THE PACIFIST

_And Other Poems_




HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON




[Illustration: Printer's Logo]




BOSTON

THE GORHAM PRESS

MCMXVIII




Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton

All Rights Reserved




MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.




TO

THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,

AND

WILLIAM MACFUNN BAIRD




CONTENTS

                                     PAGE

The Pacifist                            9

“Adam’s Apple”                         11

Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar              12

Breaking In                            15

La Reve                                16

Sol                                    17

The Poor Man’s Club                    18

Retrospect                             20

On “Gungha Din”                        21

Why?                                   22

Barney                                 23

Come, Little Girl                      24

I’ll Come, Little Boy                  25

Chenoweth                              26

You Wonder                             28

In “Del’s”                             29

The Mother                             30

Jumbo’s Dream                          31

The Blues                              33

The “I Told You So Club”               34

E Pluribus                             37

The Man About Town                     39

Elk Creek                              40

How the Village Canard Started         41

The Spring Violet                      44

Sandy Flash                            45

The New Suit                           46

The Libertine                          47

The Liberty Cornet Band                48

The Periodic                           50

Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase                 51

The Legend of Deborah’s Rock           52

The Actor-Man                          54

The Gangster                           55

Tom                                    58

La Langue Anglaise                     59

Ne’er More                             60

When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town           61




THE PACIFIST




  THE PACIFIST


  In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt,
    A strain of the strong Saxon thew;
  From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South――
    An American type through and through.
  A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say,
    Who lived in the far remote past,――
  An unpractical man and careless forsooth;
    Inclined as a youth to be fast.
  He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats,
    And once on a time rolled the dice,
  But heart like an ox and muscled like steel;
    A dreamer? Yes, without price.
  He filled no great niche in the town where he lived,
    Was never considered worth while.
  The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky
    And mentioned his name with a smile,
  An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin,
    A smile that was snaky and sly.
  They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club,
    But could damn with the lift of an eye.
  The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land,
    And threatened invasion seemed near.
  The hand of the patriot went to the sword;
    The pacifist muttered in fear;
  He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground
    Down hard by the burden of Thor,
  Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates;
    Conscription did curse and abhor.
  Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife
    Where the roar of the guns rose and fell;
  Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause
    As he fought like a demon of hell.
  They builded a shaft in the town of his birth
    To the rascally skin and the beat
  Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food,
    A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat
  Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war,
    Contributed largely of speech
  And words of advice to the youth thereabouts――
    His pacifist face was a ‘screech’,
  Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept
    Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame;
  No tablet recited the list of his deeds,
    Nor blazoned the worth of his name.
  He died as men do who answer the call
    With boots on and pierced to the heart;
  He died and those lived who, sneering at him,
    Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart;
  Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood,
    Not unwilling a country to sell;
  Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf――
    The opal-eyed vampires of hell!




  “ADAM’S APPLE”


    Said Eve to “hub” Adam:
  “My dear, what’s the matter?
    Your eyes are all bulging;
  Your teeth all a chatter.
    That lump in your throat, dear,
  Speak, Adam!” she muttered.
    “Ad” gasped for his breath,
  And spluttered and spluttered,
    Then breathed more at ease;
  Congestion releasing
    Its hold, he looked normal,
  But frowns his face creasing,
    He paused before speaking:
  “Eve, list while I chatter;
    I’ve most choked to death, see?
  The cause of the matter
    Was eating your apple,
  Esophagus cloying,
    That Forbidden Fruit
  My life most destroying.”

         *     *     *

    Now if we’re believing
  In stuff that’s prenatal,
    We plain see the reason
  Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal
    Big lumps all a bulging,
  Their cervicals craning,――
    ’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault,
  Heredity’s (s) training,
    That lump in their throats just
  Keeps sticking and sticking.
    “Adam’s Apple” Eve called it,
  _But_ Eve did the picking.




  MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR


  There’s a quaint and care-free tavern
  In the heart of business life,
  In the Quaker City’s centre,――
  Where relaxation’s rife.
  ’Tis a melting pot and leveler
  For the man who has a ‘bump’,
  Or the one with trouble burdened
  Like a dromedary’s hump.
  One finds parry and riposte rare
  Unto the nth degree,
  And Barney Bright, the Irish wight,
  Who orders “darks” for me.
  Here Andrew Jackson Johnson,
  Or MacDee, with _savoir faire_,
  Smooths down the foolish talker
  Who wildly pounds the air.
  Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”――
  MacDee, I mean――the two
  Have often smoothed the ruffled path
  For you and me and you.
  Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel
  Disports in ornate phrase,
  And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’
  Descants Bohemia’s ways
  Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell,
  Of famed blue-grass renown,
  Exploits the perfect luxury
  Of bourbon trickling down.
  And so, ad infinitum,
  From out the clouds of smoke,
  Away from tribulation,
  We laugh and jest and joke.
  Now far as I have wandered,
  At home, abroad, afar,
  I’ve never seen the equal
  Of Bill MacDee’s cigar.
  Its shape just at the lighting
  Is like Zeppelin’s air craft;
  ’Tis round and rolled so nicely
  And pointed fore and aft;
  It faithfully interprets,
  In rising rings of smoke,
  Each psychologic moment,
  Each point and pass and poke.
  Now when it’s smooth and rounded
  Mac’s camping on the trail
  Of something that’s been mooted,
  And works his mental flail.
  This cautious Scottish Quaker’s
  “I see” means “I’ve a hunch”;
  He’s sparring for an opening
  Before he hands a punch,
  But just before he counters
  While listening to us “spar,”
  You will never see the equal
  Of good, old Mac’s cigar.
  It’s whirled round like a cyclone;
  It’s feathered like an owl;
  It’s mussed up like a scrap can
  Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.
  It’s frayed and furred and serrate;
  It’s toothed and torn and spurred;
  It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged,
  And this is what’s occurred;
  Chaotic conversation
  A figure needs, you know,
  A metaphor or something
  Interpreting its flow;
  To visualize its looseness,
  Its academic “punk”
  From Literary Digests;
  Its casuistic “bunk.”
  And so when I’m relaxing,
  And talking wild and far,
  I catch my real reflection
  In Bill MacDee’s cigar.
  I trust that it may “_fumer_,”
  Frayed, frazzled old cheroot,
  For many years of joy for Mac,
  With other things to boot.
  And when I’ve run my gamut
  And am “crossing of the bar,”
  I hope to see a-glowing
  The end of Mac’s cigar.




  BREAKING IN


  I called on the editor,
    A story in my grip.
  I laid it down before him,
    Then bethought me of some quip,
  Some turn of conversation,
    Some “jolly” or some speech,
  A sesame or something
    By which I’d surely reach
  And pink him in the vitals
    Of sympathy and such
  Emotionals and interest,
    And volunteered this much:
  “I feel I have a FUTURE
    In writing, don’t you see,
  In enlightening the public
    With prose and poetry!”
  I waited a few minutes
    Until the tale he’d read,
  He looked at me acutely
    With horoscopic dread.
  “You feel you have a FUTURE
    In writing, then,” he sneered.
  “You’d better get a PAST, sir,”
    Was all he volunteered.

  (Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late
  David Graham Phillips.)




  LA REVE


  The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams,
    Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams,
  Her delicate touch to soothe me the while,
    Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.

         *     *     *

  I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems;
  It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.




  SOL


  “Solomon, young, full of pep”――
  I’m quoting one Burney C.
  “With all the gay blades kept step
  Gay Lothario he.
  Solomon withered and old,
    Filled to the brim with _ennui_,
  Tired of the gay life and bold,
  Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”




  THE POOR MAN’S CLUB


  The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place,
      Neither fashionable, swift nor slow,
  A kindly, rare, psychological spot,
      As those who frequent it well know.
  It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan
      Which is sane and destructive to fear.
  You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself,
      And expand in democracy’s cheer.
  Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse
      For a rare metaphysical “bee.”
  “Missourians” they, with a look which conveys:
      “My friend, you will have to show me.”
  No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust,
      No skeptical look nor a sneer,
  Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance,
      Then “welcome here without fear.”
  The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind;
      I opine it dislikes the “know
  It all” sort, the artistically weird,
      Still more it detests the blow.
  It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks
      And the man who tries to droll.
  It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad
      As it would a plain damned fool.
  In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri
      Or a melting pot, you know,
  For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all,
      Or flotsam who just come and go.
  Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place
      For the man with mental bumps.
  Its light and cheer are just the best boost
      For the one who’s in the dumps.
  Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch,
      It smooths for the man who’s down,
  And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick
      Of a patronizing frown.
  So if some night you are all out of sorts
      And don’t know what to do,
  Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club,
      And let me present to you
  First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope”
      And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,”
  Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,”
      And then you can have your fill
  Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up
      And kindly repartee,
  In the night you spend in parry and tierce
      At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”

  (Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).




  RETROSPECT


  She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,
  And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”
  There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,
  And the savor of health as she passes you by.
  Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,
  And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.
  I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,
  The impress she made on me, the old bore,
  As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,
  With a touch of the roguish, a wonderful glow
  In her exquisite eyes never equaled as yet.
  They’ve haunted me since and I’ll never forget
  That touch of the roguish, that wonderful glow
  In her exquisite eyes on that night long ago.




  ON “GUNGHA DIN”


  Have you ever heard Schaffer declaim of old “Din,”
            “Din,” “Gungha Din,”
          He gives all its savors,
          Its turns and its quavers
          And all the camp flavors
            Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

  I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin
            On “Din,” “Gungha Din,”
          He catches its chiming,
          Its scanning and rhyming,
          And the depth of repining
            In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

  With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in
            To “Din,” “Gungha Din!”
          You hear bullets flying
          And screeching, men sighing
          When Schaffer is plying
            His “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

  If some night you hear a real terrible din
            After “Din,” “Gungha Din!”
          You’ll know they’re applauding
          And cheering and lauding
          Old Schaffer marauding
            Through “Din,” “Gungha Din.”




