N MERRY MOO Class ::|^&33^x a (xmi^tWA^(}2^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. In Merry Mood BY NIXON WATERMAN A BOOK OF VERSES " A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! " IN MERRY MOOD A Book of Cheerful Rhymes Each I vol., i2mo, $i.2j In Merry Mood A Book of Cheerful Rhymes By Nixon Waterman 4 6)1 I 3 i 3 JJ^JJJ^ ^' 3 33 '33 3} 333 3J3-' J J J 3 3 J 3 3 3 3 ■",> ' J ^3 ,3 • J ; 3 : 3 J , -> , J -. ' ' , J ; , , ' J ' ^,>^^'j ^,v?^^ J 3 J ' 3 » . 3 3,3 Boston and Chicago Forbes & Company 1902 Copyright, igo2, by Nixon Waterman All rights reserved THE LIBRARY OF GONGftESS, '^"■mj Cow tit RtchivSEi Cf.ASsCv xxa No. corv B ^ a I? o)5lN>jax ^IjL^^kXjU V3re'i&^ K>e> \Ws^/lO Aro-A-^^ INSTEAD OF A PREFACE As a matter of course, whoever is responsible for the publication of a book must feel a certain anxiety lest the reader be not appreciative of its merits. Out of this anxiety comes what is commonly known as a " preface." The author usually feels that he must meet the prospective reader at the threshold, and in some fashion prepare him for the disappointment that is to follow. I omit from the present volume any form of preface, for two reasons, — neither of which I feel called upon to give. For permission to reprint many of the poems in this volume thanks are due the courtesy of the editors of The Hayville Watch Tower, The Mush and Milk Quarterly^ The Brush Creek Bajiner, The Hide and Tallow Investigator, The Pikeville Palladium, and The Butterine Vindicator. It is with a feeling of both sorrow and pride that I avail myself of this opportunity to answer in a general way letters received from time to time from magazine editors asking if it will be convenient for me to con- tribute articles desired for their publications. To each of these I would say : In thanking you for your flattering request I must Instead of a Preface express my regret that I am unable to avail myself of your offer, at this time, as I shall be occupied for several months in preparing manuscripts already promised. In declining to furnish the contribution you request, I trust the motives prompting my action will not be misconstrued. No reflection, whatever, upon the merit or character of your publication is intended. My non-acceptance of your offer may result from one or more of many causes, none of which relates to the desirability of your publication as a means of placing my work before the public. An editor on having a request for manuscript re- jected should not infer, necessarily, that his offer lacks the qualities that would ensure its acceptance by other writers of creditable standing. A request for manuscript which one writer may refuse, another may gladly consider. Again thanking you for your pleasant communica- tion, I am, Very sincerely, etc., Nixon Waterman. CONTENTS PAGE Almost a Poem 55 Average Man, The 143 Baby's Letter, The 47 Back-Stairs Poetry 87 Basis of Criticism, The 23 Boy's Vacation, A 123 Christmas Like It Used to Be 97 Cinch on Success, A 196 Clothes Make the Woman, The 201 " Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " 139 Coming " Literary " Success, A 179 Compromise, A 160 Cuckoo Clock, The 157 Cupid's Corner 91 Deacon Easy's Opinion 17 Deacon Hopeful's Idee 175 Defence of Shakespeare, A 19 Diplomatic Caddie, The 61 Contents PAGE Doctor Goodcheer's Remedy 33 Farewell to Robin 153 Farmer Broadacre's Christmas 194 Farmer Wayback's Woe 1 1 1 " First Edition," A 120 Folks We Read About 167 Fourth in Easyville, The 191 Garden's Message, The 24 General Clean-Up, A 85 Good Old Earth, The 59 Good Tostle Paul 127 Go Right on Working 152 Her Number Two 203 His Second Wife 182 Hobbled Pegasus, A 40 If We Did n't Have to Eat 161 Interludes 29 Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson 25 Journalistic Laureate, The 125 June-Time 80 Just This Minute 93 Keep A-Trying 65 Key to Hades, The 113 Lucky Hiram Streeter 31 Making a Man 82 Contents PAGE Mandy's Woman's Club 105 Many and Many a Time 207 Mary O'Malley 115 Melon Song 177 My Grandfather's Old " Snake " Fence ... 71 My Neighbor's Dog 204 Myself and I 69 Ned's Letter to Santa Claus 187 Neighbor Jones's Notion 189 One Fair Woman, The 52 One of the Has-Beens 169 One with a Song, The 16 Only a Word 208 Our Thoughtless Wrongs 129 Poetry a la Mode 75 Poet's Lament, The 149 Poor Man's Thanksgiving, The 121 Potpourri 118 Professor Killemoffski 77 Quavers and Semiquavers 103 Real Estate Wanted 49 Regardin' Hoss-Tradin' 171 Salutatory 15 Secret of Happiness, The 132 Shakespearian Jest, A 63 Contents PAGH Shreds and Patches 155 Smartweed and Ticklegrass S;^ Song of the Katydid, The 99 Song or Sigh ? 90 Steady Worker, The 199 Stuffed Little Boy, The 147 Thankful Parson, A 163 Them Tunes the Circus Plays 109 This Sorry World 130 " To Know All Is to Forgive AH " 117 Toward the Light 28 Trials of Genius, The . . loi Triumph of Genius, The 43 Uncle Abner's Whistle 45 Uncle Joshua's Experience 135 Uncle Phil's Philosophy 185 Union Wages . . / 108 Very Remarkable Case, A 54 Village Philosopher, The 37 What a Boy Can Do 73 What Have We Done To-day ? 67 When a Man 's in Love 165 When Daddy Comes Home 57 When John Comes Home from College ... 20 When Mother Cut My Hair 133 Contents PAGE When She's Away 205 " Why-Did n't- You ?" Man, The 145 Winter Morn, A 138 Wise Sire, The 95 Woman : A Study 35 IN MERRY MOOD TN shaping up this book of rhymes, I do not mind admitting, I 've changed them 'round a dozen times To make them seem more fitting. I know the first one ought to be So fashioned 't would arrest one And make him read, and so, you see, I 've tried to find the best one. But, oh, so many are so good, (The critics may deny it,) To find the best I never could, 'T is useless, quite, to try it. And so I print these lines instead. Preferring that the reader Shall say, when he the book has read, Which one should be the leader. 15 THE ONE WITH A SONG 'T^HE cloud-maker says it is going to storm, And we 're sure to have awful weather, - Just terribly wet, or cold, or warm, Or, maybe, all three together ; But, while his spirit is overcast With the gloom of his dull repining, The one with a song comes smiling past, And, lo ! the sun is shining. The cloud-maker tells us the world is wrong. And is bound in an evil fetter, But the blue-sky man comes bringing a song Of hope that shall make it better ; And the toilers, hearing his voice, behold The sign of a glad to-morrow. Whose hands are heaped with the purest gold Of which each heart may borrow. i6 DEACON EASY'S OPINION TT ELL'S playin' out! No matter what the orthodoxers say That 's tryin' fer to keep it hot, it 's fadin' every day. The place where sinners sweltered in the tortures o' the damned, Has kind o' been made over like, an' sort o' cooled an' ca'med. The pit o' burnin' sulphur over which they used to shake A feller every Sunday, so 's to keep him wide awake. An' the awful smell o' brimstone an' the imps that shrieked with glee, They ain't one-half so terrible as what they used to be. Some pious people say it 's wrong to let the fires die; They 'd ruther keep 'em goin' jest to hear the sin- ners cry. 17 Deacon Easy's Opinion •' What good is heaven goin' to prove ? " they ask, " fer me er you If everybody else gits in to share the glory, too ? " I 'd ruther that the Lord 'd save us all among the blest, Ner damn a soul, not even his who wants to damn the rest. I 'm glad the fire 's dyin' out, jest awful glad, an' yit I s'pose fer them that want a hell that 's what they ought to git. i8 A DEFENCE OF SHAKESPEARE OOME folks declare we geniuses are cold toward one another, But here and now I show the world that I '11 de- fend a brother Against the slanders of the foes who offer to demean us, The very same as if there were no rivalry be- tween us. Now there are those who do not like our Shake- speare, so 't is said, Because, by will, he left his wife his " second best bed," But when he made his will, no doubt — 't is easy to perceive it — He occupied his best bed and was then too sick to leave it. 19 WHEN JOHN COMES HOME FROM COLLEGE TX7HEN he comes home from college, why, I cal'late John '11 know 'Bout all there is worth findin' out, if what he writes is so. He sort o' intimates it won't be worth our while to look Per things that he can't tell us, 'twixt the covers of a book. Last week an agent come along an' wasted half a day, An' done his best to make me buy a cy-clo-pe-di-a In thirty-five big volumes ; but I told him from the start My boy 'd be home from college soon, an' knowed 'em all by heart. I sort o' snap my fingers now at every gazetteer An' dictionary an' the like, fer John '11 soon be here, 20 When John Comes Home from College An' then instead o' havin' fer to study out the fac's Our John '11 up an' tell us, fer I s'pose he's sharper 'n tacks. But 'Mandy, — she's his mother,- — well, she sort o' shakes her head. An' says some boys ain't much improved by bein' college-bred ; The more the brain develops an' the more the head expands. The less o' homely strength there is fer workin' with the hands. Concernin' hands that may be true, but with the legs I know A thorough college trainin' is the thing to make *em grow ; Fer Jones's boy from Harvard hit the barn-door every shot In kickin' all the punkins from a big three-acre lot. I don't jest understand it, but I 've heard from two or three That John 's the best at fencin' ; well, that suits me to a T, 21 When John Comes Home from College Fer half the fences round the farm need buildin' over new ; So jest the minute John arrives I '11 give him lots to do. In highly educatin' him I hain't spared no ex- pense ; Says I, "■ I '11 git the dollars, John, if you '11 jest git the sense ;" An' one thing I 'm convinced he 's learned, an' got it very pat, Is how to spend the money ; I can testify to that ! 22 THE BASIS OF CRITICISM npHE literary editor was feeling good and glad, And not a manuscript or book he read that day was bad ; He scanned them very carefully, with notes, from end to end. He questioned very little, but found plenty to com- mend. But, oh ! that night he dined on cheese, of strong stuff drank a lot ; Devoured limes and lobsters ; ate a mince pie, extra hot ; And on the morrow every book he ventured to attack He said was "rank" and "rocky," as he "ripped it up the back." 23 THE GARDEN'S MESSAGE "f X 7ITHIN my garden, hedged around With many a fragrant flower, is found. When summer spreads her azure skies, A host of brilliant butterflies. I know not how each rover brings So much of beauty on his wings ; I only know the dark cocoon Once hid this joyousness of June. Such wondrous grace is there, it seems More like the witchery of dreams ; My eyes behold, yet I am slow To sense the transcendental glow. But since these things I see are true, May not some realm I journey to Be my all-beauteous life, while this Is but the cruder chrysalis ? 24 JOHNNY'S HIST'RY LESSON T THINK, of all the things at school A boy has got to do, That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule, Is worst of all, don't you ? Of dates there are an awful sight, An' though I study day an' night. There 's only one I 've got just right — That 's fourteen ninety-two. Columbus crossed the Delaware In fourteen ninety-two ; We whipped the British, fair an' square, In fourteen ninety-two. At Concord an' at Lexington We kept the redcoats on the run While the band played " Johnny Get Your Gun," In fourteen ninety-two. Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath — In fourteen ninety-two — Said, " Gimme liberty or death ! " In fourteen ninety-two. 25 Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson An* Barbara Frietchie, so 't is said, Cried, " Shoot if you must this old, gray head, But I 'd rather 't would be your own instead ! " In fourteen ninety-two. The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock In fourteen ninety-two, An' the Indians standin' on the dock Asked, " What are you goin' to do ? " An' they said, " We seek your harbor drear That our children's children's children dear May boast that their forefathers landed here In fourteen ninety-two." Miss Pocahontas saved the life, In fourteen ninety-two. Of John Smith, an' became his wife In fourteen ninety-two. An' the Smith tribe started then an' there, An* now there are John Smiths everywhere. But they did n't have any Smiths to spare In fourteen ninety-two. Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone In fourteen ninety-two, 26 Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson An' I think the cow jumped over the moon In fourteen ninety-two. Ben Franklin flew his kite so high He drew the lightnin' from the sky. An' Washington could n't tell a lie In fourteen ninety-two. 27 TOWARD THE LIGHT T>RUSH back your hair and look up through the skylight ! Don't blink at God through the eyes of a mole ; Come from the gloom of a self-shrouded twilight Into the broad, golden day of the soul. Open your mind to the marvelous story Ten thousand planets eternally tell ; Think on their Cause nor beshadow the glory With narrowing fears of a man-fashioned hell. Say to your brother and sister, " I love you ! " Fill all of earth with your beautiful deeds. Climb to the heaven of beauty above you, Not on the ladder of meaningless creeds. Sow in the sunshine and reap in the gladness, Gather the joys as you journey along ; God will not curse with an infinite madness Souls that are filled with an infinite song. 28 INTERLUDES QMILE, once in awhile, 'T will make your heart seem lighter ; Smile, once in awhile, 'T will make your pathway brighter. Life 's a mirror, if we smile Smiles come back to greet us ; If we 're frowning all the while Frowns forever meet us. Count that day really worse than lost You might have made divine, Through which you scattered lots of frost And ne'er a speck of shine. Canst thou see no beauty nigh ? Cure thy dull, distempered eye. Canst thou no sweet music hear > Tune thy sad, discordant ear. Earth has beauty everywhere If the eye that sees is fair. Earth has music to delight If the ear is tuned aright. 29 Interludes Toil holds all genius as its own, For in its grasp a force is hid To make of polished words or stone, A poem or a pyramid. Words were designed for those who preach. But deeds are for the ones who teach. No man can feel himself alone The while he bravely stands Between the best friends ever known, — His two good, honest hands. If you love me and I love you Then heaven lies all around us two. <' Blues " are the soggy calms that come To make our spirits mope, And steal the breeze of promise from The shining sails of hope. No door can shut so close and true But love and death can still steal through. 