Part 2

Yes, I own when the man is a rank also-ran That I feel quite pish-tushy and pooh-y, And exclaim if he ever knew saw-dust from bran, Well--I come from just west of St. Louis! But then, in the winning he's made, there's a hope That I may do even as he did, So I swallow my sneer and I study his dope To discover just why he succeeded.

I've been up in the air, I've been down in the hole, (But always, let's hope, on the level,) And I've been on my uppers--so meagre my sole 'Twould scarcely have tempted the devil! But it's nothing to you what I am, or I was, And no whit of your sympathy's needed, For I'm certain to win in the long run, because I shall see how my rival succeeded.

BLOOD IS RED.

Some of us don't drink, some of us do; Some of us use a word or two. Most of us, maybe, are half-way ripe For deeds that would't look well in type. All of us have done things, no doubt, We don't very often brag about. We are timidly good, we are badly bold, But there's hope for the worst of us, I hold, If there be a few things we didn't do, For the reason that we so wanted to.

Some of us sin on a smaller scale. (We don't mind minnows, we shy at a whale.) We speak of a woman with half a sneer, We sit on our hands when we ought to cheer. The salad we mix in the bowl of the heart We sometimes make a little too tart For home consumption. We growl, we nag, But we're not quite lost if we sometimes drag The hot words back and make them mild At the moment they fret to be running wild.

Don't pin your faith on the man or woman Who never is tempted. We're mostly human. And whoever he be who never has felt The red blood sing in the veins and melt The ice of convention, caste and creed, To the very last barrier, has no need To raise his brows at the rest of us. It bides its time in the best of us, And well for him if he do not do That which the strength of him wants him to.

DIAGNOSIS.

You have a grudge against the man Who did the thing you couldn't do. You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan, And yet you couldn't push it through. You strained your soul and couldn't win; He gave a breath and it was easy. You smile and swallow your chagrin, But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy.

I know your illness, for, you see, The diet never pleases me.

Your dearest friend has made a strike, Has placed his mark above the crowd, Has won the thing which _you_ would like And you are glad for him, and proud. Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red, If some one speak to his detraction, And yet, the fact the thing is said Affords you half a satisfaction.

I see the workings of your mind Because my own is so inclined.

You tell me fame is hollow squeak, You say that wealth is carking care; And to live care-free a single week Is more than years of work and wear. Alexander weeps his highest place, Diogenes is happy sunning! What matters it who wins the race So you have had the joy of running?

And yet, you covet prize and pelf. I know it, for I do, myself.

SPREAD OUT.

In politics I'm a--never mind, And you are a--I don't care, But, anyway, I am rather inclined To suspect we are both unfair; For I have called you a coward and slave And you have dubbed me a fool and knave.

(Yet, perhaps I was right, for you surely abused The right of free speech in the names you used!)

In business you figure--a profit, I guess, And I charge you--as much as I dare, And I grumble that you ought to do it for less, And you ask if my price is fair. But if _I_ sold your goods and _you_ sold mine, I doubt if the prices would much decline.

(Though I must insist that I think I see Where you'd still have a little advantage of me!)

In religion you are a--who cares what? And I am a--what's the odds? So why have I sneered at your holiest thought, And why have you jeered at my gods? For, thinking it over, I'm sure we two Were doing the best that we honestly knew.

(Though, of course, I cannot escape a touch Of suspicion that _you_ never knew too much!)

THE DILETTANT.

To lie outright in the light of day I'm not sufficiently skilful, But I practice a bit, in an amateur way, The lie which is hardly wilful; The society lie and the business lie And the lie I have had to double, And the lie that I lie when I don't know why And the truth is too much trouble.

For this I am willing to take your blame Unless you have sometimes done the same.

To be a fool of an A1 brand I'm not sufficiently clever, But I often have tried my 'prentice hand In a callow and crude endeavor; A fool with the money for which I've toiled, A fool with the word I've spoken, And the foolish fool who is fooled and foiled On a maiden's finger broken.

If you never yourself have made a slip, I'm willing to watch you curl your lip.

And yet my blood and my bone resist If you dub me fool and liar. I set my teeth and double my fist And my brow is flushed with fire.

You I deny and you I defy And I vow I will make you rue it; And I lie when I say that I never lie, Which proves me a fool to do it!

You may jerk your thumb at me and grin If liar and fool you never have been.

THE CONSERVATIVE.

