klafjoma $Joem£ 
 
 anb ^tfjer Vtxit 
 
 BY 
 
 FKAXK M. COLV1LLE 
 
 Poet Jjiureate (if the Stale Semite 
 Oklahoma 
 
 191 J 
 
Copyrighted b\ 
 FRANK VI. COLVILLF 
 
 I'll I 
 
©felafjoma $oem£ 
 
 anb <0tfjer Vtxzt 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK M. COLVILLE 
 
 Poet Laureate of the State Senate 
 Oklahoma 
 
 1911 
 
PRESS OF 
 
 The Warden Printing Company 
 Oklahoma City 
 
 ©CI.A286585 
 
K\)t author 
 
 Born of the soil, imbued with virility of Mother 
 Earth, in love with Nature, attuned to the voice of the 
 forest, and ever listening to her minstrelsy, is it any 
 ivonder tliat Frank M. Colville is able to interpret her 
 many languages? 
 
 If you have stood within the sound of America's 
 greatest Nature Music, listening to the soothing ser- 
 enade of Niagara, then you may appreciate the first 
 cause of our subject's love; for it zcas to this music 
 that his ears first listened, and here his eyes opened to 
 earthly glory. 
 
 The reader of this little volume will see and under- 
 stand why I thus introduce him, as poem after poem 
 unfolds itself, and through them he speaks. 
 
 Educated in the school of experience, there are no 
 frills on his method of speech any more than his dress 
 and environment. His is the simple life and his is the 
 simple verse, with red blood, for people zcith hearts 
 and purposes. As such I commend him and his writ- 
 ings. 
 
 Respectfully submitted, 
 
 O. P. STURM, 
 
 Editor Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine. 
 
©duration 
 
 A>ot for self, not for pelf, 
 
 But for brothers and for others. 
 
 To Miss Kate Barnard, State Commissioner of 
 Charities and Corrections, who, by her distinguished 
 work for humanity, has attracted the attention of 
 State and Nation; this zvork is dedicated bv the author. 
 
W\)t ©fclafioma <gtrl 
 
 Her eyes are bright and sparkling 
 
 As she greets yon in the way. 
 And the atmosphere around her 
 
 Makes one dream of flowers and May 
 A ruddy, healthy vigor, 
 
 And a brow of polished pearl, 
 Make up the simple portrait 
 
 Of the Oklahoma girl. 
 
 She's a mighty institution, 
 
 This new girl of the West, 
 With a wealth of independence 
 
 Within her maiden breast, 
 That makes her fond admirers, 
 
 The banner high unfurl, 
 Of love and admiration, 
 
 For the Oklahoma girl. 
 
 Her dad 's an '89-er, 
 
 And one spring day long ago 
 With him she crossed the border 
 
 Into lands they did not know; 
 And with him she braved the dangers 
 
 Which nature sought to hurl, 
 And it added grace and beauty 
 
 To the Oklahoma girl. 
 
 She's lived in shacks and dugouts. 
 
 But that was years gone by, 
 Now a modern roomy cottage 
 
 Lifts its gables to the sky, 
 Within all neat and handy, 
 
 And as cozy as a squirrel, 
 Upon her throne of labor, 
 
 Sits the Oklahoma girl. 
 
 She's worked her way through college, 
 
 She's a skillful athlete, 
 And when it comes to winsome ways 
 
 She simply can't be beat. 
 She 's the rosebud of the prairie, 
 
 She's the center of the whirl. 
 And we doff our hats in honor 
 
 Of the Oklahoma girl. 
 
W\)t Call of tfje 5Mest 
 
 The West has called for manhood 
 
 And in answer there has come 
 A race of rugged pioneers 
 
 To build a hearth and home, 
 They turned the sod, they reared in pride 
 
 An empire on these plains, 
 And here you'll find a type of men 
 
 With red blood in their veins. 
 
 The Indian camp has vanished 
 
 In its place a modern home, 
 The stockade fort has rotted down 
 
 To fertile prairie loam, 
 The tepee's but a memory 
 
 And the trails have turned to lanes, 
 And the land is tilled by freemen 
 
 With red blood in their veins. 
 
 Where the buffalo used to wallow 
 
 Alfalfa waves its green, 
 Where the prairie chickens nested 
 
 Now the scored fowl reigns supreme; 
 Where the red Sioux scalped his victim 
 
 Are the fields of growing grains, 
 The wealth of some home builders 
 
 With red brood in their veins. 
 
 A hundred bustling cities, 
 
 Where once the steer was roped, 
 The auto speeds along the pike, 
 
 Where the sneaking coyote loped: 
 The factory whistle daily, 
 
 Calls forth in working jeans, 
 An army of skilled craftsmen, 
 
 With red blood in their veins. 
 
 The West has called for manhood 
 
 And the wild has heard the call; 
 Strong men of keen ambition 
 
 Have given us their all; 
 They've builded vast and mighty 
 
 An empire on these plains, 
 The home of sovereign freemen 
 
 With red blood in their veins. 
 
 —10— 
 
Wften »e are (great 
 
 We arc great within ourselves, 
 
 When kf'ter honest search of soul 
 We find our faces turned aright, 
 
 Our eyes still fixed upon the goal: 
 Though buried far from vulgar gaze, 
 
 Treading in pain or narrow zone, 
 If our hearts tell us we are right 
 
 Then we are great, although unknown. 
 
 If in this world of sin and strife, 
 
 We shun the devil's auction booth, 
 And casting off all false veneer, 
 
 Be what we are in simple truth; 
 If we uncompromising stand 
 
 For rugged faith, perchance alone, 
 If we are steadfast in the fight, 
 
 Then we are great, although unknown. 
 
 If we can steer our shallow bark, 
 
 Where rocks abound and breakers roar; 
 And steady handed at the wheel 
 
 Draw nearer to the victory shore: 
 If we stand with brow unruffed, 
 
 Where tempests heave and timbers groan, 
 And bid defiance to the storm 
 
 Then we are great, although unknown. 
 
 If we unselfish sacrifice, 
 
 Giving in love our talents all, 
 And aid to those whose faltering feet 
 
 But for our help would daily fall; 
 If we can feel at twilight's hour, 
 
 That in the day our souls have grown, 
 And that we've climbed to higher ground 
 
 Then we are great, although unknown. 
 
 It matters not if we have failed 
 
 To win the laurels in life's race, 
 They wither in a single hour 
 
 When death grips hard in cold embrace; 
 But in the larger life beyond, 
 
 Crowned with the throng around the throne 
 We hear the Master say, "well done," 
 
 Then we are great and not unknown. 
 
 Yes, we are great within ourselves, 
 
 When after honest search of soul, 
 We find our faces turned aright, 
 
 Our eyes still fixed upon the goal; 
 Though buried far from vulgar gaze, 
 
 Treading in pain or narrow zone, 
 If our hearts tell us we are right 
 
 Then we are great, and not unknown. 
 —11— 
 
0lh £s>aint Valentine 
 
 When February, with her brush 
 
 Of northern wind, has painted 
 A snow wreath, round each naked tree, 
 
 A wreath pure and untainted: 
 Mid this white month comes one bright day 
 
 When, bowing at love's shriue. 
 We offer incensed sacrifice 
 
 To Old Saint A r alentine. 
 
 Down from the distant dreamy past 
 
 This mystic day has come, 
 What loving greetings we've exchanged 
 
 With friends now lost and gone: 
 Yet, in new friendship's warm embrace 
 
 We arm iu arm entwine, 
 And send our messages of cheer, 
 
 By Old Saint Valentine. 
 
 Those old time scented cards of lace, 
 
 That in the dim gone-by, 
 We blushing, sent to school-day friends, 
 
 Ah, how the swift years fly; 
 Now grey, and scarred in life's fierce fight. 
 
 We dream of olden time, 
 And of love tokens sent of yore. 
 
 Through Old Saint Valentine. 
 
 'Today we passed a window bright 
 
 With valentine display, 
 We saw our children gazing iu. 
 
 With hearts all light and gay; 
 Then o'er us came a gentle spell, 
 
 We drank the mellow wine 
 At memory 's banquet, this our toast, 
 
 "To Old Saint Valentine." 
 
 When February brings each year. 
 
 New memories of the old, 
 And to our hearts it tells once more 
 
 The tales so often told; 
 One day we prize above the rest. 
 
 It cheers life's dull repine. 
 And adds another birthday pearl 
 
 To Old Saint Valentine. 
 
 —12— 
 
Hobe'si gtldjemp 
 
 A student in love 's alchemy I sought, 
 
 In musty chemistry by theory old, 
 A way which worthless dross might e'en be changed 
 
 To luring glistening gold; 
 Dan Cupid watching, whispered foolish boy, 
 
 'Tis vain thy pigmy art, 
 Would 'st thou have gold, go win thy secret in 
 
 A virgin heart. 
 
 I sought with youth's enthusiasm which 
 
 Sees conquest in the triumph of an hour, 
 I deemed it was my fortune to bewitch 
 
 Each timid heart which seemed to feel my power, 
 Alas, the laurel wreathings of the morn 
 
 Were doomed e'er eve to wither and depart, 
 And still unwon afar off shown the goal — 
 
 A virgin heart. 
 
 Dejected and disheartened I at length 
 
 Gave up that first ambition which had shown 
 So deep a snare, and e'en I gave my strength 
 
 To win the prize in some more common zone; 
 I delved in lore, long sealed from prying eye, 
 
 I sought relief in storied bust and chart, 
 'Twas all in vain, far brighter shown that star, 
 
 A virgin heart. 
 
 With hope before me and in deeper faith, 
 
 Once more I sought, yet sought in calmer mood 
 To find that fabled gem through which the world, 
 
 The inner world of love, might e'en be viewed; 
 I found it, yea, I found it in thy smile, 
 
 In love's pure gold I claim my lotted part 
 Which thou can'st give if thou wilt give to me 
 
 Thy virgin heart. 
 
 Biches would I possess such as ne'er rose 
 
 Before the ancient chemist's brightest dream, 
 Riches which thron-ed kings know not the price, 
 
 Riches which rival old sun's fairest beams, — 
 All this would I possess, if thou wilt feel 
 
 The silvered touch of gay Dan Cupid's dart 
 Which I pray him to speed, to pierce and hold 
 
 Thy virgin heart. 
 
 -13- 
 
Mfjen §ou anb 3 Jfflabe tfje &un 
 
 (Written for the Oklahoma City Times, Twenty-first 
 Anniversary Edition.) 
 
 Yes, Jim, I expect I look older 
 
 An' my hair is a leetle more grey 
 But I feel just as young as when you and I 
 
 Made the run twenty-one years today; 
 That's my boy Will, a standin' out yonder 
 
 He was the baby, you know. 
 In the little sod house up in Kansas 
 
 Some twenty-one years ago; 
 An ' say, Jim, out thar in the pasture 
 
 Is the self-same old tough buckskin dun 
 That I rode from the ole Kansas border 
 
 On the day you and I made the run. 
 
 Let's see, Jim, you didn't stay down here 
 
 Much more than a year or two 
 I guess I'd have pulled up stakes likewise 
 
 If I'd been situated like you. 
 It was pretty tough after the openin' 
 
 To plug along day after day 
 A hopin' somehow to trade the claim 
 
 For a chance for to get away; 
 Now that five-acre patch of alfalfa, 
 
 It yields me about twenty ton, 
 Is worth more cold cash than this hull section was 
 
 On the day you and I made the run. 
 
 Say, Jim, did you come by the city? 
 
 I reckon it looked mighty queer, 
 Not much like the tents an' the shanties, 
 
 We seed in the openin' year. 
 I tell you that town's a sure wonder, 
 
 And it seems every time that I go 
 They've got a new ten-story scraper, 
 
 Or a big packin' plant, Jim, to show; 
 It makes me think of that spring evenin' 
 
 Just after the settin' o' sun 
 When they jumped your lot up on North Broadway 
 
 On the day you and I made the run. 
 
 I built this new house, Jim, last summer; 
 
 We needed a little more room, 
 The girls wuz anxious to fix up — 
 
 Kate's goin' to be married right soon. 
 
 -1-1- 
 
We got us a new water system, 
 
 An' an automobile an' the rest 
 Of them new fangled stylish contraptions 
 
 That has only of late years come west. 
 An' we're takin' a deal sight of comfort, 
 
 'Twas different when we begun 
 For the shack's been replaced by the mansioa 
 
 Since the day you and I made the run. 
 
