Newspaper History

Month: September 2021

  • The Grouch

    From The Seattle Star, September 20, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    The world’s a rotten hole,
    It is, upon my soul,
        No place to live in;
    There’s no one on the square
    And people everywhere
        By greed are driven.
    I haven’t any vim or real ambition
    And all my plans are going to perdition.

    The weather’s on the bum,
    The future’s looking glum,
        Fate crowds and shoves me.
    A pall of gloom descends,
    I haven’t any friends,
        Nobody loves me.
    If some one said, “Cheer up,”—well, I’d waylay him
    And grab a heavy bludgeon—and I’d slay him!

    The cheerfullest of men
    Gets like this, now and then,
        And bile and choler
    When life just makes him sore,
    And he will kick and roar,
        And swear and holler;
    So let me rage and snort with temper fearful,
    And when the fit is over I’ll be cheerful.

  • Child Labor

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 19, 1913. By Dr. Henry Van Dyke.

    Ah, who are these on whom the vital bloom
        Of life has withered to the dust of doom?
    These little pilgrims, prematurely worn
        And bent as if they bore the weight of years?
    These childish faces, pallid and forlorn,
        Too dull for laughter and too hard for tears?
    Is this the ghost of that insane crusade
        That led ten thousand children long ago,
    A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed,
        Yet pressing on through want and woe
    To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid?
        Nay, for a million children now
    Are marching in the long, pathetic line,
        With weary step and early wrinkled brow;
    And at their head appears no holy sign
        Of hope in heaven; for unto them is given
    No cross to carry, but a cross to drag.
        Before their strength is ripe they bear
    The load of labor, toiling underground
        In dangerous mines, and breathing heavy air
    Of crowded shops; their tender lives are bound
        To service of the whirling, clattering wheels
    That fill the factories with dust and noise;
        They are not girls and boys,
    But little “hands,” who blindly, dumbly feed
        With their own blood the hungry god of Greed.

  • The Aged Stranger

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 18, 1913. By Bret Harte.

    “I was with Grant,” the stranger said;
        Said the farmer, “Say no more,
    But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
        For thy feet are weary and sore.”

    “I was with Grant,” the stranger said;
        Said the farmer, “Say no more,
    I prithee sit at my frugal board,
        And eat of my humble store.

    “How fares my boy—my soldier boy,
        Of the old Ninth army corps?
    I warrant he bore him gallantly
        In the smoke and the battle roar!”

    “I know him not,” said the aged man,
        “And as I remarked before,
    I was with Grant—.” “Nay, nay, I know,”
        Said the farmer, “Say no more;

    “He fell in battle? I see, alas!
        Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er—
    Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,
        Though it rend my bosom’s core.

    “How fell he—with his face to the foe,
        Upholding the flag he bore?
    Oh, say not that my boy disgraced
        The uniform that he wore!”

    “I cannot tell,” said the aged man,
        “And should have remarked before,
    That I was with Grant—in Illinois—
        Some three years before the war.”

    Then the farmer spake him never a word,
        But beat with his fist full sore,
    That aged man, who had worked for Grant,
        Some three years before the war.

  • Gunga Din

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 17, 1913. By Rudyard Kipling.

    You may talk o’ gin an’ beer
    When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
    An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
    But if it comes to slaughter
    You will do your work on water,
    An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
    Now in India’s sunny clime,
    Where I used to spend my time
    A-servin’ of ’er majesty the queen,
    Of all them black faced crew
    The finest man I knew
    Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

    He was “Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
    Hi! slippy hitherao
    Water, get it! Panee lao,
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!”

    The uniform ’e wore
    Was nothin’ much before,
    An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
    For a twisty piece o’ rag
    An’ a goatskin water-bag
    Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
    When the sweatin’ troop train lay
    In a sidin’ through the day,
    Where the ’eat would make yer bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
    We shouted ‘Harry By!’
    Till our throats were bricky dry,
    Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
    You put some juldee in it,
    Or I’ll marrow you this minute
    If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

    ’E would dot an’ carry one
    Till the longest day was done;
    An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
    If we charged or broke or cut,
    You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
    ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear,
    With ’is mussick on ’is back,
    ’E would skip with our attack,
    An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire.”
    An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
    ’E was white, clear white, inside
    When he went to tend the wounded under fire!

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
    When the cartridges ran out,
    You’d ‘ear the front files shout:
    Hi! ammunition mules an’ Gunga Din!”

    I shan’t forget the night
    When I dropped be’ind the fight
    With a bullet where my belt plate should ’a’ been.
    I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
    An’ the man that spied me first
    Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
    ’E lifted up my ’ead,
    An’ he plugged me where I bled,
    An’ ’e guv me ’arf a pint o’ water green.
    It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk,
    But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
    I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
    ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground an’ ’e’s kickin’ all around;
    For Gawd’s sake, git the water, Gunga Din!”
    ’E carried me away
    To where a dooli lay,
    An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
    ’E put me safe inside,
    An’ just before ’e died:
    “I ’ope you liked your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
    So I’ll meet ’im later on
    In the place where ’e is gone,
    Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
    ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
    Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
    An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

    Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
    Though I’ve belted you an’ flayed you,
    By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
    You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

  • Off to School

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 16, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

    It doesn’t seem a year ago that I was tumbling out of bed
    The icy steps that lead below at 1 a. m., barefoot, to tread,
    And puttering round the kitchen stove, while chills ran up and down my form
    As I stood there and waited for her bottled dinner to get warm;
    Then sampled it to see that it was not too hot or not too cool,
    That doesn’t seem a year ago, and now she’s trudging off to school.

