Part 1

Chapter 13,567 wordsPublic domain

THE PACIFIST

_And Other Poems_

HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON

BOSTON

THE GORHAM PRESS

MCMXVIII

MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.

THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,

AND

WILLIAM MACFUNN BAIRD

CONTENTS

PAGE

The Pacifist 9

“Adam’s Apple” 11

Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar 12

Breaking In 15

La Reve 16

Sol 17

The Poor Man’s Club 18

Retrospect 20

On “Gungha Din” 21

Why? 22

Barney 23

Come, Little Girl 24

I’ll Come, Little Boy 25

Chenoweth 26

You Wonder 28

In “Del’s” 29

The Mother 30

Jumbo’s Dream 31

The Blues 33

The “I Told You So Club” 34

E Pluribus 37

The Man About Town 39

Elk Creek 40

How the Village Canard Started 41

The Spring Violet 44

Sandy Flash 45

The New Suit 46

The Libertine 47

The Liberty Cornet Band 48

The Periodic 50

Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase 51

The Legend of Deborah’s Rock 52

The Actor-Man 54

The Gangster 55

Tom 58

La Langue Anglaise 59

Ne’er More 60

When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town 61

THE PACIFIST

In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt, A strain of the strong Saxon thew; From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South―― An American type through and through. A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say, Who lived in the far remote past,―― An unpractical man and careless forsooth; Inclined as a youth to be fast. He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats, And once on a time rolled the dice, But heart like an ox and muscled like steel; A dreamer? Yes, without price. He filled no great niche in the town where he lived, Was never considered worth while. The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky And mentioned his name with a smile, An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin, A smile that was snaky and sly. They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club, But could damn with the lift of an eye. The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land, And threatened invasion seemed near. The hand of the patriot went to the sword; The pacifist muttered in fear; He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground Down hard by the burden of Thor, Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates; Conscription did curse and abhor. Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife Where the roar of the guns rose and fell; Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause As he fought like a demon of hell. They builded a shaft in the town of his birth To the rascally skin and the beat Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food, A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war, Contributed largely of speech And words of advice to the youth thereabouts―― His pacifist face was a ‘screech’, Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame; No tablet recited the list of his deeds, Nor blazoned the worth of his name. He died as men do who answer the call With boots on and pierced to the heart; He died and those lived who, sneering at him, Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart; Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood, Not unwilling a country to sell; Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf―― The opal-eyed vampires of hell!

“ADAM’S APPLE”

Said Eve to “hub” Adam: “My dear, what’s the matter? Your eyes are all bulging; Your teeth all a chatter. That lump in your throat, dear, Speak, Adam!” she muttered. “Ad” gasped for his breath, And spluttered and spluttered, Then breathed more at ease; Congestion releasing Its hold, he looked normal, But frowns his face creasing, He paused before speaking: “Eve, list while I chatter; I’ve most choked to death, see? The cause of the matter Was eating your apple, Esophagus cloying, That Forbidden Fruit My life most destroying.”

* * *

Now if we’re believing In stuff that’s prenatal, We plain see the reason Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal Big lumps all a bulging, Their cervicals craning,―― ’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault, Heredity’s (s) training, That lump in their throats just Keeps sticking and sticking. “Adam’s Apple” Eve called it, _But_ Eve did the picking.

MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR

There’s a quaint and care-free tavern In the heart of business life, In the Quaker City’s centre,―― Where relaxation’s rife. ’Tis a melting pot and leveler For the man who has a ‘bump’, Or the one with trouble burdened Like a dromedary’s hump. One finds parry and riposte rare Unto the nth degree, And Barney Bright, the Irish wight, Who orders “darks” for me. Here Andrew Jackson Johnson, Or MacDee, with _savoir faire_, Smooths down the foolish talker Who wildly pounds the air. Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”―― MacDee, I mean――the two Have often smoothed the ruffled path For you and me and you. Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel Disports in ornate phrase, And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’ Descants Bohemia’s ways Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell, Of famed blue-grass renown, Exploits the perfect luxury Of bourbon trickling down. And so, ad infinitum, From out the clouds of smoke, Away from tribulation, We laugh and jest and joke. Now far as I have wandered, At home, abroad, afar, I’ve never seen the equal Of Bill MacDee’s cigar. Its shape just at the lighting Is like Zeppelin’s air craft; ’Tis round and rolled so nicely And pointed fore and aft; It faithfully interprets, In rising rings of smoke, Each psychologic moment, Each point and pass and poke. Now when it’s smooth and rounded Mac’s camping on the trail Of something that’s been mooted, And works his mental flail. This cautious Scottish Quaker’s “I see” means “I’ve a hunch”; He’s sparring for an opening Before he hands a punch, But just before he counters While listening to us “spar,” You will never see the equal Of good, old Mac’s cigar. It’s whirled round like a cyclone; It’s feathered like an owl; It’s mussed up like a scrap can Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl. It’s frayed and furred and serrate; It’s toothed and torn and spurred; It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged, And this is what’s occurred; Chaotic conversation A figure needs, you know, A metaphor or something Interpreting its flow; To visualize its looseness, Its academic “punk” From Literary Digests; Its casuistic “bunk.” And so when I’m relaxing, And talking wild and far, I catch my real reflection In Bill MacDee’s cigar. I trust that it may “_fumer_,” Frayed, frazzled old cheroot, For many years of joy for Mac, With other things to boot. And when I’ve run my gamut And am “crossing of the bar,” I hope to see a-glowing The end of Mac’s cigar.

BREAKING IN

I called on the editor, A story in my grip. I laid it down before him, Then bethought me of some quip, Some turn of conversation, Some “jolly” or some speech, A sesame or something By which I’d surely reach And pink him in the vitals Of sympathy and such Emotionals and interest, And volunteered this much: “I feel I have a FUTURE In writing, don’t you see, In enlightening the public With prose and poetry!” I waited a few minutes Until the tale he’d read, He looked at me acutely With horoscopic dread. “You feel you have a FUTURE In writing, then,” he sneered. “You’d better get a PAST, sir,” Was all he volunteered.

(Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late David Graham Phillips.)

LA REVE

The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams, Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams, Her delicate touch to soothe me the while, Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.

* * *

I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems; It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.

SOL

“Solomon, young, full of pep”―― I’m quoting one Burney C. “With all the gay blades kept step Gay Lothario he. Solomon withered and old, Filled to the brim with _ennui_, Tired of the gay life and bold, Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”

THE POOR MAN’S CLUB

The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place, Neither fashionable, swift nor slow, A kindly, rare, psychological spot, As those who frequent it well know. It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan Which is sane and destructive to fear. You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself, And expand in democracy’s cheer. Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse For a rare metaphysical “bee.” “Missourians” they, with a look which conveys: “My friend, you will have to show me.” No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust, No skeptical look nor a sneer, Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance, Then “welcome here without fear.” The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind; I opine it dislikes the “know It all” sort, the artistically weird, Still more it detests the blow. It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks And the man who tries to droll. It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad As it would a plain damned fool. In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri Or a melting pot, you know, For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all, Or flotsam who just come and go. Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place For the man with mental bumps. Its light and cheer are just the best boost For the one who’s in the dumps. Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch, It smooths for the man who’s down, And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick Of a patronizing frown. So if some night you are all out of sorts And don’t know what to do, Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club, And let me present to you First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope” And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,” Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,” And then you can have your fill Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up And kindly repartee, In the night you spend in parry and tierce At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”

(Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).

RETROSPECT

She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair, And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!” There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye, And the savor of health as she passes you by. Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true, And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue. I shall ever recall, if I live to four score, The impress she made on me, the old bore, As she sat on the stairs one night long ago, With a touch of the roguish, a wonderful glow In her exquisite eyes never equaled as yet. They’ve haunted me since and I’ll never forget That touch of the roguish, that wonderful glow In her exquisite eyes on that night long ago.