30 LUCKY HIRAM STREETER L UCKIEST man you ever see Is that man Hiram Streeter ; Don't persume there '11 ever be 'Nother such lucky creetur. Knowed him since we was little boys 'Way back there together ; His life's been chock full o' joys, Mine o' stormy weather. At school, 'f some puzzlin' answer stuck The rest of us, he could tell it ; 'F I missed a word, 'twas Hiram's luck To know jest how to spell it. So he continued to advance Along the path o' knowledge Till, 's luck would have it, he got a chance To work his way through college. Come back home an' went to work, — Hard work, too, an' greasy, — Fired an engine ! I 'm no shirk. But I like things kind o' easy. 31 Lucky Hiram Streeter On an' on an' up he went, Wa' n't nothin' could resist him, Till now they 've made him president O' their hull big railroad system. Yes, luck 's the thing that makes the man, 'T ain't no use denyin' ; If luck don't sort o' help you plan. You might as well quit tryin'. Fer years an' years I 've waited round Fer luck to make my fortune. While Hiram 's all the while been bound Right toward success a-scorchin'. My wife maintains it 's work an* pluck That made Hi such a winner ; She says that if you wait fer luck You '11 go without yer dinner. An I ain't sure but I '11 allow Had I 'a' quit a-wishin' An' worked, I 'd hold a place jest now As good as Hi's position. 32 DOCTOR GOODCHEER'S REMEDY t^EEL all out of kilter, do you ? Nothing goes to suit you quite ? Skies seem sort of dark and clouded, Though the day is fair and bright ? Eyes affected — fail to notice Beauty spread on every hand ? Hearing so impaired you 're missing Songs of promise sweet and grand ? No, your case is not uncommon, 'T is a popular distress ; Though 't is not at all contagious. Thousands have it, more or less ; But it yields to simple treatment, And is easy, quite, to cure ; If you follow my directions Quick recovery is sure. Take a bit of cheerful thinking, Add a portion of content. And, with both, let glad endeavor. Mixed with earnestness be blent ; 33 Doctor Goodcheer's Remedy These, with care and skill compounded, Will produce a magic oil That is bound to cure, if taken With a lot of honest toil. If your heart is dull and heavy. If your hope is pale with doubt, Try this wondrous Oil of Promise, For 't will drive the evil out. Who will mix it } Not the druggist From the bottles on his shelf ; The ingredients required You must find within yourself. 34 WOMAN : A STUDY XT TOMAN, woman, winsome woman ! Tell us, are you saint or human, Or a toy Beelzebub has sent us from afar ? We 've thought about you, sighed about you. Fought about you, cried about you. Stayed up nights and lied about you, puzzle that you are. Just when we would dream we 've got you Figured out, as like as not you Leave us topsy-turvy, guessing what to say or do ; Now we hate you, then caress you, Now berate you, then we bless you, But our lives are stale unless you keep us in a stew. Some there are who really dread you, Some who long to woo and wed you, Some would banish you forever to a distant land ; Artists paint you, poets verse you, Bishops saint you, cynics curse you, But "for better or for worse" you still are in demand. 35 Woman : A Study There are times you sadly vex us, Puzzle, plague us and perplex us. Till we wish you were in — Texas, very far away ; But, although we sadly doubt you. You 've such winsome ways about you We can never do without you, so we let you stay. 36 THE VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER "T^OWN at the corner grocery store Sat Billings. Half a dozen more Were grouped about the stove that day To hear what Billings had to say. " 'T ain't my fault I was born so late," - Here Billings lit his pipe — " It 's fate ; Yes, fate that shapes the lives o' men An' tells 'em what to do an' when. " The ones who used to win success Would find hard sleddin' now, I guess. In tryin' fer to write their name High on the deathless scroll o' fame. Fer any man with brains can see Things ain't like what they used to be Back yonder when the world was new An' there was everything to do. " Fact is, to-day there ain't no chance Fer anybody to advance. The things worth doin' has been done ; There's nothin' left fer any one." 37 The Village Philosopher Here Billings paused and took a few Long, lingering whiffs, and softly blew The smoke in clouds above his head. And thought awhile, and then he said : ** Now there 's Columbus : s'posin' he Was one of us to-day, he 'd see There ain't no worlds a-loafin' round Jest sort o' waitin' to be found. An' Franklin with his key an' kite, He could n't interest us a mite, Fer little children in their play Are doin' all he done, to-day. **The printin'-press, the railway-train, The ships that plow the ragin' main, An' telegraph an' telephone. An' all such things, were once unknown. Then all a feller had to do Was jest to think o' somethin' new An' tell it to the people, when They 'd class him with the brainy men. " Some folks say we 've as good a show As what they had a long ago 38 The Village Philosopher Fer findin' out things. That 's all bosh ; Leavin's is all we 've got, b' gosh ! It 's blamed discouragin' to me To sort o' glance about an' see The easy things that men have done That made 'em famous, every one. " An' say ! I purty nearly hate The man who dares to intimate The wise men who have passed away Was smarter 'n what we be to-day." Here Billings puffed his pipe awhile And then with something like a smile He added : " Guess they 'd got the worst Of it if we 'd 'a' got here first." 39 A HOBBLED PEGASUS "IVyTINE is a sorry narrative: My genius is so rare I cannot tell it to the world because I do not dare. For should I write my level best, I very clearly see, The world would just drop everything to stand and gaze at me. Were I to dress my grandest thoughts in my sublimest style, Shakespeare would be out-Shakespeared in a very little while ; And Milton, Byron, Shelley, Burns, — I 'd lay them in the shade, But, oh, I will not do it, for, alas, I am afraid ! You see it 's this way ; nowadays they dig up every note And buried scrap and letter that a genius ever wrote ; They turn the world all inside out, they search- light every nook For everything he 's put in words, and print it in a book. 40 A Hobbled Pegasus * Dear Reader, just between us two, I may as well confess That first and last, I 've courted twenty sweet- hearts, more or less ; I 've rhymed the story ever new to each succeed- ing flame. For though the heart has altered some the tale is just the same. Of course, in nearly every verse I change a word or two To get a rhyme for eyes of gray or black or brown or blue ; Or if a girl is short or tall or, likewise, plump or slight, I change the couplet just enough to make it jingle right. But you can guess my feelings were those twenty girls or more To fish up all those letters I have written by the score. And have them printed side by side to show my kith and kin 41 A Hobbled Pegasus How great an all-round, duplex, three-ply genius I have been ! Ah, well I know my safety lies in keeping out of sight. That 's why I do so poorly nearly everything I write ; For should I try my very best, some one, some sorry day, Would print my " Life and Letters," and the deuce would be to pay. 42 THE TRIUMPH OF GENIUS TT7ITH a kingly air and a fresh, firm tread And a glad, proud shake of his haughty head, A wonderful sonnet came one morn. Fresh from the brain of a Genius born. Up to the door, with a dauntless mien. Of the nation's foremost magazine He boldly went, for he knew full well That his were the lines that were bound to sell. And then and there was the sonnet read By the thick-skinned dolt with the puddin' head, Whose heart and liver and soul were wrong, For he did not purchase the grand new song. The sonnet, stung in his wounded pride, To another magazine then hied. But hissed, as he turned on his heel to go, ** Your rival across the street will know A gem of the purest ray serene, And welcome me into his magazine ! " 43 The Triumph of Genius Oh, me ! Oh, my ! It is sad to state, Once more he met with a sorry fate. By this man, too, was his soul perplexed. And the next and the next and the next and the next And the next and the next, till, by and by, The sonnet who once was young and spry. Grew old and lame, and his halting feet Were sore from tramping from street to street ; But still his weak, thin voice would pipe, " Please, mister, may I get into type ? " But it 's hard to keep a good man down. And a Genius wins though the world may frown ; And the editors, lounging in easy chairs. Are sometimes taken quite unawares. This bright young Genius he peddled tripe Till he got him gold and a press and type, And then, ah, then ! with a great, proud swash. He printed his sonnet himself, b' gosh ! 44 * UNCLE ABNER'S WHISTLE T JNCLE ABNER has a sure, Never-failing trouble cure. Makes no difference what it is, 'T can't withstand that tune of his That he whistles day by day. Smoothing all his cares away. Making heavy burdens light, And the shadowed places bright. Trouble, seeking out the men It would bother, pauses when It comes close enough to hear Uncle Abner ; leans its ear. Listens and remarks, *' That tune Surely makes him an immune. No use trying to get at Men who whistle tunes like that." 'T is n't what most folks would call A fine, classic tune at all ; 'T just goes softly rambling on Like a robin's song at dawn, 45 Uncle Abner's Whistle Till, somehow, you understand That his head and heart and hand Form a trio that must win Sweet reward through thick and thin. I have watched him, rain and shine. Tending plant and tree and vine ; Never knew him, hot or cold. To forget himself and scold. Still, there comes to him his share Of the world's big load of care ; Comes, ah, yes ! but does n't stay, — He just whistles it away. 46 THE BABY'S LETTER npHERE are letters prim and perfect in their every line and jot, In which each "t" receives a cross and every "i " a dot ; And rules of composition are observed with nicest care, While the very best of grammar is apparent every- where. But, ah ! no other message so a father's heart delights. As do those tangled traceries, — the note the baby writes : Who dares to say that babies do not know whereof they write ! Their meaning shines out warm and clear when love directs the sight. In every cabalistic line and angle one can see A sweetly mystic prophecy of all that is to be. 47 The Baby's Letter And hope brings to the yearning heart a borrowed touch of bHss, With dreams of home and heaven in the baby's note Uke this : When duty's voice has called us far away from home and friends, What joy to read the letters which the good wife ever sends ! Her words are sweet and golden, and there gleams between the lines A gracious light through which a wreath of love and beauty twines. And when her kindly sentences are finished, how it 'glads The wanderer from home to see the note the baby adds : 48 REAL ESTATE WANTED 'T^HERE is n't land enough ! That 's why there 's so much trouble brewing, And war-ship manufacturers have all got something doing. Go where you will about the world you '11 find some eager squatter Has gobbled every speck of earth that sticks above the water. It used to be the proper thing, when peoples grew too crowded, To sail across the unknown seas which then in myths were shrouded, And find a brand-new continent as big as all creation And slice it up and trade it off to every tribe and nation. But were Columbus here to-day, and, likewise, Isabella, They could n't find a patch of ground as big as an umbrella 49 Real Estate Wanted That is n't duly tagged and stamped and charted and, hard by it, Perchance a war-ship loafing round to sink those who 'd deny it. In olden times geographies had maps that dimly faded Off into spots marked "unexplored," but now they 're clearly shaded To each degree and parallel, while tribes combat each other To have a boundary reset six feet one way or t' other. Yes, real estate is growing scarce, and, likewise, so expensive We ought to find some way to make the sea much less extensive. Of all the surface of the globe, why should but one small quarter Be solid land and all the rest just water, water, water ? If you have crossed the wide, wild sea, and had that tired feeling That steals beneath the traveler's vest whene'er the ship is reeling, SO Real Estate Wanted You Ve often thought, as day by day you deemed the ship was sinking, There 's lots more water in the world than people want for drinking. So really all we need to make our landed surface greater Is just to find, for water, some unique annihilator. The sea is now so far across it 's something of a bother; We need but just enough to reach from one coast to another. And since in vain for still more land we *ve closely searched the ocean. If we 'd increase our real estate, 't would be a clever notion To drain the sea until we find new islands rising through it — But where 's Columbus Number Two who '11 tell us how to do it ? SI THE ONE FAIR WOMAN '\7'E poets who for years and years have tried and tried to trace A woman who is perfect, quite, in mind and form and face, Please give me your attention while I truthfully portray The fairest bit of womanhood this old world holds to-day. Her cheeks are n't like the red, red rose of which you poets tell ; They 're just a sort of pinkish tan that suits me very well. Her nose is not of classic mold, I 'm willing to confess, It 's what you 'd very likely call " tip-tilted," more or less. <* Her eyes are n't like the silver stars that shine the long night through ; They 're mild and kind and soft, instead, and oh ! so warm and true. 52 The One Fair Woman Her hand is not a lily white, so daintily divine, But, oh ! it 's joy enough for me to feel its clasp in mine. Her neck is very pretty, but it is n't like the swan's Which nature made so lithe and long for diving in the ponds. And I 'm so glad she does n't own an alabaster brow, For hers is warm and blushing, which is better, you '11 allow. Of all your perfect women she 's the fairest of the lot, And since I 'm only human I am glad that she is not A ** fairy" or an "angel," quite, for if she were, you see. How very, very odd she 'd look when walking out with me. 53 A VERY REMARKABLE CASE /^H, once on a time there lived a man (There may have been two or three) Who fancied his death would sadly twist The whole community. So he lived as long as he could because He knew what an awful space There 'd be, that the world could never fill, With him in another place. But the next day after he died the sun Rose up in the same old way. And went right down in the same old place At the latter end of the day. And a stranger got off the cars to stretch His legs, while the engine ''drank," In the town where the corpse had lived for years. And never once noticed the blank. 