Poetry

Clever Class Poem

Up Learning’s ladder, round by round
We’ve climbed with many a fall;
But, through the toil, companionship
Has made amends for all.

Now from our giddy heights we glance,
With calm thoughts and serene,
Once more at those we leave today—
Our class of sweet sixteen.

I want to take you with me through
The ranks of our small crowd;
And, if you’ll listen carefully,
You’ll know why we are proud.

Grace, as our goodly president
Has served her second year;
In singing, speaking, poetry,
She stands without a peer.

Blanche is the sunshine of our class,
She drives dull care away
Her laughing eyes, her smiling face,
Have gladdened many a day.

Alice, the calm, the dignified,
I know we’ll ne’er forget;
Her views are wide—but, best of all,
She is the teacher’s pet.

Lena excels in whispering.
Few are the notes she writes;
She studies hard throughout the day,
For pleasure, saves her nights.

Belle was the star in physics class,
She always knew the laws
And when she failed to know a thing,
She always had a cause.

Anna has graced our piano stool,
And mingled tunes with laughter;
Ah, well, one can be young but once,
The frowns may come hereafter.

Ruth is a clever, pretty girl,
So everyone remarks,
Yet lives in constant danger—what?
The danger of her “Sparks.”

Will is the pride of all the girls,
The slave of every teacher,
When someone wants a window closed,
She calls on “Jube,” poor creature.

Clayt is the lad who’s in to win,
He is the teachers’ boy,
And though at times his face is sad,
His heart is full of “Joy.”

Gertie has made a record proud,
She seldom failed in class,
She studied hard these last four years
And well deserved to pass.

Bertha, the singer of our class,
How diligent she’s been!
She did her share of whispering,
But then that’s not a sin.

Bess is the class historian,
That office, well, she’ll fill.
She’s “Sortore” set in all her ways,
And has an iron “Will.”

Lawrence is the one who thinks
He’s been our comrade long;
His fav’rite stone, an “Opal” bright
He’s blest with an “Arm strong.”

Sweet Genevieve has worked and toiled,
Her honor’s justly won,
And every teacher in our school
Will say her work’s well “Dunn.”

And now there’s only one remains,
He should have come before;
His name is John, his hopes all lie
In a corner grocery store.

And now, I’ve mentioned everyone,
I hope no one feels slighted,
But if one does, let him approach,
His wrong will soon be righted.

At last your poet ends his lay,
He’s nothing more to tell,
But leaves the class of nineteen-one
With blessing and farewell.

In the Wake of the News1

Opening Chorus

Goodbye, everybody; goodbye, Jimmy Cal;
Goodbye, William Gleason; goodbye, Doc, old pal;
Sully, Matty, Harry, and Morrie, goodbye, goodbye.
Sure hope you all will feel sorry the same as I.
Goodbye, good old Edward; goodbye, little Ray;
Goodbye, all you White Sox—I quit gadding today.

[Encore]
Goodbye, Johnny Evers; goodbye, Lurid Lew;
Goodbye, Charley Williams; goodbye, Lower Two;
Schulte, Heine, Jimmy, and Larry, goodbye, goodbye.
P’rhaps you’ll look me up when you tarry awhile in Chi.
Goodbye, clams and swordfish; goodbye, Gay White Way;
Goodbye, joys of Brooklyn—I quit gadding today.

A Split Century

Half a C, half a C,
Half a C, sundered,
Cut from the other half,
Half a big hundred.
Forward the Cub Brigade!
“Charge at the umps!” they said,
But Zim in silence stood.
O you big hundred!

Past the Great Zim the pill
Whistled. “Strike three,” said Bill,
And the Great Heine knew
William had blundered;
His not to make reply,
His not to query why,
’Though ’twas outside and high.
Silence is golden, Zim.
O you big hundred!

Players to right of him,
Players to left of him,
Players in front of him
Hollered and thundered,
Bellowing like a calf
At the whole umpire staff,
But Heine’s jaws are locked,
Earning the other half
Of the big hundred.

Monday

A friend of mine, who reads the Wake (a friend he sure must be)
Had me to dine a week ago last Sunday,
And after we had dined awhile, the friend inquired of me:
“Why is the Wake so very short on Monday?”

I told him, and I’ll tell you, too—’twas thus my boss did speak:
“Each week, to rest your brain, we’ll give you one day.
We really can’t expect a man to keep a Wake all week,
So just send in a verse or two for Monday.”

And, yielding to the boss, which is the proper thing to do,
I set aside each Sunday as a fun day.
And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—all the whole week through—
I wonder wotinel to write for Monday.

