GUIDE TO CONTENTS

A

At the Finish, 19. At the End, 53. After Us, 67. Ambitions, 77. Approach of Spring, 167. After Storm, 188.

B

Backbone, 28. Beautiful Things, 43. Bard in the Woods, The, 101. Be Joyful, 134. Brown October Ale, 136. Bystander, The, 154. Bleak Days, 180.

C

Clucking Hen, The, 1. Christmas Recipe, 11. Coming Day, The, 21. Clouds, 42. Cotter’s Saturday Night, 50. “Charge It,” 61. Croaker, The, 63. Choosing a Bride, 66. Christmas Musings, 79. Crooks, The, 115.

D

Doing Things Right, 32. Down and Out, 60. Difference, The, 94. Dolorous Way,

xiiThe, 119. Dreamers and Workers, 127. Deliver Us, 137. Doing One’s Best, 138. Doughnuts, 165. Discontent, 173.

F

Fatigue, 4. Fortune Teller, The, 73. Fletcherism, 158. Father Time, 159. Field Perils, 160. Friend Bullsnake, 164.

G

Grandmother, 14. Great Game, The, 17. Generosity, 27. Garden of Dreams, 41. Gold Bricks, 74. Good and Evil, 135. Going to School, 146. Girl Graduate, The, 153. Good Die Young, The, 172. Givers, The, 181. Good Old Days, 182.

H

Home, Sweet Home, 8. Homeless, 47. Happy Home, The, 48. Harvest Hand, The, 70. Hospitality, 88. Hon. Croesus Explains, 89.

I

Iron Men, The, 34. In Old Age, 46. Immortal Santa, 96. In the Spring, 132. Idlers, The, 141. Idle Rich, The, 144.

xiiiIll Wind, The, 166. Into the Sunlight, 179. Industry, 186.

J

Joy Cometh, 161.

L

Looking Forward, 120. Little While, A, 139. Literature, 142. Living Too Long, 162.

M

Milkman, The, 2. Man Wanted, The, 55. Mad World, A, 57. Mañana, 91. Men Behind, The, 98. Mr. Chucklehead, 130. Misrepresentation, 148. Man of Grief, 149. Melancholy Days, 150. Might Be Worse, 151. Moderately Good, 152. Medicine Hat, 156. Moving On, 176.

N

Night is Coming, 31. Nursing Grief, 143. Not Worth While, 147.

O

Old Maids, 10. Old Man, The, 12. Old Album, The, 109. On the Bridge, 129. Old Prayer, The, 178.

xivP

Poor Work, 9. Poorhouse, The, 30. Procrastination, 36. Punctuality, 58. Prodigal Son, The, 87. Polite Man, The, 122. Planting a Tree, 126. Passing the Hat, 145.

R

Rural Mail, The, 7. Right Side Up, 33. Regular Hours, 125. Rain, The, 184.

S

Spring Remedies, 5. Salting Them Down, 22. Success in Life, 24. Shut-In, The, 45. Some of the Poor, 69. Shoveling Coal, 93. Sticking to It, 105. Seeing the World, 121. Spring Sickness, 128. Studying Books, 169. Stranger than Fiction, 171. Silver Threads, 174. Something to Do, 185.

T

Tornado, The, 16. True Happiness, 26. Timbertoes, 37. Thankless Job, 38. Travelers, 44. Two Salesmen, The, 85. “Thanks,” 107. Tramp, The, 117.

xvU

Undertaker, The, 39. Unhappy Home, The, 49. Unconquered, 123.

V

Vagabond, The, 20. Values, 103.

W

Winter Night, 13. What’s the Use? 54. What I’d Do, 71. Way of a Man, The, 82. War and Peace, 112. Wet Weather, 187.

1

THE CLUCKING HEN

THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and round the yard she claws and picks, and toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden fence, and watch that hen of little sense, whose intellect is wrong. She is the most important hen that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the whole blamed universe would spoil, its institutions fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task; she might as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year; one incubator from the store would bring forth better chicks and more than fifty hens could rear. She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down to tacks and lay some eggs, which bring the valued bucks; but, in her vain perverted way, she says, “I’m derned if I will lay,” and hands out foolish clucks. And many men are just the same; they play some idle, trifling game, and think they’re sawing wood; they hate the work that’s in demand, the jobs that count they cannot stand, and all their toil’s no good.

2

THE MILKMAN

THE milkman goes his weary way before the rising of the sun; he earns a hundred bones a day, and often takes in less than one. While lucky people snore and drowse, and bask in dreams of rare delight, he takes a stool and milks his cows, about the middle of the night. If you have milked an old red cow, humped o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll know the milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. Through storm and flood and sun and rain, the milkman goes upon the jump, and all his customers complain, and make allusions to his pump. Because one milkman milks the creek, instead of milking spotted cows, against the whole brave tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet 3patiently they go their way, distributing their healthful juice, and what they do not get in pay, they have to take out in abuse.

4

FATIGUE

FROM day to day we sell our whey, our nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft we sigh, as hours drag by, “This sort of life is rotten! The dreary game is e’er the same, no respite or diversion; oh, how we long to join the throng on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet, along the street, more lucky folks are hiking, while we must stay and sell our hay—it’s little to our liking!” Those going by perhaps will sigh, “This work we do is brutal; all day we hike along the pike, and all our work is futile. It would be sweet to leave the street and own a nice trade palace, and sell rolled oats to human goats, it would, so help me Alice!” All o’er this sphere the briny tear is shed by people weary, who’d like to quit their jobs and flit to other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who wear their yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we swear and sweat and fume and fret, and oft forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely fraught with happiness and glory; if you are sore the man next door can tell as sad a story.

5

SPRING REMEDIES

“THIS is the time,” the doctors say, “when people need our bitters; the sunny, languid, vernal day is hard on human critters. They’re always feeling tired and stale, their blood is thick and sluggish, and so they ought to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish.” And, being told we’re in a plight, we swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys acting right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down tea of sassafras, as ordered by the sawbones, and chewing predigested grass, we exercise our jawbones. We swallow pints of purple pills, and fool with costly drenches, to drive away imagined ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches. And if we’d only take the spade, and dig the fertile gumbo, the ghost of sickness would be laid, and we’d be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect health, that precious boon, we’d have refreshing glimpses, if we would toil each afternoon out where the jimpson jimpses. There’s medicine in azure skies, and sunshine is a wonder; more cures are wrought by exercise than by all bottled thunder. So let’s forsake the closed 6up room, and hoe weeds cockle-burrish, where elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries flourish.

7

THE RURAL MAIL

A FIERCE and bitter storm’s abroad, it is a bleak midwinter day, and slowly o’er the frozen sod the postman’s pony picks its way. The postman and his horse are cold, but fearlessly they face the gale; though storms increase a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their mail. The hours drag on, the lonely road grows rougher with each mile that’s past, the weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the shrieking blast. But man and horse strive on the more; they never learned such word as fail; though tempests beat and torrents pour, the farmer folk must have their mail. At night the pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied postman does the same. Tomorrow brings the same old round, the same exhausting, thankless grind—the journey over frozen ground, the facing of the bitter wind. The postman does a hero’s stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of all the storms he bears the brunt—the farmer folk must have their mail!

8

HOME, SWEET HOME

OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was, in olden days, before the people learned to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances and such things, to skating on a floor; and now the youthful laughter rings within the Home no more. You will recall, old men and dames, the homes of long ago, and you’ll recall the fireside games the children used to know. The neighbors’ kids would come along with your own kids to play, and merry as a bridal song the evening passed away. An evening spent away from home in olden days was rare; the children hadn’t learned to roam for pleasure everywhere. But now your house is but a shell where children sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very well—their home is on the street. Their home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime music flows; their noon’s the middle of the night, their friends are—Lord, who knows? The windows of your home are dark, and silence broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save the mark! ’Tis but a sty or stall!

9

POOR WORK

YOU can’t afford to do poor work, so, therefore, always shun it; for no excuse or quip or quirk will square you when you’ve done it. I hired a man to paint my cow from horntips to the udder, and she’s all blotched and spotted now, and people view and shudder. “Who did the job?” they always ask; and when I say, “Jim Yellow,” they cry, “When we have such a task we’ll hire some other fellow.” And so Jim idly stands and swows bad luck has made him nervous, for when the people paint their cows they do not ask his service. And thus one’s reputation flows, a-skiting, here and yonder; and wheresoe’er the workman goes, his bum renown will wander. ’Twill face him like an evil ghost when he his best is doing, and jolt him where it hurts the most, and still keep on pursuing. A good renown will travel, too, from Gotham to Empory, and make you friends in places new, and bring you cash and glory. So always do your best, old hunks; let nothing be neglected, and you will gather in the plunks, and live and die respected.

