Newspaper History

Month: February 2022

  • A Dream

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Last night as I lay sleeping,
        I had a dream so fair;
    Methought I owned a hundred banks,
        With money everywhere.
    My home was on Fifth Avenue,
        My servants all content;
    It never strained my purse a bit
        To pay for clothes or rent.

    I owned all sorts of motor cars,
        A nifty yacht and plane;
    I rode where’er I pleased on earth
        And o’er the bounding main,
    And in the midst of all my joy
        I got an awful shock;
    My banks were closed by order of
        My old alarum clock.

  • My Little Boy

    From the Harrisburgh Telegraph, February 27, 1914. Translated by H. W. Ettelson, from the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.

    I have a boy, a little boy,
        He is a youngster fine!
    Whenever I catch sight of him,
        I think the world is mine!

    But of him, precious one, awake,
        I’ve seldom, seldom sight.
    Most times I find him fast asleep,
        Just see him in the night.

    The workshop calls me early out,
        And late I leave the place;
    Ah, strange to me my flesh and blood,
        Ah, strange my own child’s face.

    I come through pall of darkness home,
        Fagged out and in a daze.
    And my pale wife to cheer me, tells
        Of baby’s cunning ways.

    How sweet he talks, how cute he begs;
        “Please mamma, tell me, do,
    When is dear daddy going to come
        And bring me a penny, too.”

    And hearing this, I dart away,
        For so it needs must be.
    The father-love flames passionate;
        “My child must, shall see me.”

    I stand beside his tiny crib,
        I see and ah, I hear,
    The little lips ask in a dream:
        “Where is my daddy dear?”

    I kiss his eyelids tenderly
        They open wide—sweet sight!
    They see me now, they see me now,
        But soon again shut tight!

    “Here’s father now, my one, my own.
        A penny for you, there!”
    The little lips ask in a dream:
        “O where is Papa, where?”

    I stand there stricken, deep-distressed,
        And speak in accents sore;
    “Sometime you’ll wake my child, alas,
        And find me here no more!”

  • The Better Way

    From The Washington Herald, February 26, 1914. By John Kendrick Bangs.

    I had a phrase in mind today
        So sharp I really can’t convey it.
    I laughed and laughed for hours away
        To think how sorely ‘twould dismay
    My foe, and then I’m glad to say
        Decided that I wouldn’t say it!

  • Ballade of the Sphinx

    From The Times Dispatch, February 25, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    Grim, inscrutable wise old Sphinx,
        Halfway hid in the desert sands;
    Could we know what it knows and thinks,
        Understand as it understands,
    The answer would be in our hands,
        That sages hint and seers foretell.
    Knowing, but silent, there it stands—
        What is the riddle it keeps so well?

    Grim, inscrutable, wise old Sphinx,
        Old and wise when the world was young;
    We are weary of nods and winks,
        And guesses from every witless tongue,
    Merest crumbs to the starving flung.
        Tell us something truly, tell
    What was the song the Sirens sung?
        What is the riddle you keep so well?

    What was the meaning of Memnon’s hall?
        What was hidden from mortal eyes
    In Isis’s temple behind the veil,
        To heed and hark our sacrifice?
    What are all of the mysteries
        Within whose fearsome dark we dwell?
    Why do the gods make no replies?
        What is the riddle you keep so well?

    Sphinx, inscrutable, scornful, wise,
        (Telling naught, for there is naught to tell)
    Mysteries are but woven lies—
        This is the riddle you keep so well.

  • Feeding the Birds in Winter

    From The Detroit Times, February 24, 1914. By Margaret Florence McAuley.

    “Look!” Cried little Willie to his cousin May;
    “See the flock of birdies carry crumbs away.”
    “Yes,” said May, “I’ll tell you what we always do
    In cold wintry weather when food freezes, too;
    On the steps and window sills cracker crumbs we spread,
    And soon we hear the birdies chirping overhead;
    Then I call ‘Come birdies,’ and my voice they know,
    So they fly quite swiftly to their feast below.
    Sometimes ten or fifty chirp, and hop, and run,
    And to watch them dining, Oh it is such fun.
    You can help me feed them while you visit here,
    And if you are gentle they will know no fear.
    I could tell you stories—some are gay, some sad—
    Of the joy and sorrow which my birds have had.
    Some days when it’s coldest, and I later sleep,
    They hop up to my window and anxiously they peep;
    They tap upon the panes and chat in words I’ve learned to know,
    Then swiftly to the cracker box you may be sure I go.
    When you go home, ask auntie to save the cracker crumbs,
    Then feed them to the birdies as soon as winter comes.
    We’ve learned to love each other, my little birds and I,
    And all year long they hover among the branches nigh.
    In winter or in summer, when to the door I go,
    My darling birdies greet me with their merry, sweet ‘hello’.”

  • The Conversion of Silas

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 23, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Of all the fossels in our town,
        Si Haskins was the boss.
    He said the autymobile never
        Would replace the hoss.
    He always used to sneer and snort
        Whenever one went by,
    And when he’d see one busted down,
        He’d laugh until he’d cry.
    He said the owners all were fools
        To go and spend their dough
    For them gol ding contrivances
        That never seemed to go.
    Them devil wagons got his goat,
        He’d never fall for one.
    Of all the gol-dum foolishness,
        Gas wagons took the bun.