 Come in an' look over my outfit, 
 
 Take that rocker there, Jim, an' set down; 
 I'm uncommon proud sure, for to see you, 
 
 An' I hope that you'll settle in town 
 Your rumatiz', Jim, will be better 
 
 Away from them north winter days, 
 An' if you buy lots in the city, 
 
 You can't hardly miss it; it pays. 
 The Times here today tells the story 
 
 Of what us live boosters has done, 
 In the twenty-one years of our history 
 
 Since the day you and I made the run. 
 
 ®fje Cfnlb of tije Jfflan OTttf) tfje JNe 
 
 This is the child of the "Man with the hoe"— 
 
 A creature so weary and worn, 
 A thing of the toil mills, a victim of woe, 
 
 'Twere better he'd never been born: 
 A frail figure bearing the weight of a cross, 
 
 A wreck, a degenerate child, 
 White slave of the system, and counted but dross 
 
 In the rush of the money race wild. 
 
 This is the child of the "Man with the Hoe"— 
 
 Doomed to forever look down, 
 No high ambitions, no future to know, 
 
 Driven by blow and by frown: 
 Penned in the toil stall from daylight 'till dark, 
 
 Plying a dull round routine, 
 Lost to emotions that spring from the heart, 
 
 Merely a human machine. 
 
 This is the child of the "Man with the Hoe"— 
 
 A product of civilized lands. 
 Unlettered, uncultured, with thoughts vile and low 
 
 Useless, save only the hands 
 That grind out the grist in the great money mill, 
 
 And pile up the wealth of the few: 
 What wreck, if that heart never know a love thrill 
 
 If onlv his task he can do. 
 
 —in 
 
This is the child of the "Man with the Hoe" — 
 
 Here in this land of the free, 
 What wonder then if grim anarchy grow, 
 
 When around us are millions like he: 
 Tear down the school house, send boys to the mill, 
 
 Greedy the maw of the rich, 
 Why give them schooling? They only can fill 
 
 Work places, down in the ditch. 
 
 This is the child of the ' ' Man with the Hoe ' ' — 
 
 Merciful Father look down, 
 'Twas for such souls that the Savior bowed low, 
 
 Suffered and wore a thorn crown: 
 Died, for this thing of the sweat and the moil, 
 
 Died for this weak broken reed, 
 Died, for this slave" of unsatisfied toil, 
 
 Died, for this victim of greed. 
 
 This is the child of the "Man with the Hoe"— 
 
 A being of brains and of heart, 
 Down with a system that makes him bow low, 
 
 And carry a slave's burdened part: 
 Give him a hand, let him waken and live, 
 
 Health in those w T an cheeks let glow, 
 He's human, my brother, a chance let us give 
 
 To the child of the "Man with the Hoe." 
 
 3 £>ong to tfje JJliatletoe JBerrp 
 
 Here's a song to the mistletoe berry, 
 
 Eare pearl in a setting of green, 
 Thou art true to legends of yester, 
 
 As in glory thou reignest supreme: 
 True symbol of springtime and gladness, 
 
 Left us from the days that have fled, 
 Tho' all else, in nature, around us, 
 
 In wintery coffin, lies dead. 
 
 Rare mistletoe, thou hast a story. 
 
 Told thee by grey Druids of eld; 
 When over love's altar they hung thee, 
 
 As the mystical Yule-log was felled: 
 Come, tell of their weird incantations, 
 
 The mysteries of ages reveal, 
 Our ears listen keen for thy secrets, 
 
 Their wonderful import we feel. 
 
 Dost thou stand as a witness eternal, 
 Of the truth of a life beyond timef 
 
 —16— 
 
Immortal thou seemest above us, 
 
 A Seraph of regions divine: 
 In thy leaves may be find a green symbol 
 
 Of the soul that is freed from the grave, 
 In thy berries of crystal, the promise 
 
 That is potent alone, mau to save. 
 
 Fair herald of hope, veneration 
 
 From ages unknown has been thine, 
 Eound the altar of our heart's devotion. 
 
 Thy verdure we joyous entwine; 
 As we worship the babe in the manger 
 
 And with him in the larger life grow, 
 We hail thee as nature's true witness, 
 
 Immortal thy the"me, Mistletoe. 
 
 JUnber tfje jfltgtletoe 
 
 Under the mistletoe she stood 
 
 All unaware, 
 It seemed a dream to meet those rosy lips, 
 
 Ah! She was fair. 
 Sweet privilege was mine, in joy to claim 
 The priceless boon, because she chanced to go 
 In thoughtless moment, on forbidden ground. 
 
 Under the mistletoe. 
 
 Under the mistletoe we wooed, 
 The autumn air 
 Tossed in gay, giddy, undulating waves, 
 
 Her golden hair. 
 I told her of my hopes in passioned words, 
 She answered me in accents sweet and low. 
 And so we pledged our hearts, my love and I. 
 Under the mistletoe. 
 
 Under the mistletoe we stood 
 
 A happy pair, 
 Joining our hearts and hands for weal or woe, 
 
 O, moment rare. 
 The ring I placed upon her finger slim, 
 The parson read the words so solemn, slow; 
 "Till death do part," our eyes were wet with tears, 
 
 Under the mistletoe. 
 
 Under the mistletoe she lies 
 That maiden rare, 
 The south winds murmur dirges to the skies 
 
 Ah! She was fair. 
 I'm lonely in my soul, I pray tonight. 
 That when my work is ended here below, 
 That I may rest with her in peaceful sleep, 
 Under the mistletoe. 
 
 —17— 
 
ftfje <£iri SUttfj JBoptgf) Wap* 
 
 A lass of health and vigor, 
 
 With a wealth of chestnut hair, 
 A happy, cheery whistle, 
 
 And a manner debonair, 
 She shocks her timid sisters 
 
 By her calm contempt of stays— 
 For she loves the air of freedom, 
 
 The girl with boyish ways. 
 
 She's quite a fan at baseball, 
 
 And she understands the game, 
 She roots, and guys the umpire 
 
 With all her might and main. 
 She's an expert with a racquet, 
 
 And at golf she always plays 
 A winning game, we know her 
 
 As the girl with boyish ways. 
 
 When it comes to hunting season, 
 
 She's always in the chase. 
 And she deftly shoots a rifle 
 
 With a striking aim and grace, 
 And at eve around the campfire 
 
 When we gossip o'er its blaze. 
 She's full of sparkling stories, 
 
 This girl with boyish ways. 
 
 She's a crank on auto-touring, 
 
 And I tell you she has nerve, 
 For she never screams or fidgets, 
 
 As we dash around a curve, 
 The faster that we spin along, 
 
 The more she thinks it pays, 
 For she believes in scorching. 
 
 This girl with boyish ways. 
 
 She's had a course at college. 
 
 Where she always led her class, 
 She's a brainy little rustler, 
 
 With a touch of spicy dash, 
 And when it comes to knowledge, 
 
 She can always make a raise, 
 For she has a storehouse handy, 
 
 This girl with boyish ways. 
 
 Some think her bold and forward, 
 But they just don't understand, 
 
 -IS- 
 
For she 's as pure and modest, 
 
 As any in the land, 
 Though roguish, bright and clever. 
 
 She a woman 's heart obeys, 
 Under cover of her brusqueness, 
 
 This girl with boyish ways. 
 
 Here's to the lass of vigor, 
 
 With a wealth of chestnut hair. 
 With her catchy song and whistle, 
 
 And her manner debonair, 
 Though shocking to the prudish. 
 
 Her way is one that pays, 
 For she 's the idol of the hour. 
 
 This girl with boyish ways. 
 
 a $ink Carnation 
 
 I wear a pink Carnation on this balmy Easter Day, 
 Though the Lily be the symbol of the tide. 
 
 Bound by memory, I a captive, have no will but to obey, 
 And I scorn the formal scoffers who deride. 
 
 An Easter long departed to the cloudy yesterland, 
 
 She wore a pink Carnation in her hair; 
 It 's cinnamoned aroma by the gentle breeze was fanned 
 
 Till the fragrance filled the whole surrounding air. 
 
 That fragrance still enfolds me though the flower is with- 
 ered laid 
 In the knic-knac corner of my cozy room. 
 Where it reigns a crowned monarch o'er the keepsakes I 
 have made, 
 Through the clustered years of happiness and gloom. 
 
 I wonder does another heart o'erflow this Easter morn, 
 
 When crystal perfumes fill the natal air. 
 Are old memories and old passions on this witching day 
 new born, 
 
 Or do I alone such blissful visions share. 
 
 I wonder does another pink Carnation hide its blush 
 'Mid the veil of curled ringlets as of old, 
 
 And does its spicy fragrance call a faint remembering 
 flush 
 To that cheek love-framed in laughing locks of gold. 
 
 This is why a j>ink Carnation is my only flower today 
 Though the Lily be the symbol of the tide. 
 
 'Tis the cinnamoned aroma that awakens memories grey 
 And I scorn the formal scoffers who deride. 
 
 -IP- 
 
®&e 3fcote of ^esterbap 
 
 O the shattered idols of yesterday, 
 
 Crumbled and moss-grown they lie 
 With briars half hiding their chilly glance 
 
 As we unconcerned pass by; 
 Time was in the days of our simple youth 
 
 When we bowed in faith to pray, 
 And plaited our palm crowns to deck the brows 
 
 Of the idols of yesterday. 
 
 Those sacred shrines of the memoried past, 
 
 Have rudely been trampled down 
 By the iron hoofs of our disbelief, 
 
 And their augurs have ceased to frown, 
 We have rent the golden robes of love, 
 
 We have marred the molded clay, 
 Disfigured, dismantled, within the gloom 
 
 Stand the idols of yesterday. 
 
 We well remember the reverent steps, 
 
 We took toward the sacred place, 
 We well remember the heart wrung words 
 
 As we prayed with downcast face, 
 We well remember that fearsome awe 
 
 That hung 'round the temple grey, 
 "Pis vanished now, and in moldered mass, 
 
 Are the idols of yesterday. 
 
 New gods we worship, new temples build, 
 
 New creeds displace the old, 
 And the altars of present are burning bright, 
 
 But the altars of past are cold, 
 And we laugh when we see the simple bow 
 
 At the shrines where we used to pray, 
 And we sneer at tricks and the hollow arts 
 
 Of the idols of yesterday. 
 
 O the shattered idols of yesterday, 
 
 All fallen adown they lie, 
 And scarcely a sigh escapes our lips, 
 
 As we heedless pass them by. 
 Time was when we worshipped those very stones, 
 
 Time was when we kneeled to pray, 
 And poured out the passion of our souls, 
 
 To the idols of yesterday. 
 
 —20— 
 
Wje jf tgjtm' Man of tfje jf trin' line 
 
 Stranger — sum tolable nervy deeds 
 
 Is writ in ole history's book, 
 Per instance, the story o' Dan'l Boone, 
 
 How his share of the scrap he took, 
 An' them barefooted soldiers at Valley Forge, 
 
 That was grit to the marrow bone, 
 Or the loyal lads in the Alamo, 
 
 What never flinched, nary a one, 
 But f er downrightest courage year in an ' out 
 
 Give me the wild rough career, 
 Of the fightin' man on the firm' line 
 
 Of America's last frontier. 
 
 He didn't know much o' the tricks o' schools, 
 
 An ' o ' manners he shore had none, 
 But he lived a clean life that wuz on the square, 
 
 An' was handy about his gun. 
 Hit wan't no picnic them thar days, 
 
 With danger on every side, 
 Hoss thieves an' rustlers on the scout, 
 
 A huntin' a place to hide, 
 Wild Injuns hungry to raise yer hair. 
 
 Yet he never showed no skear, 
 The fightin' man on the firin' line 
 
 Of America's last frontier. 
 
 In the Bad Lands, at Dodge or in No Man's Land, 
 
 His gun wuz the only law, 
 An' mighty quick justice it meted out, 
 
 From the Eockies east to the Kaw; 
 At round-up or lynchin' he knowed his part, 
 
 Or in headin' a wild stampede, 
 He stuck to duty thru thick and thin 
 
 An' wuz thar in a time o' need. 
 In an Injun outbreak he stayed in front, 
 
 He never fit in the rear, 
 The fightin ' man on the firin ' line 
 
 Of America's last frontier. 
 
 Them days wuz the time that took men of nerve, 
 
 Along the old Santa Fe trail, 
 Gamblers and bad men in every camp. 
 
