Thursday, April 30, 2015

The Magic Line



There was a man in our town –
     (It pays to advertise.)
Who by an auto was run down –
(It pays to advertise.)
The auto fled upon its way,
It didn’t stop a word to say;
The victim purchased one next day –
     (It pays to advertise.)

The Turk sat in his guarded tent –
     (It pays to advertise.)
He couldn’t stand the dire event –
     (It pays to advertise.)
His wives stood round him in a row
The people called he would not go
Because he loved the turkey so –
     (It pays to advertise.)

A hunter bold went forth to shoot –
     (It pays to advertise.)
With made to order gun and boot –
     (It pays to advertise.)
Who wouldn’t risk the jungle bird
And beast of which we’ve never heard,
For stories for on plunk per word –
     (It pays to advertise.)



April 30, ‘09


Head Work, This



“Man wants but little here below,
     Nor wants that little long”;
He’s just content to hoe his row,
     And hum a little song.

How different with womankind!
     By fatal fashion led;
She wants the most that she can find,
     And wants it on her head.



April 30, ‘09


Telltale Straws



Straws show which way      
     The current runs;
A theme too good
     For jokes and puns.
An empty creel
     Shows facts for talk;
That run of fish
     Was but a walk.



Apr. 30, ‘09


A Coffin-Nail Limerick



There was once a young fellow named Spinute,
Who smoked cigarettes every minute;
     His parents did rave
     Till he looked very “grave”,
And now he’s decidedly inute.



c. April 30, ‘05


In Apple Blossom Land



O, to be there again today
     And holding her small hand,
Out where the apple blossoms sway
     In apple blossom land.
‘Twas there I saw her years ago,
     ‘Twas there I saw her stand
Beneath the tree as white as snow,
     In apple blossom land.

Her gown was soft and pink and white,
     And clung in folds e-now;
She looked as though she were a sprite
     Dropped from the apple bough.
And apple blossoms filled her hair,
     And lay upon her hand;
But she, the fairest blossom there,
     In apple blossom land.

O, years! A, love! Where hast thou fled?
     The apple blossoms fall,
And fruit bends down from the bows instead,
     Is plucked and that is all!
But let me see her stand once more,
     And hold her little hand,
‘Neath shower blossoms as of yore,
     In apple blossom land!



April 30, ‘10




Am-fib-ious



He was a neat philosopher,
     While wading down a stream one day
He slipped and fell and plunged therein,
     And like a submerged porpoise lay.

And when he calmly reached the bank
     He put his friend’s course jest to rout;
“I’ve often wished to know,” quoth he,
     “Just how it feels to be a trout.”



April 30, ‘07




A Trip to Bossieland



All aboard! We are off in our aeroplane,
     We will bid the old earth “good bye”,
We cannot stay here and suffer in vain
     While the farmers are keeping us dry.
We will up and away to the realms on high,
     From the sound of the smokeless fray;
All aboard! We are off for a rich supply
     From the cows of the Milky Way.



                                 April 30, ‘10




Disappointment



It matters not what paths we seek,
     To us ‘twill be revealed;
Each way we turn it smites our cheek
     And leaves a sting unhealed.

It meets us face to face each day,
     And never turns its back;
Perchance we flee the other way,
     It follows on our track.



Apr. 30, ‘92 

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Also $50,000



Little drops of petrol,
     Little grains of sand
Helped aviator Paulhan
     To rise and fly the land.



c. April 29, ‘10





Isidore Auguste Marie Louis Paulhan, known as Louis Paulhan (French: [pÉ”lÉ‘̃]; 19 July 1883 – 10 February 1963), was a pioneering French aviator. He is known for winning the first Daily Mail aviation prize for a flight between London and Manchester in 1910.


Explained



Now Uncle Sam will have to rub
     Some resin on his hands
If he is going to try to hold
     Those Hurtea soldier bands.
You do not see the joke? Ah me!
     They’re known as “greasers”, don’t you see!



April 29, 1914


Huerta's Federal Army, also known as the Federales in popular culture, was the force headed by Victoriano Huerta during his 1913–1914 reign as president of Mexico.
Huerta took power after president Francisco Madero was assassinated, along with his vice-president. The identity of those responsible for the assassination was never established. Huerta inherited the weaknesses of both the Porfirista and Madero Federal armies.
Federal army generals were often corrupt and guilty of undermining morale with poor leadership. Some were so corrupt their dealings extended as far as selling ammunition, food and uniforms to the enemy. Also guilty of this corruption were Huerta's two sons, Victoriano Jr. and Jorge, both of whom had been placed in important positions overseeing the procurement of arms, supplies, uniforms and ammunition.



