Newspaper History

Month: December 2021

  • Individuality

    From The Seattle Star, December 31, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    You can’t be Shelley or Keats or Burns,
        Or Caesar or Edmund Kean;
    They had their chance and they did their turns
        And now they are gone, I ween.
    And why should you copy each august shade
        Who lies on a graveyard shelf?
    HE didn’t copy, his fame was made
        By being his own true self!

    You can’t be Kipling or Roosevelt,
        Or Wilson or Bryan, too;
    But you can be known, and you can be felt
        By being Yourself all through;
    No man grows great when he imitates,
        For that is the way to fail;
    The fellow who wins from the frowning fates
        Must mark out his own clear trail!

    You may not reach to the heights of fame,
        For few can climb so high,
    But at least you can play in the lively game
        Whenever you want to try;
    You may not get to the top at all,
        Nor capture renown or pelf,
    But, win or lose, or rise or fall,
        At least you can be yourself!

  • A First-Rate Book

    From The Detroit Times, December 30, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    I’ve been reading of slaughter and battle,
        Of glory and gumption and gore,
    Of raids upon foemen and cattle
        And hair-raising stunts by the score.
    Of heroes of mightiest bravery,
        Of villains with records unsavory,
    Of righteousness, evil and knavery,
        And plenty of olden time lore.

    I’ve been reading some lovely romances
        And tales of adventure, as well,
    Of men who took uttermost chances
        And braved any fate that befell.
    I’ve reveled, with eyes that were glistery,
        In fairy tales, magic and mystery,
    Theology, logic and history,
        And poems that none can excel.

    And I read all of this in one volume,
        One volume I’d never looked through
    Till I plunged in its close-printed column—
        And its treasures lay bare to my view.

    So I learned, after decades unheeding,
        What wise men have long been conceding,
    That the Bible is chuck full of reading,
        And mighty good stuff it is, too!

  • The Criminal’s Apology

    From The Seattle Star, December 29, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Oh yes, I’m guilty, right enough;
    It ain’t no use to throw a bluff,
    An’ yet, I guess, Society
    Kin share the guilt along o’ me!
    I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
    But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

    Born in a dirty, reeking slum,
    Where decent sunlight never come,
    An’ starved for food an’ starved for air
    Through all my years of boyhood there,
    While evil things, an’ low an’ mean
    Was nearly all the life I seen,
    Of course, I growed to be a tough,
    A hoodlum, and a bad young rough!

    But even then I might uv been
    Reformed to be some use to men,
    If, every time I left the trail,
    They didn’t slam me into jail
    Where thieves an’ all that rotten crew
    Would teach me worse than all I knew.

    Oh yes, I’m guilty; that is clear,
    But every guy who’s listenin’ here
    An’ all you swells an’ goodly folks,
    Who sniffs at me an’ such-like blokes,
    Is guilty, too—along o’ me,
    An’ will be till the world is free
    Of stinkin’ slums an’ rotten holes
    That poison people’s hearts and souls,
    An’ cheats ‘em from their very birth
    From every decent chance on earth.
    I ain’t the kind to weep an’ whine,
    But say—wot chance, wot chance was mine?

  • A New Year Apostrophe

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 28, 1913. By Richard Linthicum.

    A baby smiles in its mother’s face,
    There at her breast in a soft embrace—
    A life beginning and all to learn;
    A mother’s heart that shall leap and yearn,
    Teaching the dimpled feet to walk,
    Teaching the honeyed mouth to talk!
    O Time, make haste for the baby dear
    And speed the coming of each New Year!

    A youth with the fire and blood of spring
    And hope that rises on eager wing,
    Thrills at the sight of a maiden’s blush,
    Stirring his heart with the first hot flush
    Of love requited, that finds its mate
    And yet but a little while must wait,
    Watches and listens thy step to hear;
    O speed thy coming, thou sweet New Year!

    In manhood’s prime there is standing one,
    And all but his greatest task is done;
    Beyond his reach but before his eyes
    Greatest of all is the final prize;
    Yet but a little he’ll hold it fast,
    A year and a day ’twill be his last,
    Conquering spirit that knows not fear,
    Bidding thee hasten, O brave New Year!

    Gray is the crown of a wholesome life
    And peace the benison sweet of strife;
    An aged man with his strength nigh spent,
    With nerves a-tremble, his slight form bent,
    Erect in spirit and white of soul,
    With steps that falter, is near the goal;
    With eyes bedimmed but a faith that’s clear,
    He craves but thy rest, O blest New Year!

  • The Dilettante

    From The Tacoma Times, December 27, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    “Alas,” the struggling painter cried,
    “My artist soul is sorely tried,
    The crass commercial side of life,
    The constant toil, the constant strife,
    Give me no chance to do my best,
    But keep me working without rest
    At making pictures which will sell,
    A thing at which I would rebel
    If I had money so I could.”

    Fortune to that young man was god,
    An uncle died and left his roll
    To him who had the “artist soul.”
    No longer was there need to do
    The pictures he’d objected to,
    And “Art for Art’s sake” he was free
    To follow long and faithfully.

    But when his money came to him
    Somehow ambition lost its vim;
    Without the struggle and the fight,
    The game had lost its old delight;
    At first the work he did was small;
    At last he didn’t paint at all!

    The moral is that too much pelf—
    Oh, make the moral for yourself!

  • The Kid’s Mystery

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 26, 1913.

