Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AT SEVENTY-THREE, by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AT SEVENTY-THREE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Well, let us face things as they are
Last Line: For I am over seventy-three!
Subject(s): Aging; Family Life; Life; Mankind; Tears; Youth; Relatives; Human Race


Well, let us face things as they are
In this, the stage before the last;
I've studied much and traveled far
Within the years that form my past.
They are not many, though they pass
The somber limit of threescore,
But of the sand within my glass
There does not seem to be much more.

Is mankind better now or worse
Than threescore years or so ago?
Is all this fierce unrest a curse,
Or evolution sure and slow?
You think the world is better; you
Recite an optimistic creed,
Contrasting comforts old and new,
Especially in points of speed.

But tell me is true progress based
On motor cars and aeroplanes?
Can we be sure that so much haste
Improves the quality of brains?
There have been men whose deeds compare
Quite well with those our age has shown,
Who never motored through the air
And never used a telephone.

I do not urge that we return
To candles and to one-horse shays,
But certainly this age should learn
That life was lived in other days
More sanely, even though less fast,
With leisure for the spirit's need,
And that the world's immortal past
Was one of slow growth, not of speed.

'Tis true that with the lightning's aid
We now flash news around the earth,
But frequently, it must be said,
The net result has little worth.
Our marvels make for war, not peace;
One first-class man outweighs them all,
And Egypt, Palestine, and Greece,
Which made us what we are, were small.

Of course you think me slightly mad,
Although you call it "growing old."
Behind my back you say, "'Tis sad",
And maybe think I merely scold.
I do not claim that I am right,
And have my doubts if you'll agree;
But this is how the world to-night
Appears to me at seventy-three.

. . . . . . .

Commence with youth; that's near the start.
We all have children, more or less,
And everyone who has a heart
Is anxious for their happiness.
But tell me, -- entre nous, of course, --
Do these soft youngsters of to-day
Possess one half their parents' force,
And are they half as good as they?

I do not mean as they are now,
But as those parents were, when young.
You cannot have forgotten how
Their living from hard toil was wrung?
How Albert bravely worked his way
Through college, and how Rufus taught
A country school on scanty pay,
And how few luxuries they bought.

But Albert's boy has joined a club,
Although he's only just fifteen --
An ignorant, unmannered cub
Whose heaven is a limousine.
"He will not study," sighs his Pa;
But still he goes to matinees,
For he's the darling of his Ma.
And children's parties are the craze.

And Algy finds the Latin tongue
A little trying for his brain.
"He is not strong", "He is too young", --
You know the same old stale refrain.
To us our parents did not yearn
An easy, tempting path to show.
We had our lessons then to learn. . . .
But that was many years ago.

Yet some there are who claim to-day
That schoolrooms should be "wells of joy",
Where work should be disguised as play
And every book a kind of toy.
And if the pupils hate their task,
Why, let them roll upon the grass;
And bye and bye they'll come and ask
To work once more within the class.

Correct or punish them? Oh, fie!
Let every cherub fight and yell!
Suppose that one of them should cry
On being called from play to spell.
Not desks but rugs and sleeping cots
Must decorate our future schools,
Till teachers of our little tots
Are merely Montessori fools.

They should, too, study everything,
Not merely our old "rule of three";
They ought to march and dance and sing,
And gather plants for botany;
Eugenics, too, will soon be taught.
That boys and girls may glibly prate
Of antenuptial tests, which ought
To satisfy the watchful State.

The mistress, too, should keenly feel
That children are all "movies" now,
And that to help the public weal
They must be pushed on anyhow.
"Sit down and learn a thing by heart?"
Good heavens! that is not the style.
The teacher must the facts impart,
And keep things lively all the while.

And if the child grows restless and
(I've known it happen) thrusts a pin
Within the nearest leg at hand,
That is not now the youngster's sin.
We used to think so, but were wrong.
The teacher is at fault to-day.
She should have sung a comic song
And kept the little darling gay.

But what that "darling" really needs
Is some hard task that he must do;
No matter how he cries and pleads,
Make him begin, and work it through!
If not, then look to see a man
Who'll always seek a feathered nest,
Who'll shirk brave effort when he can,
And -- tried -- will never stand the test.

