
 But what good would admirers be 
 
 To a pretty prison girl. 
 When a father and his gate. 
 
 Kept at bay the entire world. 
 
 But love is very cunning. 
 
 There is always some one found 
 To maneuver 'round the stockade. 
 
 Until they find a gap that's down. 
 And we have just such a hero. 
 
 That we shall call in use. 
 As Katie's lover and admirer. 
 
 Whom we now will introduce. 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 In the introduction of our hero, 
 
 We shall call him Johnny Brown, 
 He was the pupil of a lawyer, 
 
 In a neighboring town; 
 That manages Jones' business 
 
 Under contract by the year, 
 As common law adviser. 
 
 And general business overseer. 
 
 Thus, in his law connection, 
 
 There were often chances found, 
 To justify a business visit 
 
 Of our hero to the mound. 
 And on several such occasions, 
 
 In a very cautious way. 
 He chatted Katie on the news. 
 
 And general interest of the day. 
 
 Young Brown quite soon concluded 
 
 To use his special rate, 
 And add another message 
 
 And address the same to Kate, 
 And he slyly passed it to her. 
 
 While Jones' back was turned. 
 And maintained his usual air. 
 
 So grave and unconcerned. 
 
 117 
 
And on his next return 
 
 He got a nice reply; 
 She delivered it so cutely, 
 
 So trusting like and shy, 
 That he fully read the answer 
 
 And his mind was at rest. 
 As he felt that he was sure 
 
 Of a fact that he had guessed. 
 
 But in spite of all precaution, 
 
 Jones very soon caught on; 
 He saw suspicious glances 
 
 Exchanged by Kate and John. 
 So he straightway wrote his lawyer, 
 
 That messages for the mound 
 Would hereafter be refused. 
 
 If sent by Mr. Brown. 
 
 But the best is not the cheapest. 
 
 Good always costs enough; 
 True love is not the smoothest. 
 
 It's course is sometimes rough. 
 And a prize is always valued. 
 
 By the price for which it's bought; 
 And a thing that's readily had 
 
 Is very rarely sought. 
 
 Jones was a crafty man. 
 
 And always up to snufif. 
 With a stern commanding air 
 
 And a manner course and gruff; 
 But he badly missed his guess, 
 
 When he thought that Johnny Brown 
 Could be bluffed, and forever boasted. 
 
 By his stern parental frown. 
 
 Their forethought served them well, 
 
 For the contingency now had grown, 
 In anticipation of which 
 
 They planned an office of their own; 
 Through which he learned from Katie 
 
 That on a certain day. 
 Her father would take a trip. 
 
 Where to, she could not say. 
 
 Now this was just the news 
 
 That pleased young Johnny Brown, 
 As he thought these annual trips 
 
 Led to the old stamping ground. 
 Where the mysteries of Mr. Jones 
 
 Could readily be found out, 
 So he concluded to disguise. 
 
 And shadow him o'er his route. 
 
 118 
 
Chapter VI. 
 
 On the day of Jones' departure, 
 
 Young Brown complete disguised, 
 Was promptly on hand at the station, 
 
 And was not once recognized. 
 As he passed his many acquaintances; 
 
 His faith grew strong in his plan. 
 His chances now lay in maneuvering, 
 
 And keeping on trail of his man. 
 
 He watched by the ticket-ofhce window, 
 
 And waited for his victim to buy, 
 And hoped to eave drop his call, 
 
 Or detect the name by his eye. 
 But he waited in vain for his coming. 
 
 As the old man never once stirred. 
 Until the shrill scream of the engine 
 
 As it checked for the station was heard. 
 
 Our detective, with his old carpet satchel 
 
 Walked back to the rear of the coach. 
 And waited for the passengers to settle. 
 
 In order to gain an approach. 
 Unheard for the noise of the train. 
 
 Unseen as he approached from the rear. 
 And so he thus occupied 
 
 A position that was favorably near. 
 
 And as the conductor came through 
 
 Collecting the tickets and fare, 
 He watched Mr. Jones more closely 
 
 Than he thought he should dare, 
 And got but a very faint idea, 
 
 As to the amount of money he paid; 
 As he thus hoped to find out 
 
 Where his first change was made. 
 
 So our detective was baffled, 
 
 In this, his favorite plan; 
 He concluded that vigilance 
 
 Was the thing now most in demand, 
 And so he took a position 
 
 That furnished the very best view; 
 He concluded to trust to his eyes. 
 
 And quietly shadow him through. 
 
