Evening star., 1925-04-21

graves so much, but 1t is always es-
sential in serious poetry.
Friend of mine, don't let 'em buff
falo you into being a whole herd of
cattle in this here camp meeting we
call Life. Hop to it and assert your
self. Read a few of these self-im-
provement books, especially that one
on How to Be Hero"
Don't let the clairvoyants ease your
pocketbook, and don't worry too much
about what you did or didn't do last
year. Hump yourself in the present.
You got a heart inside you, amt you,
and amt God upstairs?
Why, the lives of the cabinet mem
bers certainly remind us that we can
make our lives sublime, and, de-
parting, leave behind us various
brands of assorted footsteps in the oil
fields.
Think of it, friend-regular. man
size footprints, SO that some feiler
who is down and out, and just about
ready to apply to the Associated
Charities, giving them the once over,
can take heart again. "Lord!' he
will say. my feet amt that big, any
how"
Let us, then, crank up the old car,
with a carbureter guaranteed for any
old journey, throw in the clutch,
learn to crank her-and to wait.
X X 4 X
We come, now, to
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
The blacksmith of this one-horse
town is some Samson. He must
have been taking a physical culture
course, and soon he will advertise
himself as 1.-The worlds strongest
man." He sure is a hefty bird, all
of
are like iron.
Our old friend the smithy is not
listed in the books of the Credit Mems
Association, because this gaZabo pays
as he goes. You can see he Is that
kind O. gink by looking at him, with
his long, black hair sopped with hon
est sweat.
He blows his old bellows at all hours
and pounds away on his anvil with
that big sledge hammer, whang1ng
away like the sexton ringing the town
bell at sunset.
The kids coming home from school,
look in at him. They like to watch the
flaming forge and hear the whoosh-
whoosh of the bellows and try to eaten
the sparks that fly up as the chan
used to scatter from the threshing
floor in the old days before it was
called bran.
our ola lrlenQ InS bldchSIIllLl SOSS
TO church every Sunday, always
Johnny on the spot, sitting there
among his boys, listening to the
preacher and hearing his daughter 9
voice in the choir.
1t makes him happy to hear her
sing-he dreams that 1t is her mothers s
voice in Paradise. And as he sits
there he has to think of his wife, and
as he does it, listening to their daugh-
ter singing, he wipes a tear away with
the back of his rough hand.
So, toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, he
goes his way, a pretty decent chap,
after all. Every morning he starts
something and every evening he has
the satisfaction OF seeing it finished,
or on the way. This enables him to
sleep with good conscience.
Thanks, Mr.. Blacksmith You hand
out real lesson, something / demand
to end my poems with. The point is
simply this: At this forge of our lives
we have TO hammer out our fortunes,
shaping each deed and thought upon
this roaring anvil.
Spirit OF Longfellow. forgive me:
My heart nearly failed me when I
started those paragraphs about the
blacksmith in church.
Yet even in a jazz prose version the
reader will find a bit of your great
ness, just as the fox-trot maker was
unable to ruin Strauss great Blue
Danube" waltz when he turned it into
four-four time.
Fox-trotting Longfellow's lovely,
graceful poetical waltzes but makes
us all the more appreciative of them
in their original form.