Do you get letters in your mail
From modern boys, and girls as well?
And do you ever really fail
To find that none of them can spell?
It seems disgraceful, but, you see,
Word-gulping is the latest fad.
The old syllabic spelling bee
Is painful to a growing lad.

Phonetic spelling is preferred
By Johnny, for it takes less time.
It bores him so to spell a word!
He can't distinguish "rhyme" from "rime."
Of course he joyfully profanes
The lettered past with "thru" for "through",
For what's the use of taking pains
When "any old short way" will do?

And often, though there should not be
Some misspelled words to criticize,
The writing looks as if a flea
Had taken inky exercise,
Careering o'er the page in jerks
That make one murmur in dismay,
"These characters are like the Turks!"
We wrote distinctly in our day.

"But what's the use of writing well?"
Our modern boys at once object;
"It's bad enough to learn to spell,
But writing's too much to expect.
My father dictates all his stuff.
He has a girl that 'beats the band.'
When I'm a man 'twill be enough
To typewrite or employ shorthand."

. . . . . . .

Though this is bad, still worse remains.
If spelling is beyond their reach,
And writing well is worth no pains,
They might at least improve their speech.
But hear the almost ceaseless flow
Of slang indulged in by the young!
We had, some sixty years ago,
More reverence for our mother tongue.

In saying this I do not blame
The class whose chances have been few.
I only wish to put to shame
The "high-browed" class whose blood is "blue" --
The so-called cultured graduate,
Who tells me, "Gee! it's up to you",
And says a "dandy" thing is "great",
Or cries: "Go chase yourself! Skiddoo!"

Such men betray true culture's cause
And smirch the college name they bear.
To speak pure English without flaws
Should be their first and greatest care.
Instead, they seem to think it smart
To use the cad's or cowboy's word.
Were they made "Bachelors of Art"
To use the language of the herd?

. . . . . . .

They say this is the "Children's Age";
Well, certainly it is not ours!
They hold the center of the stage;
To them are thrown bouquets of flowers.
In fact, to such absurd extremes,
Have zealots brought the "Children's Cult",
That frequently it really seems
Life has no place for the adult.

If we would throw away such fads
As "schoolroom joy" and "sex hygiene",
And teach precocious girls and lads
A little wholesome discipline;
If we required them to pay
Their sires and elders some respect,
And, first of all things, to obey,
Nor always do what they elect;

And could we make them recognize
Their flippancy and self-conceit
In thinking they are really wise,
While still so crudely incomplete, . . .
But what's the use of such a wish,
When parents as a rule display
Less firmness than a jellyfish,
And weakly let them have their way?

Do children sit at table where
You sometimes dine, and have you seen
Their parents stop the talk, to share
The "views" of Jack and Geraldine?
"Now, what is your opinion, Jack?"
And "How does that strike you, my child?"
It shows an elemental lack
Of common sense that drives me wild.

Why should a forward child be led
To make a bold or pert reply,
Applause for which will turn its head
And swell its youthful vanity?
The wretched guests are forced to smile
Through fear of giving grave offense;
But parents, don't forget, meanwhile
They all wish that you had more sense.

. . . . . . .

I do not think you will dispute
That gentle manners have declined.
Our children may be "awful cute",
But rarely can be called refined.
I do not claim they must be bright;
I do not want them to be prigs.
But I contend we have a right
To ask that they should not be pigs.

Are you offended by the name?
They may be later known as hogs,
If they should motor without shame
And run down helpless men and dogs.
Too often, in both small and great,
SELF is the only god in sight.
'Tis even thought effeminate
To show oneself halfway polite.

There was a time when men resigned
Their seats to ladies in a car;
At present, as if deaf and blind,
They sit immobile where they are.
I do not care to lay the blame
On business girl or suffragette;
I simply state the fact, and claim
That manners owe the past a debt.

But after all we must confess
One potent cause for this neglect
Is found to-day in woman's dress,
Whereby they forfeit men's respect;
When clothed in trifles light as air,
Our old esteem for them abates,
And, open to the public's stare,
Their modesty evaporates.

There was a time when mothers cared
To criticize their daughters' dress;
At present, even if they dared,
They'd meet with very poor success.
Should they pronounce a gown too low,
Their girls would pettishly reply:
"O mother, all the gowns are so;
If others wear them, why not I?"