10

OLD MAIDS

ALL girls should marry when they can. There’s naught more useful than a man. A husband has some faults, no doubt, and yet he’s good to have about; and she who doesn’t get a mate will wish she had one, soon or late. That girl is off her base, I fear, who plans to have a high career, who sidesteps vows and wedding rings to follow after abstract things. I know so many ancient maids who in professions, arts or trades have tried to cut a manlike swath, and old age finds them in the broth. A loneliness, as of the tomb, enshrouds the spinsters in its gloom; the jim crow honors they have won they’d sell at seven cents a ton. Their sun is sinking in the West, and they, unloved and uncaressed, must envy, as they bleakly roam, the girl with husband, hearth, and home. Get married, then, Jemima dear; don’t fiddle with a cheap career. Select a man who’s true and good, whose head is not composed of wood, a man who’s sound in wind and limb, then round him up and marry him. Oh, rush him to the altar rail, nor heed his protest or his wail. “This is,” you’ll say, when he’s been won, “the best day’s work I’ve ever done.”

11

CHRISTMAS RECIPE

MAKE somebody happy today! Each morning that motto repeat, and life, that was gloomy and gray, at once becomes pleasant and sweet. No odds what direction you go, whatever the pathway you wend, there’s somebody weary of woe, there’s somebody sick for a friend; there’s somebody needing a guide, some pilgrim who’s wandered astray; oh, don’t let your help be denied—make somebody happy today! There’s somebody tired of the strife, the wearisome struggle for bread, borne down by the burden of life, and envying those who are dead; a little encouragement now may drive his dark visions away, and smooth out a seam from his brow—make somebody happy today! There’s somebody sick over there, where sunlight is shut from the room; there’s somebody deep in despair, beholding no light in the gloom; there’s somebody needing your aid, your solace, wherever you stray; then let not your help be delayed—make somebody happy today. Make somebody happy today, some comfort and sympathy give, and Christmas shall ne’er go away, but always and ever shall live.

12

THE OLD MAN

BE kind to your daddy, O gamboling youth; his feet are now sluggish and cold; intent on your pleasures, you don’t see the truth, which is that your dad’s growing old. Ah, once he could whip forty bushels of snakes, but now he is spavined and lame; his joints are all rusty and tortured with aches, and weary and worn is his frame. He toiled and he slaved like a government mule to see that his kids had a chance; he fed them and clothed them and sent them to school, rejoiced when he marked their advance. The landscape is moist with the billows of sweat he cheerfully shed as he toiled, to bring up his children and keep out of debt, and see that the home kettle boiled. He dressed in old duds that his Mary and Jake might bloom like the roses in June, and oft when you swallowed your porterhouse steak, your daddy was chewing a prune. And now that he’s worn by his burden of care, just show you are worth all he did; look out for his comfort, and hand him his chair, and hang up his slicker and lid.

13

WINTER NIGHT

HAIL, Winter and wild weather, when we are all together, about the glowing fire! Let frost be e’er so stinging, it can’t disturb our singing, nor can the Storm King’s ire. The winds may madly mosey, they only make more cozy the home where we abide; the snow may drift in billows, but we have downy pillows, and good warm beds inside. The night indeed has terrors for lonely, lost wayfarers who for assistance call; who pray for lights to guide them—the lights that are denied them—may God protect them all! And to the poor who grovel in wretched hut and hovel, and feel its icy breath, who mark the long hours dragging their footsteps slow and lagging, the night seems kin to Death. For cheery homes be grateful, when Winter, fierce and fateful, comes shrieking in the night; for books and easy rockers, for larders filled and lockers, and all the warmth and light.

14

GRANDMOTHER

OLD granny sits serene and knits and talks of bygone ages, when she was young; and from her tongue there comes the truth of sages. “In vanished years,” she says, “my dears, the girls were nice and modest, and they were shy, and didn’t try to see whose wit was broadest. In cushioned nooks they read their books, and loved the poets’ lilting; with eager paws they helped their mas at cooking and at quilting. The maidens then would shy at men and keep them at a distance, and each new sport who came to court was sure to meet resistance. The girls were flowers that bloomed in bowers remote from worldly clamor, and when I view the modern crew they give me katzenjammer. The girls were sweet and trim and neat, as fair as hothouse lilies, and when I scan the modern clan I surely have the willies. Refinement fades when modern maids come forth in all their glory; their hats are freaks, their costume shrieks, their nerve is hunkydory. They waste the night and in daylight they’re doctoring and drugging; when they don’t go to picture show, they’re busy bunny-hugging.” Then granny takes her pipe 15and breaks some plug tobacco in it, and smokes and smokes till mother chokes and runs out doors a minute.

16

THE TORNADO

WE people infesting this excellent planet emotions of pride in our victories feel; we put up our buildings of brick and of granite, equip them with trusses and bastions of steel. Regarding the fruit of our earnest endeavor, we cheerily boast as we weave through the town: “A building like that one will stand there forever, for fire can’t destroy it nor wind blow it down.” Behold, as we’re boasting there falls a dun shadow; the harvester Death is abroad for his sheaves, and, tumbled and tossed by the roaring tornado, the man and his building are crumpled like leaves. And then there are dead men in windrows to shock us, and scattered and gone are the homes where they died; a pathway of ruin and wreckage to mock us, and show us how futile and vain is our pride. We’re apt to, when planning and building and striving, forget we are mortals and think we are gods; and then when the lord of the tempest is driving, his wheels break us up with the rest of the clods. Like ants we are busy, all proud and defiant, constructing a home on the face of the lawn; and now comes the step of a wandering giant; it crushes our anthill, and then it is gone.

17

THE GREAT GAME

THE pitcher is pitching, the batsman is itching to punish the ball in the old-fashioned way; the umpire is umping, the fielders are humping—we’re playing baseball in our village today! Two thousand mad creatures are perched on the bleachers, the grand stand is full and the fences the same, the old and the youthful, the false and the truthful, the plain and the lovely are watching the game. The groaning taxpayers are watching the players, forgetting a while all their burdens and wrongs, and landlord and tenant are saying the pennant will come to this town where it surely belongs. The lounger and toiler, the spoiled and the spoiler, are whooping together like boys at the fair; and foes of long standing as one are demanding the blood of the umpire, his hide and his hair. The game is progressing, now punk and distressing—our boys are all rattled, the audience groans! But see how they rally—O, scorer, keep tally! We’ll win at the finish, I’ll bet seven bones! The long game is ended, we fans have all wended back, back to our labors, our cares and 18our joys, once more grave and steady—and yet ever ready to stake a few plunks on our own bunch of boys!

19

AT THE FINISH

OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and is it worth our while? We seek it till we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile; we seek a gem among the hay, for wheat among the chaff; and in the end some heartless jay will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will relate, and little else beside: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall ever know of men who struggled passing well for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent schemes and lived to see them fail; they had their dreams, as you have dreams, and all of no avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate, the upshot of their pride: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel on each brow, the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where are those giants now? Their names are written in the books which no one ever reads; and on the scroll—where no one looks—the record of their deeds. The idler by the churchyard gate this legend hath espied: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.”

20

THE VAGABOND

HE’S idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his roof is the heavens, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer to boss him around; his joys do not wither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no sane man can need ’em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweat-spangled moiler, who raises ten kids on a dollar a day?

21

THE COMING DAY

THERE’LL come a day when we must make full payment for all the foolish things we do today; and sackcloth then perchance will be our raiment, and we’ll regret the hours we threw away. We loaf today, and we shall loaf tomorrow, hard by the pump or in the corner store; there’ll come a day when we’ll look back with sorrow on wasted hours, the hours that come no more. We say harsh things to friends who look for kindness, and bring the tears to loving, patient eyes; we scold and quarrel in our fretful blindness, instead of smiles, we call up mournful sighs. Our friends will tread the path that leads us only to rest and silence in the grass-grown grave; there’ll come a day when weary, sad and lonely, we’ll think of them and of the wounds we gave. In marts of trade we’re prone to overreaching, to swell our roll we cheat and deal in lies, forgetful oft of early moral teaching, and all the counsel of the good and wise. It is, alas, an evil road we travel, that leads at last to bitterness and woe; there’ll come a day when gold will seem as gravel, and we shall mourn the sins of long ago.

22

SALTING THEM DOWN

THERE’S trouble in store for the gent who never salts down a red cent, who looks upon cash as the veriest trash, for foolish extravagance meant. Since money comes easy today, he thinks ’twill be always that way, and he burns up the scads with the rollicking lads and warbles a madrigal gay. His dollars are drawn when they’re due; and rather than salt down a few, he throws them, with jests, at the robin red breasts, with riotous hullabaloo. I look down the scurrying years—for I’m the descendant of seers—and the spendthrift descry when his youth is gone by, an object of pity and tears. I see him parading the street, on weary and ring-boney feet, a-begging for dimes, for the sake of old times, to buy him some sauerkraut to eat. I see him abandoned and sick, his pillow a dornick or brick; and the peeler comes by with a vulcanized eye and swats him for luck with a stick. I see him when dying; he groans, but his anguish for nothing atones! And they cart him away in the dawn cold and gray, to the place where they bury cheap bones. Don’t burn up 23your money, my friend; don’t squander or foolishly lend; though you say it is dross and regret not its loss, it’s a comfort and staff in the end.

