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THE VACANT LOT They're going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me; And Roger Jones, the janitor's boy, is mad as he can be. That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair, The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger's hair. 'Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see, And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me. We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall; We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all. But now they've ruined Roger's plans, they've dug up all the lot; With all the brick and mortar round, you'd never know the spot. They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart; No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke my heart. We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow; The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow. With rusty cans and broken glass, we'd planned a home so nice: But they dumped their brick and mortar in our little paradise. They dumped their brick and mortar 'mid the smoky lakes of lime, Yet we won't forget, 'twas Eden-Eden, once upon a time. Eden, where we dreamed supremely-rusty can and coffee pot; Eden, with the weeds and rubbish, in a vacant city lot. And now, we're simply waiting, oh, that janitor's boy and me, Until the janitor's boy grows up and finds himself quite free To just discover areas where builders never go, Where we may live forever in a little bungalow.
II years old.
2 No puppet master pulls the strings on high,
Portioning our parts, the tinsel and the paint:
Predestinates the sinner and the saint.
Slave of his entrails, struts across the scene:
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK.
From “The Three Sphinxes and Other Poems."
THE INCENDIARY SEX
Helen out of Helas came,
Cleopatra loathed a tame
From "Noah an' Jonah an' Cap'n John Smith," published by D. Appleton Company.
I cannot say, and I will not say
With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand,
And you-oh, you, who the wildest yearn
Think of him faring on, as dear
And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Mild and gentle, as he was brave,
To the simple things; where the violets grew
The touches of his hands have strayed
When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
And he pities as much as a man in pain
Think of him still as the
say; He is not dead he is just—away!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
From "Afterwhiles" by James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1887, 1914. (This poem, reprinted by the courteous consent of the Bobbs-Merrill Company, owners of the copyright, was read « the funeral in Washington of Calvin Coolidge, Jr.]
Oh, Riley, with your home folks you've won my heart entire;
They do not shame my shyness with any worldly show-
I met them and spoke them when I was but a boy,
For I was keen to take the road that led towards the Town,
There were the great folk, the powerful, the wise;
The Town's ways were strange ways, uncivil and unkind;
For pride I bide among them and make their ways my own;
House have I and wife have I and babes to bear my name;
A hunger, deep, unsatisfied, is urging me to roam-
The old home, the old scenes—I long for them in vain:
But sometimes, with your folks, I glimpse the olden glow,
“I will leave man to make the fateful guess,
From The Homiletic Review (New York).
WHEN THERE IS MUSIC
Whenever there is Music, it is you
Behind what thin and shadowy doors you wait
From The Century Magazine, July, 1924.
The pyramids; those domes and spires and towers;
LEE MITCHELL HODGES.
From The Villager, Katonah, N. Y.