 Hour after hour flew by, 
 
 Station after station was passed; 
 Our detective grew weary of waiting, 
 
 But the time for a change came at last. 
 After watching the maneuvering closely, 
 
 He saw but a point had been gained; 
 His victim had simply alighted, 
 
 And was waiting for some other train. 
 
 119 
 
But soon he was cooly seated 
 
 In the rear of an out-going train, 
 That was quietly bearing away. 
 
 The object of his interest again. 
 Speeding in another direction. 
 
 As the train went flying 'long, 
 He watched the coming and going, 
 
 And the mingling of the human throng. 
 
 Before they had gone far, 
 
 He noticed every once and awhile. 
 Someone would recognize Jones, 
 
 And greet him with a smile. 
 He felt he was nearing the place, 
 
 Where the mystery could be fully learned; 
 That had been to those neighbors of his, 
 
 A matter of lingering concern. 
 
 His suspicions were fully confirmed, 
 
 He quickly followed his man. 
 As he stepped off on the platform, 
 
 When the train came to a stand. 
 He saw from the greeting extended 
 
 To him by the people around, 
 That he was now on the site 
 
 Of Jones' old stamping ground. 
 
 Chapter VH. 
 
 Our detective at once set out 
 
 In search of a hotel. 
 To mature his future plans. 
 
 And rest himself a spell. 
 With no further use for Jones, 
 
 He now could go his way; 
 He wished to see his friends 
 
 And hear what they would say. 
 
 His landlord said that Jones 
 
 Had lived some years ago. 
 In the country, south of town. 
 
 Just where, he did not know; 
 But said a widow neighbor. 
 
 An old settler in the town. 
 Knew all about the people 
 
 For twenty miles around. 
 
 She knew all about their folks 
 
 And could tell their people's name. 
 And give their native state, 
 
 And tell the year they came. 
 He said she lived close by. 
 
 He knew that she could tell 
 All about his Mr. Jones, 
 
 And all his folks as well. 
 
 120 
 
He said that she could answer 
 
 Any question he could ask; 
 That she took a special pride, 
 
 In her memory of the past, 
 And if he thought he would like 
 
 To go and interview her, 
 He would gladly show him over, 
 
 And introduce him to her. 
 
 He went at once and found her, 
 
 In quite a pleasant way. 
 And gradually turned the conversation, 
 
 From the interest of the day. 
 To the improvement of the country. 
 
 Compared with former days, 
 And the gradual changes 
 
 Of neighbors' names and ways. 
 
 He inquired about the Jones', 
 
 If they were still around; 
 He said they once had lived 
 
 Some place just south of town. 
 She told him one had died 
 
 And left a large estate. 
 In care of a bachelor brother. 
 
 For his only daughter Kate. 
 
 She said this bachelor uncle 
 
 Had taken her west. 
 Out to her mother's folks, 
 
 As perhaps he thought it best; 
 She supposed he had loaned her money, 
 
 At least, had rented her ground, 
 For quite a handsome sum. 
 
 As it lay so near the town. 
 
 She told him many things 
 
 We need not stop to tell. 
 That explained the many secrets 
 
 Jones had kept so well. 
 With his mission quite complete, 
 
 He now is homeward bound, 
 To notify Miss Katie 
 
 That she's mistress of the mound. 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 Hark! Hear the merry voices. 
 
 And the tread to music's sound, 
 Of the giddy gay cotillion; 
 
 There is dancing at the mound. 
 Time has wrought its changes. 
 
 And the cruel prison bar 
 Has been lifted, and its gate 
 
 Stands invitingly ajar. 
 
 121 
 
And the pretty prison girl 
 
 Is hostess of the mound, 
 And her happy gay companions 
 
 In their merry making 'round, 
 Wish her many joys, 
 
 A long and happy life, 
 And compliment our hero, 
 
 On the way he won his wife. 
 
 And the neighbors stand in groups, 
 
 Beneath the shady trees, 
 With their faces all aglow 
 
 And as smiling as you please. 
 They speak of former mysteries, 
 
 With a "Didn't I tell you so," 
 There is always something wrong, 
 
 With what us neighbors darst know. 
 
 Old Jones has come to time, 
 
 For fear of doing worse; 
 He's bowed to Johnny Brown, 
 
 And as Kate is reimbursed. 
 They let him leave the country 
 
 In a very quiet way; 
 And the neighbors say, they think 
 
 That he has gone to stay. 
 
 If we had clothed our story 
 
 In free and easy prose. 
 We could of strung it out. 
 
 How far, the goodness knows. 
 And now our patient reader. 
 
 Will be happy, I suppose, 
 To find that our Rhyming Romance 
 
 Has drawn to a close. 
 
