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Read Ebook: Horse Sense in Verses Tense by Mason Walt
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Ebook has 130 lines and 39507 words, and 3 pages
At the Finish, 19. At the End, 53. After Us, 67. Ambitions, 77. Approach of Spring, 167. After Storm, 188.
Backbone, 28. Beautiful Things, 43. Bard in the Woods, The, 101. Be Joyful, 134. Brown October Ale, 136. Bystander, The, 154. Bleak Days, 180.
Clucking Hen, The, 1. Christmas Recipe, 11. Coming Day, The, 21. Clouds, 42. Cotter's Saturday Night, 50. "Charge It," 61. Croaker, The, 63. Choosing a Bride, 66. Christmas Musings, 79. Crooks, The, 115.
Doing Things Right, 32. Down and Out, 60. Difference, The, 94. Dolorous Way,
The, 119. Dreamers and Workers, 127. Deliver Us, 137. Doing One's Best, 138. Doughnuts, 165. Discontent, 173.
Fatigue, 4. Fortune Teller, The, 73. Fletcherism, 158. Father Time, 159. Field Perils, 160. Friend Bullsnake, 164.
Grandmother, 14. Great Game, The, 17. Generosity, 27. Garden of Dreams, 41. Gold Bricks, 74. Good and Evil, 135. Going to School, 146. Girl Graduate, The, 153. Good Die Young, The, 172. Givers, The, 181. Good Old Days, 182.
Home, Sweet Home, 8. Homeless, 47. Happy Home, The, 48. Harvest Hand, The, 70. Hospitality, 88. Hon. Croesus Explains, 89.
Iron Men, The, 34. In Old Age, 46. Immortal Santa, 96. In the Spring, 132. Idlers, The, 141. Idle Rich, The, 144.
Ill Wind, The, 166. Into the Sunlight, 179. Industry, 186.
Joy Cometh, 161.
Looking Forward, 120. Little While, A, 139. Literature, 142. Living Too Long, 162.
Milkman, The, 2. Man Wanted, The, 55. Mad World, A, 57. Ma?ana, 91. Men Behind, The, 98. Mr. Chucklehead, 130. Misrepresentation, 148. Man of Grief, 149. Melancholy Days, 150. Might Be Worse, 151. Moderately Good, 152. Medicine Hat, 156. Moving On, 176.
Night is Coming, 31. Nursing Grief, 143. Not Worth While, 147.
Old Maids, 10. Old Man, The, 12. Old Album, The, 109. On the Bridge, 129. Old Prayer, The, 178.
Poor Work, 9. Poorhouse, The, 30. Procrastination, 36. Punctuality, 58. Prodigal Son, The, 87. Polite Man, The, 122. Planting a Tree, 126. Passing the Hat, 145.
Rural Mail, The, 7. Right Side Up, 33. Regular Hours, 125. Rain, The, 184.
Spring Remedies, 5. Salting Them Down, 22. Success in Life, 24. Shut-In, The, 45. Some of the Poor, 69. Shoveling Coal, 93. Sticking to It, 105. Seeing the World, 121. Spring Sickness, 128. Studying Books, 169. Stranger than Fiction, 171. Silver Threads, 174. Something to Do, 185.
Tornado, The, 16. True Happiness, 26. Timbertoes, 37. Thankless Job, 38. Travelers, 44. Two Salesmen, The, 85. "Thanks," 107. Tramp, The, 117.
Undertaker, The, 39. Unhappy Home, The, 49. Unconquered, 123.
Vagabond, The, 20. Values, 103.
Winter Night, 13. What's the Use? 54. What I'd Do, 71. Way of a Man, The, 82. War and Peace, 112. Wet Weather, 187.
THE CLUCKING HEN
THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and round the yard she claws and picks, and toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden fence, and watch that hen of little sense, whose intellect is wrong. She is the most important hen that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the whole blamed universe would spoil, its institutions fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task; she might as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year; one incubator from the store would bring forth better chicks and more than fifty hens could rear. She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down to tacks and lay some eggs, which bring the valued bucks; but, in her vain perverted way, she says, "I'm derned if I will lay," and hands out foolish clucks. And many men are just the same; they play some idle, trifling game, and think they're sawing wood; they hate the work that's in demand, the jobs that count they cannot stand, and all their toil's no good.
THE MILKMAN
THE milkman goes his weary way before the rising of the sun; he earns a hundred bones a day, and often takes in less than one. While lucky people snore and drowse, and bask in dreams of rare delight, he takes a stool and milks his cows, about the middle of the night. If you have milked an old red cow, humped o'er a big six-gallon pail, and had her swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you'll know the milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. Through storm and flood and sun and rain, the milkman goes upon the jump, and all his customers complain, and make allusions to his pump. Because one milkman milks the creek, instead of milking spotted cows, against the whole brave tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet patiently they go their way, distributing their healthful juice, and what they do not get in pay, they have to take out in abuse.
FATIGUE
FROM day to day we sell our whey, our nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft we sigh, as hours drag by, "This sort of life is rotten! The dreary game is e'er the same, no respite or diversion; oh, how we long to join the throng on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet, along the street, more lucky folks are hiking, while we must stay and sell our hay--it's little to our liking!" Those going by perhaps will sigh, "This work we do is brutal; all day we hike along the pike, and all our work is futile. It would be sweet to leave the street and own a nice trade palace, and sell rolled oats to human goats, it would, so help me Alice!" All o'er this sphere the briny tear is shed by people weary, who'd like to quit their jobs and flit to other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who wear their yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we swear and sweat and fume and fret, and oft forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely fraught with happiness and glory; if you are sore the man next door can tell as sad a story.
SPRING REMEDIES
"THIS is the time," the doctors say, "when people need our bitters; the sunny, languid, vernal day is hard on human critters. They're always feeling tired and stale, their blood is thick and sluggish, and so they ought to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish." And, being told we're in a plight, we swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys acting right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down tea of sassafras, as ordered by the sawbones, and chewing predigested grass, we exercise our jawbones. We swallow pints of purple pills, and fool with costly drenches, to drive away imagined ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches. And if we'd only take the spade, and dig the fertile gumbo, the ghost of sickness would be laid, and we'd be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect health, that precious boon, we'd have refreshing glimpses, if we would toil each afternoon out where the jimpson jimpses. There's medicine in azure skies, and sunshine is a wonder; more cures are wrought by exercise than by all bottled thunder. So let's forsake the closed up room, and hoe weeds cockle-burrish, where elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries flourish.
THE RURAL MAIL
A FIERCE and bitter storm's abroad, it is a bleak midwinter day, and slowly o'er the frozen sod the postman's pony picks its way. The postman and his horse are cold, but fearlessly they face the gale; though storms increase a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their mail. The hours drag on, the lonely road grows rougher with each mile that's past, the weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the shrieking blast. But man and horse strive on the more; they never learned such word as fail; though tempests beat and torrents pour, the farmer folk must have their mail. At night the pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied postman does the same. Tomorrow brings the same old round, the same exhausting, thankless grind--the journey over frozen ground, the facing of the bitter wind. The postman does a hero's stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of all the storms he bears the brunt--the farmer folk must have their mail!
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