717 116 100 :~: i, I '~ i cl,.~ -i x; r - ~ ~~:: ~. ~:: i= C T J,1 L Miss Understanding, Flattery Co. Mliss Understanding, Flattery ~jCo. BUBBLING WATERS THE LABADIE SHOP 1925 COULD I SING If I could sing I'd make the welkin ring and charm the birds that revel in the blue; I'd send high notes around the mountain tops, and clear, for you, dear you; the low to pits below the ocean's flow in chords as smooth as your velvet skin. I'd garlands weave of roses for your lovely brow in multicolored tones of golden melody and fill your soul with rhythmic spring if I could sing! If I could sing I'd flood your soulful eyes with silvery tears of joy; your nerves as restful as a sunny day I'd phrase; my heart I'd urge for dulcet-dreamy resonances and lay them on your soft and silent reveries, and to your wishes sweet fulfillment bring, if I could sing! If I could singr I'd make your life a long and lingering lay iof passion's symplhonies; in lulling evenings bring to you on euphonioius Nwing the thing no king could string on golden ring to please your tuneful ear, and with harmonious fling and swing I'd wVringll the rarest riches from the mines of melody, if I could sing! If I could sing I'd counterfeit the win(ls in cal and storm, the brooklet's tenor toics il liquid song, the cascade's baryttonic s ti-caressing woo, the deep-base belis -tkwrian roar and ring,I'd blend the sounds of all audition's sense, and in the noonday glory of love and joy I'd give them wingI'd surge thru all mankind a hurling, purling, twirling, swirling, sparkling, spirited, soulful stream of rhvthmic harmony if I could sing! Jo LABADIE March, 1924 [A week before he died I)r. Orville Ward Owen, of Baconian cypher fame, declared as a critic of poetry that the above lines where "splendid, wonderful." I wonder.--J. L.] TO JO LABADIE Dear bard of Bubblling Waters, Why say " If I Could Sing"? The rhythmic flow of your music Is like rippling rills in spring. There are notes above the mountains, And notes below the sea; The tuneful chords of your music Bring floods of melody. The garland sweet of roses You weave for a "lovely brow," And the golden wish in your music Are proof of your singing now. No need of "the brooklet's tenor," Nor the "base-bell's roar and ring," For out of your heart's own music Come the soulful songs you sing! MYRA P. WELLER. September 7, 1924. FIFTY-ONE It's good to have a firiend like Jo, Whose mind for dates is apropos. His w elcolne wishes (tho in rhyrne) Consolement bnngs for flight of time. Hlowever, why should we repine As years go flitting (down the line? "'Age," says some sage on page of truth, " Has its delights as well as youth." If one tra,, win a friend per year \Vhat wealth could fetch us greater cheer? And at that rate see what I've done: I've fifty wvon, Say fifty-one. HERMAN KUEHN. Some of the Writers A TOAST Here's to Joseph Labadie, Clear of mind and warm of heart; Chained by love and more than freeA child of Nature wed to Art. WILLIAM FRANCIS BARNARD, Author of "The Moods of Life," "The Tongues of Toil," Etc. RONDEL TO JO LABADIE My comrade speaks to me With voice both clear and glad: Come, let us agree, My comrade. He would I shall have had His dream of Liberty-- Methinks he is not sad! Hewrould that all shall see Visions of men not sadOf when each man shall be My comrade. FORREST BOWMAN. 1:05 A. M., February 15, 1918. TO JO LABADIE F'm out of Sing Sing-yes, just Now, But prob'ly not for long, With Jo Labadie to tempt me, Into devilment and wrong. With insidious suggestion To hold before my eyes, What would land me in the "cooler". Were I not so wise! He would make of me an Anarchist, With whiskers wild-disheveled hair, A'whooping down the avenue, With blood-shot eyes aglare, Scaring all the pdpulace, Along the thoroughfare. He would lead me out of freedom, And 'twould be my fate instead, That on my tombstone folks would read, " Hung by the Neck Till Dead"! M. DEC. H. JO LABADIE Jo Labadie, she mak de verse, She's rhym lik heveryting; She's write som ver fine song, by gar; H'I lik for hear her sing. Som tim she's write lik what you call De socialistic style; She's call dat mans som ver hard names Becos he's mak hees pile. She's say dey haint no kind hof law Dats wort ha pinch hof snuff; Han wen ha man's got hall he's need, Wy, den he's got h'enuf. By gar! hi lik wat Jo she's say. She's sur got de right dope, Han wen she's run for halderman She's be heled, hi hope; For wen dere's be no law for mak She's got snap lik heveryting, Han hall she's got for boder her His mak de song for sing. JAMES V. C. PERRY. WHAT SHALL WE DO? 'What shall we do for coal?" Cry' the witless multitude over the harvest of theirw^n ^folly, Shivering like autumni leaves in the blighting blasts That teach fertile lessons more convincingly than argument; Hecause, forsooth! those into whose unsocial S handsthey have given wrongful power use it (As power is always used) To the advantage of those who consciouslyi possess it. I's he notdullard indeed who loosens monopolistic vipers on his wn hearthstone and hopes not to be bitten? Is hl not foolhardy truly who loads his enenml's gusll And bares his blustering- breast to their violence I4 he not ninnyhammer in fad vho yields up his rights to otheris And expes that theshll notet gain it? Who shall profit by ownership if not the owner;~r~ x ~~~~I Heedless of the voice of wisdom that 1 these In love of comrades, In yearning for righteousness, In sympathy with joy and justice, In hope of symmetrical rights, Has cried out warnil1y: "Sell not your birthright for a miess of pottage!l "Make not property of things not fashioned b human hands-.Of things not hallowed by the cunning skill of For they who own them own those who must