54 ALMOST A POEM /t T sundown on the sand-dunes by the sea, The silence and my soul and I — we three — (Say, there 's a ripping starter for a verse ; There 's stuff in Shakespeare that 's a whole lot worse) — We saw the day slow darkle to the night, — (And there 's another line that 's fashioned right) The while uprose the moon, a silver queen, — (I '11 sell this to some first-class magazine). The waves, like pulsings of a mighty heart, — (This thing is easy when you get a start) With many a hollow laugh and angry roar Came (in some way or other) 'gainst the shore. And as we stood beneath that star-gemmed sky, We three — the silence and my soul and I — Each with the others crossed his trembling hand, — (Here I '11 find something that will rhyme with "sand.") O night ! O sea ! O stars ! (O me ! O my ! No wonder first-class poems come so high ; It wearies me to soar around and round And not permit my feet to touch the ground. 55 Almost a Poem 'T is not so hard to write a verse or so About plain things that common people know, But lofty themes, they strangely stagger me.) At sundown on the sand-dunes by the sea, — S6 WHEN DADDY COMES HOME 'IT 7 HEN daddy is sober and working along, And giving my mammy his pay, You '11 hear her a-singing a sweet little song Like the fairy you see in a play. For she knows that at night when they meet at the door He '11 give her a jolly good kiss. But there 's frowning and fears, and there 's trouble and tears, Whe-^ %y ^o^es K^^ ^ike ^^^^ The people who laugh at a man going by, Because he is dizzy with drink. Will find all their smiles giving way to a sigh If they '11 stop for a moment and think. And they '11 pray for the ones in the desolate homes 57 When Daddy Comes Home Who must all of life's happiness miss, *' God pity the lives of the babes and the wives ue^^ ^h d^^Co ni^ ^Om , fh^s." -^^h^ ^e ^^^ ^ c*^ ^ lik^ 58 THE GOOD OLD EARTH T WANT to be an angel, But I 'm in no great fret To soar away, I 'd rather stay Right here awhile, you bet ! Give me the world's glad laughter And hearts of sterling worth ; Away with the hereafter, I love the good old Earth. O, Earth ! A tender mother You 've been to me and mine. I 'm blest with friend and brother, With meat and bread and wine. I will not say I 'm yearning To try another sphere : Such gracious things your goodness brings, I love to linger here. My neighbor, Deacon Watkins, Keeps sighing for to go 'Cross Jordan's strand to that fair land Where healing waters flow. 59 The Good Old Earth But just the other day he ate Some stuff that made him sick, And he told his folks to rush and get The doctor, double-quick ! 60 THE DIPLOMATIC CADDIE " A ND mind," said the " links "-eyed caddie To the boy he was teaching how He must do the work, *' my laddie, I tell you here and now There are times to be all attention To every move and play. But now and then come moments when You must look the other way. " When Smith or Jones or Foster Is playing along with men. And the ball by chance is lost or Is hid for awhile, oh, then He is sure to scold you soundly And skimp you in your pay. And fume and fret in an awful sweat 'Cause you looked the other way. " But when one of them brings a lady For a quiet little game, And she stops to rest where it 's shady, And he goes and does the same, 6i The Diplomatic Caddie Then, if you know your duty — Remember what I say — You won't be near enough to hear, And you'll look the other way." 62 A SHAKESPEARIAN JEST Tl^HEN Shakespeare wrote, " Have you not heard It said full oft a woman's nay Doth stand for naught ? " 't was then he erred And in a most colossal way. I 'm willing to confess that Will In lots of cases hit it right, But in those quoted words his quill Got off its truthful trolley, quite. I had a mother once, ah, yes ! Whose heart with tenderness was fraught, But when she told me "nay" I guess I dared not think it stood for naught. And had Will been a boy with me And felt that slipper once or twice, I 'm very certain he 'd agree That mother's "nay" cut lots of ice. In later years I found a wife, A little, tender, clinging vine, Whom I 'm to keep and guard for life With these big, stalwart arms of mine, 63 A Shakespearian Jest But think you I am " boss " to-day ? Ah, no! The "vine" controls the "oak." That stuff about a woman's nay Will must have written for a joke. 64 KEEP A -TRYING O AY " I will ! " and then stick to it — That 's the only way to do it. Don't build up awhile and then Tear the whole thing down again. Fix the goal you wish to gain, Then go at it heart and brain, And, though clouds shut out the blue, Do not dim your purpose true With your sighing. Stand erect, and, like a man, Know *< They can who think they can.** Keep a-trying. Had Columbus, half seas o'er, Turned back to his native shore, Men would not, to-day, proclaim Round the world his deathless name. So must we sail on with him Past horizons far and dim, Till at last we own the prize That belongs to him who tries With faith undying ; 6s Keep A -Trying Own the prize that all may win Who, with hope, through thick and thin Keep a-trying. 66 WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO-DAY? T T ^E shall do so much in the years to come, But what have we done to-day ? We shall give our gold in a princely sum, But what did we give to-day ? We shall lift the heart and dry the tear, We shall plant a hope in the place of fear. We shall speak the words of love and cheer ; But what did we speak to-day ? We shall be so kind in the after while, But what have we been to-day ? We shall bring each lonely life a smile. But what have we brought to-day ? We shall give to truth a grander birth, And to steadfast faith a deeper worth. We shall feed the hungering souls of earth ; But whom have we fed to-day ? We shall reap such joys in the by and by. But what have we sown to-day ? We shall build us mansions in the sky. But what have we built to-day ? 67 What Have We Done To-day ? 'T is sweet in idle dreams to bask, But. here and now do we do our task ? Yes, this is the thing our souls must ask, *' What have we done to-day ? " 68 MYSELF AND I TV/TYSELF and I close friends have been Since 'way back where we started. We two, amid life's thick and thin, Have labored single-hearted. In every season, wet or dry. Or fair or stormy weather. We 've joined our hands, myself and I, And just worked on together. Though other friends have been as kind And loving as a brother. Myself and I have come to find Our best friend in each other. For while to us obscure and small May seem the task they bend to. We 've learned our fellow men have all They and themselves can tend to. Myself and I, and we alone, You and yourself, good neighbor, Each in his self-determined zone Must find his field of labor. 69 Myself and I That prize which men have called success Has joy nor pleasure in it To satisfy the soul unless Myself and I shall win it. 70 / "^0 o - %. ^<=? MY GRANDFATHER'S OLD '* SNAKE " FENCE T LIVED on a farm, in my innocent youth, With my grandfather, hoary and wise. And many a lucid and logical truth He brought to my wondering eyes. Yet one thing I saw seemed so all out of rhyme With a man of his wonderful sense, — I Ve thought of it many and many a time, — A^ ■%_ y ^-. ^.^ He harped on " economy " day after day. And labored to " save " all he could ; Yet he fashioned his fence in so crooked a way It took twice the rails that it should. And a broad strip of land, filled with briars and trash. Was left in the corners, and hence It robbed him each year of considerable cash, My Grandfather's Old *' Snake " Fence But since I 've grown older and travel about, I find every man has a " trait " ; On some line of thought he is crooked with doubt, Though in everything else he is straight. His brain may be clear as his reason is sound. And his grasp of ideas immense, Yet on some point or other he zigzags around 72 WHAT A BOY CAN DO n^HESE are some of the things a boy can do : He can shout so loud the air turns blue ; He can make all sounds of beast and bird, And a thousand more they never heard. He can crow or cackle, chirp or cluck, Till he fools the rooster, hen, or duck ; He can mock the dog or lamb or cow. And the cat herself can't beat his " me-ow." He has sounds that are ruffled, striped, or plain ; He can thunder by like a railway-train. Stop at the stations a breath, and then Apply the steam and be off again. He has all of his powers in such command, He can turn right into a full brass band, With all of the instruments ever played, And march away as a street parade. 73 What a Boy Can Do You can tell that a boy is very ill If he 's wide awake and is keeping still ; But earth would be — God bless their noise A dull old place if there were no boys. 74 POETRY A LA MODE /^H, the weird, wank wail of the billy-go-bing, And the shriek of a whimpering loon ; And the shimmering sigh of a dragon-fly On the thitherward side of the moon. And the shuddering shud of a river of mud, And a dray and a hardware store, For the next day it blowed and the next day it snowed Not any, none, never, no more. Oh, the drip, drip, drip of a leaky ship, And the boy, oh, where was he ? Oh, I don't care a cent which way he went For I get my salaree. And there ain't no ship and there ain't no shore And there ain't no earth nor air, And there ain't no nothing any more Nor never was anywhere. Oh, the wheels go round and round and round. But curfew shall not ring. For the purple cow is dreaming now In a bright red grape-vine swing. 75 Poetry a la Mode " I am not mad ! " Nay, not one whit, My spirit is all serene ; For I 'm trying to think of some lines to fit The modern magazine. 76 PROFESSOR KILLEMOFFSKI pROFESSOR KILLEMOFFSKI had but one supreme delight, Which was to find some certain way in which to win a fight. He cruised right round that thought until he made a gun so great And powerful that it could sink a navy while you wait. And when he had that gun complete so it would send a shot Right through an armored vessel's side and sink it on the spot, He set himself about it just as firmly to create A war-ship made of stuff no gun could ever pene- trate. And finally he built a boat, and did his work so well That gun of his could never drill a window through its shell ; 77 Professor KillemofFski Its sides were some new kind of steel so tough and firm and stout That all the guns in Christendom could never knock it out. And yet he was not satisfied, but studied day and night ; He lunched on smokeless powder and he dined on dynamite. The fierce expression on his face was proof beyond a doubt That there were other problems still for him to figure out. He went away off by himself and built a secret mill, 'T was " fifteen miles from nowhere," and he camped right there until He found a new explosive so all - powerful and fierce That it could send a shell through steel no other shot could pierce. He still kept on inventing ; every gun he made would shoot Ten times as far as all the rest and twice as straight to boot, 78 Professor Killemoffski Until, at last, he made a gun that shot so far, alack ! The ball went clear around the world and hit him in the back. But maybe it was for the best, for, had he lived, full soon He must have made a gun with which to shoot away the moon And Venus, Saturn, Mercury and Jupiter and Mars, And on and on and on until he shot out all the stars. 79 JUNE -TIME TT 'S June-time, we can tell it by the murmur of the bees, It 's June-time, we can smell it in the clover-scented breeze. It 's June-time and it 's tune-time for the birds among the trees — Glad June-time when the days are sweet and long. It 's June-time and the roses spill their perfume on the air. It 's June-time and the leafy lanes are wonderfully fair, It 's June-time and in dreams we kiss our finger- tips to care, It 's June-time and the world is full of song. But for the frosty winds that chilled the forest and the plain, But for the snowy drifts that filled the highway and the lane, 80 June -Time The June-time and the noon-time of the year were all in vain, 'T was winter gave the sweetness to the spring ; And while his robes of fleecy white enfolded field and fen, The faith of better things to come was in the hearts of men. We knew in his appointed time the thrush would come again With love and joy and beauty on his wing. The hills are crowned with gladness and the vales are wrapped in rhyme, A thousand notes are blended in a melody sublime. It is the bhssful season when we 'd stop the clock of time And keep the June forever and a day : With blue skies for a canopy and green fields for a bed. And joy and grace in every place our willing feet are led. There 's happiness in every path and heaven over- head. So sweetly runs the winsome world away. 8i MAKING A MAN TTURRY the baby as fast as you can, Hurry him, worry him, make him a man. Off with his baby-clothes," get him in pants, Feed him on brain-foods and make him advance. Hustle him, soon as he 's able to walk, Into a grammar-school ; cram him with talk. Fill his poor head full of figures and facts. Keep on a-jamming them in till it cracks. Once boys grew up at a rational rate, Now we develop a man while you wait. Rush him through college, compel him to grab Of every known subject a dip and a dab. Get him in business and after the cash. All by the time he can grow a mustache. Let him forget he was ever a boy, Make gold his god and its jingle his joy. Keep him a-hustling and clear out of breath, Until he wins — nervous prostration and death. 82 SMARTWEED AND TICKLEGRASS T ET 'S not despise just common things, For here 's a truth there is no dodging, The bird that soars on proudest wings Comes down to earth for board and lodging. How much of wisdom we can see With sages who with us agree ! But fools who hold some other view — Oh, bah ! They 're not worth listening to. Shut your mouth and open your eyes And you 're sure to learn something to make you wise. Once on a time I sought to woo A girl who wore a number two ; Her father wore a number ten — I never called on her again. Don't " hitch your wagon to a star," Young man, for as a rule, 'T will prove more practical by far To hitch it to a mule. 83 Smartweed and Ticklegrass We 've noticed this, as we have eyed The doings of humanity, That what within ourselves is pride In other folks is vanity. A man of words and not of thoughts Is like a great big row of naughts. Take it easy, have your fun, And let the old world flicker ; The man who 's always on the run Won't " get there " any quicker. It is bad to have an empty purse, But an empty heart is a whole lot worse. If some of the churches are as bad As other churches say. Their steeples really ought — how sad ! — To point the other way. If you have words of strength and cheer With which to fill life's cup. Why, speak them, — speak them now and here, But otherwise, shut up ! 84 A GENERAL CLEAN-UP T T makes me kind o' sad to think this world will wander on In jest about the same old way when I am dead an' gone. 