 122 
 
A REASONABLE FUNERAL SERMON. 
 
 When death curtains down the eyelids and that part 
 spoken of as the immortal passes out into the boundless 
 and unknown beyond, and when to that mystery of birth 
 and human life has been added that awe-inspiring mystery 
 of death and physical dissolution, and we that still await 
 this same unavoidable destiny, gather about the bier of a 
 departed loved one and by our presence testify as to our 
 love and appreciation of the many noble traits of mind 
 and heart as exemplified in this life that has now come to 
 a close. As we thus gather beneath this the darkest 
 shadow that ever beclouds the horizon of human exper- 
 ience, it is best that we deal not only charitably but hon- 
 estly with this defenseless friend. 
 
 This is no time or place for idle speculations or the 
 proffering of gracious gifts and blissful favors which we 
 do not possess. This one world with its uncertain life is 
 all that is surely ours, and whatever debt or obligation any 
 of us now owe this departed one must forever remain 
 unpaid. Therefore, remember please, first, the uncertainty 
 of life and the necessity of always maintaining harmon- 
 ious relations with all of our friends. The best prepara- 
 tion anyone can make for death is to be at peace with 
 all mankind, daily strengthening the cord of friend and 
 kinship. 
 
 I have no thought or conjectures to oflfer as to the 
 further state of this beloved spirit that has so lately 
 passed out and beyond the pale of human help or inter- 
 ference, but if this be a transitory state preparatory to 
 another and better, then I believe this spirit deserves pro- 
 motion. But I do not know whether this friend becom- 
 ing weary dropped his burden by the wayside and laid 
 down to peaceful and everlasting rest, or if the closing of 
 this life was but the preface to the opening of another. 
 
 This question is as old as the pages of human his- 
 tory. Way back down the long ago ages this question was 
 propounded and it has been reiterated, re-echoed and re- 
 sounded all along up the many ages of human evolution. 
 Let whoever answer it that dare to and all answer it 
 that care to, yet so long as this world continues to re- 
 volve upon its axis, mankind people its surface, and each 
 succeeding generation continues to gather by the grave- 
 side of the one preceding, just that long will human 
 tongue continue to repeat this old and as yet unsatis- 
 factorily answered question — "If a man die shall he live 
 again?" 
 
 I have no fault to find with anybody's faith or forms 
 of religion — with this friend these matters are now closed, 
 and that, too, forever — and I prefer to leave them un- 
 
 123 
 
molested and just as he left them. These important mat- 
 ters are likely to be settled by everyone in an honest and 
 conscientious manner, and where honesty and sincerity 
 are disrespected there is little to be hoped for, all nature, 
 and especially human nature, is made up of opposites and 
 these opposites dwell together in pairs. 
 
 Were I to tell you that this friend had no bad in 
 him, it would be equivalent to admitting he had no good. 
 Few persons, and I doubt if any, have ever succeeded 
 in cultivating the good to the entire exclusion of the bad. 
 
 Firmly believing this friend's effort at character build- 
 ing was just as good as he knew how to build, and fully 
 knowing that such effort is just as good as the very best, 
 I shall refrain from any comment, and if there be any 
 presumptions, sinless person present, it is within their 
 province, and not mine, to cast the stones. 
 
 If I were a dreamer and a word-artist, I might paint 
 you a beautiful picture of another and better world where 
 all is perpetual sunshine; I might embellish it with flow- 
 ing fountains, tracing here and there beautiful, winding 
 rivers rippling through its sloping dells, befringed upon 
 either side with ever blooming flowers; I could nestle 
 here and there eternal and beautiful cities whose blissful 
 inhabitants are immune from pain and sorrow and whose 
 immortal lives are one continual round of joy and pleas- 
 ure. But I will not indulge my fancies for I take it 
 that these friends are entirely too intelligent to take 
 comfort from the ideal dreams of any finite mind re- 
 garding places or conditions of which they know nothing. 
 
 Therefore, today let us push aside the ideal dream- 
 er and turn our backs upon the musty superstitions of 
 an old and uninteresting age, and come forth upon this 
 solemn occasion in the honest, open manner that this 
 age should demand and admit that not only death, but 
 birth and human life, and a million other things by which 
 we are surrounded, are unfathomable mysteries, and to- 
 day, kind friends, let us join that innumerable host, both 
 living and dead, that did and do believe that some time, 
 somehow and somewhere all will be well and end well 
 with all mankind. 
 
 124 
 
Tnc Riniw Pss8s 
 
 PRimlRS 
 
 DicATui, lunau 
 
^XiV- 
 
 \^2 
 
 \90^