YEO-HEAVE-HO!
It was a gallant farmer lad
Enlisted in the navy.
“Give me,” said he, “the deep blue sea,
The ocean wide and wavy!”
A sailor’s uniform he’d don,
And never would he doff it.
He packed his grip, and soon was on
His way to Captain Moffett.
[p 226]
]In cap of white and coat of blue
He labored for the nation,
A member of the salty crew
That worked the Naval Station.
He soon became the best of tars,
A seaman more than able,
By sweeping streets, and driving cars,
And waiting on the table.
He guarded gates, and shoveled snow,
And worked upon the highway.
“All lads,” said he, “should plough the sea,
And would if I had my way.”
Week-end he took a trolley car,
And to the city hied him,
Alongside of another tar
Who offered for to guide him.
The train rolled o’er a trestle high,
The river ran below him.
“Well, I’ll be blamed!” our tar exclaimed,
And grabbed his pal to show him.
“Yes, dash my weeping eyes!” he cried.
“That’s water, sure, by gravy!
The first blue water I have spied
Since joining of the navy!”
* * * * *
Now, “landsmen all,” the moral’s plain:
Our navy still is arming,
And if you’d plough the well known main,
You’d best begin by farming.
[p 227]
]If you would head a tossing prow
Among our navigators,
Get up at morn and milk the cow,
And yeo-heave-ho the ’taters.
Do up your chores, and do ’em brown,
And learn to drive a flivver;
And some day, when you go to town,
You’ll see the raging river.
The speaker of the House of Commons, who, “trembling slightly with emotion,” declared the sitting suspended, needs in his business the calm of the late Fred Hall. While Mr. Hall was city editor of this journal of civilization an irate subscriber came in and mixed it with a reporter. Mr. Hall approached the pair, who were rolling on the floor, and, peering near-sightedly at them, addressed the reporter: “Mr. Smith, when you have finished with this gentleman, there is a meeting at the Fourth Methodist church which I should like to have you cover.”
In his informing and stimulating collection of essays, “On Contemporary Literature,” recently published, Mr. Stuart P. Sherman squanders an entire chapter on Theodore Dreiser. It seems to us that he might have covered the ground and saved most of his space by quoting a single sentence from Anatole France, who, referring to [p 228] />]Zola, wrote: “He has no taste, and I have come to believe that want of taste is that mysterious sin of which the Scripture speaks, the greatest of sins, the only one which will not be forgiven.”
“What is art?” asked jesting Pilate. And before he could beat it for his chariot someone answered: “Art is a pitcher that you can’t pour anything out of.”
It is much easier to die than it is to take a vacation. A man who is summoned to his last long voyage may set his house in order in an hour: a few words, written or dictated, will dispose of his possessions, and his heirs will gladly attend to the details. This done, he may fold his hands on his chest and depart this vexatious life in peace.
It is quite another matter to prepare for a few weeks away from town. There are bills to be paid; the iceman and the milkman and the laundryman must be choked off, and the daily paper restrained from littering the doorstep. There is hair to be cut, and teeth to be tinkered, and so on. In short, it takes days to stop the machinery of living for a fortnight, and days to start it going again. But, my dear, one must have a change.
[p 229]
]JUST A REHEARSAL.
[From the Elgin News.]
Mr. and Mrs. Perce left immediately on a short honeymoon trip. The “real” honeymoon trip is soon to be made, into various parts of Virginia.
LAME IN BOTH REGISTERS?
[From the Decatur Review.]
Dr. O. E. Williams, who is conducting revival services in the First United Brethren church, spoke to a large audience on Friday night on “Lame in Both Feet.” Mrs. Williams sang a solo in keeping with the sermon.
FLORAL POME.
(Sign on Ashland Ave.: “Vlk the Florist.”)
For flowers fragrant, sweet as milk,
Be sure to call on Florist Vlk.
Roses, lilies, for the folks
Can be purchased down at Vlk’s.
Of bouquets there is no lack
At the flower shop of Vlk.
Orchids, pansies, daisies, phlox,
All are sold at Florist Vlk’s.
A wondrous place, a shop de luxe
Is this here store of William Vlk’s.
[p 230]
]The Boston aggregation, by the way (a witty New Yorker, a musician, informed us), is sometimes referred to as the Swiss Family Higginson and the Bocheton Symphony orchestra.
Touching on musical criticism, a Chicago writer who visited St. Louis to report a music festival had a few drinks before the opening concert. His telegraphed review began: “Music is frozen architecture.”
Aside from his super-mathematics, Dr. Einstein is understandable. He prefers Bach to Wagner, Shakespeare to Goethe, and he would rather walk in the valleys than climb the mountains.
THE SECOND POST.
[Example of pep and tact.]
Dear Sir: We absolutely cannot understand why you do not buy stock in the —— proposition or why we have not heard from you in reference to our letter. A man in your position should be able to invest some of his earnings into a proposition that should turn out a big success. It seems to us that the more rotten a proposition is the better the people will buy.
Now if you can explain this as to why the people bite on the many and poor schemes that are [p 231] />]out to the public as there has been in the last six months, the information would be more than gladly received by us.
