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 1.1 Computer Programs
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-03
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-03

4. Which parts of the computer store program code?

1. CPU
2. Secondary storage
3. Monitor
4. Keyboard

Title
Which parts of the computer store program code?
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-04

5. Which of the following items is NOT considered hardware:

1. a keyboard.
2. a speaker.
3. a program.
4. a microphone.

Title
What is considered hardware
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-05

6. The Central Processing Unit is primarily responsible for:

1. ensuring data persists when electrical power is turned off.
2. enabling a human user to interact with the computer.
3. interconnecting computers that are separated by distance.
4. performing program control and data processing.

Title
What is a CPU?
type
mc
 Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-06

7. Computers store both data and programs not currently running in:
1. Primary storage.
2. Central processing unit.
3. Secondary storage.
4. Transistors.

Title
Where are programs and data stored?
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-07

8. Which of the following hardware devices is NOT considered an input device?

1. Keyboard
2. Monitor
3. Mouse
4. Microphone

Title
What is considered input hardware?
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-08

9. Which of the following hardware devices is NOT considered an output device?

1. Speaker
2. Monitor
3. Printer
4. Microphone

Title
What is considered output hardware?
type
mc
Section
 1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-09

10. When the computer begins to run a program,

1. the program is moved from secondary storage to memory.
2. the program is moved from secondary storage to the network controller.
3. the program is moved from the CPU to memory.
4. the program is moved from the CPU to secondary storage.

Title
What happens when a program begins to run?
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-10
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-10

11. What part of the computer carries out arithmetic operations, such as addition, subtraction,
multiplication and division?
1. CPU
2. Network
3. Primary storage
4. Secondary storage

Title
What part of the computer performs arithmetic?
type
mc
Section
1.2 The Anatomy of a Computer
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-11
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-11

12. High-level programming languages were created to:

1. Allow programmers to describe the solution to a problem one CPU instruction at
a time
2. Make programming less error-prone and less tedious
3. Maximize the running time of programs
4. Translate CPU instructions into high-level instructions
 Title
Why were high-level programming languages created?
type
mc
Section
1.3 The Python Programming Language
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-12
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-12

13. What are two of the most important benefits of the Python language?
1. Advanced mathematical equations and fast programs
2. Ease of use and fast programs
3. Ease of use and portability
4. Fast programs and smaller programs

Title
What are the benefits of Python?
type
mc
Section
1.3 The Python Programming Language
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-13
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-13

14. What is wrong with the following code snippet:

15. num1 = 10
16. num2 = 20
17. num3 = 30
total = Num1 + Num2 + Num3

1. Nothing, the variable total will be the sum of the three numbers
2. Python is case sensitive so Num1, Num2, and Num3 are undefined
3. total must be initialized to zero first
4. The numbers should be 10.0, 20.0 and 30.0

Title
What is wrong with the following code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-14
18. An integrated development environment bundles tools for programming into a unified
application. What kinds of tools are usually included?
1. A web browser
2. An editor and an interpreter
3. Presentation tools
4. Source files and bytecode files

Title
What kind of tools can be found in an integrated development environment?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-15
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-15

19. What is the difference between an editor and an interpreter?

1. An editor allows program files to be entered and modified; an interpreter reads
and executes program files
2. An editor allows program files to be entered and modified; an interpreter produces
an indexed database of terms and keywords
3. An editor allows program files to be entered and modified; an interpreter produces
an organized list of files
4. An editor converts program files into an executable program; an interpreter allows
program files to be entered and modified

Title
What is the difference between an editor and a compiler?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-16

20. What reads Python programs and executes the program instructions?
1. editor
2. CPU
3. compiler
4. interpreter

Title
What is used to execute a Python program?
type
 mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-17

21. What extension is used for Python files?

1. .Python
2. .py
3. .dat
4. .txt

Title
What extension is used for Python source files?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-18

22. By entering the command python3, the program runs in which mode?
1. interactive mode
2. print mode
3. command mode
4. backup mode

Title
What mode is invoked when the user enters "python" at the command prompt?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-19

23. The Python compiler reads the file containing your source code and converts it to:
1. machine code
2. assembly code
3. byte code
4. virtual machine code

Title
What type of code is created by the Python compiler?
type
mc
 Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-20

24. What is the correct sequence of steps invoked by the Python Interpreter:
1. source code -> virtual machine -> byte code ->compiler
2. source code -> compiler -> byte code -> virtual machine
3. compiler -> source code -> virtual machine -> byte code
4. byte code -> virtual machine -> source code ->compiler

Title
What is the role of the Interpreter?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-21

25. Which line in the following program is a comment line?

26. 1: print("Your lucky number is...")
27. 2: lucky = 7
28. 3: # Display the lucky number
29. 4: print(lucky)
1. Line number 1
2. Line number 2
3. Line number 3
4. Line number 4

Title
What is the syntax for a comment line?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-22
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-22

30. What is the purpose of a comment?

1. A comment provides information to the virtual machine
2. A comment provides information to the compiler
3. A comment provides information to the programmer
4. A comment provides information to the user running the program
 Title
What is the purpose of a comment?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-23
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-23

31. A collection of programming instructions that carry out a particular task is called a:
1. program
2. compiler
3. function
4. comment

Title
What is a collection of programming instructions called?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-24

32. To use or call a function, you need to specify:

1. the function name and its arguments
2. the function name only
3. the function name and at least one argument
4. the function name and a comment describing its use

Title
How do you call a function?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-25

33. A sequence of characters enclosed in quotes is called:

1. a string
2. a list
3. a function
4. an argument
 Title
What is a sequence of characters enclosed in quotes called?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-26

34. Which of the following is considered a string in Python?

1. Today is Wednesday
2. "Today is Wednesday"
3. # Today is Wednesday #
4. Today_is_Wednesday

Title
What is a string in Python?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-27

35. What is wrong with the following code snippet?

36. print("Hello")
print("World!")

1. The print function cannot be called twice

2. The print function is missing an argument
3. Nothing, the program prints Hello World on the same line
4. The second line should not be indented

Title
What is wrong with the code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-28

37. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print(25 + 84)

1. 2584
 2. 109
3. 25 + 84
4. Nothing, this code snipped causes a compile time error

Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-29

38. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print("The answer is", 25 + 84)

1. The answer is 2584

2. The answer is 109
3. The answer is 25 + 84
4. Nothing, this code snipped causes a compile time error

Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-30

39. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print("The answers are:", 4 + 3 * 2, 7 * 5 - 24)

1. The answers are: 10 11

2. The answers are: 14 11
3. The answers are: 24 10
4. Nothing, this code snipped causes a compile time error

Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
 id
testbank-py-1-ch01-31

40. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print("25 + 84")

1. 2584
2. 109
3. 25 + 84
4. Nothing, this code snipped causes a compile time error

Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-32

41. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print(Hello)

1. Nothing, an error is produced indicating that Hello is not defined

2. Hello
3. 'Hello'
4. "Hello"

Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-33

42. What is printed by the following code snippet?

print("Good", "Morning", "Class", "!")

