MERELY DROPPED IN.
To big oil-wells a man may be a claimant,From the sand-rock take in enormous payment,Yet all he gets on earth is food and raiment.The good well is the humble beeWith honey on its wings;The dry-hole is the bumble-beeThat buzzes loud and stings.Oilmen who run in debt, despite their rapid talk,Not very often come out faster than a walk.Uneasy lies the face that wears a frown;No wonder, at the rate crude-oil goes down.“What are your favorite books?” the gushing damsel cried;“Bank-books and pocket-books,” the oilman quick replied.Idle gossip? Oh, no, that isn’t right,For gossip keeps on working day and night,Beating a flowing oil-well out of sight.The driller mutter’d, as he stagger’d with unsteady gait,“There is no evil mixture here, I took my whisky straight.”Of all uncertain kinds of bizAn oilman’s most uncertain is;To-day, perhaps, his anguish’d soulLaments because of a dry-hole;He tries again, and who can tellBut he may strike a flowing-well?Sound money? Yes indeed; no oilman has a doubtThe coin that jingles is the “soundest” money out.Who with himself is satisfiedWants little here below;He has a small excuse for pride,For if the third-sand once he triedHe might find a poor show.The fabric of the clothing may not wear a little bit,But the clothier’s fabrications will outlast Berea grit.“Pay as you go.” We will, for all the oilmen knowAll menmustpay the debt of nature as they go.The gusher and the dusterMay be on one town-plot,Angels and devils musterUpon the self-same lot,And sobs and smiles may clusterLike flies on one bald spot.Rare goodness and tough badnessMay come from the same shank,Twin-links of grief and gladnessBe issued by one bank,For tears of joy and sadnessStill flow from the same tank.“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” for trying juncturesMay some wildcatters fit;But then it is the rolling wheel that gathers punctures,Which makes the old saw nit.Be not a spouting well that keeps an endless flow;It isn’t always wise to tell all that you know,But all you tell be mighty sure it’s truly so.“Young Luckyboy made fifty-thousand plunksFrom one small can of crude,”The oilman said, while silence lay in chunks;“I pray don’t think me rude”—A list’ner spoke—“It strikes me you’re a manMust practice on the lyre.”The oilman smil’d: “His rich aunt used the canTo hurry up the fire!”He put the glycerine to thaw, the water was too hot,The stuff let go; it was the man, and not the well, was shot.“No!” said the oilman’s daughter, when young Dudelet sought her hand,“You may have lots of money, but you haven’t got the sand.”Why are proof-readers needed, those careless printers’ terrors?Because our first impressions are often full of errors.
To big oil-wells a man may be a claimant,From the sand-rock take in enormous payment,Yet all he gets on earth is food and raiment.The good well is the humble beeWith honey on its wings;The dry-hole is the bumble-beeThat buzzes loud and stings.Oilmen who run in debt, despite their rapid talk,Not very often come out faster than a walk.Uneasy lies the face that wears a frown;No wonder, at the rate crude-oil goes down.“What are your favorite books?” the gushing damsel cried;“Bank-books and pocket-books,” the oilman quick replied.Idle gossip? Oh, no, that isn’t right,For gossip keeps on working day and night,Beating a flowing oil-well out of sight.The driller mutter’d, as he stagger’d with unsteady gait,“There is no evil mixture here, I took my whisky straight.”Of all uncertain kinds of bizAn oilman’s most uncertain is;To-day, perhaps, his anguish’d soulLaments because of a dry-hole;He tries again, and who can tellBut he may strike a flowing-well?Sound money? Yes indeed; no oilman has a doubtThe coin that jingles is the “soundest” money out.Who with himself is satisfiedWants little here below;He has a small excuse for pride,For if the third-sand once he triedHe might find a poor show.The fabric of the clothing may not wear a little bit,But the clothier’s fabrications will outlast Berea grit.“Pay as you go.” We will, for all the oilmen knowAll menmustpay the debt of nature as they go.The gusher and the dusterMay be on one town-plot,Angels and devils musterUpon the self-same lot,And sobs and smiles may clusterLike flies on one bald spot.Rare goodness and tough badnessMay come from the same shank,Twin-links of grief and gladnessBe issued by one bank,For tears of joy and sadnessStill flow from the same tank.“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” for trying juncturesMay some wildcatters fit;But then it is the rolling wheel that gathers punctures,Which makes the old saw nit.Be not a spouting well that keeps an endless flow;It isn’t always wise to tell all that you know,But all you tell be mighty sure it’s truly so.“Young Luckyboy made fifty-thousand plunksFrom one small can of crude,”The oilman said, while silence lay in chunks;“I pray don’t think me rude”—A list’ner spoke—“It strikes me you’re a manMust practice on the lyre.”The oilman smil’d: “His rich aunt used the canTo hurry up the fire!”He put the glycerine to thaw, the water was too hot,The stuff let go; it was the man, and not the well, was shot.“No!” said the oilman’s daughter, when young Dudelet sought her hand,“You may have lots of money, but you haven’t got the sand.”Why are proof-readers needed, those careless printers’ terrors?Because our first impressions are often full of errors.
To big oil-wells a man may be a claimant,From the sand-rock take in enormous payment,Yet all he gets on earth is food and raiment.
To big oil-wells a man may be a claimant,
From the sand-rock take in enormous payment,
Yet all he gets on earth is food and raiment.
The good well is the humble beeWith honey on its wings;The dry-hole is the bumble-beeThat buzzes loud and stings.
The good well is the humble bee
With honey on its wings;
The dry-hole is the bumble-bee
That buzzes loud and stings.
Oilmen who run in debt, despite their rapid talk,Not very often come out faster than a walk.
Oilmen who run in debt, despite their rapid talk,
Not very often come out faster than a walk.
Uneasy lies the face that wears a frown;No wonder, at the rate crude-oil goes down.
Uneasy lies the face that wears a frown;
No wonder, at the rate crude-oil goes down.
“What are your favorite books?” the gushing damsel cried;“Bank-books and pocket-books,” the oilman quick replied.
“What are your favorite books?” the gushing damsel cried;
“Bank-books and pocket-books,” the oilman quick replied.
Idle gossip? Oh, no, that isn’t right,For gossip keeps on working day and night,Beating a flowing oil-well out of sight.
Idle gossip? Oh, no, that isn’t right,
For gossip keeps on working day and night,
Beating a flowing oil-well out of sight.
The driller mutter’d, as he stagger’d with unsteady gait,“There is no evil mixture here, I took my whisky straight.”
The driller mutter’d, as he stagger’d with unsteady gait,
“There is no evil mixture here, I took my whisky straight.”
Of all uncertain kinds of bizAn oilman’s most uncertain is;To-day, perhaps, his anguish’d soulLaments because of a dry-hole;He tries again, and who can tellBut he may strike a flowing-well?
Of all uncertain kinds of biz
An oilman’s most uncertain is;
To-day, perhaps, his anguish’d soul
Laments because of a dry-hole;
He tries again, and who can tell
But he may strike a flowing-well?
Sound money? Yes indeed; no oilman has a doubtThe coin that jingles is the “soundest” money out.
Sound money? Yes indeed; no oilman has a doubt
The coin that jingles is the “soundest” money out.
Who with himself is satisfiedWants little here below;He has a small excuse for pride,For if the third-sand once he triedHe might find a poor show.
Who with himself is satisfied
Wants little here below;
He has a small excuse for pride,
For if the third-sand once he tried
He might find a poor show.
The fabric of the clothing may not wear a little bit,But the clothier’s fabrications will outlast Berea grit.
The fabric of the clothing may not wear a little bit,
But the clothier’s fabrications will outlast Berea grit.
“Pay as you go.” We will, for all the oilmen knowAll menmustpay the debt of nature as they go.
“Pay as you go.” We will, for all the oilmen know
All menmustpay the debt of nature as they go.
The gusher and the dusterMay be on one town-plot,Angels and devils musterUpon the self-same lot,And sobs and smiles may clusterLike flies on one bald spot.Rare goodness and tough badnessMay come from the same shank,Twin-links of grief and gladnessBe issued by one bank,For tears of joy and sadnessStill flow from the same tank.
The gusher and the duster
May be on one town-plot,
Angels and devils muster
Upon the self-same lot,
And sobs and smiles may cluster
Like flies on one bald spot.
Rare goodness and tough badness
May come from the same shank,
Twin-links of grief and gladness
Be issued by one bank,
For tears of joy and sadness
Still flow from the same tank.
“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” for trying juncturesMay some wildcatters fit;But then it is the rolling wheel that gathers punctures,Which makes the old saw nit.
“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” for trying junctures
May some wildcatters fit;
But then it is the rolling wheel that gathers punctures,
Which makes the old saw nit.
Be not a spouting well that keeps an endless flow;It isn’t always wise to tell all that you know,But all you tell be mighty sure it’s truly so.
Be not a spouting well that keeps an endless flow;
It isn’t always wise to tell all that you know,
But all you tell be mighty sure it’s truly so.
“Young Luckyboy made fifty-thousand plunksFrom one small can of crude,”The oilman said, while silence lay in chunks;“I pray don’t think me rude”—A list’ner spoke—“It strikes me you’re a manMust practice on the lyre.”The oilman smil’d: “His rich aunt used the canTo hurry up the fire!”
“Young Luckyboy made fifty-thousand plunks
From one small can of crude,”
The oilman said, while silence lay in chunks;
“I pray don’t think me rude”—
A list’ner spoke—“It strikes me you’re a man
Must practice on the lyre.”
The oilman smil’d: “His rich aunt used the can
To hurry up the fire!”
He put the glycerine to thaw, the water was too hot,The stuff let go; it was the man, and not the well, was shot.
He put the glycerine to thaw, the water was too hot,
The stuff let go; it was the man, and not the well, was shot.
“No!” said the oilman’s daughter, when young Dudelet sought her hand,“You may have lots of money, but you haven’t got the sand.”
“No!” said the oilman’s daughter, when young Dudelet sought her hand,
“You may have lots of money, but you haven’t got the sand.”
Why are proof-readers needed, those careless printers’ terrors?Because our first impressions are often full of errors.
Why are proof-readers needed, those careless printers’ terrors?
Because our first impressions are often full of errors.
A CLUSTER OF PIONEER EDITORS.COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
A CLUSTER OF PIONEER EDITORS.
A CLUSTER OF PIONEER EDITORS.
A CLUSTER OF PIONEER EDITORS.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.W. H. LONGWELL.WARREN C. PLUMER.COL. J. T. HENRY.
COL. LEE M. MORTON.
W. H. LONGWELL.
WARREN C. PLUMER.
COL. J. T. HENRY.
WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.
WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.
WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.
WALTER R. JOHNS.MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.J. H. BOWMAN.
WALTER R. JOHNS.
MAJOR W. W. BLOSS.
J. H. BOWMAN.
L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
L. H. METCALFE.C. E. BISHOP.HENRY C. BLOSS.COL. M. N. ALLEN.
L. H. METCALFE.
C. E. BISHOP.
HENRY C. BLOSS.
COL. M. N. ALLEN.