 An' nary a court or jail; 
 Yet the needs of the hour produced the man, 
 
 That stood squarely fer the right, 
 An' who wuzn't a bit af eared to talk, 
 
 Tho hit might mean a bloody fight, 
 
 -21- 
 
Around him wuz lawless unbridled fiends, 
 
 But they lived in healthy fear, 
 Of the fightin' man on the firm' line 
 
 Of America's last frontier. 
 
 The frontier has passed an' the church and school, 
 
 Take the place of the camp an' post, 
 The bad men have all handed in their checks, 
 
 The dead past has left no ghost; 
 The courts and the lawyers are in the place 
 
 Of the quick action "45" 
 An' precious few of the pioneers 
 
 Of them old days, is still alive; 
 But Stranger — the honestest, fightenest chap, 
 
 What ever walked this yere sphere, 
 Wuz the fightiu ' man on the firm' line 
 
 Of America's last frontier. 
 
 Seep a Jluatiin' ^ustein' 
 
 Pay, pardner, don't git grumpy, 
 
 'Cause you happen for to be 
 The one unlucky busker 
 
 In the world's big huskin' bee. 
 Take heart and git another grip; 
 
 An' never drop a tear 
 But keep a hustlin' huskin', 
 
 'Till you find the big red ear. 
 
 Of course it sometimes happens, 
 
 That the way is long and hard, 
 An' constant disappointments 
 
 Keep a crowdin' in your yard. 
 But victory's sure to strike you 
 
 If you only persevere. 
 Ah' keep a hustlin' huskin' 
 
 'Till you find the big red ear. 
 
 An' when at last you've found it 
 
 An' the huskin' bee is o'er, 
 You'll be surprised to see the corn 
 
 That 's piled up on the floor. 
 An' when you store it in the barn 
 
 You'll say the way was clear, 
 'Cause you kept a hustlin' huskin', 
 
 'Till you found the big red ear. 
 
 —22— 
 
Jflp ©klafjoma Corn 
 
 I've been planting corn this week, 
 
 On my Oklahoma farm, 
 And the prospect of sure harvest 
 
 To the labor adds a charm; 
 I've been in Oklahoma 
 
 Since the run of '89, 
 And I've come to look for bumpers 
 
 Every year at harvest time; 
 For fortune never once has failed 
 
 To empty out her horn, 
 And smile the smile of bounty, 
 
 On my Oklahoma corn. 
 
 From the sod crop that I planted 
 
 In the strenuous early days, 
 Down to the last crop gathered, 
 
 I have always made a raise; 
 And I built my first box shanty, 
 
 By sellin' foot long ears, 
 And this crop has been my mainstay 
 
 Most a score of golden year's; 
 And that's the why I whistle 
 
 In the mellow springtime morn, 
 As I guide my blooded horses, 
 
 Plantin' Oklahoma corn. 
 
 As the planter glides on smoothly, 
 
 I can picture out a scene, 
 In the summer months that's comin' 
 
 When the corn is towerin' green; 
 With the bursting ears a droppin' 
 
 On a level with my head, 
 And a canopy of azure 
 
 All around the vision spread. 
 Say! It keeps a feller feelin' 
 
 Mighty glad that he was born, 
 When he hears the wind a rustlin' 
 
 Through his Oklahoma corn. 
 
 We can raise wheat and alfalfa, 
 
 Cotton, taters, truck and fruit, 
 In fact, there ain 't no products, 
 
 That our wonder soil don't suit; 
 And for stock and hogs and dairy, 
 
 It's the best state in the land, 
 And the crops would sure surprise you 
 
 On our upland, bright, red sand; 
 
But the one crop that I bank on, 
 As I laugh hard times to scorn, 
 
 Been my standby since the openin" 
 It's the Oklahoma corn. 
 
 Hurrah for Oklahoma, 
 
 With her fields of blushin' grain, 
 Hurrah for Oklahoma, 
 
 The echoes shout again; 
 Here honest patient labor 
 
 Is sure of rich reward, 
 And the gold of health and comfort. 
 
 Springs up God-like from the sward. 
 And no king with jewelled scepter 
 
 A brighter crown has worn, 
 Than adorns in grace and beauty, 
 
 Oklahoma's great king — COKN. 
 
 I'm &ab 
 
 I know no song to sing, my heart is sad 
 
 Why should I seek to cheer the mottled throng 
 
 Little care they, they who are bright and glad, 
 How deep I grieve, 'twould be a harpy's song, 
 That I would sing, I'm sad. 
 
 I cannot sing nor shape a mocking note, 
 
 'Twould mar my heavy soul with deeper scars. 
 
 The gurgling laugh would smother in my throat, 
 I cannot frame those merry, cheering bars. 
 Sing! How can I? I'm sad. 
 
 You bid me cheer that thousands eager wait, 
 
 Upon the inspiration of my soul. 
 Bid them quick garb in sackcloth e'er the fate, 
 
 Of cursed Bachanites overwhelming roll. 
 Ask not for song, I'm sad. 
 
 Yet I must sing, must force a mimic smile, 
 Sinking in spirit in the hollow crypt. 
 
 Of grim despair, I must in soulless guile. 
 
 Cause echoed rippled pleasure round be lipped, 
 While I in heart am sad. 
 
 Vain thought! The black pall faster, faster falls, 
 Blots out the new fledged vision from my sight. 
 
 I cannot sing, though loud the world calls, 
 I yield to morose gloom and all is night. 
 I cannot sing, I'm sad. 
 
 >4— 
 
Wfytn tfje g>f)uckin' $eg te Pu*j> 
 
 When the shuckin' peg is busy 
 
 In the fields of autumn corn, 
 An' the tumble weeds are glistenin 
 
 In the dews of early morn; 
 When the golden yellow pumpkin 
 
 Smiles upon you as you shuck, 
 An' the cotton tails are friskin' 
 
 Noddin' greetin's of good luck; 
 When the Bob White whirrs beside you, 
 
 As the wagon creaks along, 
 An' the meadow larks are choirin' 
 
 As you sing your huskin' song. 
 
 When the shuckin' peg is busy, 
 
 An' the north wind kinder talks, 
 An' you hump to reach the big ears 
 
 That hang high upon the stalks; 
 When the cotton pickers yonder 
 
 Singin' as they fill their sacks, 
 Keepin' time with nimble fingers 
 
 As they tote their growin' packs; 
 Then the golden rod in clusters, 
 
 Nods in keepin' to the tune, 
 An' the wild flowers in the furrow 
 
 Offer up a rich porfume. 
 
 When the shuckin' peg is busy, 
 
 An' the corn is pilin' high, 
 Laid up store for stormy weather 
 
 That's a comin' by an' by; 
 When the giants of the corn row 
 
 Bow their heads to give their gold, 
 And the red blood in your system 
 
 Laughs in scorn at wind and cold, 
 When the trees sad tears are shedding' 
 
 As the leaves come tricklin' down; 
 Then you think of comin' winter, 
 
 With its branches bare and brown. 
 
 When the shuckin' peg is busy, 
 
 Tho' the harvest's almost done, 
 An' you feel as spry an' chipper 
 
 As ye did when it begun; 
 When the cows low in the pasture. 
 
 An' the ducks quack on the pond, 
 An' you kinder feel that Nature 
 
 Holds us in a common bond; 
 
 —25— 
 
Then you swell the lusty chorus 
 With a snatch of cheery song, 
 
 As the laughin' winds of autumn, 
 Catch and carry it along. 
 
 When the shuckin' peg is idle, 
 
 In the autumn of our days, 
 When at rest from life's rough labor, 
 
 At the golden past we gaze; 
 When we count the harvests gathered, 
 
 Fruitage on a well spent life, 
 An' we feel that we've been victors 
 
 In the tumult an' the strife, 
 As the perfume of the harvest, 
 
 Comes in fragrance as of yore, 
 May we sing our autumn anthem, 
 
 Echoed on another shore. 
 
 S Cleber Suffragette 
 
 (Read at Regular Session, Second Legislature.) 
 
 The hero of a thousand fights 
 
 Upon the Senate floor; 
 Our Clarence vainly dreamed that he 
 
 Was equal to one more. 
 So filled was he with ego, 
 
 That he walked right in the net, 
 And fell an easy victim 
 
 To a clever suffragette. 
 
 He knew how to bluff Dick Billups, 
 
 And to beard old "Pitchfork" Blair 
 To put the clamps on Morris, 
 
 And call Cam Russell's dare. 
 But once he met his equal, 
 
 She canned him quick, you bet 
 And Clarence got a lemon 
 
 From a clever suffragette. 
 
 —26— 
 
Srotepering TLoto 
 
 Angels around me are bending, 
 
 Wispering, whispering low, 
 Breathing a blest benediction, 
 
 "Whispering, whispering low. 
 Seraphims sent from the Father 
 
 To bring precious peace to my soul, 
 Cherubims come from the Savior 
 
 To show me a glorified goal. 
 Sweetly they guide my slow footsteps 
 
 In duty's paths whither I go, 
 Where Jesus, the Master, hath called me, 
 
 Whispering, whispering low. 
 
 Angels around me are bending 
 
 Watching and waiting in love, 
 For message to carry on instant 
 
 To the throne of the Father above. 
 Shall I claim of Him fortune and honor, 
 
 Or to vanity's foibles lay claim; 
 Or shall I a cross dare to carry 
 
 Through this wilderness valley of shame? 
 Softly and tenderly answer, 
 
 Ye angels who wait on the throne, 
 What will please Jesus, my will is, 
 
 What will please Jesus alone f 
 
 Christian, are angels beside you, 
 
 Whispering, whispering low, 
 That same gentle tale of a Savior 
 
 Bent 'neath the world weight of woe? 
 Seraphims sent from the Father 
 
 To smooth the rough, thorn-clustered path — 
 Cherubims come from the Savior 
 
 To guard 'gainst temptation and wrath. 
 Softly and tenderly answer, 
 
 Jesus, your Master, will know, 
 Tell Him you serve Him and love Him, 
 
 Whisper it, whisper it low. 
 
 TOjanksfgtbtng 
 
 For harvests bountiful and rich, 
 
 For lighter hearts and truer hands, 
 
 For all the joys bestowed upon 
 This happiest of happy lands; 
 
 For dearth of pain, for lack of woe, 
 
 -27- 
 
For vanished shades of misery, 
 For pearls of hope that lay uptossed 
 Upon the shores of leaden sea — 
 Thanksgiving. 
 
 For worldly goods, for heavenly store, 
 
 For riches strewn from God's own throne, 
 For graces, blessings, gifts bestowed, 
 
 For all the joys we call our own; 
 For peace with men of all degree, 
 
 For meat to give to needy poor, 
 For hearts that live for higher aim, 
 
 For spirits humble, chaste and pure — 
 Thanksgiving. 
 
 For all the trifling cares of life, 
 
 For all the wounds that pierce the heart, 
 For sickness, trouble, want and woe 
 
 That of all lives must form a part; 
 For these in contrast to our joys, 
 
 Thank we the ever loving Lord. 
 On bended knee, with humble prayer, 
 
 All creatures sing with one accord — 
 Thanksgiving. 
 
 W)t 3ristf) in ©felafjoma 
 
 (Read at Special Session of Legislature, 1910, March 17th.) 
 We're wearing a sprig of a shamrock, 
 
 In the grand new State today, 
 In honor of old Saint Patrick 
 
 Who banished the snakes away. 
 
 We're proud here in Oklahoma 
 
 Of the folks from the green "old dart," 
 Who in building this vast new empire 
 
 Have had an humble part. 
 
 Let's see now, there's Pat Goulding, 
 
 Harper Cunningham and Ed Boyle, 
 Pete Duffy an' Jerry Sullivan, 
 
 Ed Cassidy an' Tom Doyle, 
 
 Peter Coyne an' Charley Daugherty, 
 
 Kate Barnard and Dennis Flynn, 
 Harry Cloonan an' Shad Murphy, 
 
 Ed Kelly an' old Dick Quinn. 
 
 So down in Oklahoma 
 
 The Irish are at the bat, 
 An' altho' we're strict insurgents, 
 
 Today we all "stand pat." 
 
 —28— 
 
iPeace 
 
 Sleep, gentle sleep, reigns o'er the martial camp, 
 
 The sentrys watching near, 
 Protect their charge from danger and alarm, 
 
 Through the long night, crystal clear, 
 All cares, all hopes forgot, 
 
 Save for those watching few; 
 All else the shadowy halls 
 
 Of dreamland wander through. 
 Best, heroes, rest, 
 
 Till shrill, uncouth alarm, 
 Calls thee from homeland dreams 
 
 To rise and arm. 
 
