Work and Profession

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.
And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.
And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.
Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.
I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --
Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild --
Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over . . . Master, I've earned it -- Rest.

There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
October

'Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
'Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!'
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, 'Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!'
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
'Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!'
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
'Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!'
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!'
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
'Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together
That the water may not enter,



That the river may not wet me!'
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow.
'Take them all, O Hiawatha!'
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the hark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
'Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!'
And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
'Take my balm, O Hiawatha!'
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
'Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!'
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
'Take my quills, O Hiawatha!'
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river



Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, 'Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.'
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and scouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the waters of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.

Wagon wheel gap is a place I never saw
And Red Horse Gulch and the chutes of Cripple Creek.


Red-shirted miners picking in the sluices,
Gamblers with red neckties in the night streets,
The fly-by-night towns of Bull Frog and Skiddoo,
The night-cool limestone white of Death Valley,
The straight drop of eight hundred feet
From a shelf road in the Hasiampa Valley:
Men and places they are I never saw.


I have seen three White Horse taverns,
One in Illinois, one in Pennsylvania,
One in a timber-hid road of Wisconsin.


I bought cheese and crackers
Between sun showers in a place called White Pigeon
Nestling with a blacksmith shop, a post-office,
And a berry-crate factory, where four roads cross.


On the Pecatonica River near Freeport
I have seen boys run barefoot in the leaves
Throwing clubs at the walnut trees
In the yellow-and-gold of autumn,
And there was a brown mash dry on the inside of their hands.
On the Cedar Fork Creek of Knox County
I know how the fingers of late October
Loosen the hazel nuts.
I know the brown eyes of half-open hulls.
I know boys named Lindquist, Swanson, Hildebrand.
I remember their cries when the nuts were ripe.
And some are in machine shops; some are in the navy;
And some are not on payrolls anywhere.
Their mothers are through waiting for them to come home.

Othere, the old sea-captain,
Who dwelt in Helgoland,
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth,
Which he held in his brown right hand.


His figure was tall and stately,
Like a boy's his eye appeared;
His hair was yellow as hay,
But threads of a silvery gray
Gleamed in his tawny beard.


Hearty and hale was Othere,
His cheek had the color of oak;
With a kind of laugh in his speech,
Like the sea-tide on a beach,
As unto the King he spoke.


And Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Had a book upon his knees,
And wrote down the wondrous tale
Of him who was first to sail
Into the Arctic seas.


'So far I live to the northward,
No man lives north of me;
To the east are wild mountain-chains;
And beyond them meres and plains;
To the westward all is sea.


'So far I live to the northward,
From the harbor of Skeringes-hale,
If you only sailed by day,
With a fair wind all the way,
More than a month would you sail.


'I own six hundred reindeer,
With sheep and swine beside;
I have tribute from the Finns,
Whalebone and reindeer-skins,
And ropes of walrus-hide.


'I ploughed the land with horses,
But my heart was ill at ease,
For the old seafaring men
Came to me now and then,
With their sagas of the seas;-


'Of Iceland and of Greenland,
And the stormy Hebrides,
And the undiscovered deep;--
Oh I could not eat nor sleep



For thinking of those seas.


'To the northward stretched the desert,
How far I fain would know;
So at last I sallied forth,
And three days sailed due north,
As far as the whale-ships go.


'To the west of me was the ocean,
To the right the desolate shore,
But I did not slacken sail
For the walrus or the whale,
Till after three days more.


'The days grew longer and longer,
Till they became as one,
And northward through the haze
I saw the sullen blaze
Of the red midnight sun.


'And then uprose before me,
Upon the water's edge,
The huge and haggard shape
Of that unknown North Cape,
Whose form is like a wedge.


'The sea was rough and stormy,
The tempest howled and wailed,
And the sea-fog, like a ghost,
Haunted that dreary coast,
But onward still I sailed.


'Four days I steered to eastward,
Four days without a night:
Round in a fiery ring
Went the great sun, O King,
With red and lurid light.'


Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Ceased writing for a while;
And raised his eyes from his book,
With a strange and puzzled look,
And an incredulous smile.


But Othere, the old sea-captain,
He neither paused nor stirred,
Till the King listened, and then
Once more took up his pen,
And wrote down every word.


'And now the land,' said Othere,
'Bent southward suddenly,



And I followed the curving shore
And ever southward bore
Into a nameless sea.


'And there we hunted the walrus,
The narwhale, and the seal;
Ha! 't was a noble game!
And like the lightning's flame
Flew our harpoons of steel.


