Newspaper History

Month: March 2022

  • When the Birds Go North Again

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 21, 1914. By Ella Higginson.

    Oh, every year hath its winter,
        And every year hath its rain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    When new leaves swell in the forest
        And grass springs green on the plain,
    And the alder’s veins turn crimson
        And the birds go north again.

    Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
        And every heart hath its pain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    ’Tis the sweetest thing to remember
        If courage be on the wane,
    When the cold, dark days are over—
        Why, the birds go north again.

  • The Glories of Winter

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 20, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    I met him on the corner where I saw his breath congeal,
    And he spoke from furs that covered him almost from head to heel;
    “Ah, but this is lovely weather! Stirs a fellow’s blood, you know;
    If I could I think I’d always have it ten degrees below;
    Take a cold bath every morning, sleep out on the porch at night—
    Nothing like it if you’re anxious to keep feelin’ fit and right.”

    In the hovels people shivered, children who were lightly clad
    Heard the frosted windows rattle and neglected to be glad;
    Through the storm the doctors hurried, wearied from long lack of rest,
    Many a weeping mother vainly clasped a dead babe to her breast;
    Through the city Death went stalking, striking down the young and old,
    And the gaunt cab horses shivered as they stood out in the cold.

    I met her in a parlor, where she lolled in luxury;
    “Ah,” she said, “this is the season that brings greatest joy to me;
    How I love to hear the creaking of the wheels upon the snow;
    What a joy there is in living when it’s ten degrees below!
    Springtime brings its fragrant blossoms, but I feel supreme delight
    When the wind blows from the northland and the world is clothed in white.”

    By the curb an old man tumbled; at his side a shovel lay,
    And his poor, thin coat was fluttered by the wind that howled away;
    Pallid children crouched where sadness could not be induced to leave,
    In the hovels women shivered and forgot all but to grieve;
    Through the city Death went stalking, madly striking right and left
    Where the little, gloomy coal bins of all contents were bereft.

  • At the End of the Road

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, March 19, 1914. By Madison Cawein.

    This is the truth as I see it, my dear,
        Out in the wind and the rain;
    They who have nothing have little to fear—
        Nothing to lose or to gain.
    Here by the road at the end o’ the year,
    Let us sit down and drink of our beer,
    Happy-Go-Lucky and her cavalier,
        Out in the wind and the rain.

    Now we are old, hey, isn’t it fine
        Out in the wind and the rain?
    Now we have nothing, why snivel and whine?
        What would it bring us again?
    When I was young I took you like wine,
    Held you and kissed you and thought you divine—
    Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit’s still mine,
        Out in the wind and the rain.

    Oh, my old heart, what a life we have led,
        Out in the wind and the rain!
    How we have drunken and how we have fed!
        Nothing to lose or to gain.
    Cover the fire now; get we to bed.
    Long is the journey and far has it led.
    Come, let us sleep lass, sleep like the dead,
        Out in the wind and the rain.

  • The Dangers in the Dark

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 18, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    I wish that it were possible to be as good by day
    As when at night, I am alone, to foolish fear a prey,
    For then I think of righteous things that I would gladly do,
    And fashion for myself a course all blameless to pursue.

    But when the day has come again, with all its snares and cares,
    And I am face to face with men and mix in their affairs,
    Somehow the resolutions which I clung to in the dark
    Are put aside as foolish things, unworthy of remark.

    I wish that it were possible, when I am well and strong,
    To shun the habits which prevent a man from living long;
    When I am ill and toss about upon a bed of pain
    I list a score of things which I shall never eat again.

    But when my health returns and I am once more on my feet
    I cease to wisely shun the things that I should never eat;
    To ancient habits I return, and lightly cease to dread
    The dangers that appeared so great when I was sick abed.

  • Seeing the World

    From The Times Dispatch, March 17, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    “Come and go a-journeying and see the world,” you cry,
        “Sixty miles an hour on a flying Pullman whirled.
    See the great strange cities and their peoples as we fly.
        Would you stay forever here and never see the world?”

    Come with me a-walking on the path beside the brook;
        There are many wonders there if you will pause to see;
    Elfin things and faery, if you will stop to look.
        If you would really see the world, come and walk with me.

    Breathe the tonic odor of the darkling piney woods.
        Search beneath the needles where the first arbutus blows.
    Come on Pan a-brooding in his earliest vernal mood,
        Hidden in the rushes where the frolic streamlet flows.

    Come, and I will show you where the merry chipmunks dwell;
        Where the timid wood-birds build that do not flock with man;
    And where the hermit woodchuck has dug his secret cell,
        And all the shy Arcadians who hear the pipes of Pan.

    “Come,” you cry, “and see the world across the Seven Seas,
        The pyramids and Palestine and ancient Greece and Rome.”
    But why should I go seeking those when I have ever these
        Enchantments and adventures within a mile of home?

    Here I only have to wait, the seasons come to me;
        Flying each its colors and bugled by its birds.
    What is there more wonderful or fair across the sea
        That I should go a-hurrying with the harried tourist herds?

    While you have fled a thousand miles in a touring car,
        I have just been tramping through the hills and meadows near.
    You have seen the wonders of a fleeting world and far,
        But I have been a-walking and seen my world right here.

