With Trotwood

(After Rudyard Kipling, for Trotwood’s Monthly.)

(A yellow editor has complained to the governor of Minnesota that the warden of the Stillwater penitentiary has refused to allow one of his convicts to subscribe for a certain saffron journal.—News Item.)

Now Tomlinson once robbed a man in Berkeley Square,And a copper caught him in the act and nabbed him then and there.The copper grabbed him by the neck and hurried him away.In a blue patrol that was right outside, he rode through shadows grayTo a gloomy place in the darksome town where the blatant noises cease,And they came to a gate within a wall where the jailer has the keys.“Stand up, stand up, now Tomlinson, and answer loud and high.Your name and age, and all of that and ye need not ask me why.”The morning dawned and before the judge to trial came Tomlinson,He sentenced him to the gloomy “Pen,” and a year he got—just one,And the judge’s voice resounding loud to him seemed like a knellOr ever they took the man away to lock him in his cell.Then Tomlinson looked up and down and sought for things to read:“A yellow journal is my meat, yea, that is what I need,And I will crawl upon my knees and ask the jailer manIf he will only bring to me a sheet of the hue of tan.”But the jailer held his hands aloft and swore by heaven highThat no such evil thing should come that penitentiary nigh;“For by my troth,” the jailer cried, “ye are a devilish mess,But ye dare not steep your guilty soul in the filth of the saffron press.”Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in the penitentiary there,And a spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair—The spirit gripped him by the hair and sun by sun they fellTill they came to the belt of wicked stars that rim the mouth of hell.The devil sat behind the bars where the desperate legions drew,And spied the hasting Tomlinson and gladly let him through:“Sit down, sit down, upon the slag and yammer loud and high,And tell me what you did, my man, or ever ye came to die.”“I spent my time on earth, my lord, in reading the yellow press.”Thus Tomlinson let out his voice and shouted in distress.Then the devil gripped him by the hair, and redder grew his face:“If that be true, ye dare not spend one minute in this place;Wot ye the price of good pit coal that I must pay?” asked he,“That ye rank yourself so fit for hell and ask no leave of me?Go back to earth with lip unsealed—go back with an open eye,And carry my word to the sons of men, or ever ye come to die,That the readers of the yellow press on earth may bide and dwell.But we do not want them down below to corrupt the hordes of hell.”—Will Reed Dunroy.

Now Tomlinson once robbed a man in Berkeley Square,

And a copper caught him in the act and nabbed him then and there.

The copper grabbed him by the neck and hurried him away.

In a blue patrol that was right outside, he rode through shadows gray

To a gloomy place in the darksome town where the blatant noises cease,

And they came to a gate within a wall where the jailer has the keys.

“Stand up, stand up, now Tomlinson, and answer loud and high.

Your name and age, and all of that and ye need not ask me why.”

The morning dawned and before the judge to trial came Tomlinson,

He sentenced him to the gloomy “Pen,” and a year he got—just one,

And the judge’s voice resounding loud to him seemed like a knell

Or ever they took the man away to lock him in his cell.

Then Tomlinson looked up and down and sought for things to read:

“A yellow journal is my meat, yea, that is what I need,

And I will crawl upon my knees and ask the jailer man

If he will only bring to me a sheet of the hue of tan.”

But the jailer held his hands aloft and swore by heaven high

That no such evil thing should come that penitentiary nigh;

“For by my troth,” the jailer cried, “ye are a devilish mess,

But ye dare not steep your guilty soul in the filth of the saffron press.”

Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in the penitentiary there,

And a spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair—

The spirit gripped him by the hair and sun by sun they fell

Till they came to the belt of wicked stars that rim the mouth of hell.

The devil sat behind the bars where the desperate legions drew,

And spied the hasting Tomlinson and gladly let him through:

“Sit down, sit down, upon the slag and yammer loud and high,

And tell me what you did, my man, or ever ye came to die.”

“I spent my time on earth, my lord, in reading the yellow press.”

Thus Tomlinson let out his voice and shouted in distress.

Then the devil gripped him by the hair, and redder grew his face:

“If that be true, ye dare not spend one minute in this place;

Wot ye the price of good pit coal that I must pay?” asked he,

“That ye rank yourself so fit for hell and ask no leave of me?

