The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pacifist: and other poems, by Howard Futhey Brinton
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THE PACIFIST
In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt,
A strain of the strong Saxon thew;
From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South—
An American type through and through.
A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say,
Who lived in the far remote past,—
An unpractical man and careless forsooth;
Inclined as a youth to be fast.
He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats,
And once on a time rolled the dice,
But heart like an ox and muscled like steel;
A dreamer? Yes, without price.
He filled no great niche in the town where he lived,
Was never considered worth while.
The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky
And mentioned his name with a smile,
An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin,
A smile that was snaky and sly.
They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club,
But could damn with the lift of an eye.
The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land,
And threatened invasion seemed near.
The hand of the patriot went to the sword;
The pacifist muttered in fear;
He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground
Down hard by the burden of Thor,
Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates;
Conscription did curse and abhor.
Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife
Where the roar of the guns rose and fell;
Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause
As he fought like a demon of hell.
They builded a shaft in the town of his birth
To the rascally skin and the beat
Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food,
A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat
Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war,
Contributed largely of speech
And words of advice to the youth thereabouts—
His pacifist face was a ‘screech’,
Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept
Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame;
No tablet recited the list of his deeds,
Nor blazoned the worth of his name.
He died as men do who answer the call
With boots on and pierced to the heart;
He died and those lived who, sneering at him,
Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart;
Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood,
Not unwilling a country to sell;
Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf—
The opal-eyed vampires of hell!
MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR
There’s a quaint and care-free tavern
In the heart of business life,
In the Quaker City’s centre,—
Where relaxation’s rife.
’Tis a melting pot and leveler
For the man who has a ‘bump’,
Or the one with trouble burdened
Like a dromedary’s hump.
One finds parry and riposte rare
Unto the nth degree,
And Barney Bright, the Irish wight,
Who orders “darks” for me.
Here Andrew Jackson Johnson,
Or MacDee, with savoir faire,
Smooths down the foolish talker
Who wildly pounds the air.
Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”—
MacDee, I mean—the two
Have often smoothed the ruffled path
For you and me and you.
Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel
Disports in ornate phrase,
And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’
Descants Bohemia’s ways
Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell,
Of famed blue-grass renown,
Exploits the perfect luxury
Of bourbon trickling down.
And so, ad infinitum,
From out the clouds of smoke,
Away from tribulation,
We laugh and jest and joke.
Now far as I have wandered,
At home, abroad, afar,
I’ve never seen the equal
Of Bill MacDee’s cigar.
Its shape just at the lighting
Is like Zeppelin’s air craft;
’Tis round and rolled so nicely
And pointed fore and aft;
It faithfully interprets,
In rising rings of smoke,
Each psychologic moment,
Each point and pass and poke.
Now when it’s smooth and rounded
Mac’s camping on the trail
Of something that’s been mooted,
And works his mental flail.
This cautious Scottish Quaker’s
“I see” means “I’ve a hunch”;
He’s sparring for an opening
Before he hands a punch,
But just before he counters
While listening to us “spar,”
You will never see the equal
Of good, old Mac’s cigar.
It’s whirled round like a cyclone;
It’s feathered like an owl;
It’s mussed up like a scrap can
Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.
It’s frayed and furred and serrate;
It’s toothed and torn and spurred;
It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged,
And this is what’s occurred;
Chaotic conversation
A figure needs, you know,
A metaphor or something
Interpreting its flow;
To visualize its looseness,
Its academic “punk”
From Literary Digests;
Its casuistic “bunk.”
And so when I’m relaxing,
And talking wild and far,
I catch my real reflection
In Bill MacDee’s cigar.
I trust that it may “fumer,”
Frayed, frazzled old cheroot,
For many years of joy for Mac,
With other things to boot.
And when I’ve run my gamut
And am “crossing of the bar,”
I hope to see a-glowing
The end of Mac’s cigar.
THE POOR MAN’S CLUB
The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place,
Neither fashionable, swift nor slow,
A kindly, rare, psychological spot,
As those who frequent it well know.
It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan
Which is sane and destructive to fear.
You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself,
And expand in democracy’s cheer.
Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse
For a rare metaphysical “bee.”
“Missourians” they, with a look which conveys:
“My friend, you will have to show me.”
No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust,
No skeptical look nor a sneer,
Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance,
Then “welcome here without fear.”
The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind;
I opine it dislikes the “know
It all” sort, the artistically weird,
Still more it detests the blow.
It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks
And the man who tries to droll.
