Cobwebs from a Library Corner

Of which the critics of the time in hackneyed phrases state,
‘The work has certain value, but the int’rest often flags!’

“The same is true of railway shares, ’tis safer to invest
In ploughshares, so it seems to me, in this unhappy time.
Some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test;
He’s happier by far than I who’s but a single dime.

“He does not lie awake at night and fret and fume, to think
Of bank officials on a spree with what he’s toiled to get.
He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drink
By wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet.

“He does not pick the paper up in terror every night
To see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. is down;
It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying fright
To hear the Wall Street rumors that are flying ’bout the town.

“Ah, better had I ta’en that cash that I have skimped to save,
And spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day!
I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave,
By wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for aye.

“I’d not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old,
These golden shackles must be burst; I must again be free.
What Ho without! My ducats – to the winds with all my gold,
That I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty.”

THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST

It was an ancient populist,
His beard was long and gray,
And punctuated by his fist,
He had his little say:
“This is the age of gold,” he said,
“’Tis gold for butter, gold for bread,
Gold for bonds and gold for fun;
Gold for all things ’neath the sun.”
Then with a smile
He shook his head.
“Just wait awhile,”
He slyly said.
“When we get in and run the State
We’ll tackle gold, we’ll legislate.
We’ll pass an act
And make a fact
By which these gold-bugs will be whacked
Till they’re as cold
As is their gold.
We’re going to make a statute law by which ’twill be decreed
That standards are abolished, for a standard favors greed.
This is the country of the free, and free this land shall be
As soon as we the ‘people’ have our opportunity,
And he who has to pay a bill
Can pay in whate’er suits his will.
The tailor? Let him take his coats
And pay his notes;
Or if perchance
He’s long on pants,
Let trousers be
His £. s. d.
The baker! Let his landlord take
His rent in cake,
Or anything the man can bake.
And if a plumber wants a crumb,
He may unto the baker come
And plumb.
A joker needing hats or cloaks
Can go and pay for them with jokes,
And so on: what a fellow’s got
Shall pay for things that he has not.
If beggars’ rags were cash, you’d see
No longer any beggary;
In short, there’d be no poverty.”
“A splendid scheme,” quoth I; “but stay!
What of the nation’s credit, pray?”
“Ha-ha! ho-ho!” he loudly roared.
“We’ll leave that problem to the Lord.
And if He fails to keep us straight
Once more we’ll have to legislate,
And so create,
Confounding greed,
As much of credit as we need.”

ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT

I knew a man who died in days of yore,
To whom no monument is like to rise;
And yet there never lived a mortal more
Deserving of a shaft to pierce the skies.

His chiefest wish strong friendships was to make;
He cared but little for this poor world’s pelf;
He shared his joys with every one who’d take,
And kept his sorrows strictly to himself.

IN FEBRUARY DAYS

Fair Nature, like the mother of a wayward child
Who needs must chide the offspring of her heart,