Newspaper History

Month: February 2022

  • The Mud-Hole in the Road

    From The Times Dispatch, February 18, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    A mud-hole in our road I know
    And every year I’ve watched it grow.
    It used to be a small affair,
    That we, by exercising care,
    Could, with but little trouble pass.
    That was before ’twas “worked,” alas!
    They cut some pieces of pine bough
    And threw them headlong in the slough.
    On this they piled a lot of clay
    And, well contented, went away.
    The clay quite quickly turned to mud.
    The naked pine sticks soon up stood,
    In sharp and threatening array,
    Like some old fossil vertebrae.
    They plowed and dug about its marge,
    Which did its compass much enlarge.
    Thus “worked” the mud-hole grew so wide
    We could not pass on either side.
    But like our old friend, Dr. Foster,
    We reached our middle when we crossed her.
    Now as this mud-hole larger grew
    ’Twas quite a source of revenue
    To those who had, with proper skill,
    So nursed and tended it until
    It needed patching every day,
    If travel still would go that way.
    Moral: If you will but bestow
    The proper work, you can, I know,
    Make e’en a mud-hole thrive and grow.

  • A Call for Recognition

    From the Evening Star, February 17, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    Are there any hero medals applied for up to date?
    Is there one to fit a man obscure and humble in his fate,
    Yet one who risks his life and does the very best he can
    To obviate the dangers that beset his fellow-man;
    Who faces icy gales and never flinches from the blast;
    Who saves men, women, children, thinking of himself the last!
    Upon that simple citizen some passing thought bestow
    Who puts ashes on the sidewalk after shoveling off the snow.

    Oh, kind philanthropist, while honoring those whose records claim
    A public’s admiration and a monument of fame,
    Contrive some decoration that will cause the family’s eyes
    To look on dear old father as a hero and a prize.
    Think of the many mortals who, as they passed on in line,
    Were saved from fractured foreheads or concussion of the spine.
    In letters all unfading write it that the world may know
    “He put ashes on the sidewalk after shoveling off the snow.”

  • Two Brothers

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 16, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Ezry Haskins was a feller
    With a disposition meller;
    Never graspin’, never greedy,
    Always helped the poor and needy.
    Ezry made an honest million
    And he might have made a billion
    If he hadn’t always parted
    In a manner open-hearted
    With such liberal wads of boodle.
    Never got it in his noodle
    That Dame Fortune’s always fickle,
    And he should save every nickel.
    When ’twas too late to repent it,
    Ezry found that he had spent it—
    All that he’d accumulated.
    Carriage to the poorhouse waited,
    Ezry passed to life eternal
    And the home town’s weekly journal
    Hardly gave him any mention,
    He attracted no attention.
    It was just a “Village Jottin,”
    Poor old Ezry was forgotten.

    Hiram Haskins, Ezry’s brother,
    Seemed like he was of another
    Breed of cattle—and he looked it,
    If there was a cent, he hooked it.
    He was miserly and graspin’,
    And his voice was hard and raspin’.
    He was always with the bidders
    On the mortgages of widders.
    He grew most amazin’ wealthy,
    In a manner sharp and stealthy,
    Even when so rich he couldn’t
    Count his piles of gold he wouldn’t
    Give a nickel to the needy,
    He was that tarnation greedy.
    But the folks all catered to him,
    And gave him all honors due him,
    And his funeral was glorious,
    Like an emperor victorious,
    And the paper had a column
    Of a notice sad and solemn,
    And the whole town joined in grieving
    O’er the old man who was leaving.

    We don’t know what happened to ‘em
    When they both got what was due ‘em,
    But we bet old Hi is wishin’
    Fer a change in his condition—
    Wishin’ the eternal graces
    Would let him and Ez trade places.