Heine’s Soliloquy

The C or not the C, that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler for the dough to suffer
Mistakes and errors of outrageous umpires,
Or to cut loose against a band of robbers,
And, by protesting, lose it? To kick—to beef—
To beef!—perchance to scream: “Ah, there, you dub,
You ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———!!!”
But that sharp flow of breath, what would it cost,
A sloughing off of these one hundred bucks,
Must give me pause—there’s the respect
That makes dumb agony of two long weeks;
For who would bear the crazy work of Klem,
Cy Rigler’s slips, the raw mistakes of Quigley,
The guesses wild of Orth and Hank O’Day.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a few cuss words! Who would Brennan bear,
Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense,
But for the dread of dropping all that dough,
Of losing all those togs, deprived of which
No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still.
Thus money does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native Bronix disposition
Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc;
And ravings of my own fantastic sort
Are all unheard, though my long silence does
Disgrace the name of Heine.

Just Now—

Their game is
Famous
For its
Witless
Blunders;
Those runless,
Wonless,
Catchless,
Matchless,
Stopless,
Copless,
Useless,
Mooseless,
Spitless,
Hitless
Wonders

Come On, You Roseate Day!

When you’ve penned an especially bright bit of verse,
It’s good for one day in the year;
When you’ve made a neat hit or an epigram terse,
In only one sheet ’twill appear.
No matter how bright be the stuff that you write
About organized ball and its quarrels,
Don’t stop, trip, or shirk, but keep up the good work,
For you never can rest on your laurels.

When strenuous rhyming bedews your pale brow,
And you’ve gained an effect really snappy,
Don’t think, “That’ll hold ’em a while, and so now
I’ll rest up a bit and be happy.”
For when you do well, you have to excel
Your own lyrics and sonnets and chorals;
So keep on with the dance, O you Anatole France,
For you never can rest on your laurels.

Keep the engine a-going, the furnace keep hot,
With plenty of pepper and spice.
For you see that’s the kind of a job you have got—
Oh, I say, this is beaucoup advice!
But don’t get too good, or really you would
Revolutionize all baseball morals.
Ah, well, you should fret, for some day, you bet,
Some roseate day in the far, far away,
[Funereal? No, for I don’t mean it so],
You’ll take a long rest on your laurels.

To the New One

Some people think it is a shame
That Barbara is not your name.
Well, let them worry if they will;
Between us two, I’m glad you’re Phil.

If you were Barbara, I know
You’d cost your dad a lot more dough,
And when you maried, it would be
Like last night’s second round—on me.

And who’d expect a girl to fix
The furnace, or get up at six
And, in the well known early dawn,
Hoe garden or massage the lawn?

I guess it’s tough on you, old head
For some day you must earn your bread.
You’ll have to work, you’ll have to save,
And, worst of all, you’ll have to shave.

You’ll have to take some licking, too,
For Brother John will pick on you.
But p’rhaps you’ll grow to look like dad,
So cheer up, kid, life’s not so bad.

West Town Storm

I wonder if there’s anything
That I, tonight, can rhyme about.
It’s ’most too late to write of spring
And—Wait a bit; the lights are out.

Now naught to do but watch the flash
Of lightning, listen to the rain.
And tremble at the thunder’s crash
And—Wait a bit; they’re on again.

Where was I headed at the time
The darkness came? O, yes, I know;
I sought a subject for a rhyme.
Well—Wait a minute; there they go.

I wonder if my meter keeps
Right on when current’s on the bum.
Or if it, through the darkness, sleeps
And—Wait a minute; here they come.

Why didn’t you stay out all night,
False lights? For now ideas have fled.
I’ll wager, though, you’ll burn all right.
Yea, steadily, when I’m in bed.

This Afternoon

O shivering creatures
Down there in the bleachers,
And fans in the cold concrete stand,
You’ve willfully chosen
To come and get frozen,
While I must be here or get canned.

You leave when you care to,
While I must prepare to
Remain to the end, I suppose.
I’ll perish, I fear me,
But one thought will cheer me:
That I didn’t pay to be froze.

Baseball—A Sport

Players who jump for the dough,
Bandits and crooks, ev’ry one.
Baseball’s a pleasure, you know.
Players should play for the fun.

Magnates don’t care for the mon’.
They can’t be tempted with gold.
They’re in the game for the fun—
That’s why Collins was sold

The Youngest One Breaks In

Sound triumphal music!
Give three rousing cheers!
Shout the joyful tidings
In everybody’s ears!
Write it on the fences
In white and purple chalk!
Sing it from the housetop;
Brother Jim can talk!

Sentences? Of course not.
Don’t be so absurd.
So far he has uttered
Just a single word.
And the word? It’s “Daddy.”
Foxy boy is Jim;
If ’twere not, would daddy
Give this space to him.

I, when first I heard it,
Numskull that I am,
Thought that it was “Przemysl”;
Either that or “Damn.”
But of course it’s “Daddy,”
For it’s spoken when
Daddy’s here or going
Or coming back again.

Let the warring nations
War, if war they must;
Let the market weaken;
Let the banks go bust;
Let the cars quit running;
Let the people walk.
What care we for trifles?
Brother Jim can talk!

