Foreword

Dear Parents:⁠—Don’t imagine, please,
It’s in a boastful spirit
I fashion verses such as these;
That’s not the truth or near it.

A hundred or a thousand, yes,
A million kids there may be
Who aren’t one iota less
Attractive than this baby.

I’ll venture that your household has
As valuable a treasure
As mine, but mine I know, and as
For yours, I’ve not that pleasure.

And that is why my book’s about
Just one, O Dads and Mothers;
But babes are babes, and mine, no doubt,
Is very much like others.

Goodbye Bill

Dollar Bill, that I’ve held so tight
Ever since payday, a week ago,
Shall I purchase with you tonight
A pair of seats at the vaudeville show?
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“Look at his shoes! We must buy a pair.”)

Dollar Bill, from the wreckage saved,
Tell me, how shall I squander you?
Shall I be shined, shampooed and shaved,
Singed and trimmed ’round the edges, too?
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“He hasn’t a romper that’s fit to wear.”)

Dollar Bill, that I cherished so,
Think of the cigarettes you’d buy,
Turkish ones, with a kick, you know;
Makin’s eventually tire a guy.
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“Look at those stockings! Just one big tear!”)

Dollar Bill, it is time to part.
What do I care for a vaudeville show?
I’ll shave myself and look just as smart.
Makin’s aren’t so bad, you know.
Dollar Bill, we must say goodbye;
There on the floor is the Reason Why.

A Visit from Young Gloom

There’s been a young stranger at our house,
A baby whom nobody knew;
Who hated his brother, his father, his mother,
And made them aware of it, too.

He stayed with us nearly a fortnight
And carried a grouch all the while,
Nor promise nor present could make him look pleasant;
He hadn’t the power to smile.

He cried when he couldn’t have something;
He cried just as hard when he could;
Kind words by the earful but made him more tearful,
And scoldings did just as much good.

He stormed when his meals weren’t ready,
And when they were ready, he screamed.
He went to bed growling, got up again howling
And quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.

He’s gone, and the child we are fond of
Is back, just as nice as of old.
But I hope to be in some port European
The next time he has a bad cold.

An Appreciative Audience

My son, I wish that it were half
As easy to extract a laugh
From grown-ups as from thee.
Then I’d go on the stage, my boy,
While Richard Carle and Eddie Foy
Burned up with jealousy.

I wouldn’t have to rack my brain
Or lie awake all night in vain
Pursuit of brand new jokes;
Nor fear my lines were heard with groans
Of pain and sympathetic moans
From sympathetic folks.

I’d merely have to make a face,
Just twist a feature out of place,
And be the soul of wit;
Or bark, and then pretend to bite,
And, from the screams of wild delight,
Be sure I’d made a hit.

Discipline

He couldn’t have a doughnut, and it made him very mad;
He undertook to get revenge by screaming at his dad.

“Cut out that noise!” I ordered, and he gave another roar,
And so I put him in “the room” and shut and locked the door.

I left him in his prison cell two minutes, just about,
And, penitent, he smiled at me when I did let him out.

But when he got another look at the forbidden fruit
He gave a yell that they could hear in Jacksonville or Butte.

“Cut out that noise!” I barked again. “Cut out that foghorn stuff!
Perhaps I didn’t leave you in your prison long enough.

“You want your dad to keep you jailed all afternoon, I guess.”
He smiled at me and answered his equivalent for “yes.”

Inexpensive Guests

I wonder how ’twould make you feel,
My fellow food providers,
To have as guests at ev’ry meal
Three⁠—count ’em, three⁠—outsiders.

Well, that’s the case with me, but still
I don’t complain or holler,
For, strange to say, the groc’ry bill
Has not gone up a dollar.

These guests of ours, to make it brief,
Can’t really chew or swallow;
They’re merely dolls, called Indian Chief,
And Funny Man, and Rollo.

His Sense of Humor

Perhaps in some respects it’s true
That you resemble dad;
To be informed I look like you
Would never make me mad.
But one thing I am sure of, son,
You have a different line
Of humor, your idea of fun
Is not a bit like mine.

You drop my slippers in the sink
And leave them there to soak.
That’s very laughable, you think
But I can’t see the joke
You take my hat outdoors with you
And fill it full of earth;
You seem to think that’s witty, too,
But I’m not moved to mirth.

You open up the chicken-yard;
Its inmates run a mile;
You giggle, but I find it hard
To force one-half a smile.
No, kid, I fear your funny stuff,
Though funny it may be,
Is not quite delicate enough
To make a hit with me.

Speech Economy

Since he began to talk and sing,
I’ve learned one interesting thing⁠—
The value of a verb is small;
In fact, it has no worth at all.

Why waste the breath required to say,
“While toddling through the park today,
I saw a bird up in a tree,”
When “Twee, pahk, birt,” does splendidly?

Why should one say, “Please pass the bread,”
When “Ba-ba me” is easier said?
And why “I’m starved. Have supper quick,”
When “lunch!” yelled loudly, does the trick?

Why “I’ve been riding on a train,”
When “Bye-bye, Choo-choo” makes it plain?
“Let words be few,” the poet saith,
So leave out words and save your breath.

Welcome to Spring

Spring, you are welcome, for you are the friend of
Fathers of all little girlies and chaps.
Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end of
Bundling them up in their cold-weather wraps.

Breathes there a parent of masculine gender,
One whose young hopeful is seven or less,
Who never has cursed the designer and vender
Of juvenile-out-of-doors-winter-time dress?

Leggings and overcoat, rubbers that squeeze on,
Mittens and sweater a trifle too small;
Not in the lot is one thing you can ease on,
One that’s affixed with no trouble at all.

Spring, you are welcome, thrice welcome to father;
Not for your flowers and birds, I’m afraid,
As much as your promised relief from the bother
Of bundling the kid for the daily parade.

Taste

I can’t understand why you pass up the toys
That Santa considered just right for small boys;
I can’t understand why you turn up your nose
At dogs, hobbyhorses, and treasures like those,
And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that,
With a thing as prosaic as daddy’s old hat.