Let’s get away from all this bunk stuff and think for ourselves and put your money in a real live proposition such as the ——.
After you invest your money in our business, do not fail to submit our proposition to some of your friends, so as to put this proposition over the top just as soon as possible.
May this letter act on you and try to improve your thought on investing your money with us, for we stand as true and honest as we can in order to make money for our clients.
Trusting that you will mail your check or money order to us at your very earliest convenience while the security is still selling at par, $10 per share, or a letter from you stating your reason for not doing so, we are, respectfully yours, etc.
In dedicating her autobiography to her husband, Mrs. Asquith quotes Epictetus: “Have you not received powers, to the limit of which you will bear all that befalls? Have you not received magnanimity? Have you not received courage? Have you not received endurance?” Mr. Christopher Morley thinks the gentleman needs them, but we are not so sure. It is said that when Margot mentioned to him the large sum [p 232] />]she was to receive for the book, Mr. Asquith remarked, “I hope, my dear, that it isn’t worth it.”
As many know, Mr. Humphry Ward is a person of importance in his line. An American couple in London invited him to dine with them at their hotel, and concluded the invitation with the line, “If there is a Mrs. Ward, we should like to have her come, too.”
In the Review of Reviews, Mr. Herbert Wade entitles his interview with Prof. Michelson, “Measuring the Suns of the Solar System.” Wonder how he explained it to the Prof?
“She left a note saying she would do the next worst thing to suicide.… She went to Cleveland but decided to return.”
Try South Bend.
“He decided that life was not worth living after that, so he came to South Bend.”—South Bend Tribune.
Stet!
WHY THE DOG LEFT TOWN.
[From the Newton, Ia., News, Dec. 2.]
Warning—A resident of North Newton went home from work Saturday night and as he went in the front door a man went out the back door. [p 233] />]This party had better leave town, for I know who he is and am after him. W. H. Miller.
[From the same paper, Dec. 5.]
I have since discovered that it was a neighbor’s dog that bounded out of the back door as I came in the front door the other night. My wife had gone to a neighbor’s and left the back door ajar, hence a big dog had no trouble getting in. W. H. Miller.
“‘I don’t see why we go to England for nincompoops when we have men like Prof. Grummann here at home,’ remarked Fred L. Haller.”—Omaha Bee.
We trust Mr. Haller called up the Professor and explained what he meant.
THE PASSIONATE PURE FOOD EXPERT TO HIS LOVE.
Come live with me, my own pure love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
In passion unadulterated
And bliss that isn’t benzoated.
Love’s purest formula we’ll spell:
Our joys will never fail to jell.
The honeyed kisses we imprint
Will show of glucose not a hint.
[p 234]
]Your Wiley will your food prepare,
And cook a meal to curl your hair;
And every morning you shall have a
Rare cup of genuine Mocha-Java.
And you shall have a buckwheat cake
Better than mother used to make,
And sirup from the maple wood—
Not a vile sorghum “just as good.”
The eggs, the bacon, and the jam
Shall he as pure as Mary’s lamb;
And nothing sans a pure-food label
Shall grace your matutinal table.
Oh, hearken to your Harvey’s suit,
And ’ware the phony substitute.
If pure delights your mind may move,
Come live with me and be my Love.
Prof. Brown of Carlton College complains that college faculties are concerned with the mental slacker and the laggard, that they have geared their machinery to the sluggard’s pace. True enough, but not only true of educational institutions. In a democracy everything is geared to the pace of the weak.
“As for authors,” sighs Shan Bullock, “their case is fairly hopeless. But I recognize that in [p 235] />]the new democracy even average intellect has no place at present. The new democracy is on trial. Until it has proven definitely whether it sides with cinemas or ideals, there is not even a living for men who once held an honored place in the scheme of things. That is a dark saying, but I think it is true.”
We thought the doubtful honor was possessed by the United States, but M. Cambon declares that there is no other country where people take so little interest in foreign politics as they do in France.
A nervy Frenchman, M. Bourgeois, has translated “The Playboy of the Western World.” You can imagine with what success. “God help me, where’ll I hide myself away and my long neck naked to the world?” becomes “Dieu m’aide, où vais-je me cacher et mon long cou tout nu?”
The President of the Chicago Chapter of the Wild Flower Preservation Society wrote to the Department of Agriculture for a certain Bulletin on Forestry and another one on Mushrooms for the book table at their Exhibition in the Art Institute. In due time arrived 250 copies of “How to make unfermented grape juice” and 250 copies of “Hog Cholera.” Anybody want them?
[p 236]
]OH, DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET MARY, BEN BOLT?
“What has become of Mary MacLane?” asks a reader. We don’t know, at this moment, but we remember—what is more important—a jingle by the late lamented Roz Field:
“She dwelt beside the untrodden ways,
Among the hills of Butte,
A maid whom no one cared to love,
And no one dared to shoot.”
The Montmartre crowd had a ticket in the Paris municipal election. The design on the carte d’electeur was a windmill, with the legend below, “Bien vivre et ne rien faire.” This would do nicely for our city hall push.
Is there another person in this wicked world quite so virtuous as a chief of police on the day that he takes office?