To the Man Higher Up

Sometimes I write my stuff at home
And bring it down with me.
When that’s the case, the stuff is good
As stuff of mine could be.

At other times I have to come
Before it’s off my mind,
And try to do it at the desk
To which I’ve been assigned.

And when, before the stuff is writ,
Downtown I have to come,
The stuff as maybe you have guessed,
Is very, very bum.

O Mr. Boss, you’d rather have
The good stuff, I presume.
If that is so, I pray you, sir,
Give me a Private Room

To the Latest

I love you, New Arrival;
I love you, No. 3.
That’s why I won’t allow them
To name you after me.

Make you the butt of wheezes
Such as I’m subjected to;
No, kid, I won’t allow them
To wish my name on you.

Help Wanted

I have no objection to washing your face
And putting your playthings back in their place,
And fixing your fruit and potatoes and bread
And reading you stories when you are in bed.

It’s not a bad job, being nursemaid to you
And most of my duties I cheerfully do,
But I’ll certainly welcome relief from the task
Of answering all of the questions you ask.

The Eternal Question

If I grow old before my day,
If, in a night, my hair turns gray,
’Twill be from answering when you say
“What for?”

If I have softening of the brain,
If I’m adjudged unsound, insane,
’Twill be from trying to explain
“What for?”

So, youngster, if ’tis your desire
To have a loony, senile sire,
Simply continue to inquire:
“What for?”

Exit Madge

Madge has moved back to the city,
With her year and a half of good cheer.
The neighborhood sighs, the neighborhood cries;
The neighborhood’s dismal and drear.

Madge has moved back to the city,
And left a young lover behind,
Who, mourning her loss, is excessively cross,
And very unwilling to mind.

Madge has moved back to the city,
With her smile and her curls and her fun.
And to make matters worse, she has taken her nurse,
Who took such good care of our son.

A Mysterious Antipathy

He’s a dear little thing, is No. 3,
Dear to his mother and dear to me,
While his older brother’s idea of bliss
Is to give him a gentle hug and kiss.
But the one ambition of Brother Jim
Appears to be to demolish him.

All that he does is eat and cry;
He wouldn’t and couldn’t harm a fly.
There’s nothing about him that might inspire
A brother’s aversion, a brother’s ire.
Nevertheless, his Brother Jim
Would give one eye for a slap at him.

He lacks attainments; he’s shy on looks,
Compared with his brothers, he has no books,
He has no games, and he has no toys
To make him the envy of other boys.
But the fact remains that his Brother Jim
Is looking for chances to wallop him.

Parting

I’ve got to leave my little ones
And journey through far eastern lands.
I’ve got to leave my three small sons
And trust their care to other hands.

Boys, will you miss me when I go?
Will you be wretched while your dear
Papa is absent from you? No,
You’ll get along all right, I fear.

First Aid

A rhyming dictionary is
A handy little thing.
My uncle, though, got tired of his
And passed it on to Ring.
So now, when hard up for a rhyme
And when I need one quick,
I save a lot of precious time
By looking up the Dic.

When I must rhyme with some tough word—
We’ll say, for instance, “twelve”—
’Tis then I grab my Dicky bird
And find “delve,” “helve,” and “shelve.”
Or if, as often is the case,
I want to rhyme with “babe,”
By looking in the proper place,
I run on “astrolabe.”

It happens every week or so
That I must rhyme with “doge.”
My book advises me to go
And utlize “gamboge.”
And when I seek a running mate,
A word to pair with “gulch,”
I do not have to hesitate;
I’m tipped right off to “mulch.”

Or when it’s necessary to
Wind up a line with “shalt,”
I find what p’rhaps is known to you,
There’s such a thing as “alt.”
Or when I cannot think offhand
Of playmates for “cartouch,”
I look into my booklet and
Am introduced to “smooch.”

My rhyming Dic’s a hit with me;
It really is a gem,
Containing all the words there be
And all the rhymes for them.
But what my book neglects to tell,
The thing my book leaves out,
Is whattheell and whotheell
To write my rhymes about.

Obituary

My eyes are very misty
As I pen these lines to Christy;
O, my heart is full of heaviness today.
May the flowers ne’er wither, Matty,
On your grave at Cincinnati
Which you’ve chosen for your final fadeaway.

Today’s Results

This is another Saturday
And many different teams will play.
It is my duty to predict
Which teams will win and which get licked;
And also for to prophesy
One single, solitary tie.

It looks to me as if the best
Two teams in this here middle west
Would give the Springfield fans a treat
When Wittenberg and Earlham meet,
And that school looks beat to me
Which turned out Birch, the referee.

East Lansing bugs will see the game
Between the Ags and Notre Dame
’Twill be a battle, but I am
Obliged to favor Notre Dame.
However, I’ll remain quite calm
If M.A.C. beats Notre Dame.

