Chapter II: Part 2

Nearly all of the animals go in herds,
Fishes, mammals, bees, ants, and even birds.
The snakes are not so socially inclined;
They had rather with none combined,
Slip cautiously alone and snap from behind.
Man has always a social animal been,
To get his food and commit his sin.
He has always stood for organizations,
Municipalities, states and corporations,
Made to protect him against depredations.
Whenever new thoughts take form in his head,
He is sure to try to have others into them led,
By his talks and whatever by him is said.
Man has made laws and written them down,
Telling the good people all not frown;
That by their consent these laws are made:
“The consent of the governed,”
Is exactly what they said.
That is true as the law-makers by your vote,
Are elected your welfare to promote.
Laws are rules laid down for our control,
Pointing out paths where we may not stroll,
Marking the lines in which our rights are defined,
Commanding and forbidding the multifarious kind
Of the things we must do or leave behind.
Some laws are on natural justice based;
That might be speculatively traced
To the dealings of man in his beginning;
Starting out in the races he was winning
Over his ancestors, those animals called “low,”
He might have come upon one not so slow;
Who singly could not be brought down with a blow;
So with his likes he combined the swift one to get
For their food, and their appetites to whet.
Now when this animal combined they took,
The question was up, and not a law book,
By which to decide who should take the hide;
And into what and how many parts the rest to divide:
So they naturally counted the number of their gang,
While this juicy meat did before them hang;
And number parts equal to the number of them
Was equally cut off the beast from stern to stem:
The meat thus divided the hide could not
Be usefully carved up, so they gambled for it by lot:
In the hand of each a pebble to throw at a spot,
They took to try who closest to the mark got;
And the one it who did the nearest hit,
Took away the hide for his skill and grit.
The idea of justice thus received
Is about as good as has ever been achieved,
By reading all the books in every case
Where the law is defined for the human race.
Life might be likened to a game of chance
And the laws, the rules by which we advance
Our men upon the board or throw the lance:
When people together their business transact,
Follow the rules, and courts will solve the contract.
When our forefathers made this Republic of ours,
They established a constitution limiting the powers,
That the government itself could exercise
The best to preserve our liberty they could devise.
Even before this fundamental law they did make,
Which of necessity did part of our liberty take,
They prefaced all our laws for me and you
With certain inalienable rights kept in view:
“That all men were created equal,” they knew;
“That life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,”
Were set out in plain view, our land to bless.
Now every law since that date passed by the state,
To that extent our liberties infringe, even though we scringe;
And feel the distress, without redress,
Of many iniquitous acts, even by Congress.
If men were actually well-behaved,
Much useless trouble and expense could be saved:
Laws being hobbies our liberties to restrain;
Some barely holding us, even with tight rein.
The socialist man, if I do not mistake,
Would all restraint from our law makers take,
So that the state might feed and regulate
All the peoples who come within its gate,
And all others’ properties appropriate,
To the general good as by them understood.
The titles to your lands and everything good
That on them stands, they would concentrate
Into public hands whom they would nominate.
The labor and the work, the leaders would shirk,
Would be done by some one or his clerk.
So that we all would have a good time,
In our day, should we adopt their line.
“Every man has a right to work and eat”;
And such clap trap of verbiage we meet,
On every hand as we go over our land.
They jabber, but their sense I can’t see.
How can this come in the land of the free?
They produce arguments hoary with age,
Used by many a high-class sage,
That the ownership of property--especially land,
Never had a foundation on which it could stand.
That the whole idea was a fiction once,
And not to see it now one is a dunce.
That all your vested rights on paper,
Are unsound, no matter what caper
Folks may cut their supposed rights to hold,
With all their power and hoarded gold.
If they can unite the working man on their side,
They hope into power to gloriously slide.
The men who labor with their hands have all
United into bands.
Feeling that the little work there is to do
Must pay the most to the ones who pursue
Trades of all kinds and of every hue.
That the work for men to do with hands
Is constant, regardless of supply and demands;
Never once observing that the cost
Of production many jobs them have lost.
So even if they do get more out of that they do;
The valuable time lost in the trades they pursue,
Will more than compensate for th’ advanced rate
They obtain from the fewer jobs that remain.
Why it does not occur to them while they dream
What a big world this is with all its demesne,
Is a matter beyond explanation by what I ween.
That work is not confined on this big earth,
But spreads out to give us all a wide berth.
Against trusts and monied corporations,
Men in their stations might form associations
Their rights to demand and their wrongs to reduce,
But against th’ individual there is no excuse,
Why unions upon him should heap their abuse.
If one build a house to cover up his head,
Why should union labor try to kill him dead,
By making the cost so high that none can buy,
Houses building now far and nigh.
But all these perplexing questions are upon us;
And the merits and demerits we must discuss,
If practical socialism must come,
We must face it, each and every one.
By the brotherhood of man, maybe we can
Find a way to harmonize every tribe and clan
And save this civilization for the good of man.

