Newspaper History

Month: April 2022

  • The Testing

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 30, 1914. By Edwin Markham.

    When in the dim beginning of the years
    God mixed in man the rapture and the tears
    And scattered through his brain the starry stuff,
    He said, “Behold! Yet this is not enough,
    For I must test his spirit to make sure
    That he can dare the vision and endure.

    “I will withdraw my face,
    Veil me in shadow for a certain space
    And leave behind only a broken clue,
    A crevice where the glory glimmers through.
    Some whisper from the sky,
    Some footprint in the road to track me by.

    “I will leave man to make the fateful guess,
    Will leave him torn between the no and yes,
    Leave him unresting till he rests in Me,
    Drawn upward by the choice that makes him free—
    Leave him in tragic loneliness to choose,
    With all in life to win or all to lose.”

  • The Burglar

    From The Topeka State Journal, April 29, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    It was near midnight’s holy hour,
        In vain we courted sleep;
    The shadders was a-dancing round
        And made our nerves all creep,
    When suddenly we heard a sound,
        A soft step on the stair;
    We gazed into the hall, and lo,
        A burglar bold was there.

    He acted perfectly at home,
        And never noticed us;
    He went about his business
        Without the slightest fuss.
    He must have known he was observed,
        Of that we could have vowed,
    For when he took some of our stuff
        We chuckled right out loud.

    When ma-in-law’s false teeth he took
        We smiled chuck full of glee.
    This burglar was a kind gazabo,
        A jolly rogue was he.
    And when he took Bill’s phonograph
        And dropped it in his sack,
    We laughed so loud we could be heard
        To Timbuktu and back.

    He carried off our coo-coo clock,
        And it ne’er more will tell
    Of our arrival nightly and
        Sound our domestic knell.
    And when he took our wife’s pink hat,
        We hate from tip to brim,
    We felt like getting out of bed
        And shaking hands with him.

    He took our parrot and we yelled
        Aloud in fiendish mirth,
    And then got up and helped him pack
        For all that we were worth.
    We handed him a good cigar
        And made him promise that
    Whenever he came ‘round this way
        He’d burglarize our flat.

  • Wanted—Pastors

    From The Times Dispatch, April 28, 1914. By W. C. Martin.

    Men who have been born again,
    Men who love their fellow-men,
    Saturated with the Word,
    Oft communing with the Lord;
    Faithful shepherds of the sheep,
    Sentinels who never sleep;
    With a father’s tenderness,
    An ambassador’s address;
    Bold and strong to rule aright,
    Patient with affront or slight,
    Tactful with discordant folk;
    Yet each word a hammer-stroke,
    Prophets, speaking from above,
    Full of faith and full of love.

  • Luck

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

    Some people say it wasn’t luck that made ‘em rich and proud;
    They claim ’twas wisdom, work and pluck that raised ‘em from the crowd.
    I don’t deny that there’s a pile of truth in what they say,
    And yit it always makes me smile to hear ‘em talk that way.

    Fer instance, there was Henry Wood—taught school here years ago;
    His teachin’ wasn’t any good—we had to tell him so;
    He tried to get another school, but couldn’t anywhere;
    Directors thought he was a fool and said so plain and fair.
        So havin’ nothin’ else to do, he wrote a silly book or two;
        Most mushy stuff I ever read, but I have lately heard it said
            That Henry was a millionaire.

    And there was John Tate’s oldest son, a lazy, worthless chap;
    When there was hard work to be done he never helped his pap;
    The old man drove him off at last—just told him plain and flat
    That all the monkeyin’ was past—what happened after that?
        They say he’s saltin’ money down and keeps six servants up in town;
        He sells some kind of medicine he guarantees to keep ‘em thin
            When women think they’re gettin’ fat.

    Take them two fellers—was it pluck with which they were endowed?
    Or was it just a bit of luck that made ‘em rich and proud?
    Take notice, that I don’t deny that work and wisdom win,
    But when you say that ends it, why—excuse me if I grin.

  • The Old Fan

    From the Evening Star, April 26, 1914.

    He comes every day to see them play
        Where the noisy bleachers shout.
    From the first of May in the thick of the fray
        You find him day in and out.

    He once had wealth and he once had health,
        But they both went long ago;
    He’s lost his wealth and comes in stealth
        To the game he used to know.

    He works in the fall just enough to call
        Together a hundred or two,
    That shall average all the days of ball
        And take him the summer through.

    He never is seen in the winter keen
        From the day of final fly
    ’Til spring is queen and the diamond’s green
        And the crack of the bat is nigh.

    Then a little more pale and a little more frail
        He creeps out to the ground,
    And leans o’er the rail when the flies they sail
        And studies the bushmen found.

    By the first of May, at least so they say,
        He begins to get his voice,
    And talk of the play in a running way
        And cackle about his choice.

    His mind disturbed, he never is heard
        Until that first of May
    To utter a word, then his heart is stirred
        And he shrieks at every play.

    So every spring we are wondering,
        ’Til we see him creeping out,
    If death’s dark wing has been hovering
        And fanned his life spark out.

    He’s shriveling thin, the spirit within
        Is all that keeps him about;
    When the home nine wins his cheek bones’ skin
        Shows a hectic flush without.