The Purple boys must step a few
To win their conflict with Purdue,
Which hasn’t had much luck of late
And by this time is desperate.
I think Ohio State’s fast pace
Will be a lot too fast for Case.

The Gophers will surprise this scribe
If they don’t trim the Badger tribe,
But they’ve surprised this scribe before,
And perhaps they’ll shock this scribe once more.
I’ll back them, though, for one thin dime,
For class has got to tell some time.

I’m picking Stagg’s Maroons to tie
Macomber’s men—I won’t tell why.
But if they don’t, believe me, boy,
’Twill be no romp for Illinois.
The Wolverines will brace and down
The Quaker team from Quaker Town.

I think that W. and J.
Will soundly trounce Ock’s team today.
(Ock’s team, I might explain to thee,
Is really Washington and Lee.)
I believe that Amherst has a lot
On Frankie Abbott’s Alma Mat’.

I say Cornell is in a class
Above the rustic Ags from Mass.,
And that the Harvard gang’s defense
Will stop the boys from Providence,
And that a Tiger’s toe will do
Some fatal damage to the Blue.

And if the teams that I have picked
To win do one and all get licked;
If victories are scored by Penn,
Purdue and Yale and so forth; then
Be sure to pan me; do not fail,
I love to get a lot of mail.

Exalted Above His Fellows

Amelia Galli-Curci, I presume, is justly proud
Of the voice that wins the plaudits of Chicago’s opera crowd;
The kaiser, very likely, is as chesty as can be
When he thinks of those courageous Teuts who fight for Germany;
Chick glows at his successes in the ancient Scottish game;
The relatives of Willard thrill at the mention of his name;
Frazee swells up to think that he now owns the Boston Sox;
But John’s the proudest thing on earth since he got the chicken pox.

Successes in the market have no doubt made Lawson glad;
Ohio State is tickled pink about the year it had;
The friends of Col. Lowden must be overcome with joy
To realize that he is now the Gov. of Illinois;
It makes Chief Henley happy that he kept the lid down tight;
It cheers the Lake Shore drive to think it wasn’t robbed last night;
But no one’s joy can be as great by many city blocks
As my son John’s since he acquired a case of chicken pox.

Daddy’s beneath all notice, for no doctor calls on him;
A fig for Bill who isn’t ill! A sneer for healthy Jim!
Who’s read to when he’s asked to be? Who’s promptly waited on?
Who’s salved and pitied when he cries? No one but my son John.
If it would please me half as much to scratch and scratch and scratch,
I’d buy myself a germing net and see what I could catch.
If I could get one-third his fun from medicine and docs
I would not be a day without a case of chicken pox.

Valentines

To a Rewrite Man:
Reporters furnish you with plot,
With facts, with dates, with names, and if you
Turn out good stuff sometimes—Why not?
You lucky stiff, you!

To a Dramatic Critic:
You write stuff once a week or so,
And when it’s punk, why, you should worry.
One alibi will always go:
“I had to write it in a hurry.”

To a Bold Editorial Writer:
They read him and they cry: He’s not afraid,
This supergink, to call a spade a spade!
He says Jess Willard’s just a great big bluff!
Yea, brothers, but he doesn’t sign his stuff.

To a Lineman:
When the pile of A1 contributions is low,
And Babette is especially cunning,
He phones to the office, “Because of the snow,
The Northwestern trains aren’t running.”

To a Society Editor:
Says, girls, don’t you think it must be just immense?
Can you imagine a job that’s as pleasant
As witnessing all the big nuptial events
Without being stung for a present?

To a Reel Critic:
She pays no attention to riffraff like me.
She thinks she is awfully smart,
’Cause she once got a letter from Francis X. B.
And an autographed picture from Hart.

To a Sporting Editor:
Wherefore that broad, contented smile, adorning
The visage of the editor of spo’t?
He doesn’t have to wait until the morning
To see the Gumps and read what L——r wrote.

To a Cashier:
Every day I murmur: “Lord!
How I love that Mr. W——d!”
Honest, Al, I think you’re fine.
Won’t you be my Valentine?

The New Club Boss

Some folks undoubtedly will speak
Of William Veeck as William Veeck,
But those who wish to be correc’
Will speak of him as William Veeck.

Bib Ballads

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.

The Author

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.

Regular Fellows I Have Met

Lawrence R. Adams

Pres. and Gen. Mgr., Brevoort Hotel Co., Chicago

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.”

B. F. Affleck

Pres. Universal Portland Cement Co., Chicago

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.

Geo. S. Albaugh

Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

J. N. Armstrong

Mgr. Western Union, Chicago

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.

Col. Bion J. Arnold

Engineer, Chicago

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.

Nathan Ascher

Movie Exhibitor, Chicago

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.

Phil DeC. Ball

Owner St. Louis Browns, St. Louis

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

Jas. A. Ballard

Sales Manager, Semet Solvay Co., Detroit

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.

F. L. Bateman

Pres. Trans-Continental Freight Co., Chicago

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.