1. GoodMorningClass!
2. Good Morning Class!
3. Good Morning Class !
4. nothing, this code produces a syntax error
 Title
What is printed by a given code snippet?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-34

43. What is another name for a compile-time error?

1. Logic error
2. Semantic error
3. Syntax error
4. Lexicographic error

Title
What is another name for a compile-time error?
type
mc
Section
1.6 Errors
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-35

44. Although the following code statement is valid, print(10/0), what will happen when
this code is executed?
1. The program prints 0
2. The error message ZeroDivisionError: int division or modulo by zero
is displayed
3. The program runs, but nothing is printed
4. The error message SyntaxError: EOL while scanning string literal

Title
What is another name for a compile-time error?
type
mc
Section
1.6 Errors
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-36

45. The programmer, not the compiler, is responsible for testing a program to identify what?
1. Undefined symbols
2. Syntax errors
3. Logic errors
4. Out-of-memory errors
 Title
The programmer, not the compiler, is responsible for testing a program to identify?
type
mc
Section
1.6 Errors
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-37

46. What is it called when you describe the steps that are necessary for finding a solution to a
problem in programming?
1. algorithm
2. compile
3. interpret
4. code

Title
What is it called when you describe the steps that are necessary for finding a solution to a
problem in programming?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-38

47. The following pseudocode calculates the total purchase price for an item including sales
tax, what is the missing last line?
48. Start by setting the total cost to zero.
49. Ask the user for the item cost.
50. Ask the user for the tax rate.
51. Set the item tax to item cost times tax rate.
_________________________________

1. Set the total cost to the item cost plus the tax rate.
2. Set the total cost to the item cost times the tax.
3. Set the total cost to the item cost plus the tax.
4. Set the total cost to the item tax.

Title
What is the missing pseudocode?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-39
52. What is the purpose of the following algorithm, written in pseudocode?
53. num = 0
54. Repeat the following steps 15 times
55. Ask user for next number
56. If userNum > num
57. num = userNum
58. Print num
1. To print out the 15 numbers
2. To find the smallest among 15 numbers
3. To search for a particular number among 15 numbers
4. To find the highest among 15 numbers

Title
What is the purpose of this algorithm?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-40

59. Which of the following is NOT an example of an algorithm?

1. A recipe to make chocolate chip cookies
2. A grocery list
3. Instructions for changing a flat tire
4. Steps required to calculate the amount of paint required to paint a room

Title
Which of the following is NOT an example of an algorithm?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-41

60. Which of the following pseudocode statements represents a decision?

1. For each number in a sequence...
2. While the balance is > 0
3. total cost = unit cost + tax
4. if total cost > 15

Title
Which of the following pseudocode statements represents a decision statement?
type
mc
Section
 1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-42

61. Which of the following pseudocode statements represents a repetition statement?

1. if total cost > 15
2. set i equal to 3
3. total cost = unit cost + tax
4. while the balance is > 0

Title
Which of the following pseudocode statements represents a repetition statement?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-43
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-43

62. Which of the following statements is NOT correct?

1. Pseudocode should be unambiguous.
2. Pseudocode should be executable.
3. Pseudocode should be properly formatted.
4. Pseudocode should be terminating.

Title
Which of the following is NOT important when writing pseudocode?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-44
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-44

63. Imagine that you are planning to buy a new cell phone. After doing some research, you
have determined that there are two different cell phones that will meet your needs. These
cell phones have different purchase prices and each mobile service provider charges a
different rate for each minute that the cell phone is used. In order to determine which cell
phone is the better buy, you need to develop an algorithm to calculate the total cost of
purchasing and using each cell phone. Which of the following options lists all the inputs
needed for this algorithm?
1. The cost of each cell phone and the rate per minute for each cell phone
 2. The cost of each cell phone and the number of minutes provided with each cell
phone
3. The cost of each cell phone, the rate per minute for each cell phone, and the
number of minutes provided with each cell phone
4. The cost of each cell phone, the rate per minute for each cell phone, and the
number of minutes you would use the cell phone

Title
Which inputs do you need to calculate cost of purchasing/using cell phone?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-45
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-45

64. In order to run Python programs, the computer needs to have software called a(n)?
1. debugger
2. interpreter
3. windows
4. assembler

Title
Software needed to run Python on a computer?
type
mc
Section
1.3 The Python Programming Language
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-46

65. A Python interpreter is:

1. a folder hierarchy
2. a piece of hardware
3. a piece of software
4. a type of secondary storage

Title
What is a Python virtual machine?
type
mc
Section
1.4 Becoming Familiar with Your Programming Environment
id
 testbank-py-2-ch01-47
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-47

66. Consider the following pseudocode. What does it produce?

67. Create a list of consecutive integers from two to n (2, 3, 4, ..., n).
68. Initially, let p equal 2.
69. Repeat the following steps until p is greater than n:
70. Remove all of the multiples of p less than or equal to n from the
list.
71. If the list contains a number greater than p
72. Find the first number remaining in the list greater than p.
73. Replace p with this number.
74. Otherwise set p equal to n + 1
1. All even numbers up to n
2. All factorial numbers up to n
3. All odd numbers up to n
4. All prime numbers up to n

Title
Software needed to run Python on a computer?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-48
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-48

75. Consider the following pseudocode. What does it produce?

76. Set a = 0
77. Set b = 0
78. Set c = 1
79. Set d = 1
80. Report the value of d
81. Repeat until a equals 10
82. Set d = b + c
83. Set b = c
84. Set c = d
85. Add 1 to a
86. Report the value of d
1. 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89
2. 1 1 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19 21
3. 1 1 3 6 9 12 15 18 21 24 27 30
4. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Title
What does this algorithm produce?
type
 mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-2-ch01-49
from
testbank-py-1-ch01-49

87. A sequence of steps that is unambiguous, executable, and terminating is called:

1. a logarithm
2. a programming task
3. an algorithm
4. pseudocode

Title
What is a list of steps that are unambiguous, executable, and terminating called?
type
mc
Section
1.7 Problem Solving: Algorithm Design
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-50

88. Which of the follow statements is most correct?

1. Computer programs are comprised of a large number of simple instructions.
2. Computer programs are comprised of a large number of sophisticated instructions.
3. Computer programs are comprised of a small number of simple instructions.
4. Computer programs are comprised of a small number of sophisticated
instructions.

Title
What are computer programs comprised of?
type
mc
Section
1.1 Computer Programs
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-51

89. Which of the following is not a benefit of the Python programming language compared
to other popular programming languages like Java, C and C++?
1. Python encourages experimentation and rapid turn around
2. Python has a cleaner syntax
3. Python is easier to use
4. Python programs run more quickly
 Title
What are the benefits of Python compared to other programming languages?
type
mc
Section
1.3 The Python Programming Language
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-52

90. Which of the following code segments will display Hello World! when it is run?
1. print(Hello "," World"!")
2. print("Hello", "World!")
3. print("Hello", "World", "!")
4. print("Hello", ",", "World", "!")

Title
Which code segment displays the desired result?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-53

91. When a function is called, the values placed in parentheses are referred to as:
1. arguments
2. keywords
3. operators
4. statements

Title
What are the parts of a function call?
type
mc
Section
1.5 Analyzing Your First Program
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-54

92. Which type of error is usually the most difficult to locate in your program?
1. Indentation Error
2. Logic Error
3. Syntax Error
4. Zero Division Error

Title
Which type of error is most difficult to locate?
type
mc
Section
1.6 Errors
id
testbank-py-1-ch01-55
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
ant bed, over which we crawl and scramble, and run this way and
that, apparently without purpose or design.
That light streak across the sky, which we call the Milky Way, is
nothing more nor less than the foam spilt from tankards of nectar as
the gods quaff and laugh at our strange antics. But it is Christmas
eve, and what do we care for their laughter? Turn up the lights; let
the curtain rise, and the Christmas crowd is on!

