Part Three: Newspaper Poetry

Topical Verse

(Dramatis Personae: One singer, one baritone horn, one bass drum.)

There was a man in our town, And he was very lazy; He made his wife do everything, Till she was almost crazy. Although he was a Christian man, He made her come upstairs And wake him up to say "Amen!" When she had said his prayers. One night before he went to sleep He made her kneel and pray And when she finished, wake him up; Then this good man did say: "Oh, Lord, please answer my wife's prayer." And then to sleep he fell. The Lord did, and the man awoke To find himself in ----. _Baritone horns_ "Ta-ta-rum." _Bass Drums_ "Boom."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

Cape Jessamines

"Cape jessamines! Remove them from my sight! I can not bear that odor, cloying sweet, That hangs about them like a heavy sigh. They bring back to my memory haunting days Of deep regret, and open all my wounds again. Fair, dream-like flower, that in this Southern town Within the dark green copses of thy birth Hangeth faint and heavy with thine own sweet breath, To me ye are a mockery, and your odor foul. Come, sit thee down, Rinaldo, I will tell thee all. Knewest thou fair Rosamond, the Houston belle, Who years ago, like some fair Lorelei of old Upon the hearts of all our gallants set her feet? I loved her madly and I swore to win Her from the suing courtiers in her train. Alas! Rinaldo--this sudden faintness--quick--some wine! Ah! thanks, it gives me strength to tell the tale. For years I have not been myself. Since one Sad night that in my mem'ry burns white-hot Like some sad bark that washes, derelict Within the trough of sullen alien tides, I've drifted down the mournful muttering seas; But at the smell of jessamines, my brain Quick strikes those aching chords of old, And all the latest agony revives. It grasps me now--more wine, Rinaldo--thanks; I'm better now. 'Twas on one summer's night I stood with Rosamond to count the stars. With downcast eyes and softly heaving breast, She pledged a kiss for every star that fell. My pretty, sweet, shy dove. Methinks they fell Too seldom till, anon, some frolic boys Sent up a sky rocket, and when it burst Upon her lips I pressed full seventeen. But--peace! I wander from my theme. At last my love o'erpowered, and I spake In thrilling tones, and wooed her there. What clogs my heart? More wine, Rinaldo, quick! Oh, then she fastened on me those dark orbs, In them illimitable sadness, and such store Of pity that her face angelic seemed. More wine, Rinaldo--thanks. I'm better now. The while the garden there was heavy with The odor of cape jessamines, and pinned Upon her breast a cluster of them lay. And in her hair some snowy buds were twined; Almost oppressive was the odor of the flower. And that is why the smell of jessamines Unto my heart such bitter thoughts recalls. Rinaldo, quick! A glass of wine! My brain Is reeling! Another glass! Is there no more? Well, then, I'll cease. I married Rosamond And since then I can't stand those blooming Blarsted cape jessamine flowers. See?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Cricket

When the moonlight falls from the star-strewn sky; Comes the tune of the mockingbird; When the morning dawns and the roses sigh, Then the lark's sweet voice is heard. When all things smile And the hours beguile, Then the hearts of the singers are stirred.

When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink low; And the death watch ticks in the wall, And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe, Comes the cricket's merry call. In the hour of fear, With his note of cheer, Rings his sprightly madrigal.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

My Broncho

Yoho! Away o'er the mesquite sward, With stirruped foot and a slackened rein; With drumming hoofs, the hills toward. And our track the boundless grassy plain; Light in the saddle and ready hand; Ride in the teeth of the wind and sand, Wind, and sand, and rain. Knees pressed tight on the saddle flap Where the lasso dangles from its string Over the rifle scabbard strap, And the canteen and suaderos swing; The wind sings hollow in my ear, Nor sail nor wheel could follow near, Sail, nor wheel, nor wing.

On dusty roads and streets there prowl Bent riders perched on noiseless wheels; Misshapen things with mannish scowl; Strange crafts with unknown bows and keels; Queer fish enmeshed in Folly's net; Scare human, flesh, or fowl--scarce yet Red herring, flesh, or fowl.

Yoho! O'er the hills and far away, My broncho spurns the gravel slope; This is the ride for a man alway; The valleys at gallop, the hills at a lope; Who would exchange for the senseless wheel The life and strength that the horsemen feel? Life, and strength, and hope.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Modern Venus

The golden apple Paris gave To the most beautiful, To the fairest Aphrodite fell, Although she had no pull.

She did not need to plead her cause, Nor canvass, sue or beg; She did not run her rivals down, Nor pull her best friend's leg.

She stood in beauteous youthfulness, Incarnate rose of love; When Paris held the apple forth She did not scrouge or shove.

Alas! our modern Venuses Far different methods use To gain the palm of loveliness Whenever one we choose.

Towns, churches and societies Now offer prizes rare To one among the pretty girls Who is adjudged most fair.