'T will travel, so I calculate, on 'bout the same old jog. Ner wabble in its circumflex ner never slip a cog. I 'd like to think o' somethin' that would make me jest that great That when I come to shuffle off, the world would have to wait, Ner never do a thing but weep an' wail an' fret an' stew, Because I could n't be around to tell it what to do. Why, hang it all ! it seems to me that when I come to go 'T would be a joy to jest break up the hull big bloomin' show, 8s A General Clean - Up An' see the world, from end to end, plumb shiv- ered all to smash An' all the stars come tumblin' down in one tremendous crash. I don't want folks a-nosin' round the humble little slab That marks my grave a-shootin* off their ever- lastin' gab, An' makin' faces at me through the cemetery fence A-sayin', " That 's old Blinks's grave — he owes me fifty cents." No, sir ! I 'd ruther have the world filled plumb up to the vest With nitroglycerine enough to blow it galley-west. An' when old Death comes sneakin' round to have his final spat I 'd like to touch the hull thing off an' let it go at that. 86 BACK -STAIRS POETRY TTE was a hungry poet, and he struggled with a will To earn enough of bread and meat his famished form to fill, But though he wrote incessantly, he found it very hard To make a living at the price they paid him by the yard. He kept on growing leaner, and his purse kept growing slim. Until one happy, golden day a brain-wave came to him ; "Eureka ! " cried the poet, " I have found the way to bliss, I can fill a column quicker with The Last Line Set Like This." 87 Back - Stairs Poetry And, sure enough, a fortune lay almost within his clutch, For by his new-found process he could grind out twice as much ; And poems that had filled of space but half a yard before, He then strung out until they made a good long yard or more. And he who had been nearly starved began to live quite high ; On Wednesdays he had pudding and on Sundays he had pie ; Between this man and fortune there had yawned a great abyss, But now he bridged it over with The Last Line Set Like This. The sweetest joys, they tell us, are the shortest in their stay. And pretty soon a lot of bards were writing verse that way ; 88 Back - Stairs Poetry But editors are foxy, and they cut the price in half, And when the bards protested, oh, they gave them all the laugh. And then the hapless poets, oh, they cursed their sorry fate — They had to sell their good straight stuff at stair- way verses' rate, For soon they learned the editors would speedily dismiss A poet who wrote verses with The Last Line Set Like This. 89 SONG OR SIGH? IF you were a bird and shut in a cage Now what would you better do, — Would you grieve your throat with a sorry note And mourn the whole day through ; Or would you swing and chirp and sing, Though the world were warped with wrong, Till you filled one place with the perfect grace And gladness of your song ? If you were a man and shut in a world Now what would you better do, — On a gloomy day when skies were gray Would you be gloomy, too ? When crossed with care would you let despair Life's happy hopes destroy. Or with a smile work on the while You found the path to joy ? 90 CUPID'S CORNER AWAY up in the attic where the wind says '*■ W 00-00 1 And the boards are warped and shrunken and the breeze steals through, We were seeking after treasure on a rainy day in June That her sunny smiles were changing to a golden afternoon. I loved her, yes, I worshipped her, but really did not dare To summon up my courage and declare it then and there ; , And of my beating heart I asked, " Oh, what am I to do Away up in the attic?" — and the wind said " wo 0-00 ! " She heard the wind's low whisper, and within her smiling eyes I seemed to read the hidden words, " He, only, wins who tries." 9i Cupid's Corner My heart sprang up to tell its love, and kneeling at her feet I won the cherished vow that made my happiness complete. And now I say to lovers who are eager to possess A promise from the dear ones who their lot in life may bless, If you would gain the happy prize you ardently pursue, Go linger in the attic where the wind says 02 JUST THIS MINUTE TF we 're thoughtful, just this minute, In whate'er we say and do ; If we put a purpose in it That is honest, through and through. We shall gladden life and give it Grace to make it all sublime ; For, though life is long, we live it Just this minute at a time. Just this minute we are going Toward the right or toward the wrong ; Just this minute we are sowing Seeds of sorrow or of song. Just this minute we are thinking On the ways that lead to God, Or in idle dreams are sinking To the level of the clod. Yesterday is gone ; to-morrow Never comes within our grasp ; Just this minute's joy or sorrow, That is all our hands may clasp. 93 Just This Minute Just this minute ! Let us take it As a pearl of precious price, And with high endeavor make it Fit to shine in paradise. 94 THE WISE SIRE /^OME hither, my child, come and sit on my knee While I tell you as well as I can. About all these wonderful things which we see That appeal to the reason of man. From our home on the earth we view many a star And a sun that makes golden the sky, But you are so young you don't know what they are And, candidly, neither do I. They are really too much for your poor little brain, All the puzzles you 're certain to meet ; Why is one flower spotted, another one plain ? What makes the fruit sour or sweet ? What keeps the sun shining ? What causes the tides ? What holds all the planets on high ? You 've found for these questions, and many be- sides. No answer, and neither have I. 95 The Wise Sire Which first had its being, the egg or the hen ? Solve that puzzle for me, if you please. Did men spring from monkeys, or monkeys from men? Oh, all such conundrums as these Are really too deep for a youngster like you To solve, though you earnestly try. For I never have met anybody that knew Their answers, and neither do I. In short, my dear child, though your papa is wise As most other men, he has found. That while to acquire much learning he tries. His wisdom 's not truly profound. I boast a good deal and I make quite a show Of my poor little portion of brains, But down in my heart I 'm aware that I know Just enough to come in when it rains. 96 CHRISTMAS LIKE IT USED TO BE r^iHRISTMAS like it used to be ! That 's the thing would gladden me. Kith and kin from far and near Joining in the Christmas cheer. Oh, the laughing girls and boys ! Oh, the feasting and the joys ! Would n't it be good to see Christmas like it used to be ? Christmas like it used to be, — Snow a-bending bush and tree. Bells a-jingling down the lane ; Cousins John and Jim and Jane, Sue and Kate and all the rest Dressed up in their Sunday best, Coming to that world of glee, — Christmas like it used to be. Christmas like it used to be, — Been a long, long time since we Wished (when Santa Claus should come), You a doll and I a drum, 97 Christmas Like It Used To Be You a book and I a sled Strong and swift and painted red, — Oh, that day of jubilee ! Christmas like it used to be. Christmas like it used to be. It is still as glad and free And as fair and full of truth, To the clearer eyes of youth. Could we gladly glimpse it through Eyes our children's children do In their joy-time, we would see Christmas like it used to be. 98 THE SONG OF THE KATYDID "1X7 HEN the summer wanes and the orchard lanes Are sweet with the scent of wine, And the apples red and the grapes full-fed Hang ripe on the tree and vine ; From the leafy hedge at the garden's edge Or deep in the grasses hid, Now strong and clear, now faint, we hear The song of the katydid. As the dusk dips down on the field and town And the first star lights his lamp, There comes the scent of spices blent, From the meadows dim and damp. And a simple tune like a drowsy croon Brings rest to the drooping lid, As we dreaming, hark, 'tween the day and dark, To the song of the katydid. 'T is a note of cheer in the child's glad ear As it follows the tuneful lay, But it brings the sigh and the moistened eye To the ones whose locks are gray. The Song of the Katydid For the years long sped and the hopes long dead, And the dreams our cares have hid, Steal back once more from a misty shore, In the song of the katydid. lOO THE TRIALS OF GENIUS QOMETIMES when I 'm a-workin' jest my very level best To write a high-toned poem, I feel terribly dis- tressed To have to lay my pencil down an' go to doin* chores, Jest like a common mortal, while my fancy soars an' soars. It 's mighty worryin' to be a high-born genius while You have n't got the wherewithal to keep yerself in style. An' when I put my writin' by, some homely task to do, I ask myself did Shakespeare use to have his trials, too? I fancy I can see him now a-writin' on his plays An' runnin' up ag'in' the snags I find these later days. I s'pose jest when he 'd strike a thought he knowed was mighty good. He 'd have to leave it then an' there, an' go an' split the wood. lOI The Trials of Genius An' when some big, inspirin' theme was jest about to dawn, I calculate that that 's jest when he 'd have to mow the lawn. An' when his muse was soarin' high, — I 've been right there, you know, — The garden needed tendin' an' he 'd have to use the hoe. It is n't right fer geniuses like me to putter round A-doin' all the humdrum things that everywhere abound. Our hull life's duty ought to be to sit an' dream an' wait An' muse an' let our hair grow out an' think o' somethin' great. That 's what I tell Amanda, — she 's my wife, — but no, sirree ! Fer forty years that woman has been jest a-houndin' me. An' when I tell her Genius ain't no hand at doin' chores. She smiles, an' says, " Well, Genius, then, will have to sleep out-doors." 1 02 QUAVERS AND SEMIQUAVERS Vf/HENE'ER, by chance, my love and I Fall out, dark clouds obscure the sky ; But, oh ! the sun shines brightly when, Relenting, we make up again. Dreams are from Fairyland despatched, And to our minds are brought In airy sleeping-cars attached To misty trains of thought. He growled at morning, noon, and night. And trouble sought to borrow ; Although to-day the sky were bright He knew 't would storm to-morrow. A thought of joy he could not stand And struggled to resist it ; Though sunshine dappled all the land This sorry pess'vmsf it. " Yes, darling ! " he cried, "you shall reign as my queen. Every gift of the gods shall be thine ; 103 Quavers and Semiquavers All the wealth and affection of earth I shall glean For the joy of my princess, divine ! " "Oh, dearest," she murmured, *'you bring me such bliss " — Here a blush warmed her beautiful cheek, — " Just to think you are going to do all of this On only eight dollars a week ! " If, ever, while this minute 's here, We use it circumspectly, We '11 live this hour, this day, this year, Yes, all our lives correctly. Better, my dear, be an angel here, Than wait until you die. For a pair of wings will be handy things To carry you to the sky. 104 MANDY'S WOMAN'S CLUB OINCE Mandy joined the Woman's Club, land sakes, how she has changed 1 And everything about the house has all been rearranged. And all that Mandy says and does now means a whole lot more Than simple, commonplace affairs have ever meant before. She talks of science, politics, of chemistry and art ; Each ology and ism, oh, she has 'em all by heart ; For lecturers on every theme address her club, you see. And straightway Mandy hurries home to try their talk on me. Yes, Mandy 's taught me how to breathe ; I never knew before, Although I Ve tried it d^y and night for forty years and more ; And now she *s learning how to think, and says that maybe I 105 Mandy's Woman's Club Could sometime learn to do as much if I would only try. She 's also learning how to eat, and what and when and where ; Our foods are tried and tested, weighed and meas- ured out with care. It frightens me to think that once we ate just common stuff. Yes, ate it and kept eating till we thought we had enough. And Mandy says that harmony is what the spirit craves, — Health, beauty, wisdom, all are brought on vibra- tory waves. When these are as they ought to be, the cares of life are gone. And all a mortal has to do is just live on and on. It saddens my poor heart to know my great-grand- parents died When they were only ninety odd ; it cannot be denied 1 06 Mandy's Woman's Club That, if those poor old simple souls had found a way to get The worlds of wisdom Mandy has, they 'd all be living yet. 07 UNION WAGES IVyTY board and clothes and a place to sleep Are all that I can earn. I rise with the lark and work till dark. And save at every turn. I strive, and yet all I can get, Though I grab, and grasp, and keep. And house, and hoard, is just my board And clothes and a place to sleep. My lot would seem a sorrowful one, But there are others who Work twice as hard their gold to guard, For just these wages, too. And smile or frown, or king or clown. Or genius rare or cheap, Not one of the horde gets more than his board And clothes and a place to sleep. 1 08 THEM TUNES THE CIRCUS PLAYS T'M mighty fond o' preachin', if the speaker knows his text, An' don't hang on a point too long afore he finds the next ; I Hke to go to meetin' an' you '11 see me, rain er shine. When Sunday comes, a-waitin' in the house o' the Divine. I like to lead the singin' er to help the thing along, An' fairly split the rafters with some old revival song. But notwithstandin' I adore the sacred hymns o' praise I 've likewise got a hankerin' fer them tunes the circus plays. An' goin' home from meetin' with my heart chock full o' prayer I 've sometimes ketched my sinful lips a-whistlin' of an air I've heard the circus fellers play, — some tan- talizin' thing 109 Them Tunes the Circus Plays That knits its tendrils round yer mind an' stays fer keeps, by jing ! As deacon in the church I know them Hvely airs ain't jest What Christians ought to whistle on the day o' prayer and rest, An' mebbe that 's one reason why I like the workin' days, Fer then I whistle all I like them tunes the circus plays. I s'pose them solemn pieces are the only kind there is To make a feller realize this sinful state o' his. You 've got to make him sorry-like — that 's why, I understand. Revivals would be failures if they had a circus band. But lively music ketches me, and, so I say, by jing ! That when my funeral is held I 'd like to have 'em sing Some solemn piece er two I 've sung through all my mortal days. An' then have some brass band strike up them tunes the circus plays. no FARMER WAYBACK'S WOE /^LD Farmer Wayback's hair had not been tidied up for years, It hung about his collar and it covered up his ears ; But one day, when he went to town to sell a load of corn, He took a sudden notion he would have it neatly shorn. The change was something striking, and he could not blame the folks He chanced to meet along the road, for getting off their jokes. At first he did not mind them, but they worried him at last, For all his friends and neighbors sort of *' guyed" him when he passed. It seemed to him that every one was waiting just to yell, " Hello ! you 've got your hair cut ! " when he knew it mighty well ; m Farmer Wayback's Woe And so he hurried home to get beyond the gaze of men, Where he could hide in peace until his hair grew out again. And he was thankful when he drove within his barnyard gate, But even here he heard the words his soul had learned to hate ; For all the hens came crowding round, and craned their necks to see, And " Cut, cut, cut-your-hair-cut ! " cackled all of them in glee. 112 THE KEY TO HADES T POSSESS the key to Hades, and, my gentle lords and ladies, I intend to undertake a great reform ; For the mortals bold and silly, I propose to make it chilly, Or, in other words, I mean to make it warm. All the trying ones who bore us shall no longer lord it o'er us, And the pleasure of our being sadly mar ; For their hosts I '11 widely scatter, and I '11 send them — well, no matter, If you miss them, can't you fancy where they are? If you miss them can t yoti fancy where they are ? And rejoice to hear they're very, very far ; For I 'II now be busy stealing all who cause that tired feeling, If you miss them cant you fancy where they are ? There 's the man who, when the summer is a roast- ing, frying "hummer," By his questions sets our being in a stew ; 113 The Key to Hades In the fiercest kind of fire I shall broil him and inquire, " Oh, hello there ! Is it hot enough for you ? " All the lovey-dovey cooers and the public garden wooers. And the spoony pairs who " spark " while on the car ; *' Baby " girls without their mothers, and their cigaretted brothers — If you miss them, can't you fancy where they are ? There 's the awful fiend who grinds me with his constant " That reminds me," And a story he has told me o'er and o'er ; And another, half demented, who, when I have just invented Something new, declares he 's heard it all before. There are those who sigh to let me make a for- tune, so they get me Gilt-edged bargains which they sell to me at par, — Oh, my gentle lords and ladies, I possess the key to Hades, If you miss them, can't you fancy where they are ? 