The Poet’s Mite

I can’t lead armies in the fray,

Or win rich honors at the play;

I can’t paint pictures that will bring

A passing look from serf or king.

I cannot touch the mystic keys

That music-hungry hearts appease.

O, ‘tis so little I can do

To thrill the Pilgrim passing through;

Life is so short, and time so long

And ways so loud, lost is one’s song.

But if my modest pencil can

Bring but a smile to the face of man,

Or bring a tremor of good cheer

I shan’t regret my journey here.

Jan. 28, ‘10

At the Play

In every well-kept theatre

     There ought to be, I mean,

A side-show for the fellows who

     Go out the acts between.

And then when they don’t like the play

     They’d have a place to go,

And it would give the ones who stay

     A good deal better show.

Jan. 27, ‘10 

Adding Up the Baby

One mouth, one nose, and two brown eyes,

As blue as any summer skies;

Two ears so very pink and small,

One dimpled chin, but that’s not all.

One head of curling golden hair,

Two cheeks so very pink and fair,

Eight teeth and, well, perhaps a half

Whene’er she gives a hearty laugh.

Two arms, eight fingers and a pair

Of thumbs that wander everywhere;

Two legs, and last of all ten toes

That stand straight up whene’er she crows.

That makes just “forty two”, you say,

If added in the normal way;

Not much; it makes, I somehow think,

Just one good baby, plump and pink.

Jan. 28, ’05?

Goin’ Down

Says Hiram Hicks to Rastus Green down in Bill Jones’s store,

Where they hev sot day after day fur twenty year or more,

“It ain’t no use to talk uv keers a-comin’ through this taown,

This place hain’t never comin’ up it’s allus goin’ down.

It ain’t no use to talk about a-buildin’ big hotels

Or santinaryums an’ sech fur bringin’ in the swells;

They hain’t no one ‘ith enterprise in this durn sleepy taown;

This place instid uv comin’ up is just a-goin’ down.”

Says Rustus Green to Hiram Hicks, “I swaw, Hi, yew are right;

I never seen a taown like this sence I fust saw the light.

Hain’t nothin’ doin’ anywhere, jest git up ev’ry day,

An’ eat an’ go to bed ag’in in jist the same old way.

I talked on takin’ boarders once and someone says, ‘Yew, yew,

Yew couldn’t board a ferry boat, much less a city crew’

An’ so I gin it up right there. No, Hi, this durn town –

Yew spoke the truth, ‘tain’t comin’ up, it’ jist a-goin’ down.”

Says ol’ Bill Jones, the grocer’ man, who allus spoke right out,

In meetin’ an’ ‘ithout regard fur anyone about,

“Yew fellers air a durn good pair to talk about this taown

Not hevin’ any enterprise, an’ things a-running down;

Why, durn my skin, you’ve squatted here fur more than twenty years,

An’ waited fur the train to come an’ move yew from your cheers;

You’ve sot right here with idle hands, an’ let yeour ol’ tongues wag;

Yew can’t build up a taown, by gum, while holdin’ down a kag!”

Jan. 28, ‘05 

The “Dear Old Farm”

They write about the “dear old farm”, in yards and yards of verse.

I know of naught a subject now that could be any worse.

What is the “dear old farm”, pray tell, which poets e’er embrace,

This way-back, lifeless, out of date, old-fashioned, hum-drum place?

The “dear old farm” they sing and sing in ballads full of fire;

The “dear old farm”, the echo comes from off Parnassus’ lyre.

The “dear old farm”, the dreamer sighs, and every day is writ,

A thousand lines of tender verse in loving praise of it.

I’ve lived upon a “dear old farm”, and I can hardly see

Why poets should be lauding it to such a high degree;

There’s nothing there but miles of woods where birds sing all the day,

And pastures on the sunny slopes where little lambkins play;

There’s nothing there but miles of space where breezes sweet and mild

Float over from the meadow lands with flowers growing wild;

There’s nothing but a river there, reflecting nature’s face,

A winding stream of no account, a gleam of liquid space.

