Jocosities published through April, 1909

Jocosities now published through March, 1909.    

{All the handwritten and other original writings contained on various loose papers have been posted under the calendar year of 2015 by date or estimated date.  Ones added subsequent to then are being back-dated so as to fit within that time period.}

Bookmark

Jocosities from Feb. 23 and 24, 1909 added.    

{All the handwritten and other original writings contained on various loose papers have been posted under the calendar year of 2015 by date or estimated date.  Ones added subsequent to then are being back-dated so as to fit within that time period.}

Jocosities from Feb. 22, 1909 added.    

{All the handwritten and other original writings contained on various loose papers have been posted under the calendar year of 2015 by date or estimated date.  Ones added subsequent to then are being back-dated so as to fit within that time period.}

Note

    All the handwritten and other original writings contained on various loose papers have been posted under the calendar year of 2015 by date or estimated date.  Ones added subsequent to then are being back-dated so as to fit within that time period.

Life’s Byways

Two paths go up the hill of life,

     The path of wrong, the path of right;

One path is strewn with toil and strife,

     The other strewn with flowers bright.

Inviting looks the path of wrong,

     More toilsome looks the path of right;

One sends a wave of ribald song,

     The other less of mirth and light.

But ‘tis the goal, and not the road

     The pilgrim needs must keep in view;

The path that lures the highest load

     Is not the easiest to pursue.

Dec. 31, 09

Rhyme of the Ringer

“Ring out the old, ring in the new,

     Ring happy bells across the snow;”

The village maid is on parade

     Each evening sleighing with her beau.

“Ring out the old, ring in the new,”

     Ring happy bills upon the slate;

Ring in the new, it’s up to you

     To ring the old bills out of date.

Dec. 31, ‘09

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]

Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1809 - 1892

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

   The flying cloud, the frosty light:

   The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

   The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

   For those that here we see no more;

   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

   And ancient forms of party strife;

   Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

   The faithless coldness of the times;

   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

   The civic slander and the spite;

   Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

   Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

   Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

The Angler’s Midwinter Dream

I sat in my office easy chair

     As the sun was sinking low;

I had not a single thing to do,

     And nary a place to go.

Why not go fishing I asked myself,

     So I put on my angling togs,

And soon I was out of the city’s grip,

     Out wading the marshland bogs.

An electric rolled past – ‘twas the brook I heard,

     As it gurgled o’er logs and stones;

The phone clattered long – ‘twas only my reel

     Singing out its wonderful tones.

The snow slid off from a neighboring roof,

     ‘Twas simply the splash of a trout;

And my creel grew full and my heart grew light

     And the sun it went down and out.

Thank God for the dreams that come by day,

     The same for the dreams by night,

That carry us out to the game-land home,

     Where the finny’s are fierce to bite.

It’s a joy to go on a fishing trip

     And cling to your office seat;

While snow and rain blur the window pane,

     And the price – well it can’t be beat.

Dec. 31, ‘06

Tiltup Time

It’s tiltup ttime on Lizzard Crick,

     The ice is good and strong;

The blacksmith’s shop and Stokes’ store

     Have lost their daily throng.

Hen Billings, Abe and Uncle Ez,

     And all the squatter corps,

Are down in “Pick’rel Bend” these days,

     Where tiltups hold the floor.

Jed Martin said along last fall,

     “The signs are comin’ good;

There’ll be enough uv fish this year

     For Gungy’s multitud.”

So when the crick was strong enough

     The fisher folk men were there;

And “Pick’rel Bend” was covered o’er

     With tiltups and to spare.

Under the lee of Ackley hill

     A roaring fire leaps high;

With toes and fingers thawing out,

     And mittens hung to dry.

And, seated on the friendly logs,

     The yarns of bygone years

Are poured with solemn Gungy skill

     Into our youthful ears!

Tiltups are bobbing up and down,

     Red flags flap in the breeze;

Stout hearts don’t mind the wintry winds

     In busy days like these.

Ah, tiltups time on Lizzard Crick,

     With story, song and joke,

May nothing ever come between

     You and good Gungy folk!

    

Dec. 31, 1916

                                        

The Things I Write

The maid I meet upon the street,

     The little, laughing, tripping sprite,

All curls, and furs, and saucy smiles,

     She doesn’t read the things I write.

The man begrimed by labor’s dust,

     Who reaches home so late at night,

Who’s proud to “earn whate’er he can,”

     He doesn’t read the things I write.

The man of wealth who whirls apast,

     With prancing steed or auto light,

Who buys his books by tens and scores,

     He doesn’t read the things I write.

Who is it then who reads my lines,

     My prose and verse so very bright?

The hard-worked editor, alas!

     ‘Tis he alone, reads what I write.

Dec. 30, 1900

Good Night

Good night,

            Sweetheart,

                      Good night.

The day has faded in the west,

     And night steals on apace

     To hide from me thy face,

Go, thou, and seek thy perfect rest;

Good night,

            Sweetheart,

                      Good night.

Good night,

            Sweetheart,

                      Good night.

Sweet dreams to thee whom I adore,

     And may the coming day

     Strew love along the way,

And love be thine forever more.

Good night,

            Sweetheart,

                      Good night.

Dec. 30, ‘04

The Easy One

                                             For Mill Ballads

O, I pity her, the easy one, who never looks beyond

The fair and smiling Present into darker By and By;

Who lives upon the cooing of an artful lover wooing

While a thoughtless path pursuing wherein gloom and sorrow lie.

Man is weak, weak, weak,

But his arguments are sleek,

He will hypnotize a woman if she doesn’t mind her eye;

             But he’d better take and slay her

             Than to ruin and betray her,

And leave her crushed and helpless on the road to hell to die.