The tables and shelves have been loaded for you
With volumes of pictures⁠—they’re pretty ones, too⁠—
Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose
Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce,
While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look
At page after page of the telephone book.

Riddles

If it’s fun to take books from the bookcase,
If you really believe it’s worth while
To carry them out to the kitchen
And build them all up in a pile,
Why isn’t it just as agreeable then
To carry them back to the bookcase again?

If it’s fun to make marks with a pencil
In books that one cares for a heap;
To tear out the pages from volumes
One likes and is anxious to keep,
Why isn’t it pleasure to put on the hummer
A magazine read and discarded last summer?

Hesitation

I’ve orders to waken you from your nap,
And orders are orders, my little chap.
But I hate to do it, because it seems
A shame to break in on your blissful dreams.

I’ve sat and watched you a long, long while,
And not since I came have you ceased to smile.
So it strikes me as wrong to arouse you, boy,
From sleep that’s so plainly a sleep of joy.

’Twill make a big diff’rence tonight, of course,
But p’rhaps you are riding a real live horse;
In dreams, it’s a pleasant and harmless sport,
So why should I cruelly cut it short?

Maybe you have for your very own
A piece of pie or an ice cream cone;
If that’s your amusement, why end it quick?
Dream-food can’t possibly make you sick.

Orders are orders and I’m afraid
It’s trouble for me if they’re disobeyed.
But I’ll bet if the boss could see you, son,
She’d put off the duty, as I have done.

His Wonderful Choo-Choos

When I see his wonderful choo-choo trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
Whose cars are a crazy and curious lot⁠—
A doll, a picture, a pepper pot,
A hat, a pillow, a horse, a book,
A pote, a mintie, a button hook,
A bag of tobacco, a piece of string,
A pair of wubbas, a bodkin ring,
A deck of twos and a paper box,
A brush, a comb and a lot of blocks⁠—
When I first gaze on his wonderful trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
I laugh, and I think to myself, “O gee!
Was ever a child as cute as he?”

But when he’s gone to his cozy nest,
From the toil of his strenuous day to rest,
And when I gaze on his trains once more,
Where they lie, abandoned, across the floor,
And when the terrible task I face
Of putting each “Pullman” back in its place,
I groan a little, and think, “O gee!
Was ever a child as mean as he?”

Cousinly Affection

Why do you love your Cousin Paull?
For his sweet face, his smile, and all
The little tricks that charm us so?
You’re not quite old enough to know
How cute he is; to realize
How clever for a child his size.
I’m sure you can’t appreciate
The things that make us think him great.

And yet you love your Cousin Paull.
Is it because he’s twice as small
As you, just right for you to maul?
Because he won’t fight back, or bawl?
Because when he is pushed he’ll fall?
And, where most kids would howl and squall,
He takes it, nor puts in a call
For mother? Am I warm at all?
Is this why you love Cousin Paull?

My Baby’s Garden

My baby has a garden,
“Planted” four days ago,
And nearly half his waking hours
He spends among his precious flowers
With sprinkling can and hoe.

My baby has a garden,
And Oh, how proud he is
When, yielding to his pleading, we
Lay work aside and go to see
This masterpiece of his!

Behold my baby’s garden,
Close by a rubbish pile!
Look at the sprinkling can and hoe
And flowers; then tell me if you know
Whether to sigh or smile.

The flowers in baby’s garden,
Flat on the ground they lie,
Two hyacinths, a withered pair,
Plucked from the pile of rubbish, where
They had been left to die.

The flowers in baby’s garden,
“Planted” four days ago,
Grow every hour a sadder sight,
Weaker and sicklier, in spite
Of sprinkling can and hoe.

Decision Reversed

When I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vain
To get what I sought, in the Christmas rush;
When they stood on my toes in the crowded train,
Or dented my ribs in the sidewalk crush,
I dropped my manners and snarled and swore,
And thought: “It’s a bothersome, beastly bore!”

But when, at the Christmas dawn, they brought
My kid to the room where his things were piled,
And when, from my vantage point, I caught
The look on his face, I murmured: “Child,
Your dad was a fool when he snarled and swore,
And called it a bothersome, beastly bore.”

The Grocery Man and the Bear

He was weary of all of his usual joys;
His books and his blocks made him tired,
And so did his games and mechanical toys,
And the songs he had always admired;
So I told him a story, a story so new
It had never been heard anywhere;
A tale disconnected, unlikely, untrue,
Called The Grocery Man and the Bear.

I didn’t think much of the story despite
The fact ’twas a child of my brain.
And I never dreamt, when I told it that night,
That I’d have to tell it again;
I never imagined ’twould make such a hit
With the audience of one that was there
That for hours at a time he would quietly sit
Through The Grocery Man and the Bear.

To all other stories, this one is preferred;
It’s the season’s best seller by far,
And out at our house it’s as frequently heard
As cuss-words in Mexico are.
When choo-choos and horses and picture books fail,
He’ll remain, quite content, in his chair,
While I tell o’er and o’er the incredible tale
Of The Grocery Man and the Bear.

Coming Home

Prepare for noise, you quiet walls!
You floors, get set for heavy falls!
Frail dishes, hide away!
Get ready for some scratches, stairs!
Clean table linen, say your prayers!
The kid comes home today!

For three long weeks you’ve been, O House,
As noiseless as the well-known mouse,
As silent as the tomb.
And you’ve stayed neat, with none on hand
To track your floors with mud and sand,
To muss your ev’ry room.

The ideal place for work you’ve been,
But soon a Bedlam once again,
A mess, a wreck. But say,
I wonder will it make us mad.
No, House, I’ll bet we both are glad
The kid comes home today.

His Imagination

One thing that’s yours, my little child
Your poor old dad is simply wild
To own. It’s not a book or toy;
It’s your imagination, boy.
If I possessed it, what a time
I’d have, nor need to spend a dime!

I wish that I could get astride
A broom, and have a horse to ride;
Or climb into the swing, and be
A sailor on the deep blue sea,
Or b’lieve a chair a choo-choo train,
Bound anywhere and back again.