  WHY?


  What a glance in your sweet, soulful eyes!
    What a tilt to your nose, just above
  The _moue_ to your lips, that is charming.
    Your delicate ears, sweet, I love!
  I’ll love you, my wee girl, forever;
    With the strength of my soul, I will do
  The best I can plan for you, darling,
    And why? Why because, dear, you’re you!




  BARNEY


  Have you ne’er heard of Barney?
  Come, none of your blarney;
  You’ve ne’er heard of Barney, the wight?
  He’s a real Celt; he’s witty;
  He lives in this city,
  And waits at Meran’s every night.

  There once ’rose the question
  Midst mental congestion
  Produced by ‘Vin Ordinaire;’
  “What shape is this world here,
  Round, ovoid, spheroidal,
  Elliptical, nut-shaped or square?”

  After hopeless arraignment,
  With well-done containment,
  One called on old Barney so that
  He might judge the matter――
  To ease up the clatter,
  And put a quick end to the spat.

  “I’ve thought and I’ve wondered,”
  Said Barney, “I’ve pondered,
  To see, sir, just where I was at.
  The world is not round, sir,
  For I’ve always found, sir,
  Whenever I hit it, ’twas flat.”




  COME, LITTLE GIRL


  Oh, come, little girl, and play with me
        For I would be your little boy.
  We will never grow old, little girl, at all;
  We’ll hop, skip and jump and play with a ball:
  We’ll frolic, and laugh and climb the trees tall,
        Just you, little girl, and I.

  Oh, come, little girl and play with me,
        For I would be your little boy.
  We’ll make believe cats and doggies and things
  Are elephants, lions and eagles with wings;
  We’ll dream in the woods, where the waterfall sings,
        Just you, little girl, and I.

  Oh, come, little girl and play with me,
        For I would be your little boy.
  We’ll make believe you, little girl, and I
  Are married some day, and then by and by,
  We’ll buy paper kiddies, and croon “lullaby,”
        Just you, little girl, and I.

  Do come little girl, _please_ play with me,
        For I _must_ be your little boy
  We’ll build a sweet house, little girl, our own,
  Of sassafras wood, and birch, and stone;
  We’ll bake big mud pies, and cookies and pome,
        You, sweet little girl, and I.




  I’LL COME, LITTLE BOY


  I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
          For I would be your little girl.
  We’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll play and we’ll sing;
  We’ll just pretend lake down by the old spring,
  And toss ourselves high in the old willow swing,
          Just you, little boy, and I.

  Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
          For I would be your little girl.
  I’ll bring my sweet kitties and doggies and “Ted”,
  The little brown bear, with the cute little head,
  And we’ll sing them to sleep in a wee trundle bed,
          Just you, little boy, and I.

  Oh! I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
          For I would be your little girl.
  We’ll sit by the brook where the cataract calls;
  And make believe, down by the Silver Thread Falls,
  That we’re on a honeymoon, like Grandma Mauls,
          Just you, little boy, and I.

  Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
          For I _must_ be your little girl.
  I’ll cook in an oven of clay and of loam;
  I’ll kiss you, dear boy, whene’er you come home,
  And then you’ll kiss me, little boy, all my own,
          Just you, little boy, and I.




  CHENOWETH


  I’ve followed athletes’ foibles since Walter Camp began
  To pick foot-ball immortals for “The All-American,”
  But close as I’ve observed them at home, abroad, afar,
  I’m sure that “Texas” Chenoweth is easily the star
  Of all elusive “quarters” who ever tried to squirm
  On foot-ball field deceptive; on footing wet or firm.
  He twists just like a serpent; he’s cunning as a fox;
  He runs as from a creditor; he’s mighty hard to box.
  He’s slippery as an oyster; he’s fleeter than a deer;
  He dodges like a debtor; he jumps now there, now here.
  I’ve seen DeSaulles cavorting from this goal unto that;
  To “Phil” King I’ve paid homage; to Daly doffed my hat.
  “Brown’s” Sprackling was a wonder; Carl Williams was a peach;
  To Poe, finesse in foot-ball was very hard to teach.
  Out West there was a wonder named Walter Eckersall;
  Old Bray, the Easton wonder, was a terror with the ball.
  And so, _ad infinitum_, I might enumerate
  The gamut of the heroes who really scintillate
  In firmament of foot-ball, the king of out-door sport,
  When put to the defensive, to really show one’s forte,
  But in quaffing to those heroes who’re destined e’er to shine,
  Or in toasting to great “quarters” in retrospective wine,
  I’ll just defer to Kipling and attempt to plagiarize
  Those lines of his so potent, and not philosophize
    Here’s to ’Weth, ’Weth, ’Weth, Chenoweth,
    You doughty little “quarter,” get your breath,
    Though they’ve tackled, mauled and flayed you,
    And in Earth’s dank mud have laid you,
    You’ve “got ’em shooting ducks,” “Tex” Chenoweth.