The Public

My subject here is simply a term to express
“A somewhat,” the nature of which is a guess.
Of the substance contained in the above term,
It seems almost impossible for one to learn,
No image of it in his mind can he conceive,
Reflects the intelligence he’d wish to receive.
What the public looks like or is,
Is more than you can tell or wis.
According to some it’s “ideas in th’ abstract.”
So let us take that for the real fact.
The public does not seem to be you or I
Or anybody else--I’ll tell you why;
Whoever or whatever the thing may be,
He, she, or it shoulders blame for you and me,
For wickedness done in his dear name,
And credit for intended good, the same,
In very many cases that men declaim.
If a bunch of grafters wish to float a deal,
Say in baking powder, wheat, or oat meal;
First the public pulse they scientifically feel,
To discover signs of fever germs in foods,
We’ve been eating, and such other goods
Of the same kinds we’ve bought all our lives,
And from which others are supporting wives,
And children as they’ve done all their lives.
Of course their doctor this pulse carefully felt,
And discovered that germ tracks were smelt
In most of the stuff we put in our pelt.
He discovered too that alum would
Dry up the diaphragm if used in food.
Also that certain foods contained sand,
That might get into the public craw, and
Brace them up too much to patriotically vote
For such a pure food law as they’d like to float.
So after their analysis was properly wrote,
They get their pure food law nicely framed up
To suit their scheme and for the people to gulp.
Then their bugle horns they did blare,
And it carried before we were aware.

Physicians

In olden times, doctors and barbers were the same,
As we find in books from which we always gain
Information on all such historic matter.
As bleeding was the thing then to batter
Out diseases the striped pole must be
An emblematic relic of the blood running free
Down and around our hip, thigh and knee.
But the two trades have been now long separated;
And while neither should be underestimated
And both receive their due from me and you,
The barbers’ trade is not really and truly due
As much criticism as is the medicine crew.
There are plenty of fine physicians and surgeons,
Who receive their praise from us in legions;
But the “money-rosis” has struck the doctors
As other trades, including divorce proctors.
I well remember in the days long past,
Pulse felt, and a look at the color the tongue cast,
When the doctor was done, and no more was asked.
He said it was simply chills and fever he did believe,
Which a good dose of calomel or blue mass would relieve,
All of which the patient did then and there receive.
You might have had a slight pain in your head,
And you were advised to lie still in bed.
Now call a doctor your wife to see,
And while you sent for only one to fee,
Two or three more and sometimes a score,
To handle the different parts of the sore,
Come in and watch around your door;
Especially if you’ve got money, and get more.
If you fall and bruise your knee or elbow
A specialist must come to whom they show
Some of the dirt from the place around,
To ascertain if any microbes are found.
If a cough or cold comes in your head,
A sample or two of the sputum that you shed,
Is sealed up and sent away to be analyzed.
They always find ’em, so don’t be surprised.
And if plenty of money you can get
To pay all this cost and never sweat,
When your bills at home are all paid,
You’ll be then sent off on dress parade.
Doctors never come now and find you well;
Your ailments have names you cannot spell.
And when you ask what you’re about to take
The awful malady you have to try to shake
To pronounce its name your jawbone’ll break.
As simple a dose as soda and rain water
At the drug store will cost you a quarter.
All diseases now come straight from bacilli
Seen through those microscopes they buy.
Let these germs once your systems fill
You just as well not make your will,
It’ll take the farm to pay your doctor bill,
All diseases have now become contagious.
And their catching qualities outrageous.
When you walk do not spit on the street,
Lest your saliva infect those you meet.
No trains are allowed to have a drinking cup
In which others drink, lest you swallow up
The other fellow’s germs sticking to the glass
Of the family of microbes in the tubercular class.
No comb or brush is found to smooth your hair,
They’re prohibited and blacklisted everywhere.
All your water must be thoroughly boiled
And its palatable flavor entirely spoiled,
To slay the ferocious germs in it coiled.
And even the milk from your fat Jersey cow
Should be pasteurized as never before till now.
We might run down the whole category
Till you were tired, and I get hoary,
But these very things are the doctor’s glory.
Of course they are trying to lengthen life’s span,
And I’m not going to censure them if I can,
Only caution them to be easy as they can.
They don’t catch me often, my father was a physician,
And before he died, he made it his mission
To post me and make me wise on this score.
I have sometimes felt peevish and sore
Because father was too honest to lay up a store
For me to spend when I life began;
My father was above all an honest man.
Once my wife took pneumonic cough
And we for a doctor sent right off.
He came and found genuine bacilli.
Scared me, and made the wife almost cry.
They analyzed, criticised and diagnosed
And sent her away, with my house closed;
And for nights I scarcely dozed.
They gave her just six months of life
Before consumption would part me and my wife.
My plucky woman partly believed what they said,
And moped around a while and stayed in bed.
I had some doubts about what the specialists said,
And relied a little on what an old friend read,
Who had much practical experience, she said.
Of course my doubts about science I hate to tell,
But in a few weeks the wife was entirely well.
If the doctor wants to, let him tell
Why into the aforesaid mistake he fell.
Now you had all better beware and treat us fair,
If you have doubts about what our troubles are
Just do your best, and let nature do the rest.

