Newspaper History

Month: November 2021

  • Memories of Childhood

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1913. By John Stanley Crandell.

    My memory loves to linger on the days of long ago,
    When I was just a little chap of seven years or so;
    There wasn’t any woodshed, and there were not any cows,
    And no big and juicy apples hanging down from laden boughs.
    There wasn’t any meadow, and there wasn’t any stream.
    I don’t recall an attic, never tasted milk with cream.
    Still, in spite of all that’s lacking, I can really, truly say
    That my memory loves to linger on that happy bygone day.

    There wasn’t any oaken bucket hanging in the well,
    But the sundaes at the candy store were really something swell.
    I don’t remember smelling any smell of new-mown hay,
    But the odors up the airshaft were different every day.
    I never had to split the wood, or other similar chores;
    My principle hard labor was watching baseball scores.
    I didn’t weed the garden, and I didn’t drive the mare,
    But I did play penny ante and I learned to smoke and swear.

    There wasn’t any mountain path for me to toil and climb,
    But when I got up those five flights I knew it every time.
    I didn’t learn my lessons by the log fire’s ruddy blaze,
    But simply pushed a button and turned on the tungsten rays.
    No charming valley met my gaze, no woods and pastures new,
    But with some kid I’d go to see “The Follies,” or “Revue.”
    There wasn’t any spelling bee, no general store for Pa,
    But I certainly enjoyed myself with Movies-loving Ma.

    And so, altho’ the things worth while in youth I missed, I know,
    My memory loves to linger on those days of long ago.

  • The Hard Work

    From the Evening Star, November 19, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    Sometimes I get sore and ranty o’er the work I have to do, and I rip around the shanty till the atmosphere is blue. “Why,” I ask the cat, “in thunder should a fellow toil and slave? All this skirmishing for plunder merely brings him to the grave. You are wise, old cat, in dreaming, dreaming of your feline joys, while the human chumps are screaming for some prize not worth the noise; you are wise, you derned old tabby, dreaming as the minutes scoot, while men wear their tempers shabby chasing after Dead Sea fruit.” Then I walk three blocks or seven, just to soothe my nerves a few, and encounter ten or ‘leven men who have no work to do. Men as good as I or better, who are nathless down and out, shackled by misfortune’s fetter, all their hopes gone up the spout. Men whose poverty is shrieking, men of evil luck the sport; men who spend the long days seeking work, just work, of any sort. Then I go back to my shanty in a chastened frame of mind, having seen worse hell than Dante, and resume the pleasant grind.

  • Unrest

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 18, 1913. By William F. Kirk.

    There is no rest save sleep and death
        For us whom Destiny is driving;
    Until the last and feeblest breath
        Some part of every man is striving.
    The tireless muscles of the strong,
        The mental workings of the clever,
    Unite, as we are swept along,
        In one grand purpose of endeavor.

    The idle day and idle dream
        Are for the dotard and the fool;
    The salmon flashes up the stream;
        The coarse carp fattens in the pool.
    Striving we live, and striving, shun
        The dull content that would enslave us;
    And glory, ere the day is done,
        Is that unrest the Master gave us.

  • In a Dozen Years From Now

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    We’ll all flit ‘round in aeroplanes
        In a dozen years from now;
    We may have done with aches and pains
        In a dozen years from now.
    Great ships will pass through Panama,
    Baseball games may have ceased to draw,
    And ma may vote instead of pa
        In a dozen years from now.

    We may have blotted out disease
        In a dozen years from now;
    We may have bridged the broadest seas
        In a dozen years from now;
    New York may fully understand
    That west of Jersey there’s a land
    Containing cities great and grand,
        In a dozen years from now.

    Caruso may have ceased to sing
        In a dozen years from now;
    Men may be sick of traveling
        In a dozen years from now.
    No more divorces may be sought,
    The last big fight may have been fought,
    And guides may cease from being shot,
        In a dozen years from now.

    Vice may no longer keep us vexed
        In a dozen years from now;
    We may have Mexico annexed
        In a dozen years from now.
    The cost of living may be low;
    It isn’t very likely, though,
    That those who work will think it so
        In a dozen years from now.

    War may be banished from the earth
        In a dozen years from now;
    Men may be measured by their worth
        In a dozen years from now.
    But doubtless there will still survive
    Men who will fret when others thrive,
    And two and two will not make five
        In a dozen years from now.

  • The Hopeful Father

    From The Sun, November 16, 1913.

    My son had made the team; he played
        Left end and did it splendidly—
    At least he did it well till they’d
        Knocked out his teeth and wrenched his knee;
    I sat and watched when he was downed
        By seven heavy buccaneers
    Who jammed his visage in the ground
        Thereby evoking hearty cheers.