Did you ever watch a young lady buy a Christmas present for her
father?
If not, you have missed a good thing.
They all go about it the same way. In fact, young ladies who buy
Christmas presents for their fathers are just as sure to perform the
operation in exactly the same way, as they are to sit on one foot
while reading a novel. She always has just two dollars for this
purpose, which is handed her by her mother, who suggests the idea.
She goes out late in the afternoon on the day before Christmas. She
first goes to a jeweler’s and looks at several trays of diamond
studded watches, and wonders which one her father would like.
Then, after examining about one hundred diamond rings, she
suddenly remembers the amount of money she has, sighs and goes
off to a clothing store, where she closely scrutinizes an $18 smoking
jacket, and a $40 overcoat. She says she believes she will think over
the matter before buying, and leaves. Next she visits a book store,
three dry goods stores, two more jewelers, and a candy shop. When
Christmas morning comes, her father finds himself the proud
possessor of a new red pen wiper with the fifteen cent cost mark
carefully erased, and there are to be observed in a certain young
lady’s dressing case a new pair of gloves and a box of nice chocolate
bonbons.
The fat man who is taking home a red wagon is abroad in the land.
He is generally a pompous man who prides himself on being self-
made, and glories in showing his democracy by carrying home his
own bundles. He holds the wagon in front of him and pushes his
way through the crowd with a sterling-citizen-risen-from-the-ranks
air that is quite wonderful to observe.
How the girls in their cloaks with high turned-up collars laugh and
chatter and gaze in the show windows with “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” at
everything they see! If you happen to be standing near a group of
them you will hear something like this:
“Oh, Mabel, look at that lovely ring—squeezed my hand and said—
sealskin, indeed! I guess I know plush when—and five from Papa, so
I guess I’ll buy that—going to hang them up, of course; I bet they’ll
hold more than yours, you old slim—good gracious! Belle let me pin
your—papa asked him how he wanted his eggs for breakfast, and
Charlie got mad and left, and the clock hadn’t struck—No, I wear
these kind that—sixteen inches around the—Oh! look at that lovely-
forgot to shave, and it scratched all along—I’ll trade with you, Lil;
Tom said—with lace all round the—come on, girls, let’s—”
The noise of a passing street car drowned the rest.
The children are out in full force.
Did you ever reflect that children are the wisest philosophers in
the world? They see the wonderful things in the windows for sale;
and they listen gravely to the tales told them of Santa Claus; and,
without endeavoring to analyze the situation, they rejoice with
exceeding joy. They never measure the chimney or calculate the size
of Santa’s sleigh; they never puzzle themselves by wondering how
the old fellow gets his goods out of the stores, or question his
stupendous feat of climbing down every chimney in the land on the
same night. If grown folks would dissect and analyze less things that
are mysteries to them, they would be far happier.
Two men meet on Main Street and one of them says:
“I want you to help me think. I want to get even with my wife this
Christmas, and I don’t exactly know how to do it. For the last five
years she has been making me ostensible Christmas presents that
are not of the slightest possible use to me, but are very convenient
for herself. Under the pretense of buying me a present, she simply
buys something she wants for herself and uses Christmas for a cloak
for her nefarious schemes. Once she gave me a nice wardrobe, in
which she hangs her new dresses. Again she gave me a china tea
set; at another time a piano; and last Christmas she made me a
present of a side-saddle, and I had to buy her a horse. Now I want
to get something for her Christmas present this year that I can use,
and that will be of no possible service to her.”
“H’m,” said the other man thoughtfully, “it’s going to be a hard
thing to do. Let’s see. You want something she can’t make use of. I
have it! Have yourself a new pair of trousers made, and present
them to her.”
“Won’t do,” says the first man, shaking his head. “She’d have ’em
on in ten minutes and be clamoring for a bicycle.”
“Buy her a razor, then; she can’t use that.”
“Can’t she? She has three corns.”
“Say! There ain’t anything you can get that you can use and she
can’t.”
“Don’t believe there is. Well, let’s go take something anyhow.”

The lights are beginning to burn in the show windows, and people
are gathering in front of them.
To many of the lookers-on this gazing in the windows is all the
Christmas pleasure they will have. Many of them are from the
country and little towns along the fourteen lines of railroad that run
into Houston. A country youth presses through the crowd with open
mouth and wondering eyes. Holding fast to his hand, follows
Araminta, bedecked in gorgeous colors, beholding with scarce-
believing optics the fairy-like splendors of Main Street. When they
return to Galveston they will long remember the glories of the great
city they visited at Christmas.

A solemn man in a high silk hat, attired in decorous black, edges his
way along the sidewalk. One would think him some city magnate
making his way home, or a clergyman out studying the
idiosyncrasies of human nature. He opens his mouth and yells in a
high, singsong voice: “What will mamma say when Willie comes
home with a mustache just like papa’s—buy one right now, boys;
you can curl ’em, twist ’em, pull ’em, and comb ’em just like real
ones—come on boys!” He fixes below his nose a black mustache
with a wonderful curl to the ends and goes his way, occasionally
selling one to some smooth-faced boy, who shyly makes his
purchase. On the edge of the sidewalk a little man is offering “the
most wonderful mechanical toy of the century, causing more
comment and excitement than any other article exhibited at the
great World’s Fair.” The public crowds about him and buys with
avidity. Not twenty steps away in a Houston toy shop the same kind
of toy has been sold for years.

On a corner stand a group of—well, say young men. They wear new
style high turn-down collars and chrysanthemums. Their hats tilt
backward and their front hair is brushed down low. They are gazing
at the ladies as they pass. How Charles Darwin would have loved to
meet these young men! But, alas! he died without completing the
chain. Listen at the scraps of alleged conversation that can be
distinguished above their simultaneous jabber:
 “Deuced fine girl, but a little too—cigarette? I’ll owe you one—
she’s a nice girl, but—the loveliest necktie you ever—would have
paid my board, but saw that elegant suit at—kicked me clear out of
the parlor without—that girl has certainly got a—haven’t a cent, old
man, or I would—old man said I had to go to work, but—look at that
blonde with the smiled right at me, and—the little one with the blue
—he struck me in the eye, and I won’t speak to him now—no, the
brunette in the white—I was real mad, and said, confound it—link
buttons, of course.”

At a corner sits a woman with blue goggles, grinding an organ, on

which stands a lamp chimney, in which burns a tallow candle.
Why the candle, the observer knoweth not. At her side crouches
her pale little boy. A philanthropist bends toward her with a nickel
between his fingers. Far away, among the wilds near Alvin, he has a
little boy about the same age, and his heart is touched. The little boy
springs up. He has a cigarette in his mouth, and he hurls a big fire-
cracker between the philanthropist’s feet. It explodes; the boy yells
with delight; and the philanthropist says: “Gol darn the kid” and
reserves his nickel for beer.

Gazing with far off, longing eyes into a show window that glistens
with diamonds and jewelry, stands a woman.
Her black dress and veil proclaim that she is a widow. One year
ago the strong arm upon which she leaned with such love and
security was her pride and joy. Tonight, beneath the sod of the
churchyard, it is turning back to dust. And yet, she is not altogether
desolate. She has sweet memories of her loved one to sustain her;
and besides that, she is holding to the arm of the man she is
engaged to marry when her time of mourning is up, and she is out
selecting an engagement ring.