If I could ride as fast and far
On ship or horse, in train or car,
As you, at small expense or none,
If I could have one-half your fun
And do the things that you do, free,
I’d give them back my salary.

His Memory

Besides my little son’s imagination,
Another thing he has appeals to me
And agitates my envious admiration⁠—
It’s his accommodating memory.

An instant after some unlucky stumble
Has floored him and induced a howl of pain,
He’s clean forgotten all about his tumble
And violently sets out to romp again.

But if, when I leave home, I say that maybe
I’ll get him something nice while I’m away,
It’s very safe to bet that Mr. Baby
Will not forget, though I be gone all day.

Ah, would I might lose sight of things unpleasant:
The bills I owe; the work I haven’t done.
And only think of future joys and present,
Like the approaching payday, and my son.

Confession

A sleuth like Pinkerton or Burns
Is told that there has been a crime.
He runs down clues and leads, and learns
Who did the deed, in course of time.
It’s just the other way with me:
The first thing I am sure of is
The criminal’s identity,
And then I learn what crime was his.

When Son comes up with hanging head
And smiles a certain kind of smile,
When he’s affectionate instead
Of playful; when he stalls awhile
And starts to speak and stops again,
Or, squirming like a mouse that’s caught,
Asserts, “I am a good boy,” then
I look to see what harm’s been wrought.

His Lady Friend

Who is Sylvia? What is she
That early every morning
You desert your family
And rush to see her, scorning
Your once cherished ma and me?

Are her playthings such a treat?
I will steal ’em from her;
Better that than not to meet
My son and heir all summer,
Save when he comes home to eat.

Or is she herself the one
And only real attraction?
Has your little heart begun
To get that sort of action?
Better wait a few years, son.

Declaration of Independence

“Myself!” It means that you don’t care
To have me lift you in your chair;
That if I do, you’ll rage and tear.

“Myself!” It means you don’t require
Assistance from your willing sire
In eating; ’twill but rouse your ire.

“Myself!” It means when you are through
That you don’t want your daddy to
Unseat you, as he used to do.

Time was, and not so long ago,
When you were carried to and fro
And waited on, but now? No! No!

You’d rather fall and break your head,
Or fill your lap with cream and bread
Than be helped up or down, or fed.

Well, kid, I hope you’ll stay that way
And that there’ll never come a day
When you’re without the strength to say,
“Myself!”

The Eternal Greeting

What is the welcoming word I hear
When I reach home at the close of day?
“Glad you are with us, daddy, dear?”
Something I’d like to hear you say?
No, it is this, invariably:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”

“Deep affection,” I might reply;
What would it profit if I did?
I might answer: “The price to buy
Clothes and edibles for you, kid.”
You would repeat, insistently:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”

Isn’t my Self enough for you?
Doesn’t my Presence satisfy?
No, that spelling would never do;
You want Presents, a new supply,
When you inquire so eagerly:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”

’Twould be much nicer and cheaper, son,
If I were welcome without a toy,
But as I’m not, I must purchase one
And take my reward from your look of joy
When you open the bundle and cry: “O, see!
See what daddy has got for me!”

Guess Again

“I guess I’ll help you, daddy.”
And daddy can’t say “No;”
For if he did, ’twould wound you, kid,
And cause the tears to flow.

“I guess I’ll help you, daddy.”
And daddy says: “All right,”
And tries to do, ignoring you,
Whatever work’s in sight.

But what’s the use of trying?
As well be reconciled
To quit and play the game that may
Be pleasing to you, child.

To quit and play, or roughhouse,
Or read, as you elect;
For I’m afraid the guess you made
Was wholly incorrect.

Nearly a Sinecure

“I’m going to the office.”
So says my youngster, and
Gets on the train to take him there
(The train’s the sofa or a chair,
Whichever’s near at hand.)

“Now I am to the office.
I’m working now,” says he,
And just continues standing there
On that same lounge or that same chair,
As idle as can be.

Perhaps four seconds after
He first got on his train,
I see him getting off once more.
He steps or falls onto the floor
And says, “I’m home again.”

I don’t know what they pay him,
Nor where the office is.
The nature of the boy’s posish
I’ve never learned⁠—but how I wish
I had that job of his!

The Heckuses

That may not be the proper way
To spell their name; I cannot say.
I’ve never seen ’em written out:
I’ve only heard ’em talked about.
They’re coming here tonight to dine,
So says that little son of mine.
But all last week, ’twas just the same;
They were to come, and never came.

And I’m just skeptical enough
To think they’re all a myth, a bluff;
Mere creatures of my youngster’s brain,
Whose coming he’ll await in vain.
And yet to him they’re very real.
They own a big black auto’bile.
They work downtown, and they’ll arrive
Out here at one-two-three-four-five.

The Heckuses are four all told.
There’s Mrs. H. who’s very old,
And Baby Heckus, and a lad
Named Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad.
Beyond this point I can’t describe
The fascinating Heckus tribe.
I can but wonder how he came
To think of such a lovely name.

His Favorite Role

You could be president as well as not,
Since all you’d have to do is think you were,
With that imagination that you’ve got;
Or multimillionaire if you prefer,
Or you could be some famous football star,
Or Tyrus Cobb, admired by ev’ry fan;
Instead of that, you tell me that you are
The Garbage Man.

Why pick him out, when you can take your choice?
Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a role
That acting it should make you to rejoice
And be a source of comfort to your soul?
Is there some hidden happiness that he
Uncovers in his march from can to can
That you above all else should want to be
The Garbage Man?

The Paths of Rashness

Up to the sky the birdman flew
And looped some loops that were bold and new.
The people marvelled at nerve so great
And gasped or cheered as he tempted fate,
More daring each day than the day before,
Till the birdman fell and arose no more.

The bandit bragged of his daylight crimes
And said: “I’m the wonder of modern times.”
Bolder and bolder his thefts became,
And the people shook when they heard his name.
He boasted: “I’m one that they’ll never get.”
But he jollied himself into Joliet.