 Peace, gentle peace, her mantle softly rests 
 
 Upon our mighty land, 
 The loved tri-colored buntings wave, 
 
 Lo! ember hearts are fanned, 
 'Till bursting into living heat, 
 
 Each voice that hath been still, 
 Now sings "My country, 'tis of thee," 
 
 Whilst burning echoes thrill, 
 From mountain top to mountain top, 
 
 From smiling vale to vale, 
 From sounding crag to sounding crag, 
 
 All hail, sweet peace, all hail." 
 
 War's lightnings fainter glow, 
 
 And fading blend their rays, 
 With the sweet songs of peace, 
 
 With the glad songs of praise. 
 Praise for the noble sons who sleep 
 
 Forever, far away: 
 Praise for the noble sons who march 
 
 Beneath our flag today. 
 
 Peace, Christian Peace, 
 
 Be thou our crowned King. 
 Though other shores and reddened sands, 
 
 With iron footsteps ring, 
 Let us all strife forget, 
 
 Save for the watching few; 
 Let us the sacred vales 
 
 Of Peaceland wander through. 
 Best, heroes, rest, 
 
 May no midnight alarm 
 Call thee from homeland dreams 
 
 To rise and arm. 
 
 —29— 
 
®aSf)en llmgfjtfjoob Wax in Jf lotoer 
 
 I would that knighthood were again in flower, 
 
 Then might courageous youth in love 's bright hour, 
 
 Ride armor-laden far in search of fame 
 
 To eastern dragon-haunted realms whose name 
 
 Long hath been that of death to knight or squire, 
 
 Who, heated with a fierce knight-errant fire, 
 
 Tempted by gold or hope of virgin love, 
 
 Hath dared the whitened wilderness to rove 
 
 Until fulfillment of his plighted vow 
 
 Should place a coronet upon his brow 
 
 Fore'er delivered from the demon's power 
 
 To live and love were knighthood but in flower. 
 
 I would that knighthood were again in flower, 
 
 Then from my solemn, grim, moat-guarded tower 
 
 With prayer to heaven that might my lot be blessed 
 
 I, too, would start upon a Pilgrim quest, 
 
 Nor cease, nor falter, till the valued prize 
 
 Should fill my soul, should satisfy mine eyes. 
 
 With glistening mail, with pennant ribboned lance 
 
 Strong would I ride, to meet on field perchance 
 
 The fiery dragon, yea or haunting goul, 
 
 Or witched, elfish demon, fierce and foul, 
 
 To give fair battle and in youth's full power 
 
 To win my spurs, were knighthood but 'in flower. 
 
 But knighthood is not, will not be in flower, 
 
 Departed all its glamour, all its power. 
 
 Yet high uprisen from its mouldering dust 
 
 A nobler calling given to those who trust 
 
 Their own true hearts, who fear no sacrifice 
 
 To win a blessing from the Master 's eyes. 
 
 The Savior's footsteps, feeding needy poor 
 
 Doth to all men who seek the crest insure 
 
 Of blessed knighthood in that land where strife 
 
 Is all unknown; where peaceful, Christian life 
 
 Makes happier hearts than when in tent or tower 
 
 Lived belted knights when knighthood was in flower. 
 
 W$t Jffltetletoe 
 
 (A Christmas Reverie) 
 In Britain ages long preceding this, 
 
 Before Phoenecian barks brought other light, 
 There lived in gnarled wood a race of men, 
 
 Just merged from savagery, workers in stone, 
 
 —30— 
 
Fashioning huge misshapen implements, 
 
 With which to curb the glebe, and force to yield 
 
 Primitive breadstuffs suited to appease 
 
 The fierce unbridled appetites of these rude men. 
 
 They worshipped God in vague unmeaning form — 
 
 His handiwork appealing to their minds; 
 Taught truth eternal — each rock and flower 
 
 Whispered in language of the Infinite: 
 And Nature's well marked footprints seemed Divine. 
 
 When north winds moaned in terror and arrayed 
 Each grove in tufted tapestries of white. 
 
 The Mistletoe in freshness undisturbed 
 By wind or storm, to these rude minds was blessed — 
 
 A fitting object teaching constantly 
 
 The mighty truth of immortality. 
 
 Huge stood the oak, supporting in its might 
 
 The verdant clusters of the Mistletoe, 
 Like some famed hero, whose departed soul 
 
 Wafted to realms beyond lived once again; 
 Though mortal tenement the price had paid 
 
 Which God exacts for sin. 
 
 And still today at Yule-tide we revere The Mistletoe, 
 
 With berries white, and leaves of superb green: 
 It whispers gently to us how The Christ 
 
 Lived once 'mong men to labor and to save; 
 
 Teaching through Nature's parables the truth 
 
 Of man's immortal sphere. 
 
 gLiitttitmtf Gfreagurp 
 
 Oft' in affections' treasury we store 
 
 Pure grains of gold; 
 That change not in the fleeting, flying years, 
 
 When hearts grow cold, 
 But ever in our memory vaults, 
 
 Their values hold. 
 
 Chilled to all love our outward selves may seem 
 
 Engrossed in worldly goals; 
 Under the mounds of dross lie veins unseen, 
 
 Pitiless greed slow rolls, 
 Streams of forgetfulness to wash, to waste, 
 
 Those treasures of our souls. 
 
 Oft' in our youth when struggling through the thick 
 Of blushing heart-grown flowers, 
 
 -31- 
 
We leave the true and only pause to pick, 
 
 Those buds whose powers, 
 Wax most delicious in the killing heat 
 
 Of youth's short hours. 
 
 Comes then a blight, a winter's chill, when hearts 
 
 Yearn for those wasted flowers. 
 Yearn for the scent of one faint tinted bud, 
 
 After life's dismal showers, 
 Yearn for discarded hopes, lost in neglect, 
 
 Which e'en might still be ours. 
 
 Happily, then, if in the tide of youth 
 
 We store love's golden balm, 
 Dreading not winter's icy, whistling blast, 
 
 Standing with spirits calm, 
 Giving to brothers lost whose hearts are chilled 
 
 The warmth of memory's palm. 
 
 ^fje Utrfe ftotoer JBeil 
 
 The mellow ringing of the Kirk tower bell, 
 
 Sounds sweet to me tonight. 
 How sweet no tongue can tell, 
 
 Yet sweeter far than when on yester eve 
 I listened to its knell. 
 Yet 'tis the same old bell; the same old sexton rings the 
 same old way, 
 
 In same old time whose same old measures rang. 
 Ding dong, ding dong, I heard it say. 
 
 A song of love the old bell sweetly sang 
 Today, today, today. 
 Yester my heart was weighty with its fears, 
 
 When old Kirk tower bell rang at even grey. 
 Low mournful echoes, those which reached mine ears, 
 
 Long dismally it sung its tedious lay, 
 
 For years, long years, long years. 
 Today how changed. In rippling, dancing waves, 
 
 It pours sweet melody to me alone. 
 None other privileged to hear that tale 
 
 Of happiness, of hope, of love, of home. 
 It laughs and sparkles in its joyous way, 
 
 Then softly whispers, not years, but today. 
 "Twill ring again, this bell in old Kirk tower, 
 
 When at the chancel blessed by hope I stand, 
 Forsaking e'en through love the vaunted power 
 
 Of freedom for the tryst of her white hand. 
 'Twill ring again in merry notes the lay, 
 
 Years, years, that seemeth but one summer day. 
 
 -32— 
 
'Twill rock the steeple in its happy play, 
 
 And shout aloud today, today, today. 
 Then sobbing through a mist of joyous tears, 
 
 'Twill murmur love, for years, for years, for years. 
 O Bell, who singests of my fate, my life, 
 
 Who tolls my future with thy clanging tongue, 
 When I am laid at rest from care and strife, 
 
 E'en you will still be true and strong and young. 
 And wilt thou mourn when I have passed to clay, 
 
 And toll a solemn dirge that day, that day? 
 Or wilt thou laugh at mortal and his fears 
 
 And still clang on for years and years and years? 
 
 TOje jfuture ©fclafjoma 
 
 (Eead at Banquet Given by Guthrie Commercial Club to 
 
 Legislature, 1910.) 
 Mine eyes are looking forward, 
 
 And I see a vision blest, 
 For the future Oklahoma, 
 
 The Queen of the Southwest. 
 
 The last one called an«L numbered, 
 
 In the sisterhood of states, 
 But first in pluck and progress — 
 
 The leader of her mates. 
 
 I see her fertile prairies, 
 
 Where earth's golden wealth we reap; 
 I see her mines and factories 
 
 And her orchards fruited deep. 
 
 I see her gas and oil fields 
 
 Where wealth is daily made; 
 I see her wondrous cities 
 
 With their hum of life and trade. 
 
 I see her homes and hearth-stones, 
 
 Where health and wealth abide; 
 I see her trackless forests, 
 
 Where the timid deer still hide. 
 
 I see her lofty hilltops; 
 
 I see her valleys green, 
 And mine eyes are filled with rapture 
 
 At the splendor of the scene. 
 
 I see her verdant landscape, 
 
 'Neath heaven's azure dome, 
 And I am proud that Oklahoma 
 
 Is the place that I call home. 
 
 —33— 
 
W$t Mat? 
 
 How easy it is for us to sing 
 With our nostrils sniffing the breath of spring, 
 When the brooks are choirin' in monotone, 
 And the violets covering knob and stone: 
 When the myriad chorus from clod and bough, 
 All in mellow measure chirp songs of now. 
 
 How easy it is for us to laugh, 
 When our lips life's richest nectars quaff, 
 When the friends about us are jolly all, 
 And the God of Wit ready at our call; 
 When the sparkle of genius casts its rays, 
 And we bow to the world's gushing praise. 
 
 How easy it is for us to write 
 When the brow is clear and the heart is light: 
 When the groves are filled with the song of birds, 
 And our fancies soar upon wing-ed words, 
 When without a care on the clouds we float, 
 And our deep heart secrets in joy we note. 
 
 How easy it is for us to sigh, 
 
 When the days of summer have all passed by, 
 
 And the autumn chill tells of withered flowers, 
 
 And we dream of those golden vanished hours: 
 
 When the heart is heavy and all alone, 
 
 We hear the wind through the fir trees moan. 
 
 How easj'' it is for us to hate, 
 When in blackened letters we read our fate, 
 And we feel that somewhere a lurking foe 
 With mocking laughter enjoys our woe: 
 When the fickle friends have left our side, 
 As misfortune came with the evening tide. 
 
 How easy it is for us to weep, 
 
 When our hopes in their narrow grave-crypts sleep, 
 When the winds moan heavy, and wailing sigh 
 Comes from the dripping boughs close by: 
 When the hand is cold and the heart is bled, 
 And our dreams and plans are alike — all dead. 
 
 How easy it is for us to be, 
 Creatures of mood and uncertainty. 
 How easy for us in each changing case, 
 To fashion our feelings to fit the place, 
 To laugh, to sing, to sigh, to weep. 
 The diary of our lives thus keep. 
 
 —34— 
 
Closing 3Poem 
 
 (First Session of Second Legislature.) 
 For sixty days we've fit and bled 
 
 Beneath the big glass dome, 
 And now has come the parting hour; 
 
 The boys are going home 
 Our jobs as statesmen soon will change 
 
 For something not so big, 
 Where Senators, like common folks, 
 
 Must dig, and dig, and dig. 
 
 Soldina soon the ticks will pick 
 
 From many a long-horn steer, 
 Billups his speeches will repeat 
 
 Whil'st gaping moss-backs cheer. 
 Pa Blair will soon be setting type 
 
 At the village in the "sticks" 
 Eoy Stafford will be grinding out 
 
 Ked-headline politics. 
 
 Colville will take a text once more, 
 
 To make the wicked holy; 
 Boddie has got a job, they say, 
 
 In the new near-school at Boley. 
 Brownlee will shake his pepper box 
 
 And make the jury sneeze; 
 Clint Graham hold, in twilight hour, 
 
 His own upon his knees. 
 
 Franklin, he of child-labor fame, 
 
 Will spend his honeymoon. 
 Thomas be sprung for Governor 
 
 About the first of June. 
 Hatchett will visit Normal schools, 
 
 With Landrum by his side; 
 Sorrells and Smith will take their guns 
 
 And hunt for squirrel hide. 
 
 Cloonan will still be votin' "no" 
 
 Away down there at Bunch. 
 Tom Moore will do "society" — 
 
 "A lion at midnight lunch." 
 The "Weazel" will feed his razor-backs, 
 
 And till the fertile soil. 
 While Strain and Yeager still will wage 
 
 Their fight on Standard Oil. 
 