A policeman lurks in the shadow of an awning with his club in his

hand ready to strike.
Two doors away there lives an alderman who voted against his
being put on the force. It will not be long before the alderman’s little
boy will come out on the sidewalk and shoot off a Roman candle,
and then the policeman will strike; a city ordinance will be carried
out, and a little boy carried in.

A man steps up to a salesman in a fancy goods store.

“I want to get something,” he says, “for my wife’s mother. I think
—”
“James,” calls the salesman, “show this gentleman the 5-cent
counter.” Merchants who make a study of their customers are quick
to know what they want.
A man who is unmistakably a clergyman goes into a grocery store
that is next door to a saloon. The salesman attends upon him. He
buys 10 cents worth of minced meat for pies, and then lingers,
clearing his throat.
“Anything else?” asks the salesman.
The clerical-looking man fumbles with his white cambric tie, and
says:
“Tomorrow will be Christmas, you know day of holy thoughts—
peace on earth, and—and—and—our hearts should carol forth
praises however, we must dine—er—er—mince pie, you know; the
little ones in the family enjoy it—have the meat here—thought,
perhaps—something to flavor—just a drop of—”
 “Here, Jimmy,” yells the salesman, “go in next door and get this
gent a pint of whisky.”

Christmas brings pleasure to many; it brightens some lives that

hardly ever know sunshine; it is abused by too many and made a
season of revelry and sin; but to the little ones it is a joy forever, so
let the tin horns blow and the red drums rattle, for those restless
little feet and those grimy little hands come first in the making up of
Heaven’s kingdom.
Merry Christmas to all.
(Houston Daily Post, Wednesday morning, December 25, 1895.)
New Year’s Eve and How It Came to Houston

Sketched at Random as the Old Year Passed

We that would properly welcome the new year should view it with
the eye of an optimist, and sing its praises with the coated tongue of
a penitent.
We should dismiss from our hearts the cold precept that history
repeats itself, and strive to believe that the deficiencies of the day
will be supplied by the morrow. Since fancy whispers to us that at
the stroke of midnight the old order will change, yielding to the new,
let us put aside, if possible, all knowledge to the contrary and revel
in the fairy tale told by the merry bells.
Man’s arbitrary part of the time into hours, days and years causes
no perceptible jolt beneath the noiseless pneumatic tire of the cycle
of years. No mortal tack can puncture that wheel. Old Father Time is
a “scorcher,” and he rides without lamp or warning bell. The years
that are as mile-stones to us are as gravel spurned beneath him. But
to us, of few days and an occasional night off, they serve as
warnings to note the hour upon the face of a mighty clock upon
which the hands move silently and are never turned back.
The New Year is feminine. There is no question but that the world
has become badly mixed as to the gender of time. And again, the
New Year is no cherubic debutante with eyes full of prophetic joys,
but a grim and ancient spinster who flutters coyly into our presence
with a giddy giggle, rejuvenated for the occasion. We have made
obeisance to those same charms time out of mind; we have
whispered soft nothings into those same ears many moons ago; we
have lightly brushed those painted and powdered cheeks in time
gone by when they glowed with the damask bloom of youth. But let
us hug once more the dear delusion. Let us say that she is fair and
fresh as the rising morn, and make unto ourselves a season of mirth
and heedless joy.
The fiddles strike up and the hautboys sigh. Your hand, sweet, coy
New Year—take care of that rheumatic knee—come, let us foot it as
the gladsome bells proclaim your debut—number 1896.

The last day of the year is generally spent in laying in as big a stock
as possible of things suitable for use the next day for swearing-off
purposes.
It is so much easier to resolve to do without anything when we
have just had too much of it. How easy it is on New Year’s day, just
after dinner, when we are full of good resolutions and turkey, to
kneel down and solemnly affirm that we will never touch food again.
The man who on the morning of the glad New Year stands trembling
with fear on the center table, while snakes and lizards merrily play
hide and seek on the floor, finds no difficulty in forswearing the
sparkling bowl. The dark brown, copper-riveted taste which
accompanies what is known to the medical profession as the New
Year tongue, is a great incentive to reform.
The beautiful siren-like, Christmas-present cigar that is so fair to
gaze upon, when lit turns like a viper and stings us into abjuring my
Lady Nicotine forever.
When we attempt to sit upon the early scarlet runner, hand-
embroidered rocking-chair cushion presented to us by our maiden
aunt and slide out upon the floor upon our spinal vertebrae, we feel
inclined to kneel in our own blood with a dagger between our teeth
and swear by heaven never to sit down again.
When we go upon the streets wearing the neckties presented to
us by our wife, and the loiterer upon the corner sayeth, “Ha, Ha,”
and the newsboy inquireth, “What is it?” is it any wonder that we
curse the necktie habit as an enemy of man, and on New Year’s
morning swear to abjure it forever?
When we say farewell, and with clenched teeth wend our way into
the shirt made for us by the fair hands of our partner in sorrow, and
find the collar tighter than the last one worn by the late lamented
Harry Hayward, and the tail thereof more biased than a populist
editorial, and the bosom in billowy waves that heave upon our manly
chest like a polonaise on a colored cook on Emancipation Day, and
the sleeves dragging the floor as we walk about, saying, “It’s so
nice, my dear—just what I wanted,” what wonder that we register
an oath with the Lord of Abraham and Jacob as the glad New Year
bells peal out, nevermore to wear again a garment made by that
portion of the earth’s inhabitants that sits on the floor to put on its
shoes, and regards the male torso as a waste basket for remnant AA
sheeting and misfit Butterick patterns?
There are so many things we take a delight in forswearing on New
Year’s Day.

While strolling aimlessly about the streets of Houston on the last

evening of 1895, little sights and sounds obtrude themselves and
reveal the spirit of the time, as little pulse beats indicate the general
tone of the human system.
It is nearly 6 o’clock, and there is a lively crowd moving upon the
sidewalks. Here comes a lovely little shopgirl, as neat and trim as a
fashion plate. Her big hat plumes wave, and her little boot heels
beat a merry tictac upon the pavement. Debonaire and full of life
and fun, she moves, cheery and happy, on her way to supper. Her
bright eyes flash sidelong glances at the jeweler’s windows as she
passes. Some day she hopes to see upon her white finger one of
those sparkling diamonds. Her lips curve in a meaning smile. She is
thinking of the handsome, finely-dressed man who comes so often
to her counter in the big store, ostensibly to buy her wares. How
grand he is, and what eloquent eyes and a lovely mustache he has!
She does not know his name; but, well, she knows that he cares a
little for the goods she sells. How soft his voice as he asks the price
of this and that, and with what romantic feeling he says that we will
surely have rain if the clouds gather sufficiently! She wonders where
he is now. She trips around a corner and meets him face to face.
She gives a little scream, and then her face hardens and a cold
glitter comes into her eye.
On his arm is a huge market basket, from which protrudes the
cold, despairing legs of a turkey, from which the soul has filed. Two
yards of celery trail behind him; turnip greens, cauliflower and the
alleged yellow yam nestle against his arm. On his brow is confusion;
in his face are hung the scarlet banners of a guilty conscience; in his
romantic eyes she reads the tell-tale story of a benedict; by the
hand he leads a cold-nosed but indisputable little boy.
She elevates her charming head to a supercilious angle, snaps out
to herself the one word “married!” and is gone.
He jerks the limp, sad corpse of the turkey to the other side,
snatches the cold-nosed little boy about five feet through the air and
vows that never again will he go to market during the joyous year of
1896.
It is New Year’s eve.