And "Dad", who knows a thing or two,
Suppose he ventured to object,
And told them what they ought to do
To win a gentleman's respect?
What laughter, tears, or words of scorn
Would his perturbed spirit vex,
Till at his desk in town, next morn,
He made redress by . . . signing checks!

I know one "Dad" who has been crushed
Since taking Maudie to the ball;
"Is this my child?" he gasped; then blushed,
And asked if she were dressed at all!
Maud grew hysterical, of course;
But "Ma" and sister took her side,
So, just for peace, he feigned remorse,
And yielded, though still horrified.

"I used to dance in other days;"
He said to me quite recently,
"But now they have invented ways of doing it indecently.
I felt that night, now cold, now hot,
While watching, rooted to the rug,
The Tango and the Turkey-trot,
And worse than all, the Bunny-hug!

"When I got home, I fairly raved;
But they replied that Maud would get
No chance to marry if she braved
The customs of her social set.
I told them I would rather see
My girl a spinster through neglect,
Than have her lose her modesty,
And forfeit decent men's respect.

"But I was silenced, first by tears,
Then later by repeated snubs,
Till now, as in my former years,
I spend my evenings at the clubs.
But were I young, and met by chance
A pure, sweet girl who made a stand
Against immodest dress and dance,
I'd offer her my heart and hand!

What puzzles me is that our wives
Will take these silly creatures' part;
When they were younger, such fast lives
Would have repelled them from the start.
The truth is, we have got to thank
A lot of snobbishness for this;
To give their daughters social rank
They wink at gross vulgarities."

. . . . . . .

Of course our children's precious time
In reading is not often spent,
Save when appears that printed crime,
The weekly Colored Supplement!
Can language fittingly portray
The fate that those must surely meet
Who laugh inanely day by day
At that degrading, sorry sheet?

Look calmly at its senseless scenes,
Its loathsome slang, its vulgar art,
And then consider what it means
To sell that broadcast in the mart!
One stands aghast at its effect
On ideals, conduct, speech, and taste;
In fact, what good can one expect
From those whose minds thus run to waste?

For when they put such rubbish down,
Its blighting influence remains;
The deeds and language of the clown
Still feed like poison on their brains:
And when their tastes degenerate,
And wholesome reading proves a bore,
How tragic to recall, too late,
The wasted years that come no more.

We used to know the Bible well,
But do you think our children do?
I doubt if one of them could tell
Who Zaccheus was, or ever knew;
Quotations from the Sacred Books
And places in the Holy Land
Elicit from them vacant looks;
They hear, but do not understand.

The Bible all of us should read,
Whatever be our special views
On Adam or the Nicene creed;
That is a treasure none may lose;
Its noble style and truths sublime
We learned beside our mother's knee;
But modern mothers have no time
For such instruction: don't you see?

. . . . . . . .

No college graduate in our time
Would wait long, ere a place was found
By which to earn his bread and climb
Life's arduous ladder, round by round;
But ladders now have been called in;
Our youths would spurn them as a gift,
And tell you with an odious grin,
"To 'get there' we prefer the 'lift'!"

And as they're "lifted" to the floor
Where their old sires are toiling yet,
They frankly call all work a bore,
And deftly light a cigarette.
Why should they toil? The "pile" is there
And what can fathers better do
Than give their sons an ample share
Of what they earned so hard? "Skiddoo!"

You'd hardly think these gilded youth,
To "save a minute", would insist
On wearing (this is Gospel truth)
A bracelet watch upon the wrist!
In our day if a boy had worn
Upon his arm a thing like that,
We should have looked on him with scorn,
And jeered at him as "Sissy Cat."

"But 'tis convenient, don't you know?
Without it one is scarcely dressed;
And then it is so beastly slow
To take a watch out from your vest!"
But have you noticed, he who wears
A bracelet watch has time enough,
But never any business cares?
His father always has the "stuff"!

. . . . . . .

When we were young, in Goethe's phrase,
"On every height there lay repose";
No mobs of tourists in those days
At Christmas sought the Alpine snows;
But now Swiss mountains every year
In winter see Sport's devotees
Arrive in crowds from far and near
To skate, coast, curl, or glide on skis.