 Allen will dust his office out 
 In hopes to get a fee. 
 
 —35— 
 
Curd and Keys will fishin' go, 
 
 And Davis nurse a ' ' bee. ' ' 
 Chapman will still remain the same — 
 
 As silent as a tomb, 
 Echols will tend the tender shoots 
 
 Of his congressional boom. 
 
 Updegraft will write a book, 
 
 "The speeches I have made." 
 Joe Morris list a grist of land 
 
 And lay low for a trade. 
 Eedwine will show the folks the "pea," 
 
 And smile the same old smile. 
 Warren and Hurst will practice law 
 
 And easy marks beguile. 
 
 Stewart will settle down and wed 
 
 A Hugo maiden sweet, 
 Beeler will quit Checotah 
 
 And move to the county seat. 
 Williams and Newell will once more 
 
 Deal out the deadly pill 
 Goulding will spend his leisure hours 
 
 On a resubmission bill. 
 
 Cordell will settle down and be 
 
 The grand old Senator-judge, 
 Wynne at the State University 
 
 Will eat the ' ' sweet-grads ' " fudge, 
 Memminger will mend all busted banks 
 
 Under the Guarantee 
 And Denton mid the Granite hills 
 
 A farmer plain shall be. 
 
 Mitchell in the short grass land 
 
 Will cultivate the pumpkin, 
 Smith will spend his time swappin' yarns 
 
 On a soap box down at Duncan. 
 Cunningham will stump the State 
 
 Against the election law. 
 Eggerman in old Shawnee 
 
 Will be just plain old "paw." 
 
 Taylor will build the Girls' School 
 
 Way down at Chickasha. 
 Potter will miss the Guthrie girls, 
 
 And sadly pine away. 
 And thus our usual way we'll go — 
 
 But, say, I've got a hunch 
 The Senate never again will know 
 
 Such a jolly, brainy bunch. 
 
 —36— 
 
®f)e Jflan grotmb tfte Corner 
 
 O, the man around the corner who keeps the peanut stand, 
 
 Is quite a true philosopher they say. 
 For he's all the while a singin' in a hearty, cheery mood, 
 
 "That this old world wasn't builded in a day." 
 His coat is old and threadbare and his hat is pinched and 
 and worn, 
 
 Yet he smiles and sez "hallo" to passers by 
 Just as happy and contented as a multi-million-he'ir, 
 
 For sez he, "Things won't stop movin' when we die." 
 
 O, the man around the corner who keeps the peanut stand, 
 
 Folks say he was successful in his day, 
 'Till a change of fortune wrecked him, left him on the 
 ragged edge 
 Just when youth and strength had passed with coming 
 grey. 
 Yet his heart he keeps a glowin' with a warmth of calm 
 content, 
 An' the few remainin' years he has to spend 
 Are kind of cheered and brightened by this philosophic 
 thought, 
 For sez he, "We'll all be equal in the end." 
 
 O, the man around the corner who keeps the peanut stand, 
 
 He's doin' of his share down here below, 
 To rid this mournful valley of the long-faced brand of 
 creed, 
 
 That fattens on some other critter's woe. 
 For anyone who sees him kindly smilin' all day long 
 
 Can't help but catch his hearty cheery ways, 
 An' a better time would follow if some others of his kin, 
 
 Would take to hummin' echoes to his lays. 
 
 Yes, the man around the corner who keeps the peanut stand, 
 
 Has found the Eldorado, so they say, 
 An' he's all the while a whistlin' in a hearty, cheery mood, 
 
 A helpful an' a blissful round-de-lay. 
 His back is bent an' crippled an' he shivers with the cold, 
 
 Yet he smiles and bids God's speed to passers by, 
 An' I reckon he's a nearin' to the 'ternal home of bliss, 
 
 For sez he, "I'm bound for glory when I die." 
 
 -37— 
 
BCije $ee$ 
 
 (Special Session, Second Legislature.) 
 ("The First Spasm.") 
 O, the bees, the bees that are buzzin' 
 
 Bound the heads of the Senate bunch, 
 While we listen to their droning 
 In the hope that we'll get a hunch. 
 
 The bees round an' round are flyin' 
 
 "With many a tempting plum, 
 But to most of us gang of prospectives 
 
 The bees just say "Hum, hum." 
 
 The bees first tackled ole Russell, 
 
 And Congress was their song, 
 The Weasel woke up in a minute, 
 
 They didn't need a gong. 
 
 Cordell was the next they jollied, 
 
 They called him District Judge. 
 They suggested Speaker to Updegraf, 
 
 But Alf just said, "O, fudge!" 
 
 Then they headed for Clarence Davis, 
 And thought they would sure be heard, 
 
 But Clarence was making a speechlet, 
 And the bees couldn't get in a word. 
 
 To Boddie they flew and suggested, 
 
 That his was a dandy plan 
 To honey a town with a Normal school, 
 
 For that ought to Ada man. 
 
 Clint Graham they buzzed and whispered 
 
 That the job for him was plain, 
 Corporation Commission was his size 
 
 If there wasn't too much Strain. 
 
 Then over to Beeler they wandered 
 
 And lit on his classic brow, 
 But Harry said, "Nit, my daddy-in-law 
 
 Has landed his postoffice now." 
 
 Stafford was next to be twitted, 
 
 They fixed him up this stunt, 
 Just to keep on being Senator 
 
 Till they tacked U. S. in front. 
 
 Then round the brow of Billups 
 They settled in a swarm, 
 
 — 3S— 
 
But most of them fainted on that job, 
 Gosh! But they found it warm. 
 
 To Brownlee they brought the message 
 That Attorney General would do, 
 
 But he said, "I guess I'll be Governor, 
 And be Attorney General, too." 
 
 Then to Potter they flew and told him 
 Of some gossip they had heard, 
 
 That a fat, good-natured bachelor 
 Had a dandy chance in the Third. 
 
 Then they tackled Harry Cloonan 
 To help him to fix his fence, 
 
 But they all got lost in his whiskers, 
 And they haven't been seen since. 
 
 S Jleto gear'g H>ong 
 
 The bells are tolling sad 
 The year is dead: 
 The winds are freighted with the funeral chant, 
 The corpse is borne along, naked and gaunt; 
 O'er its cold bier no parting words are said, 
 The bells toll on, the knell of the old year: 
 Our hearts are heavy with a nameless fear. 
 
 The bells are tolling sad 
 Our hearts throb tune; 
 We recollect how in the olden days 
 We voiced our anthems in its honored praise 
 And with fresh hope laid claim to future boon, 
 Now bells moan sad, its bitter, bitter fate, 
 And in our souls an echo says, too late. 
 
 The bells are ringing glad, 
 New Year is born; 
 Glad are the winds, to waft the joyous sound, 
 That heralds to a waiting world around, 
 The advent of a happy New Year's morn: 
 The bells chime on, greeting the new born king, 
 And in our hearts a song of joy we sing. 
 
 The bells are ringing glad, 
 Our hearts throb tune; 
 We picture balmy days of joy to come 
 When in gay sunlight we may dreamy roam, 
 Among the rosy paths of sunny June: 
 The bells ring glad, 'tis the ye&T 's natal day, 
 To hours of hope and labor, let's away. 
 
 —39— 
 
("The Second Spasm.") 
 
 The bees have escaped from the jungle 
 And are once again on their beat, 
 
 And we can enjoy their hum-buzzing 
 If we keep them away from Pete. 
 
 The first one they hit was Doc. Williams, 
 Saying, "Governor, you'll do for us," 
 
 But Doc said, "I'd rather own oil wells 
 And be part of the octopus." 
 
 To Echols they hummed a suggestion 
 
 Of a new congressional map, 
 With a district of short grass country 
 
 And Bob just swallowed that pap. 
 
 Then then shifted over to Taylor 
 
 And they didn't have much work 
 To convince the majority leader 
 
 That he'd like to be Supreme Clerk. 
 
 Then they saw that Tom Moore was lonesome 
 And pressed heavy with family cares, 
 
 And suggested that our cigar man 
 Would do for the Board of Affairs. 
 
 To Stewart they dished out the honey 
 That for Governor he'd be the pick 
 
 If they happened to leave the selection 
 
 To the boys from the forks of the "crick." 
 
 To Franklin they buzzed of victory 
 
 From Guymon down to Krebbs, 
 Whenever he ran for President 
 
 Against his old friend Debbs. 
 
 Then Cunningham got a jolly, 
 
 They told him they happened to know 
 
 That he'd be the first executive 
 Of the State of New Mexico. 
 
 To the Senator from Tulsa 
 
 They said, "You'll sure get there. 
 
 For the woman's rights convention 
 Have elected you to the chair. ' ' 
 
 Then Gould'ing got a visit 
 
 And they gave him, free of charge, 
 
 —40— 
 
A stall about his chances 
 As congressamn at large. 
 
 Then Bellamy got a visit 
 And it most cured him of the gout 
 When they spoke of him as Governor 
 And left the Lieutenant out. 
 
 Then they tackled old Soldina 
 
 And Sol they tried to convince 
 That a man could land most anything 
 
 Who could whip a barb wire fence. 
 
 Then the few lone bees that were living 
 
 Gave the thing up in despair, 
 And when Landrum combed the next morning 
 
 He found them dead in his front hair. 
 
 Jf restfj Jftgf) 
 
 (Extraordinary Session, Third Legislature.) 
 When I dug in the coal mines, fellers, 
 
 When a new gang came to work, 
 The old crowd always yelled "fresh fish," 
 
 And the cage dropped with a jerk. 
 
 Shot down three hundred feet or more, 
 
 And made the new gang wish 
 They'd stayed on top and never known 
 
 What it meant to yell "fresh fish." 
 
 So the new bunch in the Senate, 
 
 Who've come to save the State 
 All get the "fresh fish" high sign 
 
 From the poet laureate. 
 
 There's Jack Langston from the short grass, 
 
 Of padded census fame, 
 He missed one grass-grown tombstone, 
 
 But of course he's not to blame. 
 
 Old Fifteenth's represented 
 
 By the famous Barefoot Boy, 
 And Joseph Smith, the Mormon, 
 
 What a time we'll all enjoy. 
 
 There's Billy Briggs, from Woodward, 
 
 He takes the place of Alf, 
 The trouble is with Billy, 
 
 That he won 't weigh out by half. 
 
 -41- 
 
For Billups we've got Coffey, 
 The "beverage" of the bunch 
 
 Unless Eedwine is handy 
 
 Say, do you get that hunch? 
 
 Chief H. E. Jones (those initials 
 Don't stand for his real name); 
 
 Ask Clarence for the answer, 
 There's a reason, just the same. 
 
 McCully, that sounds Irish, 
 
 McMeechan, that sounds Dutch, 
 
 I may get out of here alive, 
 Perhaps I'll need a crutch. 
 
 They tell me our friend Tilghman 
 
 Through many a strenuous year 
 Fought buffaloes and outlaws — 
 
 He'll feel at home in here. 
 
 For Horton I am sure sorry — 
 
 He'll have to go the gait, 
 If he returns the service 
 
 That Tom gave to the State. 
 
 And Sid, he has my sympathy, 
 
 He'll have the hardest role; 
 He follows Campbell Weasel, 
 
 Watch him squeeze through that small hole. 
 
 Gid Graham, if he makes good 
 
 Will have to stand the Strain 
 Of all that fight on Standard, 
 
 Say, that will tax his brain. 
 
 J. B., who fills old Pitchfork's shoes: 
 
 Now say, won't he get his? 
 If he burns the Constitution 
 
 And puts lawyers out of biz. 
 
 Harlen got in quite handy, 
 
 His district had the Keys; 
 And Anderson must make a speech 
 
 On salaries and fees. 
 
 Van, also-ran in Arkansaw, 
 
 And heard Jeff Davis rage. 
 Dutton, if he holds down Sol's rep 
 
 Must learn to talk Osage. 
 
 —42— 
 
0lh pofcbp'* ^>ong 
 
 (At the Close of the Special Session of the 
 Second Legislature.) 
 