114 MARY O'MALLEY Tk/r ARY O'MALLEY lives down in our alley, Up-stairs, in the rear of a flat, With her father and mother, her sister and brother, A parrot, two dogs, and a cat. Her face is a posy, her cheeks are so rosy. Her mouth is like honey and dew ; Your heart 's in a shiver, your lips in a quiver. When Mary is looking at you. O me ! O my ! O Mary O'Malley ! The neighbors all know you 're the pride of the alley ! You 're fair as a dream, you 're peaches and cream, You 're sweeter than clover, a thousand times over ! And would you but marry, — you dear little fairy ! — Is it single I 'd tarry ? Nay, nary ! 115 Mary O'Malley The first time I met her — how can I forget her ! — She was bringing a basket of clothes ; I looked at her sweetly, she spurned me completely, And turned up her beautiful nose. She 's cunningly saucy and very criss-crossy And stubborn, yet once in awhile Your heart gaily dances because her sweet glances Have wrapped you all up in a smile. O me ! O my ! O Mary O'Malley ! Your glance is the light and the life of our alley ! You 're better than gold to have and to hold ! Be done with your teasing, your melting and freezing : Oh, could I possess you, I 'd feed you and dress you And love and caress you, God bless you ! ii6 "TO KNOW ALL IS TO FORGIVE ALL^' T F I knew you and you knew me — If both of us could clearly see, And with an inner sight divine The meaning of your heart and mine, I 'm sure that we would differ less And clasp our hands in friendliness ; Our thoughts would pleasantly agree If I knew you and you knew me. If I knew you and you knew me, As each one knows his own self, we Could look each other in the face And see therein a truer grace. Life has so many hidden woes, So many thorns for every rose ; The "why " of things our hearts would see, If I "knew you and you knew me. 117 POTPOURRI 'HE sea's a turbulent affair And full of froth and bubble, Yet even if it were not there We still should have our trouble. For think to what sad straits we 'd come Without the sea, my brother, — How could we ever travel from One island to another ? "I'm greatly disappointed," said the cynic, "for you see This world was all created without once consult- ing me ! It may be right in some respects, but still I greatly doubt it, And so I 'm going to growl and growl and growl and growl about it." Some mean "old maid," without a doubt, Who never tasted bliss, Was first to start that scare about The microbes in a kiss. n8 Potpourri When Johnny's mamma calls to him And tells him, Johnny, dear, It's time to rise ! " it SOUnds SO dim It takes a week to hear ; But Johnny 's up and says his prayers And has his clothes most on One minute after, up the stairs, His father utters, "JOHNI'» Oh, the poet, he loved with a deep, deep love. As he pleaded on bended knee ; His dream was as fair as a white, white dove. But cold as the snow was she. And alas and alack, and some things like those ! His heart it was sadly rent By the girl he had said was his red, red rose, 'Cause he had n't a red, red cent. Speak no evil of the absent for We never know, alack ! Just when the slandered may appear And make us take it back. 119 A ^' FIRST EDITION" A STARVING author wrote a book, With highest thought inspired ; But publishers to whom he took His manuscript inquired, " Is this your first ? " and when he *d make Affirmative admission. They 'd say, " Our means we dare not stake Upon a first edition." The author borrowed type enough To print the book he 'd written, But overwork and cold rebuff His flame of life had smitten. Would that he were alive to-day To see his toil's fruition, For oh, what princely sums we pay To get that " first edition." I20 THE POOR MAN'S THANKSGIVING X^rE thank thee, Lord, that thou hast sent afflic- tion to the rich ; Dyspepsia, gout, insomnia, and other troubles which Disturb their souls by day and night and cause as much or more Of real distress than do the ills that thou hast sent the poor. We may not have enough to eat — they eat too much and, so, It 's just about an even thing which hath the most of woe. We have no time to rest by day — they cannot rest at night. So, all in all, it seemeth things are pretty nearly right. We can't afford to ride, but there, again, their joy we balk. For, oh ! thou sendest them the gout, and so they cannot walk. 121 The Poor Man's Thanksgiving Thou sendest them rich food and drink, weak stomachs, headaches, wealth ; To us thou sendest poverty, plain living, toil, and health. Oh, glad are we the rich must have, while living off the best The land affords, a lot of things to rob them of their rest. And so we 're thankful for our joys, a goodly part of which Is thinking of the many woes thou sendest to the rich. 122 A BOY'S VACATION T ITTLE Tommy Doodle and his mother spent a week At Gran'pa Doodle's farm, where Tommy tumbled in the creek And got his lungs so full of wet he could n't get his breath Till poor old Gran 'ma Doodle had been frightened 'most to death. He ate some poison berries that he found along the lane : It took a doctor half the night to soothe away the pain. He tried to ride a " kicky " colt — a risky thing to do — 'T was quite a little while before they really brought him to. He stuck a stick into a hive of bees — oh, sorry day ! He could n't see a thing until the swelling went away. 123 A Boy's Vacation He teased the goat to see if it was cross as he had heard : They had to work with him awhile before he spoke a word. And then he climbed a cherry-tree — just like a boy — and fell And broke his arm, and — sakes alive ! you ought 'a' heard him yell. His mother took him back to town to get a little rest, But Tommy says of all his life that week was far the best. 124 THE JOURNALISTIC LAUREATE TTT'HO is it makes the wheels go round and keeps the paper going ? Who is it makes the ghost to walk, her golden gifts bestowing ? Who is it fills the busy hive with happiness and honey ? Who keeps the publisher alive and lines his purse with money ? Oh, think you 't is the poet who his measured line rehearses ? Ah, no ! he could n't feed a cat on all he gets for verses. Oh, think you 't is the writers of the essay and the story ? No, such as they could never make a paper hunky- dory. Alas ! ye writers grave and gay, ye funny men and solemn, Who seem to love to spread yourselves o'er column after column, 125 The Journalistic Laureate 'T were well for you to bear in mind, ye namby- pamby quillers, That all the stuff you ever pen is simply used for ** fillers." But, oh ! there is a fellow who has things to suit his notion. An " Ode to Spring " he crowds right out with ** Lumper's Lilac Lotion " ; The publisher who pays the freight, your lofty themes despising, Bows down before this mighty man who brings him advertising. And so, good writers, one and all, if 't is your lofty mission To see your stuff in big, bold type and a "pre- ferred position," If you would have your happy share of all the gold that glitters. Why, hustle out and get an ad. for " Buster's Bur- dock Bitters." 126 GOOD TOSTLE PAUL /^H, I done read de Good Book, cl'ar plum' through An*, I tells you, hit 's a mighty fine story ; I 's fahmiliar with de Gospels, oV an' new, An' 'low I 's a-walkin' in de glory. I like fo' to read 'bout de blessed Holy Ghos', An' de saints an' de mahacles an' veesions. But de part ob de Book dat I likes de mos' Is where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. When I looks down deep in mah po' ol' heart, I wondah ef de Lo'd kin evah like me ! 'Pears like de lightnin' 's gwine ter send a dart Out ob de thundah-cloud ter strike me. But I knows ef we 's good an' does what 's right, De great Judge is kin' in his deceesions, An' I turns to de Book an' I gits mah light Where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. Ef yo' faith 's kinder shaky an' you don' jes' know Ef yo' feet is on de rock or in de mire, 'Postle Paul kin tell you de way you orter go Fo' to keep you from gittin' in de fire. 127 Good Tostle Paul You kin slip by Satan ez slick ez a dart, An' you won't hev no wrecks er no colleesions, Ef you read de Good Book till you git it all by heart, Where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. 128 OUR THOUGHTLESS WRONGS T IFE'S trials we could soften If we 'd only pause and think ; Tears would not flow so often If we 'd only pause and think. Our skies would all be brighter, Our burdens would be lighter, Our deeds would all be whiter If we 'd only pause and think. We would not walk so blindly If we 'd only pause and think ; We would not speak unkindly If we 'd only pause and think. Unrest we would not borrow. Darkly clouding each to-morrow ; We could banish worlds of sorrow If we 'd only pause and think. 129 THIS SORRY WORLD T OTS o' folks a-wearin' mourn in' ; some folks puts it on their hat ; Others have a secret sorrer hid away too deep fer that. Some remind us o' their troubles with a lot o' gloomy clo'es, While there 's some that mourns unheeded by a grave nobody knows. There is funerals occurrin* all about lis every day, Where the heart o' man er woman lays a tender hope away. There is faces that is smilin', there is lips that laugh an' jest With a wish as dear as heaven buried deep inside the breast. Love an* doubt an' joy an' sorrer come so sort o' tangled up, Can't guess if yer next-door neighbor's is a sweet er bitter cup. 130 This Sorry World Why a man is glad er gloomy — say, it 's pretty hard to tell ; You may think he 's got a picnic when he 's at a funeral. So if you should meet a feller with the sunshine on his lips, Don't unfold yer cloud o' trouble like a terrible eclipse. Though he may be bright an' cheerful he has grief an' sorrer too. Only he 's too kind an* thoughtful fer to dump it on to you. 131 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS npHERE 'S no excuse for family jars; 'T is selfishness our pleasure mars. The wife insists on this or that, The husband differs — then a spat — A fickle, foolish falling out — Some words, some tears, a little pout. Because they have not learned to share Each other's wishes, and forbear. My wife and I a plan devised Whereby all points are compromised ; Though differences arise, with us, We settle them without a fuss. And how much better 't is to find One to the other's views resigned ; It matters not what I may say. We compromise — she has her way. 132 WHEN MOTHER CUT MY HAIR T 'VE been down to a barber shop, the first dod- gasted one I 've tackled since I 've been in town a-visitin' my son. They trimmed my hair an' twisted it an' plastered an' shampooed Until they 've made me look 'bout hke a reg'lar bloomin' dude. An' as I set a-thinkin', with the apron round my chin, My recollections got to sort o' runnin' back ag'in To long afore I knowed the world had such a thing as care, When I was jest a little tyke an' mother cut my hair. When mother done the cuttin', why, she done it as she ort ; An' never used to ask me if I 'd have it long er short. She slipped my head into a crock, an' then she grabbed her shears ^33 When Mother Cut My Hair An' cut my hair off even on a level with my ears. There was n't any sea-foam an' a lot o' tryin' stuff To make a feller weary when he knows he 's got enough, Ner no bay rum ner brilliantine ner easy sofa chair, Fer which I had to settle when my mother cut my hair. I s'pose that I 'm old-fashioned-like an' sort of out- o'-date ; I wa* n't born soon enough, er else I 'm hangin' on too late. But somehow these new-fangled ways the people now invent, I figger, as the feller says, don't hit me worth a cent. Fer down in that big barber shop, with all its fuss an' frills. An' all the fancy-smellin' things the mind o' man distils, I wished the goose grease she put on, an' bergy- mont was there. An' I was jest a little boy with ma to cut my hair. 134 UNCLE JOSHUA'S EXPERIENCE 'T^HEY have the blamedest fixin's that a feller ever see In them big cities nowadays, they sort o' puzzle me ; The last time that I went to town I stayed all night — that 's how I happened fer to figger in a lively sort o' row. I 'd walked about the hull day long on them there pavin'-stones, An' when night come I wanted fer to rest my weary bones, An' so I bought a hotel bed away up next the sky, But say ! the price I paid fer it was 'bout three times as high. I never would 'a' dreamed that men would dare to charge so steep Fer jest such common blessin's, but I had to have some sleep An' so I stayed, but told 'em it was all a put-up job Arranged by tavern-keepers in the city fer to rob 135 Uncle Joshua's Experience Us fellers from the country. An' they knowed 't was truth they heard, Fer though they winked an' blinked a lot they never said a word, But elevatored me to where I had to spend the night, An' right there 's when I had my fun a-puttin' out the light. That light was 'bout the queerest thing that ever I explored : It looked jest like a blazin' star a-hangin' to a cord That did n't 'pear no bigger than a piece o' cotton thread. An' fastened to some fixin' in the ceilin' over- head. I 'd never seen the like afore, but still I thought I knowed The way to put a light out, so I blowed an' blowed an' blowed, An' worked about an hour with the blamed, in- fernal thing Till I got out o' patience an' declared I 'd cut the string. 