A citizen is restlessly pacing the floor of his sitting room. There is

evidently some crisis near, for his brow is contracted, and his hands
are nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back. He is waiting
expectantly for something. Suddenly the door opens and his family
physician enters smiling and congratulatory. The citizen turns upon
him a look full of inquiry.
“All is well,” says the physician. “Three fine boys, and everybody
getting along first rate.”
 “Three?” says the citizen in a tone of horror, “Three!” He kneels on
the floor and in fervent accents exclaims: “Tomorrow will be the New
Year, and I hereby solemnly swear that—”
Breaking in upon his resolutions comes the merry chime of the
New Year bells.

The people come and the people go.

In the stores, looking over remnants of Christmas goods, are to be
found that class of people who received presents on Christmas Day
without giving any, and are now striving to make late and lame
amends by returning the compliment on New Year’s Day. The New
Year’s present is a delusion and contains about as much warmth and
soul as a eulogy on the South by the New York Sun.
Two ladies are at a bargain counter, maintaining an animated
conversation in low but dangerous tones.
“She sent me,” says one of them, “a little old nickel-plated card
receiver on Christmas Day, and I know she bought it at a racket
store. Goodness knows, I never would have thought of sending her
anything, but now I’ve got to return it, of course—the old deceitful
thing and I don’t know what to get for her. Let’s see—oh yes; I have
it now. You know they say she used to be a chambermaid in a
St. Louis hotel before she was married; I’ll just send her this little
silver pin with a broom on it. Wonder if she’s bright enough to
understand?”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” says the other lady. “That reminds me that
George gave me a nice new opera cloak for a Christmas present,
and I just forgot all about him. What are those horn collar-buttons
worth?”
“Fifteen cents a dozen,” says the salesman.
“Let me see” says the lady meditatively—“Yes, I will; George has
been so good to me. Give me three of those buttons, please.”
 Viva el rey; el rey está muerto!
The Spanish phrase looks better than the hackneyed French, and
it is correct, having been carefully revised by one of the most reliable
tamale dealers on Travis Street. The old year is passing; let us stand
in with the new. In happy Houston homes light feet are dancing
away the hours ’neath holly and mistletoe, but outside stalk those
who inherit want and care and misery, to whom the coming season
brings nothing of hope or joy.
Two young men are wending their way up Preston Street. One is
holding the other by the arm and guiding his steps. The sidewalk
seems to run in laps and curves, twisting itself into hills and hollows
and labyrinthine mazes. One of the young men thinks he is dying.
The other one is not sure about it, but he hopes he is not mistaken.
They are both good friends of the old year, and they hate to see it
leave so badly that they have sewed their sorrow up in a sack and
tried to drown it.
“Goo’ bye, old frien’,” says the dying one. “Go ’way and leave me
to die here on thish boundless prairie. Sands of life’s runnin’ out like
everyshing. Zat las’ dish chick’n salad’s done its work. Never see
fazzer’n muzzer any more.”
“Bob,” says the other one, “you’re ’fern’l idiot. Never shay die. Zis
town Houston can’t be more’n ten miles away. We’re right on Harvey
Wilshon’s race track now goin’ round’n round. Whazzer mazzer wiz
livin’ for country’n so forth?”
“Can’t do it, old boy; ’stremities gettin’ coldsh now. Light’s fadin’
out of eyes’n worldsh fadin’ from view. Can’t shay ’er prayer, old boy,
’fore vital spark expires! Can’tcher say lay’m down to sleep, Jim?”
“Don’t be a fool, Bob; come on, lesh find city Houston ’n git a
drink.”
“Jim, I’ dead man. Been wicked ’n told liesh, ’n played poker.
Zhere ain’t no hope for handshome, unscrup’loush shociety man like
me. Been giddy butterfly ’n broke senty-five lovin’ creaturesh hearts
—jus’ listen Jim, I hear angelsh shingin’ an’ playin’ harpsh, ’n I c’n
see beau’ful lights ’n heavensh wiz all kind colors flashin’ from
golden gates. Jim, don’t you hear angel throng shingin’ shongs ’n
see lights shinin’ in New Jerushalem?”
“Bob, you d’graded lun’tic, don’t you know what that ish? That’s
Salvation Army singin’, ’n Ed Kiam’s ’lectric sign you shee. Now I
know where we’re at. Zere’s five saloonsh on nex’ block.”
“Jim, you’ve shaved m’ life. Lesh make one more effort ’fore I die,
’n tell barkeep’ put plenty ice in it.”

Midnight draws on apace, and while some welcome with revelry the
advent of the New Year, others stray in the land of dreams, and
allow it to approach unheralded.
Ladies over 30 years of age take on a grim look about the jaw,
and bend with a deadly glitter in their eyes over the article in the
Sunday paper that treats of “How to avoid wrinkles,” and sadly shake
their heads when they read that Madame Bonjour, the famous
French beauty, kept young and lovely until after 110 years of age by
using Bunker’s Bunco Balm.
The New Year brings to them sad prospects of another gray hair,
or a crow’s foot around the eye.

To the little folks the season is but a prolongation of Christmas, and

they welcome the turning over of the new leaf without a misgiving.
Would that we all might trace a record upon it as fair as that their
chubby hands will scrawl.
Happy New Year to all.
(Houston Daily Post, Wednesday morning, January 1, 1896.)
 Watchman, What of the Night?

About the time that Alonzo bids his Melissa the fourteenth farewell
at the garden gate, and pater familias calls angrily from his noisily
raised window, there sets forth into the city a straggling army of
toilers whose duties lead them into laborious ways while the great
world slumbers more or less sweetly upon its pillow.
Time was when all honest burghers were night-capped and
somnolent at an early hour, and the silent streets knew naught but
the echoing tread of the watchman who swung his lantern down the
lonesome ways and started at his own loud cry of “All’s Well.” But
modern ideas have almost turned the night into day. While we
slumber at home, hundreds are toiling that we may have our
comforts in the morning. The baker is at work upon our morning
rolls; the milkman is at his pump; the butcher is busy choosing his
oldest cow to kill; the poor watchman is slumbering in a cold
doorway; the fireman is on the alert; the drug clerk sits heavy-eyed,
prepared to furnish our paregoric or court plaster; the telephone girl
chews gum and reads her novels while the clock chimes wearily on;
the printer clicks away at his machine; the reporter prowls through
the streets hunting down items to go with our coffee and toast; the
policeman lurks at a corner, ready to smash our best hat with his
deadly locust.
These night workers form a little world to themselves. They grow
to know each other, and there seems to be a sympathy among them
on account of their peculiar life. The night policemen, and morning
newspaper men, the cab drivers, the street cleaners (not referring to
Houston now), the late street car drivers, the all-night restaurant
men, the “rounders,” the wiernerwurst men and the houseless
“bums” come to know and greet one another each night on their
several regular or aimless rounds. Only those who are called by
business or curiosity to walk into this night world know of the
strange sights it presents.
At 12 o’clock the night in the city may be said to begin. By that
time the day toilers are at home, and the night shift is on. The street
cars have ceased to run, and the last belated citizen, hurrying home
from “the lodge” or the political caucus is, or should be, at home.
Even the slow-moving couples who have been to the theater and
partaken of oysters at the “café for ladies and gents,” have bowed to
the inevitable and reluctantly turned homeward.
And now come forth things that flourish only in the shade; white-
faced things with owl-like eyes who prowl in the night and greet the
dawn with sullen faces and the sunlight with barred doors and
darkened windows.
Here and there down the streets are arc lights, and swinging
doors, and about are grouped a pale and calm-faced gentry with
immaculate clothes and white flexible hands. They are soft-voiced
and courteous, but their eyes are shifty and their tread light and
cruel as a tiger’s. They are gamblers, and they will “rob” you as
politely and honestly as any stock broker or railroad manipulator in
Christendom. Byron says:

“The devil’s in the moon for mischief; not the longest day;
The twenty-first of June sees half the mischief in a wicked way
As does three hours on which the moonshine falls.”

