Rippling Rhymes | Page 8

about their biz as though they had the rheumatiz. And if
they do not heed the hunch that's given by the bleachers bunch, they
find, when next they start to play, that all the fans have stayed away.
The talking graft is all in vain, and loafers give the world a pain. The
fans who watch the game of life despise the sluggard in the strife.
They'll have but little use for you, who tell what you intend to do, and
hand out promises galore, but, somehow, never seem to score. No
matter what your stunt may be, in this the country of the free, you'll
find that loafing never pays; cut out the flossy grand stand plays; put in
your hardest licks and whacks, and get right down to Old Brass Tacks,
and, undismayed by bruise or fall, go right ahead--in short, play ball!

THE OLD SONGS
The modern airs are cheerful, melodious and sweet; we hear them sung
and whistled all day upon the street. Some lilting ragtime ditty that's
rollicking and gay will gain the public favor and hold it--for a day. But
when the day is ended, and we are tired and worn, and more than half
persuaded that man was made to mourn, how soothing then the music
our fathers used to know! The songs of sense and feeling, the songs of
long ago! The "Jungle Joe" effusions and kindred roundelays will do to
hum and whistle throughout our busy days; and in the garish limelight
the yodelers may yell, and Injun songs may flourish--and all is passing
well, but when to light the heavens the shining stars return, and in the
cottage windows the lights begin to burn, when parents and their
children are seated by the fire, remote from worldly clamor and all the
world's desire, when eyes are soft and shining, and hearths with love
aglow, how pleasant is the sinking of songs of long ago!

GUESSING VS. KNOWING
If I were selling nails or glass, or pills or shoes or garden sass, or honey
from the bee--whatever line of goods were mine, I'd study up that
special line and know its history.

If I a stock of rags should keep, I'd read up sundry books on sheep and
wool and how it grows. Beneath my old bald, freckled roof, I'd store
some facts on warp and woof and other things like those. I'd try to
know a spinning-jack from patent churn or wagon rack, a loom from
hog-tight fence; and if a man came in to buy, and asked some leading
question, I could answer with some sense.
If I were selling books, I'd know a Shakespeare from an Edgar Poe, a
Carlyle from a Pope; and I would know Fitzgerald's rhymes from Laura
Libbey's brand of crimes, or Lillian Russell's dope.
If I were selling shoes, I'd seize the fact that on gooseberry trees, good
leather doesn't grow; that shoe pegs do not grow like oats, that cowhide
doesn't come from goats--such things I'd surely know.
And if I were a grocer man. I'd open now and then a can to see what
stuff it held; 'twere better than to writhe in woe and make reply, "I
didn't know," when some mad patron yelled.
I hate to hear a merchant say: "I think that this is splendid hay," "I
guess it's first class tea." He ought to know how good things are, if he
would sell his silk or tar or other goods to me. Oh, knowledge is the
stuff that wins; the man without it soon begins to get his trade in kinks.
No matter where a fellow goes, he's valued for the things he knows, not
for the things he thinks.

WHEN WOMEN VOTE
"Jane Samantha," said the husband, as he donned his hat and coat, "I
would offer a suggestion ere you go to cast your vote. We have had a
bitter struggle through this strenuous campaign, and the issues are
important, and they stand out clear and plain. Colonel Whitehead
stands for progress--for the uplift that we need: he invites investigation
of his every word and deed. He's opposed to all the ringsters and to
graft of every kind; he's a man of spotless record, clean and pure in
heart and mind. His opponent, Major Bounder, stands for all that I

abhor; plunder, ring rule and corruption you will see him working for;
all the pluggers and the heelers stood by him in this campaign--so I ask
your vote for Whitehead and the uplift, dearest Jane."
"William Henry," said the housewife, "I am sorry to decline, but the
wife of Colonel Whitehead never was a friend of mine. Last July she
gave a party--you recall her Purple Tea?--and invited all the neighbors,
but she said