24

SUCCESS IN LIFE

IT’S easy to be a success, as thousands of winners confess; no man’s so obscure or unlucky or poor that he can’t be a winner, I guess. And success, Mr. Man, doesn’t mean a roll that would stagger a queen, or some gems of your own, or a palace of stone, or a wagon that burns gasoline. A man’s a success, though renown doesn’t place on his forehead a crown, if he pays as he goes, if it’s true that he owes not a red in the dod-gasted town. A man’s a success if his wife finds comfort and pleasure in life; if she’s glad and content that she married a gent reluctant to organize strife. A man’s a success if his kids are joyous as Katy H. Dids; if they’re handsome and neat, with good shoes on their feet, and roses and things on their lids. A man’s a success if he tries to be honest and kindly and wise; if he’s slow to repeat all the lies he may meet, if he swats both the scandals and flies. I know when old Gaffer Pete Gray one morning was taken away, by Death, lantern-jowled, the whole village howled, and mourned him for many a day. Yet he was so 25poor that he had but seldom the half of a scad; he tried to do good in such ways as he could—he was a successful old lad!

26

TRUE HAPPINESS

WHEN torrents are pouring or tempests are roaring how pleasant and cheerful is home! To sit by the winder all drier than tinder and watch the unfortunates roam! With glad eyes to follow the fellows who wallow around in the rain or the sleet, to watch them a-slipping and sliding and tripping, and falling all over the street! There’s nothing so soothing, so apt to be smoothing the furrows of grief from your brow, as sitting and gazing at folks who are raising out there in the mud such a row! To watch a mad neighbor through hurricane labor, while you are all snug by the fire, to see him cavorting and pawing and snorting—what more could a mortal desire? I love storm and blizzard from A clear to Izzard, I’m fond of the sleet and the rain; let winter get busy and whoop till he’s dizzy, and I’ll be the last to complain. For there is a casement just over the basement where I in all comfort may sit, and watch people wading through mud or parading through snow till they fall in a fit.

27

GENEROSITY

OLD Kink’s always willing to preach, and hand out wise counsel and teach; but ask him for aid when you’re hungry and frayed, and he’ll stick to his wad like a leech. He’s handy with proverb and text to comfort the needy and vexed; but when there’s a plan to feed indigent man, old Kink never seems to get next. He’ll help out the widow with psalms, and pray for her fatherless lambs; but he never would try to bring joy to her eye with codfish and sauerkraut and hams. On Sunday he joins in the hymn, and makes the responses with vim; when they pass round the box for the worshipers’ rocks, his gift is exceedingly slim. He thinks he is fooling the Lord and is sure of a princely reward when to heaven he goes at this life’s journey’s close—with which view I am not in accord. For the Lord, he is wise to gold bricks, and the humbug who crosses the Styx will have to be sharp if he captures a harp; St. Peter will say to him, “Nix!” They size up a man nearly right when he comes to the portals of light; and no stingy old fraud ever hornswoggled God or put on a robe snowy white.

28

BACKBONE

FROM Yuba Dam to Yonkers the man of backbone conquers, where spineless critters fail; all obstacles o’ercoming, he goes along a-humming, and gathers fame and kale. No ghosts of failure haunt him, no grisly bogies daunt him or make his spirits low; you’ll find him scratching gravel wherever you may travel, from Butte to Broken Bow. From Winnipeg to Wooster you’ll see this cheerful rooster, this model to all men; undaunted by reverses he wastes no time in curses, but digs right in again. His face is always shining though others be repining; you cannot keep him down; his trail is always smoking while cheaper men are croaking about the old dead town. From Humboldt to Hoboken he leaves his sign and token in buildings high and grand; in factories that flourish, in industries that nourish a tired, anaemic land. He brings the work to toilers and fills with bread and broilers their trusty dinner pails; he keeps the ripsaw ripping, the big triphammer tripping, the workman driving nails. All honor to his noblets! We drink to him in goblets of grapejuice 29rich and red—the man of spine and gizzard who hustles like a blizzard and simply won’t be dead!

30

THE POORHOUSE

THE poorhouse, naked, grim, and bare, stands in a valley low; and most of us are headed there as fast as we can go. The paupers sit behind the gate, a solemn thing to see, and there all patiently they wait, they wait for you and me. We come, we come, O sad-eyed wrecks, we’re coming with a will! We’re all in debt up to our necks, and going deeper still! We’re buying things we can’t afford, and mock the old-time way of salting down a little hoard against the rainy day! No more afoot the poor man roams; in gorgeous car he scoots; we’ve mortgages upon our homes, our furniture, our boots. We’ve banished all the ancient cares, we paint the country red, we live like drunken millionaires, and never look ahead. The paupers, on the poorhouse lawn, are waiting in a group; they know we’ll all be there anon, to share their cabbage soup; they see us in our costly garb, and say: “Their course is brief; we see the harbingers that harb of bankruptcy and grief.” Be patient, paupers, for a span, ye friendless men and dames! We’re coming, blithely as we can, to join you in your games!

31

NIGHT IS COMING

WHILE the blessed daylight lingers, let us work with might and main, with our busy feet and fingers, also with the busy brain; let the setting sun behold us tired, but filled with honest pride; for the night will soon enfold us, when we lay our tools aside. When we’re in the churchyard lonely, where the weeping willows lean, there’s one thing and one thing only that will keep our memory green. If we did the tasks appointed as we lived our speeding years, then our graves will be anointed with a mourning legion’s tears. All our good intentions perish when is closed the coffin lid, and the world will only cherish and remember what we did. Nothing granite, monumental, can preserve your little fame; epitaphs are incidental, and will not embalm your name. Nothing counts when you are sleeping, but the goodly work you’ve done; that will last till gods are weeping round the ruins of the sun. Let no obstacles confound us, let us work till day is o’er; soon the night will gather round us, when we’ll sleep to work no more.

32

DOING THINGS RIGHT

TO do things right, with all your might—that is a goodly motto; I’ve pasted that inside my hat, and if you don’t you’d ought to. To do things right, as leads your light, with faith and hope abiding; to do your best and let the rest to Jericho go sliding! With such an aim you’ll win the game and see your fortune founded; and goodly deed beats any creed that ever man expounded. To do things right, to bravely fight, when fate cuts up unfairly, to pay your way from day to day, and treat your neighbor squarely! That doctrine fills all wants and stills the doubter’s qualms and terrors, and guides him straight at goodly gait through all the field of errors. To do your best, within your breast a cheerful heart undaunted—that is the plan that brings a man all things he ever wanted. At finding snares and nests of mares I am not very handy; but when it comes to finding plums folks say I am a dandy; and my receipt is short and sweet, an easy one to follow; just do things right, with all your might—it beats all others hollow!

33

RIGHT SIDE UP

THOUGH now and then our feet descend to byways of despair, we nearly always in the end land right side up with care. I’ve seen a thousand frenzied guys declare that all was lost, there was no hope beneath the skies, this life was but a frost. And then next year I’d see them scoot around in motor cars, each one a-holding in his snoot the richest of cigars. I’ve seen men at the wailing place declare they were undone; no more the cold world could they face, their course, they said, was run. Again I’d see them prance along, all burbling with delight; whatever in their lives was wrong, became at last all right. And so it’s foolishness, my friend, to weep or tear your hair; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care. Some call it luck, some providence, and some declare it fate; but there’s a kind, o’erruling sense that makes our tangles straight; and there are watchful eyes that mark our movements as we roam; a hand extended in the dark to guide us safely home. In what direction do you wend? You’ll find the helper there; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care.

34

THE IRON MEN

WHEN the north wind roars at your cottage doors and batters the window panes, and the cold’s so fierce that it seems to pierce right into your bones and veins, then it’s sweet to sit by the fire and knit, and think, while the needles clank, of the iron men, of the shining yen, you have in the village bank! When you’ve lost your job and misfortunes rob your face of its wonted grin, when the money goes for your grub and clothes, though there’s nothing coming in; when the fates are rough and they kick and cuff and give you a frequent spank, how sweet to think of the bunch of chink you have in the village bank! When you’re gray and old and your feet are cold, and the night is drawing on; when you’re tired and weak and your joints all creak, and the strength of youth is gone; when you watch and wait at the sunset gate for the boatman grim and lank, oh, it’s nice to know there’s a roll of dough all safe in the village bank! The worst, my friend, that the fates can send, is softened for you and yours if you have the price, have the coin on ice—the best of all earthly cures; oh, a healthy wad is your staff and 35rod when the luck seems tough and rank; your consolers then are the iron men you have in the village bank!