Go back to earth with lip unsealed—go back with an open eye,

And carry my word to the sons of men, or ever ye come to die,

That the readers of the yellow press on earth may bide and dwell.

But we do not want them down below to corrupt the hordes of hell.”

—Will Reed Dunroy.

Here is a letter from a young man in Wisconsin, one whom I have never met except in that way in which kindred spirits so often meet—by mail. Stricken ere his manhood had scarcely begun, blind, he has never given up, and is making a living and doing good to all around him—one of the best and most useful citizens of his town.

Trotwood believes in this whole country, North and South. He does not believe that either section has all the good or all the bad, but that in both there is far more good than evil and that theonly reason why people do not like each other is because they do not know each other. Transportation, the cable, the telegraph, wireless telegraphy and the telephone have changed the face of the world and corralled mankind with wires of steel. Japan is nearer Washington to-day than Boston was fifty years ago. You have more neighbors in Europe than your grandfather had in the county adjoining him. I am publishing this letter hoping my blind friend may find the kind surgeon, and also to show the spirit of our reunited country for which my pen has always and will ever work to cement:

Merrill, Wis., June 30, 1905.Dear Trotwood: Rather tardy in thanking you for taking the trouble of sending me “Songs and Stories of Tennessee,” but my wife and daughter have been away on a visit and though it’s vacation, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to press my sister into service. We all enjoyed the stories very much, and are looking forward eagerly to the time when your new book will be out.I’ve been wanting to tell you of my father’s experience during the Civil War, to see what you think of it, and to see if you have any idea who the surgeon could have been and to show you another family in the North with the kindliest of feelings for the people of the South.July 1, ’63, at about 2 o’clock p.m., a Confederate bullet laid my father low at the Battle of Gettysburg. The ball passed through and killed the man directly in front of him, entering father below the heart, the wound being very similar to that of President Garfield. He still carries the lead. He lay the afternoon until along in the evening the Union line having retreated, and firing ceased. About this time Gen. Lee and his staff came on the field. The general, seeing father was alive, asked what troops he had fought and how boys happened to get commissions in the Northern Army. Father answered, “They fought and earned them.” As the party passed on, the surgeon returned, eased father’s position, gave him a drink of liquor and said he would see him later. He came again at about nine o’clock that night, twice the next day and late the afternoon of July 2 he had two Confederate soldiers prepare a litter and carry father to a farm house where, being the most dangerously wounded, he was given the only mattress in the house. Father calls him his “Good Samaritan.” During his time on the field his hat cord was stolen and he gave all the money he had, twenty dollars, ten each to two Union soldiers to get him off the field or get him something to drink. They never returned. During the night a Confederate soldier gave him a drink of milk for which he had spent his last cent. This is in brief, but explicit enough to show that though father was struck down by a Confederate bullet he nevertheless owes his life to men of that army. When the Confederate line retreated, father was taken to the hospital in the city and was never able to learn the name of his “Good Samaritan.” How his wound did not heal for two years, how Dr. Bliss treated him and how an abscess formed in his back which also took a long time to heal is probably but a repetition of many such incidents of which you’ve already heard.For fear you’ll grow weary, I’ll desist.Yours very truly,H. R. BRUCE.

Merrill, Wis., June 30, 1905.

Dear Trotwood: Rather tardy in thanking you for taking the trouble of sending me “Songs and Stories of Tennessee,” but my wife and daughter have been away on a visit and though it’s vacation, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to press my sister into service. We all enjoyed the stories very much, and are looking forward eagerly to the time when your new book will be out.

I’ve been wanting to tell you of my father’s experience during the Civil War, to see what you think of it, and to see if you have any idea who the surgeon could have been and to show you another family in the North with the kindliest of feelings for the people of the South.