Well, son, I suppose you would be admired
For the valorous habit that you’ve acquired
Of rushing at each little girl you meet
And hugging her tight in the public street.
But the day will come, I have not a doubt,
When you’ll stagger home with an eye scratched out.

The New Plaything

I wonder what your thought will be
And what you’ll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy’s got for you, sir.

I wonder if you’ll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted
(You’ve often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that’s old and busted.)

I wonder if you’ll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.

I claim that it speaks pretty well for
A person who runs a hotel, for
Each guest, on the day
Of departure, to say:
“He’s a guy that I’d go clear to hell for.”

Bum roads don’t please me worth a cent,
But they make quite a hit with this gent.
Every jar, every bump,
Every hollow or hump
Means a future for Portland Cement.

On the walls of his den may be scanned
More horns than in John Sousa’s band,
And even the sofie’s
All covered with trophies,
So when you go in there, you stand.

He was wounded, you know, at the Marne,
And I asked him to spin me the yarn,
“It might have been worse
But for that little nurse.”
He said, and turned red as a barn.

It’s nice to have Bion around;
His words of advice are so sound.
During war, they declare,
He was up in the air,
But now he is back on the ground.

It isn’t my custom to speak
Disparagingly of a geek,
But I have lost faith in
The vigor of Nathan⁠—
He ain’t built a playhouse this week.

Ball is this gentleman’s name
And ball is this gentleman’s game.
His ball club is down
In another man’s town
But I’m pulling for him just the same

When the coal pile gets dang’rously slim,
I send a rush order to Jim,
Who, bless his old soul,
Soaks me no more for coal
Than if I were a stranger to him.

I’m grateful to you, Mr. Bateman,
For being a prominent freightman.
If the rest of this mob
Had rhymed with their job,
I’d have worked at much faster a rate, man.

Dick laughs till his bosom is sore,
When he reads of the Cheese-Cutters’ roar
For a seven-hour day.
“Keeps me hustling,” he’ll say,
“To get through in a scant twenty-four.”

The onlookers haven’t a real
Excuse for the terror they feel,
For this guy’s a peach
At tempering speech
As well as at tempering steel.

My Pal Rockefeller told me
That the Standard Oil Com’ny would be
In the down and out class
If ’twere not for the gas
that it sells to this other John D.

When she entered, it didn’t occur
To this dame that she needed a fur.
But there’s little doubt
That when she walks out,
He’ll see that the fur is on her.

In peace times his boat is a yacht,
But during the war, it was not.
If John hadn’t came
Across with the same,
The Kaiser might still speak to Gott.

He could ride on a pass from the boss
And save time without coming across
With whatever’s the fare,
But he’d miss the fresh air,
And there’s always a seat on a hoss.

In spite of the rumors, I doubt
That Canada still has some trout,
Anyway, they’re much fewer,
And old F. A. Brewer
Admits he’s fished most of them out.

He’s at home in a sieve or a tub,
A launch, or a yacht, or a sub,
And furthermore he’s
The whole doggone cheese
Of St. Louis’s big Liederkranz club.

Some guys⁠—we’ve all met quite a few⁠—
Can’t seem to go straight or aim true.
“Brock” doesn’t play their way;
He sticks to the Fair way
In golf and in business, too.

This lawyer need not introduce
The law and the facts⁠—what’s the use?
He can win a big case
As he won a big place
In our hearts: Just being John Bruce.

I like you, Ed Brundage, that’s clear;
Else your map wouldn’t loom up in here;
But I like you less well
Since you ruled they could sell
Nothing stronger than half per cent beer.

He’ll make you a speech if you wish,
Or tell you what legal posish
You stand in, because
He knows all the laws,
Especially those about fish.

Gene Byfield plays polo quite well,
And polo is rougher thanell,
More dang’rous, they say,
Than fighting your way
To the desk at the Sherman Hotel.

Most housewives think this guy is charming
And I do hate to spread the alarming
Report that I’ve heard
Concerning the bird:
He’s Insane on Intensified Farming.

Most stars will acknowledge real quick
That most other stars make ’em sick,
But no rival star’ll
Speak ill of Dick Carle,
Which says a whole jawful for Dick.

He plays, when he’s through with his “toil,”
Straight jackpots according to Hoyle,
But even that game
Must seem rather tame
To one used to no limit Oil.

I hear they’ve appointed this guy
Collector of Customs in Chi.
I wish we could trust him
To unearth the custom
Of buying a drink when you’re dry.

He cannot see any good reason
Why God made the winter to freeze in.
If it were left out,
He’d insist, this old scout,
On an all-the-year-round baseball season.

He’s got us all coming his way; lights
Our houses at night, and when daylight’s
Supplanted the stars,
We ride on his cars
And swarm to root for his “Rail-lights.”

Strong men seem to die pretty offin;
The hardest of hard guys do soffin;
Bus as for death’s sting,
There ain’t no such thing
If you carry insurance with Coffin.

I trust that Son Lou won’t be mad
If I’m silent concerning his dad,
But there’s not room to start
On the good in his heart,
And I don’t know of anything bad.

He thought that our city was short
On hotels of the classier sort,
So he put up a peach
Called the Edgewater Beach
And made Chi a summer resort.

The judge used to pack up his grip
And hunt coons on the old Mississip’,
Till one time a bee,
Who shared the coon’s tree,
Gave his honor a kiss on the lip.

Now, David, don’t vent all your spleen
On the stick or the caddy. That’s mean.
You can’t help but dub
At a regular club
With a Lincoln Park hat on your bean.

Has he sold insurance to you?
Well, brother, he landed me, too.
But I’ve figured how I
Can get even: I’ll die
Before there’s a premium due.

He’d have much more jack, I am sure,
If he gave much less jack to the poor
A disease of this sort
May not cut life short,
But I’m told there’s no permanent cure.

“Haw! Haw!” lauged the trout, “and Hee! Hee!”
But he’s laughing too soon, seems to me,
And I’ll bet him two flies
That if Crandall just tries,
He’ll catch every fish in that tree.