And still worse; a night when there is no moon to shine. Darkness is

the great awakener of latent passions and the chief inciter to evil.
When night comes, the drunkard doubles his cups; the roisterer’s
voice is unrestrained; even the staid and sober citizen, the bulwark
of civil and social government looses the checkrein of his demeanor
and mingles in the relaxations of the social circle. The tongue of
gallantry takes on new license, and even the brow and lip of
innocence itself invite admiration with a bolder and a surer charm.
What wonder, then, that lawlessness o’erreaches itself, and sin
flaunts her flaming skirts in the very face of purity when darkness
reigns!
In the all-night saloons there is always someone to be found. At
little tables in the corners one can always see two or three worn and
shady-looking customers, sitting silent, brooding over the wrongs the
world has dealt them, or talking in low, querulous tones to each
other of their troubles. A smart policeman, with shining buttons and
important step, goes down the street twirling his club. He tries the
doors carefully of the big stores, the wholesale houses and the
jewelry stores to see if they are securely locked. He never makes a
mistake and wastes his time trying the fastenings of the small shops.
A few gay young men stroll by occasionally, with their coat collars
turned up, laughing loudly and scattering slang and coarse jests.
Down gloomy side streets steal a few dim figures, clinging to the
shadows, walking with dragging, shuffling feet down the inclined
plane of eternity. These are disreputable, but harmless, creatures,
who have stolen out to buy cocaine and opium with which to dull the
bite of misery’s sharp tooth. In high windows dim lights burn, where
anxious love watches by the bedside of suffering mortality through
the long night watches, listening to the moans that it cannot quiet,
and wondering at the mysterious Great Plan that so hides its
workings toward a beneficent end.
Down by the bayou throb the great arteries of the town, where all
night long the puffing of steam and the click of piston rods keep its
life streams moving; where men move like demons in the red glow
of furnace fires; where snorting engines creep in and out among
miles of laden freight cars, and lanterns dance and circle amid a
wilderness of tracks and shifting trains like big eccentric fire-flies.
One can always see a few men perched on high stools at the all-
night lunch counters. They are for the most part members of the
night-working force, telegraph operators, night clerks, railroad men,
messenger boys, streetcar conductors, reporters, cab drivers,
printers and watchmen, who drop in to drink a cup of coffee or eat a
sandwich.
 The night clerk at the drug store sees much of the sadness and
some of the badness of life. Customers stray into the store at all
times of the night. The man with the disarranged attire and
impatient manner is a frequent visitor. He has a doctor’s prescription
for some sick member of his family, and thinks it a greater blessing
that he finds a store open and a clerk ready to compound his
medicine than to be obliged to tug at a night bell for half an hour to
wake up a sleepy clerk, as in times gone by. Desperate-looking men
sometimes come in to buy poison—generally morphine—and
occasionally a hopeless, wretched woman with eyes big with hope
deferred and an unpitying fate, will creep in and beg for something
that will stay the pain forever. Often, in the darkest hour that they
say comes before dawn, a man will enter in a hurry, buy a few
pounds of prepared chalk and slip around the corner and drive away
in a wagon containing two big bright tin cans full of pure, rich Jersey
milk.
In the infirmaries and hospitals the nurses and genial-faced Sisters
of Mercy bend over the beds of sufferers all through the dreary
night, and bring to many an aching heart, as well as to pain-racked
bodies, consolation and solace. The doctors, too, see much of the
seamy side of night life. They are out by day and by night; the
telephone rouses them from warm beds at all hours; whenever a
knife flashes in a brawl, the doctor must be sent for; if a lady feels a
nervous fluttering at the heart, out must come the carriage, and he
must be sent for to feel her pulse in the middle of the night. Often
he watches at the bedside of some stricken wife or child, while the
husband is away roistering in evil company.

On a dry goods box sits a tramp, gently swinging his feet. It is 2

o’clock in the morning, and there he sits chewing a splinter with a
frequent side glance toward the policeman on the next corner. What
is he doing there? Nothing.
 Has he any hopes, fears, dislikes, ambitions, hates, loves or
desires? Very few. It may be that his is the true philosophy. John
Davidson says of him in a poem:

I hang about the streets all day,

At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise, betimes, the morning’s scout,
For through the year I always hear
Aloud, aloft, a ghostly shout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops,
My skin shows here and there;
About my face, like seaweed, droops
My tangled beard, my tangled hair,
From cavernous and shaggy brows
My stony eyes untroubled stare.
I know no handicraft, no art,
But I have conquered fate;
For I have chosen the better part,
And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate;
With placid breath, on pain and death,
My certain alms, alone I wait.
And daily, nightly comes the call,
The pale unechoing note,
The faint “Aha” sent from the wall
Of Heaven, but from no ruddy throat
Of human breed or seraph’s seed,
A phantom voice that cries by rote.

This is a state closely bordering upon Nirvana. Tennyson struck

another chord that sooner or later most people come to feel, when
he said:

“For, not to desire or admire,

If a man could learn it, were more
 Than to walk all day like a sultan
Of old in a garden of spice.”

The tramp sits out the weary hours of the night or else wanders in
dreary aimlessness about the streets, or crawls into some vestibule
or doorway for a few brief hours of unquiet slumber.
His is a pitiful solution of life at its best, for, though he has
acquired a numbness in place of what was once a keen pain, it is
directly contrary to the plan of the human mind to await in hopeless
stolidity the “certain alms” of death.

