Newspaper History

Month: November 2021

  • Little Boy We Used to Know

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 30, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

    The little boy whom we used to know,
    Who came to us when the day burned low,
    Who left his swing and his bat and ball
    Who left his playmates and games and all
    To come and stand by our easy-chair,
    To stand before us with yellow hair,
    On sturdy legs—with his feet apart,
    Before he snuggled against our heart.
    Where is he now with his romp and squeal,
    With his little hurts that a kiss would heal?

    We heard him say his “I lay me down,”
    And we pressed our lips to his tousled crown,
    Then his father tiptoed across the gloom
    And sat him down in the farther room,
    While his mother stayed by his side to croon
    A soft bye-low to a world-old tune
    While he drifted out into Slumberland;
    Then we stood and gazed at him, hand in hand,
    And—looking backward to where he lay—
    It seems ’twas then that he went away.

    It seems that he never came back at all
    To the rubber cat and the bouncing ball,
    To the old rope swing and the games he knew.
    A genie touched him—he grew and grew!
    From the room where our baby had sunk to sleep
    A youth came forth. And his voice is deep
    And his eyes are honest, and he his strong!
    And while still echoes the bye-low song,
    His lips say “Mother!” and then laugh “Dad!”
    And we are frightened—but we are glad!

    Sometimes we stand in the little room
    By the little bed in the evening’s gloom;
    And we miss the faltering “lay me down,”
    And we’d give the world for the tousled crown
    To kiss once more! Oh, Boy! Grown tall,
    We are frightened for you at the thought of all
    The dangers that wait your unwary feet!
    And grieving—for heartaches you’re bound to meet!
    But we are proud for the dear world’s sake
    Because of the man you are going to make.

  • Lines to the Cook

    From the Evening Star, November 29, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    Oh, say not so! Oh, say not so!
        Wound not a weary heart!
    Do not regard us as your foe
        And say that we must part.
    Oh, modify that angry look
        While we express regret.
    You are a most accomplished cook
        And cooks are hard to get.

    Oh, speak not thus! Oh, speak not thus!
        Pray set that suit case down!
    If you’ll consent to cook for us,
        No one shall chide or frown.
    Our casual comments we shall quit.
        No fault we’ll find with you,
    For as a cook you are a hit
        And cooks are very few.

  • The Days of Old

    From The Seattle Star, November 28, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Sometimes I long for the days of old
        When men were quick with a trusty blade;
    When dandies strutted in silk and gold
        And women rustled in stiff brocade;
    When life was filled with the old Romance,
        With courtly manners and stately ways,
    And brave Adventure had half a chance
        ‘Neath the smiling skies of the Good Old Days.
    And yet—and yet—this thought keeps coming,
        They had no plumbing!

    There’s a wondrous thrill in the good old time
        When gallants fought for a gallant king,
    And all went gay as a lilting rhyme
        And life was a rollicking, joyous thing;
    When Milord rode forth in a scarlet coat,
        With spotless lace at his neck and wrist,
    And a faithful squire at his side to note
        The deeds he did—and the maids he kissed!
    Yet, for all his deeds, and dear, he held ‘em,
        He bathed but seldom!

    I sometimes long for the days of old
        And sigh to climb from the modern rut;
    Then I think of the castles, dim and cold,
        And I think of the poor man’s airless hut;
    I think of the candles they used for light,
        The lumbering stage they rode upon;
    I think of the Might that passed for Right,
        And I’m glad the good old days have gone!
    They were pleasant days for the hero dapper,
        But—I’m no scrapper!

  • Thanksgiving Thoughts

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 27, 1913. By Edmund Vance Cooke.

    Come! Let us take our prated prayers, review them and examine;
    Are they because our feast is full while others share a famine?
    Are they because we ride the road which others pick and shovel?
    Are they because our walls are wide while others crowd a hovel?
    Are they because our limbs are swathed, while some are rawed by weather?
    Or are they only for the gifts we all may share together?

    Thanks are not thanks which only make another’s want our measure,
    Or only by another’s pain to gauge a selfish pleasure.
    Thanks are not thanks whose words are stones to pelt a lesser brother,
    Or that we make our blessedness the burden of another.
    Thanks are not thanks for tender palms that others be as leather;
    Thanks are but thanks for such good gifts as all hands hold together.

    Give us to know the larger day which deprecates Thanksgiving,
    Save for the universal feast which spreads for all the living.
    Give us to pray the larger prayer whereby our senses quicken
    And sees no gain in any good whereby another’s stricken.
    Give us to scorn the captured spoil which asks no why or whether.
    Give us to toil toward that gain which all may share together.

