The minister was grieved,
And only by an earnest prayer
His feelings he relieved.
But Mary’s wearing bloomers now;
The parson greets her with a bow,
And well she knows that he ‘ll allow
Her bloomers.
When Mary first were bloomers
The boys did shout and howl
“Git onter de female Turkish guy!”
Regardless of her scowl.
In bloomers Mary stillis dressed--
The boys have ceased their ribald jest
And lost their wicked interest
In bloomers.
When Mary first wore bloomers
Her sire was really shocked;
The mater blushed and trembled
And her brothers at her mocked.
But Mary’s wearing them today--
She’s confident they ‘ve come to stay;
And men do n’t look the other way
From bloomers.
Unassorted Verse
Johnson
(Extracts from the diary of Joel Baily, Constable.)
April 6th.
Who’s Johnson?
No one knows who Johnson is.
Came to town a month ago,
Went to work, minded his biz.--
An’ that’s all our people know.
Seems a quiet sort o’man,
Doesn’t talk about his life;
No ambition--not a plan--
Hasn’t neither child ner wife.
July 3d.
Dickson’s house burnt down today.
All rushed out, an’ in their flight
Left their baby boy at play--
Quite forget’n’ him through fright.
None dared stir ‘til Johnson came,
Heard the news an’ rushed inside,
Fought his way through smoke an’ flame,
Saved the child. But Johnson--died.
No one knows who Johnson is,
But many loved the man today,
Glad I was a friend o’his--
Died a hero’s death, I say.
July 10th.
Famous city detective’s here;
Came to hunt a murd’rer down.
Tracked the feller nigh a year,
‘Til he traced him to our town.
Said the man was desperate--
Worst he ever knew by half.
Hoped he hadn’t come too late;
Then he showed me his photograph.
‘T was Johnson!
La Reine Est Mort1--
Vive la Reine!
THEN shout hurrah for the woman new,
With her rights and her votes and her bloomers, too!
Evolved though bikes and chewing gum,
She’s come!
And whisper farewell to the sweetheart fair,
To the blushing cheeks and modest air;
To the eyes that shone so tender and true--
Adieu!
And shout hurrah for the woman new!
With her necktie, shirt and tooth-pick shoe,
With tailor-made suit and mien2 severe
She’s here!
And bid good-by3 to the matron sweet,
To the mother the whole world used4 to greet
With reverence. She’s had to quit
And flit!
And shout hurrah for the woman new!
Who wants a new Bible to suit her new view,
And writes for the papers and eats at the club
Her grub.
And search in vain for the loving wife--
That prise5 once counted most precious in life;
That aggressive New Woman has put her away
To stay!
1. sic.
2. 23 June 1895 Chicago Times-Herald has “mein.”
3. newspaper version has “goodbye.”
4. newspaper version has “loved.”
5. newspaper version has “prize.”
Ye Warming Pan
OUR ancestor of early days,
Although half civilized,
Had still some method in his ways
And comfort highly prized,
He knew enough to warm his bed--
This level-headed man--
“God bless the chap,” he often said,
“Who got the notion in his head
To make the warming pan!”
We moderns who are girded
By all inventions new,
Now crawl between two icy sheets
And shiver ‘til we’re blue.
We stick our nose above the clothes
And yell--when speak we can--
“The fashion blast from first to last
That made a relic of the past
The ancient warming pan!”
The Egotist
I
NOW what care I what the world may think,
So long as my thoughts are mine?
I may revel in dreams that are sweet to me,
In fancies and vagaries pleasant and free;
And no one will know of the joys I drink--
So long as my thoughts are mine.
II
And what care I what the world may say,
So long as my words are mine?
For others may prate of their worldly cares,
Of troubles, ambitions, of business or shares;
But I may converse in a pleasanter way--
So long as my words are mine.
III
And what care I what the world may do,
So long as my deeds are mine?
The scramble for wealth and power and fame
Is a life that to me seems dull and tame;
For I--but that I must not tell you
So long as my deeds are mine!
The Youngster
I
A MAN is as old as he feels, they say.
And I feel quite young, and my heart is light;
Nor can I explain in plausible way
The dimness that ‘s creeping athwart my sight.
II
My heart is light and I laugh with joy,
Nor care a jot for the world and its ways;
Not even rheumatic twinges alloy
The pleasures I glean from these youthful days.
III
I laugh with joy--and I’d leap with glee
If only my back would permit the play;
For dear are the frolics of youth to me.
And a man ‘s as young as he feels, they say!