ON “GUNGHA DIN”

Have you ever heard Schaffer declaim of old “Din,” “Din,” “Gungha Din,” He gives all its savors, Its turns and its quavers And all the camp flavors Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin On “Din,” “Gungha Din,” He catches its chiming, Its scanning and rhyming, And the depth of repining In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in To “Din,” “Gungha Din!” You hear bullets flying And screeching, men sighing When Schaffer is plying His “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

If some night you hear a real terrible din After “Din,” “Gungha Din!” You’ll know they’re applauding And cheering and lauding Old Schaffer marauding Through “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

WHY?

What a glance in your sweet, soulful eyes! What a tilt to your nose, just above The _moue_ to your lips, that is charming. Your delicate ears, sweet, I love! I’ll love you, my wee girl, forever; With the strength of my soul, I will do The best I can plan for you, darling, And why? Why because, dear, you’re you!

BARNEY

Have you ne’er heard of Barney? Come, none of your blarney; You’ve ne’er heard of Barney, the wight? He’s a real Celt; he’s witty; He lives in this city, And waits at Meran’s every night.

There once ’rose the question Midst mental congestion Produced by ‘Vin Ordinaire;’ “What shape is this world here, Round, ovoid, spheroidal, Elliptical, nut-shaped or square?”

After hopeless arraignment, With well-done containment, One called on old Barney so that He might judge the matter―― To ease up the clatter, And put a quick end to the spat.

“I’ve thought and I’ve wondered,” Said Barney, “I’ve pondered, To see, sir, just where I was at. The world is not round, sir, For I’ve always found, sir, Whenever I hit it, ’twas flat.”

COME, LITTLE GIRL

Oh, come, little girl, and play with me For I would be your little boy. We will never grow old, little girl, at all; We’ll hop, skip and jump and play with a ball: We’ll frolic, and laugh and climb the trees tall, Just you, little girl, and I.

Oh, come, little girl and play with me, For I would be your little boy. We’ll make believe cats and doggies and things Are elephants, lions and eagles with wings; We’ll dream in the woods, where the waterfall sings, Just you, little girl, and I.

Oh, come, little girl and play with me, For I would be your little boy. We’ll make believe you, little girl, and I Are married some day, and then by and by, We’ll buy paper kiddies, and croon “lullaby,” Just you, little girl, and I.

Do come little girl, _please_ play with me, For I _must_ be your little boy We’ll build a sweet house, little girl, our own, Of sassafras wood, and birch, and stone; We’ll bake big mud pies, and cookies and pome, You, sweet little girl, and I.

I’LL COME, LITTLE BOY

I’ll come and play with you, little boy, For I would be your little girl. We’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll play and we’ll sing; We’ll just pretend lake down by the old spring, And toss ourselves high in the old willow swing, Just you, little boy, and I.

Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy, For I would be your little girl. I’ll bring my sweet kitties and doggies and “Ted”, The little brown bear, with the cute little head, And we’ll sing them to sleep in a wee trundle bed, Just you, little boy, and I.

Oh! I’ll come and play with you, little boy, For I would be your little girl. We’ll sit by the brook where the cataract calls; And make believe, down by the Silver Thread Falls, That we’re on a honeymoon, like Grandma Mauls, Just you, little boy, and I.

Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy, For I _must_ be your little girl. I’ll cook in an oven of clay and of loam; I’ll kiss you, dear boy, whene’er you come home, And then you’ll kiss me, little boy, all my own, Just you, little boy, and I.

