Part 1

Chapter 13,879 wordsPublic domain

“HORSE SENSE” in Verses Tense

CONCERNING WALT

Walt Mason is the Aesop of our day, but his fables are of men, not animals.

—Collier’s Weekly.

Much of Walt Mason’s poetry is of universal interest.

—London Citizen.

Walt Mason’s poetry is in a class by itself.

—William Jennings Bryan.

Walt’s poems always have sound morals, and they are easy to take.

—Rev. Charles W. Gordon. (Ralph Connor.)

His satires come with stinging force to the American people.

—Sunday School Times.

Why do people ever write any other kind of books, unless because no one else can write Walt Mason’s kind?

—William Dean Howells.

His is an extraordinary faculty, surely God-given. Many a world-weary one, refreshed at the fount where his poetry plays, says deep down in his heart, “God bless Walt Mason!”

—Seumas MacManus.

Walt Mason’s contributions to the Chronicle have attracted the attention of English readers by their originality and expressiveness, and have brought him letters from Mr. John Masefield and many others. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle regards him as one of the quaintest and most original humorists America has ever produced.

—London Chronicle.

“HORSE SENSE”

IN VERSES TENSE

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by Walt Mason

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Walt Mason is the High Priest of Horse Sense. —George Ade

Chicago _A·C·M^cCLURG & CO·_ 1915

───── Published September, 1915 ─────

Copyrighted in Great Britain

For permission to use copyright poems in this book thanks are extended to George Matthew Adams, and to the editors and publishers of _Judge_, _Collier’s Weekly_, _System_, the _Magazine of Business_, _Domestic Engineering_, the _Butler Way_, and _Curtis Service_.

_To_ SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

CHRISTMAS GIFT

The gift itself is not so much— Perhaps you’ve had a dozen such; Its value, when reduced to gold, May seem too trifling to be told; But someone, loving, kind, and true, Selected it—and thought of You. The gift may have a hollow ring— The love behind it is the thing!

FROM SIR HUBERT

I read Walt Mason with great delight. His poems have wonderful fun and kindliness, and I have enjoyed them the more for their having so strongly all the qualities I liked so much in my American friends when I was living in the United States.

I don’t know any book which has struck me as so genuine a voice of the American nature.

I am glad that his work is gaining a wider and wider recognition.

John Masefield

_13 Well Walk, Hampstead, London_

GUIDE TO CONTENTS

At the Finish, 19. At the End, 53. After Us, 67. Ambitions, 77. Approach of Spring, 167. After Storm, 188.

Backbone, 28. Beautiful Things, 43. Bard in the Woods, The, 101. Be Joyful, 134. Brown October Ale, 136. Bystander, The, 154. Bleak Days, 180.

Clucking Hen, The, 1. Christmas Recipe, 11. Coming Day, The, 21. Clouds, 42. Cotter’s Saturday Night, 50. “Charge It,” 61. Croaker, The, 63. Choosing a Bride, 66. Christmas Musings, 79. Crooks, The, 115.

Doing Things Right, 32. Down and Out, 60. Difference, The, 94. Dolorous Way,

The, 119. Dreamers and Workers, 127. Deliver Us, 137. Doing One’s Best, 138. Doughnuts, 165. Discontent, 173.

Fatigue, 4. Fortune Teller, The, 73. Fletcherism, 158. Father Time, 159. Field Perils, 160. Friend Bullsnake, 164.

Grandmother, 14. Great Game, The, 17. Generosity, 27. Garden of Dreams, 41. Gold Bricks, 74. Good and Evil, 135. Going to School, 146. Girl Graduate, The, 153. Good Die Young, The, 172. Givers, The, 181. Good Old Days, 182.

Home, Sweet Home, 8. Homeless, 47. Happy Home, The, 48. Harvest Hand, The, 70. Hospitality, 88. Hon. Croesus Explains, 89.

Iron Men, The, 34. In Old Age, 46. Immortal Santa, 96. In the Spring, 132. Idlers, The, 141. Idle Rich, The, 144.

Ill Wind, The, 166. Into the Sunlight, 179. Industry, 186.

Joy Cometh, 161.

Looking Forward, 120. Little While, A, 139. Literature, 142. Living Too Long, 162.

Milkman, The, 2. Man Wanted, The, 55. Mad World, A, 57. Mañana, 91. Men Behind, The, 98. Mr. Chucklehead, 130. Misrepresentation, 148. Man of Grief, 149. Melancholy Days, 150. Might Be Worse, 151. Moderately Good, 152. Medicine Hat, 156. Moving On, 176.