36

PROCRASTINATION

YOU are merely storing sorrow for the future, sages say, if you put off till tomorrow things which should be done today. When there is a job unpleasant that it’s up to me to do, I attack it in the present, give a whoop and push it through; then my mind is free from troubles, and I sit before the fire popping corn or blowing bubbles, or a-whanging at my lyre. If I said: “There is no hurry—that old job will do next week,” there would be a constant worry making my old brain-pan creak. For a man knows no enjoyment resting at the close of day, if he knows that some employment is neglected in that way. There is nothing more consoling at the setting of the sun, when the evening bells are tolling, than the sense of duty done. And that solace cometh never to the man of backbone weak who postpones all sane endeavor till the middle of next week. Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate, as the poet said, when shooing agents from his garden gate. Let us shake ourselves and borrow wisdom from the poet’s lay; leaving nothing for tomorrow, doing all our chores today!

37

TIMBERTOES

OLD GOMER, of a Kansas town, was never known to wear a frown, or for man’s pity beg, although he stumps along his way, and does his work from day to day, upon a wooden leg. And every time he goes out doors he meets some peevish guy who roars about his evil luck; some fretful gent with leg of flesh who, when vicissitudes enmesh, proceeds to run amuck. Strong men with legs of flesh and bone just stand around the streets and groan, while Gomer pegs along and puts up hay the long hours through, and sounds his joyous whoopsydo, and makes his life a song. Old Gomer never sits and broods or seeks the hermit’s solitudes to fill the air with sighs; there’s no despondency in him! He brags about that basswood limb as though it were a prize. Sometimes I’m full of woe and grief, convinced the world brings no relief until a man is dead; and as I wail that things are wrong I see old Gomer hop along and then I soak my head. I’ve noticed that the men who growl, the ones who storm around and howl o’er fate’s unwise decrees, are mostly Fortune’s special pets; and then the man who never frets is one with red elm knees.

38

THE THANKLESS JOB

THERE’S nothing but tears for the man who steers our ship o’er the troubled sea; there’s nothing but grief for the nation’s chief, whoever that chief may be. Whatever he does, he can hear the buzz of critics as thick as flies; and all of his aims are sins and shames, and nothing he does is wise. There’s nothing but kicks for the man who sticks four years to the White House chair; and his stout heart aches and his wishbone breaks and he loses most of his hair. There’s nothing but growls and the knockers’ howls, and the spiteful slings and slams; and the vile cartoons and the dish of prunes and a chorus of tinkers’ dams. Oh, we humble skates in our low estates, who fuss with our garden sass, should view the woes of the men who rose above and beyond the mass, and be glad today that we go our way mid quiet and peaceful scenes; should thankfully take the hoe and rake, and wrestle with spuds and greens!

39

THE UNDERTAKER

WHEN life is done—this life that galls and frets us, this life so full of tears and doubts and dreads—the undertaker comes along and gets us, and tucks us neatly in our little beds. When we are done with toiling, hoarding, giving, when we are done with drawing checks and breath, he comes to show us that the cost of living cuts little ice beside the cost of death. I meet him daily in the street or alley, a cheerful man, he dances and he sings; and we exchange the buoyant jest and sally, and ne’er discourse of grim, unpleasant things. We talk of crops, the campaign and the weather, the I. and R., the trusts—this nation’s curse; no graveyard hints while we converse together, no reference to joyrides in a hearse. And yet I feel—perchance it is a blunder—that as I stand there, rugged, hale and strong, he’d like to ask me: “Comrade, why in thunder and other things, do you hang on so long?” When I complain of how the asthma tightens upon my lungs, and makes me feel a wreck, it seems to me his face with rapture lightens, smiles stretch his lips and wind around his neck. And when I say I’m 40feeling like a heifer turned out to grass, or like a hummingbird, he heaves a sigh as gentle as a zephyr, yet fraught with pain and grief and hope deferred.

41

GARDEN OF DREAMS

IN the garden of dreams let me rest, far, far from the laboring throng, from the moans of the tired and distressed, from the strains of the conqueror’s song. As a native of Bagdad, or Turk, I’d live in Arabian nights, away from the regions of work, from troubles and hollow delights. In the garden of dreams I would stray, and bother my fat head no more, a-wondering how I shall pay for groceries bought at the store. Ah, there in that garden I’d sit, communing in peace with my soul, and never again have a fit when handed the bill for the coal. In the garden of dreams I’d recline and soar on the wings of romance, forgetting this old hat of mine, the patches all over my pants, the clamor of children for shoes, the hausfrau’s demands for a gown, the lodge’s exorbitant dues, the polltax to work in the town. Alas! It is as I supposed—there is no escaping my fate, for the garden of dreams has been closed, a padlock is fixed on the gate. The young, who are buoyant and glad, may enter that garden, it seems; but the old, who are weary and sad, are warned from the garden of dreams!

42

CLOUDS

IF every day was sunny, with ne’er a cloud in view, we’d soon be spending money to buy a cloud or two. It always makes me weary when people say: “Old boy, may all your days be cheery and bright and full of joy!” If all my days were sunny, existence would seem flat; if I were fed on honey I’d soon get sick of that. I like a slice of sorrow to hold me down today, for that will make tomorrow seem fifty times as gay. A little dose of sickness won’t make me whine or yell; ’twill emphasize the slickness of life when I am well. A little siege of trouble won’t put my hopes in pawn, for I’ll be trotting double with joy when it is gone. Down there in tropic regions where sunshine gleams all day, the fat and lazy legions just sleep their lives away; there every idle bumpkin who in the sunshine lies, lives like a yellow pumpkin, and like a squash he dies. I want my share of changes, my share of ups and downs; I want a life that ranges from crosses up to crowns.

43

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

THE beautiful things are the things we do; they are not the things we wear, as we shall find when the journey’s through, and the roll call’s read up there. We’re illustrating the latest styles, with raiment that beats the band; but the beautiful things are the kindly smiles that go with the helping hand. We burden ourselves with gleaming gems, that neighbors may stop and stare; but the beautiful things are the diadems of stars that the righteous wear. There are beautiful things in the poor man’s cot, though empty the hearth and cold, if love and service are in each thought that husband and wife may hold. There are beautiful things in the lowest slum where wandering outcasts grope, when down to its depths they see you come with message of help and hope. The beautiful things that we mortals buy and flash in the crowded street, will all be junk when we come to die, and march to the judgment seat. When everything’s weighed on that fateful day, the lightest thing will be gold. There are beautiful things within reach today, but they are not bought or sold.

44

TRAVELERS

DOWN this little world we travel, headed for the land of Dawn, sawing wood and scratching gravel, here today, tomorrow gone! Down our path of doubts and dangers, we are toddling, mile on mile, transient and inquiring strangers, dumped into this world a while. Let us make the journey pleasant for the little time we stay; all we have is just the Present—all we need is just Today. Let’s encourage one another as we push along the road, saying to a jaded brother: “Here, I’ll help you with your load!” Banish scorn and vain reviling, banish useless tears and woe; let us do the journey smiling, all our hearts with love aglow. Let us never search for sorrow, since the journey is so brief; here today and gone tomorrow, what have we to do with grief? Down this little world we wander, strangers from some unknown spheres, headed for the country yonder where they have no sighs or tears; let us therefore cease complaining, let us be no longer glum; let us all go into training for the joyful life to come!

45

THE SHUT-IN

I KNOW a crippled woman who lives through years of pain with patience superhuman—for ne’er does she complain. An endless torture rages throughout her stricken frame; an hour would seem like ages if I endured the same. Sometimes I call upon her to ask her how she stacks; it is her point of honor to utter no alacks; she hands out no alases, but says she’s feeling gay, and every hour that passes brings some new joy her way. “I’m all serene, old chappie,” she says, “as you can see; my heart is always happy, the Lord’s so good to me!” Thus chortles pain-racked Auntie, and says it with a smile; and when I leave her shanty I kick myself a while. For I am strong and scrappy; I’m sound in wind and limb; and yet I’m seldom happy; I wail a graveyard hymn; whene’er I meet reverses my howls are agonized; I say, with bitter curses, the gods are subsidized. When life seems like December, a thing of gloom and care, I wish I could remember old Auntie in her chair, forget my whinings hateful, and that wan shut-in see, who says that she is grateful, “the Lord’s so good to me!”

