QUERIES AND ANSWERS

[From The Rolling Stone, June 23, 1891 .]

Can you inform me where I can buy an interest in a newspaper of some kind? I have some money and would be glad to invest it in something of the sort, if some one would allow me to put in my capital against his experience. COLLEGE GRADUATE.

Telegraph us your address at once, day message. Keep telegraphing every ten minutes at our expense until we see you. Will start on first train after receiving your wire.

* * * *

Who was the author of the line, "Breathes there a man with soul so dead?" G. F.

This was written by a visitor to the State Saengerfest of 1892 while conversing with a member who had just eaten a large slice of limburger cheese.

* * * *

Where can I get the "Testimony of the Rocks"? GEOLOGIST.

See the reports of the campaign committees after the election in November.

* * * *

Please state what the seven wonders of the world are. I know five of them, I think, but can't find out the other two. SCHOLAR.

The Temple of Diana, at Lexington, Ky.; the Great Wall of China; Judge Von Rosenberg (the Colossus of Roads); the Hanging Gardens at Albany; a San Antonio Sunday school; Mrs. Frank Leslie, and the Populist party.

* * * *

What day did Christmas come on in the year 1847? CONSTANT READER

The 25th of December.

* * * *

What does an F. F. V. mean? IGNORANT.

What does he mean by what? If he takes you by the arm and tells you how much you are like a brother of his in Richmond, he means Feel For Your Vest, for he wants to borrow a five. If he holds his head high and don't speak to you on the street he means that he already owes you ten and is Following a Fresh Victim.

* * * *

Please decide a bet for us. My friend says that the sentence, "The negro bought the watermelon OF the farmer" is correct, and I say it should be "The negro bought the watermelon from the farmer." Which is correct? R.

Neither. It should read, "The negro stole the watermelon from the farmer."

* * * *

When do the Texas game laws go into effect? HUNTER.

When you sit down at the table.

* * * *

Do you know where I can trade a section of fine Panhandle land for a pair of pants with a good title? LAND AGENT.

We do not. You can't raise anything on land in that section. A man can always raise a dollar on a good pair of pants.

* * * *

Name in order the three best newspapers in Texas. ADVERTISER.

Well, the Galveston News runs about second, and the San Antonio Express third. Let us hear from you again.

* * * *

Has a married woman any rights in Texas? PROSPECTOR.

Hush, Mr. Prospector. Not quite so loud, if you please. Come up to the office some afternoon, and if everything seems quiet, come inside, and look at our eye, and our suspenders hanging on to one button, and feel the lump on the top of our head. Yes, she has some rights of her own, and everybody else's she can scoop in.

* * * *

Who was the author of the sayings, "A public office is a public trust," and "I would rather be right than President"?

Eli Perkins.

* * * *

Is the Lakeside Improvement Company making anything out of their own town tract on the lake? INQUISITIVE.

Yes, lots.

POEMS

[This and the other poems that follow have been found in files of The Rolling Stone, in the Houston Post's Postscripts and in manuscript. There are many others, but these few have been selected rather arbitrarily, to round out this collection. ]

THE PEWEE

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,

When the very wind on the breast of June

Lies settled, and hot white tracery

Of the shattered sunlight filters free.

Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;

On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard

Of the birds that be;

'Tis the lone Pewee.

Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched

In a single key, like a soul bewitched

To a mournful minstrelsy.

"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;

A sad, sweet minor threnody

That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove

Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;

And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird

Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred

By some lover's rhyme In a golden time,

And broke when the world turned false and cold;

And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold

In some fairy far-off clime.

And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;

And forever she cries with a strange unrest

For something lost, in the afternoon;

For something missed from the lavish June;

For the heart that died in the long ago;

For the livelong pain that pierceth so:

Thus the Pewee cries,

While the evening lies

Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,

Rapt, to the leaf and the bough rind the vine

Of some hopeless paradise.

"You can tell your paper," the great man said,

"I refused an interview.

I have nothing to say on the question, sir;

Nothing to say to you."

And then he talked till the sun went down

And the chickens went to roost;

And he seized the collar of the poor young man,

And never his hold he loosed.

And the sun went down and the moon came up,

And he talked till the dawn of day;

Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,

I have nothing whatever to say."