Theologians

For the preacher’s trade one should have a call,
As has been said concerning the apostle Paul;
Who with power armed with writs to haul
Before magistrates Christians one and all,
And lodge them in jails subject to call
To be prosecuted in the name of the state
For sayings of Christ they did relate.
“Why persecutest thou me?” the Master said;
Then Saul, afterwards Paul, fell as one dead.
When he came to be had a call to preach,
So he went forth all nations to teach.
Not many of you preachers ever had a call,
Nor down as dead did any of you ever fall.
Most of you took to preaching to have something to do,
Although the picking is getting short for some of you,
If the newspaper accounts I’m reading be true.
When the lawyer’s job in the country gets short,
He adds insurance, abstracts, and things of that sort;
But when the preacher’s picking isn’t very good
He’d have ice-cream suppers whenever he could;
Or even quiltings and sewing society aid,
Eked out with dinners and sale of lemonade.
I notice now you’re going to take course
In farming to teach the brethren of the rural force;
But I’m afraid that if you begin shoot’n off your head
To some of those old rustics to help earn your bread,
You might get a set’n back worse than Old Ned,
Or even than Saul got when he fell as dead.
Farmers have ideas of their own they’ve tried;
And wouldn’t listen to the pastor or turn aside,
For his book learning he had himself supplied
While off at college that had never been tried.
You might do better holding to the plow,
While your brother farmer was milking his cow,
Feeding his stock and chopping his wood,
And in that way would do him more good.
But the best way for all is to wait for this call.
And don’t be in a hurry to be preachers at all.
If you wait a real call to actually hear,
You’ll be working soon and will not have to fear,
Without any other call than nature gives
To every animal that on earth now lives;
To be up and doing his fellow man to bless,
Which while doing you’ll keep from distress.