    And I often think that a breath will wink
        That frail life spirit out
    And break the link at death’s near brink
        If the home team’s put to rout.

    So here’s to the Fan, to the also ran,
        May he live on the bleachers here,
    And stretch life’s span and cheat death’s ban
        For still another year!

  • Butchered to Make a Moving-Picture Play

    From the New York Tribune, April 25, 1914. By Vieux Moustache.

    In days of old when knights were bold
        And pure heroics were the fashion,
    Men’s honor was not bought and sold,
        And wars were waged with actual passion.

    But nowadays we go to war
        For motion-picture syndicators;
    Our armies fight, our cannon roar
        To furnish gold for speculators.

    The public yearns for scenes of crime
        And ceaselessly insists on thrillers,
    And managers work overtime
        Inventing new theater fillers.

    And war is IT. It has the drop
        On Cutey as a money-maker,
    And even Bunny cannot cop
        The cash like films of hell’s half-acre.

    We read of Huerta and his crew
        In scareheads terse and semi-Sapphic;
    Of bloodstained Villa. Yet the two
        Are puppets cinematographic.

    Things are, alas, not what they seem,
        And war, as I have tried to prove, is
    No more a glory and a dream
        But just an adjunct to the movies.

  • Old-Fashioned Folks

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 24, 1914. By E. A. Guest.

    Old-fashioned folks! God bless ‘em all!
        The fathers an’ the mothers,
    The aunts an’ uncles, fat an’ tall,
        The sisters an’ the brothers.
    The good old-fashioned neighbors, too—
        The passing time improves ‘em,
    They still drop in to chat with you
        Whene’er the spirit moves ‘em.
    The simple, unaffected folks
        With gentle ways an’ sunny,
            The brave and true
            That live life through
        And stay unspoiled by money.

    Old-fashioned folks, of solid worth,
        On them a benediction!
    The joy an’ comfort of the earth,
        Its strength, without restriction.
    The charm of every neighborhood
        The toilers uncomplaining,
    The men an’ women, pure and good
        Of fine and honest graining.
    The plain and open-hearted folks
        That make no fad a passion,
            The kind an’ fair
            That do an’ dare
        An’ are not slaves to fashion.

    Old-fashioned folks, that live and love
        And give their service gladly,
    An’ deem their neighbors worthy of
        Their help when things go badly.
    The simple sharers of our joys,
        Sweet ministers in sorrow,
    They help the world to keep its poise
        An’ strength for each tomorrow.
    The simple, unaffected folks
        That live for all about ‘em,
            God bless ‘em all,
            This earthly ball
        Would dreary be without ‘em.

  • In the Garden of My Heart

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 23, 1914. By Caro Roma.

    We never miss the sunshine, until the shadows fall.
    We ne’er regret the bitter words, till passed beyond recall.
    We never miss the laughter, until the eyes are wet—
    We never miss the happiness, till love’s bright sun has set.

    We never miss the singing, until the birds have flown.
    We never miss the blossoms, until the spring has gone.
    We never miss our joyousness, till sorrow bids us wake.
    We never know we have a heart, till it begins to break.

    Dear love, bring back the sunshine, my bitter words forget.
    Bring back the old-time happiness, my eyes with tears are wet.
    Bring back the birds’ soft singing, dear love, why should we part?
    Bid springtime blossoms bloom again in the garden of my heart.

  • The Modern Polonius

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 22, 1914.

    It never pays to whine, my son;
        The world has little time to hear
    Complaints from those who have not won
        The prizes that are scarce and dear.
    The man who haunts a gloomy nook
        Is never cheered and seldom praised;
    Assume an air and try to look
        As if your pay had just been raised.

    It never pays, my son, to let
        Your neighbor see your empty purse,
    Nor will it help your case to fret
        When things have gone from bad to worse;
    When luck deserts you, as it will,
        Conceal the fact from foe and friend
    And try to look as if you still
        Had money that you wished to spend.

    It never pays, my son, to show
        That fear is lurking in your breast;
    When trouble weighs your spirit low
        ’Tis time to smile your merriest.
    I cannot tell you how to strut
        With pride when trouble crushes you,
    Or how to laugh while grieving, but
        I know it is the thing to do.

  • Nearness of Nature

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 21, 1914.

    Nature is no distant dame
        All aloofness in her mien;
    Mistress Nature is the same
        Unto peasant, unto queen—
    Yea, the sun of summer sweet
        Shuttered from a sheltered crown
    Kisses little children’s feet
        That are bravely bare and brown.

    They who seek her need not fare
        Over dim, mysterious hills;
    Always she is sitting there
        On our dusty window sills.
    When the traffic hesitates
        Where the human river pours
    Nature creeps through city gates
        Knocking at our city doors.

    Nature plants courageous grass
        In the cobbled market place
    Where the weary thousands pass
        Bent of form and sad of face.
    She comes creeping, creeping so
        From the country unawares,
    With her roses in a row
        And her ivy on the stairs.

    Only just a little way,
        Alley first and avenue,
    Out a road of sturdy clay
        Mistress Nature beckons you.
    Very near the busy mart,
        Very near the huts of men,
    Nature waits with merry heart—
        Let her make you glad again.