46

IN OLD AGE

WHEN I have reached three score and ten I hope I will not be like sundry sad and ancient men that every day I see. I hope I’ll never be so old, so broken down and gray, that I will lift my voice and scold when children round me play. I hope I’ll never be so sere, so close to muffled drums, that I can’t waltz around and cheer whene’er the circus comes. I hope I’ll never wither up or yet so foundered be, that I won’t gambol with a pup when it would play with me. I hope I’ll not, while yet alive, be so much like a corse, that I won’t seize a chance to drive a good high-stepping horse. Though I must hobble on a crutch to help my feeble shins, I’ll always yell to beat the Dutch whene’er the home team wins. Perhaps I’ll live a thousand years—I sometimes fear I will, for something whispers in my ears I am too tough to kill—I may outlast the modern thrones and all the kings thereon, but while I navigate my bones I’ll try, so help me John, to be as young in mind and heart as any springald near, and when for Jordan I depart, go like a gay roan steer.

47

HOMELESS

WHEN the wind blows shrill, with a deadly chill, and we sit by the cheerful blaze, do we ever think of the homeless gink, a-going his weary ways? The daylight’s gone and we sit and yawn, and comfort is all around; do we care a whoop for the dismal troop adrift on the frozen ground? You eat and drink and count your chink as you sit in your easy chair; and you’ve grown hog-fat, and beneath your hat there’s hardly a sign of care. Do you never pause, as you ply your jaws, devouring the oyster stew, to heave a sigh for the waifs who lie outdoors, all the long night through? It was good of Fate that she paid the freight, and planted you here at ease, while the other lads, who are shy of scads, must sit in the park and freeze. But she may repent ere your days are spent, and juggle things all around, and the bo may sleep on your mattress deep, and you on the frozen ground!

48

THE HAPPY HOME

“OH these pancakes are sublime,” brightly cries Josiah Jakes; “mother, in the olden time, thought that she could fashion cakes; she was always getting praise, and deserved it, I maintain; but she, in her palmy days, couldn’t touch you, Sarah Jane. Oh, the king upon his throne for such fodder surely aches; you are in a class alone, when it comes to griddle cakes.” Then upon his shining dome he adjusts his lid and goes, and his wife remains at home, making pies and things like those. She is stewing luscious prunes, in her eye a happy tear, and her heart is singing tunes such as angels like to hear. O’er and o’er she still repeats all the kindly words he said, as she fixes further treats, pumpkin pie and gingerbread. When the evening’s growing gray, following the set of sun, “This has been a perfect day,” murmurs she, her labors done. Perfect nearly all the days of our loved ones well might be, if with words of honest praise we were generous and free.

49

THE UNHAPPY HOME

TIRED father to his home returns, all jaded by the stress and fray, to have the rest for which he yearns throughout the long and toilsome day. His supper’s ready on the board, as good a meal as e’er was sprung, a meal no worker could afford in olden times, when we were young. He looks around with frowning brow, and sighs, “Ah, what a lot of junk! This butter never knew a cow, the coffee is extremely punk. You know I like potatoes boiled, and so, of course, you dish them fried; this poor old beefsteak has been broiled until it’s tough as walrus hide. It beats me, Susan, where you find such doughnuts, which resemble rock; these biscuits you no doubt designed to act as weights for yonder clock. You couldn’t fracture with a club the kind of sponge cake that you dish; alas, for dear old mother’s grub throughout my days I vainly wish.” Then Susan, burdened with her cares, worn out, discouraged, sad and weak, sits down beneath the cellar stairs, and weeps in German, French, and Greek. Alas, the poor, unhappy soul, whose maiden dreams are all a wreck! She ought to take a ten-foot pole and prod her husband in the neck.

50

COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT

NEW VERSION

THE labor of the week is o’er, the stress and toil titanic, and to his humble cottage door returns the tired mechanic. He hangs his weather-beaten tile and coat upon a rafter; the housewife greets him with a smile, the bairns with joyous laughter. The supper is a merry meal, and when they’ve had their vittles, the mother plies her spinning wheel, while father smokes and whittles. But now the kids, a joyous crowd, must cease to romp and caper, for father starts to read aloud the helpful daily paper:

“A cancer on the neck or knees once meant complete disaster; but Dr. Chowder guarantees to cure it with a plaster. He doesn’t use an ax or spade, or blast it out with powder; don’t let your coming be delayed—rely on Dr. Chowder!”

Outdoors there is a rising gale, a fitful rain is falling; they hear the east winds sadly wail like lonely phantoms calling. But all is peace and joy within, and eyes with gladness glisten, and father, with a happy grin, reads on, and bids them listen:

51“If you have pimples on your nose or bunions on your shoulder, if you have ringbones on your toes—ere you’re a minute older call up the druggist on the phone and have him send a basket of Faker’s pills, for they alone will save you from a casket.”

The clock ticks on the cottage wall, and marks the minutes’ speeding; the firelight dances in the hall, on dad, where he sits reading. Oh, quiet, homely scene of bliss, the nation’s pride and glory! And in a million homes like this, dad reads the precious story:

“Oh, countless are the grievous ills, afflicting human critters, but we have always Bunkum’s Pills, and Skookum’s Hogwash Bitters. Have you the symptoms of the gout along your muscles playing? And are your whiskers falling out, and are your teeth decaying? Have you no appetite for greens, and do you balk at fritters? We’ll tell you, reader, what it means—you need some Hogwash Bitters!”

The children nod their drowsy heads, their toys around them lying. “I’ll take them to their little beds,” says mother, softly sighing. “It’s time they were away from here—the evening is advancing; but ere they go, O husband dear, 52read one more tale entrancing.” And father seeks that inside page where “Household Hints” are printed, where, for the good of youth and age, this “Household Hint” is hinted:

“If you have maladies so rank they are too fierce to mention, just call on good old Dr. Crank; you’ll find it his intention to cure you up where others fail, though t’others number twenty; but don’t forget to bring the kale, and see that you have plenty.”

53

AT THE END

WE do our little stunt on earth, and when it’s time to die, “The ice we cut has little worth—we wasted time,” we sigh. When one has snow above his ears, and age has chilled his veins, he looks back on the vanished years, his spirit racked with pains. However well he may have done, it all seems trifling then; alas, if he could only run his little course again! He would not then so greatly prize the sordid silver plunk; for when a man grows old and wise, he knows that coin is junk. One kindly action of the past, if such you can recall, will soothe you greatly at the last when memory is All. If you have helped some pilgrim climb from darkness and despair, that action, in your twilight time, will ease your weight of care. The triumphs of your business day, by stealth or sharpness gained, will seem, when you are tired and gray, to leave your record stained. Ah, comrade, in the dusk of life, when you have ceased your grind, when all your strategy and strife are left for aye behind, when you await the curtain’s fall, the setting of the sun, how you will struggle to recall the good that you have done!

54

WHAT’S THE USE?

MAN toils at his appointed task till hair is gray and teeth are loose, and pauses now and then to ask, in tones despondent, “What’s the use?” We have distempers of the mind when we are tired and sorely tried; we’d like to quit the beastly grind, and let the tail go with the hide. The money goes for shoes and pie, for hats and pork and dairy juice; to get ahead we strive and try, and still are broke, so what’s the use? Then, gazing round us, we behold the down-and-outers in the street; they shiver in the biting cold, they trudge along on weary feet. They have no home, they have no bed, no shelter neath the wintry sky; they’ll have no peace till they are dead, and planted where the paupers lie. No comfort theirs till in the cell that has a clammy earthen lid; yet some of them deserve as well of Fortune as we ever did. And, having seen the hungry throng, if we’re good sports we cease to sigh; we go to work with cheery song, and make the fur and feathers fly.

55

THE MAN WANTED

NEVER was there such a clamor for the man who knows his trade! Whether with a pen or hammer, whether with a brush or spade he’s equipped, the world demands him, calls upon him for his skill, and on pay day gladly hands him rolls of roubles from its till. Little boots it what his trade is, building bridges, shoeing mules—men will come from Cork and Cadiz to engage him and his tools. All the world is busy hunting for the workman who’s supreme, whether he is best at punting or at flavoring ice cream.

Up and down the land are treading men who find this world a frost, toiling on for board and bedding, in an age of hustling lost. “We have never had fair chances, Fortune ever used us sore,” they complain, as age advances, and the poorhouse lies before. “Handy men are we,” they mutter, “masters of a dozen trades, yet we can’t earn bread and butter, much less jams and marmalades. When we ask a situation, stern employers cry again: ‘Chase yourselves! This weary nation crowded is with handy men! Learn one thing and learn it fully, learn in something 56to excel, then you’ll find this old world bully—it will please you passing well!’ Thus reply the stern employers when for work we sadly plead, saying we are farmers, sawyers, tinkers, tailors gone to seed. So we sing our doleful chorus as adown the world we wind, for the poorhouse lies before us, and the free lunch lies behind.”

While this tragedy’s unfolding in each corner of the land, men of skill are still beholding chances rise on every hand; men who learned one thing and learned it up and down and to and fro, got reward because they earned it—men who study, men who Know. If you’re raising sweet potatoes, see that they’re the best on earth; if you’re rearing alligators, see that they’re of special worth; if you’re shoeing dromedaries, shoe the brutes with all your might; if you’re peddling trained canaries, let your birds be out of sight. Whatsoever you are doing, do it well and with a will, and you’ll find the world pursuing, offering to buy your skill.