use them 1" Heedless, alas I of this loving and warnful voice,, Careless as the winds that scatter thistle seed o~& the neu ral.Iand, You have squandered the patrimony which Mother Nature In her kindly drift, has bestowed upol you an'd By wicked laws you have conferred Unto the hapds Of'Mem wfth faces of bran, With wil as anyx1ielding as ir With hearts of adamantine rock, With consciences like a wrecking sea, Who reckon their fellows as food for their voracious coffers, The things that are needful for your pleasure, your comfort, your life; And then, like suppliant dogs, crawl upon your scrawny bellies And beg a life-saving sufficiency! flow sorrowful the smile of those who see FThe handwriting of Justice on the wall As clearly as a full-grown moon on a cloudless night, When the long imprudent, with anxioks eves and wrinkling brows, Plead in piteous accents: "What shall we (10. Whqt is-there to do but as penitent proligals Go back to the home of our early plenty And partake of the fullness of Nature's bo inlt - as each onee ds? Let no cobweb laws bar the pathway TO where mankind can see the sin. 4Adback to the warmth of universal righttousness, Whre all Iriay have who stretch forth honest hands 37 - And pluck Lh e fruit which Nature bids shall be eaten in the sweat of thine own face If you are to relish the sweets of well-earned Sfood, If you are to feel the luxury of tired sleep, If-you are to have the honor and dignity that conie only from usefuil work, If you are to enjoy enjoyment to the full. The path to social peace and plenty can be trodden only by the feet of~Freedom, Whose even tread makes music that inspires the laborer to give work for work in eqtual measure., And Freedom cannit abile where: the suffering' children of men are barred from the generous gifts of God, a ie Deroil News, Oc. 22, 1902..- Capitalism has failed all along the line. It has overworked some people on the one side while millions stood idly by on the-other, distributing the wealth so as to leave the masses poor, the few immensely wealthy. It has failed to feed the people, t ousethem, to warm them, to transport them or their goods. It does not prevent war, disease, pro$titution or crime. If capitalism is a benefit to the people let's hear about it. Whats the alternative?.Free Socialism, under which the worker- Js guaranteed the job and all, that's in. 'It. if not, whylnot? SONG OF SELF. BY JO LABADIE. I sing this Song of Self Because I sing of things I know of best And of the universal I do not know. A grain of sand upon the golden beach, That comes and goes with every swish of wave And hurries out and scampers in as will the ebb and flow Of the whole big earth what does it know? How comes it to be sand, and but a grain? How comes it here and not some otherwhere? Has it a soul to save? (The soul is master of the will and all that is, we're told). Has it no life, no consciousness, no sense, no will? Does no romance come to it, no love, no grief, No toil, no gladdening recompense, no war to kill its kind?, Has it no rent to pay, no false aristocrats to bear, No ruling rock with ruffian raiding rank and file? I do not know, and know not if it knows or no. I am but a grain of sand upon the beach of universe, And cannot comprehend the whole, not comprehending part. The limits of my ken are pain and pleasure. And jagged the horizon by alpine weal and woe. Up, up I go into the purpled blue of joy, Then plunge foredoomed adown an avalanche of grief Which things outside myself have caused. I go whither forces take me, As a drop of water c nes from a rumbling cloud Into the lisping rivulet, runs with the braggart brook, thru the placid lake, With the mighty river, and at last into the majestic ocean, comrading with other selves, But always individualized, always entity, alwiay self. Patg, barie, ba ou fitz uniqueness in Qoofis? THEN WHY NOT TRY THE LABADIE BOOKLETS? Nothing like them anywhere else. Every process m the old-fashion way. They are mostly written by an old-fashion fellow, put into old-fashion type in the oldfashion way, printed on an old-fashion press, sewed and bound in the old-fashion style, but got rid of by an entirely new process. If you haven't the price a book goes to anyone who asks. The income so far has been almost wholly prompted by partisans of this way of having this enterprise run. It is the newest way of capitalizing good fellowship, comraderie, fraternity; making one hand wash the other, as it were; casting bread upon the waters, and so on. We haven't as yet run short of funds to grease the wheels with, and some of the Booklets are in the second edition. They are not published for profit, but more as a diversion from the bread-and butter stint. It is largely as an experiment of doing business on the basis of love as an asset, and several years' experience has demonstrated to a large degree that it pays better than the grz" and skin system, the conventional profit. The Labadie Shop is now located at Bubbling Waters, a modest home in the wilderness, 35 miles from Detroit, one mile north of G;rand River Road, on the Oakland and Livingston counties line, made possible by the generosity oq friends., The P. 0. address is Wixom, Mich., R.F.D. r; and 2306 Buchanan St., Detroit, iri the winter months. Remember, Booklets at your own price, from postage up. Size from I6 to loo pages. All hand work. ~:; ~ ';::-:: -I:~;::. -:-:. ~i~:-::::::-' ;;:; i:; *.'i: ':: -"- i: i:i ~: ::,~~ -;i~=:-~ ~~ ~C:~::;:: ~::::::;::~::: -:: ~::: ~7~.-:~~~-;~:::::1; ' ~::: ~::: i`:-i-:"- -.;-.--.::i.~~.7.i.:::::i: I::.::;:: r,~i,~ ~ ~~~--::;C~~Zi; ~-::~:i~sl:~. i_;-I--~ 7--~ s41 Ai -Ago" KIP;~ F~?~ k, Aq o Ae~" rA - o yTý -i0, 8,41,.iU: lK6 11 L~~r~l~ls1 4""r 4 All ýgiý