Our modern Venus hustles forth And campaigns all the town, And begs men to buy votes for her; Smith, Johnson, Jones and Brown.

'Twas not thus Venus Victrix gained The gift of Priam's son. By beauty, not by begging, was The golden apple won.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)

Celestial Sounds

With three men on the bases, And one to tie the score, The batter rubs sand on his hands, The runners play off more.

He hits a home run o'er the fence, The air is full of cheers; The sharp crack of the ball and bat Is music of the spheres.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Snow

'Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well, Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower. I love the cold and the north wind's power; Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell. Did you think that the colonel's daughter Was afraid to ride in a little cold Back to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought to Do guard duty till you're gray and old.

Come, mount--Ah, this is life again; Like a mustang in a hunter's pen, So many months I have fretted sore For a gallop on Firefly's back once more. Going to snow?--Well, what do I care? I told you, Travers, I am not afraid. There are few things that I would not dare; You can go back if you'd rather have stayed.

There, now, I was but jesting. No need for that flush resting On your cheek at what I said. Why did they send you to meet me--Oh, You begged the task as a favor! There is about your words a savor Of something that would hardly go Unrebuked if your colonel heard you.

As I am the colonel's daughter, You must know that as fire and water Are things that must be kept asunder; So I from a common private; Lest the great big world should wonder; I must not for a moment connive at Your treading its dictates under.

Your hand from my bridle rein, sir! What is it you say?--the snow? I take no alarm from your answer; Just a big white flake or so. Ride for my life?--Why, Travers, Are you frightened, man? Would you have us Racing for a stray snowflake? Ah, you will hat it--off, then; Though I positively can not take Alarm, though you tell me so often.

* * * * *

It's no use, Travers, draw rein; Our wonderful ride has been in vain; It was glorious though, for a while. I'm so cold, and the horrid snow Grows deeper with every mile, And my heart grows faint, and every blow Of the icy wind is death, As it catches my breath And bears my soul out to the snow. No, no, I will not ride on. My strength and my will are gone; Where is our course, can you tell me? Backward or forward, or where? You can not? Then it were well we Stopped here--for, see, in the air Comes the snow in eddying waves; What a pure nice fall for our graves. What, Travers, your coat?--No, keep it; I said no! Do I have to repeat it? Do you forget that you are a private? And I--Oh, God, and what am I, To lie--but come; let's arrive at Some understanding why I always flout you and scorn you. I'll speak to the point, and I warn you I will speak my heart's truth ere I die. I am so sleepy and cold; Is this the maiden bold Who a few hours ago spoke so brave, And claimed such a deal of courage? So dauntless and firm (and save In one thing) quite up to her age.

I'm freezing, Travers, help me down; Hark! was not that the sound Of church bells? Travers, come quick I'm afraid of this horrible whiteness around. Look up, Travers, into my eyes; Do you see anything in them to prize? The drifts are rising fast around us, Death has come at last and found us. I am the colonel's daughter, and you Are only--my Jack and the man I love And always have, the long years through. Come, Jack! At last my head finds rest; Draw me closer upon your breast. Has it grown dark? I can not see, But I can feel your dear, strong arm. I am not cold now; it must be The snow was a dream, and we Are at the barracks. Do not keep Me waiting longer; I must sleep. --W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, February 23, 1896.)

Her Choice

The trump had sounded, and on pinions white Ascended they who in the grave had lain; And seraph bands in floods of golden light Guided before the pure and heavenly train.

And on, past comet and past lurid star They winged their way unto the throne of grace; The burning world behind them glowed far, As low in worship, bowed each angel face.

There was among the chosen of the earth A woman beautiful and young and fair; So sweet and chaste, and breathing love and worth, She stood the loveliest of the angels there.

And then from out the band about the throne, With eager eyes and outstretched hands, there came The forms of two. Each once had been her own, And she on earth of each had borne the name.

(Oh, heaven being love, why should not love be thine, And heart to heart strayed souls again unite, And wife to husband there for aye entwine Their spirit tendrils where is no blight?)

And each had been her husband; and each spoke Her name and claimed her with fond eyes And beckoning hands, till from her dream she woke And gazed. Then spake a Voice kind-toned and wise:

"Choose you between them who your mate shall be; For heaven were not heaven if it were to lose The other half of self, the ecstasy Of loving and of being loved--so choose."

The woman raised her down-cast eyes, and o'er The gathered host of spirits swept her gaze. Twice had her heart gone out in love before; Twice had she felt its warm, eternal rays.

Wild, sweet and tender to her memory came Her first love's recollections, like the start Of mighty breakers. Then the steady flame Uprising from her second smote her heart.

With pleading eyes, the two stayed on her choice, Each thinking one must win and one must lose. And then she spake, uplifting her sweet voice, And said in tender tones: "And must I choose?"

"Yea, verily," the Voice replied. "Be free To follow where your heart points out the way. For love, once kindled, fills eternity; 'Tis heaven, not earth, that lights his brightest ray."