I pity her, I pity her – she will not give an ear,

Nor listen to her elders who would save her from the bad;

She would rather take her chances at a season’s public dances,

Smiling ‘neath the hungry glances of a wine excited cad.

             Man is weak, weak, weak,

             But he’s got a lot of cheek,

Till he works a maiden’s ruin, then he whines and runs away;

             But he’d better take and slay her

             Than to ruin and betray her,

And leave her for the world to scorn until her dying day.

Dec. 30, ‘99

Sign Man

                                 I.

Hiram Plunkett was a cur’us an’ a comical ol’ scad,

Was the most eccentric codger Gungy village ever had;

Hiram didn’t b’lieve in papers, nor in human natur’, much,

Didn’t b’lieve in books or stories, or in sociables an’ such;

Didn’t b’lieve in much religion ‘cept a kind thet wuz his own,

Though we never knew he kept it frum the fact he lived alone.

Hiram didn’t b’lieve in nothin’, near ez anyone could say,

‘Ceptin’ signs, an’ he b’lieved ‘em ev’ry minute in the day.

                                 II.

Hiram Plunkitt was a b’liever in a “sign” for everything,

An’ he lived by signs entirely, for to him a sign was King!

So he steered himself accordin’, never trustin’ uv his fate

To opposin’ uv his signals, so the villagers relate.

If he heard a rooster crowin’, an’ he stopped when ha’f way through

There was somethin’ goin’ to happen to the rooster, that he knew!

If a rabbit chanced to scamper ‘crost the road a bit ahead,

He would hev to ketch the rabbit, or go home an’ go to bed.

                                 III.

If he saw geese flyin’ over, an’ they formed a letter ‘V’,

There would be a change uv weather ere they settled, argered he.

If he saw three crows a-flyin’ it was bad luck, even more,

So he’d hang around impatient till he sighted number four.

If a watchdog howled at midnight there was sure to be a death

In the neighborhood immejit ‘less the patient held his breath.

If he heard a cow a-looin’ when ‘twas dark ez it could be,

‘Twas a sign that she was lonesome an’ she wanted company.

                                 IV.

In the house he was persistent, hed a sign fur ev’rything;

Kept a box uv salt close by him right in readiness to fling.

He would throw it o’er his shoulder, or would put it in the stove,

Jest dependin’ what the sign was, an’ to thwart the devil’s move.

He would never let a caller rock an’ empty chair becuz

It would bring upon the household all the evils ever wuz;

If he ever got his shirt on wrong side out he’d leave it so

Till the time come round to wash it, else his joy would turn to woe.

                                 V.

If a brick fell off the chimbly an’ he heard it when it fell

He would grab it up immejit an’ go drop it in the well.

If he found a bird a-flyin’ in the house he’d hustle out

An' go huntin’ for a horseshoe which he’d nail somewhere about.

He had horseshoes o’er the windows, had ‘em over all the doors,

Had ‘em inside, well ez outside, had ‘em on the upper floors;

Fact his castle was a storehouse loaded full uv charms an’ such,

Just to rid him uv the witches an’ the devil’s fatal touch.

                                 VI.

Hiram Plunkett never prospered, though his father left him cash,

An’ a farm without a mortgage, so he could hev cut a dash.

But, alas! He also left him a belief in signs which took

All his time frum off his farmin’ an’ reduced his pocketbook.

So his farm went all to pieces an’ he scarcely dared to move

Lest a creakin’ uv a floorboard should a fatal omen prove.

So he died a dismal pauper an’ upon his tombstone gray

Someone chiseled, “Hiram Plunkett, All signs fail on Judgement Day!”

Dec. 30, 1912

Amos Green’s Swearin’ Off

“I’m goin’ to turn a new leaf o’er,”

Said Amos Green, in Stokes’ store;

“Now you kin talk an’ laff an’ scoff,

But I am goin’ to swear off

A thing or two, jest mark my word,”

An’ then the next thing Amos heard

Was simply a good natured roar

Around the store in Stokes’ store.

Jed Martin he took out his pipe

Which, ez pipes go, wuz purty ripe,

An’ says to Amos, ruther lame,

“What be yur goin’ to swear off, Ame?”

An’ lookin’ at the crowd, says he,

“You never stick to nothin’, gee!

You’ve swore off year by year the same,

An’ yit you’re jest the same ol’ Ame!”

Then Amos looked around the ring

Ez though truz time he hed his fling;

He cleared his throat, an’ hemmed an’ hawed,

While all the others smoked and chawed.

Says he, “I’ve swore off –” good an’ loud,

“Buyin’ terbacker fur this crowd!”

There warn’t a murmer from the score

Uv setters there in Stokes’ store.

Dec. 30, ‘09

When It’s Spring

Big change in the weather,

     Growin’ soft and mild;

Summer skippin’ hither

     Like ez ‘o’ she’s iled.

Air is hanging soft an’ meller,

     Heerd a bluebird sing,

Different feelin’ in a feller

     When it’s spring.

Big change in the weather,

     Winter’s hed his day;

Makes a feller wanter

     Sort o’ frisk an’ play.

Natur’s smile is coy an’ meller,

     Tantarlizin’ thing;

Different feelin’ in a feller

     When it’s spring.

Dec. 30, ‘96

Pub. in Little Joker,

    For March,

        ‘98

A Reformer’s Confession

New year,

     No ice;

No beer,

     No dice.

No dance,

     No date;

No chance,

     No skate.

No chew,

     No puff;

No cue,

     No stuff.

No throw,

     No pool;

No show,

     D – Fool.

Dec. 30, ‘95

Pub. in B. Courier,

Jan. 5, 1896