Chapter I: KNOW a crippled woman who lives through years of pain with patience

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

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IN OLD AGE

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

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HOMELESS

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

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THE HAPPY HOME

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

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THE UNHAPPY HOME

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

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COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT

NEW VERSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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AT THE END

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

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WHAT’S THE USE?

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

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THE MAN WANTED

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

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

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

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A MAD WORLD

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

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PUNCTUALITY

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

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DOWN AND OUT

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

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“CHARGE IT”

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

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THE CROAKER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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CHOOSING A BRIDE

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

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AFTER US

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

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SOME OF THE POOR

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

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THE HARVEST HAND

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

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WHAT I’D DO

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

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

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

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

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THE FORTUNE TELLER

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

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GOLD BRICKS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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AMBITIONS

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

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

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

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

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CHRISTMAS MUSINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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THE WAY OF A MAN

BEFORE MARRIAGE

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

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

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

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

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AFTER MARRIAGE

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

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

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

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

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

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THE TWO SALESMEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE PRODIGAL SON

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

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HOSPITALITY