  • On Second Thought

    From the Evening Star, February 15, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    We had a suffrage meetin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.
    The voters and the voteresses came resolved to kick.
    At the sound of “Votes for women!” all the men folk said “Hurrah!”
    But a number of the women simply smiled and said, “Oh, pshaw!”
    We talked the matter over. The elections of the past
    Had often failed, all owin’ to the way the votes were cast.
    We declared that if they wished it, we’d stay home an’ mend the socks
    An’ let our wives show how to run that pesky ballot box.
    We promised to remove ourselves completely from the scene
    When an election day came ’round; we’d make it all serene
    By lettin’ none but woman, lovely woman, stand in line,
    To show the world some ballotin’ all up-to-date an’ fine.
    Then Huldah Higgins said, “That’s jes’ the way them men will shirk!
    They want to stand around an’ let us women do the work!”
    She roused such indignation that the case was settled quick.
    The men will keep on votin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.

  • My First Valentine

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 14, 1914. By K. L. Daniher.

    Now dawns the day of all the year when Cupid’s court holds sway,
    And pictured hearts in true love knots are sent upon their way
    To bear a tender message from the bashful, love-lorn swain
    Unto his chosen lady-love, her favor thus to gain;
    Then backward through the mists of years my thoughts are prone to stray,
    Though fifty mile-stones mark the path, it seems but yesterday—
    As dreamily I muse upon the ardor that was mine
    When I, with mingled hopes and fears, sent my first valentine.

    She was my favorite at school—a winsome little maid,
    With nut-brown hair all plaited in a smooth, beribboned braid.
    Still graven in my mem’ry are the colors that she wore,
    The checkered pink sunbonnet and the snowy pinafore;
    And when the shops resplendent shone with arrow-punctured hearts,
    And roguish, chubby Cupids making havoc with their darts,
    I fain would render homage to the little miss of nine,
    And breathe my admiration in a dainty valentine.

    Ah, me! What changes time has wrought since that bright winter day
    When in my charmer’s desk I placed my valentine so gay.
    Where once the little school house stood, a modern structure towers,
    And there my children’s children spent their busy schooltime hours.
    The little lass? Why bless your heart! She sits beside me now,
    The nut-brown hair is silver, banded low upon her brow;
    Fair sweetheart of my boyhood’s days, my heart is still her shrine—
    Though fifty years have flown since then, she’s still my Valentine.

  • The Heart of Things

    From The Detroit Times, February 13, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When you care for a girl—why, the world is a place
        That was only created for holding her,
    And the day’s but a light that illumines her face
        And the night but a mantle enfolding her;
    And when you are working or when you’re at play
        Your mind will not turn from the theme of her;
    You muse and you think of her always by day,
        And when it comes night-time you dream of her!

    Where you care for a girl—and the girl cares for you,
        Life seems like a pilgrimage glorious,
    Where the breezes are sweet and the sky’s always blue
        And love is forever victorious;
    When you care for a girl and the girl doesn’t care,
        Well, life’s dull and gray—there’s no doubt of it,
    And it’s hard to keep on with a gay-hearted air
        When the light and the joy have gone out of it!

  • Lincoln

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 12, 1914. By Witter Bynner.

    An appreciation and character sketch of Lincoln, unusual and unique in form, but nonetheless forceful, is in the current issue of Harper’s Weekly. It comes from the pen of Witter Bynner, and is as follows:

    Lincoln?—
    Well, I was in the old Second Maine,
    The first regiment in Washington from the Pine Tree State.
    Of course I didn’t get the butt of the clip;
    We was there guardin’ Washington—
    We was all green.
    I ain’t never been to but one theater in my life—
    I didn’t know how to behave;
    I ain’t never been since.
    I can see as plain as my hat the box where he sat in
    When he was shot.
    There was quite a panic
    When we found our President was in the shape he was in;
    Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him.
    Yes, sir. His looks was kind o’ hard to forget.—
    He was a spare man,
    An old farmer.
    Everything was all right, you know,
    But he wan’t a smooth-appearin’ man at all,—
    Not in no ways;
    Thin-faced, long-necked,
    And a swellin’ kind of a thick lip like,—
    A neighborin’ farmer.
    And he was a jolly old fellow, always cheerful;
    He wan’t so high but the boys could talk to him their own ways.
    While I was servin’ at the Hospital
    He’d come in and say, “You look nice in here,”—
    Praise us up, you know.
    And he’d bend over and talk to the boys—
    And he’d talk so good to ‘em—so close—
    That’s why I call him a farmer.
    I don’t mean that everything about him wan’t all right, you understand.
    It’s jes’—well, I was a farmer—
    And he was jes’ everybody’s neighbor.—
    I guess even you young folks would ’a’ liked him.