Lawyers

To attorneys, advocates, and counsellors all,
I’m not afraid to speak to you about your call;
Not afraid to give advice, I’m one of you,
You may heed, or I don’t care what you do.
You give advice and charge for the same;
Mine I freely give, and you get the gain.
When you get free what to others you sell,
You’ve something to brag about and tell.
I like you, you bunch of jolly good fellows,
Though you sometimes lunch like Col. Sellers.
And your Sunday suit gets so slick,
That a fly cannot walk on it and stick.
You too are letting people into your trade.
Deeds and legal papers are so easily made,
By real estate agents filling out blanks
Those you write are paid for in thanks.
You sit in your office with high-propped feet,
Longing for a friend to invite you out to eat,
Or waiting for a client to bring around a fee.
Sometimes you read or skip around in glee,
To make the impression that your mind is free;
And that you have plenty of work to do;
And never for a moment take a solemn view
Of how fast business is flying away from you.
Some of you are learning on a motor cycle to ride,
So when an accident occurs you are by the side
Of the injured one to get a damage suit
Against the company whose coffers you’d loot.
Some of you join the gang and get in politics,
To get some legal job they may help you fix.
One of you stirs up strife against divorce,
And gets to be proctor on the welfare force,
And gets a small salary as a matter of course.
Some get to be orators public affairs to discuss.
And get the press over you to make a fuss;
In that way you advertise your brains good
To swing a big case and get a livelihood.
Some join with unions to fight against the trusts,
Others against the unions sling their deadly thrusts.
Thus in battle array, some right and some wrong,
We manage in some way to push ourselves along.
The race of the old-time lawyers is nearly extinct
To whose memory my fond thoughts are linked.
I know a few whose names I’ll not give to you
Owing to my plan I intend to follow through,
Not to give names unless to represent a crew.
You know some yourself not in the law for pelf;
I’m one myself if into my record you care to look,
If I hadn’t been I need not have written a book
To make a little stake to put away for a rainy day.
Lawyers are not dishonest, no matter what you say,
Except when they serve you to get their pay.
They have to be deceiving to keep up with you:
You will not take your case you wish to sue
To some attorney who could not stand for you.
You know the attorney stands in your place,
And to an honest one you dare not show your face.
I’ve known lawyers who courted the name of crook,
Merely to catch grafters on their own hook.
You know well when you are sued that you choose
An attorney who will by any ruse, you excuse
To the jury who tried your case for the deeds,
You did, and you know you did not get your meeds.
So shut up your mouth and hie yourself home;
The subject of judges and lawyers leave alone.
Lawyers have always been pillars of the state
To uphold our institutions you’d annihilate.
Their trade is not alone on paper made;
It comes from growth by development’s aid.
It’s the garnered experience of all the ages,
Written in books upon numberless pages.
It has stood when empires fell,
When to the despots they did loudly tell
Of justice upon him the law’d compel;
It has stood against strife, slaughter and blood,
When other trades and institutions never could;
It rises in the right, iniquity to fight,
To protect the weak against men of might,
Over widows and orphans its protecting arm
Is extended to save the mortgaged farm;
It shields the criminal against the crazy mob
Giving him a trial of which they’d him rob.
For peace and order and justice in the land
Let us ever as true lawyers stand.