    His comrades raised him from the mud
        And quickly bore him out of sight;
    His face was all besmeared with blood,
        The people shouted with delight.
    It mattered not to them if he
        Had finished his career on earth;
    Mishaps were what they wished to see,   
        For thus they got their money’s worth.

    He’s now attended by a nurse
        And after this he will be lame;
    It might, however, have been worse;
        I won six dollars on the game;
    Therefore I’ll cling to hope, and chuck
        The grief with which I have been filled,
    For next time it may be my luck
        To see some other maimed or killed.

  • The End of Her Career

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 15, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    For nine long years she worked away
        With all the strength she had;
    She showed improvement day by day
        And made her parents glad;
    She went abroad to study there,
        Her father’s purse grew thin,
    But “maestros” said her gifts were rare
        In Paris and Berlin.

    She practiced in the mornings and
        She practiced late at night;
    She gained much strength of arm and hand,
        Her touch grew sure and light;
    While other girls were having fun
        In foolish, girlish ways,
    She practiced steadily and won
        Her teacher’s honest praise.

    At last, with nothing more to do,
        She sought her native town,
    And there was wooed and won there, too.
        She quickly settled down.
    Her babies play upon the floor,
        Her husband’s purse is thin,
    And “maestros” think of her no more
        In Paris or Berlin.

  • As to Pining

    From The Washington Herald, November 14, 1913. By John Kendrick Bangs.

    The English tongue sometimes, I fear
    Would strike a man from Mars as queer.
    For instance, when some people say,
    “’Tis sad to see one pine away,”
    They do not know the kind of pine
    That gladdens so this soul of mine.
    When I observe it front the ill
    Of winter with its bitter chill,
    Its green persistent in the face
    Of every blast that comes from space;
    Its head held high against the sky
    Whatever tempest passes by;
    And ‘mid the blizzards as serene
    As in the summer, soft and green.
    It simply pines, and pines away,
    And gathers strength day after day;
    And stands erect whatever may be
    And takes what comes unflinchingly.
    How wondrous fine ‘twould be, I say,
    If folks would only “pine” that way!

  • When Things Go Wrong

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 13, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    When the car in which you’re riding
        Seems to barely creep along
    You are not slow in deciding
        That there must be something wrong;
    When you miss the elevator
        And must wait till it comes back
    You are likely to blame Fate, or
        Think the whole world’s out of whack.

    When the office boy is stupid
        Or the sweet stenographer
    Seems to have her mind on Cupid
        How you hate both him and her;
    When she hums her sweet love ditty
        You get overcharged with gall,
    And you feel no touch of pity
        When he whistles in the hall.

    When you think all men are trying
        To deprive you of your own;
    When you wake up sadly sighing
        And, at night, quit with a groan;
    When you think that every other
        Finds the wrong course to pursue
    It is safe to bet, oh brother,
        That the thing that’s wrong is you.

  • The Revolver

    From The Detroit Times, November 12, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    It once was weapon of the strong,
        The daring and the bold,
    Who left the dull and toiling throng
        To seek the land of gold;
    It made all men of equal height
        In realms beyond the law;
    It spoke in many a fair-fought fight
        Where life is rough and raw.

    It rendered justice as was mete
        ‘Twixt Ghibbeline or Guelph,
    Where each man stood upon his feet
        And made his law himself;
    It had some glory at its best,
        Some glamor of romance
    Amid those winners of the West
        Who dared to take a chance.

    It once was weapon of the brave,
        But in this later time
    The coward and the slinking knave
        Have made it black with crime;
    It is the weapon of the pack
        That stalks, by night, its prey,
    Then shoots the victim in the back
        And loots—and runs away!

    It is the comrade and the mate
        Of those who beat and slug,
    Of murderers degenerate,
        The gangster and the thug!

  • The Spice of Life

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 11, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    I do not envy him who never
        Has borne the bruises of defeat.
    Whose pathways have been smooth and fair,
        Whom Chance has never learned to cheat;
        For he has never claimed the sweet
    Reward that comes to those who dare
        To be triumphant, to possess
        The splendid solace of success
    Won after failure and despair.

    I do not envy lovers who
        Have never found their love betrayed,
    Who love but once and journey through
        Life by one little passion swayed;
        For they have never gladly laid
    Aside the false love for the true,
        And they have missed the splendid thrill
        Who, having loved in vain, can still
    Forget the ache and love anew.

    I do not envy him whose days
        Have all been peaceful days and bright,
    Who has not looked with envious gaze
        On luckier men who scorned his plight;
        For he has never won the right
    To proudly listen to the praise
        Which is reserved for those who gain
        Their honors after bitter pain
    And many storms and long delays.