    It doesn’t seem a month ago that I was teaching her to walk,
    And holding out my arms to her. And that was ‘fore she learned to talk.
    I stood her up against the wall, eager, yet watchful lest she fall;
    Then suddenly she came to me—the first two steps those feet so small
    Had, unassisted, ever made! Those feet I hope to guide and rule;
    That doesn’t seem a month ago—and now she’s trudging off to school.

    Oh, Father Time, line deep my brow, and tinge my thinning hair with gray,
    Deal harshly with my battered form as you go speeding on your way;
    Print on my face your marks of years, and stamp me with your yesterdays,
    But, oh, tread softly now, I pray, the ground whereon my baby plays,
    Pass over her with gentle touch; to keep her young break every rule,
    But yesterday she was a babe—and now she’s trudging off to school.

  • If His Mother Knew

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 15, 1913.

    Hold on, young man; one moment, please,
        Before you pass that door tonight:
    You say you mean no harm, you say
    You’ll bring a sinless heart away,
        You say that you are strong, that Right
    Shall guard you from the wiles of Wrong,
        That to yourself you will be true,
    But would you still seek pleasure there—
    Come, answer truly and be fair—
        If you could know your mother knew?

    We always tell ourselves before
        We weakly yield that we are strong;
    We always, ere we enter in,
    Expect to leave still free from sin
        And still the armored foes of Wrong,
    But few would fall and few would sigh,
        Remorse would gnaw the hearts of few
    If each, when Conscience cries, “Beware!”
    Would ask himself if he would care
        To do it if his mother knew.

  • The Twilight Witch: Slumber Song

    From The Sun, September 14, 1913. By Madison Cawein.

    The twilight witch comes with her stars
        And strews them through the blue;
    Then breathes below the sunset bars
        A breath of meadow rue;
    She trails her veil across the skies
        And mutters to the trees,
    And in the wood, with firefly eyes,
        She wakes the mysteries.
    The twilight witch, with elf and fay,
    Is coming down the slumber way.
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch, with crescent moon,
        Stoops on the wooded hill;
    She answers to the owlet’s tune,
        And to the whippoorwill.
    She leans above the reedy pool
        And wakes the drowsy frog,
    And with the toadstool, dim and cool,
        Rims gray the old dead log.
    The twilight witch comes stealing down
    To take you off to slumber town.
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch with windlike tread
        Has entered in the room;
    She steals around your trundle bed
        And whispers in the gloom.
    She says: “I brought my steed along,
        My faery steed of gleams,
    To bear you, like a breath of song,
        Into the land of dreams.
    I am the witch who takes your hand
    And leads you off to faeryland,
        The far off land of sleep.”

  • My Playmates

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 13, 1913. By Eugene Field.

    The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool—
    Of red wing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool;
    It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill,
    And I hear the thrush’s evening song and the robin’s morning trill,
    So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know
    Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.

    What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker’s Hill?
    And what’s become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill?
    And what’s become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell,
    And of Roxie Root, who ‘tended school in Boston for a spell?
    They are the boys and they are the girls who shared my youthful play—
    They do not answer to my call! My playmates—where are they?

    What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe,
    Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?
    I’d like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown,
    And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down!
    And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all,
    Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!

    I’d like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again,
    And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!
    And one—I shall not name her—could I see her gentle face
    And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!
    The flowers and hopes of springtime—they perished long ago,
    And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

    O cottage ‘neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys
    That but a little while ago made, Oh! such pleasant noise?
    O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know
    Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?
    You see I’m old and weary, and I’ve traveled long and far;
    I am looking for my playmates—I wonder where they are?

  • Vacation Song

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 12, 1913.

    Little bank roll, ere we part,
    Let me hold you to my heart;
    All the year I’ve clung to you,
    I’ve been faithful, you’ve been true;
    Little bank roll, in a day
    You and I will start away
    To a gay and festive spot;
    I’ll come home, but you will not.

  • Walk Away From Trouble

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 11, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    When it seems as if there never could be any chance for you,
    When the way is lost in darkness that you struggle to pursue,
        When it seems as if your gains
        Poorly pay you for your pains
    And mankind is set against you, having sworn to do you ill—
        When this feeling weighs you down
        Rise and leave the cheerless town;
    You can walk away from trouble if you will.

    Out across the peaceful meadows and beside the greening slopes
    There is tonic for the weary and a promise of new hopes,
        Every bending blade of grass
        Does its little as you pass
    To inform you of fair prizes that are worth the winning still;
        Every step will make you strong,
        As your shadow moves along—
    You can walk away from trouble if you will.

    Why make others share your sadness when your hopes have oozed away?
    Why compel them to despise you for the things you do and say?
        Even in the crowded street
        Where the restless currents meet
    Courage waits for him who seeks it, pressing on past mart and mill;
        Step forth from behind the walls
        Where the shadow thickly falls—
    You can walk away from trouble if you will.