Names

By the use of names we designate
Some particular thing, person or state.
The naming of animals in the first place,
Was put upon Adam as father of the race.
This job imposed upon him no great task,
Because no one’s permission he had to ask,
Whether the name suited mule or cow,
Or the name horse he might to kid allow.
Now the names of animals who came
Before him in a long-extended train,
They had to take those which for them he did book
Because they did not have a list over which to look.
All proper names men can find,
Have been so often used by men of their kind,
That when a child is about to be born,
Into the world, the name it shall adorn
Has to be taken from the long list
Of those gone before, or who still persist.
Although we have quite a long catalogue,
We still have to search and our memory jog
To ascertain the character of the ones
Who bore the name about to be given to our sons;
Because any name may have been soiled
By its owner around whom might be coiled
The evidence of some offense the name to suffuse
Before the time we it did choose.
The likes and dislikes for names we take,
Come mostly from the character of the namesake.
A lot of names might be brought to view:
Like Jennie, Sallie, Mollie, Kate and Sue;
Or Perkins, Phelps, Pickering, and Penn,
And a whole book full of names for women and men.
The others need not here be enrolled,
In this little volume, or by me polled.
The things that did once make names great
Generally were acts done for the state,
Mostly in war, e. g., Alexander the Great,
Or Caesar, or even Napoleon the Sedate.
Sometimes names receive much eclat
At home, as well as near and far,
Like Washington, or our Jefferson,
And also Cleveland and Lincoln,
By statesmanship with head and brain
For the public good when peace did reign.
There used to be a time, now almost past,
When patriotism was then in full blast,
That men would sometimes almost actually do things
With no other pay than the consolation it brings,
Simply to be esteemed just, good and true,
With no other motive than to bless me and you.
But now of late men look upon the state
Simply as a fat goose for them down,
As o’er them her wings may spread around,
To hover and her blessings bring down.
The offices men fill to uphold the law,
Or collect our revenues to fat their maw
Are held mostly by ones we did not choose,
Who with politicians by some sharp ruse
Got nominated and elected against our views;
And when elected frame up bills
For legislation that their own pocket fills,
Regardless of the trouble and all the ills,
That fall upon the public that foots the bills.
New bureaus are made about everything
To which a gang of leaches can cling;
With their matrons, clerks and superintendents,
All hangers-on and their bunch of dependents,
Disgracing all over our broad land,
On every hand, the very name of man:
I fear that our present civilization cannot stand,
To live down the iniquity by them thus began.
The euphonious name of Guggenheimer,
Sipniski, Schradski, or even Joe Reimer,
Now is fine if their amounts in bank,
Stood their drafts and never shrank
Below the balance they had on hand
With the banks throughout the land.
A good name is appraised above riches,
But to keep that good to which one hitches,
When anyone can claim any name he likes
And ruin it forever, when off he hikes
To Canada or Old Mexico to get away
From the crimes he did in his day;
Making the name disgraceful he wears,
And none of the same name spares
From sharing the shame brought on the name,
To us, innocent and free from blame,
Except for the acts he did against our name.
Ambition leads us to attempt undying fame,
That after we are dead and in our grave
Our name shall live that we did engrave
Among the world’s heroes on every page
Of history that dies not with old age.
But everything to make us famous or great
Has been by someone, somewhere in every state
Of civilization accomplished and achieved,
So no chance is left for us, though grieved.
So let us not try to make our names great;
But instead, unite to rescue our own state,
From the clutches of the vultures at its heart;
And if we succeed at that, when we depart,
Those left behind will bear us in mind,
And write our names in the highest place they find.

Universal Peace

In all the past the records are full of war;
Men had one desire to be in a continual jar;
Or else the peaceful victories they did win
Were not such as they wrote therein.
Each nation, tribe, and men of ancient race
For each other had nothing but hatred and menace.
Upon the boundaries and rights of each,
The other did recklessly go to reach,
With rapine and murder in their hearts,
To snatch from each other all such parts
Of their lands, and their goods to confiscate,
As could be done by the hordes they did aggregate.
Their warriors and men to subjugate,
Their women and fair maids to subject
To brutality, and any other object
As they chose upon them to impose.
There were only two kinds in those times
Of peoples on earth, those in their own confines,
And barbarians who dwelt anywhere else,
Regardless of who they were, Goths, Huns or Celts.
No tie of sympathy was known or recognized,
Between those different tribes;
Each for the other was lawful prize.
Robbery, theft, and murder were terms,
Applied to deeds committed at home;
These same acts out where they did roam,
Were designated bravery and prowess,
When upon barbarians they did egress,
With battle-axe, darts, helmet and shield,
Bent on the slaughter of their fellow man;
For conquest and glory, they led the van;
Over mountains filled with perpetual snow,
Into heated valleys where the sun did glow;
They fought for pride, religion and show;
As upon crowned heads they wore
Laurels of victory for blood and gore.
But now has dawned a better day;
From ocean to ocean where men survey
Their lands and the boundaries fix
Where rights of each the line restricts;
And treaties with one nation is made
With others to settle their commerce and trade.
They bring across oceans in merchant marine,
Luxuries of life now by us all seen,
Grown and shipped from the uttermost lands,
Divided from us by seas, deserts and sands.
Those natural laws we are learning to use,
Based upon justice according to the views
Of publicists and statesmen applied
To nations dealing with nations the world wide.
Now the crude implements of death once used
By ancients, are thrown aside and refused.
In place of triremes propelled by oars,
Steel-clad battleships ride by scores,
Manned with guns throwing missiles miles;
Around our coasts and adjacent isles;
Our barricades and our battlements,
Our field glasses and our armaments;
Our powder in guns and in mines,
With deadly explosives of all kinds,
Making killing a thing of skill
Upon the thousands our inventions kill,
All are bringing war to a standstill.
No longer do we hand to hand in war engage;
Foes rushing foes with eyes in a rage;
Instead, the scientific gunner his aim to gauge,
Miles away, his gun adjusting to suit,
Deals death to thousands, wherever he may shoot;
With no malice in his heart, by electric touch,
Some mine is exploded, killing and destroying as much
In a single blow, as was done in a day the old way;
And in all the soldiers are out of the fray.
Why should we slaughter and fellow men slay,
In this unimpassioned, calculating, scientific way?
If such things, done by the whole nation,
Were done by one, it’d be murder in our estimation.
Inventions and knowledge lead towards peace;
And the frequency of war decrease;
The more we know of our fellowman.
The less we like to cut off his span.
So let the dove of peace hover over the globe,
And in humanity’s cause we ourselves enrobe;
Till from war and all its sickening pall,
We advance, and universal peace install;
And we may, unless we get up a protocol,
Over which we may fight to see who is right,
In the interpretation thereof withal.