Richard Beamish

Managing Editor Philadelphia Press, Philadelphia

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.”

Ross J. Beatty

Steel Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

John D. Black

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

H. H. Blum

Dealer in Women’s Wear, Chicago

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.

John Borden

Capitalist, Chicago

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.

Ralph Bradley

General Counsel North Shore Electric, Chicago

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.

F. A. Brewer

Investment Banker, Chicago

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.

Col. Benj. G. Brinkman

Banker, and Chrm. Board, St. Louis Cardinals, St. Louis

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.

A. F. Brockman

Dept. Mgr., The Fair, Chicago

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.

John E. Bruce

Lawyer, Cincinnati

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.

Edward J. Brundage

Attorney General of Illinois

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.

Col. Geo. T. Buckingham

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Eugene Byfield

Manager Hotel Sherman, Chicago

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.

Geo. B. Caldwell

Pres. Sperry & Hutchinson Co. New York City

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.

Richard Carle

Actor, Long Branch, N.J.

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.

Edward B. Carson

Pres. Carson Petroleum Co., Chicago

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.

Wm. H. Clare

U.S. Government Official, Chicago

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.

Philip R. Clarke

Pres. Federal Securities Corp., Chicago

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.

Frank R. Coates

Pres. Toledo Railways & Light Co., Toledo

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.”

F. Y. Coffin

Insurance Man, Chicago

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.

Charles A. Comiskey

Pres. White Sox, Chicago

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.

J. T. Connery

Coal Man and Pres. Edgewater Beach Hotel, Chicago

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.

Judge Geo. A. Cooke

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

David Copland

Vice Pres. General American Tank Car Corp., Chicago

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.

F. A. Cotharin

Insurance Man, Chicago

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.

Frederick D. Countiss

Banker and Broker, Chicago

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.

F. A. Crandall

Banker, Chicago

“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.

Thos. Cusack

Sign Painter, Chicago

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.

Charles H. Dean

Sporting Goods Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

Ex-Gov. Chas. S. Deneen

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

P. L. Deutsch

Asst. Sec’y Brunswick-Balke-Collender Co., Chicago

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, “&%$#.”

John B. De Voney

Real Estate, Chicago

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.

J. W Douglass

Stock Broker, Chicago

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’!

George B. Dryden

Pres. Dryden Rubber Co., Chicago

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.

Harry W. Dubiske

Investment Banker, Chicago

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.

Robert J. Dunham

V.-Pres. Armour & Co., Chicago

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.

J. C. Dunn

Railroad Contractor and Pres. Cleveland Indians, Chicago

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!”

Ex. Gov. E. F. Dunne

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Clarence A. Earl

Automobile Manufacturer, Toledo

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.

Albert N. Eastman

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Col. Chas. H. Ebbets

Pres. Brooklyn National League Baseball Club, Brooklyn

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.

Wm. G. Edens

Banker and Pres. Ill. Highway Impr. Assn., Chicago

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

Howard Elting

Paint Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

Victor Elting

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Uriah S. Epperson

Pres. Epperson Land & Inv. Co., Kansas City, Mo.

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.

Samuel A. Ettelson

Corporation Counsel, Chicago

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.

Chas. (Chick) Evans

Writer, Chicago

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.

John Fletcher

Banker, Chicago

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.

Herman Friestedt

Contractor, Chicago

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.

Col. John J. Garrity

Supt. Of Police, Chicago

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.

Geo. F. Getz

Pres. Globe Coal Co., Chicago

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.

Harry R. Gibbons

County Treasurer, Chicago

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.

William A. (Kid) Gleason

Manager White Sox, Chicago

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.”

John M. Glenn

Sec. Illinois Manufacturers Assn., Chicago

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.

George Golde

Merchant, Cincinnati

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?”

J. P. Graver

Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

Lelan O. Green

Dentist, Chicago

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.

Gene Greene

Vaudeville Star, Chicago

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!

Bennett Griffin

Insurance Man, Chicago

“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.

George F. Harding

City Comptroller, Chicago

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!”

John P. Harding

Hotel Operator, Chicago

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.

C. M. Harpster

Surgeon, Toledo

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

Wells W. Hawtin

Pres. Hawtin Companies, Chicago

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.

Dan Hayes, Jr.

Real Estate and Breeder of Harness Race Horses, Chicago

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.

Wm. J. Healy

Trustee Sanitary District, Chicago

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

Flour Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

August Herrmann

Pres. Cincinnati Reds, Cincinnati

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.

U. J. (Sport) Herrmann

Mgr. Cort Theater, Chicago

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.)

James O. Heyworth

Engineer and Contractor, Chicago

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.

Peter M. Hoffman

Coroner, Chicago

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.

Woodward Holmes

Tailor, Chicago

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.

E. W. Houser

Pres. Barnes-Crosby Co., Chicago

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.

Maclay Hoyne

States Attorney, Chicago

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.