57

A MAD WORLD

WHILE seated in my warm abode I see John Doe pass up the road, that man of many woes; he wears one rubber and one shoe, the wintry blast is blowing through his whiskers and his clothes. He has no place to sleep or eat, his only refuge is the street, his shelter heaven’s vault; I see him in the storm abroad, and say, “But for the grace of God, there goes your Uncle Walt.” John Doe with gifts was richly blest; he might have distanced all the rest, had Fortune kindly been; but Fortune put the kibosh on the efforts of the luckless John, and never wore a grin. I wonder why an Edgar Poe found life a wilderness of woe, and starved in garrets bare, while bards who cannot sing for prunes eat costly grub from golden spoons, and purple raiment wear. I wonder why a Robert Burns must try all kinds of shifts and turns to gain his daily bread, the while a Southey basked at ease and stuffed himself with jam and cheese, a wreath upon his head. Such things have never been explained; I know not why it is ordained that I find life a snap; and gazing from my door I see John Doe, in speechless misery, a homeless, hungry chap.

58

PUNCTUALITY

THE punctual man is a bird; he always is true to his word; he knows that the skate who is ten minutes late is trifling and vain and absurd. He says, “I’ll be with you at four”; though torrents may ruthlessly pour, you know when the clock strikes the hour he will knock with his punctual fist at your door. And you say, “He is surely a trump! I haven’t much use for the chump who is evermore late, making other men wait—the place for that gent is the dump.” The punctual man is a peach; he sticks to his dates like a leech; it’s a pity, alas, that he hasn’t a class of boneheaded sluggards to teach. He’s welcome wherever he wends; the country is full of his friends; he goes by the watch and he ne’er makes a botch of his time, so he never offends. If he says he’ll get married at nine, you can bet he’ll be standing in line, with his beautiful bride, and the knot will be tied ere the clock is done making the sign. If he says he’ll have cashed in at five, at that hour he will not be alive; you can order his shroud and assemble a crowd, clear out to the boneyard to drive. The 59punctual man is a jo! The biggest success that I know! He is grand and sublime, he is always on time, not late by ten minutes or so.

60

DOWN AND OUT

MISFORTUNE punched you in the neck, and knocked you down and tramped you under; will you survey the gloomy wreck, and stand around and weep, I wonder? Your hold upon success has slipped, and still you ought to bob up grinning; for when a man admits he’s whipped, he throws away his chance of winning. I like to think of John Paul Jones, whose ship was split from truck to fender; the British asked, in blawsted tones, if he was ready to surrender. The Yankee mariner replied, “Our ship is sinking at this writing, but don’t begin to put on side—for we have just begun our fighting!” There is a motto, luckless lad, that you should paste inside your bonnet; when this old world seems stern and sad, with nothing but some Jonahs on it, don’t murmur in a futile way, about misfortune, bleak and biting, but gird your well known loins and say, “Great Scott! I’ve just begun my fighting!” The man who won’t admit he’s licked is bound to win a triumph shining, and all the lemons will be picked by weak-kneed fellows, fond of whining.

61

“CHARGE IT”

“JUST chalk it down,” the poor man said, when he had bought some boneless bread, and many costly things, his wife and brood of bairns to feed—the most of which they didn’t need as much as you need wings. He buys the richest things in town, and always says, “Just chalk it down, I’ll pay you soon, you bet;” and payday evening finds him broke, his hard earned plunks gone up in smoke, and still he is in debt. The man who doesn’t buy for cash lays in all kinds of costly trash, that he could do without; he spends his coin before it’s earned, and roars about it when it’s burned—is that your way, old scout? When comes the day of evil luck the war bag doesn’t hold a buck to keep the wolf away; the “charge it” plan will work no more at any market, shop, or store—no goods unless you pay. The poor man for his money sweats, and he should pay for what he gets, just when he gets the same; then, when he goes his prunes to buy, and sees how fast the nickels fly, he’ll dodge the spendthrift game. If you begin to save your stamps, some day, with teardrops in 62your lamps, this writer you will thank; when man in grief and sickness groans there’s naught like having fifteen bones in some good savings bank.

63

THE CROAKER

THERE is a man—you know him well; in every village doth he dwell—who all the time and every day can dig up something sad to say. The good, the beautiful, the fine, the things that others think divine, remind him that all flesh is grass, that all things must decay and pass. He shakes his head and wags his ears and sheds all kinds of briny tears and cries, “Alack and wella-day! All flesh is grass, and grass is hay!”

He gazes on the blooming bride, who, in her beauty and her pride, is fairer than the fairest flower that ever charmed a summer hour. Wise people watch her with delight, and hope her future may be bright; they whisper blessings and declare that she is radiant and rare, and better feel for having seen so charming and so sweet a queen.

But Croaker notes her brave array and sighs, “Her bloom will pass away! A few short years, and she’ll be bent and wrinkled up, I’ll bet a cent! The hair that looks like gold just now will soon be graying on her brow. She’ll shrivel in this world of sin, and there’ll be whiskers 64on her chin; and she will seem all hide and bone, a withered and obnoxious crone! I’ve seen so many brides before, with orange wreaths and veils galore, and I have seen their glories pass—all flesh is grass, all flesh is grass!”

The people hear his tale of woe and murmur, “What he says is so!” For that’s the way with evil words; they travel faster than the birds.

I go to see the football game, and note the athlete, strong of frame, his giant arms, his mighty chest, and glory in his youthful zest. It fires my ancient soul to see exultant youth, so strong and free.

But someone at my elbow sighs—and there sits Croaker—dern his eyes!

“These youths,” he says, “so brave and strong, will all be crippled up ere long. If they’re not slaughtered in this game, they’ll all be bunged up, just the same. A few short years, and they will groan, with rheumatism in each bone; they’ll all be lame in feet and knees, they’ll have the hoof and mouth disease, the mumps, the glanders and the gout. Go on, ye springalds, laugh and shout and play the game as best ye may, for youth and strength will pass away! 65Like snow wreaths in the thaw they’ll pass—all flesh is grass, all flesh is grass!”

I bust him once upon the nose, I tie his whiskers to his toes, and, with an ardent, eager hoof, I kick his person through the roof. But he has spoiled my happy day; the croaker drives all glee away.

66

CHOOSING A BRIDE

THE man who goes to choose a bride should cautious be, and falcon-eyed, or he will harvest woes; it is a most important chore—more so than going to the store to buy a suit of clothes. If you have dreams of pleasant nights around the fire, and home delights, sidestep the giddy maid whose thoughts are all of hats and gowns, and other female hand-me-downs, of show and dress parade. And always shun the festive skirt who’ll never miss a chance to flirt with men, at any cost; she may seem sweet and charming now, but, as your own and only frau, she’s sure to be a frost. And when you see a woman near, who hankers for a high career, and combs her hair back straight, who says she’s wedded to her art, whose brow is high, whose tongue is tart—oh, Clarence, pull your freight! Select a damsel safe and sane, who has no folly in her brain, who wants to build a home; if you can win that sort of bride, peace shall with you and yours abide, and crown your old bald dome.

67

AFTER US

THE workman, in my new abode, now spreads the luscious plaster; he hums a blithe and cheerful ode, and labors fast and faster. I stand and watch him as he works, I stand and watch and ponder; I mark how skillfully he jerks the plaster here and yonder. “This plaster will be here,” he cries, “unbroken and unshredded, when you sing anthems in the skies—if that’s where you are headed.” How good to feel, as on we strive, in this bright world enchanted, that what we do will be alive when we are dead and planted! For this the poet racks his brain (and not for coin or rubies) until he finds he’s gone insane and has to join the boobies. For this the painter plies his brush and spreads his yellow ochre, to find, when comes life’s twilight hush, that Fame’s an artful joker. For this the singer sprains her throat, and burns the midnight candle, and tries to reach a higher note than Ellen Yaw could handle. For this the actor rants and barks, the poor old welkin stabbin’, and takes the part of Lawyer Marks in Uncle Tommy’s Cabin. Alas, my labors 68will not last! In vain my rhythmic rages! I cannot make my plaster plast so it will stick for ages!

69

SOME OF THE POOR

So many have no roofs or doors, no sheets to cuddle under! You hire some men to do your chores, and then you cease to wonder. Alas, he is so hard to find—he takes so much pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind on what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw some sticks, to keep the fire a-going, and he discusses politics, in language smooth and flowing; the saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin shrinks and totters, as he, with swinging jaws and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters. When I go home, as dusk grows dense, I hear his windy rages, and kick him sadly through the fence, when I have paid his wages. I hire a man to paint the churn and hoe the morning glories, and when at evening I return he’s busy telling stories. “That toiler is no good, I fear,” remarks the hausfrau, Sally; I take him gently by the ear and lead him to the alley. I hire a man the stove to black, and fix the kitchen table, and when at evening I come back, he’s sleeping in the stable. And thus we suffer and endure the trifler’s vain endeavor; we do not wonder that the poor are with us here forever.