  _Philadelphia Lehigh Club “NEWS,”
  January 1914._




  YOU WONDER


  You wonder, you surmise,
  And with imploring eyes,
  You ask me: “Will you always love me so?”
  Your soul is searching mine,
  While your trembling lips make sign
  To ask me “Will you always love me so?”

  Your soul is all afire,
  With that questioning desire
  To ask me: “Will you always love me so?”
  But your pride bids you keep still,
  And you force me by sheer will
  To tell you: “I will always love you so.”




  IN “DEL’S”


  In the rich warm light,
  We sat one night
  At dear Delmonico’s.
  The menu there,
  With dishes rare,
  Hints gastronomic throes.

  She scanned it down,
  ’Twixt smile and frown,
  And then expressed a wish
  To try some quails
  And Newburg snails――
  The last a dainty dish.

  New York her “town,”
  On which we frown
  In Philadelphia slow,
  And not a word
  I’ve ever heard
  Of eating snails, you know.

  I said as much
  With just a touch
  Of thin-veiled irony,
  And then she said,
  With turn of head,
  While smiling quizzically:

  “In Quaker town,
  Of great renown,
  They tell me they’re so slow,
  They don’t eat snail
  Because they fail
  To catch them. Is it so?”




  THE MOTHER


  Ah! for one look at you,
    Dear baby mine.
  Ah! just to fondle you,
    Croon you a rhyme.
  Ah! for the eyes of you,
    Dear little pearl.
  Ah! just to love you,
    My baby girl.




  JUMBO’S DREAM


  “Listen, my children, and you shall here,”
  Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,”
  But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine,
  Who measured standing say nine feet nine,――
  His dream of the animals at the Zoo.
  Of course you know them just as I do;
  The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear,
  Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care
  To hear of what the animals planned
  In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand
  Scheme together down by the pond;
  Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond――
  A plan to learn the human way
  Of learning and playing, et cetera.
  A college they wanted with flags and cheers
  Like Yale and Harvard――you know, my dears.
  First, old Jumbo called for order there
  By the old swan pond; he held the chair.
  He looked them over with kindly eye
  Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry
  Proposed that they have a college grand――
  Professors and such, and a college band,
  With college colors; but first a yell
  Like the college boys; for he knew full well
  That a college cheer by the animals there
  Would wonderful be beyond compare.
  He straightway appointed of parrots five
  To choose a cheer real loud and live
  To start off their college so grand and fine
  In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.
  The parrot committee composed a cheer;
  It went exactly like this, my dear:
          “Hiss, squeal, roar,
          Roar, roar, more,
          Grunt, yell, chatter;
          Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.”
  They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time;
  The parrots leading the cheering line;
  A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise,
  Fifty times worse than the college boys,
  For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal;
  The lion would roar till one could feel
  The ground all tremble from noise he made
  Like soldiers marching on dress parade;
  The hyena let out such a mighty yell
  That the leaves most off the branches fell;
  The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter,
  And all for college and alma mater.
  “’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad――,
  For the cheer was really “righty” bad.
  He looked discouraged, with face awry,
  While a tear appeared in each small eye;
  He heaved a big sigh, then looking around――
  Awakened all trembling upon the ground.
  So ended his dream of a college fine,
  With parrots leading the cheering line.
  He looked at his keeper as if to say:
  “I’ll never again eat a bale of hay;
  For such overeating most always means
  The most impossible kind of dreams.
  Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack,
  With the kiddies a-hanging on my back;
  With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say,
  On my big broad back the livelong day.”




  THE BLUES


  If you’ve ever a “grouch,” little girl,
  And your brain is all twisted and torn;
  If your nerves are all racked, little girl,
  And the world looks all blue and forlorn;
  Don’t commune with yourself, little girl,
  But just let me share it, please do,
  For I’m part of you, my little girl,
  And I love you, dear heart, yes, I do.




  THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”


