Bismarck weekly tribune. [volume] (Bismarck, Dakota [N.D.]) 1884-1943, 1900-04-20
THRoBs FROM lie HEART.

AoOoA "a SAS & u1OAL dAu pei,
haps 40 cents less worth of poetry.
Maude's opening overture is as fol-
lows:
Oh soul of mine,
That seeks the stars
That leans across
The heavenly bars,
Oh heart of mine,
That throbs with pain,
Oh wilt thou, wilt thou
Smile again.
l think it wilt. If it doesn't wilt
after that it will be a horse on some
body. If it has been leaning over the
bar very long, as you say, it will be
apt to wilt quicker.
Maude comes to a full note rest for
four knots of pink ribbon and several
sheets OF cream paper, after this pre-
liminary twitter. Then she rolls her
literary eyes again this way:
Where art thou love,
Where art thou now,
Where is the pledge
The loving vow
Come back, come back,
Be just, repent,
Ere to the clouds
My soul has went. =.
I don't know where he is Maude.
Why do you ask me? Go to- the po-
lice station and send in the alarm.
You mustn't expect the people to act as
an intelligence Office or a private de-
tective agency for you. Maybe ne is
sitting on a jury. The pledge is
probably at the pawnbroker's. Look
in his pocket and see if you can find
the ticket. Your grammar is a little
on the bias, Maude. Subscribe for
McGuffey's first reader.
Here's where we get a dash of liter
airy tabasco. Maude says:
If I hadst thee,
I wouldst be glad,
I couldst not weigh
The joy l had.
Oh didst l feel
The love I crave,
I couldst arise
And quit the grave.
No you couldn't Maude. You must
have bought a misft poetic license
somewhere to make you think like
that. Gabriel wouldn't like it to hear
you talk that way either. You talk
like the advance agent of a resurrec-
ton. And your poem isn't true to
nature, either. This is the way it
would be, if you told the truth:
If l had you,
You wouldn't talk,
You'd simply go
And walk the chalk.
You think you'd be
The boss, but bark!
You bet I'd make
You toe the mark.
That's what you'd do, Maude. You'd
do just just like all other women. You
think if you had him your heart would
swell up like a frosted pumpkin, but
after you got him, the first time you
smelled cloves on his breath you'd put
on your golf cape and your turban and
go home to Mamma. You think the
house would be full of sweet flowers
and Cupids but it wouldn't. It would
be full of dirty dishes and soft mud,
and there would be prune juice on the
~tablecloth. There's no use trying to
salve I've the realities Of married life
with poetry that has bunions on it's
feet.
Just another selection of Maude's
and | am done. She says:
why art thou chill,
Why are thou cold,
Oh, is thy feelings,
Growing old.
Why art thou cold,
Why art thou chill,
Oh, know that still
l love thee, Bill!
Now don't be frightened, Maude. A
little quinine and a hot water
bag will bring him out all right. He
isn't seriously i'll. Maybe he's got
a cold Goldfish ball wedged in his py-
lorus and his furnace won't draw.
Perhaps the damper don't work. May
be he went out to meet a draft and
got a chill coughing up the cold cash.
but he'll come out all right, Maude.
| see his name is Bill. Maybe he
hasn't been paid this month or some
thing. This is frequently the case.
The rest of Maude's poems are in cold
storage for the summer. We may be
able to use some Of them when the
melancholy days come again.