Newspaper History

Month: September 2021

  • The Army

    From The Times Dispatch, September 30, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Army life is simply grand, so a man would understand,
        Judging from the pictures that they send from Washington.
    Advertising is immense, posters stuck upon the fence
        Get the youngster to believing that it’s only fun.
    Soldiers do just as they please; live a life of perfect ease,
        Get a lot of travel that does not cost them a cent.
    Naught to do but sleep and eat. Joy of living is complete;
        Not a moment’s worry over clothing, food and rent.

    Propositions look all right, army doesn’t even fight;
        Uncle Sam has got no scrap with any foreign power.
    Soldiers simply loaf a lot with no chance of getting shot,
        Lying in their hammocks reading novels by the hour.
    Hoeing taters on the farm loses all its old-time charm,
        Bill Jones packs his satchel and he hikes out for the town.
    Horny handed son of toil leaves the old parental soil,
        Bound for ease and freedom and perhaps in time renown.

    Bill, with other raw recruits, had to black the captain’s boots,
        Curry horses, scour the pans, act as chambermaid.
    Drill all day with all his might, do guard duty late at night—
        That’s the way in times of peace the army game is played.
    There’s no loafing ‘neath the trees; hard to find these hours of ease
        That the artist pictured in the poster on the fence.
    There is not a chance to shirk, army life is much like work,
        Same as any other walk of life in that one sense.

  • Pros and Cons

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1913.

    Consider, ere you take a wife,
    The pros and cons of wedded life.
    Protracted wedlock’s safe to show
    Vices contracted long ago—
    The product of the honeymoon
    Appears in conduct, very soon.
    ’Tis bliss profound to love, no doubt
    But cares confound when love’s burnt out.

    Professions maidens deem their due,
    But wives demand confessions, too!
    Where maids the merest protest heed,
    A vigorous contest wives oft need!
    The maid convokes the joys of life,
    The wife provokes—this leads to strife.

    Hugs in profusion maids allot
    Confusion is the underplot!
    Yet doubtless wedlocks product should,
    All said and done, conduce to good—
    In the procession, if you’d take
    Your proper place, concessions make—
    The province of this humble verse
    Is to convince—things might be worse!

  • Afterward

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 28, 1913.

    Beyond the toiling and the dreaming,
        The heartache and the rue,
    The little minds of mortals scheming
        Some puny task to do;

    Beyond this world of vain endeavor,
        With all its fretful bars,
    Our ransomed souls shall roam forever
        In fields sown thick with stars.

  • From East to West and Back

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 27, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    Westward, ever westward
        The fortune-seekers fare;
    The peasant boy stands gazing
        Across bleak hills and bare
    And dreams of boundless riches
        Spread out on every hand,
    Of splendor and of glory
        Out in the sunset land.

    Westward, ever westward
        The fortune-seekers fare;
    The “noble” rake and spendthrift
        Dreams of the millionaire
    Whose daughter sighs for “glory”
        And cannot understand
    Why God assumes no title
        Off there in sunset land.

    Eastward, ever eastward
        The fortune-favored fare;
    The west gives up its riches
        To them that boldly dare;
    The butcher and the miner
        Count up their golden stores
    And go to live like princes
        On distant eastern shores.

    Eastward, ever eastward
        The fortune-favored fare;
    The peasant’s son has visions
        Of social glory there;
    Westward, ever westward
        The ragged legion pours;
    The lucky ones forever
        Surge back to eastern shores.

  • The Superior Folks

    From The Seattle Star, September 26, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Let’s get together and tell ourselves
        How superfine we are.
    Let’s perch way up on our lofty shelves
        And gaze on life from afar;
    Let’s look with scorn on the common herd
        Who toil at a useful job,
    Let’s speak of art as a magic word
        And sneer at the busy “mob.”

    Let’s speak of faith as an outworn thing,
        Of love as a creed that’s dead.
    At everything plain and simple we’ll fling
        A barb with a poisoned head;
    Let’s jest at honor and sneer at law
        And chortle at truth as rot,
    Till people murmur, “We never saw
        Such a liberal-minded lot.”

    And while we jabber and sneer and smirk
        And our words of wisdom fall
    The world will trudge to its daily work
        And never will care at all!