  Old Winchester borough, in thriftiness thorough,
  Sits ninety miles back from the sea;
  ’Tis famed for its learning and all things concerning
  Its people of high pedigree.
  Now some are quite clever, some brainy, scarce ever
  Are any thick-witted and “fat”;
  None over-contented, yet mighty well vented;
  Real satisfied, passe and pat.
  The world all around may astound, not confound them;
  “They’re there” in their insular way;
  You may laughingly drool them; but trip them or fool them;
  If you do they’ll admit it? Not they!
  Its dames real exclusive, though slightly abusive,
  Just deft subterranean digs.
  You can’t analyze them (noblesse), nor despise them,
  These quaint and bizarre periwigs.
  Now once I remember, ’twas late in November,
  A handsome young blade struck the town;
  _Distingué_ he was this bold rusher, this crusher;
  He did up us rural swains brown;
  His hair was so curly, complexion so pearly;
  His eyes flashed a real soulful glow;
  He’d ancestors famous and average and heinous,
  Of the last though he spoke “sotto vo.”
  By profession a drummer, this hummer, this stunner;
  The mesdames and misses cast looks
  Of wild admiration and praise, adulation,
  As he glibly and smoothly talked books.
  When he’d quote a good rhyme or distich, they opine;
  Their souls all mesmerized, torn,
  “That say what you will, he cast doubts willy-nilly,
  Is sure to the real manner born.”
  They smiled on and wined him and frequently dined him,
  Which quite put a crimp in us beaux;
  Who all became hectic, enraged, apoplectic,
  As we found ourselves not _comme il faut_.
  We planned and we wondered and craftily pondered
  A plan of reprisal for quits,
  Then we thought if we waited real patient, more sated,
  We’d be than to throw fifty fits.
  No haste and bad temper, not even a whimper;
  We’d watch and we’d wait and we’d hope;
  We’d give him good tether, the stuffer, the bluffer,
  He’d hang himself high with the rope.
  Now slow was the turning, and with envy burning,
  We waited long weeks for his crown,
  When early one morning we heard, without warning
  He’d quickly and darkly left town.
  A check ’twas that threw him, became his undoing
  With Winchester’s _creme de la creme_.
  There was weeping and wailing and very much railing;
  “His likes just had never been seen.”
  Now when tea-pots were boiling; the _mesdames_ were spoiling
  To square themselves――and not to squirm;
  With _demoiselles_ mustered round tea cups they blustered:
  “I told you so,” each one in turn.
  “I sensed he was nothin’,” said portly Miss Tuffin;
  “I mistrusted,” said thin Aunty Gray.
  “I somehow got thinkin’,” said Grandma a-blinkin’;
  “He warn’t all he should be, that jay.”
  “I had intuitions, like needles in cushions,”
  Observed Ann, the good parson’s wife;
  “Same as me,” yapped sour Fanny; “I knowed ye did, Annie;”
  “Me too,” offered Miss Tilly Clife.
  “I told you so,” each one to this one, to that one;
  “I told you so,” chimed one and all.
  They’d never admit he’d deceived them nor peeved them.
  Nor out of them taken a fall.
  We snubbed swains laughed loudly, yet held ourselves proudly;
  We stood real aloof for a while.
  Things must have an ending; so slowly unbending
  We’d spar with a frown or a smile.
  The _entente_ came duly, if slowly, but truly,
  And at last all were quite _en rapport_.
  We dined well and wined well, and then all opined: “Well,
  We’d forgive and forget the old score.”

         *     *     *

  Not Eve’s daughters only, but Adam’s sons lonely
  Are hipped on their judgment of men;
  They think they have got them, can size them or spot them,
  But mostly they don’t. Dinna ken?




  E PLURIBUS


  Some have sung of the days in Vienna,
  And others the strains “Wacht am Rhein;”
  Men have mellowed to old Finnish folk tunes,
  Kept step to Bavarian rhyme.
  Old Madrid set our Spanish friends boasting:
  Hungarian songs we’ve heard, too,
  Yet, spite of the singing and toasting,
  They _live_ under Red, White and Blue.

  They never go back to Vienna
  Nor foregather again on the Rhine;
  Have ne’er seen their kin in bleak Finland
  Nor been o’er Bavarian line.
  They’re not in Madrid when they’re boasting;
  In Hungary things might not ring true.
  All fine are the singing and toasting,
  But they _live_ under Red, White and Blue.

  The Old World says we are commercial,
  Yet “a dollar’s a dollar,” they say.
  Have done with your “green eyes,” my brothers,
  For world o’er achievement holds sway.
  Come, cease your irrational boasting,
  And stand by the land sought by you;
  Then when you are singing and toasting,
  Sing, sing for the Red, White and Blue,

  From the Somme comes democracy’s pleading;
  The Thames takes up the refrain.
  The Scotch and the Irish are struggling;
  Brave Canada’s not called in vain.
  The Flemish not yielding or boasting;
  Proud Portugal fights her way through.
  And Italy’s brave sons we’re toasting,
  We’re coming, the Red, White and Blue.

  We’ll ne’er crook to yoke of a master;
  To superman never pay toll;
  We’ll never bow down like a vassal;
  No, better the hemlock, the bowl!
  The cause of humanity’s calling.
  Take heart, we have heard it; we’re true;
  For that cause brave men are now falling,
  The men of the Red, White, and Blue.