    One day a nephew died and left
        An old one-lung machine
    A-standing out in old Si’s barn.
        Si got some gasoline
    And poured it in the gosh durned thing
        To see if it would start.
    He cranked her up and thought he’d try
        To drive the old gas cart.
    He drove it down the road all right,
        Forgettin’ all his care,
    And rode around till almost night
        And visited everywhere.
    Next morning bright and early he
        Was poundin’ down the street.
    He scared the hosses right and left
        And knocked folks off their feet.

    A week from then he bought a car.
        It was of high hoss power.
    He didn’t take time off to eat,
        But drove it every hour.
    He raced with everybody who
        Showed up within a mile
    He said you might as well be dead
        As not to be in style.
    His whiskers blew out in the breeze,
        As down the road he flew.
    He said: “I’ll show those gol ding boobs
        A fancy trick or tew.”
    He spent all of his waking hours
        In showing them new tricks.
    Four cylinders became too tame,
        And so he bought a six.

    He’s been arrested nineteen times
        For speedin’, so they say.
    He got his whiskers all shaved off,
        For they got in his way.
    He talks of touring cars all day
        And dreams of them at night,
    And nowadays whene’er he sees
        A piece of horseflesh pass
    He sort of chuckles, sneering like,
        And hollers out: “No class.”

  • Beyond

    From The Times Dispatch, February 22, 1914. By Amanda B. Cordes.

    Beyond the doubts, the anguish and the fears,
        The wasted strength, the fever and distress,
    Faith comes to me to bid me dry my tears,
        And point my gaze to where the weary rest.

    To where the shadows never more shall fall,
        Nor coming storms blot out the smiling sun,
    Where those who rise each day to bend and toil
        Will find, at last, their tasks forever done.

    Beneath the love-kissed skies Peace softly bends,
        With hands outstretched to smile my grief away,
    And through the lonely night her balm she sends
        To lift my fainting heart until the day.

    “A little while,” faith whispers in my ears,
        “The way is not so very, very long.
    A few more crosses and a few more tears,
        And then the crown and everlasting song.”

    I turn to clasp Faith’s hand once more in mine,
        And lo, the path shows clearly through the night,
    Touched by the glory of the distant clime
        That waits me just beyond my raptured sight.

  • The Diplomat

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 21, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    I’d like to be a diplomat and live in foreign climes,
    For diplomats are made much of and have some glorious times.
    A diplomat is always sought by potentates and kings.
    They hang him full of medals and a number of such things.

    A diplomat is one who can make black look just like white.
    He talks about a wrong until you really think it’s right.
    His language is so polished that it slips off from his tongue
    So readily that you believe the song that he has sung.

    He calls a man a liar, but his way gives no offense.
    He makes the other party think hard names are compliments.
    He is a master in the art of gentle subterfuge;
    He has a nerve colossal and vocabulary huge.

    But still I know that I will never be a diplomat,
    I’m too much of a roughneck. I’m very sure of that.
    For I have tried it many times and can’t, to save my life,
    Fake up an explanation that will even fool my wife.

  • Where Brains Are Needed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 20, 1914. By S. E. Kiser.

    “I claim it takes more brains to farm,” said Ebenezer Brown,
    “Than what it does to git ahead and make a splash in town;
    Why, I know six or seven chaps from this here neighborhood
    Who went away to cities, where they’re busy makin’ good.

    “You take Chicago and New York—size up the big men there—
    The lawyer, doctor, merchant and the multimillionaire—
    You’ll find they’ve all been farmer boys, or lived in towns, at least,
    Where they could have a chance to learn the ways of bird and beast.

    “Now, take these city chaps who come to cultivate the land—
    I don’t mean millionaires who farm for fun, you understand—
    But take the common city folks who try to farm, and say!
    It’s pitiful the way they try to make their farmin’ pay.

    “I’ve saw a dozen of ‘em fall; I never seen one yet
    Who managed to be prominent or not get into debt;
    And so I claim a man may make an awful splash in town
    And not have brains enough to farm,” said Ebenezer Brown.

  • Get the Money

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 19, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    “Oh, I’ve done well today,” he said;
    “I gave a man whose hope had fled
    New hope and saw him push ahead.”
        His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
    You gave another hope, you say;
        What profit have you in return?
    No footman waits on me today,
        And it is little that you earn—
            Where’s the money?”

    “Oh, I’ve done well,” he said again;
    “A golden sentence from my pen
    Has earned the praise of thoughtful men.”
        His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
    Your golden sentences may please
        A few poor pedants, grave and old,
    But they who live in splendid ease
        Still scorn us for our lack of gold—
            Where’s the money?”

    “Oh, I’ve done well,” he said once more;
    “In future men will praise my lore
    And wear a pathway to my door.”
        His wife asked: “Where’s the money?
    Who cares what future men may say?
        I still am forced to skimp and save;
    What will it matter if some day
        Men pile their tributes on your grave?
            Where’s the money?”

    He bravely went his way to do
    The best he might, to still pursue
    The course that had been found by few;
        The world asked: “Where’s the money?”
    He wisely served posterity
        And earned a future, lasting fame;
    But, scorned by those about him, he
        Forever heard the world exclaim:
            “Where’s the money?”