'There were six of us all together,
Norsemen of Helgoland;
In two days and no more
We killed of them threescore,
And dragged them to the strand!'


Here Alfred the Truth-Teller
Suddenly closed his book,
And lifted his blue eyes,
With doubt and strange surmise
Depicted in their look.


And Othere the old sea-captain
Stared at him wild and weird,
Then smiled, till his shining teeth
Gleamed white from underneath
His tawny, quivering beard.


And to the King of the Saxons,
In witness of the truth,
Raising his noble head,
He stretched his brown hand, and said,
'Behold this walrus-tooth!'

Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day
Git down and roll and waller, don't you know,
In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow,
Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say
There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway
Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho',
And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show
More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?--
And watch that little reaper wadin' thue
That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground--
Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two
Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around
The field--like it had nothin' else to do
On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!

You have tried famine: no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty:
I have thought it thoroughly over,
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety.
Hear you, then, celestial fellows!
Fits not to be over zealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump;
Men and gods are too extense,—
Could you slacken and condense?
Your rank overgrowths reduce,
Till your kinds abound with juice;
Earth crowded cries, "Too many men,"—
My counsel is, Kill nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal.
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in his hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears;
There growing slowly old at ease,
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage:
So shall ye have a man of the sphere,
Fit to grace the solar year.

By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and
has a soul.


Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into
it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are
poured out again back to the streets, prairies and
valleys.


It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and
out all day that give the building a soul of dreams
and thoughts and memories.


(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care
for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman
the way to it?)


Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and
parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and
sewage out.


Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words,
and tell terrors and profits and loves--curses of men
grappling plans of business and questions of women
in plots of love.


Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the
earth and hold the building to a turning planet.


Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and
hold together the stone walls and floors.


Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the
mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an
architect voted.


Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust,
and the press of time running into centuries, play
on the building inside and out and use it.


Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid
in graves where the wind whistles a wild song
without words


And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes
and tubes and those who saw it rise floor by floor.


Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging
at back doors hundreds of miles away and the bricklayer
who went to state's prison for shooting another
man while drunk.


(One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the
end of a straight plunge--he is here--his soul has
gone into the stones of the building.)


On the office doors from tier to tier--hundreds of names
and each name standing for a face written across
with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving
ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's
ease of life.



Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls
tell nothing from room to room.


Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from
corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers,
and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all
ends of the earth.


Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of
the building just the same as the master-men who
rule the building.


Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor
empties its men and women who go away and eat
and come back to work.


Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and
all jobs go slower as the people feel day closing on
them.


One by one the floors are emptied. . . The uniformed
elevator men are gone. Pails clang. . . Scrubbers
work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water
and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit,
and machine grime of the day.


Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling
miles of houses and people where to buy a thing for
money. The sign speaks till midnight.


Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence
holds. . . Watchmen walk slow from floor to floor
and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip
pockets. . . Steel safes stand in corners. Money
is stacked in them.


A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights
of barges butting their way across a harbor, nets of
red and white lanterns in a railroad yard, and a span
of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of
crosses and clusters over the sleeping city.


By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars
and has a soul.

THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun,
Still onward cheerly driving!
There's life alone in duty done,
And rest alone in striving.
But see! the day is closing cool,
The woods are dim before us;
The white fog of the wayside pool
Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The night is falling, comrades mine,
Our footsore beasts are weary,
And through yon elms the tavern sign
Looks out upon us cheery.
The landlord beckons from his door,
His beechen fire is glowing;
These ample barns, with feed in store,
Are filled to overflowing.
From many a valley frowned across
By brows of rugged mountains;
From hillsides where, through spongy moss,
Gush out the river fountains;
From quiet farm-fields, green and low,
And bright with blooming clover;
From vales of corn the wandering crow
No richer hovers over;
Day after day our way has been
O'er many a hill and hollow;
By lake and stream, by wood and glen,
Our stately drove we follow.
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun,
As smoke of battle o'er us,
Their white horns glisten in the sun,
Like plumes and crests before us.
We see them slowly climb the hill,
As slow behind it sinking;
Or, thronging close, from roadside rill,
Or sunny lakelet, drinking.
Now crowding in the narrow road,
In thick and struggling masses,
They glare upon the teamster's load,
Or rattling coach that passes.
Anon, with toss of horn and tail,
And paw of hoof, and bellow,
They leap some farmer's broken pale,
O'er meadow-close or fallow.
Forth comes the startled goodman; forth
Wife, children, house-dog, sally,
Till once more on their dusty path
The baffled truants rally.
We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown,
Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony,
Like those who grind their noses down
On pastures bare and stony, —



Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs,
And cows too lean for shadows,
Disputing feebly with the frogs
The crop of saw-grass meadows!
In our good drove, so sleek and fair,
No bones of leanness rattle;
No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,
Or Pharaoh's evil cattle.
Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand
That fed him unrepining;
The fatness of a goodly land
In each dun hide is shining.
We've sought them where, in warmest nooks,
The freshest feed is growing,
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks
Through honeysuckle flowing;
Wherever hillsides, sloping south,
Are bright with early grasses,
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth,
The mountain streamlet passes.
But now the day is closing cool,
The woods are dim before us,
The white fog of the wayside pool
Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The cricket to the frog's bassoon
His shrillest time is keeping;
The sickle of yon setting moon
The meadow-mist is reaping.
The night is falling, comrades mine,
Our footsore beasts are weary,
And through yon elms the tavern sign
Looks out upon us cheery.
To-morrow, eastward with our charge
We'll go to meet the dawning,
Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge
Have seen the sun of morning.
When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,
Instead of birds, are flitting;
When children throng the glowing hearth,
And quiet wives are knitting;
While in the fire-light strong and clear
Young eyes of pleasure glisten,
To tales of all we see and hear
The ears of home shall listen.
By many a Northern lake and hill,
From many a mountain pasture,
Shall Fancy play the Drover still,
And speed the long night faster.
Then let us on, through shower and sun,
And heat and cold, be driving;
There's life alone in duty done,
And rest alone in striving.

Soil of Flint, if steady tilled-
Will refund by Hand-
Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun
Fructified in Sand-

One morning of the first sad Fall,
Poor Adam and his bride
Sat in the shade of Eden's wall-But
on the outer side.


She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit
For the chaste garb of old;
He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit
For Eden's drupes of gold.


Behind them, smiling in the morn,
Their forfeit garden lay,
Before them, wild with rock and thorn,
The desert stretched away.


They heard the air above them fanned,
A light step on the sward,
And lo! they saw before them stand
The angel of the Lord!


'Arise,' he said, 'why look behind,
When hope is all before,
And patient hand and willing mind,
Your loss may yet restore?


'I leave with you a spell whose power
Can make the desert glad,
And call around you fruit and flower
As fair as Eden had.


'I clothe your hands with power to lift
The curse from off your soil;
Your very doom shall seem a gift,
Your loss a gain through Toil.


'Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees,
To labor as to play.'
White glimmering over Eden's trees
The angel passed away.


The pilgrims of the world went forth
Obedient to the word,
And found where'er they tilled the earth
A garden of the Lord!


The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit
And blushed with plum and pear,
And seeded grass and trodden root
Grew sweet beneath their care.


We share our primal parents' fate,
And, in our turn and day,



Look back on Eden's sworded gate
As sad and lost as they.


But still for us his native skies
The pitying Angel leaves,
And leads through Toil to Paradise
New Adams and new Eves!

And a merchant said, "Speak to us of Buying and Selling."
And he answered and said:
To you the earth yields her fruit, and you shall not want if you but know how to fill your
hands.
It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied.
Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice, it will but lead some to greed
and others to hunger.
When in the market place you toilers of the sea and fields and vineyards meet the
weavers and the potters and the gatherers of spices, -
Invoke then the master spirit of the earth, to come into your midst and sanctify the
scales and the reckoning that weighs value against value.
And suffer not the barren-handed to take part in your transactions, who would sell
their words for your labour.
To such men you should say,
"Come with us to the field, or go with our brothers to the sea and cast your net;
For the land and the sea shall be bountiful to you even as to us."
And if there come the singers and the dancers and the flute players, - buy of their gifts
also.
For they too are gatherers of fruit and frankincense, and that which they bring, though
fashioned of dreams, is raiment and food for your soul.
And before you leave the marketplace, see that no one has gone his way with empty
hands.
For the master spirit of the earth shall not sleep peacefully upon the wind till the needs
of the least of you are satisfied.

’Tis no tale of heroism, ’tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life—
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure—
Tale of nagging and of drinking—and a secret whisky cure.
Name of Jones—perhaps you know him—small house-agent here in town—
(Friend of Smith, you know him also—likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging Missis—and death seemed the only cure.


’Twas a common sordid marriage, and there’s little new to tell—
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between them—purgatory to be sure—
And, as far as Jones could make out—well, there wasn’t any cure.