Nance Adkins
(Three years in succession the Dakota wheat crop failed. The third year farmers were left without seed. A committee was appointed to seek aid from neighboring states and to borrow sufficient wheat to furnish the needy farmers the required seed.
(Their efforts were successful, but many of the farmers were too proud to apply to the committee, or to accept what they considered charity. The story of Nance Adkins is true.)
SO I up an’ says to William,
As he sot the winder nigh
An’ watched the flutterin’ snow flakes
As they floated from the sky:
“Come, old man--don’t look so bitter,
Fill yer pipe, an’ take a smoke;
Draw yer chair up nigh the fire,
An’ let’s talk awhile an’ joke!
“It ain’t right to be downhearted;
Time to laugh is jest the while
When yer feel yer’d like ter blubber--
Then it ‘s some use fer to smile!”
“Yes, says he, “I know, old woman,
What it’s right I orter do;
But the pluck is all gone from me--
Nothin’s left ter buckle to
“That can keep my wife an’ children
From starvation’s boney grasp,
An’ the future ‘s dark an’ dreary--
Ruin ‘s come to us at last!
“To be sure, I might
ha’ mor’gaged
All we had to buy us feed
‘Til there comes another harvest,
If we only had the seed.
“Yes--I know--I might ‘a’ had it,
But the false pride held me back;
I could ‘nt make the ‘application’
An’ beg--fer a single sack!
“I could easy face the hardships
That ‘s a comin’, I well know,
If it was n’t that the children
An’ you, wife, must suffer so!”
“Come, come, Bill,” says I, quite cheerful,
Though a lump were in my throat,
“There’s a many honest honest farmer
That ‘s in jest as bad a boat.
“So let ‘s kneel; and ask fer courage
As we’re told to in His word;
It ‘ll make our hearts feel lighter,
Even if the prayer ain’t heard.”
Solemnly we knelt us down,
And together, hand in hand,
Prayed that He would grant His mercy
To the needy in the land.
Suddenly there come a rappin’
Right there on our kitchen door,
An’ William opened it an’ found
A man we ‘d never seen afore.
An’ he says, so bright an’ smilin’,
“Farmer, here’s a load o’ wheat
Jest the ‘mount ye need fer seedin’--
Please ter sign this here receipt.
“Fer I come from the C’mitte
That has raised fer honest men
All the seed they need fer puttin’
‘Em upon their feet agen.
“Here ‘s yer orig’nal Application:
‘Farmer Adkins has a need
Fer an even hundred bushel,
On his land to use fer seed.
“‘Signed, Bill Adkins.’ There ye are, sir,
An’ of course ye’ll pay the men
Fer the seed they have advanced ye
When the harvest comes agen.”
Silent like Bill took the paper;
Silent turned to where I stood
With the tears a rollin’ down my
Face--because I felt so good!
An’ he reached out both his strong arms
An he hugged me to his breast,
Sayin’, “Nance, of all the blessin’s
On this earth, the very best
“Is a wife that ‘s kind an’ loving!
This here seed I do n’t despite,
Though I guess the applicater
Were a woman ‘bout your size.
“Come, old girl, we ‘ll kneel once more;
You can thank the God above
Fer the blessin’ of the seed-wheat,
An’ I fer a noble woman’s love!”
A Bird Dog
IN the cage was the canary
Trilling forth in accents merry,
Full of life and also very
Graciously contented.
On the floor the little Pug,
Watching, lay upon a rug,
And, to judge from wrinkled mug,
Biridie’s glee resented.
Soon he sprang upon the table--
Though you ‘d scarce think he was able--
And straightaway ensued the babel
Discordant and hideous!
Mary, hearing sounds of fray,
Entered quick in dire dismay,
But alas! the feathers lay
Scattered most invidious.
Mary was beside herself,
But the Pug cared naught; the elf
Had the bird inside himself
And was satisfied.
Mary wept and Mary wailed,
But the murd’rer never quailed;
He ‘d have wept if he had failed,
Now he grinned with pride.
When the Whistle Blows
TIRED faces brighten
When the whistle blows,
Grave eyes quickly lighten,
For the workman knows
Now the tedious work is done,
Day is at its close,
And the daily wage is won
When the whistle blows.
Homeward thoughts are turning
When the whistle blows,
For the hearthstone yearning
And the sweet repose
Surely won in labor’s mart;
So the workman goes
To his home with joyful heart
When the whistle blows.