 'Twas Bobby Burns wrote that song, 
 
 'Bout the days "O 'auld Lang Syne," 
 He beat me to it several years 
 
 But his sentiment is mine. 
 And now when comes the parting hour 
 
 And the fierce strife is o'er, 
 I want to quote old Bobby's song 
 
 And mebby add some more; 
 It isn't likely that again 
 
 We'll meet as we are now, 
 For fortune may have other crowns 
 
 To place on many a brow, 
 And some will climb the higher rounds 
 
 Of honored public life, 
 And some will seek the peaceful glades 
 
 Afar from broil and strife, 
 But oft we'll think of these old times 
 
 And drink the purple wine 
 Of recollection, in our dreams 
 
 Of the days of ' ' Auld Lang Syne. ' ' 
 
 "We twa hae run about the braes," 
 
 That's Scotch talk for debate, 
 And many, many, were the "brays" — 
 
 We heard them soon and late; 
 But the hot air dope is now cooled off, 
 
 And the keen thrusts cut no more, 
 And for once we're all in harmony 
 
 Upon the Senate floor. 
 I want to take occasion here 
 
 To heal up any scars 
 That my blunt weapons may have made 
 
 In our uncivil wars, 
 I want to take you by the hand, 
 
 And if some spot is sore 
 Let's sing old Bobby Burn's song 
 
 And heal the old wounds o'er. 
 You may be right and I be wrong 
 
 Perhaps the fault was mine, 
 But many's the canty time we've had 
 
 In the "Days of Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 "Then, here's a hand, my trustly friend," 
 
 A hand without reserve 
 We may align in separate ranks, 
 
 But friendship we'll preserve; 
 
 —43- 
 
And the golden tie of brotherhood 
 
 That we've forged in the furnace flame, 
 Is wielded into massive strength 
 
 That will not break for a name, 
 Eepublican or Democrat, 
 
 Let's wave that all aside, 
 And for old Oklahoma's sake 
 
 In friendship we'll abide: 
 And in the mellow after years 
 
 Whene'er we chance to meet 
 Let's call old recollections up 
 
 And with a hand-clasp greet, 
 And may there be, 'twixt you and me 
 
 No cold division line, 
 "And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For the days of Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 3m Jlatcljett 
 
 (Read at Special Session, Second Legislature.) 
 Jess Hatchett? Yes sir, that's the man, 
 
 Some think he's pretty blunt; 
 But you'll find he's got a cutting edge 
 
 If you happen to get in front: 
 For he don't care how big a tree 
 
 There happens in his way, 
 His plan is hew right to the line, 
 
 Let the chips fall where they may. 
 
 Jess Hatchet, yes, he makes us mad, 
 
 The ornery scamp, you see, 
 He's liable to take a hack 
 
 At your favorite cherry tree, 
 Don't tell the hungry bunch back home 
 
 That you'll land the dough their way, 
 That Hatchett 's always cutting wood, 
 
 Let the chips fall where they may. 
 
 Jess Hatchett, down Red river way, 
 
 Where he farms a piece of land, 
 Folks says he's always neighborly, 
 
 Fer to lend a helpin' hand; 
 But he won't help us on our money bills, 
 
 Tho we beg and plead an' pray, 
 But he keeps a choppin' all the time, 
 
 Let the chips fall where they may. 
 
 Jess Hatchett, you bet, he 's all right, 
 
 The blame cantankerous cuss. 
 We like him tho he kills our bills 
 
 An' gets us in a muss: 
 For he 's square and true, and he 's honest, too, 
 
 And we'll back him any day, 
 Fer any ole dern thing he wants, 
 
 Let the chips fall where they may. 
 
& Bap ©ream 
 
 'Tis strange that I, engrossed with business life, 
 Busy with burdens that strain every power, 
 
 Should sometimes brush away the clouds of strife 
 And day dream once again in idle hour, 
 
 Using the crumbling embers in my grate 
 
 To build again in wonderful array 
 The castles of young hope which somber fate 
 
 Beseiged and sacked, then left to old decay. 
 
 I'm twenty in my so.ul, as back retraced, 
 
 The years glide into moments marked by tombs 
 
 Of buried passion, moss-thatched and defaced: 
 How quickly fire of time old hope consumes. 
 
 WitMn the narrow circle of that life, 
 
 Compassed by meagre knowledge of the world 
 
 But stout in self-reliance forth to fight 
 Love rushes with a flag of hope unfurled. 
 
 Retreat, disorder, rout, clouds hide the goal, 
 The story's told in tears, that drip and moan, 
 
 Seeding the fertile gardens of the soul, 
 
 Telling of conquests greater than yet known. 
 
 And my first love, the center of all plans 
 That surged in wild disorder in my breast, 
 
 Reincarnated in yon shadow stands, 
 
 With all the glow of youth again possessed. 
 
 A shadowed picture in the flare again, 
 
 A glinting silhouette of used-to-be; 
 I see it now divested of the pain, 
 
 That in its hour of life it crushed on me. 
 
 'Tis well that in our lives we sometimes pause 
 And count the cost e'er we plunge in the tide, 
 
 Rash fury and hate's hour is oft the cause 
 Of reef wrecked lives existing but in pride. 
 
 In the mature gray dawn of coming age 
 We pay at leisure folly's reckless debts, 
 
 Turning life's ledger's seer and yellowed page, 
 Passion remembers still what love forgets. 
 
 But why this idle fancy when the heat 
 
 Of present battles call for strength and power: 
 
 Awake and act, 'tis folly to repeat 
 
 This idle memory day dream of an hour. 
 
 —45— 
 
TLtt JWe Gtake gou Pp tfje ^anfc 
 
 Let me take you by the hand 
 
 For I know you're tired and sad, 
 Let me try to understand 
 
 Something of the pain you've had: 
 Let me smooth those furrowed frowns 
 
 From your hot and aching brow, 
 Let our hearts be not cast down, 
 
 There'll be better tides than now. 
 
 Let me sympathize, dear heart, 
 
 With the wrongs that burn within, 
 Let me bear at least a part 
 
 Of your sorrow, pain or sin; 
 I would fain be at your side 
 
 In the tides of deepest grief, 
 In joy's hour I've been your friend, 
 
 Let me now be your relief. 
 
 Other hearts may colder grow, 
 
 You may feel as though alone, 
 Through a hell in life to go 
 
 Nothing left but tear and moan, 
 But I'm with you, here to soothe, 
 
 Here to help you through the night 
 Just as when our paths were smooth, 
 
 And we friendshiped in the light. 
 
 What is friendship that would fade 
 
 When the clouds hang drear and dank, 
 Friendship true would not upbraid 
 
 Though to farthest depths you sank, 
 But would stoop to gently lift 
 
 Your weak form from terror's vile — 
 Friendship true would force a rift 
 
 In life 's clouds and bring a smile. 
 
 Let me take you by the hand, 
 
 For I know you're tired and sad, 
 As your thoughts I understand, — 
 
 Let me help you to be glad: 
 Let me smooth the darkening frown, 
 
 Banish sorrow from your brow, 
 Let our hearts be not cast down, 
 
 They '11 be better tides than now. 
 
 — 48— 
 
anb 3 Remember ?|er 
 
 And I remember her, after a lapse of years; 
 Her sweet fact smiling still through mists of tears: 
 I wonder was it best to meet and part, 
 And in the course of time work out our lives apart: 
 I think of her, and memory 's gentle spell 
 Whispers those long said words, "Farewell," Farewell!" 
 And I remember her. 
 
 And I remember her, clad in that dainty gown; 
 Her tangled curls a fitting frame around 
 That gentle face, when we two planned and dreamed — 
 Hours glided on — how beautiful it seemed 
 To live and love, in perfect truth to trust; 
 But now all's withered to the gray cold dust, 
 And I remember her. 
 
 And I remember her, oh tide of youth and joy, 
 That rids my soul of sordid cold alloy, 
 And fills it brim with hope and pure desire, 
 Lighting in memory's urn the sacred fire, 
 That swings the censer o'er the fated tomb 
 Loading the air around with rich perfume. 
 And I remember her. 
 
 And I remember her — it is not wrong to dwell 
 On themes like this, she taught me true and well 
 To value woman's love, to keep my vow, 
 When in the after years I came to bow 
 At other shrines; I look back now and see 
 How generous was that heart that moulded me, 
 And I remember her. 
 
 And I remember her, as distant thunders moan 
 The vision ceases, I am now alone. 
 Yet lingering in the distance still the song 
 Of meeting fleeting short, of parting long; 
 I rouse me with a tremor from the spell 
 And hear the echo faint, ''Farewell," "farewell!" 
 And I remember her. 
 
 B>intt TOUlie's Jotnetr tfje panb 
 
 Since Willie's joined the concert band 
 And learned to toot a horn, 
 
 Such frightful noise you never heard, 
 Since the day that you were born; 
 
He's got a place fixed in the barn 
 
 With seat and music rack, 
 And there he runs the scale to Z, 
 
 And then he runs it back: 
 We've just about decided 
 
 That it's more than we can staud, 
 The jar, the noise and discord 
 
 Since Willie's joined the band. 
 
 Since Willie's joined the concert band 
 
 They fixed him up a suit, 
 A hand-me-down that sags and bags 
 
 And a dinky cap to boot, 
 And a case to carry home his horn 
 
 And a rack to hold his notes, 
 And say, now he thinks he 's hot stuff, 
 
 As to and fro he totes 
 That awful horn of doubtful sound, 
 
 He bought it second hand, 
 But you can bet it's new to us, 
 
 Since Willie's joined the band. 
 
 Since Willie's joined the concert band 
 
 He has to go each night, 
 Where other tooters congregate 
 
 To learn to toot all right. 
 It's awful when a score or more 
 
 Of amateurs begin 
 To learn to go, "do, re, me, do," 
 
 In one discordant din: 
 The leader says we'll all be proud 
 
 When they play upon the stand, 
 Bj' gosh, we have to stand it now, 
 
 Since Willie's joined the band. 
 
 Since Willie's joined the concert band 
 
 At time for evening chores, 
 He takes that pesky horn along 
 
 And gets the calves by fours, 
 And plays a tune for them to march, 
 
 And when he slops the shoat, 
 Or milks the muly brindle cow 
 
 He does it all by note; 
 We've just about decided 
 
 To take that boy 'in hand, 
 For peace has left the homestead 
 
 Since Willie's joined the band. 
 
 Since Willie's joined the concert band 
 
 When they come out to play, 
 And march so fine along the street 
 
 — 48— 
 
We jist can't stay away, 
 And I nudge ma, and ma pokes me, 
 
 And we say, look at Will 
 A puffin' and a blowin' there, 
 
 And then a tieklin' thrill 
 Goes creeping up and down my spine 
 
 And I'd like to take a hand 
 And blow a pesky horn myself, 
 
 Since Willie 's joined the band. 
 
 3Tm Cating at a Cfjili Joint, Put- 
 
 (Eead at Special Session of Second Legislature.) 
 If you hunt for me in Guthrie, 
 
 Outside of Session hours, 
 You'll find me at the big hotel 
 
 Hobnobbin ' with the powers. 
 It always pays to keep a front, 
 
 It gives a fellow tone, 
 Say, I'm eatin' at a chili joint 
 
 But I stop at the lone. 
 
 Some fellows like to cut a swath 
 
 And blow a lot of cash, 
 Live on frappe and canvas back — 
 
 I take mine out in hash; 
 It's cheaper just to make a bluff, 
 
 Then boast how much you have blown, 
 Get chuck down at a chili joint 
 
 But stop at the lone. 
 
 A tooth-pick and a two-for-five, 
 
 Stuck in your phiz for style, 
 An air of great importance, 
 
 And a bland contented smile; 
 Then mill around the lobby, 
 
 As if it was your own, 
 Grub-stake down at a chili joint 
 
 But stop at the lone. 
 
 3f 3 ^ab tfje jlaking of Jllpgetf 
 
 If I had had the making of myself 
 
 I wonder would I in this head have placed 
 
 These flights of fancy and these airy dreams 
 
 That hours on hours of precious moments waste. 
 
 Would I have made a dreamer of myself, 
 
 With hands that know no craft with shifting brain. 
 
 -49— 
 
That lives in other zones and in hard life 
 Knows little of the laws of pelf and gain. 
 
 If I had had the making of myself 
 
 I wonder would I choose a weak physique, 
 Or would I rather fashion out a man 
 
 Moulded from model of the perfect Greek. 
 Would I have made these soft and unstained hands 
 
 Fit only for the duties of a life 
 Of cultured ease, or would I rather make 
 
 Hard knuckles fit for destiny's fierce strife? 
 
 If I had had the making of myself, 
 
 I wonder 'if I would my life have placed 
 In an environment foreign to my mood, 
 
 When other realms of thought I might have graced: 
 Would I have chosen by deliberate plan 
 
 The humble sphere which I now occupy, 
 Or would I rather mount to higher plains 
 
 And scan the circles of another skv? 
 
