The Telegraph-courier. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1888-1946, 1903-07-23
HONEST ABE,
u. S. M.
The RuroI Mail Carrier Re-
IafeS a Case Of Poetry.
Copyright. 1903. BY G. B. Lewis

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20 EvERAL times Of late when 1
have had mail for Uncle Joe
White at the Red Bridge farm
/ noticed that he was looking
worried and out Of sorts, but asked
no questions and he volunteered no n
formation until tie other day. Then.
as drove up, he said to me:
ABE, I'm in heap Of trouble over
my son Dan, and want your advice"
'And what's the matter with DAM"
/ asked.
well, about four weeks ago he took
to poetry, and he's been actin like a
'tarnal fool ever since. can't get one
days work a week out o. him. He's at
that poetry from morning till night
and many a night he's up till midnight
He's got an idea that he's new Ten
nyson and that he's going to become a
great man. I've argued and coaxed and
threatened, but it don't do no good
Here's some Of the stuff he's writ
ten, and want you to read it and tell
me what you Think
The first poem handed up read as fol
lows:
She's false to me, the girl / loved;
My happiness she's shattered;
My heart viii never love again
Because my faith is scattered.
The second one read:
Talk not to me Of life and love-
Talk not Of roses red;
Talk not of buds and sunny skies,
But rather Of the dead.
'rHas he been in love and got the
throw down." I asked of Uncle Joe
mot as I know of. He jest seemed
to feel that way, you see. Here is one
that is different"
The one that was different read:
''To arms! To armsr' Sir Henry cried.
'[ro arms, my brave defenders!"
And each one buckled on his sword
And frightened his suspenders.
Thcn to the fray Sir Henry rode
A id to ne fray was follered,
AM every time he killed a man
Most gle fully he hollered.
II don't ,now a burned thing about
poetry" e.: 2lained Uncle Joe, ''but I
do know when a Teller is making a
fool O. himself. That's what Dan is
doing now, and wart to stop him. I'm
not going to board and lodge and clothe
him and let him sprawl around on the
grass and tinker poetry. He was eating
dinner the other day when he jumped
up to write this down:
1.-THE flowers of May are nothing to me-
And nought are the roses of June;
I would lay down and expire for the love
of Marian
And die in the full Of the moon.
'Abe, is Dan a fool or a poet?' asked
Uncle Joe as / finished reading the
above
"a little of both, think" / replied.
"WiII he ever git rich as a poet?"
II hardly think So"
"Then, durn his hide, he's got to quit
this nonsense and git into the cornfeld.
I want to do what's right by my chill
dren, Abe, but they've got to do what's
right by me-
Fright now, when Dan ought to be
hustling with a hoe, he's out under an
apple tree writing poetry with his
tongue hanging out and his eyes rolled
up. If you say so I'll go out there and
jump him two feet high and scare all
the poetry out Of him."
Il wouldn't be too sudden, Uncle
joe" I answered.
"How too suddenY"
"Well, I'd give him a little warning
a little poetic warning. After Pm gone
you might wander out that way and
carelessly say to Dan:
"a farmer named White he had a son.
And the son he was great poet,
And verses wrote he of meadow and lea,
And fast was the pace he did go it,"
eyes, Abe, and what else?' asked
Uncle Joe.
"Then you can sort O. walk around