The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1907-01-23


Those verses, the chaste senti-
ment embodied in which have sunk
most deeply into the heart of the
American people. and which, in a
lustrous musical setting have
proved an inspiration and Joy to
the multitude, are stolen goods
It's successive appearances, with
the names of its various sponsors,
are as follows:
Eyron,
heavy clod
He sits, with feet upon the mante.-
piece
And sucks his pipe and seeks the
Land of Nod
Heartsick of work, ut ho1e he
Graves surcease.
The empires, Rome, Assyria, Car
thage, Greece
Are naught to him. He only cares
to see
His wife and Sister Anna toling DER
The wastub Dio mio! Let re lee
With heart-strings rent to some
Italian shore.
Where Love and Light prevail ard
washtubs rule no more.
Swinburnc.
Washing the clothes,
She washed and found them foul.
The sordid sock and kerchief cheek
by iowl.
Adown her arms the suds like sea-
foam ran,
While from the sullen wringer Sister
Ann
Evoked a strain like laughter heard
in hell
The Sire, a Caliban of visage s-,l.
With feet upon the msntal ali tie
day
Drowsed on, communing wi;a bis
pipe of clay.
All, what is left of life's colaur do
rose?-
Washing the clothes.
Longfc!iow.
When the warrior OF the nations,
Stained with blood, came back from
battle.
Scornfully their way they wended
To the lodge of old Noworkis.
There they threw their shirts Of
deerskin
To the squaw antique and hideous.
Weearily she took in washing,
So did Sister Anniehaha
tThis is French for soap and water).
Scornfully they saw the old nun
With his feet against the smoke no
Blowing clouds from out his smoHo-
pipe,
Frowning, ev'ryone departed
Saying "In that wretched wigwam
All must toll except Noworkis
He's a hardnut." said the pine
trees.
Hes loafer," said the water.
Walt Whitman.
Out of the heart OF me
Wells this song, the song Of the
toilers
Song of the careworn mother ever
the clothes in the washtub bond
ing.
The sight of her fills me with vast,
elemental sympathy
Also my Sister Anna, brought up to
laundry work,
Brought up to patient endurance. 70
yielding OF life like a martyr
Also my father, who works no.. brt
with soul incapable o? viriie
emotion,
Sits with his feet perched high, i'm
pertube, lost. wrapt, his clay
pipe luxuriously putting,
o my song, my plant! No saastipe
Is in it.
Whoever YOU are! what can Ger
you but ashes-no joy, no NJ Isic
Only a house poyerty-strckeA whore
all hands work but the Father,
Into the street I rush and shout il
the madness Of sorrow.
w. $. Gilbert.
II ever round our domicile YOU
chance to- be a-wandering
You'll probably find Mother in the
bitter throes of laundering
Along with Sister Anna she does up
the household lingery.
Not seeming to experience the faint
est sense of injury.
Meanwhile the Aged Person VINO
looks after us paternally
With feet upon the mantel sits and
puffs his clay Internally,
And since while others toll he puts
all thought of labor far aside.
Don't blame us if we mediate mild
attempt at parricide.
Out of all which has been gener-
ated the Great American Lyric,
naed illustriohs by
Lew Docl1stader.
Everybody works but father,
He sits at home all day,
Feet upon the mantel
Smoking his pipe of clay,
Mother she takes in washing,
So does Sister Ann.
Everybody works in our house
Blu. our old man.
Arthur G. Burgoyne.