Tom sees that Chicago gets nearly
A whole change of scenery yearly.
If you can afford
To pay for your board
You’ll soon b’lieve in signs most sincerely.

He dresses the noble athlete
From his conk to his beautiful feet,
And unless Charley Dean
Is plain to be seen,
A meet is not really a meet.

Republicans, since he’s been boss,
Have forgot how to spell the word “loss.”
Seldom heard, seldom seen
Is Charley Deneen,
But he certainly puts it across.

When he dubs with his brassey, P. L.
Merely utters a placid “Well! Well!”
An unprofane “Bli me!”
Is all for a stymie,
But when it’s a slice he says, “&%$#.”

De Voney appears to know Lots;
His head’s full of Stories and Plots.
He tells you three Stories
(And basement)⁠—Before he’s
Half through, you will sign on the dots.

You’d think ’twas this party’s ambition
To sell you some Hoozis-Ignition,
But when he talks stocks,
Remember, old sox,
That he’d a lot rather be fishin’!

He can shoot with a cue or a gun, he
Can catch mountain trout by the ton, he
Can drive a mean race
In the 2:07 pace,
And furthermore, he can make money.

He teaches young salesmen to sell,
An art that he seems to know well.
I suppose he will try
To teach them to buy⁠ ⁠…
If we ever survive the dry spell.

It’s up to a newspaper man
To knock all the packers he can,
So what can I say
About Robert J.?
There’s nothing about him to pan.

I’m informed that he tells stories well,
But the only one I’ve heard him tell
Is the story about
How his Indians lost out⁠—
“But next year we’ll sure givemell!”

I’m one of the number of ones
Who’ll vote for him next time he runs
And he’ll win by a length
If he polls the full strength
Of the seemingly endless young Dunnes.

He works, but he works with a smile,
For his Overland’s earned its pile,
But I’ll bet the cigars
They’d have sold some more cars
If they’d advertised once in a while.

Where thunders the mighty Shoshone;
Where the glaciers sweep by with a groan,
On the trail of the bear,
In the porcupine’s lair,
Al. Eastman comes into his own.

The Robins show up in the Spring,
But if Charley were running the thing
I b’lieve in a few years
He’d make ’em start New Year’s
And play till the Christmas bells ring.

We see him with shovel and pick,
But he uses, as well, a big stick
And with it as a threat,
He’s hoping we’ll get
Some decent roads pretty dam quick

The Oil and Paint world is his sphere;
Yet somehow this seems rather queer,
For when you know him well
It is easy to tell
He’s a man without any veneer.

He was loaded for bear or for hare
Or for moose or whatever was there,
But I never guessed
Till Victor got dressed
That showshoes were really to wear.

His initials spell “Use” and I’ve heard
Kansas City makes use of this bird.
When the town wants to buy a
New park, it’s Uriah
Who slips the dear public the word.

They couldn’t have chosen a wiser
Protector of Chi than this guy, sir.
I saw Samuel play
In a ball game one day,
And I’ll say he’s some legal adviser.

In some things I’m very like Chick⁠—
An iron’s my favorite stick;
And when I have got
Through making a shot,
The guys playing with me look sick.

A banker, most people surmise,
Has nothing to do but look wise.
But if you ask Fletch
He’ll offer, poor wretch,
To trade jobs with a lot of you guys.

They praise the cantonments he built
In the towns where our soldiers were drilt,
But he’s modestasell
Till you ask him to tell
About the last moose that he kilt.

This, ladies and gents, is our chief.
His speeches are pointed and brief,
But he certainly slips
The bandits and dips
A mouthful of terror and grief.

When you have a few days to spare,
Go up and see George Getz’s bear
And the rest of his zoo;
It will interest you.
But the meals are the greatest things there.

We both like the Sox, him and me,
Though in politics we don’t agree,
But I’m bound to remark
That he makes Rogers Park
Pretty safe for Democarasee.

If I had a ball club in Chi
Or Boston, Detroit, or N.Y.,
I’d say to this bird:
“Please give me your word
That you’ll manage my team till you die.”

A picture of John? I’ve a strong
Suspicion that something is wrong;
In fact I will stake
My life it’s a fake⁠—
He never sat still so darn long.

He once carried shirts of all hues:
Plain white ones and pink ones and blues;
But now he asks all
The salesmen who call:
“Have you got any Reds we could use?”

His idears and mine are the same
In the great piscatorial game;
If you sit still and wait,
And a fish finds you bait,
The fish is entirely to blame.

A dentist who play a cornet!
And nobody’s poisoned him yet?
No, they don’t even knock
The musical doc⁠—
He’s his patients’ and audience’s pet.

A story that everyone knows
Or a song that’s as old as my clo’es
When the average guy
Tries to pull it, will die.
But give it to Gene and it goes!

“You need life insurance,” he’ll urge,
And when you are just on the verge
Of telling him “No,”
Out come fiddle and bow
And he changes your mind with a dirge.

You covet his office? Go to it.
It’s a tough one, however you view it.
The garbage guys say:
“Give us our back pay!”
And the council replies: “Let George do it!”

Hotel men have plenty to do
And some of them never get through
But Johnny, I’ll state,
Is seldom too late
For his afternoon tee at Glen View.

Toledo would not be without
Doc Harpster, a dandy old scout
Who won reputation
With one operation:
Removing the bones from a trout.

He says if we’d all advertise
By mail, we would get more replies.
He’s acquired, they say,
In this shrewd “Hawtin way,”
A “stock” that’s a sight for sore eyes.

He could make better speed on a train
Or a high-powered “aero-plane”
But they tell me that his
Dream of Paradise is
To fly behind Alix again.

I don’t know what hobby is yours;
Whether fishing or motoring tours,
Or hunting out West
Is what you like best,
But this guy is wild about sewers.

Charles Herendeen⁠—Fiends call him Pop.
When there’s a golf prohibition, he’ll stop.
If they had the North Sea
For a water hole, he
Would smile and shoot over the top.

Most Yankees with names that were German
Had reason to b’lieve Mr. Sherman,
But even in war
Everybody was for
A real guy like old “Garry” Herrmann.