Night is Coming, 31. Nursing Grief, 143. Not Worth While, 147.

Old Maids, 10. Old Man, The, 12. Old Album, The, 109. On the Bridge, 129. Old Prayer, The, 178.

Poor Work, 9. Poorhouse, The, 30. Procrastination, 36. Punctuality, 58. Prodigal Son, The, 87. Polite Man, The, 122. Planting a Tree, 126. Passing the Hat, 145.

Rural Mail, The, 7. Right Side Up, 33. Regular Hours, 125. Rain, The, 184.

Spring Remedies, 5. Salting Them Down, 22. Success in Life, 24. Shut-In, The, 45. Some of the Poor, 69. Shoveling Coal, 93. Sticking to It, 105. Seeing the World, 121. Spring Sickness, 128. Studying Books, 169. Stranger than Fiction, 171. Silver Threads, 174. Something to Do, 185.

Tornado, The, 16. True Happiness, 26. Timbertoes, 37. Thankless Job, 38. Travelers, 44. Two Salesmen, The, 85. “Thanks,” 107. Tramp, The, 117.

Undertaker, The, 39. Unhappy Home, The, 49. Unconquered, 123.

Vagabond, The, 20. Values, 103.

Winter Night, 13. What’s the Use? 54. What I’d Do, 71. Way of a Man, The, 82. War and Peace, 112. Wet Weather, 187.

THE CLUCKING HEN

THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and round the yard she claws and picks, and toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden fence, and watch that hen of little sense, whose intellect is wrong. She is the most important hen that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the whole blamed universe would spoil, its institutions fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task; she might as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year; one incubator from the store would bring forth better chicks and more than fifty hens could rear. She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down to tacks and lay some eggs, which bring the valued bucks; but, in her vain perverted way, she says, “I’m derned if I will lay,” and hands out foolish clucks. And many men are just the same; they play some idle, trifling game, and think they’re sawing wood; they hate the work that’s in demand, the jobs that count they cannot stand, and all their toil’s no good.

THE MILKMAN

THE milkman goes his weary way before the rising of the sun; he earns a hundred bones a day, and often takes in less than one. While lucky people snore and drowse, and bask in dreams of rare delight, he takes a stool and milks his cows, about the middle of the night. If you have milked an old red cow, humped o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll know the milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. Through storm and flood and sun and rain, the milkman goes upon the jump, and all his customers complain, and make allusions to his pump. Because one milkman milks the creek, instead of milking spotted cows, against the whole brave tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet patiently they go their way, distributing their healthful juice, and what they do not get in pay, they have to take out in abuse.

FATIGUE

FROM day to day we sell our whey, our nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft we sigh, as hours drag by, “This sort of life is rotten! The dreary game is e’er the same, no respite or diversion; oh, how we long to join the throng on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet, along the street, more lucky folks are hiking, while we must stay and sell our hay—it’s little to our liking!” Those going by perhaps will sigh, “This work we do is brutal; all day we hike along the pike, and all our work is futile. It would be sweet to leave the street and own a nice trade palace, and sell rolled oats to human goats, it would, so help me Alice!” All o’er this sphere the briny tear is shed by people weary, who’d like to quit their jobs and flit to other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who wear their yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we swear and sweat and fume and fret, and oft forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely fraught with happiness and glory; if you are sore the man next door can tell as sad a story.

SPRING REMEDIES

“THIS is the time,” the doctors say, “when people need our bitters; the sunny, languid, vernal day is hard on human critters. They’re always feeling tired and stale, their blood is thick and sluggish, and so they ought to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish.” And, being told we’re in a plight, we swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys acting right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down tea of sassafras, as ordered by the sawbones, and chewing predigested grass, we exercise our jawbones. We swallow pints of purple pills, and fool with costly drenches, to drive away imagined ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches. And if we’d only take the spade, and dig the fertile gumbo, the ghost of sickness would be laid, and we’d be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect health, that precious boon, we’d have refreshing glimpses, if we would toil each afternoon out where the jimpson jimpses. There’s medicine in azure skies, and sunshine is a wonder; more cures are wrought by exercise than by all bottled thunder. So let’s forsake the closed up room, and hoe weeds cockle-burrish, where elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries flourish.