    There’s somethin’ doin’ in our flat,
        ‘Taint like it used to be;
    There seems to be some secret that
        They’re keepin’ ‘way from me.
    They’re whisperin’ from morn to night,
        It makes me gol ding sick;
    For every time I come in sight
        They all shet up right quick.

    It seems like I can’t go about
        The rooms or anywhere,
    Unless somebody has to shout,
        “You mustn’t go in there.”
    Pa’s room is locked up like a jail,
        It never was before;
    And ma, she hollers and turns pale
        If I go near the door.

    But when they think that I’m in bed
        These fine December nights,
    I’m underneath the lounge instead,
        A-seein’ all the sights
    That in the sittin’ room are shown
        When dad unwraps the stuff.
    I let ‘em think they are alone,
        So you can hang their bluff.

    When I’ve snuck back and closed my eyes
        In bed, I can’t help think
    Of pa and ma’s great big surprise
        And I can’t sleep a wink.
    They’re handing me an awful game,
        And I’m dead wise this year,
    But I’m right tickled just the same
        That Christmas morn is near.

  • If They All Did It

    From The Tacoma Times, December 25, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    The Congressmen are singing in the chorus of a show,
    The Speaker’s booked in Vaudeville at a house in Buffalo,
    The Senators have organized a minstrel troupe of skill,
    And wherever they are playing they are features of the bill;
    The august, able Judges of the Nation’s Court Supreme
    Are clowning in the circus and their antics are a scream;
    The Cabinet is scattered many places near and far—
    The Labor Secretary is a comic opera star,
    And those of War and Navy are just “Turning ‘em away”
    With some very fancy shooting at a lively cabaret.
    And some are at Chautauquas where the voice of duty calls,
    And some are doing dances in the London music halls,
    And the head of all the Nation, whom we call our President,
    Is at present giving lectures which will help to pay his rent;
    There’s a drowsy air of languor over Washington, D. C.,
    And the place is hushed and silent as a city well could be;
    There are cobwebs on the buildings, there is fungus on the doors,
    And the watchman sits and dozes and the janitor he snores;
    There is dust upon the papers and the desks are buried deep,
    For the theaters have opened and the capitol’s asleep.
    Of course, the Nation’s business is neglected quite a spell,
    But the Vaudeville-lecture business pays particularly well!

  • The Real Santa Claus

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 24, 1913. By Wex Jones.

    We always picture Santa Claus as ruddy, plump and jolly,
    Snugly wrapped in fur-lined coat, gayly decked with holly;
    Whirling through the crisp night air, shot with bright star-twinkles,
    While beneath his reindeers’ feet the snowflake scarcely crinkles.
    The Santa Claus we always dream, bears upon his back
    A bully, bursting, bountiful, joy-creating pack;
    And if his Christmas largess should deplete his brimming store
    All he need do is turn his team and speed right back for more.

    But, alas, the real Santa Claus is often thin and weak,
    And no tingle of the wintry air brings color to her cheek;
    And often on the Christmas eve, the Christmas spirit mocking,
    She sees beside her empty hand the tattered, empty stocking.
    But childish hope is long-lived and childish faith is strong,
    And the stockings wait each Christmas lest Santa come along;
    So she skimps and starves and struggles to get the babes a toy,
    For what’s her cold and hunger to her children’s dream and joy?

    So when you think of Santa Claus, the one who’s plump and jolly,
    The one who’s snug in fur-lined coat and smiles through wreaths of holly,
    The one who, of his plenty, lavishes Christmas joys,
    Where joys abound already, on favored girls and boys—
    Oh, don’t forget the others, the weary ones and worn,
    Who render of their scanty store to brighten Christmas morn;
    And in the pleasant bustle of this happy season, pause
    To lend a hand of helpfulness to the real Santa Claus.

  • Lucky for Him That They Met

    From the Rock Island Argus, December 23, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    “I’m sorry that we ever met,” I heard ma tellin’ pa, last night;
    And pa said he was sadder yet—I guess he said it just for spite.
    Then ma she scolded pa some more and after that commenced to cry
    And threw her new hat on the floor and said she wished that she could die.

    Pa said that he was just a slave and hadn’t any right to live.
    The more he earned, the more he gave, the more ma wanted him to give.
    “I never get a chance to play; I’m just a drudge, that’s what I am,”
    Pa said, and then he went away, and gave the door an awful slam.

    When I was gettin’ into bed and ma bent down to hear my prayers
    She cried some more and turned her head and said her life was full of cares.
    I’m sorry for them both, and yet I’m glad they can’t be free again,
    Because if they had never met, why I would be a norphun, then.

  • The Good Old Maxims

    From the Rock Island Argus, December 22, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    I like to read the maxims which
        Philosophers have made;
    They tell us how we may be rich
        And wise and unafraid.

    “Thrice armed is he whose quarrel’s just,”
        “Truth crushed to earth will rise,”
    “Right will prevail.” “They can who must,”
        “He only wins who tries.”

    “Look ere you leap.” “The rolling stone
        Accumulates no moss.”
    “A cat may gaze upon a throne.”
        “Your gain’s another’s loss.”

    “They cannot win who hesitate.”
        “Think twice before you speak.”
    “The bough too often bent will break.”
        “They find who bravely seek.”

    “A little nonsense now and then
        Is relished by the wise.”
    “The sword’s less mighty than the pen.”
        “Man’s strength his need supplies.”

    So down along the list it goes;
        The maxims make it clear
    How each may overcome his foes
        And at the front appear.

    But I am often filled with doubt,
        My faith is insecure;
    The men who worked these maxims out
        All died so very poor.