CHENOWETH

I’ve followed athletes’ foibles since Walter Camp began To pick foot-ball immortals for “The All-American,” But close as I’ve observed them at home, abroad, afar, I’m sure that “Texas” Chenoweth is easily the star Of all elusive “quarters” who ever tried to squirm On foot-ball field deceptive; on footing wet or firm. He twists just like a serpent; he’s cunning as a fox; He runs as from a creditor; he’s mighty hard to box. He’s slippery as an oyster; he’s fleeter than a deer; He dodges like a debtor; he jumps now there, now here. I’ve seen DeSaulles cavorting from this goal unto that; To “Phil” King I’ve paid homage; to Daly doffed my hat. “Brown’s” Sprackling was a wonder; Carl Williams was a peach; To Poe, finesse in foot-ball was very hard to teach. Out West there was a wonder named Walter Eckersall; Old Bray, the Easton wonder, was a terror with the ball. And so, _ad infinitum_, I might enumerate The gamut of the heroes who really scintillate In firmament of foot-ball, the king of out-door sport, When put to the defensive, to really show one’s forte, But in quaffing to those heroes who’re destined e’er to shine, Or in toasting to great “quarters” in retrospective wine, I’ll just defer to Kipling and attempt to plagiarize Those lines of his so potent, and not philosophize Here’s to ’Weth, ’Weth, ’Weth, Chenoweth, You doughty little “quarter,” get your breath, Though they’ve tackled, mauled and flayed you, And in Earth’s dank mud have laid you, You’ve “got ’em shooting ducks,” “Tex” Chenoweth.

_Philadelphia Lehigh Club “NEWS,” January 1914._

YOU WONDER

You wonder, you surmise, And with imploring eyes, You ask me: “Will you always love me so?” Your soul is searching mine, While your trembling lips make sign To ask me “Will you always love me so?”

Your soul is all afire, With that questioning desire To ask me: “Will you always love me so?” But your pride bids you keep still, And you force me by sheer will To tell you: “I will always love you so.”

IN “DEL’S”

In the rich warm light, We sat one night At dear Delmonico’s. The menu there, With dishes rare, Hints gastronomic throes.

She scanned it down, ’Twixt smile and frown, And then expressed a wish To try some quails And Newburg snails―― The last a dainty dish.

New York her “town,” On which we frown In Philadelphia slow, And not a word I’ve ever heard Of eating snails, you know.

I said as much With just a touch Of thin-veiled irony, And then she said, With turn of head, While smiling quizzically:

“In Quaker town, Of great renown, They tell me they’re so slow, They don’t eat snail Because they fail To catch them. Is it so?”

THE MOTHER

Ah! for one look at you, Dear baby mine. Ah! just to fondle you, Croon you a rhyme. Ah! for the eyes of you, Dear little pearl. Ah! just to love you, My baby girl.

JUMBO’S DREAM

“Listen, my children, and you shall here,” Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,” But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine, Who measured standing say nine feet nine,―― His dream of the animals at the Zoo. Of course you know them just as I do; The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear, Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care To hear of what the animals planned In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand Scheme together down by the pond; Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond―― A plan to learn the human way Of learning and playing, et cetera. A college they wanted with flags and cheers Like Yale and Harvard――you know, my dears. First, old Jumbo called for order there By the old swan pond; he held the chair. He looked them over with kindly eye Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry Proposed that they have a college grand―― Professors and such, and a college band, With college colors; but first a yell Like the college boys; for he knew full well That a college cheer by the animals there Would wonderful be beyond compare. He straightway appointed of parrots five To choose a cheer real loud and live To start off their college so grand and fine In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. The parrot committee composed a cheer; It went exactly like this, my dear: “Hiss, squeal, roar, Roar, roar, more, Grunt, yell, chatter; Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.” They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time; The parrots leading the cheering line; A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise, Fifty times worse than the college boys, For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal; The lion would roar till one could feel The ground all tremble from noise he made Like soldiers marching on dress parade; The hyena let out such a mighty yell That the leaves most off the branches fell; The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter, And all for college and alma mater. “’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad――, For the cheer was really “righty” bad. He looked discouraged, with face awry, While a tear appeared in each small eye; He heaved a big sigh, then looking around―― Awakened all trembling upon the ground. So ended his dream of a college fine, With parrots leading the cheering line. He looked at his keeper as if to say: “I’ll never again eat a bale of hay; For such overeating most always means The most impossible kind of dreams. Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack, With the kiddies a-hanging on my back; With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say, On my big broad back the livelong day.”

THE BLUES

If you’ve ever a “grouch,” little girl, And your brain is all twisted and torn; If your nerves are all racked, little girl, And the world looks all blue and forlorn; Don’t commune with yourself, little girl, But just let me share it, please do, For I’m part of you, my little girl, And I love you, dear heart, yes, I do.

THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”