At twenty, as you proudly stood And read your thesis, "Brotherhood," If I remember right, you saw The fatuous faults of social law.

At twenty-five you braved the storm And dug the trenches of Reform, Stung by some gadfly in your breast Which would not let your spirit rest.

At thirty-five you made a pause To sum the columns of The Cause; You noted, with unwilling eye, The heedless world had passed you by.

At forty you had always known Man owes a duty to His Own. Man's life is as man's life is made; The game is fair, if fairly played.

At fifty, after years of stress You bore the banner of Success. All men have virtues, all have sins, And God is with the man who wins.

At sixty, from your captured heights You fly the flag of Vested Rights, Bounded by bonds collectable, And hopelessly respectable!

HUSH.

What's the best thing that you ever have done? The whitest day, The cleverest play That ever you set in the shine of the sun? The time that you felt just a wee bit proud Of defying the cry of the cowardly crowd And stood back to back with God? Aye, I notice you nod, But silence yourself, lest you bring me shame That I have no answering deed to name.

What's the worst thing that ever you did? The darkest spot, The blackest blot On the page you have pasted together and hid? Ah, sometimes you think you've forgotten it quite, Till it crawls in your bed in the dead of the night And brands you its own with a blush. What was it? Nay, hush! Don't tell it to me, for fear it be known That I have an answering blush of my own.

But whenever you notice a clean hit made, Sing high and clear The sounding cheer You would gladly have heard for the play you played, And when a man walks in the way forbidden, Think you of the thing you have happily hidden And spare him the sting of your tongue. Do I do that which I've sung? Well, it may be I don't and it may be I do, But I'm telling the thing which is good for _you_!

THE ISLAND.

You, my friend, in your long-tailed coat, With your white cravat at your withered throat, Praying by proxy of him you hire, Worshiping God with a quartet choir, Bumping your head on the pew in front, Assenting "Amen!" with an unctuous grunt, Are you sure it is you In the pew?

Look! You're away on a lonely isle, Where the scant breech-clout is the only style, Where the day of the week forgets its name, Where god and devil are all the same. Look at yourself in your careless clout, And tell me, then, would you be devout?

One on the island, one in the pew-- How do you know which is you?

You, dear maiden, with eyes askance At the little soubrette and her daring dance, Thanking God that His ways are wide To allow you to pass on the other side, You, as you ask, "Will the world approve?" At the hint of a wabble out of the groove,

Look! On that isle of the lonely sea Are you, the saucy soubrette and _he_. And the little grooves that you circle in Are forever as though they never had been. Now you are naked of soul and limb: Will you say what you will not dare--for him?

Which of the women is real? The one you appear, or the one you feel?

You, good sir, with your neck a-stretch, As the van goes by with the prison wretch, Asking naught of his ills or hurts, Judging "he's getting his just deserts," Pluming yourself that the moral laws Are centred in you as effect and cause.

Look! At the island, and there you are With the long, strong arm which reaches far, And there are the natives who kneel and bow, And where are your _meum et tuum_ now? Are you sure that the balance swings quite true? Or does it a little incline to you?

Answer or not as you will, but oh, I have an island, too, and so I know, I know.

HUMBLER HEROES.

It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade, While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played; It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears, To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears. But to be a scrubwoman, with four Babies, or more, Every day, every day setting your back On the rack, And all your reward forever not quite A full bite Of bread for your babies. Say! In the heat of the day You might be a hero to head a brigade, But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

It might be very feasible to force a great reform, To saddle public passion and to ride upon the storm; It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath, Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path. But he who, alone and unknown, is true To his view, Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed, Blatting crowd, Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking ease Which he sees Throned and anointed. Say! At the height of the fray, You might be the chosen to captain the throng: But to stand all alone? How long? How long?

CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO.

You are honest as daylight. You're often assured That your word is as good as your note--unsecured. We could trust you with millions unaudited, but---- (Tut, tut! There is always a "but," So don't get excited,) I'm pained to perceive It is seldom I notice you grumble or grieve When the custom-house officer pockets your tip And passes the contraband goods in your grip. You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I'm certain, But skinning your Uncle you're rather expert in.

Well, I'm proud that no taint of the sort touches me. (For I've never been over the water, you see.)

