One of the first poets I ever read was Walt Mason; he was a popular American poet in the 19th century. Here is what George Ade said about him – “Mason is the high priest of horse sense.” He is the sweet singer of our American Israel. Because he says a thing in his own way, he says it the way the average American would say it, if he could only say it that way. Any one of us may have the thought but to him is given the gift of expression. He whangs a home-made harp and because it is home-made,-- because it voices the true homely, plain, honest-to-God sentiments of the real people in a homely fashion, because it rings with a sweetness, a sanity and a wit that belongs to that old low-combed, red-necked Kansas rooster, in a greater degree than to any other being known to me as a resident upon this planet at the present moment – we love the Harpist and we love the Tune.”

Here is a couple of samples of his poems --


When I have slipped my tether, and left this vale of tears, to see what sort of weather they have in other spheres, I want no costly casket with silver trappings bound; just put me in a basket and chuck me underground. Death would be far more jolly and pleasant every way, but for the idle folly of making big display. It takes a roll unending to make a graveyard spread, and all the fuss and spending don't help the man who's dead. 'Twere best to keep the stivers safe hidden in a tub, to comfort the survivors and buy them duds and grub. I know that it would grind me when on the other shore, if those I left behind me had wolves before the door; if I looked down and found them, immersed in tears and woe, with creditors around them all howling for the dough. So when I up and trundle down to the sunless sea, let no one blow a bundle to pay for planting me. I'll slumber just as sweetly in some old basswood box, as though trussed up completely with silver screws and locks."


Saturday Night, and the week’s work done, and the Old Man home with a bunch of mon!
You see him sit on the cottage porch, and he puffs away at a five-cent torch, while the good wife sings at her evening chores, and the children gambol around outdoors. The Old Man sits on his work-day hat, and he doesn’t envy the plutocrat; his debts are paid and he owns his place, and he’ll look a king in the blooming face; his hands are hard with the brick and loam, but his heart is soft with the love of home! Saturday night, and it’s time for bed! And the kids come in with a buoyant tread; and they hush their noise at the mother’s look, as she slowly opens a heavy book, and reads the tale of the stormy sea, and the voice that quieted Galilee. Then away to bed and the calm repose that only honesty ever knows. Saturday night, and the world is still, and it’s only the erring who finds things ill; there is sweet content and a sweeter rest, where a good heart beats in a brave man’s breast.”