Of this party I beg to report
That he is a regular sport.
He’d give you his yacht
Or whatever he’s got.
(I’ll take two downstairs at the Cort.)

Although he has had some career
As contractor and eke engineer,
I b’lieve he’s best known
By the sportsmanship shown
In the Mackinac race every year.

Pete Hoffman, who sure has a gay time,
With never a hay time or play time,
Desires to know why,
If a guy has to die,
He can’t pull it off in the daytime.

He’ll make you a stylish and cute,
Good looking, and up-to-date suit,
Or, if you prefer,
He’ll make you, dear sir,
A three-cushion shot that’s a beaut.

It’s your turn, E. W.⁠—Now, sir,
I’ll ask you to stand up and bow, sir.
You tell me you are
Some fresh, water tar,
So⁠—Your health in fresh water: Here’s Houser.

So long as a man is OK,
He won’t run afoul of Maclay.
You’re his friend if you’re right;
If you’re not, why good night!
You’ll notice I’m moving away.

When the Latin-Americans seek
His advice, and his service bespeak,
With pleasure they roar
As they read on his door⁠—
“Gone fishing. Be back in a week.”

Next to selling large orders of meats,
He thinks it’s the greatest of treats
To go down and wade
Through a damp Everglade
And hunt for big game, like muskeets.

You haven’t no right to look cheesey
When you can look good very easy
Providing that you’ll
Go to Michigan Boul.
And purchase an outfit from Z. Z.

He’s boss of the golf club at Beverly,
A job that weighs on him quite heverly.
In the time that remains
Mr. G. J. L. Janes
Runs Hillman’s big store very cleverly

Here’s Ban, sometimes known as B. B.
Initials fit calling, you see.
They say he’s a czar,
But what if he are?
His Russia looks prosp’rous to me.

Here’s Jonesey, whose time’s mostly spent
In list’ning to guys who invent.
Before he is through,
He may go crazy, too,
From mingling with guys which has went.

I’d wear the same satisfied smile
If I, too, could say without guile:
“Oh, yes, Campanini,
Farrar and Houdini
All visit me once in a while.”

They say that he once lost a number
Of millions, as well as some slumber,
But he got it all back,
Both slumber and jack,
By nervy investments in lumber.

This gent’s in a praying position,
But looking for trouble’s his mission.
He can tell in the dark
If the fault’s with the spark
Which it’s not, if you use his ignition.

He may greet you with love in his eye,
He may treat you much nicer than pie;
For if he is your friend,
He’s your friend to the end⁠—
But your taxes remain just as high.

This picture shows one lucky chap
With his favorite sports on his lap.
They go out together
In all kinds of weather
And motor all over the map.

Hunched over the low handle bars,
He was one of our early bike stars,
And the speed bug remains:
He is now selling planes
And dealing in fast motor cars.

Most people who need it can owe it
To Dave, if they swear they won’t blow it,
And I’m sure you can trust
His bank not to bust,
For he won’t lend a dime to a poet.

A. Linick won’t have to rap twice
When he’s ready to try Paradise,
For St. Peter knows
He will give ’em good shows
And charge ’em a moderate price.

The Reds were to battle the Sox,
And ’twas long after two by all clocks,
But the umps said, “quit naggin’ us;
We’ll wait till Ad Magnus
Comes in and gets set in his box.”

When he’s through with the arduous toil
Of vending a gallon of oil,
He hastens with glee
To the nearest first tee
And ploughs up an acre of soil.

With this picture on view, it requires
No sleuth to decide he makes tires,
And say, if you go out
Expecting a blow-out,
Take some other tires than Maguire’s.

He seems to have sports on the brain;
On baseball and fights he’s insane.
He once had a book;
He gave it one look,
Then turned to the sport page again.

This gent goes to bed now and then
As early as 2 or 2:10
And if sleepy, why he
Stays in bed until 3;
Then it’s back to the steel mill again.

Behind yonder tree, see what hides!
Why, there’s dear little deer on all sides.
But Oscar plays hunches
And brings his own lunches⁠—
He don’t like the flavor of guides.

Chicago’s most popular batch,
So far he has not met his match;
But he isn’t immune
And I’m thinking that soon
Some lady will make a good catch.

No Parmelee busman or hoss
Is ever disgruntled or cross
Or crabby or scrappy.
But who’d not be happy
With Charley McCulloch for boss!

Although genial Jimmy McGill
Is a nephew of old Pittsburgh Phil,
We don’t care two cookies
Who swatteth the bookies,
So long as his team swats the pill.

Oh, yes, it’s a dandy posish,
But⁠—Well, there’s a spot up in Mich.
Where you needn’t wear collars
Nor always think dollars
Nor argue with two-legged fish.

The clans have gone nearly insane
Considering which of the twain
Makes Scotland feel prouder⁠—
The braw Harry Lauder,
Or braw Colonel Angus McLean.

He does lots of reading, I hear,
And he reads standing up, which is queer,
Every once in a while,
What he reads makes him smile,
But sometimes it forces a tear.

If they’d level the bunkers and traps,
If they’d shorten the course a few laps,
Joe Michaels would utter
Less oaths at his putter,
And go ’round in a hundred⁠—perhaps.

He started by betting his stack
On the Stone Brothers, Fire and Black.
Now, casings or cases,
He’s always got aces.
No wonder he rakes in the jack!

His bus’ness is photo engraving,
But he’s never quite free from a craving
To up and fare forth
To the lakes of the North
And see how the carps are behaving.

When Jake got too big for his job
As chef, how us gourmands did sob!
He could fool with a crow
For ten minutes or so,
And make you believe it a squab.

When it comes to investing your kale,
This guy is as safe as the mail,
But out on the links⁠—
Well, the caddy, me thinks,
Is looking goshawfully pale.

When John and the bank were a pair
Of youngsters, John wanted the chair,
The bank and John both
Now have their full growth,
And the chair⁠—well, you notice who’s there!

If you wait in the Morrison foyer
You’ll encounter my friend, Harry Moir;
While he serves toothsome courses,
His own tastes run to horses⁠—
Excuse me. Goodbye! Au revoir!