Thomas D. Huff

Lawyer, Chicago

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.”

John Irwin

Wholesale Meats, Chicago

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.

Z. Z. Jackson

Shirt Maker, Chicago

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.

G. J. L. Janes

Gen. Mgr. Hillman’s, Chicago

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

Ban B. Johnson

Baseball Magnate, Chicago

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.

Walter Clyde Jones

Patent Lawyer, Chicago and New York

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.

S. R. Kaufman

Pres. Congress Hotel, Chicago

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.”

John H. Kirby

Capitalist, Houston, Texas

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.

Charles Kratsch

Ignition Expert, Chicago

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.

Chas. Krutchoff

County Assessor, Chicago

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.

Sigmund Lawton

Broker, Chicago

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.

James Levy

Automobiles and Airplane Dealer, Chicago

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.

David R. Lewis

Banker, Chicago

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.

Adolph Linick

Theater Owner, Chicago

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.

A. B. Magnus

Capitalist, Chicago

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.”

C. L. Maguire

Pres. Lakeside Petroleum Co., Chicago

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.

Jno. W. Maguire

V.P. and Gen. Mgr. Portage Rubber Co., Akron

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.

F. J. Manton

Merchant, Toledo

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.

Clayton Mark

Steel Manufacturer, Chicago

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.

Oscar F. Mayer

Packer, Chicago

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.

M. DeWitt McAlpine

V-Pres. Bradner Smith & Co., Chicago

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.

Chas. A. McCulloch

V.-Pres & Gen. Mgr. Parmelee Transfer Co., Chicago

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!

Jas. C. McGill

President Indianapolis Indians, Indianapolis

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.

C. R. McKay

Dept. Governor Federal Reserve Bank, Chicago

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.

Col. Angus McLean

Surgeon, Detroit

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

John J. Meagher

Stock Broker, Chicago

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.

Joseph Michaels

Iron Merchant, Chicago

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.

Amos C. Miller

Lawyer, Chicago

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!

Eugene C. Miller

Pres. Osgood Company, Chicago

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.

Jacob Miller

Editor and Steward, Chicago

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.

Arthur J. Mitchell

Investments, Chicago

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.

John J. Mitchell

Banker, Chicago

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!

Harry Moir

Prop. Morrison Hotel, Chicago

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!

S. E. Moist

Union Piano Co., Chicago

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.

Chas. B. Moore

Vice-Pres, American Bond & Mortgage Co., Chicago

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.

W. R. Moorhouse

of Cory, Moorhouse & Co., Insurance, Chicago

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.

Waller Morton

Stock Broker, Chicago

“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.”

G. E. Muehleback

Capitalist, Kansas City, Mo.

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.

Frank J. Navin

Pres. Detroit Baseball Club, Detroit

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’?

Wilbur D. Nesbit

Advertising Agency Man, Chicago

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.

W. G. Nicholson

Banker, Detroit

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.”

Col. L. M. Nicolson

Assistant to President, Montgomery Ward & Co.

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.

Thomas O’Connor

Chief Chicago Fire Department

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.

Alfred O’Gara

Pres. U.S. Airplane Exhibition Co., Chicago

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.

Senator John F. Overfield

Oil, etc., Independence, Kansas

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.

John E. Owens

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Arthur A. Patterson

Pres. E. R. Moore Co., Chicago

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.

Ferdinand W. Peck

Capitalist, Chicago

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!

Lt. Col. N. M. Percy

Surgeon, Chicago

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’?”

C. S. Peterson

Pres. Peterson Linotyping Co., Chicago

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!

Dr. W. S. Phillips

Pres. Aviation Club of Chicago

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.

Charles Piez

Pres. and Treas. Link-Belt Co., Chicago

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.

George Plant

Manager Stillson’s, Chicago

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.

Conrad H. Poppenhusen

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

Guy Bates Post

Actor, New York City

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.”

Frank L. Poth

Capitalist, Philadelphia

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!

Hanson F. Randle

Vice-Pres. Railways Ice Co., Chicago

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!”

Wm. H. Rankin

Advertising Expert, Chicago

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!

F. H. Rawson

Banker, Chicago

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.

George W. Reed

Vice-President Peabody Coal Co., Chicago

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 H. Reilly

Real Estate, Chicago

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.

Peter Reinberg

President, County Commissioners, Chicago

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.

Alexander H. Revell

Merchant, Chicago

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.

Harry J. Ridings

Western Manager Geo. M. Cohan Interests, Chicago

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.

Wallace N. Robinson

Hotel Operator, Headquarters Kansas City, Mo.

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

J. J. Rosenthal

Manager, Woods Theatre, Chicago

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.

H. M. Rowley

Hoover Suction Sweeper Co., Chicago

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!

Joseph A. Rushton

Stock Broker, Chicago

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.

Peter J. Schaefer

Theatre Owner, Chicago

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.

