MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY JAMES J. MONTAGUE ccc\> MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY JAMES J. MONTAGUE MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY BY JAMES J. MONTAGUE WITH PREFACE BY IRVIN S. COBB NEW XSJr YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO H. L. M. 42C673 PREFACE By IRVIN S. COBB As a general proposition prefaces to books are as unnecessary from the consumer s point of view as shells are to oysters. But it is fashionable for a book to wear a preface and an oyster to wear a shell; the net result being to make it more difficult for the consumer to get to the real meat of the contents book or bivalve, as the case may be. This book of Jim Montague s he signs himself James, but don t believe it; his real name is Jim needs no preface from me or anyone else. The stuff he writes travels on its own merits. Every day he turns out a column mainly verse; every day newspapers all over America print it and every day hundreds of thousands of people read it and find it worth while. " Give us this day our daily Mon tague," they say. Or if they don t say it they think it. And if ever Jim quit answering their prayer a roar of protest reaching from coast to coast would go up. The answer is simple. It isn t so much that what Montague writes always is sane and always is hu morous and always is timely. It s because there radiates from what he writes a kindliness and a wholesomeness, a sweetness what for lack of a [vii] PREFACE better name we call the human touch. That s Mon tague all over he is kindly and he is gentle and he is human. I state without fear of successful con tradiction that he is one of the most regular human beings inhabiting this planet at the time of writing. He is that most rare thing a humorist who also is a humanist. Some men who have the gift of wit insist on taking a bird s-eye view of the world. Peering down from the rarefied atmosphere of the higher criticism upon the swarming atoms miles below, such a one takes his pen in hand and writes, " What fools those mortals be ! " With Montague it is different. He is of the people, by the people, for the people. Which is exactly why he is so popular with the people. He laughs with them; not at them. The present volume is made up mainly of things of his which already have appeared in the daily press. They are here compiled and presented in book form because a great many persons regard them as being worthy of perpetuation in this guise. I am pleased to count myself one of that large anc [ I trust influential group. From so full a collection of worth-while verse as is here presented it is hard to make selections and say that this is better than that, or that that excels some other. Without undertaking to pick winners from a field made up of likely candidates for favor, I neverthe less am constrained to say that my favorites are " Healthy " and " Thoughts on Pie " in the Dough- [viii] PREFACE boy Ditties and " The Sleepytown Express " which comes at the beginning of the volume. I like the first two because, to my way of thinking, they most fitly express the real sentiments of the real American soldier in foreign service, and I like the last named because in it I have found a thing that Gene Field might have done, and a sentiment that every father of a baby has felt. No bachelor could have written " The Sleepytown Express." No man who didn t have babies could have written it. As I said at the beginning, most prefaces are unnecessary. I m sure this one is. All the same I am glad the opportunity to write this preface came my way because it has given me an oppor tunity to speak a sincere word of approbation for the work of a man who in twenty-odd years of active journalism has made fewer enemies and more friends than any other man in journalism known to me. [ix] THE author acknowledges the courtesy of Hearsts Magazine, the New York American and the New York World for permission to reprint some of the verse included in this volume. CONTENTS THE SLEEPYTOWN EXPRESS . . . . 17 THE DREAM . . . ....... 19 To A SONG SPARROW . . . . ? .. . 21 STORIES . . . . , , "* . . . . .23 THE EVENING SUIT . . . . .26 AROUND THE CORNER . . . , . .28 THE OWL . . .30 THE PICTURES ON THE PANES . . . .32 THE FAIRY FLEET . 34 THE SENTRY 36 THE PIXIE S AEROPLANE . . . . . .38 THE PRISONERS 40 THE EXPLORER 42 WHY THE KATYDIDS SING 44 MEMORY STREET 46 THE SNOW FLOWERS 48 THE DREAM MAN 50 PETER PAN 52 CIVILIZATION 54 THE END OF THE DAY 56 FREEDOM 53 THE MINE SWEEPERS .. . 60 MY WEALTHY NEIGHBORS . . . . .62 CASEY ON THE CORNER 64 THE WAIL OF A PUP 66 DISGRACED 53 THE BABY ^70 ALWAYS THE GOAT . ....... . .... . 72 [xi] CONTENTS A CALEDONIAN S FAREWELL TO JOHN BARLEYCORN . 74 A PROBLEM . . . \. . . - . . 76 THE BABY S BOOZE . . | . ., l . .. . . 78 THE SAME OLD STORY . . ... . - , . 80 THE CONUCTOR AND THE LADY . ... . 82 THE BEAUTY AND THE BUTCHER . . . / . . 84 THE BLESSINGS OF BAD TIMES . . . ... 86 THE ROAD TO SUCCESS ... . . . .88 " AN WHEN THEY FALL " . . . ... 90 As TO THE CAVEMAN . . . . . . 92 THE NEW JURISPRUDENCE ... . . .94 FAIR INES . . . . . 96 THE END OF PERFECT BRAY . . . ... 98 THE WAY OF THE WORLD . . . . . . 100 COMING AND GOING . . . . . .102 ESSAYS ON LIFE AND GARENS 104 ADS . .. 106 TIME BRINGS CHANGES . . . ^ . . .108 PROOF . . . v . . . . . . .no TWAS EVER THUS .112 THE PASSING OF AN INSTITUTION 114 THE FLY . 1 . 116 EXTRA! ALL ABOUT THE WAY OF THE WORLD . .118 THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD . . . \ , 120 THE FARMER S IDLE WIFE . . . .124 WHAT S THE USE . I ^7 THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT . . . . . .129 IN BEHALF OF THE MOVIES . ... 131 To A SPECTRE AUNT ..... . 133 To A MOVIE CHILD .... .135 THE OUIJA BOARD . 1 , , * " I37 A BLOOMING SHAME . . . J 39 How DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE? . . . .141 [xii] CONTENTS THE HIGHER Cow CULTURE . . / . . , . 143 IT CAN T BE DONE . . . . . ^ ., . 145 THE LOST VOICE . * " ", . . . . .147 THE MOVIE SUBSTITUTE . ... . . . 149 THE VAMP PASSES . > " *, I 5 I Doughboy Ditties NELL AND OTHERS . ^ ./ . 153 IN LINE .... 1.. , ,. - . x . . 155 THOUGHTS ON PIE . * . . . . 157 HEALTHY . - . . /* . - . . 159 [xiii] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SLEEPYTOWN EXPRESS JUST beyond the rainbow s rim a river ripples down Beneath a bridge, around a bend, and flows through Sleepytown Through Sleepytown, where goblins toil to fashion wondrous toys And make up fascinating games for little girls and boys. And automobiles, just the size for little hands to drive, Await to whirl you all about as soon as you arrive. But no one ever is allowed in Sleepytown, unless He goes to bed in time to take the Sleepytown Express! I know a foolish little boy who always starts to whine When he is asked to trot upstairs before it s half- past nine. And often he will stamp his feet and shake his tousled head, And make a racket, even then, when he is sent to bed. KOBE TRUTH THAN POETRY Of course, when he has said his prayers it always is too late To catch the Sleepytown Express it starts at half past eight. And so, in all his long, long life he s five years old this fall That little boy has never been to Sleepytown at all. But other wiser little boys, and little girls as well, As soon as 8 o clock has struck rush right upstairs, pell-mell, Get off their clothes and say their prayers, just of their own accord, And, when the train comes rolling in, they re there to climb aboard. Then through a long, delightful night they wander up and down And have a most exciting time in queer old Sleepy- town; And not for cake or anything that children could possess Would any of them ever miss the Sleepytown Express ! [18] THE DREAM THE DREAM ALL smudgy was the pillowcase That used to be so white, For little Tommy s little face Was dirty every night. In spite of all his mother said (And she had lots to say), He always tumbled into bed The way he d been all day. But sh! when he was fast asleep A horrid goblin came, And in a voice all hoarse and deep Called Tommy by his name ! " Get up ! " he roared, " and wash your face, You dirty little bratl It s absolutely a disgrace To go to bed like that!" He dug his claws in Tommy s hair, And through the shadows dim He dragged him to the bathroom, where He washed his face for him. And with a brush he scrubbed and scrubbed To clean off all the dirt; [19] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY Then with a towel rubbed and rubbed, And goodness, how it hurt! When Tommy wakened with a squeal, He felt his tousled hair, And, honestly, he seemed to feel The goblin s claws still there I The long, long years cannot erase The memory of that fright, Still, little Tommy s little face Is dirty every night! [20] TO A SONG, SPARROW TO A SONG SPARROW MORNING, Mr. Sparrow, Swinging to and fro, Caroling a song o spring, Through the falling snow. What is it that you re singing? " Skies will soon be blue " ? Wish that we could ever be As full of hope as you. Long before the robin Takes his northward way You are here to pipe the cheer Of flower sprinkled May. Still the winter tempests Blow like all possessed, But nothing chills the hope that thrills Your dauntless little breast- Last to leave in autumn, First to come in spring, In snow or hail, or breeze or gale, You sing and sing and sing! Cynic blue-jays flout you, Crows sneer, dour and glum; [21] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY Still you shout your tidings out Of better days to come! Even when your happy Prophecies go wrong, Beneath the lee of some great tree You lift your voice in song. And though the snowflakes whiten Your sturdy little wing, Your lilting voice proclaims, " Rejoice! One sparrow makes a spring!" [22] STORIES STORIES THERE S a ship upon the ocean, laden down with bars of gold, With a wealth of precious jewels scattered loosely round the hold. It will weather every tempest, for the ship is stanch and fine, And will bring to me a fortune, for the cargo all is mine. But, alas! the splendid vessel I shall never, never see, For it s only in a story, Just a happy little story, That a little fellow told me, as he sat upon my knee. There s a little kindly goblin who can scatter happi ness, Drive away the horrid spirits that bring trouble and distress, And can give one wealth and wisdom, and he says that he ll be sure To relieve my every sorrow if I m ever old or poor. [23] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY But I fear I ll never find him, though I seek him everywhere, For he s only in a story, Just a cheerful little story, That a little fellow told me as I stroked his tousled hair. There s a great and friendly giant, who, when one is wearied out, Always comes to his assistance and will carry him, about. You don t need an automobile when the giant comes along, For he s most accommodating, and as swift as he is strong. But I shall not call the giant when assistance I require, For he s only in a story, Just a foolish little story, That a little fellow told me as we sat beside the fire. Comes a funny little fairy, when the early starlight gleams, With a big and bulging basket full of most delightful dreams; Dreams of woods and dreams of rivers every sort of dreams he s got, And he s always glad to give you quite the nicest of the lot. [24] STORIES But I know within my chamber I shall never hear his tread, For he s only in a story, Just a drowsy little story, That a little fellow told me as I tucked him into bed. [25] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE EVENING SUIT BUT yesterday he wore a bib, And strewed his dinner all around him; He slept beside me in his crib, That is, sometimes he slept, confound him I still have got his cast-off shoe A rumpled wad of shabby leather, The heel worn off, the toe worn through, And seams that hardly hold together. Last night, it was, I read to him That old but unforgotten thriller That movies have no lure to dim, The tale of Jack the Giant Killer. Last week he got his rocking horse, A steed no rider s hand had humbled, And baby nature took its course (He barked his forehead when he tumbled) And now a husky, hulking brute, Fair looking though I can t deny it Has got to have an evening suit, And I, forsooth, have got to buy it. [26] THE EVENING SUIT Could he wear mine ? The Fates forbid, I m wiser I believe and older, But when I stand beside the kid My head is level with his shoulder. An evening suit when yesterday He prattled in his crib a baby I I count the years again, and say In wan bewilderment " Well, maybe." An autocrat is Madame Style Perhaps that ought to satisfy me. But where could I have been the while That all those years were slipping by me? [27] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY AROUND THE CORNER THERE S a dirty little fellow, on a dirty little street, Where the very richest children never have enough to eat; Where the rattling, rag-stuffed windows let the winds of winter in And the summer sunshine blazes on the roofs of rusty tin. But amid the want and squalor of the crowded, sorry place, You will find this little fellow with a jolly laughing face, True that poverty s a burden that is dreary to endure, But this dirty little fellow doesn t know that he is poor. When Jack Frost arrives in winter and, his pencil in his hand, Paints the window panes with pictures that are mar velous and grand, He will shout aloud his pleasure as he looks at fields and streams That are like the really-true ones he has visited in dreams. F281 AROUND THE CORNER And the earliest springtime sunbeam is a miracle, indeed, For it wakens from its slumber a delightful little seed That will come sprouting upward from the earth all cold and dark, And become a tree or flower like the real ones in the park. And at night, when all is darkness, and the trolleys rumble by, He can see the twinkling flowers as they blossom in the sky; And he often tries to count them, but *so thickly are they set In the velvet field of Heaven, he has never done it yet; And he wonders, as he drowses, where the angels all can be, That they do not pluck these blossoms they re so beautiful to see; He would gather them by millions and he d take them home to keep And the little dirty fellow happily goes off to sleep. Just a little dirty fellow, dwelling -in eternal spring With a wealth that all the riches of the world can never bring. [29] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE OWL THE Owl that lives in the locust tree, He hasn t a friend in the world not he. In the shelter of night he hides his face, A cowering figure of black disgrace. And yet the Owl, in a happier time, Before he turned to a life of crime, Could hold his tufted head as high As any robin that fluttered by. Clear was his conscience clear as a bell And this is the story of how he fell. One morning as on his perch he sat He watched a pilfering, criminal cat Climbing a tree to a robin s nest, And well, it s better to guess the rest. And the Owl he said to himself, said he, " If a cat can do it, then why not me? " (His grammar, you notice, was quite absurd. But the Owl was a most uncultured bird.) And that very night I am pained to state, A robin s baby he stole and ate 1 And when in the morning they found him out (And they proved his guilt beyond a doubt), [30] THE OWL The birds came fluttering on his trail And they tweaked his ears and they pulled his tail Till he hid away in a swampy glen, And never came out in the light again. And now at the fall of the evening dew, When you hear him shrieking, "To who ? To who ?" As he sits alone on a locust limb, You ll know what happened to him to him. [31] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE PICTURES ON THE PANES WHEN the autumn leaves are drifting in the breeze that hurries by Where the silent trees are outlined sharp and clear against the sky; When the birds have all departed, save a lonely crow or two, And the brook gleams cold and steely as it winds the meadow through, You can see beside the window, while the rosy twi light wanes, Troops of little furry fairies, painting pictures on the panes. Pictures of enchanted forests filled with weird and spectral light; Every bough an arch of jewels, every blossom frosty white ; Pictures of amazing cities such as only fairies see In the world beyond the rainbow that is closed to you and me; Pictures of astounding creatures, unlike any that we know ; Birds with sparkling, frosted feathers, beasts built all of spotless snow. [32] THE PICTURES ON THE PANES Wrapped in snug and cold proof mantles, to and fro the fairies pass, Wielding tiny skillful brushes on the smooth and shining glass. All night long their filmy forests and slim towered cities rise, Till the morning star is hanging like a lantern in the skies. Then they pack their paints and vanish, and we ll seek for them in vain Till the sunshine of tomorrow fades their picture from the pane. Oft we wonder as we waken from some fascinating dream Of a jeweled cobweb forest and a slender silver stream That we re sure that we remember where in this dull world of ours We have ever chanced to wander through such bright and filmy bowers, Never even half-suspecting that we saw them long ago On the panes the fairies painted in the winter twi light s glow. [33] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE FAIRY FLEET IT won t be long till old Jack Frost comes sailing from the skies, A palette underneath his arms, all smeared with glowing dyes, And seats himself beside the stream to tint with brilliant hues In many a gaudy camouflage the fairy- folks canoes; And when the bending boughs let through the autumn sunlight s gleam, The fairy-folk will launch their craft and hurry down the stream. You ve seen them passing oftentimes, when idling by the shore, You thought the zephyrs picked them up along the forest floor And tumbled them upon the waves for then you never knew, That every little painted leaf bore up a fairy crew, Or that the fleet the little stream swept happily away Was peopled with a viewless host upon a holi day! [34] THE FAIRY FLEET Stanch boats are these that skim along and dance and dip and veer And catch in eddies by the shore, or pause in mid- career To set a little scarlet sail to tack across the tide, While fishes watch them overhead and swiftly dart aside ; And if too close above the dam a derelict should float The fairy-folk leap overboard and get another boat. And so, when brown October comes and on the trees o erhead You see the leaves turn suddenly to gold and glow ing red Just watch the stream that runs along almost be neath your feet, And presently you ll see it bears a many colored fleet, And though you may not see a soul in any bright canoe You ll never, never doubt again that fairy tales are true! [353 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SENTRY I SEE a shadowy form arise As I ascend the stair, A voice I faintly recognize, Calls gruffly, " Who goes there?" But when I give the countersign (Which, luckily, I know), The guard who holds the outer line Resumes his sentry go. His wooden gun at " shoulder arms," He watches on the stair, His ear alert for all alarms, From land or sea or air; And woe betide the German spy, However shrewd and keen, However serpentinely sly, Who thinks to pass unseen. Then guard mount, and the watch is done ; A little sleepy head Is laid beside the wooden gun Upon a trundle bed; [36] THE SENTRY And as the twilight softly streaks With red and gold the west, With mother s kisses on his cheeks The sentry takes his rest. God grant that he may never know The evil face of war, Or do a lonely sentry go Upon a far-off shore; But if he s called to do his part We know that he will bear As valiant and as brave a heart As when he watched the stair. [371 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE PIXIES AEROPLANE SLOPING from the Milky Way a pathway turns aside, Goes winding round the kennels where the Puppy Stars abide, Sweeps circling past Orion s Belt, then turns and twists again, And if you ll follow it you ll find the Pixies Aero plane. It s built of filmy spider webs, with gossamer for wings, And travels smooth and easily on shining starbeam springs, And every night across the sky you ll see it dance and flit Till, when it spirals home again, the stars have all been lit. t It hurries forth from east to west, when first the day grows dim, To light the tiny stars along the pale horizon s rim; And then it circles farther up, and from one s trundle bed, If he looks sharp, he soon will see the Evening Star glow red. [38] THE PIXIES AEROPLANE Then presently the Dipper gleams, clear outlined in the sky, While onward toward the Milky Way the plane goes flashing by, Until six thousand million stars are lighted, one by one, When homeward sails the aeroplane the Pixies work is done. Six thousand million stars that shed their shining silver beams To light you on the way you take in quest of golden dreams Six thousand million stars to gleam in Heaven s vel vet dome When dreams dissolve as dreams will do and you come creeping home, And just before the sun gets up, and yawns, and looks about, Forth sail the Pixies in their plane to put the stars all out. And when the Dawn comes rushing up, however hard you try, You cannot find a single star in all the morning sky. [39] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE PRISONERS THE frogs are piping in the pond, the robins in the trees Spend all the pleasant afternoon in idleness and ease, The woodchuck ventures from his lair and dozes in the sun Without a guilty feeling that his school work isn t done, Across the hills in shining squads the happy black birds wing, No dingy school-room walls have they to shut them from the Spring. But though the wind comes warm and soft to whis per at the door And fresh new violets lift their heads above the forest flour, And little hearts are all aglow, and longing to be free And search for early blossoms with the newly wak ened bee, The prison hours drag along till four o clock and then A little play a little sleep then back to school again. [40] THE PRISONERS And when vacation time is here, with golden idle hours, No more beside the river spring the first and fairest flowers, The birds have left their emptied nests, the grass with dust is gray, And gone is all the wondertime of April and of May. And in that time how sad it was to hear the school bell ring And know it sounded the command that summoned one from Spring. And sadder still it is to think that in the years to be When Spring shall call as Spring has called each year to you and me The school will be in session still a school of sterner hours To prison longing hearts away from birds and bees and flowers, For there is but one changeless rule for children and for men A little play a little sleep then back to school again ! [41] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE EXPLORER THE gale has borne him round the Horn, The ice has locked him off Point Barrow; All undismayed his course he s laid Past Hatteras, straight as flies the arrow. The mild monsoon, the wild typhoon His journeyings have helped or hindered, The hurricane has howled in vain; He s only smiled and held to wind ard. The Northern Lights he s seen o nights, Where Behring s waters toss and tumble, And coasting far off Zanzibar He s heard the tropic thunders rumble. Black man and brown he s hunted down When they ve denied him food and shelter; The buccaneer, when he drew near, Retreated seaward, helter-skelter. Alone he sails the ocean trails Content to be a grim, rough rover, Content to brave the wildest wave That rolls the rocking ocean over, [42] THE EXPLORER Tis thus he dreams while sunlight streams Down through the swaying dooryard willow But every night when fades the light He s safely anchored off Port Pillow I [43] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY WHY THE KATYDIDS SING I NEVER knew why katydids keep singing all night long: I guessed about it quite a bit, but every guess was wrong, Until one day a little boy, who s wiser far than I, Perched on my knee beside the fire and kindly told me why. And then it seemed quite strange to me that I could not divine That fairy-folk, like you and me, love music when they dine! The fairies can t come out by day, for if they do, you see, They just dissolve like sugar lumps that one puts in his tea, And though they tried to teach the birds to sing for them at night, The birds had got to build their nests, a task that needed light, But katydids, although the dark is black as any thing, Can see like owls and bats, and so they don t care when they sing 1 [44] WHY THE KATYDIDS SING The fairies taught them songs and glees and choruses and chants, And how to sing in perfect time, as bands play at a dance, And, as they eat from fall of dusk until the peep of dawn, The katydids, though wearied out, keep singing on and on, Until the sun s first pearly rays are flung from east to west, And then, till twilight falls again, they go and take their rest. And so, some starlit August night, when down the road you pass You hear a host of