Your yardstick's a yard and your goods are all wool; Your bushel's four pecks and you measure it full. You are proud of your business integrity, yet-- (Don't fret! There is always a "yet,") I never have noticed a sign of distress, or Disturbance in you, when the upright assessor Has listed your property somewhere about Half what you would take were you selling it out. You're as true to the world as the world to its axis, But you chuckle to swear off your personal taxes. As for me, I would scorn to do any such thing, (Though I may have considered the question last spring.)

You have notions of right. You would count it a sin To cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin. You have a contempt for a pettiness, still-- (Don't chill! There is always a "still,") I never have noticed you storm with neglect Because the conductor had failed to collect, Or growl that the game wasn't run on the square When your boy in the high school paid only half fare. The voice of your conscience is lusty and audible, But a railroad--good heavens! why, that's only laudable.

Of course, _I_ am quite in a different class; For me, it is painful to ride on a pass!

THE WORLD RUNS ON.

So many good people find fault with God, Tho' admitting He's doing the best He can, But still they consider it somewhat odd That He doesn't consult them concerning his plan, But the sun sinks down and the sun climbs back, And the world runs round and round its track.

Or they say God doesn't precisely steer This world in the way they think is best, And if He would listen to them, He'd veer A hair to the sou', sou'west by west. But the world sails on and it never turns back And the Mariner never makes a tack.

Or the same folk pray "O, if Thou please, Dear God, be a little more circumspect; Thou knowest Thy worm who is on his knees Would not willingly charge thee with neglect, But O, if indeed Thou knowest all things, Why fittest Thou not Thy worm with wings?"

So many good people are quite inclined To favor God with their best advices, And consider they're something more than kind In helping Him out of critical crises. But the world runs on, as it ran before, And eternally shall run evermore.

So many good people, like you and me, Are deeply concerned for the sins of others And conceive it their duty that God should be Apprised of the lack in erring brothers. And the myriad sun-stars seed the skies And look at us out of their calm, clear eyes.

PASS.

Did somebody give you a pat on the back? Pass it on! Let somebody else have a taste of the snack, Pass it on! If it heightens your courage, or lightens your pack, If it kisses your soul, with a song in the smack, Maybe somebody else has been dressing in black; Pass it on! God gives you a smile, not to make it a yawn; Pass it on!

Did somebody show you a slanderous mess? Pass it by! When a brook's flowing by, will you drink at the cess? Pass it by! Dame Gossip's a wanton, whatever her dress; Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess, And a poison is in her polluting caress; Pass it by! Unless you're a porker, keep out of the sty. Pass it by!

Did somebody give you an insolent word? Pass it up! 'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a bird; Pass it up! Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty blurred? Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity slurred? But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred! Pass it up! Does the puddle invite you to dip in your cup? Pass it up!

PUBLICITY.

There's nothing like publicity To further that lubricity Which minted cartwheels need To maximize their speed In your direction. True, some hydropathist of stocks, Or one whose trade is picking locks, May make objection: Yet even those gentry always lurk Where booming first has done its work.

Observe how oft some foreigner, About the size of coroner, Can sell L O R D (Four letters, as you see,) For seven numbers, Because his trade-mark, thus devised, Is advertised and advertised Till it encumbers The mental view, as though 't were some Bald-headed brand of chewing-gum.

Study your own psychology! See how some mere tautology Of picture, or of print, Has realized the glint Of your good money. How often have persistent views Of one bare head sold you your shoes! Which does seem funny; And yet 'twas head-work, after all, Which helped the shoe-man make his haul.

There's some obscure locality In every man's mentality Which, I am free to state, I'd like to penetrate For my felicity. For now who gives a second look When he perceives a POEM by Cooke? But come publicity! And then a poem by COOKE were seen The first thing in the magazine!

MOVE!

We are on the main line of a crowded track; We've got to go forward; we can't go back And run the risk of colliding: We must make schedule, not now and again, But always, forever and ever, amen! Or else switch off on a siding. If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard, Doesn't somebody bump us, and bump us hard, I wonder?

You've succeeded in building a pretty fair trade, But can you sit down in the grateful shade And kill time cutting up capers? Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat, Though the shine be fine or the weather be wet, And keep your page in the papers? If ever you fail to be pulling the strings, Aren't some of your rivals around doing things, I wonder?

You're a first-class salesman. You know your line; Your house is good and your goods are fine, So you fill your book with orders, But can you get quit of the ball and chain, Or are you in jail on a railroad train, With blue-coated men for warders? If you sent your samples and cut out the trip, Wouldn't somebody else soon be lugging your grip, I wonder?