The Heretic
I KNOW they calls me “heretic”--
An names that’s even wuss,
‘N’ say as I ‘m a shif’less chap,
Not wuth a tinker’s cuss
They ask me why I do n’t go t’ church
An’ hear the parson preach
An’ lis’n to the doctrines
He’s anxious fer to teach.
The church is mighty grand an’ fine,
Too fine fer me, I guess,
Fer it ‘s a place where rents are high
An’ all is style an’ dress.
The parson gets, fer what he says,
A mighty lib’ral pay,
An’ when they do n’t shell out enough
He quits, an’ goes away.
The deacon tole me yisterday
That when I come to die
I’ll burn in everlastin’ flame
Forever an’ for aye!
Says he, “jes’ see how saintly
A feller can become
Who says his prayers an’ does n’t touch
Terbaccer, beer ner rum!”
But when a man las’ winter
Begged fer a loaf o’ bread
To feed his starvin’ family
This same good deacon said:
“You scoundrel, if I find agen
You ‘re beggin’ at my door,
I’ ll put ye in the calaboose
Fer sixty days, er more!”
Las’ Sunday old Sam Jackson,
Who allus were a thief,
An’ cussed an’ swore an’ had no store
O’ Christianlike belief,
Lay dyin’ in his shanty,
An’ when he passed away
He tol’ me he was ‘mighty glad
He ‘d never larnt to pray.
An’ over to th’ meetin’-house
They took up a c’lection
T’ “spread th’ Word in Asia,”
Or some other furrin section.
Thy did n’t care that layin’ ‘round
The city were a show
O’ heathens wuss ner Asia’s--
‘T wa’ n’t Christianlike, ye know.
It ‘s allus been my way t’ try
To help my feller man,
An’ when I find a wretch that’s down
I boost him all I can.
I know ‘t ain’t Christianlike, an’ that
I orter pray instead.
That my poor soul won’t be burnt up
Immejitly I’m dead.
Each churchman ‘s pluggin’ fer himself,
An’ cares fer nothin’ more
If he can only land at last
Upon the golden shore.
An’ so, I guess a heretic
I’d much prefer to be;
This selfish Christianity
Ain’t good enough fer me!
A Rare Bit
(Writ dejectedly at early dawn.)
THE rarebit is an elfish imp
That wields a deadly power,
Though frequently nonchalantly
The demon we devour.
I think I ‘ve figured out the way
This weird dish is created,
And if you ‘d try this recipe
Below ‘t is plainly stated:
You take a drove of nightmares,
Of headache quite a lot,
A cord of hard dyspepsia
/> And of mulligrubs a jot,
And roll and mash and bake ‘em
‘Til browned to fit the code,
Then feed it to your dearest friends
As “rarebit, à la mode”!
‘T would be palpably fictitious
Though suff’ring from its sting,
Should I say it’s not delicious--
Unfit to feast a king.
I can only pray devoutly,
(In addition to my litany,)
From rarebit Lord deliver me,
So I never more will get any!
The Fisher Man
WHEN balmy Spring days come once more
I find myself a wishing
That I might wander on the shore
And spend a day a fishing.
So I hie me to the store
Where sporting goods beguile
And purchase an outfit galore,
With which to fish in style.
I pay an X for rod and reel,
For lines and flies a V,
And then II more to add a creel
To hold the fish, you see.
And then for suit of curduroy
I squander quite a sum,
And several dollars more employ
For bait that is n’t rum.
The railway fares are rather high
(Trout brooks are isolated,)
But who cares for expense, say I,
When sportively elated?
And when at last I reach the brook
And cast my brightest fly,
I marvel how these fish will look
When landed high and dry.
When Mc Guffy
“Whin McGuffy hits the growler
He jist inflates his chist
An’ plants his futs upon the flure,
Thin gives his belt a twist;
He throws his whole head back a bit
An’ howlds the growler tight,
An’ thin the bottom av the pail
Quite aisy comes in sight!”
Two Women
THE woman Old and woman New
Met one day, as women do,
And looked each other through and through.
“What’s creature’s this?” cried the woman Old,
“Who doth her ‘form divine’ enfold
In raiment immodest and bold?”
“Insolent wretch!” quoth the woman New,
“Shall I accept insult from you,
Who know naught but to cook and sew?”
“Cook and sew!” the other said,
“Is ‘t then no wit to make good bread
Or neatly mend for him you’ve wed?”
“Task for menials!” the New one cries,
A fine scorn flashing from her eyes;
“Such occupations I despise.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 872