choristers among the meadow grass And note that every one of them is singing quite in time, As steady as the old hall clock, as rhythmic as a rhyme > You will not need a nature book to learn the reason why, Because, now you have read this tale, you ll know as well as I ! [45] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY MEMORY SWEET ALONG the street of Memory The little footsteps come and go That wandered far away from me So long ago. The ringing voices I can hear; I feel again the happy thrill, Although the world, for many a year Has seemed so still. Beside the street of Memory Where swings the old and broken gate, Beneath the arching maple tree, I stand and wait. The street resounds with joyful noise, There comes a fluttering rush and then, The laughing girls, the shouting boys Are home again. Along the street of Memory I see the sunlight s golden glow And happier days come back to me From long ago. [46] MEMORY SWEET The days of rapturous delight, Of fairy grots, and elfin isles, When life was beautiful and bright With children s smiles. I wait there, as the sun sinks low Beside the street of Memory, Where little feet tripped to and fro, And all too soon away from me. And when the twilight gleams its last, I take my way, with silent tread, Along the roadway of the past, Where they have fled. [471 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SNOW FLOWERS I DO not wonder any more where all the fairies go When down the fields and through the trees the winds of winter blow, No longer I m uneasy lest the little fragile things Are wandering in the open, where the frost can nip their wings. A curly-haired philosopher, as wise as he is small, And knows the ways of fairy-folks, has just explained it all. Before the birds themselves can tell that winter s on the way, And long before the autumn skies grow bleak and chill and gray, The fairies hear a warning in the winds that sing at night And pack their wee belongings up and take their hurried flight; And in an hour, or maybe two, they re landed, every one, Upon the clouds that float along up yonder near the sun. [48] THE SNOW FLOWERS And through the months of winter time, all warm and bright up there, They weave the raindrops into flowers and heap them everywhere Upon the foamy rolls of mist in piles so very great That soon the clouds can bear no more, and break beneath the weight. And when the blossoms shower down upon the earth below We watch them falling you and I and cry " Just see it snow! " I ve never .steered an aeroplane across the winter sky To see the fairies at their work as I went sailing by. But I have watched the flakes that fall through many wintry hours, And I can solemnly aver that they do look like flowers. And so I m no more troubled lest the north wind s icy breath Shall catch the fairies, unaware, and freeze them all to death. [49] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE DREAM MAN ABOUT the time the midnight mists are sifting down the dew And everyone is snug in bed except a cat or two, When little girls and little boys, all wearied out with play Are waiting, oh! so quietly, until another day Along the street outside there comes a funny shuffling sound, The footsteps of the little man that brings the dreams around. All sorts and kinds of dreams he has he keeps them in a sack, And when he stops outside a door he takes it from his back And picks out dreams of swimmin holes, and dreams of grizzly bears And dreams of toys and Santa Glaus for every child upstairs, He has to hurry through his work there s lots to do and yet He gives to every single child the dream it ought to get. [50] THE DREAM MAN He always knows the little boy who robbed the pantry shelf, When no one was around to see, and simply stuffed himself, And in that little rascal s dream he puts a horrid sprite, Who perches grimly on his chest and pummels him all night; While in the dreams of little girls who hate to go to bed He drops great ugly crocodiles with eyes of flaming red. But when he finds a little child that s done the best it could He fixes up a pleasant dream of fairies in a wood, And animals that talk to one and even sing a song A dream of nothing else to do but play the whole day long, And not a child by any craft, or stratagems or schemes Can ever fool the little man that brings around the dreams ! MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY PETER PAN OH! little, wistful fellow, reaching out a slender hand Beyond the rainbow bridge that leads to Never, Never Land, What magic drink have you distilled from morning meadow dew, To keep old vandal Father Time from laying hand on you ? How often must you mix the charm, and from a buttercup Sip secretly, to hold you safe from ever growing up? Oh ! wonderful philosopher, how was it that you knew That all the shadowy fairy-folk were really, really true? Who told you that in Grown-Up Land the things we call affairs Are only trifling vanities, or hard and sordid cares? Who made you want to stay a boy? Who taught you that sad truth That one goes on a weary road who travels forth from Youth? [52] PETER PAN Oh! little, loving minister of simple childish joys, Worth more than all the lesson books to little girls and boys I The knowledge that is treasured most in wonder- loving hearts No dog-eared primer pictures forth, no pedagogue imparts, And many a child would never learn that fairy tales are true In all their dull and prosy lives, unless they learned from you. Oh! welcome little wizard! How you wave the years away, And take us Grown-Ups back again to golden yes terday ! A web of half-forgotten dreams before our eyes you weave, And we behold your fairy friends; behold them and believe ! Again their whispering in the trees we hear and understand, Again we walk the rose-strewn road through Never, Never Land. [53] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY CIVILIZATION WHAT shall we do to punish them these babes that disobey The mandate of our sacred law that each must pay his way? Unbidden guests unwelcome guests they boldly come to share The bread of hungry families where none has bread to spare. They ask for love, they ask for care, as if these things were free. And we who hold that law is law what shall our judgment be? We ll shut them up in babyhood through summer s withering heat, Or winter s cold, in tenements along a dirty street. And they shall learn what sickness means, and misery and pain; And Want shall sit beside their beds, and grin in cold disdain. And soon the tears shall cease to dim their round and wondering eyes, And none shall come to comfort them or still their puny cries. [54] CIVILIZATION And some shall grow to weazened youth, and toil the long days through For there will be no lack of men to find them work to do. And some, in whose neglected souls the baser pas sions flame, Shall learn the dreadful trades of crime, or walk the ways of shame. And others shall escape our wrath for Death stands always by To offer to the frail and weak the mercy we deny. And he shall bear them whence they came, where skies are always fair And love for all created things is free as Heaven s air. And haply they shall learn to laugh, and play among the flowers Afar from all the suffering of this grim earth of ours. And having once found happiness they ll never come again As questing souls to overcrowd this world of law and men ! [55] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE END OF THE DAY WHEN the fiery day is ended, and in every East Side street Throngs of haggard men and women still are drooping with the heat, Round the corner come the White Wings dragging snaky coils of hose, And along the steaming pavement soon a gleam ing fountain flows. Then the children swarm in legions from the stoops along the way, Wading through the foaming rivers, dancing in the showering spray, Running over spouting rainbows where a leak has burst the line, Shouting to the weary grown-ups, " Come on in the water s fine ! " They have never known the rapture of a romp along the shore, Where the hissing spindrift rises and the breakers roll and roar. [56] THE END OF THE DAY Cramped within the brick-bound city, they have never felt the joys That the swimming hole has ready for the sun burned country boys. But they still are little children, and no torrid August sun Has the power to deprive them of their honest right to fun. And though pale and frail and drooping, still with eager shouts they throng To the thrilling, cooling water, when the White Wings come along. Years have bent and changed us grown-ups though the day brings heat or rain, Be it hot or blustery weather, still we grumble and complain, Fretting over little troubles, always murmuring the song With the whining, dreary burden of " Whatever Is, Is Wrong." But no bitter Winter blizzard, never sweltering August heat, Can abate the bubbling spirits of the youngsters of the street. And though always round about them stern-faced poverty abounds, They are just light-hearted children when the White Wings make their rounds. [57] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY FREEDOM THE pain that distorted The frail little form Has vanished away Like a midsummer storm. The work-weary fingers Lie white on his breast; At last they are idle For now he can rest. Scarce more than a baby, They found him one day Amid the foul reek Of an alley at play, They seared his child s soul With their factory s blight, They made him the thing That he was till tonight. And now it is over; The small hands are still That labored so long In the terrible mill. [58] . FREEDOM The pain has departed, The fever is past; The wan little toiler Is resting at last! [59] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE MINE SWEEPERS THEY never had a half a chance at glory; To them the joy of battle was denied; The nation never thrilled to read the story Of how they lived and toiled and how they died; Unseen, unmarked, they went where duty called them, On mine-encircled seas their nets were spread; No storms delayed, no dangers grim appalled them, Though death was always lurking just ahead. Day in, day out, their dreary vigil keeping, As on across the tide their vessels stole, Alert of mind, untroubled and unsleeping, They calmly kept their perilous patrol. And if there came a flash, a roar of thunder, And smothered in a whirl of hissing foam A ship and all aboard of her went under, No cable sent the tragic story home. They brought to port no submarine as booty, Their shouts of triumph ringing in the breeze, It never was their high and glorious duty To scourge these slinking serpents from the seas. [60] THE MINE SWEEPERS They wore no crown of fame, yet their devotion For victory s mighty progress cleared the way, Made safe an army s path across the ocean And baffled craft and cunning of their prey. They wore no crown of fame and yet their story When half its glowing chapters have been told Will write their names upon the roll of glory In fine resplendent characters of gold! [61] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY MY WEALTHY NEIGHBORS WHEN, nose to grindstone, I must sit Engaged upon my daily labors 1 cannot help but sigh a bit, In envy of my wealthy neighbors. They live up yonder by the hill Until October never later For when the autumn breeze blows chill They re off to follow the Equator. They never have a thing to do But gad about with lordly leisure, The whole delightful summer through, Their life is just one round of pleasure. I see them often in the lane That winds along the vale below us And want to speak but I refrain, For they don t seem to care to know us. They d not receive me should I call, Their manners are extremely airy, And this I can t explain at all, For they re so full of life and merry. [62] MY WEALTHY NEIGHBORS All day I watch them hurry by, Among the fields and trees and flowers, And when the sunset paints the sky They ll often sit and sing for hours. I envy them their happy lot, I m sometimes filled with base resentment That these exclusive folks have got So much that makes for sweet contentment. But when a tomcat happens by And home the frightened father hurries No longer do I sit and sigh, For even robins have their worries. [63] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY CASEY ON THE CORNER THE chauffeurs jam their feet down hard; the brakeshoes creak and grind, The surging traffic stream is stalled for twenty yards behind; The rumble of the trucks is stilled, while with a massive hand A husky son of Erin gives imperious command, And passers-by stand eager-eyed, in rain or