And then the woman, with fond beaming eye, Spake up and said: "These two are both N. G. They made me tired. I think I'll try That nice blond angel by that apple tree." --W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 12, 1896.)

"Little Things, but Ain't They Whizzers?"

The following song was written for the benefit of any theatrical or musical entertainment that desires to use it in Houston. Any company rendering it outside the city is liable to a fine of $1,000,000, as it has been composed solely for the pleasure of Houston audiences, which it is sure to please. The person singing the song, if a gent, will dress in loud check trousers, tan shoes, and high white hat, advancing to the footlights, smiling, and carrying a large cane. If sung by a lady, the costume is the same, with smaller checks, and parasol instead of cane. The following lines are to be spoken: "Ladies and Gentlemen: You must excuse my hoarseness tonight, as I was up late last night rocking the baby to sleep. (_Laughter._) I love babies. (_Great laughter._) When they get molasses on their fingers and use your shirt front for a piano, it makes a man think marriage is a success, now doesn't it? (_Howls of laughter from the family circle._) Last night I came home late from the lodge (_applause_); and after I took off my shoes and slipped into the room and commenced rocking the cradle, my wife woke up and said, 'What are you doing, Charlie?' 'I'm getting the baby quiet,' said I. 'Come to bed, you fool,' says she, 'the baby has been in bed here with me for two hours.' (_Prolonged yells of laughter._) Babies are little things, but are very important institutions. That reminds me of a song." (_Looks at orchestra, which strikes up at once._)

(_Sings_): As we wander down life's pathway Plucking roses as we go, Often do we prick our finger With the little thorns that grow, Little drops make up the ocean, Little chips fill up the pot; Little drinks make great big jaglets, Little wives can make home hot.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers! Little bees have biggest stings; Little girls are sometimes Tartars-- Look out for the little things. (_Bass horn--"Ta-ra-rum."_)

(_Spoken_)--"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always the biggest things that are the most valuable. I remember a few nights ago I was in a poker game. It was not in this city, of course, for since Charlie Helm was elected marshal there is no gambling in Hooston (_can also be pronounced Howston_). (_Vociferous cheering in gallery._) I will tell you about it:

(_Sings_): Once while I was playing poker, I hid four kings in my shoe; And I said, when someone raised me, "I won't do a thing to you." Then I shoved in all my money, And I reached out for the pot-- But a fellow shouted, "Drop it! I've four aces, what you got?"

Little things--but ain't they whizzers! Little one spots downed the kings, And my hand it was not in it When he showed the little things.

(_Deafening applause from the audience; two men fall out of private boxes overcome with laughter, and every man in the audience claps his hands for fear it will be thought he does not understand the game. The singer will please smile indulgently, and when the noise has subsided, continue_)--

I engaged board once in Hooston (_or Howston_), At a house not far from here; They were fashionable people, And the grub was scarce and dear. I turned into bed quite early, But I jumped out with a roar, And I scratched myself two hours Then slept upon the floor.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers! Never felt such bites and stings! When you go to bed in Howston, Look out for the little things.

(_Plaster falls from the opera-house ceiling, and the audience stand up in their chairs and wave their handkerchiefs. The singer will here do a few steps of a clog dance, and exit r. Whistles, yells, and calls and screams from dress circle. Gallery totters. Enter singer, smiling and bowing, wearing another coat and hat--Sings:_)

I have got a girl in Hooston, And she rides upon a bike; You should see her when she spins to Harrisburg upon the pike. She wears bloomers, though she don't weigh More than eighty pounds or so; Now, I wonder how she does it, When I see her move 'em so.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers! Pair of bloomers hung on strings; Wonder they don't break to pieces, Such hard work for little things.

(_The audience goes wild with delight, gentlemen throw their hats at the ceiling, ladies shriek with delight, and the gallery resolves itself into a Republican convention, while the police pound with their clubs on the wall and cry "Encore!"_)

_Curtain_.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

Last Fall of the Alamo

"I am-- Excuse me, I was--the Alamo. Ye who have tears to shed, Shed. Shades of Crockett, Bowie and the rest Who in my sacred blood-stained walls were slain! Shades of the fifty or sixty solitary survivors, Each of whom alone escaped; And shades of the dozen or so daughters, Sisters, cousins and aunts of the Alamo, Protest! Against this foul indignity. Ain't there enough jobs in the city That need whitewashing Without jumping on me? Did I stand off 5,000 Mexicans in '36 To be kalsomined and wall-papered And fixed up with dados and pink mottoes In '96? Why don't you put bloomers on me at once, And call me The New Alamo?-- Tamaleville! You make me tired. I can stand a good deal yet, So don't have any more chrysanthemum shows In me. If you do I'll fall on you. Sabe?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, April 13, 1896.)

End of Project Gutenberg's O. Henry Encore, by William Sydney Porter