One of the most important of the world’s industries carried on at

night is the making of the great morning daily newspaper. The
average reader who unfolds his paper above his coffee cup in the
morning rarely reflects that it represents the labor of half a hundred
men, a great number of whom bend their lagging steps homeward
only when the newsboy has begun to wake the morning echoes with
his familiar cry.
When night comes the editorial day-force is ready for home; the
Associated Press wire is rattling in its messages from all parts of the
world; the telegraph editor is busy putting “heads” on the type-
written copy of the telegraph operator, and the night editor has
rolled up his sleeves, laid his club handy, and breathes a silent
prayer for help to the Goddess of Invective as he begins to wade
through his pile of missives from correspondents. The State wires
are opened, and the messenger boys are beginning to arrive with
specials.
The city editor and his force are in, and are busy writing out the
local news from the notes they have taken during the day.
The phone rings, a reporter seizes his hat and is off to get the
item—perhaps an affray—someone run over by a wagon—a fire-a
hold-up, or burglary—something that the good citizens must not
miss as they eat their hash and muffins at breakfast.
The editorial room at night sees many strange characters and
scenes. People come up on all kinds of curious missions.
A citizen stumbles up the stairs and nearly falls into the room. The
force simply glances at him and keeps on working. His hair is
frowzled; his coat is buttoned in the wrong buttonholes; he wears no
collar; and in his blinking eyes, a roguish twinkle strives to overcome
the effects of loss of sleep. He is a well-known citizien, and the force
marvels slightly at his unusual condition. He staggers over to the
telegraph operator and clutches the railing around his desk.
“Shay,” he says in a bibulous voice, “wantscher to telgraph startlin’
news to ze outside world. Cable ’m to Europe ’n spread glad tidings
to all shivilized countries. Get shome bull’tins out at onesh.”
The telegraph operator does not look up, and the gentleman tacks
with difficulty and steers against the railroad editor.
“Whatsher doin’?” he says.
“Railroads,” says that gentleman shortly.
“Zat’s ze sing. Gotter bigesht railroad item ever saw. Give you two
columns cause tremendoush ’citement railroad shircles.”
The railroad editor writes calmly on, and the visitor gives him a
reproachful look and bears down upon the city editor.
“Shay, friend,” he says, “gozzer bigges scoop ’n city news world
ever heard. No ozzer paper ’n town knows it.”
“What is it?” says the city editor, without turning his head.
“Appalin’ sensation ’n Firs’ Ward. Shend four, five reporters my
house at onesh. I’m goin’ back now. Had twins my housh when lef’
home. Goin’ back to shee ’f any more ’rived. Come back ’n let you
know if find any. Sho long, gen’lemen. Keep two columns on front
page open ’till get back.”
Later on three or four young gentlemen drop in. They speak low,
and are courteous and conciliatory. They are well-dressed, carry
canes and seem to have been out enjoying themselves. One or two
of them have torn coats and disarranged ties. One has a
handkerchief bound over his eye. They confer deferentially with the
city editor, and certain words and phrases, half-caught, tell the tale
of their mission: “Unfortunate affair—police—best families—publicity
—not seriously hurt—upper circles too much wine—keep out names
—heated argument—very sorry—friends again.”
Comes the hot lunch man with his basket filled with weirnerwurst
and mustard, ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, cold chicken. The staff
is too busy, and he lugs his basket upstairs where the printers are at
work.
A boy brings in a special telegram. The night editor opens and
reads it, and then springs to his feet. He grasps a handful of his hair
and kicks his chair ten feet away. “——— ——— ——— ——— ———
———” he yells. “Listen to this.”
It is a special by wire from a country correspondent. This is what
it says: “Spring has opened here. The birds are singing merrily in the
trees and the peach trees are in full bloom. The weather has
moderated considerably and the farmers are hopeful. The fruit crop
will be assured unless we should have a cold snap sufficient to injure
the buds.”
“——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———” remarks the night
editor again, and then, his vocabulary failing to express his feelings,
he bites his cigar in two and sits down again.
A man in a seedy frock coat and a big walking cane saunters in
and draws a chair close to the night editor’s desk.
“When I was with Lee in the Valley of Virginia—” he begins.
“I am sorry you are not with him now,” says the night editor.
The visitor sighs, borrows a cigar and a match, and drifts out to
see if he can get the ear of someone of a more indulgent temper.
Between 1 and 2 o’clock the city editor and his assistants are
through their work, the railroad man turns in “30” and they troop
away, leaving the night editor to remain until the last.
 In the composing room the printers have been working away since
7 o’clock on their keyboards like so many Paderewskis. They quit
about 3:30 a.m. As the night editor leaves, another army has begun
its march. These are the people who rise at 2 or 3 o’clock in the
morning. The mailing clerks are preparing the papers for the out-of-
town mails; the newsboys are crowding around for their papers, and
abroad in the land are audible the first faint sounds of the coming
day.
Wheels are rattling over the dark streets. The milk man is abroad,
and the butcher’s cart is making its rounds. Policemen relax their
vigilance, and around the coffee stands is gathered quite a crowd of
night workers who drop in for something hot before going home.
It is five hours yet before my lady arouses in her boudoir, and
hundreds of her slaves are astir in her service. When she seats
herself at ten at the breakfast table arrayed in becoming morning
toilet, she never thinks of her loyal vassals that have been toiling
during the night to prepare her dainty breakfast. Miles away the
milkman and his assistants rise at 2 o’clock to procure the milk for
her tea; the baker many hours earlier to furnish her toast and rolls,
and the newspaper she so idly glances at represents twenty-four
hours’ continuous labor of the brainiest, most intelligent, courtly,
learned and fascinating set of men in the world.
The night editor stops, perhaps, to eat a light lunch at a stand,
and chat a few minutes with the night workers he meets there. As
he wends his way homeward, he meets a citizen who has for once
for some reason arisen at what seems to him an unholy hour of the
morning.
“Good morning,” says the citizen, “what in the world are you doing
up so early?”
“Oh,” says the night editor, “we newspaper men have to rise real
early in order to get the paper out by breakfast time.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” says the citizen. “I never thought of
that!”
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, March 29, 1896.)
 Newspaper Poets
The journalist-poet seems to be a hybrid born of the present day
when rapidity and feverish haste are the necessary conditions to
success. There is hardly a newspaper of the first class in the land
that does not include a jingler in its staff.
A journalist is one thing, and a poet should be another. A
combination of the two—or rather a man who tries to do the work of
both—is very nearly a union of opposites.
A journalist is a recorder of transient impressions; he seizes
whatever is worthy of note from the swiftly-moving stream of
current events, and stamping his data with the seal of his own
originality—if he possesses any—he flings his paper damp from the
press at the heads of the public and is off pursuing fresh quarry. He
is a machine—but of admirable efficiency—that threshes the chaff
from the million happenings of the day, and delivers the wheat to
those who would flounder helplessly among the piled sheaves if left
to themselves.
The poet should be of different mold. He should not be vexed with
the task of winnowing, but, with the golden grains laid before him by
his more active brother of the winged feet, he should be allowed to
sit apart and view life in its entirety with calmer, larger, and
unobstructed vision. A poet-journalist may rise to be a journalist of
renown, but he will never be a great poet. The muse is too shy to
appear daily at the bidding of an ink-grimed copy boy. In glancing
over the daily papers, we occasionally find a verse of merit, that,
though evidently scribbled during the daily grind that must come,
whether inspiration impels or not, yet has some touch of the true
fire. Indeed, many gems that will long be remembered have thus
been dashed off in a few minutes, but these are exceptions.
 Some paper mentioned recently that Frank Stanton wrote his
exposition ode at his desk amid the confusion of a newspaper office
in two hours, fanning himself with one hand and writing with the
other. The ode was said to have been a good one, and much
commendation was bestowed upon the writer. Now, this is unjust to
Mr. Stanton’s fame, for he can write poetry, and the people will
persist in praising those daily jingles of his in the Atlanta
Constitution. No one seems to suggest that he could have written a
much better ode by taking a day or two over it, and not overheating
himself and having to waste so much vital energy in fanning.