  THE MAN ABOUT TOWN


  Oh, the “Man About Town;” the “Man About Town;”
  He sometimes is “up,” and he’s usually “down.”
  He’s always well-dressed, and he’s real debonair
  And lives by his wits with a true _savoir faire_.
  He quotes from R. Kipling, R. Service and “sich;”
  Looks down on the poor, “plays up” to the rich.
  The wise cannot answer his fool questionings;
  His mental suggestions are terrible things.
  He “blows hot and cold” with his two-edged breath,
  And plays for your confidence “even till death.”
  He looks in your eyes in a terrible way,
  To find what you’ve “doped,” not because he’s O. K.
  He’s glib on eugenics, and smattered in all
  The games of cheap “con” on this old earthly ball.
  Some day you may meet him, a real mental clown.
  That cosmic creation, “The Man About Town.”




  ELK CREEK


  Purling and winding midst balsam and pine;
  Hiding ’neath willow and spruce.
  Sinuous, singing a sweet crooning rhyme;
  Pleading to malcontents “truce.”
  Lilting the line of a sad roundelay,
  Presaging optimist’s prayer.
  Sun-lit, twisting its silvery way,
  Moon-kissed, ethereal, rare.




  HOW THE VILLAGE CANARD STARTED


  Tom walked into a bar-room to have a quiet beer,
  Odds Bodkins! Jerry saw him, white-necktied Jerry Lear.

  Now Jerry was an elder, a presbyter, you see,
  Who prated loud ’gainst drinking, but “sneaked one” frequently.

  Tom Benton was no tippler, but took one when he would,
  No sweeter, kinder fellow e’er lived, nor half so good.

  His quiet deeds of kindness, a help now here, now there,
  A “candle under bushel” who always seemed to care

  To help the weak and erring in unobtrusive way;
  To make the lowly happy, and aching hearts make gay

  By quip or jest or story, by his own soulful smile,
  By merry rippling laughter, which heartened them awhile――

  A law unto himself, then, this lovable old soul,
  Who treated men as humans, but couldn’t “Jordan Roll,”

  A bent and crooked body, but straight and pure at heart,
  Who loved the young and aged, whom tears could rend apart.

  Now this is how it happened that poor old Tom was damned
  By Puritanic gossips through length and breath of land.

  “Drab” Jerry told the parson, who told his wife, you see;
  His wife informed Ned Nosy of Tom’s catastrophe,

  Ned was a devout deacon, a long, thin-visaged wight,
  Who’d sneak away _sub rosa_ to train around at night,

  But Sunday sat in church pew and bawled a mighty chant,
  Or railed against men’s vices with Puritanic rant.

  Ned buttonholed old Bowser, a wily, canny runt,
  Who’d beat deserving clients by doing bankrupt’s stunt.

  Old Bowser told his sister, the village gossip kind
  Quite “confidential-like” spake to her “who speak my mind.”

  Miss Bowser told the Hearts’ Club of wondrous pedigree,
  Who all exclaimed “how dreadful,” at poor Tom’s plight you see.

  The Club then told their “hubbies,” all men of great renown,
  Of more or less veracity, who quickly told the “town.”

  And so these old bucolics ripped poor Tom fore and aft;
  They sneered and jeered and pitied, and chaffed and leered and
    laughed.

  His quiet little “night-caps” grew to a mighty stream,
  A riotous, raw revel, a Bacchanalian scream,

  Now to the mighty truth, then, of all that canard crew,
  There wouldn’t be a feather left if each one had his due.




  THE SPRING VIOLET


  Nestling in sun-lit valley;
  Dew-kissed and petaled so rare;
  Dainty as Daphne’s divinest;
  Color cerulean, fair.
  Graceful, petite and suggestive;
  Urging the wooer’s behest,
  Tenderly, lovingly covering
  The heart in dear Mother Earth’s breast.




  SANDY FLASH


  A robber, in legend, S. Flash,
  Was chock full of pep, fire, dash,
    For he bluffed Chester County,
    Bamboozled big bounty.
  Some legend. Some brigand, one Flash.

  Now this bold buccaneer, Sandy Flash,
  When chock full of pep, fire, dash,
    Made Abe Buzzard a piker,
    Also Jess James, “Red Mike” or
  The others a la Sandy Flash.

  (After reading Bayard Taylor’s “Story of Kennett.”)




  THE NEW SUIT


  Willie Fiddle D. D. boasted twenty-five years;
    He’d frittered his life quite away.
  He lisped in a manner which moved one to tears,
    And answered to all things, “I say!”
  He sported a monocle really _de trop_,
    And dined at Martin’s every night;
  He talked of the gossip about “so-and-so”,
    But “nevvah, ah nevvah,” talked “fight”.
  Now grandfather D. had a plethoric purse
    Which grandson would “touch” now and then;
  For Willie since leaving his fond, doting nurse
    Had not had real work in his ken.
  Now once on a time, after dinner, at nine,
    Which is really the time for a “touch,”
  Old granddad sat reading of terrible war,
    Whose horrors had troubled him much,
  When Willie broke in, twixt a lisp and a squirm,
    And plead for the price of a suit.
  The old man turned red, white and blue, each in turn,
    And out shot his big heavy boot
  “You want a new suit,” roared the old man, aflame,
    “You want a new suit, you young fright;
  Your country is calling for men; it’s a shame.
    Get out in the trenches and fight!
  Get out in the trenches and fight like a man
    Don’t stand there, you simp, like a mute.
  Take a fall to yourself, and fight if you can;
    Uncle Samuel will furnish a suit!”




