THE PACIFIST

And Other Poems

HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON

BOSTON
THE GORHAM PRESS MCMXVIII

Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton

All Rights Reserved

MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.

TO

THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,

AND

WILLIAM MacFUNN BAIRD

THE PACIFIST

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!

“ADAM’S APPLE”

Said Eve to “hub” Adam:

“My dear, what’s the matter?

Your eyes are all bulging;

Your teeth all a chatter.

That lump in your throat, dear,

Speak, Adam!” she muttered.

“Ad” gasped for his breath,

And spluttered and spluttered,

Then breathed more at ease;

Congestion releasing

Its hold, he looked normal,

But frowns his face creasing,

He paused before speaking:

“Eve, list while I chatter;

I’ve most choked to death, see?

The cause of the matter

Was eating your apple,

Esophagus cloying,

That Forbidden Fruit

My life most destroying.”

*  *  *

Now if we’re believing

In stuff that’s prenatal,

We plain see the reason

Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal

Big lumps all a bulging,

Their cervicals craning,—

’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault,

Heredity’s (s) training,

That lump in their throats just

Keeps sticking and sticking.

“Adam’s Apple” Eve called it,

But Eve did the picking.

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.

BREAKING IN

I called on the editor,

A story in my grip.

I laid it down before him,

Then bethought me of some quip,

Some turn of conversation,

Some “jolly” or some speech,

A sesame or something

By which I’d surely reach

And pink him in the vitals

Of sympathy and such

Emotionals and interest,

And volunteered this much:

“I feel I have a FUTURE

In writing, don’t you see,

In enlightening the public

With prose and poetry!”

I waited a few minutes

Until the tale he’d read,

He looked at me acutely

With horoscopic dread.

“You feel you have a FUTURE

In writing, then,” he sneered.

“You’d better get a PAST, sir,”

Was all he volunteered.

(Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late
David Graham Phillips.)

LA REVE

The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams,

Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams,

Her delicate touch to soothe me the while,

Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.

*  *  *

I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems;

It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.

SOL

“Solomon, young, full of pep”—

I’m quoting one Burney C.

“With all the gay blades kept step

Gay Lothario he.

Solomon withered and old,

Filled to the brim with ennui,

Tired of the gay life and bold,

Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”

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).

RETROSPECT

She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,

And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”

There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,

And the savor of health as she passes you by.

Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,

And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.

I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,

The impress she made on me, the old bore,

As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,