70

THE HARVEST HAND

Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I get three bones a day and board! That’s going some, eh, what?” And on he labored, brave and strong; the work was hard, the hours were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals to me—and watched him as he toiled; the sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could see his garments steam, his face and hands were broiled. He chuckled as he toiled away, “They’re paying me three bones a day, with board and washing, too!” That was his dream of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the sun, for that, the long day through! And I, who earn three iron men with sundry scratches of a pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm within me, blew away. For he was getting more than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health, and blessings such as those; and when the day of toil was through, no doubt the stalwart worker knew a weary child’s repose!

71

WHAT I’D DO

If I were Binks the baker, I’d tidy up my store; I would not have an acre of dust upon the floor. I’d be a skilled adjuster and make things please the eyes; I’d take a feather duster and clean the pumpkin pies. I’d keep the doorknob shining, and polish up the glass, and never sit repining, and never say, “Alas!”

If I were Binks the baker, I’d have a cheerful heart, as always should the maker of bread and pie and tart; for looking sad and grewsome will never bring the trade of folks who want to chew some doughnuts and marmalade. When I go blowing money I always seek the store whose boss is gay and sunny, with gladness bubbling o’er; and when I chance to enter a bakery whose chief is roaring like a stentor about his woe and grief, his bellowings confound me, I do not spend a yen; I merely glance around me, and hustle out again.

If I were Binks the baker, and had a grouch on hand, I’d surely try to shake her, and smile to beat the band. For no one wants to harken to tales of woe and strife, to hear of clouds that darken a merchant’s weary life. For customers, 72have troubles, like you, through all their years; and when they spend their rubles they are not buying tears. They’ll like you all the better, you and your cakes and jam, if you are not a fretter, a kicker and a clam.

If I were Bakes, the binker—my wires are crossed, I swow—I’d sell the pie and sinker with calm, unclouded brow. No grumblings wild and woolly would from my larynx slide; I’d swear that things were bully, and seven meters wide. Then folks would all admire me, and seek me in my den, and load me till they’d tire me, with kopecks, taels, and yen.

73

THE FORTUNE TELLER

A gypsy maiden, strangely wise, with dusky hair and midnight eyes, my future life unveiled; she said she’d read the lines of fate for many another trusting skate, and never yet had failed. She was a maid of savage charms; great brazen rings were on her arms, and she had strings of beads; with trinkets she was loaded down; the noisy colors of her gown recalled no widow’s weeds. She told me I would live to be as rich as Andy or John D., my dreams would all come true; I’d have a palace on a hill, and vassals near to do my will, a yacht to sail the blue. And as she told what blessings fine, what great rewards and gifts were mine, in low and dulcet tones, her nimble fingers, ne’er at rest, got closer to my checkered vest, and lifted seven bones. She touched me for my meager roll, that poor misguided, heathen soul, but still her victim smiles; she gave me dreams for half a day and took me with her to Cathay and the enchanted isles. Her glamour caused me to forget a little while, the strife and sweat, the city’s bricks and stones; she took my toilworn soul abroad, and she is welcome to my wad—I still have seven bones.

74

GOLD BRICKS

Young Jack goes forth to call on Rose, attired in gorgeous raiment (and for that gaudy suit of clothes the tailor seeks his payment); his teeth are scoured, his shoes are shined, the barber man’s been active—in sooth, it’s hard to call to mind a fellow more attractive.

And Rose is waiting at the gate, as blithely Jack advances; she has her angel smile on straight, and charming are her glances. She’s spent at least a half a day (to temper’s sore abrasion) to get herself in brave array, in shape for this occasion. All afternoon, with patient care, she tried on heaps of dresses; her gentle mother heard her swear while combing out her tresses. But now, as lovely as the day, with trouble unacquainted, she looks as though she grew that way and never puffed or painted.

And so they both, on dress parade, sit down within the arbor, she well upholstered by her maid, he scented by his barber. They talk of painters, Spanish, Dutch; they talk of Keats and Dante—for whom they do not care as much as does your maiden auntie. Now Jack is down upon his knees! By jings! he is proposing! 75His vows, a-floating on the breeze, his ardor are disclosing! And Rose! Her bliss is now begun—she’s made her little capture. Oh, chee! two hearts that beat as one, and all that sort of rapture!

And there is none to say to Rose, “Don’t rush into a marriage! You’re getting but a suit of clothes, some gall, a princely carriage! This man upon whose breast you lean too often has a jag on; he couldn’t buy the raw benzine to run your chug-chug wagon! Of tawdry thoughts he is the fount; his heart is cold and stony. He’s ornery and no account; his stately front is phony! He owes for all the duds he wears, for all the grub he’s swallowed, and at his heels, on streets and stairs, the bailiffs long have followed!”

And there is none to say to Jack, “Don’t wed that dazzling maiden! You think that down a starry track she slid to you from Aidenn; but she is selfishness boiled down—as mother oft discovers—and in the house she wears a frown; she keeps her smiles for lovers. She never did a useful thing or had a thought uplifting, and ere she gets you on her string, look out where you are drifting!”

76There’s none who dares to tell the truth or point the proper courses, so foolish maid weds foolish youth, and then we have divorces!

77

AMBITIONS

Ah, once, in sooth, in days of youth, I longed to be a pirate; the corsair’s fame for deeds of shame—all boys did once desire it. At night when gleamed the stars I dreamed of sacking Spanish vessels, of clanging swords and dripping boards, and bloody scraps and wrestles. Then “One-Eyed Lief” the pirate chief my hero was and model; in dreams I’d hold his stolen gold till I could scarcely waddle. But father took his shepherd’s crook and lammed me like tarnation, till I forgot that sort of rot for milder aspiration.

And still I dreamed; and now I seemed to be a baseball pitcher, adored by all, both great and small, in wealth grown rich and richer. My dreaming eyes saw crowds arise and bless me from the bleachers, when I struck out some pinch hit lout and beat those Mudville creatures. I seemed to stand, sublime and grand, the idol of all fandom; men thought me swell, and treasured well the words I spoke at random. Ah, boyhood schemes, and empty dreams of glory, fame and riches! My mother came and tanned my frame with sundry birchen switches, and brought 78me back to duty’s track, and made me hoe the onions, dig garden sass and mow the grass until my hands had bunions.

In later days I used to raise my eyes to summits splendid. “I’ll hold,” I’d swear, “the White House chair, before my life is ended.” The years rolled on and dreams are gone, with all their gorgeous sallies, and in my town I’m holding down a job inspecting alleys.

Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from heights to depths abysmal; the dream of hope is golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many dreams, so many schemes, upon the hard-rock shiver! We think we’ll eat some sirloin meat, and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine on duck and wine, with garlands hanging o’er us, but when some dub calls us to grub, stewed prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends, though dreaming ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow, build airy schemes! Without your dreams, this life would be all sorrow.

79

CHRISTMAS MUSINGS

One winter night—how long ago it seems!—I lay me down to bask in pleasant dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the quilting frame, where Santa Claus must see it when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good and wise, that he would come when I had closed my eyes; along the roofs he’d drive his team and sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty way. And much I wondered, as I drowsy grew, how he would pass the elbows in the flue.

The morning came, the Christmas bells rang loud, I heard the singing of a joyous crowd, and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift that made my head whirl round and round. A pair of skates, whose runners shone like glass, whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass! A pair of skates that would the gods suffice, if ever gods go scooting o’er the ice! All through the day I held them in my arms and nursed them close, nor wearied of their charms. I did not envy then the king his crown, the knight his charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the heights of rapture and delight—I had new skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!

80’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then are in their graves, the wise old dames and men. Since that far day when rang the morning chimes, the Christmas bells have rung full forty times; the winter snow is on my heart and hair, and old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more I wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily I drift into a dream. Age has no myths, no legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are mostly griefs.

I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly store, since that bright morning in the time of yore. My home is filled with rare and costly things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the floor.

The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale, but I am old, and life is flat and stale. I’d give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such as I knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went and showed my youthful mates my Christmas gift—a pair of shining skates! For those cheap skates I’d give my motor cars, my works of art, my Cuba-made cigars, my stocks and bonds, my 81hunters and my hounds, my stately mansion and my terraced grounds, if, having them, I once again might know the joy I knew so long, so long ago!

82

THE WAY OF A MAN

BEFORE MARRIAGE

He carried flowers and diamond rings to please that dazzling belle, and caramels and other things that damsels love so well. He’d sit for hours upon a chair and hold her on his knees; he blew his money here and there, as though it grew on trees. “If I had half what you are worth,” he used to say, “my sweet, I’d put a shawlstrap round the earth and lay it at your feet.”