136 Uncle Joshua's Experience Oh, sufferin' saints an' sinners ! I can't tell you how it was, But some bone-jarrin' feelin' went right through me with a buzz, An' I 'd 'a' bet a dollar I was dead as sure as sin, — I never would 'a' guessed that I 'd be talkin' here ag'in. But after while, when I come to, I crept out in the hall An' yelled ten times as loud, I guess, as any cow can bawl ; Folks come a-rushin' up an' asked, *' What 's all the fuss about ? " An' when I told 'em they jest laughed an' put the blamed light out. 137 A WINTER MORN A WINTER morn : The snow lies white, Earth's garment, woven in the night. Above the purple, wooded hills The sun steals up and softly spills Adown the vale his golden light. Like phantoms of the azure height Frail cloud-forms in their filmy flight Seem gazing on the grace that fills A winter morn. Athwart the land in vesture bright The river seeks its course to write. Hushed are the brooks whose vernal trills Shall wake the golden daffodils To happy fields that now invite A winter morn. 138 " COCK - A - DOODLE - DOO ! " T 'VE been down to the city fer a visit with my son ; He 's into business fer himself an' gittin' rich Uke fun. He 's got the blamedest schemes I ever see fer coinin' cash, An' yit, some day, he says, he may be bu'sted all to smash. I like to visit with 'em, but they stay up half the night. An' in the mornin' lie abed long after it is light ; But when I 'm there it 's hard to tell when day- break comes, you know, Fer, listen fer a month, you 'd never hear a rooster crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo I Cock-a-doodle-doo ! The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- niquer, too ; The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an' slow — I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 139 " Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " I 'd hate to have to live in town an* stay there all the while, An' hardly ever see a thing but jest mile after mile O' brick an' stone, an' narrer streets, an' people night and day All actin' like they 're crazy an' a-pushin* every way. It 's well enough to visit there a little while, an' then I 'm allers mighty anxious fer to git back home again, Where everybody takes their time to talk an' laugh an' grow An' eat their meals an' sleep an' wake an' hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- niquer, too ; The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an* slow — I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 140 '' Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " I like to have a lot o* room where I can stir about Permisc'ous like. I hate to be ferever lookin' out. But when you're in the city streets the people is so thick A man can't hardly step without some one '11 up an' kick. But out here in the country we can freely knock around, With lots an' lots of air an' sun an' sky an' trees an' ground ; An' when the shadders come at night an' work is done, we go To bed an' soundly sleep until we hear the roos- ters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- niquer, too ; The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an' slow — I can tell the mornin' 's comin* when I hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo I The robin's" song is mighty nice when first it tries to sing 141 « Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " Along with bluebirds an* the rest about the comin' spring ; An' thrushes, too, are hard to beat — I like to hear 'em trill. An' nothin' could be sweeter than the sorry whip- poor-will. But I believe that, after all, among the feathered host, The voice, if stilled ferever, I should really miss the most Is jest the common barn-yard fowl's — some folks '11 laugh, I know, — But, anyhow, it pleases me to hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- niquer, too; The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce and slow — I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the roosters crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 142 THE AVERAGE MAN OOME days I am so very good and do such gra- cious things I feel my shoulders just to see if I have sprouted wings. At other times my wrongful ways deserve such stern reproof I really half expect to see I 've grown a cloven hoof. And thus I oscillate between the righteous and the wrong, Not really certain of the class to which I should belong. Sometimes I walk arightly and at other times I limp ; I 'm never really sure if I 'm an angel or an imp. I wonder if the pious man has fleeting moments when He 'd like to just cut loose awhile and then get good again. I wonder if the sinner has his seasons of restraint That make him for the moment wish he might become a saint. 143 The Average Man Alas ! how many mortals are a tangled half and half, In part made up of golden grain, in part of wicked chaff. Oh, could we read them through and through, I wonder if we 'd find In each of them an angel's wing and devil's hoof combined ! 144 THE "WHY -DID NT -YOU?" MAN OINCE the world first began, the " Why-Did n't- You ? " man Has ever been waiting around To give, without price, countless words of advice From the depths of his wisdom profound. But whatever you do he will wait till you 're through, Then point out some wonderful plan That you might have pursued to great riches if you 'd Have asked the " Why-Did n't- You ? " man. He has n't a cent, for his whole life is spent In telling folks where they were wrong, And though wealth they secure while he yet remains poor. Still he 's willing to help them along. Plain rules he can state to get rich while you wait. But he borrows a dime where he can. While the whole world is told that it might have had gold. By the ragged " Why-Did n't- You ? " man. 145 The " Why-Did n't- You ? " Man And day after day his one joy is to say *' Why didn't you ?" this thing or that, Deep wisdom he quotes and our errors he notes, For he seems to have all of them pat. When first he was told that this earth we behold, God took but six days to contrive. For a moment he thought, then this question he brought, " Why did n't he make it in five ? '* 146 THE STUFFED LITTLE BOY /^H, sad is the fate of the poor little boy Who has no one to teach him to read, And who never may look 'tween the leaves of a book, But is left to grow up " like a weed.'* Still his fortune is not quite the worst of the lot, But is more like a picture of joy When his very small share of distress we compare With the woes of the stuffed little boy. Oh, the stuffed little boy is a wonderful boy, He 's so very precocious and bright ; He has tutors and teachers, blind, misguided crea- tures, Who stuff him from morning till night. And this marvelous youth, still a baby, in truth. By this wonderful brain-cramming plan Has such wisdom acquired he is almost as tired As if he were truly a man. While he ought to be laughing in innocent play. This poor little fellow must glean The wisdom of books till wherever he looks There is nothing hut facU to be seen. 147 The StufFed Little Boy While the other boys run in the wind and the sun, He is fed upon science and art, Till we find him at ten with the learning of men, But with never a dream in his heart. It is good that the year when the springtime is here Does not jump all at once into June. The sweet morning hours, with dew on the flowers. Lead tenderly up to the noon. Let the little ones play 'mid the blossoms of May And with never a book to annoy, For there 's nothing so sad in this world, or so bad, As the fate of the stuffed little boy. 148 THE POET'S LAMENT OMALL wonder 't is we poets of this prosy age regret That themes on which to found our lines are now so hard to get. Those dear old subjects which for years employed the Muse's pen Have all been sadly crowded out ne'er to come back again. The weary plowman never more shall homeward plod his way, He rides a sulky-like affair, and takes his ease to-day. The sower, scattering the seeds, not now afield is seen, For that, like scores of other tasks, is done by a machine. No more the mower swings his scythe, 't is rusting in the shed ; The hired man now drives a team that does the work instead. 149 The Poet's Lament The merry cradlers of the grain are gone, we know not where ; Their labors they surrendered to a patent-right affair. The jolly thresher with his flail upon the old barn's floor, He, too, has left the country, since his usefulness is o'er ; With others he was pushed aside and forced to clear the way For mechanism dull and dry that rules the world to-day. The busy loom and spinning-wheel, which maidens plied with art. Have gone and left us naught to play their once poetic part. Stern realism rules the age from cradle to the grave. There 's nothing left concerning which the poet's mind may rave. The sparkling mountain spring at which 't was joy to drink, alas ! 150 The Poet's Lament Has now been piped, we get it from a faucet made of brass. And e'en the horse, man's noblest friend, is fading fast away ; The automobile's '* chuff, chuff, chuff," we fear has come to stay. And now since all our tasks are done by artificial force. Toil, as a poet's noble theme, is out of date, of course. Whichever way we turn there 's naught but mechan- ism seen. And some assert that lines like these are made by a machine. 151 GO RIGHT ON WORKING yi H, yes ! the task is hard, 't is true, But what 's the use of sighing ? They 're soonest with their duties through Who bravely keep on trying. There 's no advantage to be found In sorrowing or shirking, They with success are soonest crowned Who just go right on working. Strive patiently and with a will That shall not be defeated ; Keep singing at your task until You see it stand completed. Nor let the clouds of doubt draw near Your sky's glad sunshine murking ; Be brave and fill your heart with cheer And just go right on working. 152 FAREWELL TO ROBIN "C^ARE thee well — the breeze is sighing- Farewell, Robin, southward flying ; Long and long — Now you leave me — must be saddened All my grove that you have gladdened With your song. Every southward- flitting feather Steals a glint of golden weather From my skies ; And when fields no longer harken To your notes, they dim and darken ; Beauty dies. 'T was you brought me — blithesome rover Lily bells and bloom of clover Sweet with dew ; But, since 't is your carols wake them, So where'er you go you take them All with you. 153 Farewell to Robin Through gray winter's gloom and grieving In my heart hope will be weaving Dreams of spring, When, the year's first joyous comer, You will bring me back my summer On your wing. 154 SHREDS AND PATCHES 'T^HOUGH life is made up of mere bubbles, 'Tis better than many aver, For while we 've a whole lot of troubles, The most of them never occur. Life is a grind : a sorry few Are blunted in their aim. And some are sharpened keen and true, And carve their way to fame. The heaven-seekers who know just how Can almost find it here and now. 'T were better to send a cheap bouquet To a living friend this very day, Than a bushel of roses, white and red. To lay on his coffin when he 's dead. Oh, brothers ! are you asking how The hills of happiness to find ? Then know they lie beyond this vow — " God helping me, I will be kind ! " 155 Shreds and Patches If you would pen some line that men Would always deem as clever, Oh, mix your ink with so much think That it must last forever. The mind is master of the man, And so "they can who think they can." Don't think your lot the worst because Some griefs your joy assail ; There are n't so very many saws That never strike a nail. The way is never very long If measured with a smile and song. The soul contains a window where It may receive the sun and air, But some with self the window cloy And shut out all the light and joy. Give but a smile to sorry men They '11 give you twenty back again. 156 THE CUCKOO CLOCK 'PBENEZER BILLINGS called on Angelina Brown, And stayed and stayed and stayed until her face was in a frown. She fidgeted and looked fatigued and yawned be- hind her hand, But Ebenezer Billings did n't seem to understand. He said about three thousand things of no account and then He blandly smiled and started in to say them all again, When Angelina's cuckoo clock upon the mantel near, It lifted up its voice and said ten times in Bil- lings' ear — " Br-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " But Ebenezer never flinched ; he waited till the bird Was done with its cuckooing, when he did n't say a word 157 The Cuckoo Clock About how late 't was growing, but he just kept talking on As if he meant to talk until the coming of the dawn. Poor Angelina ! How she wished that he would go away ; She knew her pa would raise a fuss because she let him stay. Eleven came, and then the clock, still faithful to its trust, It yelled as if it firmly meant to make him go or bu'st — "Br-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " However, Mr. Billings did not mind the clock a bit. But talked till Angelina — oh, she nearly had a fit. She knew her father listened in the chamber over- head. And thoughts of what might happen filled her very soul with dread. She yawned, and in a way that meant 't was grow- ing very late. Yet Ebenezer talked right on, unmindful of his fate, iS8 The Cuckoo Clock Till midnight came, and then the clock, it sort of cleared its throat, And looking straight in Billings' eye it fairly shrieked each note — " Br-r-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " Then Ebenezer roused himself and started for the door. But halted ere he reached it just to whisper one word more. And there he stood and talked and talked till Angelina, she — 'T was awful ! — but she wished him at the bottom of the sea ! And then — her pa appeared and brought his number 'leven feet. Poor Mr. Billings landed in the middle of the street, And as he rose and brushed his clothes and slowly limped away He heard the little cuckoo clock call after him and say — " Br-r-r-r cuck-oo ! " 159 A COMPROMISE V^ZITH all my heart I loved Marie And asked her, " Will you marry me ? " Of all mankind," said she, in mirth, " I would not wed the best on earth ! " Her words, I deemed, meant my defeat ; I sighed ; she smiled. " Oh, what conceit ! " Said she : " Of men both great and small Are you the very best of all ? " Then did I all my love confess, Forgetting my unworthiness. I 'm glad earth's best she would not wed ; She 's going to marry me instead. i6o IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT T IFE would be an easy matter If we did n't have to eat. If we never had to utter, " Won't you pass the bread and butter, Likewise push along that platter Full of meat ? " Yes, if food were obsolete Life would be a jolly treat. If we did n't — shine or shower, Old or young, 'bout every hour — Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, — 'T would be jolly if we did n't have to eat. We could save a lot of money. If we did n*t have to eat. Could we cease our busy buying, Baking, broiling, brewing, frying. Life would then be oh, so sunny And complete ; And we would n't fear to greet Every grocer in the street i6i If We Did n't Have to Eat If we did n't — man and woman, Every hungry, helpless human, — Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, — We 'd save money if we did n't have to eat. All our worry would be over If we did n't have to eat. Would the butcher, baker, grocer Get our hard-earned dollars ? No, sir ! We would then be right in clover Cool and sweet. Want and hunger we could cheat, And our bills we 'd promptly meet If we did n't — poor or wealthy, Halt or nimble, sick or healthy — Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, We could get there if we did n't have to eat. 162 A THANKFUL PARSON A PIOUS parson, good and true, Was crossing o'er the seas When suddenly there fiercely blew A wild and sweeping breeze. He feared the storm the ship would wreck, His heart was sore afraid ; He sought the captain on the deck, But found him undismayed. The captain saw the parson's fear, And led him up to where The servant of the Lord could hear The sailors loudly swear. "You clearly see," the captain said, " If danger hovered nigh They *d all be on their knees instead. And asking grace to die." The parson felt his words were true. And when the skies grew fair He marveled how the sailors knew Just when to pray or swear. 