It hardly matters where one goes, --
To St. Moritz, or Engleberg,
To Grindelwald's or Murren's snows,
To Davos or Beatenberg, --
One finds in each a youthful throng
Careering down the icy hills,
On pleasure bent the whole day long!
But . . . who on earth pays all their bills?

Those princely caravanseries,
With music, splendor, wines and food,
Are not kept running just to please
The public for the public's good;
For fancy what must be the cost
Of keeping all those people warm,
When once the setting sun has crossed
The glaciers, or in case of storm!

I grant you, Sport is good for most!
It hardens limbs and clears the brain;
'Tis better far to skate or coast
Than walk the streets with gloves and cane!
My point is this, -- that youth has come
To think of little else than Sport;
A man may drink a glass of "Mumm",
Yet need not drink it by the quart!

We used to take two weeks from work,
In summer, to escape the heat;
Our duties we could never shirk,
Our daily tasks we had to meet;
But what work has this giddy crowd?
And how can they leave home? and why
Are girls, unchaperoned, allowed
To . . . well, I will not specify?

And those who are not used to heights,
Are in Algiers or Assouan,
Or dancing through the winter nights
In lovely Nice or Cap Martin,
Where luxury has been enshrined
As mistress of this modern age,
And serious life is left behind,
Like dust beneath an equipage.

Well, after all, it comes to this, --
The modern rich, abroad, at home,
All bear the seal of Sybaris,
And may invite the fate of Rome.
It is a story often told,
And never truer than to-day!
First virtue, then a lust for gold,
Then luxury, then swift decay!

All life, in fact, confirms the truth
That, in proportion to the ease
In which a fortune comes to youth,
The faster lapse its energies;
Yet how few parents now are seen
Who say: "First prove what you can do!
Though you perhaps will think me mean,
Till then no luxuries for you!"

"But why must they," their mother wails,
"First emulate their father's merit?
Each child, unless the business fails,
Will have a-plenty to inherit.
They look so well, too, in their yacht,
Or playing in the tennis court!
Don't blame them, Pa! I tell you what,
They simply beat the world at Sport!"

And yet, believe me, 'tis not wealth,
Nor skill at tennis, golf, or bowls,
Nor stylish dress, nor even health
Your children need, so much as . . . souls!
This chase of pleasure, craze for games,
And lavish life in motor cars
Will never give them noble aims,
Or turn their vision toward the stars.

What though they dance well, sing a song,
Or triumph on the golfing course?
Unless their characters are strong,
They lack life's best, -- its moral force; --
The splendid courage that makes MEN
Of firm resolve, yet temper sweet,
Who, falling, bravely rise again,
And never will accept defeat.

And that comes only through denial!
Indulgence weakens the mainspring;
A man, to be a man, needs trial;
An easy life is not the thing;
When every wish can be fulfilled,
The virile fiber withers fast,
And often is completely killed
Before the prime of life is past.

Don't think the wealth you leave behind,
However worthily disbursed,
Will breed the type of man you find
In those who worked to make it, first!
For only as one first has earned
His living, humble though it be,
Has he from true experience learned
The struggles of humanity.

Earth's toiling masses have been made
For ages partly satisfied
By being taught they'd be repaid
For this world's hardships when they died;
But now they have begun to doubt
If such a recompense exists,
And all the wealth these youngsters flout
Is daily making anarchists.

Such spendthrifts, therefore, would do well
To give their lives a different shape,
And from the present social hell
Devise some rational escape;
If not, they ride to meet a fall;
We may ourselves go free, . . . not they!
The writing gleams upon the wall;
'Twere well to spell it out to-day!

I see the conflict from afar
Between these young emasculates
And Demos, fierce for social war,
Already glowering at the gates;
'Tis hard to say what form 'twill take,
And harder still to know just when,
But on the day the storm does break,
The world will need, not boys, but men!

"But this," you'll say, "is too severe;
Our lovely children are not so."
Of course they're not; I meant, my dear,
Not ours, but . . . others whom we know!
You add, "These lines will do no good;"
But really, between you and me,
I never fancied that they would,
For I am over seventy-three!





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