July 1, ’63, at about 2 o’clock p.m., a Confederate bullet laid my father low at the Battle of Gettysburg. The ball passed through and killed the man directly in front of him, entering father below the heart, the wound being very similar to that of President Garfield. He still carries the lead. He lay the afternoon until along in the evening the Union line having retreated, and firing ceased. About this time Gen. Lee and his staff came on the field. The general, seeing father was alive, asked what troops he had fought and how boys happened to get commissions in the Northern Army. Father answered, “They fought and earned them.” As the party passed on, the surgeon returned, eased father’s position, gave him a drink of liquor and said he would see him later. He came again at about nine o’clock that night, twice the next day and late the afternoon of July 2 he had two Confederate soldiers prepare a litter and carry father to a farm house where, being the most dangerously wounded, he was given the only mattress in the house. Father calls him his “Good Samaritan.” During his time on the field his hat cord was stolen and he gave all the money he had, twenty dollars, ten each to two Union soldiers to get him off the field or get him something to drink. They never returned. During the night a Confederate soldier gave him a drink of milk for which he had spent his last cent. This is in brief, but explicit enough to show that though father was struck down by a Confederate bullet he nevertheless owes his life to men of that army. When the Confederate line retreated, father was taken to the hospital in the city and was never able to learn the name of his “Good Samaritan.” How his wound did not heal for two years, how Dr. Bliss treated him and how an abscess formed in his back which also took a long time to heal is probably but a repetition of many such incidents of which you’ve already heard.

For fear you’ll grow weary, I’ll desist.

Yours very truly,

H. R. BRUCE.

It is time that the flamboyant and flowery, the unreal, was cut out of our oratory and literature. Kill it. Talk straight, think straight, live straight. The flamboyant, the flowery is the product of slavery, of idleness, of high living and no thinking. It is a relic of the past, of feudalism, a mixture of chivalry and unclear thinking. The great poet, the great writer, the great orator is he who talks the greatest good sense. Anything else is the badge of mediocrity. The tendency of everything these strenuous days, from literature to life insurance, is expressed in the phrase: “Get there.” How amusing the efforts of a Tennessee statesman in a recent great occasion, majestically sweeping the heavens with his hands and solemnly proclaiming that “Tennessee had set more stars in the galaxy of glory than all the other States.” Bosh! Tennesseehas as many fools to the acre as any other State, and what she should do just now is to set more hens and fewer stars!

People who live with nature soon learn a great deal. The best way to study nature is to get in harmony with the laws of nature. The best advice ever given on longevity was from the cheerful old gentleman who said: “To live long, live naturally, eat what you want and walk on the sunny side of the street.” Children think that some great man made up the horrid rules of grammar, and then all the world learned them and went to talking. They do not know that the world talked first and the rules of grammar were deduced from the talking. From the facts of life we draw our rules.

And Nature is the Great Fact.

I was thinking of one of her facts the other day—she has so many thousands—but I noticed it is a fact that the man who works the soil is a natural-born optimist. Let the farmer fail year after year and he still plants, hoping. Let the merchant fail one year and he is badly shaken—one more—another, maybe—and he is done. That is the Fact. Now for the rule: God intended man to love, to cultivate, to cling to the soil. In other words, is not farming man’s natural vocation, since neither drought nor flood nor failure can shut out from his heart that instinct of hoping which has come down to him through centuries of farming fathers?

We—and that means England and America—have used the Jap to fight our battles for us. The issue has been the stopping of the tide of Moscovites across Asia, the killing of their influence in the East, the grasping from covetous hands the yellow empire, richer than mints of yellow gold to the nation that shall supply their wants. That means the open door until Japan decides to close it for the world and that the Muscovite must forever be bound between the Baltic and the North Sea and the ice zone of the Pacific, all of which was necessary. Arrogant and ignorant Russia needed this chastisement. But is it not time to stop? We are chuckling now, but the greatest problem lies before us. Sixteenth century Russia has met twentieth century Japan, and walked from the woods of barbarity into the daylight of a Mauser-swept, mine-entangled, smokeless-plowed field of death. The harvest has been as certain as when the Gauls came out of the woods to meet the steel-sheathed legions of Caesar.

History does not stop at one page. One was made at Port Arthur and the Straits of Japan, now—

“Let China alone,” said Napoleon, “she is a sleeping giant.” The fight has been for China, and the wily Jap, playing on the unfailing cupidity and conquering, grabbing instinct of the Anglo-Saxon, has won. Hereafter China belongs to Japan. Give her just a century to vitalize the nation which, if the world were stood in a line, would count every fourth fighter as hers, and the white race will face the problem of its existence. At Portsmouth recently, when the Sabbath came, the Russian went to church. The Jap only laughed, and voted to work on. Shintoism knows no Sunday, no soul, no to-morrow, no eternity. Shintoism is blind chance pitched against the barb-wire of blind unbelief.