163 A Thankful Parson But when the wildly tossing sea Had ceased to plunge and spout, Unto himself he said, " I see They know what they 're about." But later on another storm Came fiercer than before. The parson heard, in wild alarm, The ocean's angry roar. He sought the deck in awful dread The sailors, near, to get ; He listened — then he bowed his head, " Thank God, they 're swearing yet ! ' 164 WHEN A MAN 'S IN LOVE T IFE 'S a jolly jag of joy- When a man 's in love. He 's as happy and as coy As a turtle-dove. All the world is fair and nice And as sweet as Paradise ; Everything 's worth twice the price When a man 's in love. Life 's a big bouquet of bliss When a man 's in love. Earth is yearning just to kiss With the stars above. Then her smile is all there is In the world, excepting his ; Say ! It 's something great, gee whiz ! When a man 's in love. Life 's a mellow mess of mirth When a man 's in love. Heaven comes to dwell with earth Walking hand and glove. i6s When a Man s in Love Then all creatures, low and high, Putting other duties by, Just lay off to watch the guy When a man 's in love. i66 FOLKS WE READ ABOUT 'THHERE seems to be no way in which an hon- est, modest man Can get his name in clear, cold type for everyone to scan. We 've got to cut up some mean trick, or papers quite refuse To notice what we 're doing, for they say it is n't " news." A man may kiss his wife and yet the papers never tell; But let him kiss his neighbor's wife and how the types will yell ! We may do just the proper thing for years and years, and yet Receive not half the notice that one crooked chap will get. Just let an honest citizen be sober as he may. There are no headlines to declare, " Jones is n't drunk to-day ! " But let a man imbibe until he makes himself "a brute," And all the papers will exclaim, ** Old Jinks is on a toot ! " 167 Folks We Read About A thousand bank cashiers remain still faithful to their trust, Too kind to flee to Canada and cause their banks to ''bu'st," Yet papers never tell us of these noble men and true, But give whole columns to the ones who skip the tra-la-loo. Ten thousand servant - girls refrain from using kerosene To start the kitchen fire, even if the wood is green, But just because one tries it and is scattered galley-west, Her name gets in the papers far ahead of all the rest. So, when I buy a paper, I *m aware I '11 find a dearth Of news about the doings of the better folks of earth ; For " news," as it is termed to-day, I 've noticed, as a rule. Is very likely to concern a rascal or a fool. i68 ONE OF THE HAS-BEENS TF Shakespeare were alive to-day, Alas ! he 'd not be in it ; He could n't make his writings pay For just a single minute. He 'd meet the coldest kind of bluff From every one-horse paper, For though he used to write good stuff Just now he 's not the caper. I know, because I 've written much, Like '' Hamlet," only better, And given it my finished touch In every line and letter ; But still the editors rebel. And each my work dismisses ; For nothing nowadays will sell But jingles such as this is. And, say ! 1 Ve so much heart I 'd hate To see Will on his uppers. The while we writers, up to date. Would feast on wine-washed suppers. 169 One of the Has - Beens I could not find such rare delights Amid my wealth disporting, While Will would have to go on nights And do police reporting. 170 REGARDIN' HOSS-TRADIN' XIW'ELL, yes, you take it first an' last, I s'pose I 've made it pay A-tradin' bosses ; anyhow, that 's what the neigh- bors say ; They've kind o' got a notion that if I jest git a look At any sort o' boss-flesh I can read it like a book. An' on the other hand they think that if a boss is mine, No matter how played out be is, I make him look that fine His mother would n't know him, but, right here, 'twixt me an' you, The man don't live but what some boss can teach him somethin' new. A boss is that deceivin' that I don't pertend to know His kinks till I 've perused him fer at least a month er so ; He 's got a lot o' differ'nt ways, er so it seems to me, 171 Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' O' teachin* us we ain't so smart as what we think we be. Before you trade you try him an' you test him, wind an' limb, An' do yer best you can't find out a thing that 's wrong with him, But once the trade is settled, then — an' don't it make you hot ? — He jogs yer mind with somethin' that you should n't have fergot. They say in tradin' bosses that there ain't a man so high An' pure an' true an' noble-like, but what he '11 tell a lie ; But when you speak o' liars, why, from what I can recall, I take the hoss himself to be the biggest one of all ; Fer don't he do his level best in every way he can To supplement the wicked words o' some designin' man ? A human bein' ain't persumed to stick to what is true. But when a hoss will act a lie, say, what 's a man to do ? 172 Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' Now what I 'm gittin' at is this ; a hoss, if he finds out You think o' tradin' fer him, will let on he 's fresh an' stout An' speedy-like an' willin', an' so good from top to toe, He '11 make you give a lot to boot before you '11 let him go. But when he 's yours, well, say, by George ! the way that hoss lets down Until he looks to be about the worst old nag in town : He '11 balk an' bite an' run away an' bring you such distress That could you cheat somebody, would you do it ? Well, I guess ! At first, the ottymobile — this new-fangled thing they 've got Fer doin' 'way with bosses — sort o' troubled me a lot ; But since I 'm gittin' on in years an' hain't got long to stay, Now that the hoss is goin' I '11 be glad to get away. I 've traded bosses all my life, an' 't would n't seem jest right 173 Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' To jog along the highway an' not see a trade in sight. But there 's one thing I would n't do fer any mortal price — That 's trade the heaven-sent hoss fer their blamed fact'ry-made device. 174 DEACON HOPEFUL'S IDEE T^EAR friends, when I am dead an* gone Don't have no woful takin's on ; Don't act so tarnally bereft As if there wa' n't no sunshine left. Don't multiply yer stock o' woes By sorry looks an' gloomy clo'es, An' make the trouble ten times worse By allers follerin' a hearse. When I depart, it 's my idee The most consolin' thing to me, Would be to hear the ones I tried To comfort here afore I died Say, sort o' smilin' through their tears, " Well, anyhow, fer years an' years We had him here, so let 's be glad An' thankful fer the joy we've had." It ain't no use to make a fuss When death comes after one of us ; The ways o' Providence, I 'low. Are as they should be, anyhow. 175 Deacon Hopeful's Idee Things suit me purty middlin' well, An* even at a funeral I 'd sing, amid the grief an' woe, " Praise God from whom all blessin's flow." 176 MELON SONG /^H, I tol' mah Honey, an' she tol' me — I leaned right close to her ear — An' she hung her head, but what we said, I ain't a-gwine ter tell right here. Steal along, steal along ; ever' body feel along, Melons jes' a-crackin' at de core; Lif yer foot ez light ez de fox in de night, An' dey won't be a-crackin' any more. Husky hush I De opossum ' s in de ' simmon-tree ; Hushy httsh ! De coon is in de cawn : De rabbit aint a-peepin' an de mockin -bird's a-sleepin\ And we aint a-gwine home till de mawn. Oh, I love mah Honey, an' she loves me ; She 's got a pizen tickle in her eye. She 's fair an' sweet from head to feet. An' we 're gwine ter build a home bime-by. Slip along, slip along ; ever' body trip along. Melons am a-lookin' mighty fine ; We 're gwine fo' to feast till it 's light in de east. An' we won't leave a melon on de vine. 177 Melon Song Oh, I kissed mah Honey an' she kissed me, — Nobody lookin' fo' to tell, — One, two, three, four, — yes, yes, — lots more ! Fo' we both like de kisses mighty well. Glide along, glide along ; ever'body slide along ; Bettah keep a-lookin' fo' a gun ; When yo' hear me whistle low an' long, jes' so- (whistle) It 's a warnin' 'at it 's time fo' to run. 178 A COMING "LITERARY" SUCCESS T 'M going to write a novel that will sell so ripping fast That folks will come in crowds and fight for copies while they last. In fact, before it 's printed I must sell it by the ton, So when it does appear I '11 have the people on the run. I Ve got my testimonials for street-car ads. all signed : Charles Dickens writes me one which says : " In this new book I find That, while I used to think that I could tell a tale, I see The author of this volume knocks the spots clean off of me." Another, penned by Walter Scott, says : " This book is immense ! It makes my poor old novels look about like thirty cents." 179 A Coming ** Literary " Success And these strong words from Thackeray: "Though my books are n't the worst, I never could have pubhshed them had yours been issued first." And WilHam Shakespeare signs his name to this : " While I am not A -novelist, I think I know a well-constructed plot, And when your book is dramatized, as it is sure to be, Why, I can see the finish of the plays produced by me." Besides the street-car ads., we 've got red posters ten feet high ; My publishers will *' rub it in " to every seeing eye. They 're going to push with might and main each factor that promotes Tremendous sales ! The book 's to be crammed down the people's throats. And now that everything 's in shape to launch it with a boom, To-morrow I shall lock myself all day within my room i8o' A Coming *' Literary " Success And write the thing, and after that we '11 whoop 'er up, red hot, And make it go, it 's got to go, no matter if it 's rot! i8i HIS SECOND WIFE A S story-writers often say, " Once on a time there lived a man," Who got it in his head that he was built on a superior plan ; He fancied that to him belonged the best of all there was in life, And everybody bowed, to him until — he got his second wife, And then — Ah, then ! He slid down from his pedestal and she was seated there instead, And like a rooster sadly whipped, he found his greatness all had fled ; The sky that over him had smiled seemed strangely hidden by a cloud ; "I can't see why," he 'd often say, "a mortal spirit should be proud." His first wife toiled and strove for him, while he ruled like a petty king ; She 'd slave and save, and make and mend, and wait on him, and fetch and bring ; 182 His Second Wife But by and by she weary grew and left this sorry world of strife ; — He mourned her absence ninety days before he got his second wife, And then — Ah, then ! He learned a simple truth or two, but oh ! the irony of fate That brings us that we ought to know so well, a little bit too late ! He knew that when he should have smiled he often gave a chilling frown. And did not prize the golden light until, alas ! the sun went down. How often did he say that when his days on earth had all been spent Whatever wealth he left should then be used to build his monument. That was before his first wife died, but when his final summons came, He left his second wife a will and everything was in her name. And then — Ah, then ! ^^3 His Second Wife She put him in a plain pine box, and buried him where land was cheap, And she 'd so much to think about, she really had n't time to weep. She took a trip to Europe with the wealth his first wife toiled to save, And all the widow's weeds there were grew six feet high above his grave. 