^j3 .0 ^^," ^^^^^ ^Mpigitiz^db.y the Internet Archive^^^ ,^^-V '*' ^^^ \'^''''''1rf2011 with fundihgfrom "\'^^^ "^^ ,< «^;^V- ^^^-j.-^ The Library of Congress Y. ^^^^-^1 . 7 * . -^ ^^ ,v^v. -.^/ .'>^'- -^...^ .;:^v, -.^/ ;^. ^°', ^http://www:archive.org/details/thin^enfrom^^ ^^-^.^ & .' O > 5> -^v -%1 A^-^^ ^*#^--W»*-- -m.V.A-r C^^^ ■^ff? 0^ THIRTEEN FROM THE FRONT A MEMENTO With the Compliments of a Pioneer, /T y_^ \v.\sHiN(.roN', n. c. : Press of Wmj.ack t*<: ( aditk 1000 'Y^^A OCT / 1814 Do n't lei me surprise anyone greatly With a wee bit of thing, called truth; That something we somewhere have heard of, Way back in the days of our youth. Rhymster or poet, to be worth a damn, Should at least have something to say; And, reader, I herewith make a try To record some things of my day. The Muse, like a widow, 's a skittish affair To a man whose vocation 's to fight — The jungle, government, man and beast, In an effort to do Vv^hat 's right. I v/as taught, when a lad at school, To ignore both rhyme and metre. By a venerable aged professor Who to my mind resembled St. Peter. This delightful old sage contended — ''Poetry is truth imaginatively expressed." J '11 write the truth — for a change — And let you, reader, do the rest. March 29, 190!). SUNRISE Eising before sunrise. Struggling 'til after dark, Man thinks he is working for woman, If from selfishness he is apart. The flowers bloom, the birds they sing, Beneath the power of sunlight's glance And man need never unhappy be While to work he has a chance. F(U- (Jod, in His infinite wisdom, Made man l)()th constant and strong To overcome all sorrow, ^^y woi-king both hard and long. Some love women, others wine, And some they love to shirk, But the only man who is worth a damn Is he who loves to work. The man who with care elects to work Apart from the rays of the sun. Is a mortal unwisely haf>py, For he 's missing of life its fun. For to few is given the Icnowledge To find glory in the dawn of day, To few is given to understand That work is mean's noblest play. He who attempts to avoid any work Is foolish, pure and simple. And cuts about as much figure in life As a measly little pimple. And the man who fancies he is wise To these lines — being written at night — Has got several guesses coming to him Long before he 's right. NGiemher 4, 1908. THE MONTE-COCA LINE. The poets have praised the forests, x\s well as the blazers of trail ; But who 's to recount of persistent ones- We men who lay the rail ? We 're close on the heels of the axe-men, Who are clearing in forest shades, Even beyond the men who 've planted Cane-fields in upland glades. Our work 's in a valley that 's green, On each side grass, cane and woods, And, while good men work elsewhere, We also "deliver the goods." We 've installed track on the "bajo," Built "terraplen," "cantarilla" and bridge. And steadily worked up a water-shed 'Til at last we 're on the ridge. Ahead the axe resounds, Alongside, the mocking-bird sings, From the ]'ear the locomotive prompts Frightful concern for its springs lO For we coax No. 2 to the front, On a tickely-bender line, While the driver is brave in the hopes That all will be right in time. Tarantula, centipede and No. 2 keep Our nerves and pulse at a throb: With constant curve and three feet grade, Lifting track is a fearful job. Sam, Alec, Woodman, Manasa, Bob, Willie, Thompson and Drew, T^enjamin, Boston, Frazer and (ii])bs. Among vnaiiv a)*(^ ])n1 f(nv. II We 're shunted out at the break of day, And hauled home late at night; Some day there '11 be a human mess, If the line is n't kept just right. The boss on the line to the front, Objects to empties, early and late, Stowing us like "arenques" in the "JMonte-Coca" strap-hanger's freight. River, flood and bridge, We 've now left well to the rear, Still, the boss's coin (with rum and oath) Is our sole, yet ample cheer. 12 4 'VwE'^rij^- ])ay, free-feed and a scratch. Puts some readilj^ on tlic ])um; Electing' to h)af tlu^ r(^st of the da3^ And Ihiis (Mill IVoni lilV souk^ fun. 13 In rain we 're huddled 'neath canvas tent You 'd think we 'd never a care, On the job, with a hundred men, Raising hell with each other there. 'Neath tropical all-day sun, We gather, fill stone and rock. Stowing, pushing, unloading cars. With never a heed of the clock. Days, weeks and months go by, Handling, sleeper, rail and spike, Some working, others grumbling, Yet knowing we 're treated right. 