  THE LIBERTINE


  He boasted a chivalrous birthright;
    “The ladies” he toasted in wine;
  He fumed at an off-color story,
    And spoke of “those sisters of mine.”
  Protected them all from designing
    Intrigue, conniving and pelf,
  Yet we all agreed in opining
    He’d protect no girl from himself.




  THE LIBERTY CORNET BAND


  I’s hyeahd ol’ Massa Sousa
  A playin’ wif his band;
  Seen Massa Herbert wavin’
  An’ beatin’ wif his hand.
  De Jazz Band of de Navy――
  Say, chile, dat bunch kin play.
  But has you hyeahd ouah Lib’ty
  Cawnet Band blaze away?

  Jess Williams de drum majah,
  Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
  A struttin’ lak some rajah,
  Toot, toot, chile, hyeah dey come.
  Ol’ Goose Greek bridge a crossin’
  Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
  Keep step, coon, follow long now
  Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band.

  Today’s ouah day o’ days, chile;
  Heads up now, march away!
  De sidewalk we’s obstructin’?
  Go, long, boss; hyeah dem play.
  We’s just a clean fu’gotten
  We’s livin! Aint it grand?
  Chest out, eyes front, keep step to
  De Lib’ty Cawnet Band.

  I knows I’s retrospectin’,
  But den I’s growin’ old.
  I sawt o’ luv dem deah days
  When I was pea’t and bold.
  Jess Williams de drum majah,
  De fines’ in de land.
  A struttin’ an’ a leadin’
  Dat Lib’ty Cawnet Band.

  Jess Williams de drum majah,
  Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
  A struttin’ lak some rajah,
  Toot, toot, hark! hyeah dey come.
  Ol’ Goose Creek bridge a crossin’,
  Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
  Hats off, chile, Lawd bless evah
  Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band!




  THE PERIODIC


  A poor periodic,
  In mood episodic,
  Sat shaking with “nerves” one day,
  When a “pony” beside him
  Ran way down inside him,
  And chased old Neuritis away.




  MRS. MURPHY’S PURCHASE


  Mrs. Murphy was on purchasing bent,
  So she hied to “The Great Big Store.”
  She gazed around, then finally went
  Towards a fellow just six-feet-four,
  A floor-walk man with legs that curved
  Till they looked like a mystic O.
  “He’d never be catching a hog,” she averred,
  “Nor shine at a greased pig show!”
  This much to herself――then she said to “that gint”
  In a raucous voice of command:
  “I want some gloves, of a pearl-gray tint,
  To be wearin’ upon me hand.”
  The man bowed low and had turned to go
  Towards the place where the gloves were sold,
  With “walk this way”――when Mrs. M. lo!
  Stopped and looked at that figure bold.
  She gazed at his legs, then fairly yelled,
  As she looked him o’er and o’er,
  “Me walk that way, no, not if I’m held;
  No! not fer yer whole blamed store!”




  THE LEGEND OF DEBORAH’S ROCK


  A rock sits by
    A stream.
  I don’t know why
    They call
  It Deborah’s Rock.
    I guess
  It’s not a “knock”
    At her.
  It’s hard and rough.
    ’Twas once
  Of prehistoric stuff
    And then
  ’Twas soft, _on dit_.
    For me
  I don’t know, see!
    They say
  An Indian red
    Once fell
  _In_ love with Deb-
    O Rah,
  Then _out_, and why?
    Just guess!
  (Here you must cry)
    She jumped
  Right off that rock,
    Kersplash!
  My what a knock
    She had.
  She died (Here blink)
    And left
  Deep print, they think,
    On top
  The rock, from place
    She jumped,
  Of foot. Now space
    Forbids
  I dare deny
    She did,
  But this I try
    To see
  In vain, how she
    Could sink
  Her foot, you see,
    Into
  That rock so rough.
    Now this
  Is quite enough
    To give
  The lie to tale.
    But here,
  Lest this grow stale,
    I say
  I just believe
    The maid
  Weighed tons! Perceive?
    Or else
  Was built dame, bold,
    In pre-
  Historic mould
    When rock
  Was soft and then――
    But there,
  “I dinna ken!”




  THE ACTOR-MAN


  A fun-making, pun-making actor,
  Came out on the stage one night.
  In real histrionics, a factor,
  He came down the boards to the light.
  “I’m starving,” he cried; “I am needing
  Food for my body and soul.”
  He looked towards the ceiling in pleading,
  Then the curtain came down with a “roll.”