George K. Schmidt

Banker and Member Board of Assessors, Chicago

“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.”

Fred C. Schwab

Tire Dealer, Chicago

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?

Capt. Orlando F. Scott

Surgeon, Chicago

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.

Benjamin Serlis

Investments, Chicago

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.

Walden W. Shaw

Pres. Yellow Cab Co., Chicago

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.

George W. Sheehan

Pres. Central Sugar Co., Chicago

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.

Cornell Shreiber

Mayor of Toledo

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.

James Simpson

Vice Pres. Marshall Field & Co., Chicago

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.

Mort H. Singer

Theatrical Man, Chicago

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.

Modie J. Spiegel

Pres. Spiegels House Furnishing Co., Chicago

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.

Major A. A. Sprague

Wholesale Grocer, Chicago

“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.”

James F. Stepina

Banker, Chicago

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!

Fred E. Sterling

State Treasurer, Springfield, Rockford, Chicago

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!”

Elliott G. Stevenson

Lawyer, Detroit

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.

Col. R. W. Stewart

Chairman Board of Directors, Standard Oil Co. Of Ind., Chicago

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.

C. Pruyn Stringfield

Physician, Chicago

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.

J. M. Sullivan

Pres. Standard Paper Bag Co., Chicago

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.

W. J. Sutherland

Mooney & Boland Agency, Chicago

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.

Robert M. Sweitzer

County Clerk, Chicago

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.

A. J. Thatcher

Toledo Athletic Club, Toledo

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.

Max Thorek

Physician, Chicago

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.

Edward J. Tobin

County Supt. Schools, Chicago

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.

Phil. R. Toll

Lumberman, Kansas City, Mo.

“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.”

Fred W. Upham

Treas. G.O.P. National Committee, Chicago

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.

Egbert Van Alstyne

Song Writer, Chicago

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.”

Henry Veeder

Lawyer, Chicago

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.

John Z. Vogelslang

Restaurant Man, Chicago

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.

Wm. F. Von Sennet

Dept. Mgr. Illinois Steel Co., Chicago

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.

Charles H. Wacker

Father of the Chicago Plan, Chicago

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.

John Wagner

Promoter of Athletics, Racine, Wis.

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!

William M. Walker

Wholesale Fish Dealer, Chicago

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.

Thos. J. Wall

General Agent, C.P.R. Chicago

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.

Harry B. Wallace

Diamond Importer & Mgr. Wheel Trueing Tool Co., Detroit

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.

Augustus J. Wampler

Dept. Mgr. Health & Milligan Mfg. Co., Chicago

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.

Col. Charles B. Warren

Lawyer, Detroit

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.

G. M. Weeks

Capitalist, Evanston, Ill.

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.

John N. Weinand

Cash Grain Dept., Ware & Leland, Chicago

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.

Albert G. Welsh

Lawyer, and Chairman Press Committee, Bar Assn., Chicago

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.

Charles A. White

Banker, Chicago

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.

Fred H. Wickett

Lawyer and Oilman, Chicago

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.

Guilford S. Wood

Railway Supplies, Chicago

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

F. M. Zeiler

Stock Broker, Chicago

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.”

An Irish Love Lyric

I used to need money to spend and raise Hell,
But now I am stopping at this here hotel.
God bless you, St. Francis, Acushla Machree.
Aroona Corona, you’re all right with me.

The Deterioration of Man

I suppose you’ve seen, in some magazine,
These tales of Men’s Success:
How Alfred Stout, who was down and out,
Won wealth and happiness;
How Lucius Polk, who was stony broke,
Became well fixed for life.
They always say, “I’d be flat today
Except for my darling wife.”

Refrain:
I remember, I remember
When Man was quite a guy;
When he didn’t yelp for female help
To get him safely by;
When he beat the game and climbed to fame
By his courage and acumen.
But now, by gum, if he ain’t a bum,
It’s because of the Little Woman.

The Phantom Sister

David—he is my youngest son;
There are, you know, three others—
Appears to think it’s not much fun
To only just have brothers.

He likes them all, you understand,
But there is this objection:
They don’t wear pretty dresses and
They don’t crave his affection.

So he has added to the fold
A little sister, “Bessie.”
She’s just his age—that’s three years old—
And very awful dressy.

Yet she’s not vain, but seems to be
Of rather shy demeanor;
Outside of Dave, her family
Have not so much as seen her.

Which we regret, for as I say
Her clothes are awful pretty.
They come in truckloads every day
From stores in New York City.

But all the clothes and all the toys
Which David says he’s bought her
Are held as the exclusive joys
Of him and my new daughter.

For them and her, we take his word;
’Twere imbecile to flout him.
Hell has no fury like this bird
When you presume to doubt him!

Dave’s Imperturbability

When Davey, my kid, takes a tumble
And gets an abrasion or two,
If you dare sympathize, he coolly replies:
“It’s what I was trying to do.”