Charity For All



When you are dodging autos did
     It e’er occur to you
Perhaps the chauffeur, pale with fright,
And driving her with all his might,
     Is dodging someone too?


c. April 29, ‘09


Miss Up To Date


                                                       by Joe Cone


She can shout and she can ride,
She can swim the ebbing tide,
She can gold to bet a magnate; she can tennis and croquet;
She can bake and she can sew,
She can paddle, she can row,
She can play a trout or salmon in a scientific way.

She can bake a Boston bean
Fit to set before a Queen,
She can bake a pie or pudding fit to set before a King;
She has studied all the arts
From astronomy to charts,
And both opera and ragtime she can grandly play and sing.

She’s a sport clean through and through,
But there’ one thing she can’t do,
And it vexes her completely, making life a hollow dream;
She is filled with deep regret –
She can’t smoke a cigarette,
And it takes away the glory of the whole blamed social scheme!



April 29, 1913
Sent from Hatteras April 30,

Wed. 1913 

Sinking The Merrimac


                                               (Santiago Harbor, June 3, 1898)


Into the night she steamed away
     While an anxious silence fell;
Straight for the monsters dark and grim,
     Glutted with shot and shell.

Somber and swift and silent,
     Scarcely a whispered breath;
On, on towards Santiago,
     On to success or death.

Grim headlands rose in the distance,
     Old Morro guarding the bay;
Waiting with limbered Hontorias,
     Waiting for a hated prey.

They sleep! Then apast the entrance
     Leaving a tell-tale track,
Into the sharp curved channel,
     Swept the bold Merrimac.

“What’s that? The enemy’s picket?
     A launch – they see us – ‘tis bad!
A shot – three pounders – they’re fighting,
     God, is the tiny thing mad?”

Then a light flashed over the darkness,
     The enemy sprang to their arms;
The fleet and the forts awakened,
     The night was rent with alarms.

They tried to swing her crosswise,
     Her helm she would not obey;
For the nosing, pursuing picket
     Had shot her rudder away!

Shot and shell from the fleet at anchor,
     Shot and shell from shore and shore;
Torpedoes and mines upheaving,
     A deafening, hellish roar.

A storm of iron hail shrieking,
     Closer the missiles fell;
Guns flashed, and the darkness opened
     Like gaps in a roaring hell.

Till it seemed as if ship and heroes
     Must be ground beneath the tide,
But the God of war directed,
     And the angry shots went wide.

Fiercely they worked and quickly,
     Teeth set and brave to a man;
“On deck!” rang the clear, sharp order,
     “Cut loose the catamaran!”

And then the gallant commander,
     When all was well with his crew,
Accomplished in one hurried moment,
     What the enemy failed to do.

He torched the explosives and straightway,
     With a hot, spasmodic breath,
The Merrimac heaved in the middle
     And sank to her glorious death.

A cheer went up from the Spaniards,
     And the firing died away;
And they found eight floating heroes
     On a raft at the break of day.

Not a soul was harmed among them,
     For the god of war had planned;
And the Prince of the Spanish navy
     Bore them safely to land.

Great deeds have been done in battle,
     Of valor there is no lack;
But none have been greater, braver,
     Than the dash of the Merrimac.



April, ‘99





                picket – a picket boat is a boat serving sentinel duty.


USS Merrimac was a United States Navy collier during the Spanish-American War.
Merrimac, a steamship, was built by Swan & Hunter shipyard as SS Solveig in Wallsend, England, in November 1894. She was purchased by the US Navy in April 1898. Rear Admiral William T. Sampson ordered her to be sunk as a blockship at the entrance of Santiago Harbor, Cuba, in an attempt to trap the Spanish fleet in the harbor. On the night of 2–3 June 1898, eight volunteers attempted to execute this mission, but Merrimac's steering gear was disabled by the fire of Spanish land-based howitzers. The American steamer was later sunk by the combined gunfire and the torpedoes of the protected cruiser Vizcaya, the unprotected cruiser Reina Mercedes, and the destroyer Pluton without obstructing the harbor entrance. Her crewmen were rescued by the Spanish and made prisoners-of-war. After the Battle of Santiago de Cuba destroyed the Spanish fleet a month later, the men were released. All eight were awarded Medals of Honor for their part in the mission.
The eight volunteer crewman of the Merrimac were:
Lieutenant Richmond P. Hobson
Coxswain Claus K. R. Clausen
Coxswain Osborn W. Deignan
Coxswain John E. Murphy
Chief Master-At-Arms Daniel Montague
Gunner's Mate First Class George Charette
Machinist First Class George F. Phillips
Watertender Francis Kelly
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Merrimac_(1894)