14 There 's but one ''bianco" on the job; While the bush-'cahns seek rifles to fight To secure a thing called "guarantia," We cocolos work clay and night. Hoyo-Colorado and corte Frost, Is far to the rear to-day; Martin loads cane on the main line, Ikit of Shulze — no man can say. *'The mills of the Ciods grind slow," But Consuelo's work overtime; And — what would 'cahn and cocolo do, Without the Monte-Coca Line? Moidc-Coai, Fchruarij 19, 1900. ^0 MY LITTLE NEED. The sound of axe, the fall of leaf, The ring of rail and the blow on spike, Like the^song of birds, is music to men, Who must struggle to da what is right. Men use me for their paek-horse, For I delight to toil and- grind, • While carving my way on a frontier, Dragging progress and crime behind. I6 ' ■ _; ,.:. ^. _i „.._-^ ;S'p-"l n ■^^^^^i^^jBinnHHH -Ji ■. -^^B They straddle me with a calamity, 111 the shape of a "gefe" man, They rip and break in the euston-liouse, Every bottle, ron rod and can. The3^ tie my liands with justice (?), While the he's turned free, They fail to punish the incendiary, l^ut they 've yet to get rid of me. There 's one thing, during an age, Way back from the very start, 'J'liey hav(> n't bc^en able to conquer- My damned while Yankee heart. When father said, "Boy, you go there," "My son, stay there if you can," I plowed through a fierce combination — Hell — arranged by tropical man. Men hold I 'm almost a savage, With room in my heart but for greed, Yet out in the world there 's a woman, Who best knows my little need. A mite of intangible wealth, One thing man cannot buy, Cannot dig out of the earth, Cannot coax down from the sky. Fehrudry 21, 190D. 1 8; MY DAY-DREAM. I 've toiled all daj^ in the blazing sun, On the banks of a tropical stream, Building a bridge, with a hundred men. And of you I had a dream. While the many birds in the pastures green Chirped merrily near their nests, I could picture you on the river bank. As the sun declined in the west. When 't was "block and block," with the fall on high And huge timbers hanging in air, Men holding their breath, with danger near, T longed for you to be there. That you might know what m.anner of man You 've robbed of his heart complete ; With your frail little body, demure ways, And your winning smile so sweet. 20 Stout hearts were there, with strong' arms plenty, Though not without sulkers a few, They thought I was thinking only of them. But in truth my thoughts were of you. We Ve had weeks and months of desperate toil. With plenty to do on the morrow. And perhaps before our work is complete, An accident may bring us sorrow. I swore to start a grave-yard With the first one who was careless there, And the very next instant, in silence, I was thinking of you, frail and fair. The hope that some day you may see This work of men, both strong and true. Prompts me to care for each of them As if T were caring for you. [ write with the din of engines and trains In mj^ ears, well late in the night, That you may know my inspiration \) do always what is right. January 17, 1909. rl^ 21 RESPONSIBILITY. Men long for control and some power, But there is one thing of which thc^y lose sight; That with triumph comes Responsibility; Making thus one a slave to do right. Opportunity knocks at least once At the door of e'en a sluggard's life, And unutilized, it slips by In the crow^ding of human strife. 22 1 l^^"] * J SSSMHI The onl}^ man who lives, is he Who knows not how to shirk; For opportunity ever knocks at the door Of the man who loves to work. The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong But both to the constant elTort, To have right o'ercome the wrong. The race is in the running From (lawn 'til hite at night, The battle is in the fighting AVith tlu^ t(^st of all one's might. 23 For once the trophy is gained, And once the battle is won, Reaction 's due with Responsibility, Thus ending all the fun. The hound finds more pleasure in pursuing Than the hare that is being pursued ; While man, bent on winning a woman's heart, Triumphant gains — but desire renewed. On ambitious men and all who dare Through life with vigor to pull, Nature burdens Responsibility, Thus exacting payment in full. January 16, 1909, 24 LILY-BULBS. God, in His infinite wisdom, Created vegetable and animal life: One the emblem of harmony, And the other that of strife. Yet, the men who dare and the men who do Are the men who live in their time; For the act of an accomplishment, Though human, is ever sublime. J i 1 #-J Mi i. ^m P 1^ s^tf bSS I Ve a thousand men around me, In lieutenants I 'm rated strong, I try to have "all hands" do right. And myself but little wrong. I try to pluck from my garden of men The drones and the weeds of life, In order that some worthy ones To live may have less strife. I Ve seen in this snowless land Even governments come and go. For to w^ork in this Garden of Eden Men must no less than fight, you must know. I have n't much of a flower garden, But I hold it 's nearly right, For amidst a lot of lily-bulbs There 's scarcely a weed in sight. 