It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad
As it would a plain damned fool.
In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri
Or a melting pot, you know,
For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all,
Or flotsam who just come and go.
Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place
For the man with mental bumps.
Its light and cheer are just the best boost
For the one who’s in the dumps.
Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch,
It smooths for the man who’s down,
And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick
Of a patronizing frown.
So if some night you are all out of sorts
And don’t know what to do,
Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club,
And let me present to you
First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope”
And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,”
Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,”
And then you can have your fill
Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up
And kindly repartee,
In the night you spend in parry and tierce
At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”
(Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).
JUMBO’S DREAM
“Listen, my children, and you shall here,”
Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,”
But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine,
Who measured standing say nine feet nine,—
His dream of the animals at the Zoo.
Of course you know them just as I do;
The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear,
Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care
To hear of what the animals planned
In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand
Scheme together down by the pond;
Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond—
A plan to learn the human way
Of learning and playing, et cetera.
A college they wanted with flags and cheers
Like Yale and Harvard—you know, my dears.
First, old Jumbo called for order there
By the old swan pond; he held the chair.
He looked them over with kindly eye
Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry
Proposed that they have a college grand—
Professors and such, and a college band,
With college colors; but first a yell
Like the college boys; for he knew full well
That a college cheer by the animals there
Would wonderful be beyond compare.
He straightway appointed of parrots five
To choose a cheer real loud and live
To start off their college so grand and fine
In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.
The parrot committee composed a cheer;
It went exactly like this, my dear:
“Hiss, squeal, roar,
Roar, roar, more,
Grunt, yell, chatter;
Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.”
They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time;
The parrots leading the cheering line;
A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise,
Fifty times worse than the college boys,
For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal;
The lion would roar till one could feel
The ground all tremble from noise he made
Like soldiers marching on dress parade;
The hyena let out such a mighty yell
That the leaves most off the branches fell;
The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter,
And all for college and alma mater.
“’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad—,
For the cheer was really “righty” bad.
He looked discouraged, with face awry,
While a tear appeared in each small eye;
He heaved a big sigh, then looking around—
Awakened all trembling upon the ground.
So ended his dream of a college fine,
With parrots leading the cheering line.
He looked at his keeper as if to say:
“I’ll never again eat a bale of hay;
For such overeating most always means
The most impossible kind of dreams.
Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack,
With the kiddies a-hanging on my back;
With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say,
On my big broad back the livelong day.”
THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”
Old Winchester borough, in thriftiness thorough,
Sits ninety miles back from the sea;
’Tis famed for its learning and all things concerning
Its people of high pedigree.
Now some are quite clever, some brainy, scarce ever
Are any thick-witted and “fat”;
None over-contented, yet mighty well vented;
Real satisfied, passe and pat.
The world all around may astound, not confound them;
“They’re there” in their insular way;
You may laughingly drool them; but trip them or fool them;
If you do they’ll admit it? Not they!
Its dames real exclusive, though slightly abusive,
Just deft subterranean digs.
You can’t analyze them (noblesse), nor despise them,
These quaint and bizarre periwigs.
Now once I remember, ’twas late in November,
A handsome young blade struck the town;
Distingué he was this bold rusher, this crusher;
He did up us rural swains brown;
His hair was so curly, complexion so pearly;
His eyes flashed a real soulful glow;
He’d ancestors famous and average and heinous,
Of the last though he spoke “sotto vo.”
By profession a drummer, this hummer, this stunner;
The mesdames and misses cast looks
Of wild admiration and praise, adulation,
As he glibly and smoothly talked books.
When he’d quote a good rhyme or distich, they opine;
Their souls all mesmerized, torn,
“That say what you will, he cast doubts willy-nilly,
Is sure to the real manner born.”
They smiled on and wined him and frequently dined him,
Which quite put a crimp in us beaux;
Who all became hectic, enraged, apoplectic,
As we found ourselves not comme il faut.
We planned and we wondered and craftily pondered
A plan of reprisal for quits,
Then we thought if we waited real patient, more sated,
We’d be than to throw fifty fits.
No haste and bad temper, not even a whimper;
We’d watch and we’d wait and we’d hope;
We’d give him good tether, the stuffer, the bluffer,
He’d hang himself high with the rope.
Now slow was the turning, and with envy burning,
We waited long weeks for his crown,
When early one morning we heard, without warning
He’d quickly and darkly left town.
A check ’twas that threw him, became his undoing
With Winchester’s creme de la creme.
