  In the April issue Smokehouse Poetry fans will be treated to an old classic, “Absolution,” by Nesbit. “But the Priest’s duty bade him seek her out And say, ‘My child, why dost thou sit apart? Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt? Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart.’” * * * And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased The wild devotion that had filled the priest— And with full sunlight he sprang up—a man! * * * “Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see! Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling! This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee, Since for the right’s sake thou hast done this thing.” * * * * * * Night After NightNight after night the cards were fairly shuffled And fairly dealt, but still I got no hand. The morning came, but I with mind unruffled Did simply say, “I do not understand.” Life is a game of whist; from unseen sources The cards are shuffled and the hands are dealt. Vain are our efforts to control the forces Which though unseen are no less strongly felt. * * * The Kid’s Last FightUs two was pals, the Kid and me; ’Twould cut no ice if some gayzee, As tough as hell jumped either one, We’d both light in and hand him some. Both of a size, the Kid and me, We tipped the scales at thirty-three; And when we’d spar ’twas give and take, I wouldn’t slug for any stake. One day we worked out at the gym, Some swell guy hangin’ round called “Slim,” Watched us and got stuck on the Kid, Then signed him up, that’s what he did. This guy called “Slim” he owned a string Of lightweights, welters, everything; He took the Kid out on the road, And where they went none of us knowed. I guessed the Kid had changed his name, And fightin’ best ones in the game, I used to dream of him at night, No letters came—he couldn’t write. In just about two months or three I signed up with Bucktooth McGee, He got me matched with Denver Brown, I finished him in half a round. Next month I fought with Brooklyn Mike, As tough a boy who hit the pike; Then Frisco Jim and Battlin’ Ben, And knocked them all inside of ten. I took ’em all and won each bout, None of them birds could put me out; The sportin’ writers watched me slug, Then all the papers run my mug. “He’d rather fight than eat,” they said, “He’s got the punch, he’ll knock ’em dead.” There’s only one I hadn’t met, That guy they called “The Yorkshire Pet.” He’d cleaned ’em all around in France, No one in England stood a chance; And I was champ in U. S. A., And knocked ’em cuckoo every day. Now all McGee and me could think, Was how we’d like to cross the drink, And knock this bucko for a row, And grab a wagon load of dough. At last Mac got me matched all right, Five thousand smackers for the fight; Then me and him packed up our grip, And went to grab that championship. I done some trainin’ and the night Set for the battle, sure was right; The crowd was wild, for this here bout Was set to last till one was out. The mob went crazy when the Pet Came in, I’d never seen him yet; And then I climbed up through the ropes, All full of fight and full of hopes. The crowd gave me an awful yell, (’Twas even money at the bell) They stamped their feet and shook the place; The Pet turned ’round, I saw his face! My guts went sick, that’s what they did, For Holy Gee, it was the Kid! We just had time for one good shake, We meant it too, it wasn’t fake. Whang! went the bell, the fight was on. I clinched until the round was gone, A beggin’ that he’d let me take The fall for him—he wouldn’t fake. Hell, no, the Kid was on the square, And said we had to fight it fair, The crowd had bet their dough on us— We had to fight (the honest cuss). The referee was yellin’ “break,” The crowd was sore and howlin’ “fake,” They’d paid their dough to see a scrap, And so far we’d not hit a tap. The second round we both begin, I caught a fast one on my chin; And stood like I was in a doze, Until I got one on the nose. I started landin’ body blows, He hooked another on my nose, That riled my fightin’ blood like hell, And we was sluggin’ at the bell. The next round started, from the go, The millin’ we did wasn’t slow, I landed hard on him, and then, He took the count right up to ten. He took the limit on one knee, —A chance to get his wind you see; At ten he jumped up like a flash And on my jaw he hung a smash. I’m fightin’ too there, toe to toe, And hittin’ harder, blow for blow, I damn soon knowed he couldn’t stay, He rolled his eyes—you know the way. The way he staggered made me sick, I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!” The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,” They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take. That mob kept tellin’ me to land, And callin’ things I couldn’t stand; I stepped in close