26 1l J n 1 ^fjBH# a' i-. ■ ■ ^ ~'^- ifl^^fli M How came the lily-bulbs to be there And the weeds to stay aw^aj^? There is but little to recount, And I hesitate not to say. It seemed as if I 'd never a thing That someone from me didn't get But at last I hit upon a scheme To head them off — you bet. Man, donkey, horse, goat and pig, In winter, summer, autumn and spring. Seemed to want everything I possessed, Except lily-bulbs — they were the thing. So I gathered of species and colors, Lily-bulbs from both far and near, And at last, thank God, I have one thing In which I find selfish cheer. 27 To curtail the speed of ill-luck Of he who plants lily-buibs, men say, One should select a lazy man To keep the weeds away. I Ve a prize in the form of a gardener, Though few men know his worth, For he is absolutely next To the laziest man on earth. Thus I 've learned to like the flowers, 'Cause I never get any fruit. In this land of needless greed, In a land where praise is mute. In my life I hold all things certain, Except one single thing — maybe — Will I o'erpower the human weeds. Or, will they o'erpower me? January 30, 1909. 28 OUR JOHNNIE-ON-THE-SPOT. G. BUCHER A sarcastic youth and a bit of a wit Is Bucher, a friend of mine. He got one off on me, all right — But I will bide my time. 1 once got off some ideas in rhyme Of love, mud, work and rain, And attempted to get them into His Swiss and clock-like brain. 29 The fruits of his vacation Was a ponderous volume in red, With more foolish ideas of love in verse Than a sage could hold in his head. Gallant Bucher flashed on me this tome, Like a "Johnnie-on-the-Spot," Thus cleverly indicating his ideas That my rhymes were "tommy-rot." He 's younger in years than I who write, x\nd he smiled at an old man's love, In the foolish belief that he alone Had ever heard of "a turtle-dove." I 'm sorry for my friend Bucher, For I 've got him on the hip; For what he knows today of love Is not even a little bit. I '11 be the one to teach him That a father alone knows love; I '11 teach him that woman 's not in it. That v/ork alone is from above. I '11 teach liim to gloat o'er a broken heart Like a miser over his gold, I '11 teach him the glory of work Long before he is very old. In the years to come, when he fathers a child. Not love will he teach him, but ivork; For I can say of my friend Bucher, He knows not how to shirk. January 20, 1909. 30 AH BAHD MAHN. "Misti wheelee, yoo 'se ah bahd mahn," I hear from dependents each day; "We can't understand you at all," Is what to me the hig men say. I am such unholy water, that The devil of me has no need; For the kind of fluid I spread among men, Protects flowers from hypocrite weed. When it 's mine, my heart 's lost to a woman, The devil rejects my soul each day, God has ever been over-indulgent with me, 'Cause I like to both hustle and pray. There 's nothing I need which I have n't got, Yet I 've nothing I hold as my own — For in the hearts of other men lies The sole place I want to call home. A man's hold on the hereafter Lies solely in the hearts of men ; In proportion to the good he effects In his day — and later — for them. IMy single delight — to drive my way Straight to the hearts of man; As with oath and eoin I stimulate work And tliiis h^^lp them in what I can. My one regret— that there 're many men Who think they 're alive, though dead; Whose name to-morrow will b(^ unknown, p]xeept to the flesh they 've bred. oo For work for man and for woman love, Is Heaven this side of the grave; The hereafter needs neither Heaven nor Hell, FoL' unloved woman and shirking knave. At Father's bidding, I bit at ambition; My! What a task I 've got— Trying to turn too fertile an Eden Into a human garden spot. The rays of the sun I surprised, Writing these lines at dawn; Awakened by baby mocking-bird's chirp, At the break of a tropical morn. Consuelo, February 7, 1900. 34 POP'S "MONTE-COCA" SCARF.. A. W. Frost (Pop.) A pioneer's glory is to have companions, Rough men — who are not afraid; Though with heart and mind as gentle As tiny flower or budding maid. Bush-'cahns had harmlessl^^ called on us The preceding night, tired, forlorn; Trying to telephone to town, and Quietly going away at da\\'n. 35 At the break of day, the "Gefe" bold, Had published to all his fright; But little did anyone expect "Pop" To recount a scare that night. Last night, for a spell, "Pop" called; With cigars and in rocking-chair, He modestly confided to me, His "Monte-Coca" scare. The toil of years, o'ercome 'neath the sun, Puts some strain on any man's nerves; Whether it 's handling bulls and men, Or grading up railroad curves. He 'd cleared the jungle and planted fields, With seed brought from near and far; When, at "Hoyo-Colorado" switch, Lay the first cropped cane in the car. We celebrate on ready excuse, And we 've punished some booze in our time; And with starting to haul, it came "Pop's" turn To treat the boys along the line. "Nessie" — -the boss' shadow — had gone To bodega for a gallon of rum; And who could foretell the dire effects Once that wireless message had run. .