There’s nothing there but fields of corn, and rye and waving wheat,

With music of the droning bees who sip the honey sweet;

There’s nothing there but orchards full of fruit trees bending low,

And lanes where lovers seek the shade till evening’s afterglow.

There’s nothing there but rest and peace, where old age looks behind,

Across the years of honest toil with well contented mind.

And so I cannot understand what poets see to charm

Them into writing yards of verse about the “dear old farm”.

Jan. 28, 1900

Pub. in Puck, Apr. 4, 1900

He Went To Sleep

Erastus Wilson Peters Brown,

He was the sleepiest man in town;

He wouldn’t work, his neighbors tell,

Because he liked to sleep so well.

He’d sleep all night, and thro’ the day

He’d yawn and sleep and yawn away;

“Can’t-work-fur-yew-today,” said he,

“I’ve-got-tur-take-a-nap-yew-see,”

     And so he went to sleep.

He fell in love with Sallie Hall,

Or thought he did, and went to call.

He found her on the sofa where

He sat himself with utmost care;

“Now-Sallie,” he began to say

In his old lazy, sleepy way:

“I-love-you-and-I-er-I-er-”

And ere he’d really popped to her

     He went to sleep.

Jim Fuller met him on the street

And in a tone polite and sweet

Reminded him about a ten

He’d owed him since “the laud knows when”.

Erastus yawned and said, “Say-Jim,”

And that was all he said to him –

     He went to sleep.

Erastus Wilson Peters Brown,

He died one day upon the town.

His spirit reached Saint Peter’s door

As tired and sleepy as of yore.

St. Peter threw the portals wide

To which the sleepy ghost replied

“Just-wait-until-I’ve-had-a-nap-

And-then-I’ll-enter-in-mayhap-”

     And so he went to sleep.

Jan. 28, ‘07

Writes Johnny

I’d like to know

     Where winters went?

Ain’t had no snow

     That’s worth a cent.

What use, I say,

     To have a sled

To rust away

     Out in the shed.

What use to git

     New skates so bright

With not a bit

     Of ice in sight?

It’s time some snow

     An’ ice was sent;

I’d like to know

     Where winter’s went?

Jan. 28, 1913

Wanted

The yachting suit is out of date,

     The tennis suit the same;

Those golfing clothes and cycle hose

     Have lost their hold on fame.

And now the world impatiently

     Awaits some genius cute;

Some master fine who will design

     The automobile suit.

Jan. 28, 1900

There Is No Money In It

The good old days of Chivalry have long since passed away;

And everything is Business with people of Today;

You ask them to do this or that, they’ll halt right on the minute,

And look the matter up to see if there is Money in it.

You talk about some Scheme of yours from which you Pleasure take;

Or tell them of some little plan for Recreation’s sake;

They’ll look at you with pity, but as tho’ they were agin’ it;

“O, yes,” they say, “it’s very well, but there’s no Money in it.”

The good old days of making Love have gone with all the rest;

Romances of the Cottage will no longer stand the test.

The young man of To-day, his suit, before he tries to win it,

Will calculate in Figures cold, if there is Money in it.

The Burglar or the bold Cashier, the high and lowly Crooks,

The young Elopers, one and all, the Keeper of the Books,

All nowadays make doubly sure, before they try to Skin it,

That or vault, or Father’s purse, has lots of Money in it.

And now I sometimes think the Book a slight mistake has made,

By not proclaiming that above all men will be well Paid;

For I opine that multitudes, the Tree of Life would shin it,

And clamor at the Holy Gate, if there was Money in it.

Jan. 28, 1895

Pub. in Boston Courier,

Feb. 3, 1895

Reason Of High Art

You ladies in the audience

     Are prone to wonder whyly,

The girls upon the ballet stage

     Do kick so awful highly.

The reason I can well explain

     In quatrains or in sonnets;

They kick thus highly so we men

     Can see above your bonnets.

Jan. 27, ‘97

Pub. in Camb. Press,

April 24, ‘97 

Sal An’ Me

Some how nuther, Sal an’ me

Don’t hitch ‘tall well latly.