You are starred on the bills and are chummy with fame; The man on the corner could tell you your name At three o'clock in the morning, But can you depend on the mind of the mob? Can you tell your press-agent to look for a job, Or give your manager warning? Should you lie down to sleep, with your laurels beneath, Wouldn't somebody else soon be wearing your wreath, I wonder?

Oh, I'm willing to work, but I wish I could lag, Not feeling as if I were "it" for tag, Or last in follow-my-leader; There is only one spot where, I haven't a doubt, Nobody will try to be crowding me out, And that is under the cedar. And even in that place, will Gabriel's trump Come nagging along and be making me jump? I wonder.

GET NEXT.

Chap. I., verse 1, is where you'll find The text of what is in my mind If, haply, you are so inclined. Chap. I., verse 1--the primal rule For saint or sinner, sage or fool, No matter what his church or school. Though you may call it slangy solely, Though you may term it flippant wholly, Truth still is truth and is not vexed; I write this rhyme to prove the text-- Get Next.

Suppose I sought some lonely height And dipped a stylus in the light Of welding worlds and sought to write Upon the highest, deepest blue My message to Sam Smith and you. The chances are it would not do. You would not risk your neck to read My much too altitudinous screed, And I, chagrined and half-perplexed, Had missed you when I missed my text-- Get Next.

Suppose you have a breakfast food Which you conceive I should include Within my lat-and-longitude. 'T is not enough to have the stuff, But you must post, and praise, and puff, Until I memo. on my cuff, Among my most important notes-- Be sure to bring home Oatless Oats. And then you know that I'm annexed, Because you followed out the text-- Get Next.

Get next! get next! and hold it true There's one you must get nextest to, And that important one is you. Be not of those who, uncommuned With their own skins, have all but swooned From some imaginary wound, But strip the rags from off your soul And find you are not maimed, but whole! 'T is but a flea-bite which has vexed As soon as you've applied the text-- Get Next.

ARE YOU YOU?

Are you a trailer, or are you a trolley? Are you tagged to a leader through wisdom and folly? Are you Somebody Else, or You? Do you vote by the symbol and swallow it "straight"? Do you pray by the book, do you pay by the rate? Do you tie your cravat by the calendar's date? Do you follow a cue?

Are you a writer, or that which is worded? Are you a shepherd, or one of the herded? Which are you--a What or a Who? It sounds well to call yourself "one of the flock," But a sheep is a sheep after all. At the block You're nothing but mutton, or possibly stock. Would you flavor a stew?

Are you a being and boss of your soul? Or are you a mummy to carry a scroll? Are you Somebody Else, or You? When you finally pass to the heavenly wicket Where Peter the Scrutinous stands on his picket, Are you going to give him _a blank_ for a ticket? Do you think it will do?

THE PRICE.

In, or under, or over the earth, What will fill you, and what suffice? No matter how mean, or much its worth, It is yours if you pay the price. Never a thing may a man attain, But gain pays loss, or loss pays gain.

Lady of riches, riot and rout, Fair of flesh and sated of sense, Nothing in life you need do without Except the trifle of innocence. Counterfeit kisses you paid, and got Just what you paid for--which is what?

Man of adroitness, place and power, Trampled above and torn below; Set in the light of your noonday hour, Playing a part in the public show; Fooling the mob that the mob be ruled: You know which is the greater fooled.

Artist of pencil, or paint, or pen, Reed, or string, or the vocal note, Making the soul to suffer again And the wild heart clutch the throat; Ever your fancy has paid in fact; You rack my soul, as yours was racked.

THE BUBBLE-FLIES.

Let me read a homily Concerning an anomaly I view In you. Whatever you are striving for, Whatever you are driving for, 'T is not alone because you crave To be successful that you slave To swim upon the topmost wave. You care less what your station is, But more what your relation is. To be a bit above the rest! To be upon, or of, the crest! Ah! that is where the trouble lies Which stirs you little bubble-flies.

(I sneer these sneers, but just the same I keep my fingers in the game.) See! you have eat-and-drinkables And portables and thinkables And yet You fret. For what? Let's reach the heart of you And see the funny part of you. For what? I find the soul and seed Of it is not your lack or need, Or even merely vulgar greed. Gold? You may have a store of it, But someone else has more of it. Fame? Pretty things are said of you, But--some one is ahead of you. Place? You disprize your easy one For some one's high and breezy one.

(I smile these smiles to soothe my soul, But squint one eye upon the goal.)