It is time to see clearly—to turn. We have conquered our own kin with a soulless, smiling, ghost-born being who is far-sighted and will yet make our children wonder why we gave him a Mauser for posterity. As for us, we will always be for the white man and the Christian.

Trotwood’s Monthly has installed a new feature in magazine management. We call him Jonah. He is a bright boy who does things around the editorial room. They are not always done right, but when he finishes with them we are willing to aver that they are always done. One of his duties is to read all of the poetry submitted—and it is coming in with a rush—condemn the bad and pass the good up to Trotwood for final judgment. Here are his comments on an execrable batch of it sent in under the title of “Piping Lays” by a good, sweet,but sadly misguided being, whose name begins with Tillie:

Hear we hav a poet boald.Naught I’m frank to sa is worce,Than the “Flowery” tales she’s told,In her akrobatic verce.Tillie fane would pipe a layThat would markit fur a song,But her Piping duz not pa,Why? Bekaus her meter’s rong.Tillie mite reverse the phraze’Til her muse is neerer ripe,And insted of piping laysTri her hand at laying pipe.JONAH.

Hear we hav a poet boald.Naught I’m frank to sa is worce,Than the “Flowery” tales she’s told,In her akrobatic verce.

Hear we hav a poet boald.

Naught I’m frank to sa is worce,

Than the “Flowery” tales she’s told,

In her akrobatic verce.

Tillie fane would pipe a layThat would markit fur a song,But her Piping duz not pa,Why? Bekaus her meter’s rong.

Tillie fane would pipe a lay

That would markit fur a song,

But her Piping duz not pa,

Why? Bekaus her meter’s rong.

Tillie mite reverse the phraze’Til her muse is neerer ripe,And insted of piping laysTri her hand at laying pipe.

Tillie mite reverse the phraze

’Til her muse is neerer ripe,

And insted of piping lays

Tri her hand at laying pipe.

JONAH.

But Jonah is equally as hard on Trotwood, as the following unique note came to me in a batch of proof:

dear mister trotwood:—I think your writing is plain, but the printer, says it is a cross between a chinese laundry ticket and the Lord’s prayer ritten in arabic. They sent one sheet back to-day and i red it and it reeds like this—“The Hal family is a very slow bunch, and unless they cross the blood with a Texas Mustang pretty soon, they will only be fit for water wagons and apple carts, and anny boddy would go to sleep waiting for them to go around a half mile track.”I draped it on the floor, and when I picked it up it was different, and red like this—(I had it up-side-down):Life’s ills, could man by knowing,Be spared from undergoing,There would be sense in knowing;But since with all our knowing,This coal dust keeps on blowing,Well—what’s the use in knowing?Mr. Sweetland the business manager said I was a fool, but when he tried to reed it, he could not tell whuther it was a horse story or poem or something about Uncle Wash. He said it was one of the three, and said you wrote like a lobster. it is plain enough to me, but i wish you would write and tell me just what it is, and I will tell the printer for he is too fresh anyhow. Hear is whut I mad of it last:When you give a sweet maid kissesShe hands you back a sigh—When you give a printer copyHe hands you back a pi—And he made it in the gloamingWith his stomach full of rye!noto bene:—Pleas com up and let us no which one goes. And pleas pardon a suggestion but I saw to-day a thing that wurred me verry grately. it was that the buggs insex and varments eats up Three Billion Dollars worth of the farmers truck and stuff every year. Don’t you think we ought to let them no about it.JONAH.

dear mister trotwood:—

I think your writing is plain, but the printer, says it is a cross between a chinese laundry ticket and the Lord’s prayer ritten in arabic. They sent one sheet back to-day and i red it and it reeds like this—“The Hal family is a very slow bunch, and unless they cross the blood with a Texas Mustang pretty soon, they will only be fit for water wagons and apple carts, and anny boddy would go to sleep waiting for them to go around a half mile track.”