And down the reporter dropped to sleep

And flat on the floor he lay;

And the last he heard was the great man's words,

"I have nothing at all to say."

THE MURDERER

"I push my boat among the reeds;

I sit and stare about;

Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds

Put to a sullen rout.

I paddle under cypress trees;

All fearfully I peer

Through oozy channels when the breeze

Comes rustling at my ear.

"The long moss hangs perpetually;

Gray scalps of buried years;

Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,

And seem to gauge my fears;

I start to hear the eel swim by;

I shudder when the crane

Strikes at his prey;

I turn to fly,

At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird

I hear a tracking shout;

From every sodden leaf that's stirred

I see a face frown out;

My soul shakes when the water rat

Cowed by the blue snake flies;

Black knots from tree holes glimmer at

Me with accusive eyes.

"Through all the murky silence rings

A cry not born of earth;

An endless, deep, unechoing thing

That owns not human birth.

I see no colors in the sky

Save red, as blood is red;

I pray to God to still that cry

From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste

I shun as moles shun light,

And turn my prow to make all haste

To fly before the night.

A poisonous mound hid from the sun,

Where crabs hold revelry;

Where eels and fishes feed upon

The Thing that once was He.

"At night I steal along the shore;

Within my hut I creep;

But awful stars blink through the door,

To hold me from my sleep.

The river gurgles like his throat,

In little choking coves,

And loudly dins that phantom note

From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night:

I rage in greatest glee;

My fears all vanish with the light

Oh! splendid nights they be!

I see her weep; she calls his name;

He answers not, nor will;

My soul with joy is all aflame;

I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

"I count her teardrops as they fall;

I flout my daytime fears;

I mumble thanks to God for all

These gibes and happy jeers.

But, when the warning dawn awakes,

Begins my wandering;

With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,

A wasted, frightened thing."

TWO PORTRAITS

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,

Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;

Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,

As o'er the keno board boldly he plays. -That's Texas Bill.

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,

Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;

Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,

As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays. -That's Paderewski.

A CONTRIBUTION

There came unto ye editor

A poet, pale and wan,

And at the table sate him down,

A roll within his hand.

Ye editor accepted it,

And thanked his lucky fates;

Ye poet had to yield it up

To a king full on eights.

THE OLD FARM

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare

On the apple trees and the growing grass

Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;

With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass

Of the old farm I am dreaming,

And softly smiling, seeming

To see the bright sun beaming

Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,

And hauled the hay from the meadows low;

And walked the furrows behind the plows,

And chopped the cotton to make it grow

I'd much rather be here dreaming

And smiling, only seeming

To see the hot sun gleaming

Upon the old home farm.

VANITY

A Poet sang so wondrous sweet

That toiling thousands paused and listened long;

So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,

It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,

And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears;

Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,

And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears,

The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,

Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved;

And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears

And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

THE LULLABY BOY

The lullaby boy to the same old tune

Who abandons his drum and toys

For the purpose of dying in early June

Is the kind the public enjoys.

But, just for a change, please sing us a song,

Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,

And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,

And positively will not die.

CHANSON DE BOHEME

Lives of great men all remind us Rose is red and violet's blue; Johnny's got his gun behind us 'Cause the lamb loved Mary too .

--Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."

I'd rather write this, as bad as it is

Than be Will Shakespeare's shade;

I'd rather be known as an F. F. V.

Than in Mount Vernon laid.

I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy

Than to head Booth's old programme;

I'd rather be special for the New York World

Than to lie with Abraham.

For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan,

And a hundred things to choose;

There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing

That a real live man can use.

I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house

Than fill Napoleon's grave,

And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed

Than be Andre the brave.

I'd rather distribute a coat of red

On the town with a wad of dough

Just now, than to have my cognomen

Spelled "Michael Angelo."

For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand

When the good things pass around,

While the world's on tap has a better snap

Than a big man under ground.

HARD TO FORGET

I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,

And my heart is heavy and sad

As I think of the days that by have fled

Since I was a little lad.

There rises before me each spot I know

Of the old home in the dell,

The fields, and woods, and meadows below

That memory holds so well.

The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,

But what to us is its charm?

To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,

On our childhood's old home farm.

I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,

With your head bowed on your arm,

For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed

To plow on that darned old farm.

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