/. D. Sez, Sez ’e 
Writing the Seed Catalogue 
By J. D. Long 
Along about this time of year 
I moan and groan and shed a tear, 
And wish I were some lucky dog 
That never writes a catalogue. 
A guy must know his salsify— 
Bust into print, and tell ’em why, 
If he would garner in the dough, 
Such times as these, when biz is slow. 
Must paint the lily and sweet pea, 
And tell of eats for lunch and tea 
That can be grown in your back yard, 
Less fattening than sweets and lard. 
His spiel should move some reader fair, 
With Mae West form and henna hair, 
To buy a bulb or Rambler rose 
Instead of powder for her nose. 
When boosting Golden Bantam corn, 
He points with pride and blows his horn. 
To show he’s not behind the times, 
He talks off-hand of vitamines 
That come in carrots by the gross. 
(Will perk you up when you’re morose.) 
Sez ’e, “The Early Wonder Beet 
Is full of juice, so nice and sweet.” 
At night he lies awake in bed 
And writes about a cabbage head 
That grows SO big, yet doesn’t bust. 
This seed he sells, but not on trust. 
His super-spinach, ain’t it grand! 
Thick juicy leaves, but minus sand. 
In case you crave a cantaloupe, 
Just lamp page nine for all the dope. 
The seedman thinks he’s some big whale 
When telling how to raise the kale. 
But the job that makes him mad 
Is keeping plants from going bad. 
’Tis fun to tell you what is best 
To plant in gardens, east or west, 
But when it comes to bugs and lice 
He’d rather talk of pop on ice. 
Since men don’t live by bread alone, 
Their gardens need some color tone 
That flowers new as well as old 
Will furnish if the seed they're sold. 
Read at the annual banquet of the Colorado 
Seedsmen's Association in Denver, December 
7, 1934. 
How I Got a Ticket 
By J. D. Long 
Since to the judge my dough has gone, 
I feel some verses cornin’ on. 
There simply hain’t no use a-tryin’ 
To dodge that traffic cop, O’Brien. 
From “Old Cheyenne” I was returning 
Against the wind, much gas a-burning. 
I didn’t hear that sign say “Stop!” 
Nor lamp, in time, the traffic cop. 
My brain was in a coma state, 
Because that noon too much I ate. 
I even thought must be a joke 
When first the siren gently spoke. 
So didn’t stop, but onward sped— 
Alas! too soon, my face was red. 
With louder blast that natty cop 
Brought my new Ford to sudden stop. 
I had a dandy alibi, 
Tho’ knew it sounded like a lie. 
Some cops are made of human stuff; 
O’Brien didn’t treat me rough. 
He rushed me to the judge’s home— 
That’s why I write this mournful tome. 
The judge had dined, and et his fill, 
Felt quite benign—reduced my bill. 
Of course, I might as well confess, 
I’m plumb fed up on such a mess, 
But am not mad, and hold no grudge 
Against that traffic cop or judge. 
Now let’s talk sense about this job, 
Instead of rave, and wail, and sob. 
If any guy a-drawing pay 
For selling shoes or pitching hay 
Loafs on the job because he’s tired, 
The chances are he’ll soon be fired. 
But if industrious, he’s praised; 
Sometimes, perhaps, his pay is raised. 
But let a COP his work do well, 
He’s cussed, and told to go to-. 
“Four out of five” will roar and beller— 
The cop should catch the OTHER feller! 
Author’s Note: The foregoing incident—or 
tragedy—occurred Sunday afternoon, Decem¬ 
ber 22, 1935, just north of Ft. Collins, Colo¬ 
rado. Thought I’d finished my Christmas 
shopping, but overlooked a “fine” purchase. 
Just what I wanted! “How did you guess it, 
judge?’’ 
The judge does business on the cash and 
carry plan. He helped my eyesight a whale of 
a lot. 
47 