 If I had had the making of myself, 
 
 Would I have lightly passed o'er sore defect, 
 Left much unfinished, crippled and uncouth — 
 
 Much that a master maker would reject? 
 Would I have jumbled up a misfit man 
 
 And placed him in the throng without a chance 
 To weary wend his sorrows to a grave, 
 
 To die in poverty and want, perchance? 
 
 If I had had the making of myself 
 
 And known as He who formed my ego knew, 
 My destiny in other worlds than this 
 
 And the probations that I must pass through, 
 Perhaps my wakened mind would comprehend 
 
 The call, the need, of every present power, 
 Then would I work and mould the plastic clay 
 
 In form and thought as I appear this hour. 
 
 But I can be the maker of myself, 
 
 Much of the process is but partly done, 
 The uses that I make of nature's gifts 
 
 And how I in the present journey run, 
 Will count for good or .ill when I awake 
 
 Within the portals of a higher home, 
 My self-made destiny to ever spend 
 
 Under the skys of the Eternal Dome. 
 
 -50— 
 
tEfje Baton 
 
 In the glint of the blue-gray dawn, 
 
 I watch for the blood-red sun 
 As it comes from the mysteries of the East, 
 
 Where human thought begun; 
 And I feel like some Pagan Priest 
 
 In the midst of his morning rite, 
 By the altar stone in the dawn alone 
 
 Banishing soulless night. 
 
 In the gleam of the first pale streak 
 
 I catch a voice from high — 
 'Tis a message come from the golden home 
 
 Of the sun-God of the sky; 
 And the message is filled With hope, 
 
 For it tells of a long fair day, 
 And the black-robed sprite of the moonless night 
 
 Wings her lonely form away. 
 
 On the mountains the clouds hang low 
 
 To be kissed by the lips of morn, 
 And upon the peaks as the morning breaks 
 
 A thousand gems are born: 
 They sparkle in changing hue 
 
 Adorning this wondrous feast, — 
 They are ringlets fair from the golden hair 
 
 Of the sky-maiden of the East. 
 
 What right have I to stand 
 
 In the presence of such might? 
 I am but a man, and the finite ban — 
 
 Shuts out all clearer sight 
 Before me the lore of time 
 
 Revealed in yon eastern glow, 
 Behind me the fright of the dream -filled night, 
 
 With its terrors of pain and woe. 
 
 And I feel like some Pagan Priest 
 
 In the glint of the blue-grey dawn 
 Before the stone of my altar lone 
 
 Chanting life 's natal psalm, 
 And the vale of the vast is rent, 
 
 And I see in the glow within 
 That temple vague in the hidden crag 
 
 Where earth's mysteries begin. 
 
 -51- 
 
?fet J?eber &an for ©iikt 
 
 He never ran for office 
 
 So when he came to die, 
 And the neighbors gathered around him 
 
 With many a tear and sigh, 
 There was not one voice discordant. 
 
 And in peace he breathed his last, 
 For he'd never run for office 
 
 And folks didn't know his past. 
 
 He never ran for office, 
 
 80 the parson had it nice, 
 And he wove a rope to Glory 
 
 Without a knot or splice: 
 He talked about his righteousness 
 
 And made it good and stout, 
 For he'd never run for office 
 
 And they hadn't found him out. 
 
 He never ran for office, 
 
 So upon the granite stone 
 No reports were contradicted, 
 
 It was simple "gush" alone. 
 And the man who wrote the epitaph — 
 
 He didn't shake his head, 
 For he'd never run for office 
 
 And his past had not been read. 
 
 He never ran for office — 
 
 He had never known the joy 
 Of patting voters on the back 
 
 In manner neat and coy: 
 And he'd never known the sorrow 
 
 Of eating campaign crow, 
 For he'd never run for office 
 
 And of course he could not know. 
 
 He never ran for office, 
 
 But when he reached the sky, 
 And they audited his life's account, 
 
 He didn't stand so high, 
 For he had been about as mean 
 
 As any in life's bout, 
 But he never ran for office 
 
 And they hadn't found him out. 
 
 —52— 
 
®fje Saloon 
 
 A filthy hole "With low smoke frescoed wall, 
 
 Whereon green slimy serpents writhe and crawl, 
 
 Fixing their firey eyes upon the slave 
 
 Who, lost to hope, digs deep a drunkard's grave; 
 
 A filthy hole, where, for the glint of gold, 
 
 Pure lives are bartered, human hearts are sold. 
 
 A place where Satan plies his ugliest art, 
 
 A place polluted to the very heart, — 
 
 The home of reeking filth and noisome smell 
 
 Wherein is sold the fluid breath of Hell. 
 
 A swell saloon with high gilt-moulded wall 
 
 Whereon those same green serpents writhe and crawl, 
 
 Still fixing fiery eyes upon the soul 
 
 Of him who gaily drains the friendship bowl: 
 
 A Hellish place where for more glint of gold 
 
 More poverty, more wretchedness is sold. 
 
 A place illumined by the painter's art, 
 
 But filled with poison 'in its very heart, 
 
 Perfumed to hide the soul-destroying smell 
 
 That marks the fiery, fluid breath of Hell. 
 
 A camp canteen with sloping tented wall 
 Whereon those same green serpents love to crawl; 
 The soldiers' humble wages is their spoil, 
 That pittance won by hardship, risk and toil, 
 Needed by patient wife and babes at home, 
 Praying for him, who, tempted and alone, 
 Sells home and honor at the canteen bar 
 Where fall more men than in the nation's war: 
 The records of our army sadly tell 
 How great the foe this fluid breath of Hell. 
 
 A state saloon — "Dispensary," its called, 
 Yet into it the same green snakes have crawled, 
 Coiling around weakened dupes who enter in, 
 To taste of death at the state's bar of sin — 
 A festered spot despite the smiling face 
 Of agent who a pulpit once did grace. 
 Now prostituted by the glint of gold, 
 The keeper of a place where booze is sold; 
 Around its darkened doors we note that smell 
 That brands the fluid breath of Hell. 
 
 Arise, ye men, and muster for the fray. 
 Stand and be counted on election day, 
 
Come, let us strike a sure and certain blow 
 And tell the world that all saloons must go. 
 Arise, I say, and rally around the flag. 
 Cowards are they who with the doubters lag, 
 The time is come to ring the rum power's knell 
 And crush the fiend whose fiery breath is Hell. 
 
 Eustlin' fteufocn l\obbte 
 
 [Bead at Regular Session of Second Legislature.) 
 Eeuben Boddie, rural raised, 
 
 A leader in the Senate. 
 Keep the pot a-boilin ' hot 
 
 Every blessed minute. 
 Banking or insurance laws 
 
 Cannot pass the body. 
 'Less they're O.-K.-ed by the boss — 
 
 Rustlin ' Reuben Roddie. 
 
 Reuben Roddie really rolls 
 
 In the lap of fortune; 
 He's so slick that he escapes 
 
 Pitchfork's daily scorchin'. 
 Reuben says he will not drink 
 
 Billup's cider toddy. 
 But will stick to Sunny Brook 
 
 For rip-roarin ' Roddie. 
 
 Reuben Roddie rips and roasts 
 
 All who dare oppose him; 
 Though he's meek as Mary's lamb 
 
 To the one who knows him: 
 Some folks think that he 's whole cloth 
 
 Other's think he's shoddy, 
 But our guess of him is this. 
 
 Real, rough, ready Roddie. 
 
 Reuben Roddie runs the ranch 
 
 Down where he is livin ', 
 Tells the folks a Xorman school 
 
 He will soon be given. 
 Some of the wise ones wink and say 
 
 That on this he's noddy — 
 Time will tell, but our bet is 
 
 Ropes will run for Roddie. 
 
81 jJWtniature jWebailton in a ®ear 
 
 A miniature medallion in a tear, 
 
 Penciled in dainty tracery her face, 
 Each gentle look engraved in outline clear, 
 
 Each flush, each sigh, each tone, each queenly grace, 
 It takes a poet's heart, and artist's touch 
 
 To tell, to paint all that she was to me 
 When we first met. 
 
 A miniature medallion in a tear, 
 
 Set in the colorings of yesterday, 
 Mellowed by shade on shade of passing year, 
 
 Catching again the light of memory's ray, 
 Each line shows still the touch of youth's proud art, 
 
 For she was beautiful indeed to me, 
 When we first met. 
 
 A miniature medallion in a tear — 
 
 Paint me another such and golden store, 
 
 Heaped high, weighed full, glistening and dear, 
 Out of my heart vaults I will freely pour; 
 
 'Tis a hard task, pallet and brush are dumb, 
 For she was such as mortals rarely see, 
 When we first met. 
 
 A miniature medallion in a tear, 
 
 That rolls away to meet the ocean wide 
 Of dim forgetfulness, while to the ear 
 
 The drippings of the fountain seek to hide 
 The gurgling quiver of a heart wrung sigh, 
 
 For she was beautiful, indeed, to me, 
 When we first met. 
 
 3Tm S'gotn' ?|ome to '%{}& 
 
 (Bead at Special Session of Third Legislature.) 
 I'm a-goin' home to 'Liza 
 
 And quit this foolin' round 
 A-tryin' to fix the capital 
 
 On the right spot of ground; 
 The fellers in my district 
 
 Are writin' me and say 
 They don't believe I'm earnin' 
 
 That old s'ix per a day. 
 
 I come down here a-thinkin ' 
 This legislative game 
 
Was just the kind of statecraft 
 
 That fitted to ray brain, 
 But as soon as I prop up a scheme 
 
 Somebody kicks the skids, 
 So I'm goin' back to simple life 
 
 With 'Liza and the kids. 
 
 They don't pay 'nogh attention 
 
 To my dignity down here, 
 Like they do back in the timber 
 
 Where I'm rated as high gear, 
 And them lawyers talk so often 
 
 That us farmers have to sit 
 Aud take it all, so I'll skidoo 
 
 While the bovs still think I'm it. 
 
 &nb get 3 ©ream 
 
 And yet I dream, I know 'tis idle fancy, 
 For never have my visions grown to be 
 Else than the glimmering vapors of enchantment; 
 Which the round sun of life, real life has rent, 
 Scattering gaudy fragments here and thither 
 Like leaves of tinted gold in autumn weather, 
 And yet I dream. 
 
 And yet I dream, a habit formed and 'stablished 
 Making of every hope a radiant star. 
 Painting in richest hue each dull endeavor: 
 I would not have it changed, not changed indeed. 
 Whispering Elfins sweeting each sorrow, 
 Singing of brighter dreams to come on morrow, 
 And yet I dream. 
 
 And yet I dream now as in days of olden, 
 Only the dreams drive quicker than of yore: 
 How would it seem if fact should fill the void 
 And make my visions true, yes, true today ; 
 I still would long for golden lace of shadow, 
 For quiet spot in some enchanted meadow 
 Where I could dream. 
 
 And yet I dream, as the dim light expiring 
 Flares high to show me how the shadows grow, 
 Closer they come to gird me with their darkness, 
 When by a dream touch real, yes, real they're rent. 
 And in the void I see a beckoning fairy. 
 That whispers of new hopes, all fleecy, airy, 
 And so I dream. 
 
 36— 
 
3ft'£ Spring in ©felafjoma 
 
 It's spring iu Oklahoma 
 
 And old nature's looking pert, 
 With the green plumes of the corn crop 
 
 Just a-pushin' through the dirt, 
 The odor comes in gladness 
 
 From each tinted prairie flower, 
 And the rich, red rambling roses 
 
 O'er the well curb make a bower. 
 
 It's spring in Oklahoma, 
 
 You can hear the red-bird call 
 To his mate hid in the cluster 
 
 Of the yuccas on the noil, 
 The red haws are in blossom 
 
 And the sand plums are in bud, 
 And the Oklahoma sunshine 
 
 Pours down in a golden flood. 
 
 It 's spring in Oklahoma, 
 
 And the green alfalfa fields 
 Already are a-tellin' 
 
 Of six-fold golden yields; 
 The sod is turin' backward 
 
 As the plow goes on and on, 
 Soon the sod-land will have vanished 
 
 And the golden west be won. 
 
 It's spring in Oklahoma 
 
 Like no where else on earth, 
 And prairie land and timber 
 
 Are brimmin' full of mirth: 
 A million welcome voices 
 
 Sing sonnets in your ear — 
 It's spring in Oklahoma, 
 
 The joy tide of the year. 
 
