Newspaper History

Month: February 2022

  • The Four Lights

    From The Sun, February 8, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    Four little flames, each burning clear,
    Set out to choose a life career.

    One said: “Within a church I’ll burn
    And thought of men to heaven turn.”

    One said: “I’ll in a lighthouse bide
    And ships upon the ocean guide.”

    One said: “A scholar’s lamp I’ll be
    And knowledge shall be spread by me.”

    One said: “Upon a hearth I’ll glow
    Where only two or three may know.”

    Time snuffed the altar candle out,
    But other faiths still conquered doubt.

    The beacon into darkness fell
    But ships had compass, horn and bell.

    The scholar’s light went out, but then
    He still could learn from life and men.

    But when the hearthflame ash was cold
    All earth no substitute could hold.

  • A Notable Difference

    From the Evening Star, February 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    When a feller gets elected, everything is gay and bright;
    Your friends will gather ‘round you and declare that you’re all right;
    Your words will be repeated, as they shake you by the hand,
    Assuring you your future will be something good and grand.
    Those friends appear so numerous that, as you look them o’er,
    You wonder why you haven’t seen a lot of them before.
    And each looks rather wistful as he joins the cheers so free
    And sings his special version of “Then You’ll Remember Me.”

    But as the years go rolling by, how many of them say,
    “I wonder what he did to get an office, anyway!”
    When you’ve done your best to please them, you will hear that tapping sound,
    Which tells you that a tribe of Hammer Boys is prowling ‘round.
    You think about the beautiful bouquets they used to throw,
    And sigh, at realizing that they withered long ago.
    For the meetings and the greetings show a very different style
    When a feller has been holding public office for a while.

  • Hopeless

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 6, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    They’ve got him in a padded cell,
        He raves from morn till night.
    He has a pencil and a slate,
        And writes with all his might.

    He sets a lot of figures down,
        Then rubs them out again,
    Upon his face there is a look
        That is akin to pain.

    He’s had this slate for seven months,
        The pencil squeaks and squeaks;
    He concentrates upon the job,
        And never sanely speaks.

    They’re watching him both day and night,
        Their care is never lax.
    He’s trying but to figure out
        His income tax.

  • The World Smiles On

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 5, 1914. By A. Walter Utting.

    Yesterday my kitty died.
    Yet this morning by the side
    Of our house a songbird came,
    And it warbled just the same
    As it did before my loss;
    And the bushes just across
    From the barn sang when the breeze
    Struck their twigs; and all the trees
    Acted just as glad and gay
    As they used to every day
    ‘Fore my kitty died! The sun
    Shined with brightness. Never one
    Seemed to know how much I cried
    ‘Cause my pretty kitty died.

    How can all the world smile on
    When my precious one has gone?
    How can joy and happiness
    Still exist while my distress
    Seems to flood this great big earth?
    Can’t they understand the worth
    Of my loss? Or can’t they know
    Of the dreadful, awful blow
    That has fallen on my heart?
    Why, I thought myself a part
    Of the world; thought when I sighed
    I would find that all had cried;
    Yet the sun shines just the same
    As before my sorrow came!

  • Nellie of Kelmar

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 4, 1914.

    The sunset bells had ceased their song;
        The sunset fires had gone,
    And twilight, falling from the stars,
        Fell on us two alone.
    Soft, undulating waves of grain
        Beneath the mountain’s crest
    Lay as a mesh of silken lace
        Upon a sobbing breast.

    The golden peaks just glorified
        Grew somber, sad and sear;
    The whippoorwills began their flight,
        Yet I still lingered there.
    For fairer than the roses wild
        And purer than each star
    Was she who lingered by my side,
        Dear Nellie of Kelmar.

    With passion deep my lips were fraught
        And breathed my bosom’s cry;
    Then softer than the dying day
        Her answer was a sigh.
    Oh bliss, oh rapture, treasured sweets,
        Of love dream void of pain;
    I’d give my life, my soul, my all
        To live that hour again.

  • The Poet and His Fancy

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 3, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    “Master of my own destiny am I,”
        The poet in his attic bravely wrote;
    “I ask no master when I wish to lie
        Upon the sward and watch the clouds that float
    Across the sky that is my very own;
        My knee is bent to neither lord nor king.
    I proudly serve my own sweet will alone,
        As free as is the bird upon the wing.

    “I scoff at him who bows to king or wife,
        Afraid to let his fancy e’en have play.
    Who, in his groove must live a narrow life,
        A slave receiving orders day by day;
    I, being free to do as I may please,
        Permit my soul to soar, and laugh at care;
    To me there come a thousand ecstasies
        That those who chafe in bonds may never share.

    “I am a law unto myself; I fill
        The place that I elect; I choose my sphere,
    I serve no master but my own sweet will,
        I am a stranger to the thing called fear.”
    But as he sang his lank landlady came.
        Her air was positive, her look was grim;
    She called him many a disrespectful name,
        And flung his satchel downstairs after him.

  • Desires

    From The Detroit Times, February 2, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I wish that I could be
        An old standpatter
    To look around and see
        Nothing the matter.
    All new thoughts to repel
        With brain that’s flaccid,
    And think that all is well,
        Serene and placid.

    What calm, what peace is his;
        He’s well contented;
    To him all progress is
        A thing demented;
    The world has gone ahead,
        And all things show it;
    Forward the age has sped—
        He doesn’t know it.

    And so he drifts along
        Through all the flurry;
    To him there’s nothing wrong,
        So he should worry;
    To me life’s sometimes grim
        And all things matter,
    And yet I envy him,
        The old standpatter.

  • The Mother of Bearded Men

    From The Sun, February 1, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I am the mother of bearded men, and the names that I called them by
    When I watched their sleep in their cradles, and hushed each tear and sigh,
    Are known and spoken where men meet men, and life moves swift along,
    For they do their share of the world’s work, and they are sure and strong.

    Clear are their eyes and their glances kind, as when their years were few;
    Deep voices call me mother, and the tones are gentle and true;
    They give me love and honor, though they are wiser now than I,
    But I think of the little children who slept in my arms and I sigh.

    Oh, I could not hold them dearer, and I would not turn them back
    To wander again through life’s thorny maze, and again to climb its track.
    But when the lonely evening comes, and no one has need of me,
    It’s Oh, for the little children who once leaned upon my knee!