He had no other thought, it seemed, than just to cheer her heart; and everything of which she dreamed, he purchased in the mart.

“When we are spliced,” he used to say, “you’ll have all you desire—a gold mine or a load of hay, a dachshund or a lyre. My one great aim will be to make your life a thing of joy, so haste and to the altar take your little Clarence boy.”

And so she thought she drew a peach when they were wed in June. Alas! how oft for plums we reach, and only get a prune!

83

AFTER MARRIAGE

“And so you want another hat?” he thundered to his frau. “Just tell me what is wrong with that—the one you’re wearing now! No wonder that I have the blues, the way the money goes; last week you blew yourself for shoes, next week you’ll want new clothes!

“I wish you were like other wives and would like them behave; it is the object of their lives to help their husbands save. All day I’m in the business fight and strain my heart and soul, and when I journey home at night, you touch me for my roll. You want a twenty-dollar hat, to hold your topknot down, or else a new Angora cat, a lapdog, or a gown. You lie awake at night and think of things you’d like to buy, and when I draw a little chink, you surely make it fly.

“With such a wife as you, I say, a husband has no chance; you pull his starboard limb by day, by night you rob his pants.

“My sainted mother, when she dwelt in this sad vale of tears, had one old lid of cloth or felt, she wore for thirty years. She helped my father all the time, she pickled every bone, and 84if she had to blow a dime, it made her weep and moan.

“The hat you wear is good as new; ’twill do another year. So don’t stand round, the rag to chew—I’m busy now, my dear.”

85

THE TWO SALESMEN

Two salesmen went to work for Jones, who deals in basswood trunks; each drew per week eleven bones, eleven big round plunks. “It isn’t much,” said Jones, “but then, do well, and you’ll get more; I’d like to have some high-priced men around this blamed old store. You’ll find I’m always glad to pay as much as you are worth, so let your curves from day to day astonish all the earth.”

Then Salesman Number One got down and buckled to his work; and people soon, throughout the town, were talking of that clerk. He was so full of snap and vim, so cheerful and serene, that people liked to deal with him, and hand him good long green. In busy times he’d stay at night to straighten things around, and never show a sign of spite, or raise a doleful sound. He never feared that he would work a half an hour too long, but he those basswood trunks would jerk with cheerful smile and song.

And ever and anon Brer Jones would say: “You’re good as wheat! I raise your stipend seven bones, and soon I will repeat!” And now that Salesman Number One is manager they 86say; each week he draws a bunch of mon big as a load of hay.

But Salesman Number Two was sore because his pay was small; he sighed, “The owner of this store has seven kinds of gall. He ought to pay me eighteen bucks, and more as I advance. He ought to treat me white—but shucks! I see my name is Pance.”

Determined to do just enough to earn his meager pay, he watched the clock, and cut up rough if late he had to stay. He saw that other salesman climb, the man of smiles and songs; but still he fooled away his time, and brooded o’er his wrongs.

He’s still employed at Jones’ store, but not, alas! as clerk; he cleans the windows, sweeps the floor, and does the greasy work. He sees young fellows make their start and prosper and advance, and sadly sighs, with breaking heart, I never had a chance!

And thousands raise that same old wail throughout this busy land; you hear that gurgle, false and stale, wherever failures stand. The men who never had a chance are scarce as chickens’ teeth, and chaps who simply won’t advance must wear the goose-egg wreath.

87

THE PRODIGAL SON

“At last I’m wise, I will arise, and seek my father’s shack;” thus muttered low the ancient bo, and then he hit the track. From dwellings rude he’d oft been shooed, been chased by farmers’ dogs; this poor old scout, all down and out, had herded with the hogs. His heart was wrong; it took him long to recognize the truth, that there’s a glad and smiling dad for each repentant youth. “I will arise, doggone my eyes,” the prodigal observed, “and try to strike the old straight pike from which I idly swerved.” The father saw, while baling straw, the truant, sore and lamed; he whooped with joy; “my swaybacked boy, you’re welcome!” he exclaimed. Midst glee and mirth two dollars’ worth of fireworks then were burned; “we’ll kill a cow,” cried father, “now that Reuben has returned!” His sisters sang, the farmhouse rang with glee till rafters split, his mother sighed with hope and pride, his granny had a fit. And it’s today the same old way, the lamp doth nightly burn, to guide you home, O, boys who roam, if you will but return.

88

HOSPITALITY

I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he makes me carry too big a load. He keeps close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign that I’d like to quit. “You do not eat as a host could wish—pray, try some more of the deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your greens, and take some more of the boneless beans, and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s a chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our cooking has failed to please, if you don’t eat more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash and the graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp, with their large round holes. You are no good with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of our home grown prunes!” I eat and eat, at my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from my creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is o’er, and nightmares come when I sleep and snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails, as though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be wise, be kind to the cherished guest, and let him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make him eat through the bill of fare, when you see he’s full of a dumb despair!

89

HON. CROESUS EXPLAINS

Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little children toil; but why this foolish how-de-do, this uproar and turmoil? You say these children are but slaves, who, through the age-long day, must work in dark and noisome caves to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to public scorn as one who’s steeped in sin; and yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living in.

But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven plunks to build a Home for Human Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks.

In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand men? I’m tired of that old chestnut; please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot answer for the fate of those by Trade unmade; for men who cannot hit the gait must drop from the parade. If scores of people got the worst of deals I had in line, if by the losers I am cursed, that is no fault of mine. And you, who come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use my money doing good, as much as any man.

I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my conduct moans; for a Retreat for Maiden Aunts I just gave twenty bones.

90I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry in tones intense; I’m making widows of their wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy a fire escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so the orphan’s wearing crape upon his Sunday tile. I know just what my trade will stand before it bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand with costly folderols. There is no sentiment in trade, let that be understood; but when my work aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.

Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies of the Grail, who wish to furnish roasted ducks to suffragists in jail.

You say I violate all laws and laugh the courts to scorn, and war on every worthy cause as soon as it is born? You can’t admit my moral health—you wouldn’t if you could; I spend my days in gaining wealth, my nights in doing good.

And while the hostile critic roars, I’m giving every day; I’m sending nice pink pinafores to heathen in Cathay.

91

MAÑANA

THE weeds in the garden are growing, while I’m sitting here in the shade; I know that I ought to be hoeing and doing some things with a spade. I know that I shouldn’t be shirking in pleasant, arboreal nooks; I know that I ought to be working like good little boys in the books. They tell me that idling brings sorrow, and doubtless they tell me the truth; I’ll tackle that garden tomorrow—today I’ve a yarn by Old Sleuth!

The fence, so my mother reminds me, needs fixing the worst kind of way! So it does; but, alas! how it grinds me to wrestle with fence boards today! I ought to do stunts with a hammer, and cut a wide swath with a saw, and raise an industrial clamor out there at the fence by the draw. The punishing fires of Gomorrah on idlers, ma says, will rain down; I’ll fix up that blamed fence tomorrow—today there’s a circus in town!

I ought to be whacking up kindling, says ma, as she fools with the churn; the pile in the woodshed is dwindling, and soon there’ll be nothing to burn. There’s Laura, my sister, as 92busy as any old bee that you know, while all my employments are dizzy, productive of nothing but woe. I’ll show I’m as eager as Laura to make in the sunshine my hay! I’ll split up some kindling tomorrow—I planned to go fishing today!

I’ve made up my mind to quit fooling and do all the chores round the shack. Just wait till you see me a-tooling the cow to the pasture and back! I’ll show that I’m willing and able! I’ll weed out the cucumber vines, I’ll gather the eggs ’neath the stable, and curry the horse till he shines! A leaf from ma’s book I shall borrow and labor away till I fall! I’ll surely get busy tomorrow—today there’s a game of baseball!

93

SHOVELING COAL

SHOVELING coal, shoveling coal, into the furnace’s crater-like hole! Thus goes the coin we so wearily earn, into the furnace to sizzle and burn; thus it’s converted to ashes and smoke, and we keep shoveling, weeping, and broke. Oh, it’s a labor that tortures the soul, shoveling coal, shoveling coal! “The house,” says the wife, “is as cold as a barn,” so I must emigrate, muttering “darn,” down to the furnace, the which I must feed; it is a glutton, a demon of greed! Into its cavern I throw a large load—there goes the money I got for an ode! There goes the check that I got for a pome, boosting the joys of an evening at home! There goes the price of full many a scroll, shoveling coal, shoveling coal! Things that I need I’m not able to buy, I have shut down on the cake and the pie; most of my jewels are lying in soak, gone is the money for ashes and smoke; all I can earn, all the long winter through, goes in the furnace and then up the flue. Still says the frau, “It’s as cold as a floe, up in the Arctic where polar bears grow.” So all my song is of sorrow and dole, shoveling coal, shoveling coal!