When you hear this cognomen at foist,
You say, “I am dry and he’s Moist.”
But his keys, let me tell yer,
Won’t open no cellar,
Though they do into melody boist.

In Charles there’s no feeling of guilt;
’Twas a bear that he meant should be kilt.
And I cannot see why
The farmer should cry
Over milk unavoidably spilt.

When this party comes out to play,
The pigeons thank God they’re but clay
He loves to shoot traps,
But I’d rather shoot craps,
Though I always come out the same way.

“If I weren’t so busy,” says Waller,
“I’d make a few golf slickers holler.
But with food and with fires
Sky high, one acquires
Respect for our old friend the dollar.”

The gent we see here has the Blues;
Not the kind which the saxophones use,
Though all Kansas City
Moans “Oh, what a pity!”
Whenever these Blues of his lose.

They tell me that old Frankie Navin
Thinks next season’s pennant will wave in
Ford City, but if
It don’t, what’s the diff,
So long as Ty Cobb keeps behavin’?

It seems sort of kind of absurd
For me to be versing this bird,
Who, when he has time,
Can write better rhyme
Than any I’ve written or heard.

Says he: “I’ve installed in my bank
A machine gun, a pill box, a tank.
Do the dear petermen
Call around now and then?
No, they don’t to be perfectly frank.”

Some days when the work’s a bit slack,
“Old Nic” spends an hour looking back
To the cowboyhood years
When he could rope steers
As now he can lasso the jack.

When the Chief joins the heavenly choir,
The H.C. of L. will go higher,
For surer than Fate
They will double the rate
For insuring your home against fire.

In Yellows I always get nervous
And holler out, “Heaven preserve us!”
I wonder how I
Will feel when I try
O’Gara’s new taxiplane service.

Well, here is a regular whale!
And, Kid, he’s got bundles of kale.
He don’t have to toil
Nor drill for no oil,
For he’s got a mountain of Shale.

He caught it hissilf, Johnny Owens;
He tould me in could sober towens.
I b’lave him, I do,
But if it ain’t thrue,
Sure I hope that he’ll choke on the bowens.

When you’re ready to take your degree,
Plain B.A. or Double L.D.,
This Patterson chap
Will supply gown and cap⁠—
And he doubles all bids above three.

He recalls when the Loop was a thicket,
When Bryan first ran on the ticket,
And when drinks were still sold.⁠—
Oh, yes, he is old,
But what of Old Age? He can lick it!

A doughboy, preserved by God’s mercy
And the skill of a surgeon, said “Nursey,
Will you tell me why
This he-guy from Chi
Travels round with a title like ‘Percy’?”

When there’s nothing in sight he can print,
He taketh a critical squint
At some valuable oil,
A landscape or goil,
And farewell to the October rint!

He tells me the time will come soon
When we’ll fly to New York before noon.
I’m thinking we might
Start out early that night
And see if it’s dry on the moon.

Just now you behold him at ease,
But war days were nothing like these.
You’ve all heard before
That ships won the war,
And who built the ships? Charley Piez.

The return of the doughboys from France
Seemed to put lots of life in some Plants,
But they withered again
When Pat Moran’s men
Ripped holes in Kid Gleason’s best Sox.

They say he spills language in court
Of a most Ciceronian sort,
But out at Old Ellum,
He’s able to tell ’em
The statutes in words that are short.

Says I to myself: “Of the host
Of actors our country can boast,
There’s many a hick
Who can act like a stick
And few who can act like a Post.”

Friend Poth loves our national game,
And it seems kind of sort of a shame
That he lives in Philly
Whose teams act so silly.⁠—
Come West: You can spend just the same!

When young Mr. Randle sets out
In quest of the e-lusive trout,
Each terrified fish
Sobs “Oh, how I wish
This bird were in bed with the gout!”

Our gain is New Albany’s loss,
But we’re glad that you moved here, old hoss,
And Samuel’s still thankin’ you,
Hoosier Bill Rankin⁠—you
Sure put those war drives across!

If his statements don’t seem to agree
With my stubs, why the blame rests with me,
And if I’m overdrawn,
He camps on my lawn.⁠—
Yet he calls it a Trust Company.

These fuel men are pitiable souls;
They’re out playing thirty-six holes,
While we fuss and fret
Our heads off to get
The money for next winter’s coals.

Frank Reilly’s a real estate man,
And also a rabid Sox Fan,
But he’d buy up left field
If he thought it would yield
Good returns in a building lot plan.

Meet County Commissioner Peter,
The Forest Preserve is his creetur,
And everyone knows he’s
The author of posies
Which make our sweet city much sweeter.

In the tank he’s a regular whizz,
And all kinds of golf cups are his.
I hope that when I
Am as old as this guy,
I’ll be just as young as he is.

George Cohan would simply expire
And write songs for the heavenly choir
If he received tidings
That Harry J. Ridings
Had made up his mind to retire.

He came to Toledo to see
The Fourth of July massacree,
And one evening, they say,
He gave dollars away,
But nobody notified me.

It seems kind of funny that all
The real shows should hire the same hall,
But everything good’s
To appear at the Woods,
Just take it from J. Rosenthal.

What fun, when the housekeeper lugs
His sweeper across your soiled rugs,
To see the big ruction
(It’s caused by the suction)
Among all the visiting bugs!

In a broad Mississippi bayou,
(With something to ward off the flu),
This amiable gent
Is more than content
If he catches a dogfish or two.

What grouchy old hen wouldn’t lay fer
As genial a boss as Pete Schaefer!
Most show people coop
Their chicks in the Loop,
But Pete says the farm is much safer.

“Did I get any muskies,” he said,
“In the land of the once noble Red?
Well, that I won’t swear,
But what do I care?⁠—
I dug up a swell arrow head.”

For me, an old neighbor of his, it
Is not very neighborly, is it,
To hope that some time
Will pass before I’m
Obliged to pay Freddie a visit?