  • The Impossible

    From the Evening Star, September 25, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    My well had sort o’ lost its grip, the water smelled like paint; and every time I took a sip it nearly made me faint. I asked Jim Wax to fix the same, and offered him the mon (repairing cisterns is his game); he said, “It can’t be done.” He had a hundred reasons why repairs could not be made; and while three hours were dragging by those reasons he displayed.  A gorgeous web of sophistry and argument he spun, all ending with the stern decree: “It simply can’t be done.” And then Bill Bulger bowled along; I stopped him at my gate, and told him that my well was wrong, and would he make it straight? Bill Bulger squinted down the well, and asked when it was built, and said it had an ancient smell that made his whiskers wilt. “Your blamed old well needs cleaning out,” he said, with genial laugh; “I reckon it will cost about two dollars and a half.” “Go to it, then, my friend,” said I, “and you shall have the mon; I’m glad you do not tell me why the derned job can’t be done.” Bill Bulger always has a job, he earns the shining dimes; and I have never heard him sob a bit about hard times. Around Jim Wax dark troubles lurk, he’s the afflicted one; he’s always up against some work that simply can’t be done.

  • When Our Grandparents Were In Love

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 24, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    Things have changed a mighty sight
        Since our grandpas went to spark;
    There was no electric light
        When they wished to keep it dark;
    They’d no chance to ever call
        Up a girl by telephone;
    Had no taxicabs at all,
        Cabarets were still unknown;
    They were poor and underpaid,
        And were plagued by many cares;
    How, oh, how did they persuade
        Our dear grandmas to be theirs?

    When our grandpas were young men
        They had little cash to burn;
    It was customary then
        To save all that one could earn;
    They were not inclined to flash
        Money where the crowds could see;
    They were stingy with their cash
        For, in fact, they had to be;
    Cocktails gave them no delight,
        Life, no doubt, was very tame,
    But they seemed to hit it right
        With our grandmas, all the same.

    When our grandpas loved and sighed
        As enchanted lovers will,
    They had little cause for pride,
        And their tastes were simple still.
    They possessed no purring cars
        To appeal to women’s hearts;
    On their hands they bore the scars
        Necessary toil imparts;
    Oft I wonder how they won
        Our grandmas, poor old chaps.
    They appear, though, to have done
        Well, despite their handicaps.

  • The One to Blame

    From The Washington Herald, September 23, 1913. 

    When there’s a dreadful railroad wreck,
        Or accidents appear,
    Officials nearly break a neck
        To pinch the engineer.

    The engineer, he went to sleep,
        The havoc was immense.
    Of course we hold resentment deep,
        But some day we’ll get sense.

    We’ll pinch the railroad’s ruler then
        And have him put away;
    The jolly chap who makes his men
        Work eighteen hours a day.

  • The Joy of Getting Back

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 22, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

    There ain’t the joy in foreign skies that those of home possess,
    An’ friendliness o’ foreign folks ain’t home-town friendliness;
    An’ far-off landscapes with their thrills don’t grip me quite as hard
    As jes’ that little patch o’ green that’s in my own back yard.

    It’s good to feel a stranger’s hand grip heartily your own,
    It’s good to see a stranger’s smile when you are all alone;
    But though a stranger’s grip is warm, an’ though his smile is sweet,
    There’s something in the home folks’ way that has the stranger beat.

    A railroad train that’s outward bound bears many a man an’ dame
    Who think a thousand miles away the sunsets brighter flame;
    An’ seekin’ joys they think they lack they pack their grips an’ roam,
    An’ just as I, they some day find the sweetest joys at home.

    Away from home the girls are fair an’ men are kind of heart,
    An’ there you’ll always find a few who sigh when you depart;
    But though you rode a million miles o’er gleaming railroad track,
    You’d never find a joy to beat the joy of gettin’ back.

  • Builders

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 21, 1913.

    Sad is the fate of the toiler
        Who has little love for his work,
    If he sits in the seats of the mighty,
        Or slaves for the hire of a clerk.
    For the men who are moving the world on
        And making its dreams come true
    Are those who are putting their hearts in
        The work they are called on to do.