 It's spring in Oklahoma, 
 
 And from emerald fields of wheat 
 The meadow larks are chorin' 
 
 An anthem pure and sweet; 
 The smell of the fresh furrow 
 
 Breathes prosperity 's perfume, 
 And you just can't help from catehin' 
 
 The Oklahoma boom. 
 
 —57— 
 
'UMav ©tit gonber 
 
 I want to go 'way out yonder, 
 
 Where the range is still wide and wild, 
 For I've been on the frontier, stranger, 
 
 Ever since I was a child, 
 And the habits of seventy winters 
 
 Can't be put off in a day; 
 Your settlements may be better 
 
 But I hain't turned that-a-way — 
 I long for the unbroke prairie, 
 
 For the green, cattle-dotted plain, 
 For the air of the old time freedom, 
 
 For the open range again. 
 
 I want to go 'way o'-it youder, 
 
 I've been pushin' west year by year. 
 A-tryin ' to keep in sight, sir, 
 
 Of the vanishin' old frontier: 
 I'd give my ole hat for a sight, sir, 
 
 Of the buffaloes on stampede 
 As they thundered along the prairies. 
 
 'Fore the settlers killed their breed. 
 Don't tell me to settle down, sir. 
 
 To spend my remainin' days — 
 I'm sniffin' the air of the openin', 
 
 And I'm travelin' that-a-ways. 
 
 I want to go 'way out yonder, 
 
 Where nature is still supreme. 
 Where the clouds still kiss the hilltops, 
 
 And the steers drink at the stream; 
 I want to roll in my blanket, 
 
 Beneath the star-studded sky. 
 And hear the dull tramp of the cattle. 
 
 Like I uster in days gone by: 
 I can't get used to new-f angles, 
 
 I can't stand your crowded street. 
 I want to be 'way out yonder, 
 
 Where the sky and prairies meet. 
 
 I want to go 'way out yonder, 
 
 But what is the use. you say, 
 That yonder has got its cities 
 
 And been settled the self same way; 
 There's no place for an old cow-puncher 
 
 To rest out his few left years 
 Away from the noise and bustle, 
 
 —58— 
 
Alone with his horse and steers; 
 There ain 't no frontier no longer, 
 
 This country has settled fast 
 And I'll never more know the freedom 
 
 Of them days of the dear old past. 
 
 I'll saddle my pony again, sir, 
 
 Hang my rope on the saddle horn 
 And push for the openin' beyond, sir, 
 
 In the grey of the crystal morn: 
 My old eyes are getting dimmer, 
 
 But I think, sir, I still can see 
 The boys in the old camp yonder 
 
 A-beckonin' now to me. 
 I'm going to my last round-up — 
 
 Don't call it my narrow tomb — 
 It's freedom for me beyond, sir, 
 
 It's a place where I'll have some room. 
 
 ®fje Pops; Wfjo &re J?ot {Eftere 
 
 (Read at the opening of the Special Session of the 
 Third Legislature.) 
 You know I was kind of expecting 
 
 To be called on this-a-way 
 So I fixed me up a batch of dope 
 Just on purpose for today. 
 
 First to welcome you to our city, 
 
 Boys, we'll try to do things brown, 
 To show you all what it's like to meet 
 
 In a real live grown-up town. 
 
 But with all my thoughts of welcome 
 
 And with all my words of cheer, 
 Somehow I am kind of lonesome, 
 
 For the boys who are not here. 
 
 I ain't got all acquainted 
 
 With you new ones, don't you know, 
 An' I don't know how you'll pan out, 
 
 When we go to give a show. 
 
 I'm looking in vain for the "weazel" 
 
 With his New Jerusalem sass, 
 I'm pining for Undegraff 's speeches, 
 
 An' the noise from the "snake in the grass." 
 
 And Taylor's place is vacant, 
 We'll miss his election laws; 
 
 —59— 
 
They say be got scratched quite badly 
 By old "Grandaddy 's clause." 
 
 The ladies are all asking 
 
 What's become of old Tom Moore, 
 He's gone but not forgotten; 
 
 Now watch some new man score. 
 
 An' Joe Morris, bald and bashful, 
 
 Vamoosed is versatile Joe, 
 Ditto Cunningham, late of Guthrie, 
 
 Now boss of New Mexico. 
 
 The "grass roots" are unrepresented 
 Chief Jones got on Davis' track, 
 
 And Clarence, Doc Cook, T. E. and Jeff, 
 O, pshaw! They couldn't come back. 
 
 And our fire-eating sorrel statesman — 
 Poor Clint, he's been laid to rest, 
 
 His statecraft struck a rocky reef 
 Last June, down near Key West. 
 
 Old Sol has gone into eclipse, 
 And Cordell, Smith and Keys 
 
 Have quit the stage of action, 
 We'll miss such friends as these. 
 
 Pa Blair has doffed his toga 
 
 For more engrossing toil. 
 Yeager and Strain now understand 
 
 What it means to fight Standard Oil. 
 
 So I'll close my mournful ditty 
 
 With a burst of hearty joy, 
 Red ink is still abundant 
 
 And we'll hear right smart from Roy. 
 
 ©felafjoma Cttp'g a Capital 2Toton 
 
 (Read at Banquet to Legislature by Oklahoma City Cham- 
 ber of Commerce.) 
 Oklahoma City's a capital town 
 
 From wha'tever point you view, 
 Nothing like it has been known 
 
 In history old or new. 
 Whatever the boosters undertake 
 
 Is always done up brown, 
 And the State at large is saying tonight, 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 When the packing plant was an airy dream, 
 In which folks took little stock. 
 
 ^60— 
 
Aii impossible scheme was made a fact — 
 
 Many thanks to Sidney Brock. 
 In an hour the bonus was guaranteed 
 
 And the stakes were driven down, 
 And the world took off its hat and cheered — 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 When the farmers wanted a big State fair 
 
 To show their hogs and corn, 
 Gristmill and Henry were on the job 
 
 And a big success was born, 
 And when pa and ma and the kidlets all, 
 
 Each fall go roun' and roun", 
 At the great display they pause to say, 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 When it comes to paving or street car lines 
 
 Or skyscrapers, great and tall, 
 Or stately churches or handsome homes, 
 
 Or schools, she beats them all; 
 And the get-together spirit of push 
 
 Has won her great renown, 
 And we join the chorus in saying now, 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 When the people voted 'way back last June 
 
 For a permanent civic home — 
 Voted to have a secure place 
 
 For a truant given to roam, 
 They spoke out fifty thousand strong 
 
 And the Governor sat right down, 
 And proclaimed that night to all the world, 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 When the Legislature just adjourned 
 
 Took up this question great, 
 Of settling on a final site 
 
 For a capital of our State, 
 They came to this wonder of the world 
 
 And offered her the crown 
 By voting "Aye," saying thereby, 
 
 Oklahoma's a capital town. 
 
 Hurrah for the city of pluck of brains, 
 
 And her boosters who make good; 
 For Oklahoma first and last, 
 
 In solid ranks they've stood, 
 And when the State house gilded dome 
 
 Yon north-east hill shall crown, 
 We Oklahomans will probably say, 
 
 This is our capital town. 
 
 -61- 
 
Be Campbell &u&ell pan 
 
 (Read during the Regular Session of the Second 
 Legislature.) 
 
 I 'se gwine to jine de army 
 
 Dat's marchin' through de State 
 For to find de New Jerusalem, 
 
 An' dar de hub locate, 
 Whar we can build dat eapitol, 
 
 An' make hit big an' gran' 
 Jes like hit's been prospected 
 
 In de Campbell Russell plan. 
 
 I'se been readin' in de Good Book 
 
 'Bout dat city comin' down 
 From de hebbens, with hits streets of gold 
 
 Whar I kin git a crown, 
 But Marse Russell beats de Bible 
 
 'Case he builds his up fust han ', 
 So I'se for de Holy City, 
 
 On de Campbell Russell plan. 
 
 We's gwine to buil' dat town, sub, 
 
 In de middle ob de State 
 Wid a big Jim Crow addition 
 
 Hey, niggah! Ain't dat great, 
 An ' me mammy an ' Aunt 'Liza, 
 
 De gilded dome kin scan 
 From our cabin in de Crow block 
 
 On de Campbell Russell plan. 
 
 De printshop an' de prison, 
 
 An' de looney house as well, 
 Is gwine to be nex' door, sub, 
 
 To whah de statesmens dwell, 
 An' de Governor an' de Warden 
 
 An' de cullud janitor man, 
 Is gwine to be close neighbors 
 
 On de Campbell Russell plan. 
 
 So I 'se gwine to, jine de army 
 
 An' shout Millenial Day, 
 An' I'se gwine to knock knee onward 
 
 In de golden Zion way, 
 An' I'se gwine to preach dis gospel 
 
 An' I'll shout to beat de ban' 
 For de comin ' new Jerusalem 
 
 An' de Campbell Russell plan. 
 
 —62— 
 
©fjosie Agricultural g>cf)oote 
 
 (Read at the Special Session of the Second Legislature on 
 Washington's Birthday, 1910.) 
 
 'Twas lucky for George Washington 
 
 That he never told a lie, 
 It saved him much embarrassment 
 
 When he acted on the sly, 
 When he cut down the cherry tree 
 
 And his dad the hickory switch 
 His simon pure veracity 
 
 Just saved him from the ditch; 
 'Twas lucky for old Georgie 
 
 That he stuck to truthful rules 
 And was never caught locating 
 
 Those Agricultural Schools. 
 
 I've always kind of doubted 
 
 Those tales of long ago. 
 And politics she sure has changed 
 
 Since the country got to grow; 
 A statesman would be hard to find 
 
 In this degenerate day 
 Who wouldn't twist the truth a bit 
 
 To make it come his way. 
 But Georgie, he was foxy, 
 
 And he kept out of the pools 
 And was never caught locating 
 
 Those Agricultural Schools. 
 
 Old George's reputation 
 
 Would have looked like thirty cents 
 If Billups or Bob Echols 
 
 Had caught him on the fence, 
 And his name would not be floating 
 
 On the clear historic breeze 
 If he'd been a silent partner 
 
 Of the firm of the three C's; 
 George may have been a schemer, 
 
 And he may have used some tools, 
 But he never got to dabbling 
 
 With those Agricultural Schools. 
 
 The moral of this verselct 
 
 To all political guys 
 Is always keep your record straight 
 
 And dor 't tell any lies, 
 And if you want to swing a deal 
 
 -63— 
 
Or cut a cherry tree, 
 Remember George's hatchet stunt 
 
 And keep your coat tails free, 
 And when you meet temptation 
 
 Just stick to truthful rules 
 And don't get ketched locating 
 
 Those Agricultural Schools. 
 
 let's $ifee Jfer ©felafjomp, Ptll 
 
 (Written for Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine.) 
 
 Let's draw our money from the bank, and quit old Kansas 
 soil, 
 And pull for Oklahomy, Bill, the land of honest toil; 
 There to live on milk and fat, contented as can be, 
 
 And keep our cash safe in the bank, backed by State 
 Guarantee. 
 
 I 'member in wild-cat days, that many a man was tripped, 
 By tradin' off his corn an' hogs, for worse than worthless 
 script. 
 
 But down in Oklahomy, Bill, them times they'll never see, 
 Cause every bank in backed up by a safe State Guarantee. 
 
 I always thought that them there chaps, what settled that 
 there land, 
 And builded Oklahoma State, wuz chock plum full of sand; 
 And since they've made that bankin' law, I think, Bill, 
 you'll agree 
 That Oklahomy has a trump, in that there Guarantee. 
 
 They tell me socks from ole Missou that's been hid out for 
 years, 
 Is being shipped to new state banks where folks don't 
 have no fears 
 About them banks a-bustin', Bill, but all sleep peacefully, 
 A-knowin' that their money's safe with that State Guar- 
 antee. 
 
 From Kansas, Texas, Arkansas, the cash is pourin' in, 
 An' bankers in the neighbor states are cussin' just like 
 sin: 
 It hurts to see the money go to Oklahomy, see? 
 
 An' so they're all a-shoutin' for their own State Guar- 
 antee. 
 
 So let's get our stuff into cash and quit ole Kansas plains, 
 And hike for Oklahomy, Bill, the home of pluck and 
 brains; 
 
 There we can live a-fellin' like we wuzn't up a tree, 
 
 The way we feel in Kansas now without that Guarantee. 
 
 -64— 
 
APR 13 t9H 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 MAr t Nil 
 
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