There was weeping and wailing and very much railing;
“His likes just had never been seen.”
Now when tea-pots were boiling; the mesdames were spoiling
To square themselves—and not to squirm;
With demoiselles mustered round tea cups they blustered:
“I told you so,” each one in turn.
“I sensed he was nothin’,” said portly Miss Tuffin;
“I mistrusted,” said thin Aunty Gray.
“I somehow got thinkin’,” said Grandma a-blinkin’;
“He warn’t all he should be, that jay.”
“I had intuitions, like needles in cushions,”
Observed Ann, the good parson’s wife;
“Same as me,” yapped sour Fanny; “I knowed ye did, Annie;”
“Me too,” offered Miss Tilly Clife.
“I told you so,” each one to this one, to that one;
“I told you so,” chimed one and all.
They’d never admit he’d deceived them nor peeved them.
Nor out of them taken a fall.
We snubbed swains laughed loudly, yet held ourselves proudly;
We stood real aloof for a while.
Things must have an ending; so slowly unbending
We’d spar with a frown or a smile.
The entente came duly, if slowly, but truly,
And at last all were quite en rapport.
We dined well and wined well, and then all opined: “Well,
We’d forgive and forget the old score.”
* * *
Not Eve’s daughters only, but Adam’s sons lonely
Are hipped on their judgment of men;
They think they have got them, can size them or spot them,
But mostly they don’t. Dinna ken?
THE GANGSTER
“Hand me the dream book,” the gangster winked;
“Bring out the old harpoon—
I mean the dead list, the men I’ve pinked;
Bilged to the old time tune.
Listen, I’ll tell you the system’s sin;
Show you the way we do—
God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in—
Guess I’ll confess, I’m through.
Open the dead list, begin with ‘A,’
Andrews, the first one there;
Beat me. I got him; crossed him, say,
Tell me you’ll keep it, swear!
No? Well, to Hell then! I just plain lied;
Framed it his wife wasn’t true.
Killed him? I know it; he up and died;
Took a lead pill or two.
Turn to the ‘B’s’ now, old Doctor Blight,
Lord, how he caught us red,
Square as ye make ’em, but ‘black is white’
Or ‘white is black’ ’tis said;
Least that’s our creed; we painted up
Slip of his boyhood days;
Sensitive man, Blight, he hit the cup,
Took to the rum-dum’s ways.
Look at the ‘C’s’ next, Judge William Clate,
Straight as a ramrod, ‘Will;’
Gave us ‘the double.’ Decision straight?
Sure Mike. He paid the bill.
We stuffed the ballot late in the fall,
Presto! out went the Judge!
Most broke his heart, his friends and all.
Coolly we fed our grudge.
You say it’s rotten? Sure, lad, I know,
Yes, to the very core.
Built on the weakness of ‘So and So.’
‘Framing,’ ‘getting’ and more
Words that a man hates dyed in sin,
Lying as I do here;
‘Dictographs,’ ‘trumping’ and ‘listening in,’
‘Crafty,’ ‘foxy,’ ‘the queer,’
‘Blackmailing,’ ‘crossing,’ ’tis only such,
No other words I’ve known.
Good things in life I ain’t seen much;
What I have reaped I’ve sown.
Laughed at the dreamers, the fighters clean,
Men with no axe to grind;
Scoffed at the white ones and have seen
Others who’ve lost their mind.
Snuffed out the gentle; smeared with mud
Men with escutcheons fair;
Joshed at the learned and cursed blue-blood,
Sneered at their manners rare;
Called them the ‘stuffed suits,’ laid my plot
To safe and sure get mine.
Men call me ‘self-made.’ A self-made what?
Dough I’ve got and some fine
Diamonds a sparklin’, but just know
I ain’t so great; I’m small.
Money does talkin,’ they say, but Joe,
Money won’t do it all.
Boot-licked the Trust, then twisted, swirled
Up on the ‘reps’ I’d killed;
Slimed along playing the underworld;
Think of the blood I’ve spilled!
God bless the self mades, who’re manly ones,
Modest and generous, kind!
Damn such as me, a self-made bum,
Crafty, crooked and blind!
Money’s all right if you’re right, see?
Bad if you’re bad at heart.
Right with yourself is the way to be;
Don’t try to play too smart!
Here’s where you need help, when you’re all in,
Beaten down to a clod;
Showing your hand and squaring up
Yourself when you’re facing God.”
Dialect, obsolete and misspelled words were not
changed. Added an unprinted hyphen to “so-and-so.”
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