THE RURAL MAIL

A FIERCE and bitter storm’s abroad, it is a bleak midwinter day, and slowly o’er the frozen sod the postman’s pony picks its way. The postman and his horse are cold, but fearlessly they face the gale; though storms increase a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their mail. The hours drag on, the lonely road grows rougher with each mile that’s past, the weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the shrieking blast. But man and horse strive on the more; they never learned such word as fail; though tempests beat and torrents pour, the farmer folk must have their mail. At night the pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied postman does the same. Tomorrow brings the same old round, the same exhausting, thankless grind—the journey over frozen ground, the facing of the bitter wind. The postman does a hero’s stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of all the storms he bears the brunt—the farmer folk must have their mail!

HOME, SWEET HOME

OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was, in olden days, before the people learned to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances and such things, to skating on a floor; and now the youthful laughter rings within the Home no more. You will recall, old men and dames, the homes of long ago, and you’ll recall the fireside games the children used to know. The neighbors’ kids would come along with your own kids to play, and merry as a bridal song the evening passed away. An evening spent away from home in olden days was rare; the children hadn’t learned to roam for pleasure everywhere. But now your house is but a shell where children sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very well—their home is on the street. Their home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime music flows; their noon’s the middle of the night, their friends are—Lord, who knows? The windows of your home are dark, and silence broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save the mark! ’Tis but a sty or stall!

POOR WORK

YOU can’t afford to do poor work, so, therefore, always shun it; for no excuse or quip or quirk will square you when you’ve done it. I hired a man to paint my cow from horntips to the udder, and she’s all blotched and spotted now, and people view and shudder. “Who did the job?” they always ask; and when I say, “Jim Yellow,” they cry, “When we have such a task we’ll hire some other fellow.” And so Jim idly stands and swows bad luck has made him nervous, for when the people paint their cows they do not ask his service. And thus one’s reputation flows, a-skiting, here and yonder; and wheresoe’er the workman goes, his bum renown will wander. ’Twill face him like an evil ghost when he his best is doing, and jolt him where it hurts the most, and still keep on pursuing. A good renown will travel, too, from Gotham to Empory, and make you friends in places new, and bring you cash and glory. So always do your best, old hunks; let nothing be neglected, and you will gather in the plunks, and live and die respected.

OLD MAIDS

ALL girls should marry when they can. There’s naught more useful than a man. A husband has some faults, no doubt, and yet he’s good to have about; and she who doesn’t get a mate will wish she had one, soon or late. That girl is off her base, I fear, who plans to have a high career, who sidesteps vows and wedding rings to follow after abstract things. I know so many ancient maids who in professions, arts or trades have tried to cut a manlike swath, and old age finds them in the broth. A loneliness, as of the tomb, enshrouds the spinsters in its gloom; the jim crow honors they have won they’d sell at seven cents a ton. Their sun is sinking in the West, and they, unloved and uncaressed, must envy, as they bleakly roam, the girl with husband, hearth, and home. Get married, then, Jemima dear; don’t fiddle with a cheap career. Select a man who’s true and good, whose head is not composed of wood, a man who’s sound in wind and limb, then round him up and marry him. Oh, rush him to the altar rail, nor heed his protest or his wail. “This is,” you’ll say, when he’s been won, “the best day’s work I’ve ever done.”

CHRISTMAS RECIPE

MAKE somebody happy today! Each morning that motto repeat, and life, that was gloomy and gray, at once becomes pleasant and sweet. No odds what direction you go, whatever the pathway you wend, there’s somebody weary of woe, there’s somebody sick for a friend; there’s somebody needing a guide, some pilgrim who’s wandered astray; oh, don’t let your help be denied—make somebody happy today! There’s somebody tired of the strife, the wearisome struggle for bread, borne down by the burden of life, and envying those who are dead; a little encouragement now may drive his dark visions away, and smooth out a seam from his brow—make somebody happy today! There’s somebody sick over there, where sunlight is shut from the room; there’s somebody deep in despair, beholding no light in the gloom; there’s somebody needing your aid, your solace, wherever you stray; then let not your help be delayed—make somebody happy today. Make somebody happy today, some comfort and sympathy give, and Christmas shall ne’er go away, but always and ever shall live.

THE OLD MAN

BE kind to your daddy, O gamboling youth; his feet are now sluggish and cold; intent on your pleasures, you don’t see the truth, which is that your dad’s growing old. Ah, once he could whip forty bushels of snakes, but now he is spavined and lame; his joints are all rusty and tortured with aches, and weary and worn is his frame. He toiled and he slaved like a government mule to see that his kids had a chance; he fed them and clothed them and sent them to school, rejoiced when he marked their advance. The landscape is moist with the billows of sweat he cheerfully shed as he toiled, to bring up his children and keep out of debt, and see that the home kettle boiled. He dressed in old duds that his Mary and Jake might bloom like the roses in June, and oft when you swallowed your porterhouse steak, your daddy was chewing a prune. And now that he’s worn by his burden of care, just show you are worth all he did; look out for his comfort, and hand him his chair, and hang up his slicker and lid.