Sal she’s stubborn eza mule,

An’ – well, I am (es a rule)

An’ we yank an’ pull an’ haul,

Like ez tho’ we weren’t hitched ‘tall.

What’s the matter don’t perten’

Ter know. Sal is up in en’

‘Bout suthin, don’t know what,

‘N  mebbie she don’t like ez not.

Jes a common ‘currence, so,

Guess I’d better let it go.

Kiner starts (riles) a feller some

W’en these scratchin’s rise to hum,

An’ he brussles like a cat

What a dorg cn’t jes (quite) git at;

Then his bristles sorter slack,

An’ he lowers down his back;

An’ his war cloud scurries on

Past the peaceful horizon (horrerzon).

Jan. 27, ‘93

Pub in B. Courier,

June 24, 1894

A Good Fellow

My friend is a good, good fellow,

     Whatever you say of him;

You may call him cheap, and yellow,

     Or lazy up to the brim.

He’s white, he’s true and he’s worthy,

     I shall stick to him through ill;

What more can I say? Slur him you may,

     He’s a good, good fellow still.

The world looks on a good fellow,

     As easy, and weak and slow;

Las, unambitious and mellow

     Without any snap or go.

Perhaps there are such, I know not,

     My friends are good fellows all,

They’ve plenty of grit, shrewdness and wit,

     And keep far out from the wall.

Ah! Give me a good, good fellow,

     Whatever the world may say;

His heart not his head is mellow,

     I know where he stands today.

Good-hearted and kind and gentle,

     A fighter when treated ill;

The world may deride, but not decide –

     Give me a good fellow still.

Jan. 27, ‘09 

Lines to Thee (Found in the Office Boy’s Desk)

If I could write good poetree

I’d write some, O stenog’ to thee!

I’d write three sonnets, roundelays,

And thy bright eyes I’d greatly praise.

I’d write about thy golden hair,

Which is enough and some to spare;

Whether ‘tis all thine own or nay

Is not my bus’ness anyway.

Suffice to say it pleaseth me,

And looks right well, stenog’ on thee!

I’d hand thee this verse if I durst,

But fear by thee I might be curst;

So I will leave it lying where

Thy lovely eyes, so bright and fair,

May light upon it as by chance

While rubbering with thy sharp glance,

As thou sometimes are want to do

When no one’s around except for you.

O, fair stenog’, would thou wast mine,

And I wast no one else but thine!

Jan. 27, ‘10

At the Play

In every well kept theatre

     There ought to be, I mean,

A side-show for the fellows who

     Go out the acts between.

And then when they don’t like the play

     They’d have a place to go,

And it would give the ones who stay

     A good deal better show.

Jan. 27, 1910

“Any Place That’s Wild” John Muir

Any place that’s wild, John Muir,

     Oh, any place that’s wild;

I like you better, indeed I do,

Because you have said that which is true,

Because your being has burst its bars

And gone out under the trees and stars

     To a region undefiled.

Any place that’s wild, John Muir,

     That is the place to be;

Give me your hand in a grip of steel,

Silent, because I know how you feel,

And talk me the language of wood and stream,

Let me experience God’s own scheme

     Out there in his pastures free.

Any place that’s wild, John Muir,

     Oh, any place that’s wild;

Not the wild of the human hive

That buries a yearning soul alive,

Not the wild of the stock exchange,

But over the toilsome mountain range

     Created for nature’s child.

Jan. 27, 1917

http://thumbs.media.smithsonianmag.com//filer/muir_jul08_631.jpg__800x600_q85_crop.jpg

The Nebraska arrived at San Francisco, March 27th, and Muir lost no time there after he set foot on land. To his friends he was accustomed to relate, touches of humor, how he met on the street, the morning after debarkation, a man with a kit of carpenter's tools on his shoulders. When he inquired of him "the nearest way out of town to the wild part of the State," the man set down his tools in evident astonishment and asked, "where do you wish to go?" "Anywhere that's wild" was Muir's reply, and he was directed to the Oakland Ferry with the remark that that would be as good a way out of town as any.

http://vault.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/life/life_and_letters/chapter_6.aspx