  • The Peacock

    From The Times Dispatch, March 16, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    The peacock makes the grandest show
    And shine of all the birds I know.
    The sunlight glints upon his breast
    In iridescent loveliness.
    His great tail coverts, purple-eyed,
    Are just the livery of pride.
    He is the dandy and the dude
    Of the entire barnyard brood.
    He hasn’t got a single duty
    Except to be a thing of beauty,
    And this, because of gorgeous dress,
    He does with wonderful success.
    But it is better to be plain
    Than idle, insolent and vain,
    And if to this bright bird we turn
    A useful lesson we may learn.
    The overdressed too oft possess
    But very little more than dress,
    And only sit around and brood
    On their supernal pulchritude,
    And are in all the winds and weathers
    Forever preening up their feathers.
    ’Tis not to them that we would go
    For wit or wisdom—oh, dear no!
    Nor yet for help to right our wrong,
    Nor yet for poetry or song.
    Their minds have mastered one device:
    The art of always looking nice,
    Curled, scented, tinted, creased and pressed,
    And dressed—yes, super-ultra dressed.
    It is not to these “joys forever”
    That we must look for high endeavor.
    They have no idea worth our while;
    Just dumb idolatry of style.
    And this reminds us it is time
    To point the moral of this rhyme:
    You’d think the peacock should be king
    Of birds until you hear him sing.

  • The Nearest Friend

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 15, 1914. By John Kendrick Bangs.

    A man I know, and yet know not at all,
    Is one who ever stands at beck and call.
    Responsive always to my slightest whim,
    No matter what the task I set for him.
    My friend he would be, yet most truly he
    Of all my foes is my worst enemy—
    A riddle past all solving—loving, warm,
    Yet daily in some way he doeth harm.

    Control him? I have tried with some success,
    Yet often he eludes me, and distress
    Incalculable follows in his train,
    And leaves me face to face with bitter pain.
    His thoughts I know, and yet within his soul
    He carries as it were a mystic scroll
    That, try how hard I may to penetrate
    Its meaning clear, I never can translate.

    Why this good deed he does, or that of ill,
    The deeds that dull all hope, or haply thrill
    My heart and soul, I cannot comprehend—
    My enemy today; tomorrow friend!
    With joy and shame, alternately, through life
    He’s filled my days with happiness and strife;
    My love and hatred form his worldly pelf,
    This man I know, yet know him not!—Myself!

  • Looking Wise

    From the Evening Star, March 14, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    My Uncle Jim, he used to speak.
        His words would make the welkin ring.
    But now his eloquence grows weak.
        He isn’t saying anything.
    The popularity he’s found
        To all his friends is a surprise
    Since he has just been sitting ‘round
        And doing nothing but look wise.

    It’s great to have a silvery tongue
        And make men listen to your voice.
    It’s great to lecture old and young
        And see them tremble or rejoice
    According to the words you choose.
        But of them all the greatest prize
    Is this strange gift that statesmen use;
        The simple art of looking wise.

  • Just a Clerk

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 13, 1914. By H. J. Maclean.

    Lord, I am but a little clerk
        That scratches with a pen;
    I rise and eat and toil and sleep,
        Just as all other men.

    The only colors in my life
        Are drabs and duns and grays,
    Yet on the whole I am content
        To tread the beaten ways.

    But sometimes when the midspring mist
        Floats in the scented night,
    Strange spirits whisper in my ear,
        And visions cross my sight.

    I see myself a gracious youth,
        In purple and bright steel;
    The golden spurs of knightly worth
        Are glistening on each heel.

    I ride into a world of dreams,
        And with my pennoned lance
    I pierce the mystic veil that hides
        The land of high romance.

    But as I pass through Galahad’s glades
        Adventuring on my way,
    A ghost is ever at my back,
        The ghost of every day.

    And soon or late its horrid hand
        That never yields or stays
    Will hurl me from my land of dreams,
        Back to its beaten ways.

    Oh, Lord, some pray to Thee for gold,
        Some for a woman’s smile;
    But all I ask is a breath of life
        Once for a little while.

    Grant me, before I pass beyond,
        One chance to play a part,
    To drop the guise of the little clerk
        And show the man at heart.

  • Amoris Dementia

    From The Sun, March 12, 1914. By George B. Morewood.

    I’m sick all through, from top to toes
    The way my pulses ebb and flow
    Would seem to indicate, alack,
    That my complaint is cardiac;
    But I have lost all taste for food,
    So gastric ills I must include;
    Again, though far indeed from death,
    At times a catch comes in my breath;
    My bosom heaves till ‘twould appear
    That pulmonary trouble’s near.
    Next there’s a tingling of the nerves
    That diagnosis well deserves,
    Since of all ills by which man’s cursed
    The neuropathic are the worst.
    I met a lady fair last week
    To whom I found it hard to speak.
    My vocal cords must be amiss.
    Else, whence came their paralysis?
    Cerebric lesions, too, I fear,
    Because my mind was far from clear.
    But I’ve one symptom stranger yet,
    Though thus completely I’m upset.
    Life seems more joyous, strange to tell,
    Than e’er it did when I was well.
    What’s wrought me up to such a pitch?
    I am the victim of a witch!
    I feel her spell is o’er me thrown,
    ’Tis she can cure and she alone!