snow or sleet, To watch Patrolman Casey help the kids across the street. Like little boats about a ship they circle round his form And safely make their way to port, however thick the storm, Five youngsters clinging to his coat, a toddler in each arm They pass the panting juggernauts, secure from hurt or harm. And when the last of all the fleet has reached the friendly shore The whistle shrills its signal, and the stream roars on once more. [64] CASEY ON THE CORNER He s no Apollo Belvedere, all critics will agree, And many a foolish chauffeur knows how hard his fist can be; While even motoring gentlemen who go a bit too far Regret their indiscretion when he leaps aboard the can But just the same, to most of us, it always is a treat To watch Patrolman Casey help the kids across the street. [65] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE WAIL OF A PUP MAN thinks he plays a lot of parts Before his years are rounded up; But say! He really never starts, He ought to try to be a pup To be a pup, and have a boy With fresh ideas every day Who takes a wild and fiendish joy Inventing parts for him to play. IVe been a Boche in Belleau Wood And had Yank bullets shot at me; IVe been a Turk and I have stood The gunfire at Gallipoli, IVe been the Kaiser oftentimes And had a noose about my neck, The while I listened to my crimes And rapidly became a wreck. I ve been a hook and ladder horse And had them run me off my feet; IVe been a thief, while half the force Pursued me madly down the street, [66] THE WAIL OF A PUP I ve figured at a barbecue The part assigned me was the ox But just as dinner time was due I always wriggled from the box. I ve been a lion and a bear, A tiger and a Hottentot, And other creatures strange and rare, But always something that got shot. I ve been old Jonah, and the whale - A cracker crate has thrown me up, IVe been marooned, I ve been in jail And still it s fun to be a pup ! [67] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY DISGRACED MY teacher says to me to-day So s all the class could hear: " I thank you for that nice bouquet You brought this morning, dear." Of course she d made a bad mistake. Somebody d thought they d be Almighty smart if they could make A teacher s pet of me. I licked three fellers at recess, They ll hold their tongues, I ll bet, But forty- leven girls, I guess, Yelled at me: " Teacher s pet! " I grabbed a couple by the hair, But had to let em go Before they even got a scare, You can t lick girls, you know. An when we went inside again The kids would grin an say: " Who s teacher s little dear?" an then They d point to that bouquet. [68] DISGRACED An then in whispers they d repeat The words the teacher said, While I just sat there in my seat And wished that I was dead I I m goin to ask my folks to go And live some other place Where all the kids I see won t know About this here disgrace. If I could run away to war Then maybe I d forget, But I can t stick round here no more And be a teacher s pet! [69] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE BABY HE S just a little, helpless mite, Whose tender, trusting smile And coos of rapturous delight Are innocent of guile. Too frail as yet to walk alone, His little tongue untaught To make his baby wishes known Or tell his tiniest thought But pluck him from the cellar floor Where eager and alert He smears his little person o er With soot and grime and dirt, And for what seems an hour or two The imp will hold his breath Until his face is fairly blue And you re half scared to death! So soft and flower-like he seems, So gentle and so mild, A thing of fairy-woven dreams, A weak, defenseless child, THE BABY No will to gain his heart s desire, All wisdom yet to learn, The feeble, newly kindled fire As yet can barely burn, But try to take away the shears Which he so firmly grips The while the yowling kitten s ears So joyously he clips. A certain firmness he ll reveal; For on the rug he ll drop And stiffen like a frozen eel, And scream until you stop! MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY ALWAYS THE GOAT WHENEVER the trolleymen go on a strike And the managers haughtily say They can tie up the lines for a month if they like And they won t get a penny more pay, The general outcome is always the same, For whether the men get their raise Or swallow the grouch and go back to the game, The public is walloped both ways. Whenever the railroad men voice discontent And the Manager says with a sneer That he ll never come through with another red cent If he don t turn a wheel for a year, One side or the other wins out in the end, But whether they grant or refuse The wages for which the conductors contend, The public, dear reader, will lose. Whenever the milkmen get suddenly sore And swear with irascible unction That unless they are paid quite a little bit more They plan upon ceasing to function, [72] ALWAYS THE GOAT Perhaps they will get it, perhaps they will not; But what is the difference to us? We know when it s over the public has got To step in and pay for the fuss. For whether the strikers declare it a strike Or the bosses declare it a lockout, We are sure in advance that the public s one chance Is to put up its chin for the knockout. [73] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY A CALEDONIAN S FAREWELL TO JOHN BARLEYCORN GUIDBY, auld John, I loved ye weel, When I was young, and strong and husky, And when my tuppence bought a deal O braw, invigoratin whusky. With one wee bottle by my side I d sleep beneath the bonnie heather; A saxpence kept me stupefied For days together. The cost o kilts, it vexed me sair, And when I parted with a shillin For food, I took especial care To see that it was verra fillin . I grudged whate er I squandered on The coals, the taxes and the victual, But I maun give ye credit, John, Ye cost me little. But losh! the price they re askin now, For e en the cheapest kind o toddy, A laird himseP might well allow Would fair infuriate a body. [74] FAREWELL TO JOHN BARLEYCORN An so, auld John, I trust ye ll not Believe me cauld, or flinty-hearted, But ye re too costly for a Scot, It s time we parted. [753 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY A PROBLEM THOUGH science tells us, out of hand, That there is not an indication That animals can understand A word of human conversation, Last night when we conversed about A needful substitute for meat, Our little Fido hurried out And went careering down the street. And when we said that in Bombay A hungry proletariat Much relishes a consomme Whose chief ingredient is cat, There was a rush across the floor, A muffled sound of feline hissing, And tabby bolted through the door And now is numbered with the missing. We also said all household pets Were works of supererogation, And, though it filled us with regrets, They ought to help to feed the nation. A PROBLEM And then we heard a scream of rage, And with a look of blank despair, The parrot burst his gilded cage And quickly went away from there. We don t insist that these are acts Which throw great Science in confusion; We merely state the simple facts And let you draw your own conclusion. We know that Mr. Hornaday And zoologic sharps will swat us But all the same we re free to say We sort of think the creatures got us! [77] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE BABY S BOOZE In Newport they are discussing the regulating of the children s drinking. NEWS ITEM. Tis never a hygienic plan to let the baby rush the can, Lest by and by with gin and rye He grows unduly chummy; Before he gratifies his thirst his gentle governess should first Take care to choose a brand of booze That won t affect his tummy. A highball every day at ten, a brace of cocktails now and then And at his lunch a mellow punch Of sugar, milk and whisky, May not impair his childish charm or do his morals any harm But absinthe slings are dreadful things And very, very risky. If baby finds he cannot dine without a glass or two of wine, Some good champagne might clear his brain, But heed this timely warning: THE BABY S BOOZE If ever he s allowed to drink the fifteen-cents-a-quart red ink Before he goes to his repose, He ll have a head next morning. If you should find that he prefers the yellow, green and brown liqueurs, Correct his taste with eager haste; For these are dissipations \Vhich those most soaked in stimulants unanimously view askance; They are not fit a little bit For infantile potations. If thus the baby s appetite for spirits is directed right, And if his turn does not succumb To crumbling cramps and colics, He ll learn to drink the proper way, and if he s lucky, some fine day Perhaps he ll win a nice place in A home for alcoholics! [79] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SAME OLD STORY WHEN Julius Caesar went to town To purchase steaks and chops and such, He tried to beat the butchers down And swore their prices were too much. " Two cents a pound for steak," he roared, " Why, man, that s nothing short of crime, You butchers are a greedy horde, It cost but one in Noah s time 1 " When Ollie Cromwell went to shop For beef and mutton and the like, He said if prices didn t drop He d spit the butchers on a spike. " Six cents a pound for steak," he said. " It s more than honest men can pay. You folks are robbers, on the dead, It cost but two in Caesar s day! " Today when we go out and find That beef is eighty cents a pound, We tarry there and speak our mind And scatter savage words around, [80] THE SAME OLD STORY Twas ever thus, in every age, In every time and clime and season The price of meat has made men rage And always with abundant reason. [80 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE CONDUCTOR AND THE LADY BILL BLICKETT was conductor of a commutation train, Claire Clickett was a typist, with an air of high disdain. She shuddered when he winked at her as he swung down the aisle. Her manner said: "How dare you, sir?" when he essayed to smile. And with forbidding haughtiness her chewing gum she d munch, When Blickett snipped her ticket with a senti mental punch. She loved a red-haired broker s clerk whose name was Jaspar Gee; He often rode beside her on the seven-thirty- three. He looked upon her fondly, and told her she was pretty, And sometimes held her hand in his clear in to Jersey City. And Blickett punched her ticket, with bitter heart and grim And murmured to the brakeman: "Just wait till I get him." [82] THE CONDUCTOR AND THE LADY One day a train despatcher tried to cultivate the knack Of passing two expresses on a single stretch of track. And Claire and Jaspar found themselves as one of the results Projected into Newark Bay as from two catapults. She cried to him to save her, but he only paused to state : "I haven t time to save you, too; I m thirty minutes late." And then a strong arm circled her, and Blickett s massive hand With many a stout and sturdy stroke propelled her safe to land. " I ve got the coward now," he thought, " I knew I d get my chance," As he conveyed his burden to the nearest ambu lance. Claire looked upon him coldly, and she tossed her pretty head, " Excuse me, sir, I ve got to find my Jaspar now," she said. Don t ask me why she acted so; I judge it was because In matters that concern the heart well, that s how woman does. [83] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE BEAUTY AND THE BUTCHER BECAUSE he wag a butcher s boy Steve Stuffing s love for Graycie Grady Served only greatly to annoy That fair, fastidious young lady, In vain he told her that his work In such a sphere was uncongenial, She said, " You re just a butcher s clerk A low meat-mutilating menial." " I ll win your hand," he said, " or bust, You haughty, zero-hearted charmer, Some day I m going to own a trust A beef trust like J. Ogden Armour." u Reluctant as, of course, I am," Said she, " your purpose to disparage The horrid hand that handles ham Can never clasp my hand in marriage I " Awhile on faith his fancy fed, He hoped remorse would overcome her, Until next afternoon he read That she had wed a Newport plumber. [84] THE BEAUTY AND THE BUTCHER Did he gulp down a fatal pill, Like heroes m romance s pages? No, sir. He sold more meat, until The butcher had to raise his wages. He soon acquired a partnership, And, being crafty, like lago, He got a deadly vise-like grip On all the meat outside Chicago. By leaps and bounds his fortune grew, Because of shrewdly planned expansion. Until within a year or two He built a stately Newport mansion. Steve drew a plumbing contract, which, With heating, baths and ventilation, Would make the winning bidder rich Beyond his wildest expectation. He spread his contract as a lure He grimly gloated when he let it, Because he had made very sure That Graycie s husband did not get it. Some men succeed because they re born To brains or wealth or high position; Some men succeed because they re torn From childhood with a great ambition. And others, quite a lot, you ll find, Succeed, as did our young friend Stephen Because they just make up their mind That they are going to get even. [85] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE BLESSINGS OF HARD TIMES WHEN farmer Jones s Berkshire hog was living on the farm His personality was gross, his manner had no charm; He daily wallowed in the mud, he guzzled from his trough And grew a mass of embonpoint which nothing could take off. And while his body waxed so great that he could hardly crawl, His brains became so dull and thick he couldn t think at all. But when one day the farm burned down the Berk shire hog got loose And had to put his thickening brains to very active use. Nobody came to feed him now; he had to hustle round And use his nerve and judgment to provide his daily found. And soon new muscles thewed his flanks instead of flabby fat, And his once soggy countenance became worth looking at. [86] THE BLESSINGS OF HARD TIMES There is no startling moral to this tale of Jones s swine, Except that when one has to work before one sits to dine, And has to keep expenses down, the life he learns to lead Is pretty sure to keep his brains from running all to seed. And though no doubt it will surprise a lot of soft- raised men, A little pinch of poverty won t hurt them now and then. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE ROAD TO SUCCESS WHAT good will it do you to work like a horse? There isn t a blessed thing in it; The fellow you work for expects it, of course, But don t let him kid you one minute. Don t be like the come-ons you see round a shop Who plug till they re winded and wheezy. You ll find that the fellow that gets to the top Is the lad who takes everything easy. This wisdom I gleaned from the earnest remarks Of a midnight sojourner in one of the parks I The average boss on a job doesn t know One-half of the things youVe forgotten. Come back at him snappy and say, " Is that so? " If he says that your work s getting rotten. Inform him your motto is always to keep All foremen and such in their places, And some day you ll rise to the top of the heap And spend half your time at the races. This method of gaining success must be right, I heard it proclaimed in the breadline last night! [88] THE ROAD TO SUCCESS Whenever you feel you have earned a day s pay, Drop the job as a kid drops a thistle; You always can think of some nice, stalling way To loaf till the toot of the whistle. The men who own houses in Millionaire s Row, With horses and autos and flowers And that sort of stuff, never got all that dough By sticking at work after hours. This means of advancement I m sure cannot fail, It was passed out to me through the bars of a jail. [89] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY "AND WHEN THEY FALL" Many of the former nobility of Europe who were taught domestic arts and crafts in their youth as an example to the lower classes are now working at mean occupations in Turkey and Southeastern Eu rope. CABLE DESPATCH. WHERE is the Grand Duke Ruffanuff, who stole the Czar s first wife? Who used to shoot and burn and loot, While all his suite would follow suit, And never gave a single hoot For threats upon his life? He s mandatory of a mule just out of Teheran; He s working for Bazouk Pasha as second hired manl Where is Graf von Gipfelstein, that man of noble rank, Who when he sat at baccarat, Would bet a million with eclat, And with rare nonchalance stand pat Until he broke the bank? You ll find him down in old Stamboul, if you are passing by, He s mandatory of the pigs in Izzak-Issik s sty! [90] " AND WHEN THEY FALL " Where is Countess von der Schtuff, that ravishing brunette Whose wiles and arts broke scores of hearts, Who raided all the jewel marts The belle of many foreign parts Is she in Europe yet? Across the Turkish moors she bears a bucket full of corn She s mandatory of a cow beside the Golden Horn 1 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY AS TO THE CAVEMAN I LIKE to read these cave-men tales; There is a strange, romantic glamour In books which tell of whiskered males Who did their -wooing with a hammer; Who sauntered about the town Until they saw a lovely creature, Picked up a rock and knocked her down, And dragged her, screaming, to the preacher 1 I ve often thought that if to-day One might knock down an Aphrodite Who had the crust to say him nay, Girls wouldn t be so highty-tighty. If one could win em with a club, A rock, or any missile handy, He d save a lot on high-priced grub, And motor rides, and flowers and candy I And then, again, I think perhaps Those yarns of how young folks were mated Were penned by prehistoric chaps Who probably exaggerated. [92] AS TO THE CAVEMAN I ve often wondered, as I sat Perusing these delightful pages, If girls could change as much as that Despite the countless passing ages. For since the days of Mother Eve Twas never safe to go on wooing, Without so much as " by your leave, 1 If she informed you, " Nothing doing. 1 And therefore I begin to fear That these Silurian romances Which I believed for many a year Were nothing more than pleasing fanciest [931 / MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE NEW JURISPRUDENCE (In a recent action, one lawyer knocked his legal opponent down) No longer need word-warring lawyers consume The time of the judge and the jury With dreary delays while with phrase upon phrase They lash themselves into a fury. Bill Shakespeare would never have found any fault With our modern attorneys at law, Who substitute feints for amended complaints And pleas with a punch to the jaw. If a lawyer declares, " In the counsel s remarks A certain distortion I trace," The counsel s reply is a smash in the eye, Which cuts all delay from the case. The old-time expression, " My learned young friend," Is heard in the courtroom no more; There s a biff! and a bing! and a good right- arm swing, And counsel wakes up on the floor. [94] THE NEW JURISPRUDENCE Hereafter attorneys with cases to try As soon as they ve got their retainers Won t bone up on torts and the New York reports But will work up their case at a trainer s. No weary citations they ll read to the court, No evidence they will put in, But they ll learn how a punch can be sent to the lunch, For the man with the wallop will win. And judges, instead of devoting their time To passing on motions and pleas, Must learn how to quote what one Queensberry wrote For the guidance of ring referees. No longer through months litigation will drag; Ten minutes will settle a suit. And we re willing to bet that Jack Dempsey will get The practice of Elihu Rootl [95] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY FAIR INES Borrowing a Bit from T. Hood* OH, have you seen fair Ines? She s got a new sedan, And vows that she can drive the thing As well as any man. But since she s ditched a trolley car And smashed a moving van, Although I hate to doubt her word, 1 hardly think she can. I saw thee, lovely Ines, Come wabbling down the street. An unsuspecting traffic cop Was walking off his beat, And when you zigzagged into him And knocked him twenty feet, The little speech he made to you I wouldn t dare repeat. I m glad that I, fair Ines, Was not amid the crash When down Fifth Avenue to-day You made that spiral dash. [96] FAIR INES Were there upon the long, long street No flivvers you could smash, That you must wreck a limousine That cost twelve thousand, cash? Reflect again, fair Inesl Your friends cannot connive In your assertion that it s rot To say you cannot drive, When of your neighbors motor cars But eight per cent survive. And of the dogs along your street Not one is left alive 1 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines; No lady I have met Whenever she encountered me Has left me so upset. I still am on this earthly sphere, But cheerfully I ll bet And give you any odds you ask That you will get me yet 1 [971 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE END OF A PERFECT BRAY By operating on a mule scientists have succeeded in making him voiceless. NEWS ITEM. " A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them. !Alas for those who never sing, But die with all their music in them ! " OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. How often, as the dusk drew near And vagrant breezes stirred the pool, We ve paused beside the path to hear The evening carol of the mule. A simple and unstudied strain, As from a heart that overflowed, It rose and fell and rose again, And died in echoes down the road It lacked the robin s silver trill, The melody was often bad, The nuances ill-spaced, but still, It was the only song he had. [98] THE END OF PERFECT BRAY It had a certain zip and zest, A quality that seemed to soar The artless singer did his best, And nightingales could do no more ! But science, with its ruthless knife, These vibrant chords has learned to sever. That song that spoke the joy of life In zigzag bars is stilled forever. A kindly and impulsive brute In silence must pursue his ways, The song upon his lips is mute, And all his days are brayless days. Now, science may be right, of course, Perhaps the mule is no musician, And merely brayed till he was hoarse To gratify a false ambition. Perhaps the Muses passed him by; Caruso s genius may have missed him; And yet it s sad that he must die With all that music in his system! [99] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE WAY OF THE WORLD THE alley cat sat on a fence And warbled his evening song, And he made it plain with his weird refrain That he fancied the world was wrong. " Now look at the Persian cat," sang he, " He never needs hunt for grub, But can sit and purr and smooth his fur * The lop-eared, long-tailed dub! " I must hunt my chow in the garbage cans And always must keep an eye, As I stoop to eat, on the nearest street. For the curs that are passing by. I must swiftly shoot for a dry goods box At the sound of the least alarm, While he dozes away on a couch all day, Where he never can come to harm. " He drinks his cream from a porcelain cup That only his lips can touch, And they get a vet when he gets upset If he foolishly eats too much. [100] THE WAY OF THE WORLD He s patted and cuddled and fussed about, His life is a long delight, While I must scrap to keep on the map; I tell you it isn t right." The Persian cat stared sadly forth On the alley that stretched below, " Oh, hum! " he said, " I have slept and fed. Existence is mighty slow, Nothing to climb and nothing to chase, Not even a mouse or rat. How much I d give could I only live The life of that alley cat!" [101] JMORE TRUTH THAN POETRY COMING AND GOING THREE years ago, or maybe more, We noticed with profound misgiving That everything began to soar Connected with the cost of living. Beefsteak became so dear and rare We had to get along without it; Rents rose with every month, and there Was nothing we could do about it. We sought out an economist, Informed him of the situation, Exhibited our market list And asked him for an explanation. Said he : " It s easy to explain : The nation s passing through a crisis. To fume and fret is quite in vain; The war, you know, has boosted prices." But when the war was done last Fall, It struck us as a bit surprising That prices didn t fall at ail- Instead of that, they kept on rising. [102] COMING AND GOING Expenses mounted more and more; We watched with troubled perturbation The wolf, who sat outside our door And grinned with eager expectation. Again we sought our learned friend And said in accents low and humble : " The war, dear sir, is at an end; Pray, why do not expenses tumble ? " He said: " You must not fume and fret, Just keep your temper, my advice is The world is very much upset, And peace, you know, has boosted prices." [103] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY ESSAY ON LIFE AND GARDENS MY roses hang diminished heads And grow more sickly, hour by houf, My wilting Persian lilac sheds Its buds, before they ever flower. I never tilled a garden plot And hoped with joy to contemplate it, That some voracious bug did not Devour and assimilate it. The slugs chew off the tulip tips, The pansies fall before the weevil* Around the poppies