I draped it on the floor, and when I picked it up it was different, and red like this—(I had it up-side-down):

Life’s ills, could man by knowing,Be spared from undergoing,There would be sense in knowing;But since with all our knowing,This coal dust keeps on blowing,Well—what’s the use in knowing?

Life’s ills, could man by knowing,

Be spared from undergoing,

There would be sense in knowing;

But since with all our knowing,

This coal dust keeps on blowing,

Well—what’s the use in knowing?

Mr. Sweetland the business manager said I was a fool, but when he tried to reed it, he could not tell whuther it was a horse story or poem or something about Uncle Wash. He said it was one of the three, and said you wrote like a lobster. it is plain enough to me, but i wish you would write and tell me just what it is, and I will tell the printer for he is too fresh anyhow. Hear is whut I mad of it last:

When you give a sweet maid kissesShe hands you back a sigh—When you give a printer copyHe hands you back a pi—And he made it in the gloamingWith his stomach full of rye!

When you give a sweet maid kisses

She hands you back a sigh—

When you give a printer copy

He hands you back a pi—

And he made it in the gloaming

With his stomach full of rye!

noto bene:—Pleas com up and let us no which one goes. And pleas pardon a suggestion but I saw to-day a thing that wurred me verry grately. it was that the buggs insex and varments eats up Three Billion Dollars worth of the farmers truck and stuff every year. Don’t you think we ought to let them no about it.

JONAH.

The following compliment from an old friend, Judge John L. Miller, of Corsicana, Texas, is highly appreciated. When we say “old” friend it carries a double meaning, for in addition to having been our friend for many years, this grand old gentleman has nearly reached his ninetieth milestone, and is still enjoying good health. He writes:

When I learned that TROTWOOD was to edit TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY I folded my arms and shouted for joy, I knew the author of “Ole Mistis” and “Miss Kitty’s Funeral,” two of the brightest literary gems of modern times, could and would give us a monthly that would be read and appreciated by all reading people in both North and South. This is the character of reading matter the whole country needs, and judging from the first number of TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY I think we will get it. The visitor from Tennessee is gladly welcomed, bringing as it does into our home good cheer and sunshine—short gems of poetry, making “Tears from eyelids start,” then smiles and ringing laughter.With Little Sister, we grieve over the condemned long-legged colt. We help her to rescue the little deformed thing from the hands of the negro executioner. We shout and sing and dance and “’Rah for Little Sister” at the race course as she swings proudly into the ring and wins the race.Right gladly we renew our acquaintance with “Old Wash” and our sympathies are his as he attempts with his luscious watermelons to reach the hearts of his people through their stomachs, and also defeats his own purpose through their stomachs.A “History of the Hals” appeals strongly to lovers of fine horses. Many horses of the Hal family are owned by Texans and the articles on this especial subject will be read with avidity by subscribers over this state as well as elsewhere. A bright magazine enjoyed alike by every member of the household we find TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY to be, and “Barkis is more than willin’” that it should be the success it so well deserves.

With Little Sister, we grieve over the condemned long-legged colt. We help her to rescue the little deformed thing from the hands of the negro executioner. We shout and sing and dance and “’Rah for Little Sister” at the race course as she swings proudly into the ring and wins the race.

Right gladly we renew our acquaintance with “Old Wash” and our sympathies are his as he attempts with his luscious watermelons to reach the hearts of his people through their stomachs, and also defeats his own purpose through their stomachs.

A “History of the Hals” appeals strongly to lovers of fine horses. Many horses of the Hal family are owned by Texans and the articles on this especial subject will be read with avidity by subscribers over this state as well as elsewhere. A bright magazine enjoyed alike by every member of the household we find TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY to be, and “Barkis is more than willin’” that it should be the success it so well deserves.

We want a good live agent in every town in the United States for “Trotwood’s Monthly.” Write for terms to agents. Address Trotwood Publishing Company, Nashville, Tenn.