  • The Millionaire’s Romance

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 26, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Gas turned low,
        They confess
    Their romance.
        She says Yes,
    Date is named,
        Cards sent out.
    Soon they’re on
        Marriage route.
    Friends all say,
        “Dandy match,
    She’s a queen,
        He’s a ‘catch.’”
    Thing’s all right
        For a while.
    He’s for clubs,
        She’s for style.
    Chorus girl
        Soon he sees,
    Sends her flowers
        Just to please.
    Wife finds out,
        Doesn’t care;
    Goes abroad
        Everywhere.
    Lawyer starts
        Then, of course,
    Wife’s suit
        For divorce.
    Husband fails
        To appear
    In the court
        Or come near.
    Get divorce
        Without a flaw;
    They both yell,
        “Hip Hurrah.”
    Alimony
        Paid each week.
    Now they’re friends,
        So they speak.

  • Youth

    From The Detroit Times, November 25, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    We Old Men try to fight them back
        With all our craft and all our skill,
    With every trick and every knack
        Of brain and heart and soul and Will.
        But oh, the Young Men follow still;
    They ask and will not be denied.
        And though they never mean us ill,
    We feel them thrusting us aside!

    Upon our olden gods we call
        And to our ancient shrines we cling
    But still without our castled wall
        The Young Men’s voices clearly ring.
        Upon their heads our wrath we fling,
    Our cannon-shot upon them rain.
        Our strategy and wiles we bring
    Against their ranks—but all in vain!

    Behind our barriers we stand
        (Experience and Age and Power),
    But Youth lays siege on every hand
        And crowds us closer every hour;
    The young men shell our moated tower,
        They batter down each wall and gate,
    And though we glare and though we glower,
        At last we must capitulate.

  • The Woman in Sorrow

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 24, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

    Ah, who is she who dwells in my heart, the woman sorrowing ever?
    I wooed her and I failed.
    I decked her with wreaths and sang songs in her praise.
    A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
    “I have no joy in thee,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

    I bought jeweled anklets for her feet and fanned her with a fan gem-studded;
    I made for her a bed on a golden couch.
    There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.

    “I have no joy in them,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
    I seated her upon a car of victory, and drove her from end to end of the earth.
    Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
    Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
    “I have no joy in conquests,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

    I asked her, “Tell me, whom is it thou seekest?”
    She only said, “I do not know his name.”
    Days pass by and she weeps.
    “When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me forever?” she cries, the woman in sorrow.

  • His Simple Creed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 23, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

    He didn’t have much of a creed,
        And his doctrine was not very deep;
    His faith wasn’t one he could read
        In volumes expensive or cheap.
    He helped all who asked when he could,
        He comforted all when they grieved,
    He believed in the right and the good,
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    He didn’t have much of a creed,
        His doctrine was simple and plain,
    But he seemed to have all that we need
        To balance life’s pleasure and pain.
    He wasn’t a fellow to shirk
        With burdens that could be relieved
    He believed ’twas his duty to work,
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    He put out his hand here and there
        To succor the weak and distressed,
    And when he had burdens to bear
        He bore them by doing his best.
    He refused to take profit or gain
        That was won by another deceived.
    He believed in a life without stain
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    I reckon when toiling is o’er,
        And all our struggles are through,
    When no one needs help anymore,
        And there are no good deeds to do,
    When the last of life’s dangers is braved,
        And the judgement of all is begun,
    Not by what we believed we’ll be saved,
        But by what, through believing, we’ve done.

  • Machine Limitations

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 22, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

    I’d love to sit by this machine
        And slowly touch the yielding keys,
    Till the whole world should see the sheen
        Of rocky river through the trees;
    See the slate cliffs I used to know
        And see the spider-webby span
    Of the bridge I knew long ago
        Away back where my life began.

    I’d love to take the world with me
        Across my white typewriter keys,
    Until the whole wide world should see
        The things I see, feel the same breeze
    Upon its cheek; should go and wade
        With me across the shallow ford,
    And climb the cliff’s face unafraid,
        And drink with me from the old gourd.

    The keys are unresponsive things!
        They never quite interpret right
    The song that’s in one heart and sings
        Its throbbing notes out to the night;
    The song of youth and gladsome days
        The song of blossomed slopes and bees
    The song of sumach bordered ways
        And forest glades and shady trees.

    They never can quite make the world
        See the rare color in the air—
    As if the sunset banners furled
        Had lost their sweetest color there;
    A color red as sweetheart lips!
        A color holding all the gold
    Of truant locks; pink as the tips
        Of little fingers known of old.

    Let my stiff fingers stray across
        The ivory faces as they may,
    I cannot make the branches toss,
        I cannot make the roses sway
    The way I’d like the world to see,
        The way I’d like the world to know,
    Or the whole world would sing with me
        Sweet love songs of the long ago.

  • The Bird Let Loose

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 21, 1913. By Thomas More.

    The bird let loose in Eastern skies
        When hastening fondly home
    Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
        Where idle warblers roam.
    But high she shoots through air and light
        Above all low delay,
    Where nothing earthly bounds her flight
        Nor shadow dims her way.

    So grant me, God, from every care
        And stain of passion free.
    Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air
        To hold my course to thee!
    No sin to cloud nor lure to stray
        My soul as home she springs;
    Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
        Thy freedom in her wings!