Music

About the subject of music what can I say?
That mystical combination we sing and play?
The origin of which none seem to know;
For as far back into the past as we can go,
From the time that Circe and her maids,
In their lonely isle of forests and glades,
Their magic spells, in song, upon the sailor wrought,
With all his crew, to their abode they brought,
To change them to swine from the forms of men;
Until wise Ulysses, by some godlike ken,
Undid the deed done his men confined in a pen;
Or when Orpheus with his lyre in his hand,
Held his sway through th’ enchanted land.
So ’twould be a waste of valuable time,
The history and origin of music to put into rhyme.
It seems that it has long over us held sway;
Back from the long ago to the present day.
But in all times before this day of ours,
When men have harnessed th’ unseen powers:
It did take the skill of finger tips
Or the trill of throat and puckered lips,
To wake from vibrations thereby made,
The thrilling chant and sweet serenade.
But now with pricking pins of steel,
Those same vibrations come from turn of wheel,
When in dents lightly made on a disc,
Which around and around we playfully whisk;
The pin points strike in and then out,
As the thing is whirled about;
And, by magnifying the scratching it makes
The picture of the whole sound action it takes;
And reproduces the vibrations on our ear,
Of an opera or any piece we wish to hear.
By the numerous machines by inventors made,
The sweet music once by human skill played,
Has passed into commerce of daily trade.
For a few dollars one can buy,
A music maker if he will but try.
Although the music thus made is not the real thing;
Yet instruments are designed that give it the ring.
True music that really stirs the hearts of men
That comes from the masters with the pen,
Must be by human skill played,
As ever behind its dress parade,
Stands the soul of the master, flowing with the sound,
As it comes to our ears in tones profound,
Or tintinnabulations of drum or fife,
Calling us to war and its deadly strife;
Or those mysterious strains of the violin,
In the hands of the artist held in,
By his neck, hands, shoulders and chin
So none can tell where he stops for fiddle to begin;
Both moving together in such perfect time
As we sit in rapture, listening to the chime.
Will ever the sense of music in man,
Having remained since history began,
Be obliterated in time to come;
And his taste for sounds become numb,
By the strain on him these machines make,
Hounding him by their grating sleep or wake,
By the screeching buzzes they make;
With our songs all ground up into rag,
Even the stirring ones of the glorious flag,
And those sedate hymns sang in church
Which ragtime has sought to besmirch.
But of all of this let us not complain,
Even if we lose our desire for the grand refrain;
Maybe some time the genius of the great,
Will some better sense create,
For its loss fully to compensate.