When he smashes a toy he was fond of
Or bursts a balloon that’s brand new,
He’ll throw it away and brazenly say:
“It’s what I was trying to do.”

That’s Dave’s philosophical system,
And I think I will follow it, too;
When I foozle and err, I will boldly aver
It’s what I was trying to do.

So, ye who don’t like these two pages,
Don’t think I’ll be angry with you
If ye say to me, “Fool, you have written plain drool”—
That’s what I was trying to do.

Apology

I hardly ever see a roof
Which doesn’t shout, “Walk me, you goof!”
I hardly ever pass a tree
But that it barks, “You can’t climb me!”
And I am warned by every wall,
“Lay off me, Lardner, lest you fall!”

So what with always giving proof
That I’m a H‑ll cat on a roof,
And climbing every wall and tree
To show they ain’t too tough for me,
I fear that I’m inclined to shirk
What (laughingly) I call my work.

Home

A Poem

By Ernest L. Zopple

(Editor’s Note: Mr. Zopple’s verses are sold to papers all over Iowa. He makes an income of $20,000 a year and has a home in Pittsburgh.)

Before we had money, we lived in a flat,
The dear little woman and I.
There wasn’t no danger of us getting fat,
And the cellar was painfully dry.
But though we now boast of a house in Duluth
And go there in passenger coaches,
That house, it don’t seem like the home of our youth,
For a home ain’t a home without roaches.

We now have twelve slaves at our beck and our call,
And Navajo rugs on the floor;
A platinum hat rack stands out in the hall;
There’s a pearl-studded knob on the door.
Sweet mother goes round with a mouthful of gold,
And wears South American brooches,
But somehow she ain’t the same gal as of old—
And a home ain’t a home without roaches.

The house that we live in has vermin enough
To satisfy most folks’s taste.
In fact, many servants have quit in a huff
With bites from the neck to the waist.
The mice and the rats and the weasels crowd in
By thousands as winter approaches,
And mother and I—well, we bear it and grin,
But a home ain’t a home without roaches.

An Autobiography

Hardly a man is now alive
Who cares that in March, 1885,
I was born in the city of Niles,
Michigan, which is 94 miles
From Chicago, a city in Illinois.
Sixteen years later, still only a boy,
I graduated from the Niles High School
With a general knowledge of rotation pool.
After my schooling, I thought it best
To give my soul and body a rest.
In 1905 this came to an end,
When I went to work on The Times in Souse Bend,
Thence to Chi, where I labored first
On the Inter-Ocean and then for Hearst,
Then for the Tribune and then to St. Lews,
Where I was editor of Sporting News.
And thence to Boston, where later a can
Was tied to me by the manager man.
1919 was the year
When, in Chicago, I finished my daily newspaper career.
In those 14 years—just a horse’s age—
My stuff was all on the sporting page.
In the last five years (since it became illegal to drink),
I’ve been connected with The Bell Syndicate, Inc.
I have four children as well as one Missus,
None of whom can write a poem as good as this is.

The Constant Jay

Oh, will a day, I wonder, ever be
When S. Jay Kaufman does not write to me!
Some days he just solicits information
Regarding where I’m going next vacation.
Some days he asks me (absolutely solemn)
To lay my work aside and write his column.
Some days he wants ten dollars, bucks, or beans,
To help the starving Middle-Europeans
I count that day a flop on land or on sea
When S. Jay Kaufman does not write to me!

To Producers, Authors, Actors, etc.

There was a man who wrote a play;
One week it ran, then died away,
Though critics said ’twould be a hit
And even Ervine lauded it.
’Twas not too pure or too obscene;
The plot was hot, the satire keen.
“It lacked two things,” observed the man;
“Just Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.”

A play that millions didn’t see
Was one by Mr. C’on and me;
The star was Walter Huston and
He acted absolutely grand.
The piece’s failure to endure
Was not his fault, yet I am sure
We could have lasted out the mont’
With Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt.
The Thitter Guild takes Mother Goose,
A postcard from Anita Loos,
Professor Bore on Patent Law,
An epigram by Harry Thaw,
Or some Hungarian goulash,
Adapted by Joe Baldberash
And has a play you just can’t pan,
With Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.

Watched a crowd one recent night
Go into spasms of delight
About a play whose claim to wit
Rests on one oft-repeated bit;
The swilling, by a profligate,
Of sodium bicarbonate.
They loved this subtly comic stunt
(With Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt).

You want to pack ’em in out front?
Hire Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt.
Is wounding Joe Leblang your plan?
Hire Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.
Wouldst have a smash, not just a bunt?
Sign Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt.
The madam craves a Rolls sedan?
Get Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.

To h——l with story and with plot,
Love interest, passion, cold or hot;
With traffic, meliorations which
End one-night stands in a one-way ditch!
To h——l with competition from
The rasping pictures or the dumb!
Show business needs and needs at once
More Lynn Fontannes and Alfred Lunts.