Newspaper History

Month: March 2022

  • Her Last Leaps

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 31, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    I saw her once before
    In the short skirt she wore,
        And again
    She went dancing round and round,
    With a wince at every bound,
        As in pain.

    They say that in her prime,
    Ere the cruel hand of Time
        Hurt her so,
    She possessed a pretty face
    And could hop from place to place
        On one toe.

    But now her look is sad,
    And she moves as if she had
        Aching feet;
    Every bald head’s look is grim
    As she glances down at him
        In his seat.

    My old grandad oft has said—
    Poor old grandpa, he is dead,
        Long ago—
    That she once was all the rage
    As she skipped upon the stage,
        To and fro.

    But she’s fat and flabby now
    And as graceful as a cow
        On the trot;
    I know it is a sin
    For me to sit and grin,
        So I’ll not.

    In the chorus let her stay;
    It may be her only way
        To survive.
    You may cease to be a peach
    Too, young lady, when you reach
        Sixty-five.

  • Kingdom of the Mind

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 30, 1914. By Sir Edward Dyer (1540-1607).

    My mind to me a kingdom is;
        Such present joys therein I find,
    That it excels all other bliss
        That earth affords or grows by kind;
    Though much I want that most would have,
    Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

    No princely pomp, no wealthy store
        No force to win the victory,
    No wily wit to salve a sore
        No shape to feed a loving eye;
    To none of these I yield as thrall;
    For why? My mind doth serve for all.

    I see how plenty surfeits oft,
        And hasty climbers soon do fall;
    I see that those which are aloft
        Mishap doth threaten most of all;
    They get with toil, they keep with fear;
    Such cares my mind could never bear.

    Content I live, this is my stay;
        I seek no more than may suffice;
    I press to bear no haughty sway;
        Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
    Lo, thus I triumph like a king
    Content with that my mind doth bring.

    Some have too much, yet still do crave;
        I little have, and seek no more.
    They are but poor, though much they have,
        And I am rich with little store;
    They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
    They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

    I laugh not at another’s loss,
        I grudge not at another’s gain;
    No worldly waves my mind can toss;
        My state at one doth still remain;
    I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
    I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

    Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
        Their wisdom by the rage of will;
    Their treasure is their only trust,
        A cloaked craft their store of skill;
    But all the pleasure that I find
    Is to maintain a quiet mind.

    My wealth is health and perfect ease,
        My conscience clear my chief defense;
    I neither seek by bribes to please,
        Nor by deceit to breed offense;
    Thus do I live; thus will I die;
    Would all did so as well as I!

  • The School of Difficulty

    From the Evening Star, March 29, 1914. By Harvey S. Irwin.

    Is not the way to heavenly gain
        Through earthly grief and loss?
    Rest must be won by toil and pain—
        The crown repays the cross.
    As woods when shaken by the breeze
        Take deeper, firmer root;
    As winter’s frosts but make the trees
        Abound in summer fruit;
    So every heaven-sent pang and throe
        That Christian firmness tries
    But nerves us for our work below
        And forms us for the skies.

  • A (former) Lover’s Plea

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 28, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Kindly send my letters back,
        Sweet Marie;
    You possess a lofty stack
        Penned by me;
    Since our dream of love is o’er
    You’ll not need them any more—
    Send them quickly, I implore,
        Sweet Marie.

    You have filled me with dismay,
        Sweet Marie;
    There are other fish, you say,
        In the sea;
    You have made my future black;
    All my hopes are dead, alack!
    But please send my letters back,
        Sweet Marie.

    All my days I’ll mourn for you,
        Sweet Marie;
    Ever fond and ever true
        I shall be;
    When my passion was intense
    I wrote letters lacking sense—
    Send them back at my expense,
        Sweet Marie.

    Do not tell me they are burned,
        Sweet Marie;
    Let them safely be returned
        Speedily;
    Send this with them, please my dear;
    On the day that they appear
    I will do the burning here,
        Sweet Marie.

    Listen to my plaintive wail,
        Sweet Marie;
    Send them by the fastest mail
        Back to me;
    Let my plea be not in vain;
    Place them in my hands again,
    And to me you shall remain
        Sweet Marie.

  • Ain’t You Glad You’re Livin’?

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 27, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Ain’t it splendid to be livin’, ‘long ‘bout this time o’ year,
    With the green things peepin’ upward and the mornings crisp and clear;
    With the children’s cheeks a-glowin’ and the future lookin’ bright,
    And the gladdened roosters crowin’ just for fun with all their might?

    Ain’t it cheerful, ain’t it splendid to get out and whiff the air
    When the winter time is ended and there’s beauty everywhere,
    When the buds are busy swellin’ and the colts kick up their heels
    And the lambs quit friskin’ hardly long enough to get their meals?

    Ain’t it fine to hear the cackle of the hen whose heart is light
    And to have the will to tackle any job there is in sight?
    Ain’t it fine to see things growin’ just the way they used to grow,
    And to feel the warm wind blowin’ just the way it used to blow?

    Ain’t it good to start the furrow and to smell the new-plowed earth,
    And to hear the blackbirds chatter, huntin’ worms for all they’re worth?
    Ain’t it good to hear the ringin’ of the distant dinner bell,
    And to hear the robin singin’ just to show that all is well?