When you’ve mislaid a finger or two,
Or dropped a few toes from your shoe,
Call up Dr. Scott;
He’s probably got
New parts for those lost off’n you.

The artist again and again
Tried to picture this guy with a pen,
But it’s plain to be seen
That a movie machine
Is needed to catch up with Ben.

He’s at home on the turbulent blue;
He’s fond of sky-piloting, too;
In fact, no smart fellow
Would call him a Yellow,
Though that is his favorite hue.

The sugar king, minus his crown.
His job is the sweetest in town.
The picture we see is
Supposed to mean he is
Attempting to keep sugar down.

The Mayor of Toledo, and, yes,
A friend of poor scribes in distress,
So good and so kind
That he even declined
My offer to bet him on Jess.

You see him in Fields’s now and then,
And talk about Regular Men,
Why, I hear from him wonth
The first of each month,
And on the fifteenth, wonth again.

Somewhere in the book I have read
That Mort is the French word for dead,
A name which I claim
Fits Mort Singer the same
As a toque fits an elephant’s head.

The life of the party is Modie.
In singing he hits like Ping Bodie,
And his “Blowing Bubbles”
Will banish your troubles
As quickly as bourbon and sodie.

“I wish,” said the poor father bear,
With the very last breath he could spare,
“I wish Major Sprague
Were in bed with the plague,
Or else had remained Over There.”

When his people, worn out by the scrap,
Faced total extinction, this chap
Came cheerfully through
With a fortune or two,
And now take a look at the map!

The audience was saying, “How slow
They are about starting this show!”
When the manager peeked
Through the curtain and squeaked:
“Fred Sterling’s arrived. Let ’er go!”

The gent who invented the flivver
Still thinks of this guy with a shiver,
And you bet your boots
He will start no more suits
Till Elliott’s crossed the dark river.

When he was a student at Yale,
He burned midnight oil by the pail,
And while it was burning,
He must have been learning
How oil could be earning him kale.

This boy is a regular doc
With patients in every block,
But if you fall sick
And want him right quick,
You’ll find him bo-peeping his stock.

This gent in the picture here shown
Was not to our bankers well known
Till he put his whole soul
In “bags on the roll.”
Now he has a roll of his own.

He can follow a clue in the dark
And I recently heard him remark
That he hoped in good time
To abolish all crime
And do nothing but ride in the park.

You almost won out, but not quite, sir.
You put up a helluva fight, sir.
Next time you go in,
I’ll bet you won’t win,
And you will, in a walk, Robert Sweitzer.

Remember the Fourth of July,
When Dempsey closed Jessica’s eye?
Well, I lost on the bout,
But I met a good scout.
Ad Thatcher’s a regular guy.

He’s got us all skinned by a block.
We have to go down in the sock
For tickets to see
Mayilynn and Marie,
While they pay their dough to see Doc.

Ed favors outdoors as a means
Of developing human machines,
If kids will work hard in
The veg’table garden,
He think they’ll have pretty good beans.

“I wonder,” they heard Philip say,
“Which car I’ll drive down in today,
The Packard, the Jackson,
The Marmon, the Saxon,
Or my new Minerva coupe.”

Safeblowing is scarcely an art he
Would look on or speak of with hearty
Approval, save when
It’s time for good men
To come to the aid of the party.

He has written three thousand and three
Pretty tunes, each a riot with me;
But they tell me he won
His place in the sun
With “The Shade of the Old Apple Tree.”

He doesn’t defend any speeders
Nor yeggmen nor Bolshevik leaders,
But his well-worded briefs
Add much to the griefs
Of opponents of Hen‑er‑y Veeder’s.

His kid went to face shot and shell,
Which I’ll say is H-E-double L;
A Blackhawk was he,
So his daddy, John Z.,
Thought he’d put up a Blackhawk Hotel.

Oh, yes, he likes golfing; it’s fun.
But he makes straighter shots with a gun.
When he’s having good luck,
He can putt at a duck
And frequently hole it in one.

When the Lake Front’s a place we can play,
When the Boulevard System’s OK,
With no missing link,
Charley Wacker will think
It’s the end of a perfect day.

Does the boxing game pay when it’s clean?
Just take a run up to Racine
And get your reply
From a look at this guy,
So poverty-stricken and lean!

When you go out to fish and no spot one,
See Bill; he’s undoubtedly got one.
As for catching ’em, he
Would much rather be
Out watching Chuck Deal catch a hot one.

I’m nearly stone deaf to the Call
Of the Wild; I’ve no craving at all
To slaughter Big Game.
But I’d go just the same
On any old trip with Tom Wall.

Each year he imports quite a gob
Of diamonds, for that is his job,
But he’s happier far
With his clubs or his car,
Or when rooting for Tyrus R. Cobb.

He loves to go fishing, which ain’t
Original, curious or quaint,
But he uses a great
Line of chatter for bait,
And he catches big contracts for paint.

He used to be some politish
In my native commonwealth, Mich.
His hobby, they say⁠—
Why, he’s on it today,
And sugar’s his favorite dish.

He’ll tell, if you’ve time for them all,
The tale of each head on the wall.
With him at the trigger,
They tell me the bigger
They are, why, the harder they fall.

While others just speculate rash
Or frantic’ly tickerward dash,
He’s old Safe and Sane
When it comes down to grain:
He buys and he always pays cash.

With print paper scarce and so high,
P.A.’s find it hard to get by,
But Welsh, of the Bar,
Seems to get pretty far,
So he must be a regular guy.

He once held the Elks’ money bag
And didn’t make off with no swag,
So I b’lieve in him, folks,
When he counts up the strokes
He had twixt the tee and the flag.

I wish I’d paid heed to you, Wickett,
When you said, “If you’ve money, just stick it
In oil and I know
Where you’ll pick up some dough.”
But I just didn’t stick it or pick it.

This party sells railroad supplies,
And I hope he stings some of those guys.
His hobbies, you see,
Are oranges juicy
And prunes of respectable size

If you ever inquire of this bird
What stock tips, if any, he’s heard,
He’ll say in reply:
“Well, gentlemen, I
Am plunging in Holstein preferred.”