Newspaper History

Month: August 2021

  • Weighing the Chances

    From the Evening Star, August 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    I’d like to have lived in the classic days
    When luxuries that would now amaze
    Were common; when splendid sybarites
    In feasting would pass their days and nights.
    And yet when patricians boldly shirk
    There must be people to do the work.
    Had I been there it would be my luck
    To be left outside to unload the truck.

    I’d like to march with the heroes bold,
    Where the music sounds and the flags unfold.
    When through dreams like these our fancies flit
    We always imagine that we’d be It.
    And yet I’ll wager that should I be
    A soldier brave they’d allot to me
    No medals bright to adorn my tent.
    I’d be cooking beans for the regiment.

  • The Secret

    From The Sun, August 10, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    The way to reach the man who toils
        Amid the dingy workings
    Is not by stratagems and spoils
        Or oily smiles and smirkings.
    You give him model homes and such,
        Or clubs in which to revel;
    You still will find yourself in “Dutch”
        Unless you’re on the level.
    It isn’t coddling that he likes,
        Or lordly condescension.
    Such methods will not stop his strikes
        Or banish all contention.
    You must be fair and square and just,
        A man among your brothers
    Before old doubtings turn to trust
        Or ancient hatred smothers.
    Whatever motive yours may be
        In time he’s sure to find it.
    He looks through every deed to see
        The spirit that’s behind it.
    And though he may misunderstand
        Repel, at first, and doubt you,
    He’ll warmly grasp the proffered hand
        When he is sure about you.
    The boys within the breaker shed,
        The miners, deep below them,
    Are slow of faith and hard of head;
        You’ve simply got to show them
    And prove your varied aims and ends
        Are not those of the devil—
    For man and master can be friends—
        If both are on the level.

  • The Seer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 9, 1913. By Alan Sullivan.

    Fill me with fire and solace,
        Gird me with speech divine,
    That the word of my mouth be music
        And the chord of my song be wine!
    For the soul that quivers within me
        Would mystical things unfold
    Though the world is weary of singing
        And the eyes of the world are cold.
    I am the deathless Vision,
        The voice of memorial years,
    The prince of the world’s rejoicing,
        The prophet and priest of tears;
    Have I not tasted rapture,
        Have I not loved and died,
    Mounted the peaks of passion,
        With you been crucified?
    Come! I will lead you softly
        Through floods that are smooth and deep
    And trailed with the shimmering curtain
        Of dream-embroidered sleep,
    To the dim mysterious portal
        Where the spirit of man may see
    The folds of the veil dividing
        Himself from eternity.
    Would you I bring my music?
        I’ll pipe where the toilers go,
    And through your sweat and labor
        The strain of my song shall flow
    Dulcet clear for your comfort,
        Winged with a delicate fire,
    The shout of a strong heart chanting
        In the lift of soul’s desire.
    And whether you stay to hearken
        And drink of my healing spring,
    Or turn from the plaint of my tender
        Articulate whispering,
    Ere ever ye came I was ancient,
        And after ye pass, I come,
    The voice that shall lift in rapture
        When the moan of the earth is dumb.

  • Backward Glances

    From the Evening Star, August 8, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    When a man grows old and his feet are cold, and his heart is much the same, then he oft looks back on his winding track, with something of grief and shame. “If we could again,” sigh the ancient men, “but travel that sunlit ground, we would shun the breaks and the dire mistakes which in our past lives abound.” The old men sit by the wall and twit themselves with the things they’ve done, but it’s no avail, for they’re tired and frail, and their race is nearly run. The old men say, when the young that way are passing in joyous throngs, “Oh, youth beware of the gin and snare,” and the answer is heedless songs. For the young are bold and the pilgrims old are dotards, they lightly say; they themselves must learn of the lights that burn to lead them in swamps astray. And the counsel sage of the man of age is idle as gusts of air; he talks in vain of the farers slain in the swamps of the great despair. For the youth must break his own path and make his camp where he thinks it best; he must dree his weird till his silvered beard lies hoar on his withered breast.

  • Too Late!

    From the Evening Star, August 7, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    When there’s gayety assembled and the lights are all aglow
    Why is that we falter in the conversation’s flow?
    Why is it that we do not think till half-past two or three
    Of something which at ten would have been first-rate repartee?
    Repose declines to greet you. It is banished from your bed
    As you keep on thinking over all the things you might have said.

    When your name has just been mentioned in connection with a speech,
    And every thought you ever had has drifted out of reach;
    When you say, “To public speaking, unaccustomed as I am,”
    And then relapse into an imitation of a clam,
    You realize with bitterness than when three hours have fled
    You’ll have insomnia, thinking of the things you might have said.

    ’Tis the fate of many a statesman with a crisis on his hands;
    It’s the same way with a lover who in bashful silence stands.
    In every line of effort we are likely to be caught
    In fierce resentment of some bright but useless afterthought.
    Of all the gloomy specters that oppress our souls with dread,
    The worst are recollections of the things we might have said.

  • The Germ Covered Bucket

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 6, 1913.