and smashed his chin, The Kid fell hard, he was all in. I carried him into his chair, And tried to bring him to for fair, I rubbed his wrists, done everything, —A doctor climbed into the ring. And I was scared as I could be, The Kid was starin’ and can’t see; The doctor turned and shook his head, I looked again—the Kid was dead! * * * Just because you own an Ingersoll watch is no indication you’re a horological expert. * * * The Rolling StoneThe reason I never can quit the road Is a reason that’s plain and clear; It’s because no matter where I may stop And whether it’s far or near, There is a place beyond the place I am Wherever I may be at, And then beyond is a place beyond, And the world beyond all that. And as long as a man has eyes to see And a brain that wants to know, I figure there are things he’s bound to miss If he doesn’t go on and go. For there’s always a place beyond that place I happen to hand my hat; And another place beyond that place And the world beyond all that. * * * “Did you hear the one about the mouse-trap?” “No.” “Well, it’s snappy.” * * * A fool and his honey are soon mated. * * * “I’m glad my affairs are rounded into good shape,” said the pretty young thing as she pulled on her stockings. * * * You Can’t TamperHeard about the classy new neckwear for trainmen? They say these railroad ties are quite the rage. * * * “Is she a very modest girl?” “Very—she won’t even look at the weather strip on the house!” * * * Slobbering Blues“Let me kiss those tears away!” he begged tenderly. She fell in his arms, and he was busy for the next few moments. And yet the tears flowed on. “Can nothing stop them?” he asked, breathlessly sad. “No,” she murmured; “it is hay fever, you know. But go on with the treatment.” * * * Encore Ha HaMr. Jones had recently become the father of twins. The minister stopped him in the street to congratulate him. “Well, Jones, I hear that the Lord has smiled on you,” he said. “Smiled on me!” repeated Jones. “He laughed out loud at me.” * * * A Colorado EggWhile a Denver physician was inspecting the insane hospital at Pueblo an inmate approached him and asked: “I beg your pardon, sir, but have you a piece of toast?” “No,” replied the doctor, in surprise, “but I can get a piece if you want it badly.” “Oh, I wish you would. I’m a poached egg and I want to sit down.” * * * Jockey thrown in first race at New Orleans: “Let Zybszko ride him.” * * * A Startling ExegesisAt a colored camp meeting in Louisiana the following sermon was delivered by a very black old darky, wearing huge spectacles: “Brethren and Sistren, de preachifying dis mawnin’ will be from de text on de 10 virgins. De bridegroom war a-coming and ’spectin’ dem 10 virgins to be ready wif dere lamps all trimmed and a-burnin’, but, lo, when he was come he done foun’ dat on’y five of dem virgins war ready; yessir, five was trimmed and five was ontrimmed; five was wise and five was onwise; five was ready and five was onready; five was male and five was female.”—Harper’s Magazine. * * * Must Be Dr. Cupid“I don’t like your heart action,” said the doctor, applying his stethoscope. “You’ve had some trouble with angina pectoris, haven’t you?” “You’re partly right, Doc,” answered the young man, sheepishly. “Only that ain’t her name.”—Pathfinder. * * * Roll ’Em Out KidWhen I was farmin’ in North Dakota I raised spuds an’ one day I went out to see how my spuds was comin’. The patch was right on a side hill. Well, sir, do you know that when I pulled up that vine two bushels of spuds rolled out of that hill before I could plug up the hole. * * * The Piping CostsThe colored minister had just concluded a powerful sermon on “Salvation is Free” and was announcing that a collection would be taken. Up jumped a brother in the back of the church. “If salvation is free,” he interrupted, “what’s the use paying for it? I’m going to give you nothing till I find out. Now—” “Patience, brother, patience,” said the parson. “I’ll illustrate. Suppose you were thirsty and came to a river. You could kneel right down and drink, couldn’t you? And it would cost you nothing, would it?” “Of course not. That’s just what I—” “That water would be free,” continued the parson. “But supposing you were to have that water piped to your house, you would have to pay, would you not?” “Yes, sir, but—” “Well, brother, salvation is free, but it is the having it piped to you that you got to pay for. Pass the hat, sexton.” It was rather quiet at the postoffice the other day and outside of the Whiz Bang mail our genial postmaster, Bud Nasset, sorted out only two letters. The first one was addressed to Deacon Miller from his son, reading as follows: “Dear Father—I am in jail. Son.” The Deacon’s answer was the other letter, “Dear Son—So am I. Father.” |
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