    Ain’t it lucky to be livin’ when the blossoms brighten things,
    And you’re waitin’ for the summer with the gladness that it brings?
    Ain’t it good to see the gleamin’ dandelions in the lane;
    Don’t it kind of start you dreamin’ the old boyhood dreams again?

  • Hints for Losers

    From The Times Dispatch, March 26, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    My friend, because you didn’t get
        The public office that you sought,
    Don’t holler fraud. Don’t squeal and fret.
        Don’t shout aloud that votes were bought.

    Smile and look pleasant. That’s the plan.
        Don’t talk about the “campaign lie.”
    Say, “What most helped that Other Man
        Was that he got more votes than I.”

    If you are gracious and discreet,
        And never whimper or complain,
    You will make profit of defeat,
        And get there when you run again.

    The squealer never can come back,
        Because, you see, the few votes more
    That he was plainly shown to lack,
        He cannot win by getting sore.

    No matter what the game you play,
        No matter what the race you run,
    The loser should be brave and gay.
        This spirit gives the game its fun.

    You cannot always win, but you
        Howe’er the wheel of fortune spins,
    Can give your vanquisher his due
        And cry, “Hurrah! The best man wins!”

    In him the people most delight
        (Next to the hero with his fame),
    Who, having fought his utmost fight
        Now takes his beating gay and game.

    Instinctively, we feel that he
        Whose courage ‘neath no beating fell,
    Will some day win the victory,
        And wear it modestly and well.

    Then just because the battle’s lost
        Don’t lose your self-control also.
    To conquer self at any cost
        Takes half the victory from the foe.

    Shall people say when you pass by,
        “There goes that sorehead bawler out,”
    Or slap you on the back and cry,
        “I hope you’ll win next time, old scout?”

  • The Rescue

    From the Evening Star, March 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    We thought that Uncle Jim might need
        A little spell o’ rest.
    In eloquence he took the lead
        An’ labored with the best.
    We thought we’d slip a sinecure
        To this our favorite son,
    An’ so we got him safe an’ sure
        A berth in Washington.

    We met him there with furrowed brow
        An’ droopin’, weary eyes.
    We couldn’t understand just how
        A man so good an’ wise
    Could seem so overworked an’ sad,
        With such a victory won.
    Our Uncle Jim went to the bad
        Up there in Washington.

    When next election comes along
        The neighborhood intends
    To bring him by a ballot strong
        Back here among his friends.
    Though this may not appeal to him,
        Our duty must be done.
    We’ve got to rescue Uncle Jim
        From work in Washington!

  • Suggestion

    From The Times Dispatch, March 24, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    Old Doctor Dopem is a quack
    Who publishes an almanac,
    And manufactures Dopem’s Pills
    (Sure cure for fifty-seven ills!)
    Now I, by some unlucky chance
    Through Dopem’s Almanac did glance—
    Until that hour my health was sound
    As any man’s for miles around.
    Before I’d read the booklet through
    My wonder and my terror grew,
    Till all I hoped was to be spared
    A few more days to be prepared.
    I read the symptoms of disease
    And cried, “Why, I have all of these!”
    It said, “If you feel tired at night,
    And sleepy, with no appetite
    When you’ve consumed a hearty meal,
    And sorter sluggish—if you feel
    When you are cold, a strong desire
    To get up closer to the fire,
    You’ve got it brother!—but there’s hope!
    Take Dopem’s Sanitary Dope!
    (See what Miss Mugg, of Saginaw,
    Says D. S. D. did for her paw.)”
    It said, “If with a pain you moan
    When stricken on your crazy bone;
    If you get peeved and speak with scorn
    When someone camps upon your corn,
    Your nerves are in a fearful state!
    Take D. S. D., ’tis death to wait.”
    As of each new disease I read,
    I felt myself grow cold with dread,
    Till I thought Dopem, at the end,
    My only hope, my only friend.
    Then I reflected that I took
    All my diseases from his book,
    And thought I’d rather have the bliss
    Of my old ignorance than this,
    For one who needs a book to tell
    He’s sick is just as good as well.

  • His Reward

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 23, 1914.

    No matter how his heart was wrung
        He kept a smile of cheer;
    He never had a spiteful tongue;
        His conscience, too, was clear.

    He praised whenever praise was earned,
        His tones were never sad;
    He bravely tried, where’er he turned,
        To help men to be glad.

    Year in, year out, he did his best
        To lessen spite and hate.
    With quenchless courage in his breast,
        He fought with stubborn Fate.

    He labored to increase delight,
        Though sorely stricken oft;
    Men said he lacked the nerve to fight,
        And women called him soft.

  • The Two Mysteries

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, March 22, 1914. By Mary Mapes Dodge.

    We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;
    The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
    The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
    The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all.

    We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
    This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
    We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
    Nor why we’re left to wonder still, nor why we do not know.

    But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day—
    Should come and ask us, “What is life?”—not one of us could say.
    Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
    Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!

    Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought,
    “So death is sweet to us, beloved! Though we may show you naught;
    We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death—
    Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath.”

    The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,
    So those who enter death must go as little children sent.
    Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead;
    And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.