    How they sadden this heart, the scenes of my childhood,
        When dread recollection presents them to view—
    Malarious meadows and dangerous wildwood,
        The place where the mushrooms, so poisonous grew;
    The pond was a cesspool; the stable stood by it,
        Draining into the stream where the cataract fell;
    The poultry yard sat with the dairy house nigh it;
        And that terrible bucket that hung in the well!
    The fungus-grown bucket, the germ-laden bucket,
        The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

    Poor dad was addicted to quinine and bitters,
        Poor mother was shaken with fever and chill—
    And we buried ‘em both, the innocent critters,
        In the populous graveyard that bloomed on the hill—
    The graveyard that gobbled the whole generation,
        That drained toward the house when the summer rain fell—
    Sometimes I dream of my father’s plantation
        And wake with a scream when I think of that well!
    And that terrible bucket, that death-dealing bucket,
        That germ-covered bucket that hung in the well.

  • A Primrose Way

    From the Rock Island Argus, August 5, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    I see them trudging down the street.
        His head is bent, his hair is white;
    Though she is old her smile is sweet,
        And best of all, her heart is light.

    He fondly guards her from the harm
        That threatens where the crowd is dense.
    Her hand is laid upon his arm
        With long, long cherished confidence.

    He has not won enduring fame,
        Nor gathered riches that are vast;
    But she is proud to bear his name,
        And he will love her till the last.

    To him she still is young and fair,
        To her he still is brave and strong;
    The way is strewn with roses where
        They slowly, gladly trudge along.

  • A Ballad of Economics

    From The Detroit Times, August 4, 1913.

    We’re striving hard to live within our means;
        We’ve left behind our proper habitat
    And huddled like traditional sardines
        We occupy a microscopic flat.
    But though I quote domestic science pat,
        And seek the cheapest market-house in town,
    And wear a thrice-remodeled coat and hat,
        I cannot keep the cost of living down!

    My busy hand unceasing cooks and cleans
        (I boast to friends that work reduces fat)
    We’ve discontinued all the magazines
        My eldest son has given up his ‘frat’.
    My husband lunches at the Automat
        My daughter wears a subway-bargain gown
    We’ve sold the dog and chloroformed the cat—
        I cannot keep the cost of living down!

    Alas, my dear ones will not stand for beans,
        For mush-and-milk, and frugal cheer like that!
    They yearn for cates that grace more affluent scenes
        And ill become the proletariat.
    The Simple Life is marred by many a spat
        For on my pet economies they frown;
    They call me stingy and an autocrat—
        I cannot keep the cost of living down!

  • Wish You Was Here

    From The Sun, August 3, 1913.

    Got a card from Steve this mornin’, doggone his trav’lin’ skin
    He’s up around Niag’ry Falls a-writin’ home agin.
    Seems like that boy’s one glory is to wander full an’ free
    An’ furder off he gits, I gosh, th’ more he writes to me.
    He sends these picture postal cards, with photos showin’ that
    The world is allus beautif’lest where you ain’t livin’ at.
    His messages reads all the same, in letters large an’ clear
    He writes from Maine er Kankakee an’ says—
        “Wish you was here!”

    Nobody ever seems to know just when he’ll go er where.
    We git his destination from the card that says he’s there.
    An’ he ain’t more than settled down to loaf a day er two
    Till he gits thinkin’ up the names of ever’one he knew.
    An’ then with ever’ doggone cent he possibly kin spare
    He buys the Unitary church, the Depot an’ the Square.
    He buys ‘bout ever’thing they is in Bath er Belvidere,
    Then mails the whole blame business home an’ says—
        “Wish you was here!”

    I guess he’s at Niag’ry now; he was last time he wrote,
    But that don’t prove conclusively he ain’t in Terry Hote.
    He may be down in Panama er snoopin’ round in Nome.
    Nobody knows just where he’s at—except he ain’t at home!
    I guess we’d never hear from him fer months er mebbe years
    If some kind soul had not devised these picture souvenirs.
    Yes, I expect if Steve would die he’d rise up from his bier
    To pen a card to all his friends an’ say—
        “Wish you was here!”

  • Counting the Years

    From the Evening Star, August 2, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    The years shouldn’t count when we’re stating our age, for some men are young when they’re gray, and others are old ere they’ve journeyed a stage in this world and its wonderful way. I know an old graybeard who ought to be dead if years laid a man by the heels; he cheerfully sings as he stands on his head, “A man’s just as old as he feels.” The years do not age us so badly, in truth; it’s worry that makes the blood cold; the man who is blessed with the spirit of youth is young when a hundred years old. The graybeard I wot of, he laughs and he yells and dances Virginia reels, and always and ever his roundelay swells, “A man’s just as old as he feels.” No man should admit that his days are near told, or talk of the past with a sob; no man should admit that he’s growing too old to eat summer corn from the cob. The graybeard I speak of, he’s slicker than grease, he cheers up the world with his spiels; he says (and his words suggest comfort and peace), “A man’s just as old as he feels.” I know a young man who is thirty or less, in years, but he’s old as the hills; he goes around looking for grief and distress, and talks by the day of his ills. The graybeard, God bless him, is younger than that! He ne’er at the wailing place kneels; he chortles, while kicking a hole through his hat, “A man’s just as old as he feels!”