crowd the thrippj Small squashy things, and bent on eviL They swallow liquid nicotine, Nor seem to feel the least revulsion, They lap up quarts of Paris Green, They thrive on kerosene emulsion. I war upon them every day; From bush to bush with brooms I hound them, But they have an infernal way Of slipping from my clutch. Confound them I [104] ESSAY ON LIFE AND GARDENS My flowers all are doomed, I know, For I grow weary of endeavor, And, while I rest, the insect foe Keeps toiling on the job forever. Tis thus that thieves and burglars ply Unflaggingly their base vacations, Around the clock, while you and I Seek sleep and other relaxations. Ah, life would be one long delight If preachers toiled like mischief-brewers, And if apostles of the right Had half the pep of evildoers. [105] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY ADS WITH timid and affrighted eyes I read the ads, and when I read em And note the things they advertise I suddenly find out I need em. Fresh needs I ve never known before Imperil my hard-earned per diem; I scan the list, and, what is more, 1 go and buy em. I saw an add about a farm Afar from urban roar and rattle, Where one may know the sylvan charm Of growing fields and lowing cattle. It spoke of birds upon a bough Which pipe matutinal thanksgiving, I read that ad three times and now That s where I m living. An automobile ad one day Somehow attracted my attention: It dwelt in an alluring way On spiral gears and frame-suspension; [106] ADS It waked a thirst to own that car, And though for weeks and weeks I fought it- You know what witching things ads are At last I bought it. The men who write the ads must be Well versed in some hypnotic system They have a weird effect on me, I simply never can resist em, They ve dissipated all my roll For things theyVe sold to me, dod rot em Expensive things yet, on the whole Fm glad I ve got em. [107] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY TIME BRINGS CHANGES WHEN thirst was young and cost us to maintain A rather large per cent of our per diem, We used to love to titillate our brain With quartrains from the pen of Omar Khayyam. Then every tavern portal stood agape, No laws laid bans on bibulous enjoyment, And getting jocund with the fruitful grape Appeared to us a rather fine employment A book of verses culled beside the bar (We didn t need the book; we used to spout em) , A friend or two, a highball a cigar Combined, they had a rare delight about em. And all the persons present would agree That friends like us should never, never sunder, And as for Omar Khayyam, there could be No doubt he was one young Persian wonder. From twenty-two to twenty-five, perhaps, We knew by heart all Omar s many pages, And held with two or three congenial chaps That he was quite the marvel of the ages. [108] TIME BRINGS CHANGES " What harm in getting boiled? " he seemed to say; " If whisky s due to bowl you over let it, And as for life, it soon will flit away, The wise way is to guzzle and forget it." But now that we have curbed our appetite (For with more years we re more sedately gaited) We do not stroll round taverns of a night And never get the least illuminated. We ve changed our views on life to some extent, We do not look on things the way we uster, We re more reserved and placid and content And Mr. Omar s lost a first-class booster. [109] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY PROOF JOHN BURROUGHS, who s a shark on birds (He classifies em by a feather) , Avers that they re devoid of words And simply cannot talk together. He gives the nature-fakers fits Who picture birds in conversation, And tears their story books to bits In scientific indignation. But there s a wren outside my door That talks whenever I go near him, And talks so glibly, furthermore, That I just wish that John could hear him. Of mornings, when I stroll about, The while he hymns his glad thanksgiving, He interrupts himself to shout: " Hey ! Ain t it glorious to be living? " But if too near his nest I stray Again he pauses in mid-carol, Darts past my head, and chatters: " Say! " You touch my nestlings at your peril [no] PROOF "We re small, but we have dagger beaks: " Just try to climb that tree; I dare you! " And, when I turn away, he shrieks : " You great big brute ! I knew I d scare you And when he s speaking to a cat And lets his wrath flow forth unstinted, I solemnly assure you that The things he says cannot be printed. Perhaps John never happened by When birds 1 emotions deeply stirred em For, though he s wiser far than I, I know that birds can talk. I ve heard em. [in] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY TWAS EVER THUS WHEN Shakespeare hurdled into fame And critics praised his lilting lines, While leading playshops ran his name Upon their large electric signs, His colleagues grumbled: " What s the use? Bill don t know how to write a hit, But, honest! don t it beat the deuce The way he gets away with it? " He never doped a single plot, He found it easier to borrow, And we know where the fellow got His situations to our sorrow. Of course we wouldn t knock the lad, We really do not give a cuss, But still it sort of makes us mad To think how much he stole from us. " We must not be misunderstood, We hope he will succeed poor devil, But well, his memory s too good For anyone who s on the level. [112] TWAS EVER THUS He pulls our gags in every play, And now he s raking in the pelf And finds how good they get away, He thinks he thought of them himself. " Well, they will stand for him a while, Just now the managers won t try Good plays that have his beat a mile, But he will blow up by and by; He ll do his fling and sing his song And then the town will leave him flat, They will not stand for him for long They cannot be as thick as that." This happened many years ago, And since those old and envious days Ten thousand dramatists or so Have written fifty thousand plays, And every one who groped for fame And found it fairly in his clutch Has been derided much the same As Shakespeare was and cared as much, MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE PASSING OF AN INSTITUTION Owing to the scarcity of starch the hard-boiled shirt is to be dispensed with. NEWS ITEM. THE hard-boiled shirt! The hard-boiled shirt! Which Mother pressed and Father wore ! How tender memories revert To days and things that are no more ! On every seventh morn it rose And fell upon his writhing chest Beneath his one black suit of clothes His solemn, somber Sunday best. White ! Shining ! Destitute of dirt, An awesome thing, that hard-boiled shirt! Six days a week in tattered jeans He hoed the corn and mowed the hay, And milked the cows to gain the means To dress up on the seventh day. On Sunday he would sleep till dawn, Comb out his whiskers, brush his hair And put that gleaming garment on, And lo! Another man was there. Men called him Deacon then, though " Deck Was what they called him through the week ! THE PASSING OF AN INSTITUTION It lent him dignity and poise, It gave him standing in the town; When he was wearing it the boys Would shudder if he chanced to frown. Alas, those good old days are gone In these hard times when ruthless war Across the land sweeps on and on The hard-boiled shirt returns no more. No rigid vestment, spic and span, Remains to mark the gentleman ! [us] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE FLY THE tiger is above deceit, His eyes are red and glaring; He warns whomever he would eat With his ferocious bearing. The python hisses ere he coils About his chosen victim, And he who s crushed within his toils Can t say the python tricked im. But, ah ! the flies that round us hover, Their infamy is under cover. They fix us with a timid glance, Pathetically appealing; They fascinate us when they dance Inverted on the ceiling. Their manner is so circumspect, Their beauties are so many That seldom do our eyes detect The blood on their antennas. Yet massacre, assassination And murder is their occupation. [116] THE FLY Associate with crocodiles, Make camp among gorillas, Take chances on court-martial trials, Arranged by Pancho Villas; Pat playfully a tiger shark When someone has annoyed him; Step on a cobra in the dark, But for the fly avoid him. He has no soul nor heart dod rot him The only thing to do is swat him ! MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY EXTRA! ALL ABOUT THE WAY OF THE WORLD CARUSO can get for a bit of a song the price of an automobile ; I could sing the same lay and you d answer me nay if I asked for the price of a meal. John D. can write checks for a million apiece, and get them all cashed at the bank; I could do the same thing, but I d land in Sing Sing in a dungeon depressingly dank. Henry James could write books that don t mean what they say, or anything else, but they sell; If I wrote the same kind they d examine my mind and have me restrained for a spell. The corner policeman can walk on your feet, or haughtily brush you aside; If I tried the same trick you would reach for a brick, and I d have an ambulance ride. [118] ALL ABOUT THE WAY OF THE WORLD John Drew can eat lunch as he sits on the stage, and your eager approval you ll shout; I could eat the same lunch, but you d rise in a bunch and savagely cry " Put im out! " The boss tells statesmen to do what he says without any palpable reason; I could do that, of course, but they d seize me by force and order me tried for high treason. This tale has no moral; I try to get mine; the other man tries to get his; And although I am sore that he always gets more, it s merely the way that things is. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD x WHEN Flossie Smith met Trixie Brown upon the street last week, She threw her arms about her neck and kissed her on the cheek, With simple, girlish friendliness that fond caress was fraught, And this is what she said And this is what she to her: thought: You dear old thing, you look too sweet, That dress is simply swell, A stunning costume for the street, And suits your style so well, Do come and see me, darling, soon, That hat s just gorgeous! My! Come up tomorrow afternoon ! Goodby (smack! smack!) Goodby ! There s two new wrinkles on her face! She s getting gross and fat! That dress is imitation lace Great heavens ! What a hat ! I know she pads, because she s got Such weird, outlandish curves, I hope she doesn t come! Great Scott! But she gets on my nerves! [120] THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD ii When Mrs. Jones met Mrs. Green uptown the other day, She stopped to give her greeting in a kindly, genial way. And you, yourself, perhaps, can guess if Mrs. Green divined, When this was in her That this was in her spoken word: her mind: Good afternoon. So glad we met. And how is Mr. Green? You know you still are in my debt A social debt I mean That game of bridge! Good gracious no! Don t mention that at all! I d quite forgotten it, you know! You owe a dinner call. Here s Mrs. Green, I hate to dun The miserly old fright; But she shall pay me what I won At bridge the other night. I simply won t be fleeced by friends Still I can t make a scene; And well, the horrid thing pre tends She don t know what I mean. [121] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD in When Mr. Tom met Mr. Bill upon the avenue, They went into the nearest bar and ordered drinks for two; And Tom, with manly openness, declared they d never part, And this is what he said And this was in his to Bill: heart: I like a man that s straight and square ; I know my friends, I do. I know that I ll be treated fair If I play fair with you. When we are doing business, Bo, Why you re just like my brother; Them knocks on you I hear don t go, Come on, let s have another. I know he s crooked to the bone, He s just a common con, He d not have come here if he d known That I was really on; I ll stake him to a fancy meal And listen to him talk, But when we mix up in that deal I ll watch him like a hawk! [122] THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD THE SIMPLICITY OF CHILDHOOD IV When Freddie White meets Willie Black behind the alley fence, He utters no conventional and trite inconsequence; He eyes the stranger for a while, and sets his teeth and blinks; And this is what he says to him, and also what he thinks : Hey, wot you lookin at, you guy? Suppose my hair is red ? If you keep starin* at me why I ll come an punch your head. You ain t no bute, as I can see, You re too dressed up an fat; I told yer not to look at me, Take that! (punch, punch) an that! [123] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY THE FARMER S IDLE WIFE The farmer s wife is now so occupied with social affairs that she has lost the art of making butter and jam and doing the work of the farm that her grandmother did; this results in a great economic loss to the country. THE SUBSTANCE OF A GOVERN- MENT REPORT ISSUED FROM THE AGRICULTURAL DEPARTMENT. THE farmer s wife, in early days, got up at half-past two, And shined the plows and milked the cows and put the prunes to stew. The breakfast for the hands she d set upon the stroke of four, And then she d bake her bread and cake and scrub the kitchen floor. But nowadays the farmer s wife has time to call her own, " Good gracious! " says the Government, " how idle she has grown ! " The farmer s wife, in times gone by, brought up the calves and lambs, And sacked the oats and fed the shoats and smoked the hickory hams, [124] THE FARMER S IDLE WIFE And when she d cooked three great big meals she cheerfully arose And with her churn sat down to earn the money for her clothes. But now she often visits round and gossips, like as not. " My goodness," says the Government, " how worth less she has got ! " The farmer s wife, some years ago, was wholly free from nerves, Twelve hours a day she d slave away at putting up preserves. Six children dangling at her skirts, a seventh on her arm, She d gamely set herself to get the mortgage off the farm. But now she sometimes takes a rest, like city women do. " Great Heavens ! " cries the Government, " what is she coming to? " The farmer s wife departed from this vale of toil and tears For happier climes, in those old times, when under thirty years. The farmer got another mate, he somehow always found The ideal wife who toiled through life and rested underground. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY But now sometimes her years add up their full alloted sum. " Great Scott!" exclaims the Government, u how shiftless she s become ! " WHAT S THE USE WHAT S THE USE IT was the driver of a van Who to his offspring said: " I m just a rough-necked workingman What labors for his bread. But you should learn to read and write And multiply and sich, To wear clean shirts and talk polite, And some day you ll be rich." And so the lad to school was sent, Where, as the years rolled by, He learned what conic sections meant, And how to extract Pi. And presently he could discuss Such esoteric themes As differential calculus And Freud on Foolish Dreams. Meanwhile the rough-necked workingman With fond paternal joy Continued driving of his van To educate his boy. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY And often he would mop his brow And joyfully declare : 44 That kid o mine ten years from now Will be a millionaire 1 " Today the kid is keeping books At ten a week for pay, And from the way the outlook looks That s where he s going to ^ stay. And every morning he complains, In peevish tones and sad: " If I had brawn instead of brains Fdbe as rich as dad!" [128] THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT UPON* a midnight, cold and clear, When slumber marks you for its own, You waken, with a start, to hear The tinkling of the telephone !A sound that, heard in broad daylight, Possesses a peculiar charm, But in the watches of the night Invests your soul with wild alarm. You rise with palpitating dread, And through the deep and spectral gloom You stagger from your downy bed Unsteadily across the room. And standing in the wintry breeze, Your nightie flapping to and fro Athwart your weak and trembling knees, You feebly cry, " Hello I Hello 1 " " Hello 1 Hello I " you feebly cry, With chilling shanks and rising ire, But you elicit no reply Except the singing of the wire, [129] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY Until in soothing tones and low, As if your troubled soul to ease, A lady answers your " Hello " And softly says, " Excuse it, please ! " " Excuse it, please ! " when one is torn From gentle slumber s twilight zone As frightened as if Gabriel s horn Its awful reveille had blown! When ripped untimely from his bed When every nerve that he has got Is set on edge with cold and dread, Will he excuse it? He will NOT! IN BEHALF OF THE MOVIES IN BEHALF OF THE MOVIES WHEN Willie inverts a cup custard On grandfather s silvery head, Deposits the cat in his sister s new hat Or saws off the legs of the bed, Or secretly stuffs the piano With grasshoppers, crickets or such, It s a pretty safe bet that the dear little pet Has been to the movies too much. Whenever the child of your neighbor Gives forth a terrific " Boo-hoo ! " And you find she is bound to a stake in the ground By the coils of a clothes-line lassoo, It s safe to conjecture that Willie Has been overfed on the art You often have seen when they flash on the screen The prowess of Fairbanks and Hart. Yet we who are old can remember The kids of an earlier time Who fed on the tales of the wild Western trails That reeked with all manner of crime; When rifles rang out in the barnyard, MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY And the rooster was watchful and spry, Who got to his roost when the volley was loosed When the death-dealing bullets flew by. And when the last rough stuff is censored And movies are gentle and mild As reformers could ask who are charged with the task Of making life fit for the child, Jhe child will proceed at his leisure To break all attempts at restraint, For a kid is a kid, and dear heaven forbid That he ever behave like a saint! [132] TO A SPECTRE AUNT TO A SPECTRE AUNT OH, spinster aunt I never had (At your first word I nearly fainted), I still don t know you, yet I m glad You came and tried to get acquainted. The medium was in her trance And in their trances ghosts inspire em She asked if I had any aunts; I told her " Yes," and you cried " Hiram 1 " You charmed me with your pleasing chat. Your accents growing ever fonder; I liked the way you told me that You felt so happy over yonder; You said that Uncle Bill and Sis Were much improved by their translation. I m sure I never asked you this You volunteered the information. You whispered that my lot in life In after years would be a glad one, But that I couldn t trust my wife I thought that queer I never had one I [133] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY You said George Wright could throw some light On stocks in which I was investing; I have no stocks, I don t know Wright But still your news was interesting. You said I d had the scarlet rash And didn t have a good digestion, And then you vanished like a flash Ere I could ask a single question. Oh, spinster aunt, no matter where The soft ethereal breezes blow you, On my arrival over there I ll look you up I d like to know you ! [134] TO A MOVIE CHILD TO A MOVIE CHILD OH, little loving Movie Child, What woes are yours to carry! Your mother gets a little riled And throws you from the ferry ! The dastard villains, scowling black, To show how much they hate you, Affix you to a railroad track Where trains may decimate you. Although your sentiments are pure As William Jennings Bryan s, The Arab sheiks are always sure To feed you to the lions. I ve seen a widow, pale and wild, Amid the flames that burned her, Observing, " Fireman, save my child! " And lo ! The fireman spurned her. I ve seen you penned inside a lair By some base-hearted sinner, About the time a grizzly bear Was coming home to dinner. [135] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY I ve seen you smiling with delight While busily unwrapping A big round stick of dynamite, Whose fuse was brightly snapping. And always you have worn a smile So tender and forgiving, To show that you were free from guile And felt the joy of living. Though scheming scoundrels plainly spoke The evil they intended, You treated them like gentlefolk And never seemed offended. Full many an hour youVe beguiled, Full many a thrill I owe you; But you re so good, dear Movie Child, I would not care to know you. [136] THE OUIJA BOARD THE OUIJA BOARD WHEN Madam took the Ouija Board at my request, and made An effort to communicate with Herbert Spencer s shade, And Herbert presently came forth and spelled a note, which said: 14 My son, I ain t had no regrets at all since I been dead. If you set tight a little while and watch the Madam s hand, I ll learn you all there is to know about the spirit land," I thought, although at the unknown I do not like to scoff, That Herbert must have changed a bit since he has shuffled off. When Cyclops, also by request, obliged by coming through And set the Ouija Board at work, as all good spirits do, [137] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY I own that I was quite surprised when he said: " Never fear, There ain t no cause to worry, lad, your Uncle Cy is here. I seen your granddad yesterday, he s looking fine and well, I hope you ll call me every night, there s such a lot to tell." I could not help reflecting, as he wandered out of range, That some things in the spirit world are marvelously strange. " Can you call up George Eliot?" " Why, sure," the Madam said, " This Ouija Board will send you word from anyone that s dead." She placed her fingers on the board, and lo! the thing was done; She wrote, slow spelling out each word: u I m old man Eliot s son, I know a lot of friends of yours; we have the self same joys, But not the sorrows and the trials we did when we was boys." I sighed and o er my beaded brow I passed my handkerchief, " These spirit miracles," said I, u are almost past belief." [138] A BLOOMING SHAME A BLOOMING SHAME IT S reported in the trusty Sunday cables That the little English children, bless their hearts, Are enamored of the glamour of the substitute for grammar Which the transatlantic movie show imparts. In the title of the Fairbanks-Chaplin pictures There s a certain brutal punch and vulgar tang, And the hapless little blighters (they re all cinema first nighters) Are becoming too adept in Yankee slang. It is harmful to the adolescent Briton To observe a giddy youth upon the screen Who bestows his hard-earned thick uns among females he calls chickens Over whom he says he s wild instead of keen. Little children quickly catch these horrid phrases, Never thinking how debased it is and wrong When the lady with the poodle doesn t murmur " Toodle-oodle ! " When she waves her hand at parting, but " So long!" [139] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY How it pains the proud and proper British parent When his son and heir,- a toppy little chap, Quarreling with his brother Willie, rather than re mark, "You silly!" Substitutes the awful expletive, " You sap ! " How the British mother shudders in amazement When her daughter with disgusting Yankee pep Doesn t say, " My word, old topper, you will come a blooming cropper! " But observes with blunt directness, " Watch yer step!" And the elegant, soft-spoken British nursemaid, How she suffers when the children in her care, As they munch their morning kippers, speak of kids instead of nippers, And, when meaning " Aw Gawan I " say, " Get the air!" We should really ask our motion picture magnates If they won t put more refinement in their game, Introducing slang expressions in His Majesty s pos sessions Is a blighted, bally, blooming, bloody shame 1 [140] HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE? HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE? A LOVELY insect is the bee < A thousand bards, I guess, have said it > But just the same, we cannot see That he deserves especial credit, Nor shall we waste our readers time With fulsome and enraptured phrases And make of them a fawning rhyme To sing the small impostor s praises. The bee does work, that s true enough; He violates all union hours In batting round the fields to stuff Himself with honey culled from flowers. But if he paused upon a limb To rest or gossip or palaver, His fellow-bees would light on him And he d be left a cold cadaver. He never quits or goes on strikes Or visits with his idle neighbors, But that is not because he likes To be engaged on toilsome labors. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY He never loafs, but that s because The craven creature is afraid to, He knows the apiarian laws, And only works because he s made to. So often he s been sung about That in his silly little noddle He hasn t got the slightest doubt That he is an industrial model. We ll never praise the priggish bug; The industry he makes such show of Reminds us of a lot of smug Vainglorious people that we know of. THE HIGHER COW CULTURE THE HIGHER COW CULTURE In Wisconsin it has been found that cows pro vided with beautiful surroundings are far more pro ductive than the common cow of the barnyard and stanchels. NEWS ITEM. WHEN first our cow, once strong and hale And buoyant with the joy of living, Began, along last Spring, to fail It filled us all with black misgiving. For cows, when grass grows lush and green Should give their minds to getting fatter, And when they re wan, and sad of mien, There s something serious the matter. The vet suggested change of food And restfulness and calm and quiet But still she seemed to droop and brood Despite the rest and altered diet. At last one day, oppressed with gloom And with her heart like lead within her She wandered in the dining room Where we were sitting down to dinner. [143] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY She looked about her with delight And sighed with deep appreciation; (Our furniture is Hepplewhite Nice tasteful stuff though imitation) She viewed the paintings on the wall Serene, attentive and quiescent, And one who knew the cow at all Could see that she was convalescent. And now she has her own boudoir Of tile and marble, brightly burnished And all her bovine sisters are Supplied with rooms as nicely furnished. They all are sleek and happy-eyed Their gratitude they cannot utter, But, since their souls are satisfied We re simply swamped with cream and butter! [144] IT CAN T BE DONE IT CAN T BE DONE WE remember when we saw " The Lights o London " That it never struck the audience as odd, When the villain, badly baffled, and in danger of the scaffold Quoth, sincerely and convincingly, " my ! " There was something in a few well-chosen cuss- words Which was pleasing to the proletariat; Three or four strong imprecations gave a zip to situations That would otherwise have fallen pretty flat. But they re getting more meticulous in London, When the hero cops the lady and the pelf, There is never any thrill in the remonstrance of the villain, For he s forced to do his cursing to himself. Though convulsed with boiling fury by his troubles, He must guard against the slightest verbal slips For a governmental power will confine him in the Tower If he even frames a swear-word with his lips. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY They are sending lynx-eyed censors to the movies; Psycho-analyists they are remorseless birds Who derive keen satisfaction as they watch the drama s action In deciphering a man s unuttered words, And if any actor, moved by inspiration To pronounce a single pantomimic d -n ! * Just to make the scene intenser, is detected by the censor, He discovers that he s got into a jam. Now we strongly disapprove of bar-room language Such as thieves and gunmen bandy in their rage, But mild oaths in moderation used to voice strong indignation Have been heard since the invention of the stage. And we think an absolutely cussless movie, Though with fascinating crime it overflowed And was perfect in construction, and a masterly pro duction, Would go busted on the second night it showed. * Censored. [146] THE LOST VOICE THE LOST VOICE SEATED one day in the office Distracted and ill at ease, I wildly jiggled the phone-hook And Central said, " Number, please ?" I know not what number I gave her, J Tis vanished beyond recall. I know I was flabbergasted That she answered the phone at alll It filled me with sheer amazement, It filled me with fierce delight, For when she repeated the number She actually got it right ! I glued the phone to my eardrum, And my heart beat high and fast As I said to myself, " Eureka 1 I shall get that call at last." I waited, and waited, and waited; Once more I seized the hook Between my thumb and finger And shook, and shook, and shook. [1471 MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY But I listened and listened vainly, The sun had waned and set And the stars were out, but Central Had made no answer yet. v It may be she ll answer some time, But I wonder now and then If only when I m in heaven Shall I hear that voice again. THE MOVIE SUBSTITUTE THE MOVIE SUBSTITUTE (His Plaint) You have sobbed when the heroine lady Said "Bah! " with a touch of disdain, As the villain (the cur) bound a rope around her And tied her in front of a train. The debacle likely to happen You dreaded extremely to see, But there wasn t a Jane there in front of the train, That s the job that they pass out to me ! You have wept when you gazed at the hero As he leaped from the top of the cliff, u Ah me," you have said, " when he lights he ll be dead, That villain s a murderous stiff." But the hero, at that exact moment Was home and in bed and asleep, Those leading part chumps are not cast for the jumps I m paged when the boss wants a leap. [149] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY And when there s a general rough-house And someone has got to get hit With a beer keg or rock, good and hard on his block, The real movie actors all quit. And when they re a little bit careless, As they frequently happen to be, And a man s put to bed with a hole in his head, I m the boy that the doc comes to see. They put me in cages with lions, Who think it s a nice little jest To paw me around as I lie on the ground And practice new bites on my chest. Whenever in case of a mix-up Some gent may get hurt pretty bad, The actors aren t there they re too easy to scare And too valuable- I am the lad 1 [150] THE VAMP PASSES THE VAMP PASSES Vamp plays are no longer popular with photo play audiences. A MOVIE SCOUT. No longer the wife of the hero Need swallow a piteous sigh, And stifle the storm that convulses her form As she kisses her husband good-by. No longer her wife s intuition Can waken the fear in her breast That he s going to decamp with a red-headed Vamp On the nine-fifty train for the West. Oh! The Vamp was a merciless creature, Whenever she met a young wife She would powder her nose, strike an insolent-pose And sneer (and they sneer like a knife !) And the kindest and lovingest husbands Who never before had backslid Would lamp at the Vamp like a rah-rahing scamp, And coyly observe, " Oh, you kid! " No opulent home could be happy: The Vamp s subterranean stealth In the very first reel never failed to reveal That the husband was rolling in wealth, MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY And, putting her gauziest dress on, She looked and she looked and sjie looked At the poor millionaire, who would never beware Until he was hopelessly hooked. I grieve that the Vamp has departed, Though of course I could never approve When she harrowed the lives of those innocent wives Still she DID keep events on the move, And, watching her witching behavior, I have frequently hankered to see Just how hard I d resist if a Vamp should insist, On working the Vamp stuff on me ! [152] NELL AND OTHERS Douffhboy Ditties: NELL-AND OTHERS I WASN T fightin for money; I wasn t fightin for fame, Or to save the world for ^Democrats, as some o them statesmen claim; But I waded into the Boches whenever I got a chance, An kept em jumpin backward till they jumped plumb out o France. There wasn t much time for thinkin when the shot an the shrapnel fell, But I reckon I was fightin for a girl o the name o Nell (An a girl named Sue, an a girl named Mame, an a girl named Flo as well) . I see what they done to Flanders, an it kind o occurred to me That we didn t want no Boches on our own side of the sea, For they didn t act like humans, an they didn t fight like men, An the safest way to deal with em, was to head em home again. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY Just what I thought in the thick of it is thunderin hard to tell, But I reckon that I was thinkin of a girl o the name o Nell (An* a girl named Jane, an a girl named Maud, an* a girl named May as well). There s always a little girl at home that you sort o wish was there When a little General comes along an hands you a Craw de Gare. There s always a girl that you hope to meet when the troopship hits the pier When you ve seen the last o the kind of Janes that y kid with over here. There s always a girl you are homesick for when you ve been away a spell, An that s the girl I was fightin for a girl o the name o Nell, (An a girl named Lou, an a girl named Ide, an a girl named Bess as well). [154] IN LINE Doughboy Ditties: IN LINE IT ain t policing the roads o France (Which we do with a spade an pick) ; It ain t the washin o shirts and pants, When the mud is especial thick; It ain t a-keepin the Boche at work In his towns on the rollin Rhine. What gets us sore, now there ain t no war, Is standin around in line. For we stand in line at inspection An we stand in line for our slum; An we stand in line for our mug of wine When the water is on the bum. We stand in line at the " Y " canteen For doughnuts an pie an things. An I kind o fear we will still be here Till we stand in line for our wings. There s nothin a feller would class as fun In bossin a Boche around; The gutteral talk of the average Hun Is hardly a cheerin sound. [155] MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY But we d do all that an a lot beside, With never a growl or whine. What keeps us plumb dissatisfied Is standin around in line. We will stand in line for our letters If the mail gets in to-day. We will stand in line till the Cap can sign The orders to draw our pay. An it looks as if we d be dreamin still Of a certain street in the States Where the bright lights shine, when we stand in line For our turn at the Pearly Gates. THOUGHTS ON PIE Doughboy Ditties: THOUGHTS ON PIE AT night, when we camped by the old chateau, An the yellow moon looked down, I used to dream of a girl I know A girl in the old home town. I dreamed o the words she said to me The day that we said good-by, When I left her to cross the rollin sea But mostly I dreamed o pie. For there s girls in England and girls in France An girls on the windin Rhine; You are always meetin a lovin glance Anywheres up the line. You can always sit in a game o hearts Where the ante s a gentle sigh, But the scarcest thing in these foreign parts Is a hunk o regular pie. An now that the packet is headed home An the lights fade on the shore, As I watch the gloaming begin to gloam I am dreamin my dreams once more. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY Again I dream o that last good-by Ere I sailed o er the rollin brine, But mostly I dream o the big mince pie That soon will be mine all mine. There ll be always girls, if you look around, Wherever your feet may stray; Whether you re outward or homeward bound, They ll never be far away. But when you re guardin a dreary post Or watchin the shrapnel fly, The thing that you sure will miss the most Is that good old home-made pie. HEALTHY Doughboy Ditties: HEALTHY An army doctor has assured members of the Army of Occupation that the climate along the Rhine is more healthful than that of America. When we re sick o keepin watch on country cross roads, Lest some Captain s private flivver go astray, When we re sick of cleaning skillets in these greasy German billets, And are hungerin to see the U.S.A., Then the Doc he comes along an looks us over, An he grins at all the kickers in the line, Sayin to us, " What s the matter? Ain t you dough boys gettin fatter? Don t you know the climate s healthy on the Rhine?" "Healthy climate," says the Doc. Well, who ll deny it? We can eat our weight in chow at every meal. But when settin round an pinin for to see the home- lights shinin It don t make a lot o difference how you feel. MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY 1 ain t longin for pneumonia nor nothin Bein sick would never fill me full o cheer. But I d just as leave or leaver have the " flu " or typhoid fever Back in Harlem as be healthy over here. I admit that I could lick my weight in wildcats, But there ain t no wildcats over here to lick. There is nothin here more thrillin than this drillin , drillin , drillin , An it makes you sore to think you gotta stick. There is things in life beside a healthy climate, There is things that s just as good as bein well Nothin doin , nothin stirrin ; nothin worth your while occurrin - It is healthy sure it s healthy but it s hell! THE END [160] THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. AUto J-O IvOv fips * f IS42P RECEIVED BY JUN 2 1944 SEP^G 1984 18Feb 64KW CIRCULATION DEPT , ,t,v .. i> - ICD /. M-of i INTERL. UNIV. OF C i Anrlinr^^ ,\^n c Reeved in W^ .rn^VC^ ht.r LD 21-100m-8, 34 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY