Brown scraps, a book of poems, essays, and epigrams

Dedication

I Dedicate this Volume to Three Friends

Dr. Charles D. Tibbels Mr. H. H. Shannon Dr. Wm. A. Wyatt

By whose kindness I have been enabled to have this book published

Prefatory Note

BY THE AUTHOR

I find myself an Author — more through accident than purpose. Through the swift years of a busy life I never felt that I had either the time or talent to write a book. In spare moments T penned my thoughts, sometimes grave, sometimes gay, and under the title "Brown Scraps" I sent them to newspapers, who v/ere kind enough to print them. My family and friends preserved enough of these "Scraps" in their scrapbooks to make a volume. A number of friends have requested me to put these Poems, Essays and Epigrams into a book. This book is published in compliance with that request.

It lays no claim to scholarship for the Author is not a scholar. If it was not imperfect it v/ould not be like its Author.. It is not expected that this book will receive the approbation of the cold scholarly critic.

Who will weigh each sentence And measure each verse Counting one half bad And the other worse.

The sunshine of human kindness is the thing human hearts long for, and it is the things this Author wants to give them.

If this book can only be helpful

In keeping a mad soul from growing

madder, Or a sad soul from growing sadder, Or a bad soul from growing badder, And makes the world to them all look

brighter, And their hearts grow warm, and their

burdens lighter.

While the bands of love grow strong

and tighter If it gathers a harvest of such precious

grain.

Then the message it bears is not in vain.

TO THE READER

My friend, Fm passive in your hand. Though naught of you I understand ; I do not konw your name nor birth, Nor what you say nor do on earth.

You may be young, and bright, and gay, You may be feeble, old and gray; Into these things I cannot look, Because you know, I am a book.

This one advantage you have now, And you will use it, I avow; I cannot know or judge of thee, But you can know and judge of me.

You drop me quick or hold me long, Or call me good, or judge me wrong, Or treat me any other way, I'll never answer what you say.

Be what you may, I wish you well, Therefore in prose or verse I tell, A thought that's sad, or glad, or gay, To teach, or cheer you, on your way.

Open my leaves, my pages read. And see if they supply your need. Like other books that you have read, Wrote by the living or the dead.

But books, like men, if you but think. Are not alike — they are distinct — In many things beside their name, Their form, their style is not the same.

So from the living or the dead.

One just like me you have not read,

So take and read me through and through,

And see if you don't find it true.

I do not say I'm better — no — \

For such I deem would not be so ; I only say just what I think —

That books like men are each distinct. .

\ Books are the products of the mind, \

And as such differ in their kind; ]

Oft different moods of the same mind, ;

Inside one volume you may find.

I have been growing many years, ■

Warmed with laughter, fed with tears, ;

The spirit grave, the spirit gay. j

Upon my pages have their say. j

Sometimes as light as sunny hours, j

Sometimes as bright as summer flowers, j

Sometimes trembling like a leaf, j

Drenched in trouble, blown in grief. ]

When people do unite for life, i

One as husband, one as v/ife, {

The preacher may these words rehearse,* j

"You take for better or for worse." ,

These words to you I now rehearse, j

"Take me for better or for worse," j

Accept the good, if such you find, To faults and follies act the blind.

i

'i

To quarrel at me will do no good, |

It will not help me if you should ; : While man can change in way, in name, A book must stay always the same.

My introduction now is o'er, 1

About myself Fll say no more ; |

I hope you'll read me to the end, j

And then will keep me as your friend. i

Introduction

My dear friend, Brown, has asked me to write the foreword or preface to this Book of Poems, Essays and Epigrams. I have not read every selection, but I know he has not written anything I could not enjoy reading. Just why Brown selected me to do this, I cannot divine, but I do know that we are congenial minds, even if we do not resemble in age, face, person and church affiliation. I recall that during our short but close association in the Arkansas General Assembly we did not differ on one matter or measure involving a question of morals I remember that Brown ,laughed at my jokes applauded my speeches, inquired of the health of my dear mother, and visited me when I was sick. Likewise, I am reminded that I sat quietly by when he flayed the liquor forces, stood still and heard his latest anecedote, applauded his shafts in repartee, talked heart-to-heart with him in the cloak room and have answered his every letter since.

Brown is a poet, plus. So am I. But I do not write down my poetry, as does Brown. Vanity forbids me admitting that I couldn't if I would. When I was some younger than I now am I tried it. The result did not bring me to the notice of the great critics But my friend in question is a real poet — not a mere verse-smith, rhymester, doggerel ding-a-linger or plodding platitudinizer — nor is he one of the long-haired variety, who live in the atmosphere of another and strange world, whose dreamy eyes see not the small things of earth. But he combines a fine sense of harmony and color and warmth with an aptitude for fitness, an unswerving fidelity to right and the saving grace of humor.

We are indebted to the poets for more than we realize. It is true that in this age of dollarized ethics we laugh at the poetic tendencies of the young man or woman, yet the thrill from poetry is as universal now as ever, and will be while man continues to be enraptured by the strains of music and the beauties of the autumn sunset. The mad race for commercial supremacy and the hard task of earning bread have reduced the number of poets and calloused the souls of most of us, but the world will "beat a path to the door" of every one that braves the hindrances of the untoward time to voice the sweet impulses that stir betimes the hearts of men and women who suffer and aspire.

Brown has the happy faculty of catching up some pertinent happening and making a point in rhyme. He hits many mighty blows against the cohorts of wrong in this way ; also, he lends encouragement to many good projects by weaving into verse his commendation.

In many of these poems the readerv/ill note the fine philosophy of a man who knows life here, yet has pitched his actions in a key that will bring him to the end of his days with few vain regrets and with a love for humanity that only a great heart can hold His charity is periennial, for he knows the weaknesses, the common foibles of us all. Put down upon the printed page to endure after he has been called hence, may be read the quaint, loving, patient humorous and hopeful heart-throbs of a true servant of the Master, a real crusader against wrong, a fine companion, a generous foe and common brother to us all, and while you read herein remember that dear old Brown looks out from every paragraph, rounds every corner with the reader and greets you with another impulse when you turn the page, for he writes like he talks and to read him is to know him. Such is the genius of Brown.

CLARENCE PRICE NEWTON.

BROWN SiCRAPS 13