The idea intended to be advanced is that it is more than likely that

newspaper versifiers as a rule do not claim to be poets, and would
rather be known as journalists who sometimes drop into rhyming
skits as a relaxation and for diversity.
The great public, though, must dub anything poetry that rhymes,
and often spoil a good journalist’s reputation by insisting on his
being passed on to posterity as a poor poet.
A good paragraph on a timely subject often gains a spiciness by
being turned in rhyme—especially in the form of parody—but our
newspaper poets have not yet learned the fact that an article
uninteresting in the form of prose will not gain in merit when written
even in the most faultlessly metred verse. Somebody has described
poetry as lines of equal length, with rhymes at the end and sense in
the middle. The daily column which so many newspaper versifiers
now turn out is a mistake, if it is poetic fame they are seeking. The
“demnition grind” as the wheel turns will soon exhaust all the water
in the Pierian spring, as the grist itself bears witness.
This is said in reference to those who are really ambitious of
winning poetic laurels. Those who attach nothing more than
ephemeral importance to their topical skits need no criticism, for
they will incur no disappointment.
 Some of the more serious newspaper rhymesters evidently are
making attempts more ambitious than the time occupied in their
preparation warrants, and the hasty work and lack of finish and
pruning plainly visible in their efforts are to be deplored.
If the truth were known, inspiration has played a small part in the
production of the most famous poems of the world.
It is the patient toil, the unremitting and laborious cutting away of
inferior parts; the accurate balance and the careful polish that
develops the diamond from the rough stone to the perfect gem.
One poem a month from some of our prolific writers might claim
our admiration for thirty days, at least, but three in a day have a
tendency to force us to save up a portion of our appreciation for the
three more we will have dished up to us in the morning.
Our Southern poets especially are guilty of over-production. Those
among them most generally accepted as representative voices
among our writers of verse are occupying positions in which they are
doing better work in other than poetic lines. A few of them have
talent that would bring them fame if allowed space, time and scope
for full development and use.
Mr. Will T. Hale, whose poems appear in the Memphis Commercial-
Appeal, shows a clear and praiseworthy conception of the situation
when he says:

“I dare say that Tennessee poets, including among the many,

Walter Malone, Howard McGee, R. M. Fields, Leland Rankin,
Mrs. Hilliard, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Gilchrist, Mrs. Barrow and
Mr. Lamb, have written jingles which they never called poetry,
never expected to be taken as anything more than ephemeral
things to be glanced at and forgotten; written in rhyme because
as easily written as a prose paragraph. I, an humble versifier, a
toiler in newspaperdom, like my confreres throughout the State,
arrogating nothing to myself, but pleased if my writings are
copied and complimented beyond their deserts—I have done so.
I shall continue to do so. Why should it be insisted that I want
 to cram it down one’s throat as poetry? Let me jinglify if I want
to.”

Mr. Hale realizes the transient nature of such verse as the journalist
must needs write to fill space, although he has written in this way
some gems that study could scarcely improve upon.

It is doubtful if Mr. Frank Stanton, who has struck some high and
abiding chords upon his lyre, could be, or would care to be,
remembered by the jingles he turns out daily for his newspaper. Yet,
if the popular impression is correct, Mr. Stanton aspires to poetic
proficiency and fame.
One poem on which he would spend days of labor would do much
more toward gaining him reputation than the wonderful number of
rhymes that he turns out within that space of time.
A short time ago he dashed off two or three verses on a Midway
dancer, called something like “Papinta,” that had a rhythm and a lilt
and swinging grace to it that were fascinating and truly admirable.
The poem was delicate, airy and sprite-like, and one could almost
see the form of the dancer and hear the castanets and guitars while
reading the musical lines.
But the amount of verse he writes daily will not permit of such a
high average, and the moral of it all is that, while he is succeeding
as a journalist and an interesting writer upon the day’s topics, his
future as a poet is not being benefited by his overproduction of
poetry at present.

The late Eugene Field might in time have become a poet of

considerable ability, but there is little question that his newspaper
labors were too onerous to allow of a thorough development of his
poetic powers. The verses he wrote have always been popular
because they were simple and musical, and addressed themselves to
an almost universal sympathy for children, and his poems, charming
and lovable as they were, stopped short of being great. It was the
subject and the sentiment, rather than the literary proficiency of his
poetical work, that made him so widely known. A poem to be great
and long-remembered must be erected in the same way that a
house is built. The foundation, the superstructure, the architectural
proportions, the ornament and finish must be the result of care and
labor, or else it abideth not.
Judge Albion W. Tourgee, whose opinions on matters literary
deserve respect, however it be concerning his political proclivities,
advises poetic as well as other literary aspirants to always work in a
room with an open fire—not for the sake of the fire, but in order that
he may burn five sheets for every one he sends to the printer.
W. S. Porter.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)
 Part Three
Newspaper Poetry
 Topical Verse
(Dramatis Personae: One singer, one baritone
horn, one bass drum.)

There was a man in our town,

And he was very lazy;
He made his wife do everything,
Till she was almost crazy.
Although he was a Christian man,
He made her come upstairs
And wake him up to say “Amen!”
When she had said his prayers.

One night before he went to sleep

He made her kneel and pray
And when she finished, wake him up;
Then this good man did say:
“Oh, Lord, please answer my wife’s prayer.”
And then to sleep he fell.
The Lord did, and the man awoke
To find himself in ———.
Baritone horns “Ta-ta-rum.”
Bass Drums “Boom.”
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)
 Cape Jessamines
“Cape jessamines! Remove them from my sight!
I can not bear that odor, cloying sweet,
That hangs about them like a heavy sigh.
They bring back to my memory haunting days
Of deep regret, and open all my wounds again.
Fair, dream-like flower, that in this Southern
town
Within the dark green copses of thy birth
Hangeth faint and heavy with thine own sweet
breath,
To me ye are a mockery, and your odor foul.
Come, sit thee down, Rinaldo, I will tell thee all.
Knewest thou fair Rosamond, the Houston belle,
Who years ago, like some fair Lorelei of old
Upon the hearts of all our gallants set her feet?
I loved her madly and I swore to win
Her from the suing courtiers in her train.
Alas! Rinaldo—this sudden faintness—quick—
some wine!
Ah! thanks, it gives me strength to tell the tale.
For years I have not been myself. Since one
Sad night that in my mem’ry burns white-hot
Like some sad bark that washes, derelict
Within the trough of sullen alien tides,
I’ve drifted down the mournful muttering seas;
But at the smell of jessamines, my brain
Quick strikes those aching chords of old,
And all the latest agony revives.
It grasps me now—more wine, Rinaldo—thanks;
I’m better now. ’Twas on one summer’s night
I stood with Rosamond to count the stars.
With downcast eyes and softly heaving breast,
She pledged a kiss for every star that fell.
My pretty, sweet, shy dove. Methinks they fell
Too seldom till, anon, some frolic boys
Sent up a sky rocket, and when it burst
Upon her lips I pressed full seventeen.
But—peace! I wander from my theme.
At last my love o’erpowered, and I spake
In thrilling tones, and wooed her there.
What clogs my heart? More wine, Rinaldo,
quick!
Oh, then she fastened on me those dark orbs,
In them illimitable sadness, and such store
Of pity that her face angelic seemed.
More wine, Rinaldo—thanks. I’m better now.
The while the garden there was heavy with
The odor of cape jessamines, and pinned
Upon her breast a cluster of them lay.
And in her hair some snowy buds were twined;
Almost oppressive was the odor of the flower.
And that is why the smell of jessamines
Unto my heart such bitter thoughts recalls.
Rinaldo, quick! A glass of wine! My brain
Is reeling! Another glass! Is there no more?
Well, then, I’ll cease. I married Rosamond
And since then I can’t stand those blooming
Blarsted cape jessamine flowers. See?”
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)
 The Cricket
When the moonlight falls from the star-strewn
sky;
Comes the tune of the mockingbird;
When the morning dawns and the roses sigh,
Then the lark’s sweet voice is heard.
When all things smile
And the hours beguile,
Then the hearts of the singers are stirred.

When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink

low;
And the death watch ticks in the wall,
And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe,
Comes the cricket’s merry call.
In the hour of fear,
With his note of cheer,
Rings his sprightly madrigal.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)
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