  THE GANGSTER


  “Hand me the dream book,” the gangster winked;
      “Bring out the old harpoon――
  I mean the dead list, the men I’ve pinked;
      Bilged to the old time tune.
  Listen, I’ll tell you the system’s sin;
      Show you the way we do――
  God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in――
      Guess I’ll confess, I’m through.
  Open the dead list, begin with ‘A,’
      Andrews, the first one there;
  Beat me. I got him; crossed him, say,
      Tell me you’ll keep it, swear!
  No? Well, to Hell then! I just plain lied;
      Framed it his wife wasn’t true.
  Killed him? I know it; he up and died;
      Took a lead pill or two.
  Turn to the ‘B’s’ now, old Doctor Blight,
      Lord, how he caught us red,
  Square as ye make ’em, but ‘black is white’
      Or ‘white is black’ ’tis said;
  Least that’s our creed; we painted up
      Slip of his boyhood days;
  Sensitive man, Blight, he hit the cup,
      Took to the rum-dum’s ways.
  Look at the ‘C’s’ next, Judge William Clate,
      Straight as a ramrod, ‘Will;’
  Gave us ‘the double.’ Decision straight?
      Sure Mike. He paid the bill.
  We stuffed the ballot late in the fall,
      Presto! out went the Judge!
  Most broke his heart, his friends and all.
      Coolly we fed our grudge.
  You say it’s rotten? Sure, lad, I know,
      Yes, to the very core.
  Built on the weakness of ‘So and So.’
      ‘Framing,’ ‘getting’ and more
  Words that a man hates dyed in sin,
      Lying as I do here;
  ‘Dictographs,’ ‘trumping’ and ‘listening in,’
      ‘Crafty,’ ‘foxy,’ ‘the queer,’
  ‘Blackmailing,’ ‘crossing,’ ’tis only such,
      No other words I’ve known.
  Good things in life I ain’t seen much;
      What I have reaped I’ve sown.
  Laughed at the dreamers, the fighters clean,
      Men with no axe to grind;
  Scoffed at the white ones and have seen
      Others who’ve lost their mind.
  Snuffed out the gentle; smeared with mud
      Men with escutcheons fair;
  Joshed at the learned and cursed blue-blood,
      Sneered at their manners rare;
  Called them the ‘stuffed suits,’ laid my plot
      To safe and sure get mine.
  Men call me ‘self-made.’ A self-made what?
      Dough I’ve got and some fine
  Diamonds a sparklin’, but just know
      I ain’t so great; I’m small.
  Money does talkin,’ they say, but Joe,
      Money won’t do it all.
  Boot-licked the Trust, then twisted, swirled
      Up on the ‘reps’ I’d killed;
  Slimed along playing the underworld;
      Think of the blood I’ve spilled!
  God bless the self mades, who’re manly ones,
      Modest and generous, kind!
  Damn such as me, a self-made bum,
      Crafty, crooked and blind!
  Money’s all right if you’re right, see?
      Bad if you’re bad at heart.
  Right with yourself is the way to be;
      Don’t try to play too smart!
  Here’s where you need help, when you’re all in,
      Beaten down to a clod;
  Showing your hand and squaring up
      Yourself when you’re facing God.”




  TOM

  (_With apologies to Thomas and Quintus._)


  Oh, T. W. Pierce, scanner of Q. H. Flaccus,
  Delver in Socrates’ ways, greetings, best wishes from us.
  Juggler in dactyls and such; beating iambic tattoo;
  Aristotelian in thought; epic in quality too.
  Twin, in love for the old, with one “Scotty” Waddell,
  Give us the “once over,” friend. Think that you can’t? What the hell!
  Spellbinding classical clubs, Phi Beta Kappa’s delight,
  Give us a touch of your art while you are with us to-night,
  Better a touch of yourself, you who are true to Yale Blue.
  Health and a long life, old friend; all that is fine, Tom, for you!




  LA LANGUE ANGLAISE


  In French, she tattled like fury;
  Her Spanish was quite _comme il faut_.
  Italian she rattled like monkey;
  In German, she spoke “high” and “low.”
  Though born in Chicago, the windy,
  And trussed up in finishing school,
  Her English was really a shindy,
  And smashed each grammatical rule.




  NE’ER MORE


  A reader of Poe yclept Lake,
  Quite often of ales did partake.
      Once he took most a score,
      Quoth he ravin’; “Ne’er more,”
  So they soon held a wake for one, Lake.




  WHEN “TY” COBB COMES TO TOWN


  Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat
  With a droop in his big blue eye,
  His collar wilted, tie askew,
  And his red face all awry.
  The beads of perspiration rolled
  And bathed him cheek and jowl;
  He fanned himself with palm leaf fan
  And mopped his face with a towel.

  Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat,
  And into a smile broke he.
  He’d been some working “mon” that day;
  He’d had funerals twelve, you see.
  “Not common-like of common folks,”
  He said, and his laugh beguiled,
  “But Grandmas twelve of office boys.”
  Bill stopped, then broadly smiled.




Transcriber’s Note

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores,
_like this_. Dialect, obsolete and misspelled words were not
changed. Added unprinted hyphen to “so-and-so.”