Painting and Art

When I think over the subject of painting and art
Nothing occurs new that to you I can impart
Which might bring reformation in the way
These subjects could be treated in our day.
The men of ancient times, with keen vision,
Bent over canvas and marble with a precision
Not equalled or surpassed, marking lines of light
And shades, bringing life and nature into full sight,
Throwing upon cloth the earth and beclouded sky.
With its valleys green and mountains high,
Divided into parts with ever-widening and winding streams,
Their shores lined with foliage green and rocks in seams;
And scraggy trees, as through them the moonbeams
Throw their mild and mellow light in shimmering sheen;
And fading lines of landscape merging into sky,
With its diversified colors upon our watching eye;
And from the dead, cold marble stand out
The forms of women and men showing their features and clout,
Bringing out every expression of muscle and face,
Revealing the thoughts and passions in lines they trace
Of all the joys of life and the agonizing look,
Even to portraying the dying groan one undertook.
To show up nature is the whole object of art;
To make the scenes natural and life impart.
Now our skill in inventions throwing light,
We absolutely copy nature and bring it out right.
Men with their skill and labor bringing out a view,
With tinsel and touch to give it the correct hue,
Cannot come up to daguerreotype or kodak
In throwing out the front or showing up the back.
Thus onward our wheels of progress are rolling,
Crushing out the heart of Genius strolling
Over lands vying, with his puny hands,
With forces of nature invention commands.
We should pause sometimes in our rapid flight,
Long enough to reflect on the dangers that might
Wreck our civilization; children would their lives destroy
Were they allowed to handle guns as a toy;
So with man in his audacious daring
Handling these forces recklessly, caring
Little for those who are smashed beneath their grinding,
As the end to the glories of art they are finding.

My Fiddle

When my years numbered less than ten,
I stayed with an uncle and aunt now and then,
Who lived a few miles from our own door.
Now when I think of those days of yore,
When I lingered around the cabin door,
In rapture listening to the violin,
Held under our old black man’s chin;
And its melody did my young heart win,
Recollection goes back to my violin.
This old fiddle came to me in a trade,
That I with our work-hand made;
And I learned to play for the serenade.
I rosined my bow and handled it too,
And loved this fiddle the whole day through.
I played it nights before I went to sleep;
Rolled it in flannel its tone to keep;
Put it in the box which I did make;
And took it out mornings soon as I’d wake.
My aunt, who lived at the house where I went,
With whom I stayed and many hours spent
Was of the old school in the ideas she had;
The most things I thought good she deemed bad.
A deck of cards would have made her collapse;
And for amusements now offered chaps,
They’d been abomination in her very sight;
The fiddle she thought her soul would blight.
And even the box it was carried in,
Was contaminated with the ghost of the violin.
This vile thing was played for the dance,
And that made it the horror of my aunt’s.
Of all this I was then in ignorant bliss.
So feeling good, I did not want to miss
The chance to show my aunt how I did play
On my fine instrument with much display.
So carefully boxing it up, I took it to stay
At the home of my aunt, to whom I’d show
My performance with the fiddle and bow.
When I arrived she greeted me before she did see,
What was under the seat in the buggy with me.
When I pulled it out I plainly saw
A cloud come over her as she stood in awe.
She did not at that time speak her full mind
But in memory lingering now I find
She said to herself something or other
To the effect that my father and mother,
Who were her sister, and in law her brother,
Didn’t have the same care for their child,
As she did for hers, or else how could they defile
A little boy like me with such a tool of evil
Specially devoted to sin and the service of the devil.
I took my poor fiddle and lugged it to my room,
Where I did not string it up so very soon.
But on one rainy day I took it out to play
Strains of old hymns that in my memory lay.
The thunder’s crash and the lightning’s play
Could not from my aunt keep away
The penetrating sound my violin bore,
Only a moment and she was at my door.
I saw in horror my aunt stand before,
With uplifted hands as her eyes bore,
Riveting me in silence to the floor.
The anger, pity, grief, fear and pain
In her face made upon me its lasting stain.
In words not spoken as much as shrieked,
She revealed why her face was streaked
With the lines I saw when she appeared:
“Put that horrid thing away,” she whispered;
“Put it in the back closet and lock the door.”
She insisted: “Hide it quick, I implore;
The Lord in his wrath will blow the house o’er!
Don’t you know better than to tempt God in that way,
While the lightning and thunder His power display?”
I admit that I did not know, but in my heart,
Then tender in years, was lodged a dart
It took years to remove; even now when I start
Upon my new violin some music to play
I wonder sometimes if in some mysterious way
There is not lurking in it some demon still,
Its tones and notes sound so awfully shrill.
I would not for a single moment profane
The memory of my dear aunt I still retain,
Nor at her sincere beliefs cast one single slur.
I write here what did actually occur.
A coolness between me and the fiddle I love
Sprang up from the incident related above,
That lasted all the days of my youth
When I might have learned the violin in truth;
That instrument none can ever master,
Who does not cling to it in every disaster.

Scientific Ethics