Johnny Poe of the Black Watch

1915

Killed in the Fighting Near Ypres, Sept. 25, 1915

(Lines by a Princeton Classmate)

JOHNNY POE;
Stocky little chap, you know,
He'd no call to take in slack!
'Most too small for quarter back,
Made it somehow — played it, tho;
Johnny Poe.

Johnny Poe
More than twenty years ago —
Wasn't he a ghastly sight
When we'd fought the snowball fight?
Hardly had a face to show,
Johnny Poe.

Johnny Poe;
Freshman president? That's so;
Homely face and ready grin —
Lord — the veil of years grows thin!
Dead "somewhere in Flanders?" No!
Johnny Poe?

Johnny Poe.
Well, that's how he'd like to go.
Scrapper he was, first and last,
Never let a fight get past,
Hunted 'em through Mexico;
Johnny Poe.

Johnny Poe;
That's the Celtic strain, you know.
Soldier, miner, ranchman, he;
Trailed the land from sea to sea.
Couldn't let things get too slow;
Johnny Poe.

Johnny Poe
Dead in battle, laid so low,
Bearing in your burial place
Tartan of your Celtic race,
Bless you, Johnny, rest you so;
Johnny Poe!

— E. Sutton.

— Saturday Blade, Chicago, Dec. 18, 1915, p. 2.

The Burning of Joan of Arc (poetry)

1874

The Burning of Joan of Arc

They've bound her to the iron stake,
That fierce and haughty soul!
Oh! mistress of the hearts of France,
Is this the conq'ror's goal?
The flashing fire is round her now,
And mocking lips are near;
But scorching flame and mocking lips
Can wake from her no tear.

Oh! France, where is thy chivalry,
Where, where thy crowned king.
That he can suffer death like this
To claim so fair a thing!
Shame's clouds are o'er thy sunny hills,
The siroc breath of shame
Hath blotted out from valor's list
The records of thy fame.

Where are the friends of early youth?
Forsaken, France, for thee!
The martyr in this awful hour
Is one that made thee free.
Where are the battle hosts she led
To vict'ry and renown,
O'er fields of shiver'd spears and helms
Her arm had stricken down.

Come, come, ye men of iron souls,
Behold your leader die;
Your eyes may see no quiv'ring lip,
Your ears hear ne'er a sigh.
Is there no sword in mighty France
To save her from the tomb?
And England's chivalry, can they
Be witness of her doom?

God! there is none; it is no dream!
There is the stake, the fire,
The sparks, the smoke, the trumpet tone,
By Rouen's market spire.
Joanne of Arc, on! can it be
Thine is the felon's doom,
And thine the quiv'ring, withered form
Within the smoke-clouds' gloom?

One cry -- a gasp, but not of fear,
Springs from the sea of flame,
And France, th' Recording Angel stands
To chronicle thy shame.
Bear forth the tale on eagle's wings,
Joan, of France, the pride,
Hath, like a felon at the stake,
Ignobly, basely died.

—Printed in The Indiana Progress, Indiana, Pennsylvania, Jan. 15, 1874, p. 2.

Genghis Khan's Dominions

1897

Mrs. Mary Shears Roberts, in her series of "Historic Dwarfs" in St. Nicholas, writes of Casan, who was in the service of Genghis Khan. Mrs. Roberts says:

After the great Mongolian had conquered China, Persia and all central Asia his empire became one of the most formidable ever established. It extended from the Pacific ocean on the east to the river Dnieper in European Russia and was a wider realm than Egyptian, Greek or Roman conqueror ever knew. The kings of Armenia and Georgia, the emirs of Persia, the grand dukes of Russia and numerous other potentates were compelled to pay tribute to Genghis Khan, and they were all obliged to make the long journey to Karakorum in person or by their representatives.

This town, the capital of the largest empire that ever existed, was little more than a city of tents. It afterward became the residence of the famous Kublai Khan, as Marco Polo tells us, but every vestige of it has disappeared.

Genghis Khan at last retired from active service to lead a quiet life in the enjoyment of the wealth he had acquired at the expense of so much toil and blood. The numerous khans and generals were commanded to return, and they came back encumbered with the spoils of war. They all assembled on a vast plain some 20 miles in extent, and, according to one historian, even this great field could scarcely contain all the tents of the countless hosts. The emperor's quarters alone were six miles around. An enormous white tent capable of containing 2,000 people was spread over his throne, on which was carefully placed the bit of black carpet used at his coronation.

Fishing For Bullheads

Iowa, 1904

The bullhead is always ready to bite — rain or shine, in wind or calm, through thick or thin. He isn't choice about the morsel you offer, nor does he nibble and whine — he simply grabs what you have, takes the cork under and thrusts his fate into your hands. When other fish are too lazy, too fastidious to walk up to the feed, the bullhead steps in and relieves the situation. He has no scales to fly over the house, but a sleek suit that will peel off like an onion when you take him by the nap of the neck with a pair of pincers. In the frying pan he is a prince among fishes. If properly prepared his flesh is as sweet and toothsome as the much vaunted trout, bass or pickerel, and his bones few and far between. Give the devil his due and quit knocking on the bullhead — he's your friend when other fish look out the corner of their eyes at you. — Anthon Herald, Iowa.

—The Sioux Valley News, Correctionville, Iowa, July 28, 1904, page 1.