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* I sing a song*of a friend in deed, A friend in spirit, too. Who joys in giving friendship's meed

(A trait contained by few), • A bubbling spring of amity, freed Of guile, a friendship true.

Its fireplaet burns the trill air wood.

The flames faint pictures rare l hat brin- to memory <i pleasing mood And griefs dissolve in air.




In the Vale of Pleasure I've built a den-

Where the sweetest wishes grow. Where in deep desire's deepest glen

Soft sunbeams ever glow; Fresh fruits of friendship everywhere

Entice the taste, and fill; The paths of peace cross here and therr And contentment comes at will.

I've built a cabin of logs of love,

My heart chinks the cracks from cold. And the larder I've filled, below and above.

With all the joys it can hold; Its fireplace burns the telltale wood.

The flames paint pictures rare That bring to memory a pleasing mood And griefs dissolve in air.

I've made a conveyance that carries the heart

Wherever it wills to go, If on the ground, in cloudland mart.

Or on the waters' flow; Its motive power is a sunny thought,

Its body of silvery dew, And in satisfaction all this was wrought With the wish of pleasing you.

I've romped the dreams of Pleasure. Vale

Collecting the richest of spoils So I could place them within the pale

Of your friendship's silken toils; I've hunted its glens and I've climed its hills

For the game of love and leal, And the net result is the wish that thrills For your ever-increasing weal.

Jo Labadik.

Detroit, 1908.


I'll hie me hence to Pleasure Vale To hail its countless wealth Of gladsome things. It ne'er can fail To give the spirit health And buoyant life to meet in deep Full-rounded fellowship; It teaches us to know and keep What s in the hand's warm grip.

I Ti drink with you the ne&ar clear

I know your larders hold

For such as I. The leafs brown sear

A lesson shall unfold—

From nature's changing mystery

And from the great unknown

We'll write ourselves a history

In di&ion all our own.


We'll pray the telltale wood to crack

Some nuts of logic-lore;

We'll ride your conveyance thence and hack

From thinkland's bounteous store.

The flowers you till in Pleasure Land

All cater to the mind,

And shed a blessing high and grand

On scores of humankind.

Tis sweet to know that all we sense

In word and deed, in stream

And tree—all things, go blithely hence

In one unbroken theme.

By the promptings of thinking man .

A myriad minstrels play

To praise the universal plan

That fills each passing day.

EDWIN M. CxAkic.

O&ober, 1909


Jell me, my friend, wherein I fail To be as good as I should be. And help me towards the true ideal By pointing out what 1 don't see. So few are they who in themselves See imperfections coarse and rude, And friend indeed is he who holds The mirror close and don't intrude. Wait not until mine enemies Before the public's wicked pry In gloating malice spread afar Mv faults like clouds across the skv. But tell me gently, tell me true, .

Wherein I. fail in manlv mien.


And help me upward, help me on. To heights more noble than I've yet seen ; So I may live a fuller life. My hands more willing, strong and clean.

The Labadie Booklets

JO LABADIE, Author, Printer, Binder

What is Love and Other Fancies; The Red Flag & Other Verses: Doggerel for the Under Dog; I Welcome Disorder;'Workshop Rimes; My Song of Self; Essays; Songs of the Spoiled. These are printed in very limited numbers, are not for sale in the stores, but sent to those who want them at their own price. The work is done by the family, — type set by hand in the old-fashioned way: printed on an old Washington press, and we bind them at our leisure, in the Shop at Bubbling Waters, in the wilderness, one mile north of Grand River Road, on the Oak land-Livingston counties line, 35 miles from Detroit.

The Shop is intended to demonstrate cooperation without the loss of personal responsibility, the weakness in all to-operative enterprises heretofore attempted for industrial or commercial purposes. What is everybody's business is done efficiently by nobody. This is why even democracy in politics always fails to perform social functions to the advantage of society in general. Politicians bear no economic loss for their inefficiencies. The Labadie Shop bids for your support only when it does the job that suits you. The taxes are voluntary. See the point ? The price of each booklet is what you want to contribute to the support of this modest little enterprise. No dun is sent anybody. Unless a book is ordered no contribution is expected/ So far the income has been ample, the individual favors ranging from a few cents to hundreds of dollars. Do you want to co-operate?

P. O. Address: Wixom, Mich.,R.D.i, (during the summer); and 2306 Buchanan St., Detroit. Mich., U. S. A.

Dear Comrade Jo—Thank you ever so much for your pretty booklets, so artistic and beautiful. Have just read them. Some dam good things in'em, too. What fun you must have. And so, with love and blessings, ever yours faithfully, Bruce Calvert, editor the Open Road, Pigeon-Roost-in-the-Woods, Indiana.

My Dear Jo—A thousand thanks for the booklets and the gems they contain and the inscriptions in your own. good hand, which give them priceless value! £ shall enjoy them all and cherish them as loving souvenirs of your valued comradeship. * * Love to you, and a 1,1 good greetings and all kind wishes. Yours always, En-gene V. Debs.

Your poetry is rotten.—A.L.B.

Next to Charles Edward Russell I deem Mr. I^abailfc the best revolutionary poet in. this country. He always, says something, and much of it is said beautifullv.—Dr. M. T.

Charley Russell can't write poetry at all. — A. 15.

Do not to others what you would not have done to you by others.— Confucius.

Do unto others what you would have others do unto you.—Jesus. The world is my country, to do good my religion.—Thomas Paine. Law has always been wrong. Government is the fundamental ism of the soldier, bigot and priest.—Wendell Phillips.

Dear Comrade Labadie—The pretty little books are to hand today. I thank you. * * You are doing well, excellently well. These leather-covered things are all that could be desired. I sat down and read "What is Love?" and did not let up until 'twas done, and say, I'd rather have written that thing than become rich in fadl. The sentiment as well as the jingle is all there. Your "A Word With You, My Dear" is worthy of a Ruskin, I don't care who says nay. I speak for myself, and dare to«right out in meeting or otherwise. These verses ate replete with "thots that breathe and words that burn." Your humanitarianism crops out on every page. Haste the time when love is the base of every business.—Henry . Bool, Ithaca, N. Y.

Dear Comrade—I have received the little book [WThat' is Love?] on the big subject, and I send you my thankc for the gitt and the comradely inscription. One of the finest things in the bunch of goodness is the bit of prose at the beginning. The clear simplicity of word and sentiment is like a New England brook—refreshing and joy-givrng. All we who love salute and thank you.

In the first fine poem I greet especially the words to your comrade—the big, sane, sweet ideal of love. Tho every man and woman flashes his crystal to catch from some new radiant angle the colors of love's big sun we can have never too many love poems, as life can never be too full of love. But we need above all to see its colors in the revolutionary prism, and so you and Walt Whitman and just a few others give the very best of the revolution—revolutionary love. Thank you, comrade, for letting me see the flash.—Maud Thompson, Ann Arbor.

Dear Mr. Labadie--The hour is now 12 p. m. For the last two hours I have been reading your attitude towards life in your verses. To me they impart the thdt that it is the easiest thing in the world to love the man who wrote them. Those ideas! They're gripping,and so human and humane.—Barnet George Braterman, cartoonist, Detroit, 1-23-1911.

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