  • Ambition

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 11, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    When he made just three plunks a week
        He thought if he made five
    He’d surely be the happiest
        Young business man alive.
    He finally got five a week,
        But wasn’t happy then.
    He never would be satisfied
        Until he pulled down ten.
    When he got ten a week he thought
        His compensation mean;
    He knew he’d reach his heart’s desire
        If he could get fifteen.
    He got his fifteen, then he knew
        A person could not thrive
    In this expensive day and age
        On less than twenty five.
    He finally got twenty five,
        The sum he’d thought so nifty,
    But found he couldn’t be content
        And live on less than fifty.
    He got his fifty one fine day,
        And then he found out that
    He never could be happy quite
        Without one hundred flat.
    He made some wise deals after that
        And gathered in a million.
    But was he happy? No, indeed,
        He had to have a billion.
    And it is safe to say that if
        He really got his billion,
    Old age could find him fighting to
        Accumulate a trillion.

  • The Humbled King

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    A king who long had worn his crown,
        Whom lesser kings beheld with awe,
    Who from his high throne handed down
        What served his people as their law
    Stepped forth in simple garb one day,
        And in the fields and crowded marts
    Beheld his subjects toil away
        And learned what hopes were in their hearts.

    He stroked the curls of many a child,
        And many a sad complaint he heard,
    And here and there benignly smiled
        Or paused to speak a cheering word;
    Gray-bearded, bent old men he hailed
        As fellows of his brotherhood,
    And where the stricken widow wailed
        He left such solace as he could.

    The king, all powerful and great
        To whom the haughtiest princes bowed,
    Before a petty magistrate
        Was elbowed by the motley crowd;
    Among the humble ones he gazed,
        Each moment wondering more and more
    Upon the man whom he had raised
        To office but the day before.

    He saw the puny tyrant swell,
        And heard him threaten and advise;
    Before him timid people fell,
        Stunned by the proud look in his eyes;
    He had the manner of a god,
        And, stepping down, he gravely passed
    As if the ground whereon he trod
        Had been made hallowed ground, at last.

    Deserting those whose heads were bared,
        The king whom lesser kings obeyed
    Back to his castle humbly fared
        And knelt beside his throne and prayed:
    “Oh, let me be as great,” he cried,
        “As he believes himself to be
    Who holds with childish, foolish pride
        A little brief authority.”

  • The Professor

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 9, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    He trained a goose to multiply and add up and subtract;
    He taught a spotted pig to waltz—it was a funny act;
    He coaxed a billy goat to jump through hoops which were aflame,
    He taught a chipmunk how to choose the letters of its name.
    But he could never learn to cease to use his toothpick where
    And when such action gave offense—or else he did not care.

    He trained a dog to walk a rope and taught a cat to pray,
    He said himself this took hard work which lasted many a day;
    He hitched an alligator up and made it pull a cart.
    His perseverance was immense, his teaching was an art.
    But he could never train himself, somehow, to save his life,
    To quit endeavoring to scoop his food up with his knife.

    He trained a mouse to dance a jig, he educated fleas;
    He had a carriage which was drawn by harnessed bumble bees;
    He taught a turkey gobbler how to balance on his head,
    And trained a duck to flatten out pretending to be dead.
    But he could never train himself—or else he never tried—
    To speak good English and to put vulgarity aside.