“That man won’t slosh around in politics
And waste his time a-killing little game;
He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,
And when he picks a head he hits the same.”
Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,
And free to back his knowledge up with lead;
And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort
To run the State, because he “picks a head.”
[1] Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of game-hunters and Indian-fighters.
Roosevelt’s The Wilderness Hunter.
UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING
(1899)
Take up the White Man’s burden!
Have done with childish days.
R. K.
Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,
For showing us the way
To buckle down to business
And end our “childish day.”
We know we’re young and frisky
And haven’t too much sense—
At least, not in the measure
We’ll have a few years hence.
Now, this same “White Man’s burden”
You’re asking us to tote
Is not so unfamiliar
As you’re inclined to note.
We freed three million negroes,
Their babies and their wives;
It cost a billion dollars
And near a million lives!
And while we were a-fighting
In all those “thankless years”
We did not get much helping—
Well, not from English “peers.”
And so—with best intentions—
We’re not exactly wild
To free the Filipino,
“Half devil and half child.”