’Twas drink and nag—or nag and drink—whichever you prefer—
Till at last she couldn’t stand him any more than he could her.
Friends and relatives assisted, telling her (with motives pure)
That a legal separation was the only earthly cure.


So she went and saw a lawyer, who, in accents soft and low,
Asked her firstly if her husband had a bank account or no;
But he hadn’t and she hadn’t, they in fact were very poor,
So he bowed her out suggesting she should try some liquor cure.


She saw a drink cure advertised in the Sydney Bulletin—
Cure for brandy, cure for whisky, cure for rum and beer and gin,
And it could be given secret, it was tasteless, swift and sure—
So she purchased half a gallon of that Secret Whisky Cure.


And she put some in his coffee, smiling sweetly all the while,
And he started for the office rather puzzled by the smile—
Smile or frown he’d have a whisky, and you’ll say he was a boor—
But perhaps his wife had given him an overdose of Cure.


And he met a friend he hadn’t seen for seven years or more—
It was just upon the threshold of a private bar-room door—
And they coalised and entered straight away, you may be sure—
But of course they hadn’t reckoned with a Secret Whisky Cure.


Jones, he drank, turned pale, and, gasping, hurried out the back way quick,
Where, to his old chum’s amazement, he was violently sick;
Then they interviewed the landlord, but he swore the drink was pure—
It was only the beginning of the Secret Whisky Cure.


For Jones couldn’t stand the smell of even special whisky blends,
And shunned bar-rooms to the sorrow of his trusty drinking friends:
And they wondered, too, what evil genius had chanced to lure
Him from paths of booze and friendship—never dreaming of a Cure.


He had noticed, too, with terror that a something turned his feet,
When a pub was near, and swung him to the other side the street,



Till he thought the devils had him, and his person they’d immure
In a lunatic asylum where there wasn’t any Cure.


He consulted several doctors who were puzzled by the case—
As they mostly are, but never tell the patient to his face—
Some advised him ‘Try the Mountains for this malady obscure:’
But there wasn’t one could diagnose a Secret Whisky Cure.


And his wife, when he was sober?—Well, she nagged him all the more!
And he couldn’t drown his sorrow in the pewter as of yore:
So he shot himself at Manly and was sat upon by Woore,
And found rest amongst the spirits from the Secret Whisky Cure.


And the moral?—well, ’tis funny—or ’tis woman’s way with men—
She’s remarried to a publican who whacks her now and then,
And they get on fairly happy, he’s a brute and he’s a boor,
But she’s never tried her second with a Secret Whisky Cure.

You never come back.
I say good-by when I see you going in the doors,
The hopeless open doors that call and wait
And take you then for—how many cents a day?
How many cents for the sleepy eyes and fingers?


I say good-by because I know they tap your wrists,
In the dark, in the silence, day by day,
And all the blood of you drop by drop,
And you are old before you are young.
You never come back.

The ant has made herself illustrious
By constant industry industrious.
So what? Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?

Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town
Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down!
Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear,
And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!


There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh,
But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day!
Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was _whisky!_ Wurgler--well,
He et morphine--ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!


But Sifers--though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit
When you _git_ Sifers one't, you've got _a doctor_, don't fergit!
He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere
You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.--


But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions--as
The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has.
He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in
Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.


Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps
To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps.
Make anything! good as the best!--a gunstock--er a flute;
He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,


Durin' the Army--got his trade o' surgeon there--I own
To-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone!
An' glued a fiddle one't far me--jes' all so busted you
'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!


And take Doc, now, in _ager_, say, er _biles_, er _rheumatiz_,
And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is!
Er janders--milksick--I don't keer--k-yore anything he tries--
A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!


There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead;
A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head!
First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from 'Puddlesburg,' and then
This little red-head, 'Burnin' Shame' they call him--Dr. Glenn.


And they 'consulted' on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,--
I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry,
And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, 'Let me
Send Sifers--bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!' 'Well,' says
she,


'Light out!' she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid
'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did!
He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he,
'My sulky's broke.' Says I, 'You hop right on and ride with me!'


I got him there.--'Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you,' Sifers said,



'But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?'
And there's Dave Banks--jes' back from war without a scratch--one
day
Got ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.--


His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! And
Jake
Dunn starts far Sifers--feller begs to shoot him far God-sake.
Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, 'At Big Bear--
Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there.'


But Jake, he tracked him--rid and rode the whole endurin' night!
And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight.
Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and swore
He could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.


Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found,
And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round;
Tel finally--I had to laugh--it's jes' like Doc, you know,--
Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.


But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin say
He's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway;
He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days,
He's jes' a great, big, brainy man--that's where the trouble lays!

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Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;
An' she can cook best things to eat!
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet;
An' nen she salts it all on top
With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop
An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,
In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop
An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
It's custard-pie, first thing you know!
An' nen she'll say,
"Clear out o' my way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
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When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,
An' says folks got to walk the chalk
When she's around, er wisht they had!
I play out on our porch an' talk
To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;
An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,
An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn!
Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,
It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"
An' nen he'll say,
"Clear out o' my way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"
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Wunst our hired girl, when she
Got the supper, an' we all et,
An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me
An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met, --
An' nen when we come home, an' see
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A light in the kitchen door, an' we
Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'O'-
Gracious! who can her beau be?"
39 An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann
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Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man!
Better say,
"Clear out o' the way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
Take the hint, an' run, child, run!
Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"

Red barns and red heiffers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha--the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon-loads of
cheese.


Shale hogbacks across the river at Council
Bluffs--and shanties hang by an eyelash to
the hill slants back around Omaha.


A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and
Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri
River.


Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies,
Eats and swears from a dirty face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.

The boy lives on our Farm, he's not
Afeard o' horses none!
An' he can make 'em lope, er trot,
Er rack, er pace, er run.
Sometimes he drives two horses, when
He comes to town an' brings
A wagon-full o' 'taters nen,
An' roastin'-ears an' things.


Two horses is 'a team,' he says,
An' when you drive er hitch,
The right-un's a 'near-horse,' I guess
Er 'off'--I don't know which--
The Boy lives on our Farm, he told
Me, too, 'at he can see,
By lookin' at their teeth, how old
A horse is, to a T!


I'd be the gladdest boy alive
Ef I knowed much as that,
An' could stand up like him an' drive,
An' ist push back my hat,
Like he comes skallyhootin' through
Our alley, with one arm
A-wavin' Fare-ye-well! to you--
The Boy lives on our Farm!

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot):
"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,
And give him some bread, I implore you!"
Quoth Corn, then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free --
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me!
To expect that we, Peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres,
For no other purpose on earth
Than to fatten curst calico-makers! --
That Biships to hobbins should bend --
Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
Such contemptible dealers in dimity!
"No -- vile Manufacture! ne'er harbour
A hope to be fed at our boards; --
Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
What claim canst thou have upon Lords?
"No -- thanks to the taxes and debt,
And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"
So saying -- whip, crack and away
Went Corn in his chaise through the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn would be down, before long."

I have been in Pennsylvania,
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.


In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.


And in places
Along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron,
And I saw the white-cauliflower faces
Of miner's wives waiting for the men to come home from the day's work.


I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.

'Mylo Jones's wife' was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and 'those' and 'thus'!-Can't
'bide babies in her sight--
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises--
NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!


Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!-Mylo--
consequences is--
Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,--
Uses, mostly, with the stock--
Coaxin' 'Old Kate' not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's PERFECTION.--Yes they do!


Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round
When they's work like HERN to do-
Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!


Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year IN and OUT!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest PLOWS--and don't
Never sware--like some folks won't!
Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!


Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year--and SHE--
She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one,
He says 'No, he don't chuse none!'



Workin'men like Mylo they
'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!


Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' ME!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'
MYLO, though--od-rot the man!--
Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks CAN--
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'--Mercy knows!

A cloud of dust on the long white road,

And the teams go creeping on
Inch by inch with the weary load;
And by the power of the green-hide goad

The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,

And necks to the yokes bent low,
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
And the shining tires might almost rust

While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat

That shades from the heat's white waves,
And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait,
The driver plods with a gait like that

Of his weary, patient slaves.

He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,

And spits to the left with spite;
He shouts at `Bally', and flicks at `Scot',
And raises dust from the back of `Spot',

And spits to the dusty right.

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form

In front of a settler's door,
And ask for a drink, and remark `It's warm,
Or say `There's signs of a thunder-storm';

But he seldom utters more.

But the rains are heavy on roads like these;

And, fronting his lonely home,
For weeks together the settler sees
The teams bogged down to the axletrees,

Or ploughing the sodden loam.

And then when the roads are at their worst,

The bushman's children hear
The cruel blows of the whips reversed
While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,

And bellow with pain and fear.

And thus with little of joy or rest

Are the long, long journeys done;
And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best --
Is distance fought in the mighty West,

And the lonely battles won.

Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.


Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.