Part Three Newspaper Poetry
(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! 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.)
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.)
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 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.)
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.)
’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.)
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.)