1:59¼EWELL FARM2:00½(ESTABLISHED 1870)GEORGE CAMPBELL BROWN and PERCY BROWNSpring Hill, Maury County, TennesseeTrotting and Pacing Horses. Jersey Cattle.Shetland Ponies. Southdown Sheep.IN THE STUDJOHN R. GENTRY 2:00½, the handsomest of all turf horses. Has held ten world’s records. Twice grand champion for one and three heats. A winner inMadison Square Garden. A sire of pronounced beauty, speed and intelligence. Sires both trotters and pacers of extraordinary speed and destined to be the greatest sire in the world.—Fee, $100.00.McEWEN 2:18¼—Prize winner at St. Louis, 1904, when 19 years old. Unquestionably the best sire of his age, bred and owned in Tennessee. Sire of 26 with fast records. A great race horse, a splendid road horse, a successful show horse and a remarkable sire.—Fee, $30.00.HAL BROWN, one of the speediest of Brown Hal’s sons. Showed two-minute speed as a yearling. Full brother to four with records from 2:07¼ to 2:13¼. Represents on both sides the best of Tennessee’s pacing strains. A most precocious sire.YOUNG STOCKof both sexes, stallions and brood mares, trotters and pacers ready to race, for sale at all times.TheEwell FarmJERSEY HERDis headed byTOMMY TORMENTOR67233, a double greatgrandson of Imp. Tormentor 3533 (whose blood entered more largely into the pedigrees of the winning herd in the World’s Fair test, at St. Louis, 1904, than that of any other bull). A bull of exact dairy conformation, beautiful color and great vigor. After January 1, 1906, a few young bulls and heifers will be offered for sale.TheSHETLANDSatEwell Farmhave been selected with great care, especial attention having been paid to beauty, uniformity in size (36 to 42 inches) and docility of temper. Not for many years have these ponies failed to delight their purchasers. Geldings 1 to 3 years old for sale.SOUTHDOWN SHEEP.—Our Southdowns are of pure blood, but unregistered. Especially adapted for breeding spring lambs.For Particulars, AddressEWELL FARMSpring Hill, Tennessee,Maury CountyGEO. CAMPBELL BROWN, Mgr. Live Stock Dept.Write for what you want, and mention Trotwood’s Monthly.

1:59¼EWELL FARM2:00½

(ESTABLISHED 1870)

GEORGE CAMPBELL BROWN and PERCY BROWNSpring Hill, Maury County, Tennessee

Trotting and Pacing Horses. Jersey Cattle.Shetland Ponies. Southdown Sheep.

IN THE STUD

JOHN R. GENTRY 2:00½, the handsomest of all turf horses. Has held ten world’s records. Twice grand champion for one and three heats. A winner inMadison Square Garden. A sire of pronounced beauty, speed and intelligence. Sires both trotters and pacers of extraordinary speed and destined to be the greatest sire in the world.—Fee, $100.00.

McEWEN 2:18¼—Prize winner at St. Louis, 1904, when 19 years old. Unquestionably the best sire of his age, bred and owned in Tennessee. Sire of 26 with fast records. A great race horse, a splendid road horse, a successful show horse and a remarkable sire.—Fee, $30.00.

HAL BROWN, one of the speediest of Brown Hal’s sons. Showed two-minute speed as a yearling. Full brother to four with records from 2:07¼ to 2:13¼. Represents on both sides the best of Tennessee’s pacing strains. A most precocious sire.

YOUNG STOCKof both sexes, stallions and brood mares, trotters and pacers ready to race, for sale at all times.

TheEwell FarmJERSEY HERDis headed byTOMMY TORMENTOR67233, a double greatgrandson of Imp. Tormentor 3533 (whose blood entered more largely into the pedigrees of the winning herd in the World’s Fair test, at St. Louis, 1904, than that of any other bull). A bull of exact dairy conformation, beautiful color and great vigor. After January 1, 1906, a few young bulls and heifers will be offered for sale.

TheSHETLANDSatEwell Farmhave been selected with great care, especial attention having been paid to beauty, uniformity in size (36 to 42 inches) and docility of temper. Not for many years have these ponies failed to delight their purchasers. Geldings 1 to 3 years old for sale.

SOUTHDOWN SHEEP.—Our Southdowns are of pure blood, but unregistered. Especially adapted for breeding spring lambs.

For Particulars, AddressEWELL FARMSpring Hill, Tennessee,Maury County

GEO. CAMPBELL BROWN, Mgr. Live Stock Dept.

Write for what you want, and mention Trotwood’s Monthly.

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