Swapping the Farm for a House in Town



We’ve lived out here on this old place for forty year or so,
     Good wife an’ me, through sun and storm, through rain an’ hail an’ snow;
We’ve worked it out of stumps an’ stones, we’ve made the desert bloom,
     An’ we’ve had comfort out of life, an’ lots o’ health an’ room
But, as you know John, we are old, the boys an’ girls hev gone,
     An mother’n we had grown to feel a little mite forlorn,
An’ we decided we would swap the farm, an’ so much down,
     For jest a little cozy flat, a modern house in town.

The agent he come off out here an’ he looked our place all through,
     Then figgered in a little book an’ said what he would do;
He’d swap a bang-up place in town, all fitted up to date,
     A thousan’ dollars cash to boot, for our entire estate.
He fetched us pictures of the place in town, an’ ma an’ me
Just felt that we would like to swap an’ live where people be.
We felt so kind of weary here, so lonesome an’ cast down,
     It seemed like getting’ out of jail to hev a house in town.

Then we could be nigh to the boys, and nigh the girls as well,
     An’ things would be, excuse my pride, a little bit more swell.
An so, as you remember, John, we took the train that day
     To town to go an’ see the place a hundred miles away.
We took the train an’ saw it, John, an’ we hev just got back,
     All tired an’ beat a-feelin’ like we’d been upon the rack.
We’ve washed an’ had a bite to eat, an’ just got settled down
     From that long trip to see the house we thought we’d buy in town.

Well, first we took a trolley car an’ rode an’ hour or more,
     All round the town an’ up an’ down till we was stiff an’ sore.
An’ then we got off at a street, I think was “Placid Place”,
     A narrer poked-up city street without no breathin’ space.
The agent took us to the house, a narrer brick affair,
     Which didn’t look much like the views he’d showed us, I declare!
An’ when we went inside, O my! Our sperits they went down,
     ‘Twarnt much like our quarters here, that little flat in town.

The rooms were small, the winders spurse, one side there wasn’t none,
     An’ only in the very front could we see any sun.
Ma said the kitchen made her faint, they wasn’t room for two,
     An’ I confess I felt myself to feeling ruther blue.
The open plumbin’ an’ all that was mighty handy, yet
     Thet wasn’t no closets for our trunks like we hev here you bet;
An’ when it come to sleepin’ rooms, ma put her slipper down;
     “I couldn’t sleep in things like them,” says ma, “not here in town”.

An’ then to cap it all they had a fire two doors away,
     An’ all the engines in the town come with a big hooray,
An’ more’n a thousand people come, an’ dogs an’ girls an’ boys,
     An’ sech a time we never see, an’ never heard sech noise.
‘Twas like all bedlam was let loose, an’ ma was nerved to kill,
     An’ she jonged to be back home, where ev’rything was still.
They warn’t no grass around the house, the streets were dry an’ brown,
     An’ we felt sort o’ homesick, John, to git right out of town.

‘Twas then we saw our big front yard, with mother’s posy beds,
     The sun flowers in the garden patch a-wavin’ of their heads;
The big an’ shady maple trees all up an’ down the road,
     The green an’ wavin’ fields beyond where rye an’ wheat was sowed.
‘Twas then we saw the roomy house, where we had lived for years,
     An’ ma an’ me I’ll own it, John, just couldn’t hide the tears.
We thanked the agent for his care, for which we got a frown,
     An’ then we took the trolley back, an’ then the train from town.

An’ here we be back home again, our dream hez passed away;
     We’re back here on the good old farm, an’ here we’re goin’ to stay.
It never looked as it looks now, so big, so full of room,
     With ev’ry corner full of joy an’ ev’ry field abloom.
We miss our sons and daughters, John, an’ wish we might live near,
     But here’s the place for ma an’ me, now more than ever dear.
An’ we are mighty happy, John, to think we’re settled down
     Where we have lived for forty year, an’ not way off in town.
    

                                      April 29, ‘10