The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1898-12-12
Sam walter Foss's Poems.

Sam Walter FOSS, poet, is known TO most
readers of current magazines and news
papers, his name Che should by the way,
drop the Sam or spell it ''SamuelO hav-
ing become familiar through his quaint bits
of bucolc philosophy, SO genially put, but in
a new volume, Songs of War and Peace,
he aspires to a better fame and bids fair to
reach it. Several of these verses are so
virile and rugged that the reader, follow
ing UP the next page and finding some OF
the characteristic humor of the man, is sur
prised at his marked versatility. Much OF
the matter offered i'm this volume has APP
peared before in the New York Sun, Puck.
Frank Leslies and other publications. Mr..
FoSS gives real touch to old-taSh1oned
things does not caricature them, but draws
out good, honest smile over the homely
vanity or weaknesses of those phases or
life which seem to delight him The Ruse
Of John p. Jock" the Shagbark county
bard who could not get his pieces in the
county Clarion. except by practicing deceit
on the editor, who was "a ignorant, UNI
educated goat" is a delightful sketch in
verse. The poet sent in anonymous postal
cards calling for various transcendent
pieces of verse, none of which, of course,
could be supplied except by John r. Jock.
The last card from "A Subscriber" read:
"Cut down your editorials and publish more
of Jock" and after that Mr.. Jock did not
have to crawl,
"A poor, unreco nized galoot to all eternity"
Mr.. Foss believes the poet who carries the
greatest message is the one who under
stands man. In his introduction he ex-
claims:
.'What is art what is art and the artists
achievement.
It's purpose and plan?
IT'S the message that $ sent from the nearC
of the artist
To the heart Of man..
."rhe Pedigree of the Dollars tells of the
ten good one-dOllar bills which lay within
good mans wallet. He was so good he re-
solved not to spend a single Dill TIL ne
traced the pedigree of each and found that
ii bore no stain of wrong or III. He found
each dollar had been dishonesty or sinfully
earned at one time, and So having no more
money. he starved to death with the ten
bills still in his possession. The moral or
which, as Mr.. FoSs puts it,
Ten good one-d olar bills that day
Within that dead mans wallet lay;
They'd never found a man, all me!
Who'd used them half as Ill as he
Mr. Foss has no fancy for the verse so
common nowadays which is silly sootn
and dallies with the innocence of love-, but
he has a deep sentiment for trees ana ma
ture, although he displays 1t sparingly in
this collection of his POEMS Says he:
"Who loves a tree, he loves the life that
springs in star and clod;
He loves the love that gilds the clouds ana
greens the April sod;
He loves the Wide Benehcence. His soul
takes nold on God
"GrassvaIes Great Man." in whom q
father takes proud and boastful interest, IS
soothing to the reader who believes every
body in the world IS clalnoflnS 10 De I0reSi-
dent of the United States or a Jay Gould,
and that these conflicting ambitions are
sending the broad land to the demnition
bow-wows, for Grassvales great man mere
w went to town and became q policeman
but. as his father says
HE waves his hand-the teams go on-he
lifts it, an they stop;
To think humble boy like Bill should climb
so near the top!
There is a very funny sally at "The Art
Critic" who asked by the farmer
| What is art? The girls had been taking
| i'm everything the critic had to say about
''skulpin' marble images, but were COM
| pletey floored by his interrogation, who con-
| cluded:
- faint pie, nor puddin', nor corn'-beef,
Nor nuthin' fit to eat,
An he caved i'm an owned right up
'TWarn't nothin' fit to eat.
Mr.. Foss has some Dewey poems which,
| of course leave a taste too much like fresh
| wine Perhaps they will age all right
War" the first poem in the volume.
| yelopment of Mr.. FosS's muse. 1t has a
martial, almost awful, ring to 1T. One
| stanZa goes thus
Pagan. heather and inhuman, devilish as
the heart of hell,
| Wild as chaos. strong for ruin, clothed IN
hate unspeakable-
| So they call me-and care not-still work
my waste afar.
Needing not your weeping mothers ana your
Widows am War;
But your soft-boned men grow heroes when
my flaming eyes they see,
| And ! teach your little peoples how SUI
premely great they be;
| Yea, | tell them of the Wilderness OF the
souls unfolded plan,
And the godlike stuff that's nodded in the
making of a man.
Lee & Sheppard, Boston, are publishers
of this volume.