WINTER NIGHT

HAIL, Winter and wild weather, when we are all together, about the glowing fire! Let frost be e’er so stinging, it can’t disturb our singing, nor can the Storm King’s ire. The winds may madly mosey, they only make more cozy the home where we abide; the snow may drift in billows, but we have downy pillows, and good warm beds inside. The night indeed has terrors for lonely, lost wayfarers who for assistance call; who pray for lights to guide them—the lights that are denied them—may God protect them all! And to the poor who grovel in wretched hut and hovel, and feel its icy breath, who mark the long hours dragging their footsteps slow and lagging, the night seems kin to Death. For cheery homes be grateful, when Winter, fierce and fateful, comes shrieking in the night; for books and easy rockers, for larders filled and lockers, and all the warmth and light.

GRANDMOTHER

OLD granny sits serene and knits and talks of bygone ages, when she was young; and from her tongue there comes the truth of sages. “In vanished years,” she says, “my dears, the girls were nice and modest, and they were shy, and didn’t try to see whose wit was broadest. In cushioned nooks they read their books, and loved the poets’ lilting; with eager paws they helped their mas at cooking and at quilting. The maidens then would shy at men and keep them at a distance, and each new sport who came to court was sure to meet resistance. The girls were flowers that bloomed in bowers remote from worldly clamor, and when I view the modern crew they give me katzenjammer. The girls were sweet and trim and neat, as fair as hothouse lilies, and when I scan the modern clan I surely have the willies. Refinement fades when modern maids come forth in all their glory; their hats are freaks, their costume shrieks, their nerve is hunkydory. They waste the night and in daylight they’re doctoring and drugging; when they don’t go to picture show, they’re busy bunny-hugging.” Then granny takes her pipe and breaks some plug tobacco in it, and smokes and smokes till mother chokes and runs out doors a minute.

THE TORNADO

WE people infesting this excellent planet emotions of pride in our victories feel; we put up our buildings of brick and of granite, equip them with trusses and bastions of steel. Regarding the fruit of our earnest endeavor, we cheerily boast as we weave through the town: “A building like that one will stand there forever, for fire can’t destroy it nor wind blow it down.” Behold, as we’re boasting there falls a dun shadow; the harvester Death is abroad for his sheaves, and, tumbled and tossed by the roaring tornado, the man and his building are crumpled like leaves. And then there are dead men in windrows to shock us, and scattered and gone are the homes where they died; a pathway of ruin and wreckage to mock us, and show us how futile and vain is our pride. We’re apt to, when planning and building and striving, forget we are mortals and think we are gods; and then when the lord of the tempest is driving, his wheels break us up with the rest of the clods. Like ants we are busy, all proud and defiant, constructing a home on the face of the lawn; and now comes the step of a wandering giant; it crushes our anthill, and then it is gone.

THE GREAT GAME

THE pitcher is pitching, the batsman is itching to punish the ball in the old-fashioned way; the umpire is umping, the fielders are humping—we’re playing baseball in our village today! Two thousand mad creatures are perched on the bleachers, the grand stand is full and the fences the same, the old and the youthful, the false and the truthful, the plain and the lovely are watching the game. The groaning taxpayers are watching the players, forgetting a while all their burdens and wrongs, and landlord and tenant are saying the pennant will come to this town where it surely belongs. The lounger and toiler, the spoiled and the spoiler, are whooping together like boys at the fair; and foes of long standing as one are demanding the blood of the umpire, his hide and his hair. The game is progressing, now punk and distressing—our boys are all rattled, the audience groans! But see how they rally—O, scorer, keep tally! We’ll win at the finish, I’ll bet seven bones! The long game is ended, we fans have all wended back, back to our labors, our cares and our joys, once more grave and steady—and yet ever ready to stake a few plunks on our own bunch of boys!

AT THE FINISH

OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and is it worth our while? We seek it till we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile; we seek a gem among the hay, for wheat among the chaff; and in the end some heartless jay will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will relate, and little else beside: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall ever know of men who struggled passing well for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent schemes and lived to see them fail; they had their dreams, as you have dreams, and all of no avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate, the upshot of their pride: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.” The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel on each brow, the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where are those giants now? Their names are written in the books which no one ever reads; and on the scroll—where no one looks—the record of their deeds. The idler by the churchyard gate this legend hath espied: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.”

THE VAGABOND