-^6 The sun burned hot in the sky, Some trees nearby gave shade, The boss, he *d gone up to the front, When "Pop" for a siesta made. He dreamed that peace he made With fire, mule, man and broncho; That — ' ' Hoy o-Colorado' ' — its name Had changed to "Hoyo-Blanco." He dreamed of sacred ones afar — Of those who were near and dear; And, though he 'd only water to drink, His thoughts turned to things quite queer. Around him he 'd many monsters. Straight and those of curved shape, All slender, long and writhing, And each wdth the form of a snake. A black monster wdth cutlass in hand. Headed each wriggling one; "Pop" got the habit, and began to squirm, Believing his time had come. Man's reality seldom reaches The growth of a siesta's dream; Yet "Pop's" dream-fright made good, Tliough seklom by other men seen. There was n't a single monster, That lacked of twenty-odd feet long; ^le 'd planted better than he knew, ' And played "Monte-Coca" strong. 37 Straight forms, as well as curved ones, Contortioned 'neatli strong sun-light; But none of them wriggled harder. Than "Pop" in his little fright. "We 're all in a fighting hurry to get "That dollar, Mr. Frost," cried one; "Pop" wildly grasped at his belt. But he could n't move his gun. At a blast of steam he awoke, Found his canes on the train had gone, And his trusty old cane-cutters were His monsters in human form. The boss had gone his way. And confided, with argument strong, That "Pop" would pay a dollar for canes That had a record for being long. Who writes can the reader assure, Of that rum "Pop" never drank; For "Nessie" lost it, bound for the front, Stumbling over a railroad bank. Consuelo, February 19, 1909. 38 THE ABSENT ONES. ^Alidst the toil and dangers of pioneer life We 're struggling from day to day, In the hopes of making dear ones happy, Both the aged and those at play. They 've thought well of us in our exile, Their prayers for us have been kind, And at New Year's Eve it is good for us To bear absei:it ones in mind. Let us drink to the absent ones, To those who are far away, Our dear ones in foreign climes. Whom we hope to see some day. December SL 190S li)p. u. 39 CEYLA. I know a maid as bright as any, 'Midst eane-tops, flowers and sun; Beautiful land where to many The day 's finished before it 's begun. She 's city trained and country bred, And of me she has no fear; Brave enough to say — "Antiquities "x\re not to love, but to cheer." For months I 've toiled and labored, Not in vain, her to persuade That— greatest falsehood is poorer than Least truth e'er written or said. 40 Persistent, I finally triumphed, For now she 's acquainted at last With the fact of the worth of truth, When it comes her way slow or fast. When awake and not idle, she 's bright. For she 's modest, cheerful and gay, Still, a little contrary, holding that The clearest moon shines in May. Running house, or at work on machine. Finds her busy whenever I call, Her frail work, with delightful disorder. She casts over chairs, floor and all. A visit to girl friend in town, With much "fiesta" — is it for hers, Completing quick fancy and liking, As to gallant his first pair of spurs. Her tresses, they 're long and wild, Dark, and becoming her well, This unblown rose in a cottage On the edge of a flowery dell. Her eye — it gleams mellow fire. When 'er she shoots her glance On Dutchman, native or Swiss— Each of whom she can put in a trance. With mounted poet and troubadour. Some night she '11 fade away, Instead of electing to cling to one Whose forte 's the rent to pay. March 7, 1909. 41 ^^^^^^^^^Kj^^^^^^^tm^ m " 1 m -i; " ■ SUNSET. Beautiful ball of gold, With your dazzling wave of light, Even you must slowly decline At the approach of kindly night. Tropical green is your pillow. With canopy of steel-blue grey, As you slowly sink in a western sky At the close of a glorious day. You rose to give dawn to the day, And declining give birth to tlie night; Sadness and gladness you 've given to man, In your burning o'erhead flight. Small wrong is done 'neath your light. Great good you do in a day, And the limit of your influence Is not for man to say. Born at the birth of Time, You 've been God to ignorant men, Witnessed their birth and given them mii'th. And will cruelly note their end. '. ? -^ %;..^ ^. 0' ■- "°- /V^<>-^ ^°'>-^-> /■'^-'^- •*-o ^^'% \^-° ./"-^. '°^%ff^' ^^'\ '''^.' ./-v. ''.---^ .w^, %.^^ *^'- ^Z' " ry