184 UNCLE PHIL'S PHILOSOPHY T B'LIEVE most everybody 'd like to make the hull world glad ; There 's very few, so I contend, that 's bent on bein' bad, But oh ! so many things occur to switch 'em off the track, An' some folks, when they once git off, they some- how don't git back. The heroes in life's battle are the brave, deter- mined men Who, if they stub their toe an' fall, '11 git right up again ; An* so, amid Hfe's many cares, the one successful plan Is jest to keep on doin' things the very best we can. There 's days when life 's as smooth as oil an' all the world 's a joy, With lots to bring us pleasure an' with nothin' to annoy ; But 'bout the time we tell ourselves good luck has come to stay. Uncle Phil's Philosophy Why, everything gits all upset an' scattered every way. But, when we find we 're shipwrecked, then we ought to do our best An' try to save out all we can from sinkin' with the rest ; Fer, come what will o* good er ill, the victor is the man Who jest keeps on a-doin' things the very best he can. O* course, we 'd like to do a lot to elevate the race ; But, after all, right now an' here is jest the time an' place To start in on our mission, fer there 's always some one near That 's yearnin' fer a pleasant smile er jest a word o* cheer. So let 's quit dreamin' what we 'd do if things was thus an' so, An' make the most of all the gifts kind fortune may bestow. We '11 do as all wise folks have done since first the world began. An' when we can 't do jest the best, do jest the best we can. i86 NED'S LETTER TO SANTA CLAUS "T^EAR Santa Claus : I write you this so you will know just what To give to me when Christmas comes. I want a quite a lot Of things if I can get them. First of all I want a sled To outrun Tommy Jones's, and I want it painted red. I hope you '11 bring a drum for me that folks can hear a mile ! Bob Smith got one last Christmas and has put on lots of style A-marching up and down the street. But, say ! I hope there is Some kind that you can bring me that 's a whole lot louder 'n his. And there 's another thing I want and that 's a pair of skates ; And please be sure that they *re the kind that cut the figure eights 187 Ned's Letter to Santa Claus Like Charley Tucker's do, and yet, I 'd rather you 'd have mine A little better 'n his so I can cut a figure nine. I want some toys and picture-books and games of every kind ; My Uncle Henry says they 're good for my ex- panding mind. If there are any other things that I 've forgot to name, I hope, my dear, good Santa Claus, you *11 bring them just the same. Mamma says that at Christmas-time love ought to fill each breast And all we wish ourselves we ought to wish for all the rest ; So when you bring me lots and lots of candy sweet and fine. Please bring some more for sister Kate so she won't tease for mine. i88 NEIGHBOR JONES'S NOTION A N' so she slept, while the neighbors came To the darkened house that day ; With weepin' hearts they breathed her name In the kindest sort o' way. An' never a one but through her tears Spoke some sweet, lovin' word She had carefully kept unsaid fer years ; But the corpse — it never heard. An* they brought her flowers rich an' rare, Jest full o' sweet perfume. An' wreaths o' roses everywhere Made glad the darkened room. I thought of her life in sorrow hid, An' the world o' joy if she Could 'a' owned them wreaths on her coffin-lid ; But the corpse — it could n't see. An' here 's a word fer neighbors dear, Who would praise me gone, no doubt : If you have joys to see an' hear Why don't you fetch 'em out ? 189 Neighbor Jones's Notion All these post-mortem carry in 's on Are proper-like an' nice, But with the one that 's dead an' gone They don't cut any ice. 190 THE FOURTH IN EASYVILLE T^OURTH o' July in Easyville's a purty big affair, The town is jest a-boomin' an* they 's folks from everywhere. An' down at Hoover's blacksmith shop, afore the break o' day, The anvil 's filled with powder, an' they let *er blaze away. They ain't no sleepin' after that, er, anyway, fer me, I 'm up an' dressed an' takin' part in all the jam- boree ; Fer though I 'm gittin' on in years, I 'm jest as fond o' noise, An' when the Fourth is here, you bet I 'm trainin' with the boys. I 've got an army musket that 's so mighty loud, by jing, I 'm allers sort o' half afraid to fire the blamed old thing. 191 The Fourth in Easyville I carried her through the four years' war, an' that is why, I 'low. There 's somethin' in that bark o' hers that 's kind o' soothin' now. By ten o'clock the show begins ; there 's music in the air ; The town 's chock full o' people ; teams hitched clear around the square. Our band o' six brass horns, besides a bass an' tenor drum. They tune up in the band-stand, an' you bet they make things hum. An' then the " Horribles " parade, an', say, it 's my idee That there 's a gorgeous spectacle worth goin' miles to see. Of all the blamed outlandish things there is be- neath the sky, You 're mighty sure to see 'em when them " Hor- ribles " go by. Some extry fine picked voices from the village choir sing " My Country, 'T is o' Thee," you know, an' all that sort o' thing ; 192 The Fourth in Easyville All' then Cy Jones, as he has done fer more than thirty year, He reads the Declaration in a voice serene an' clear. The band plays " Hail Columby," an' we have another song. An' then there comes the speeches, eloquent, o' course, but long; An' that 's the way the eagle screams from early mornin' till The peaceful s.tars is shinin' on the ca'm of Easyville. I go to church o' Sundays, an' I jine in with the rest. An' sing them good old tunes about the mansions o' the blest ; But where it says that every day '11 be Sunday, by an' by, I 've wondered how we '11 do without the Fourth day o' July. 193 FARMER BROADACRE'S CHRISTMAS " /CHRISTMAS comes but once a year." Well, gosh all hemlock ! who That has the Christmas bills to pay would ever ask f er two Er three er four, er any more than what we^ have to-day ? There may be some, but say, by gum ! I ain't built jest that way. A sled '11 be the thing fer Ned, an' a pretty doll fer Nan, An' books an' toys an' lots o' joys fer little crip- pled Dan, Fer he can't go about, you know, like other boys, an' run. An' so that 's why we all must try to help him have his fun. An' Liza — how these girls come up ! — she don't want dolls no more ; She 's got a beau — it can't be so ! — a-clerkin' in a store. 194 Farmer Broadacre's Christmas But, after all, she 's 'bout as tall as was her mother when I, blushin', bought the ring that 's brought so much o' joy since then. An' so a year that could n't bring a Christmas, seems to me, Would be about the saddest thing a mortal man could see, Fer who would miss the Christmas bliss, because there 's bills to pay ? There may be some, but say, by gum ! I ain't built jest that way. 195 A CINCH ON SUCCESS TVyTY child, would you achieve success and stand among the great ? Well, I will tell you how to get a Fortune while you wait ! First, you must read the papers which espouse that sort of thing ; Subscribe at once for Hustle ! Snap ! Push ! Grab! Shove! Biff! Bang! Bing ! When you have reached five years of age learn Latin, French, and Greek ; Sell papers night and morning and make sixteen cents a week ; Invest it in some Railroad Bonds, as every smart boy does ; And night and day don't stop to play, but keep things on the Buzz. While running errands read some book that treats of this or that "Sure Road to Wealth"; paste lots of Business maxims in your hat ; 196 A Cinch on Success Have hanging up in front of you to Study While You Eat Professor Gradgrind's rules on " How to Get There with Both Feet ! " A cyclopaedia by your bed should always find a place So when you Lie Awake at Night, as sometimes is the case, You can Improve Your Mind with draughts of learning, long and deep. But don't read trashy story-books nor anything that 's cheap. In childhood learn to fix your eye upon The Real Main Chance, Do naught unless It Pays, and try to Get It in Advance. In all that may confront you let your " Business Motto " be To ask yourself the question, " What is There in This for Me ? " Regard that day as worse than lost that sees not Some Amount, However meagre, added to your Savings Bank Ac- count. 197 A Cinch on Success Don't pay too much attention to your conscience or your heart, But get A Lot of Money and the world will think you Smart. So mind these rules and you '11 outstrip the foolish little boys Who love to run and laugh and play amid their childish joys ; Their golden hours will all be filled with many a childish prank, While you '11 be putting, day by day, Good Money in the Bank ! The while they read their Fairy Tales you '11 gather Vital Facts, And cram your head with Business till your little noggin cracks. But when they 're poor and living on a farm or in a flat, You '11 own a House, a Bob-Tailed Horse, a Cart, and High Silk Hat ! 198 THE STEADY WORKER TTT'HENE'ER the sun was shining out, Squire Pettigrew would say, " Now, hurrah, boys ! it 's just the time to be a-making hay. Because, you see, the sun 's so hot 't will cure it right away ! " Then all the mowers kept right on a-mowing. But when a cloud obscured the sun Squire Petti- grew would shout, " Oh, now 's the time for working while the sun is blotted out, A cooling cloud like that will make our muscles twice as stout ! " And that 's the way he kept his men a-going. Hence, little did it matter were the weather wet or dry, — If sunshine filled the valleys or if clouds o'er- spread the sky. He 'd always think of something which he deemed a reason why 'T was just the time for him to keep a- working. 199 The Steady Worker But, now and then, or so it seemed, the reasons he would seek For working on, were quite far-fetched and faulty, so to speak, But, oh, they were not half so thin as are the many weak Excuses lazy people find for shirking. 200 THE CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN TT is simply a matter of dress, I say, And the feminine half of the race, to-day, Might hold, in our history, just as great A place as the lords of high estate. Had they been permitted to wear the clothes And follow the selfsame styles of those Who, having been born of the opposite sex, Had never a worry their minds to vex. Had Columbus and all of his valiant crew Worn hats that the ladies of our times do, They would n't have sailed in those damp, old ships, 'T would have taken the curl from their ostrich tips. And I 'm more than delighted brave Paul Revere Did n't say on that night when the foe drew near, '^ I 'd like to go warn all the folks, I declare. But I have n't a thing that is fit to wear ! " Had Wellington dared but five minutes to wait, In trying to fasten his hat on straight (While Napoleon's hurrying forces came), 201 The Clothes Make the Woman He would n't have climbed to the heights of fame. And had Washington lingered to " frizzle " his hair, The night that he ferried the Delaware, He could n't have gotten his army away, Till the British had gobbled them up next day. And so, I say, in the race of life. The woman has more than her share of strife, And man would find 't would be hard to gain The prize if he had to manage a train, A shopping bag and a parasol, And high-heeled shoes a size too small — Ah me, oh my ! Why, he 'd have a fit, And he 'd never, no, never I come out of it. 202 HER NUMBER TWO TTER number two ! Oh, favored eyes Are those which scan its dainty size ! A tiny, fairy-fashioned thing, With Hnes so gently tapering ; Its grace I love to eulogize. Naught save possession satisfies ; Once seen, I labored to devise Plans that for aye to me would bring Her number two. I sang her praises to the skies And waited for her glad replies. Alas ! she spurned my proffered ring — She wore another's — cruel sting ! I found I was — false hope that lies — Her number two. 203 MY NEIGHBOR'S DOG \ LITTLE, yellow dog is owned across the street from me ; He barks and dar^s at everything that he can hear or see ; And when, alas ! there 's not a thing for him to see or hear, He then resumes his happy task of barking by the year. At night he 's barking at the moon, at Jupiter and Mars, And singly and collectively he barks at all the stars ; And if there comes a moment when I cease to hear his roar, I lie awake and wonder why he does n't bark some more. He thinks he guards the neighborhood from harm by day and night, * And so I love that little dog. He tJiinks he 's doing right I And to his simple life I trust no sorrow may befall. For with his bark forever hushed I could n't sleep at all. 204 . WHEN SHE 'S AWAY TT /"HEN the good wife 's away for a visit, And stayeth a week or two, Pray tell me, kind people, what is it That maketh the home so blue ? There are ghosts from one end to the other, In parlor and chamber and hall ; Oh, tell me, why is it, my brother. That gloom overspreadeth it all ? " She 's gone ! " How the doors loudly squeak it ; " She 's gone ! " saith the key in the lock ; " She 's gone ! " all the stairs fairly shriek it ; " She 's gone ! " sadly ticketh the clock. The plants in the window turn yellow, Their souls seem to sigh through the room, And home that was sunny and mellow, Becometh a cavern of gloom. Do you know, I Ve a notion that heaven Would truly be sorriest hell With never a woman to leaven The place with her magical spell. 205 When She 's Away And I 'm sure I '11 be awfully dreary Up there in those mansions above Unless they 're made gracious and cheery With smiles of the woman I love. 206 MANY AND MANY A TIME TV/TANY and many a time I held Her hand so soft and small and white ; My breast with joyous rapture swelled, My brain was drunken with delight : I vowed if she would wear my ring Her life would be a perfect rhyme ; I called her "angel," *'bird of spring," "My star," and all that sort of thing Many and many a time. Many and many a time since then. When erstwhile sunny skies were hid, I 've wondered how it was and when We ever thought the things we did. And one rash day I breathed the name Of one I loved in life's glad prime ; " Would I had wed her ere you came," I said. Said she, " I 've wished the same Many and many a time." 207 ONLY A WORD npELL me something that will be Joy through all the years to me. Let my heart forever hold One divinest grain of gold. Just a simple little word Yet the dearest ever heard ; Something that will bring me rest When the world seems all distressed. As the candle in the night Sends abroad its cheerful light, So a little word may be Like a lighthouse in the sea. When the winds and waves of life Fill the breast with storm and strife, Just one star my boat may guide To the harbor, glorified. 208 PRINTED AT THE COLONIAL PRESS IN BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, BY C. H. SIMONDS & CO., FOR FORBES AND COMPANY, PUB- LISHERS, BOSTON AND CHICAGO. MDCCCCII Now m Third Edition "A BOOK OF VERSES" By NIXON WATERMAN A highly pleasing collection of charming, melodi- ous verses. There are poems of thought, of fancy, of incident, and of sparkling humor ; some of the most enjoyable are of childhood days. All are emi- nently readable, and are equally adapted for read- ing in the parlor circle or on the public platform. None of the poems in the book are duplicated in " In Merry Mood." They are the sort of poems the average busy person will § enjoy. — Chicago Daily News. Genuine poems, some of them aglow with high and pure sentiment, and some sparkling with fetching humor. — The Congregationalist, Boston. To have such a wholesome book on hand, where the whole family can get at it, is a wise provision on the part of any home-maker. ■ — Boston Globe. It will be impossible for those who love verse to read " A Book of Verses " without enjoyment, and more than one who ordinarily prefers to limit himself to prose will be beguiled by such numbers as these of Mr. Waterman. — Chicago Tribune. The simple form of domestic love outlasting all the ills, sorrows and wrongs of a long married life was never more sincerely and touchingly sketched in verse. Mr. Waterman sings of mother and motherhood in the sweetest and most sympathetic tenderness. Of childhood, of youth, of love — his Muse plays with the young and comforts the old. — The Independent, New York. The volume is tastefully printed and bound in a beautifully decorated cover. Cloth, gilt top, deckle-edged, i2mo, 226 pages. Price, $\.2<^. For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers. FORBES © COMPANY P. O. BOX 1478 BOSTON, MASS p. O. BOX 464 CHICAGO, ILL 3. NOV mmmmb 018 395 504 7"V ir