Newspaper History

Month: April 2022

  • The Mind That Overlapped

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

    He started writing verses that were easily understood,
    And here and there was some person who told him that they were good;
    He dealt with themes that were common, his language was plain and strong,
    And a few people frankly told him he was blessed with the gift of song.

    He began to throw in italics, haphazard, it may be said,
    And here and there was a foot-note to enlighten the ones who read.
    And here and there was a stanza too deep for the common kind;
    The people began to marvel at the mightiness of his mind.

    He dropped the common, adopting an allegorical style,
    And the critics had to interpret his meaning, after a while.
    And the people were filled with wonder, not understanding a bit,
    And the poet had fame and riches and fancied that he was it.

    His meaning got deeper and deeper, till even the critics themselves
    Were stumped if they read without taking their reference books from the shelves.
    And his glory kept growing and spreading, he was hailed as a prophet, indeed;
    Whenever he wrote a new poem, six nations stopped working to read.

    Thus, filled with thoughts of his greatness and scorning the simple ways,
    He wound and criss-crossed and doubled in a metaphorical maze.
    Till clutching his brow, he read slowly his latest, and said with a sigh,
    “It’s so deep that I can’t understand it—my God, what a wonder am I!”

  • As a Little Child

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

    Oft through the dark my little one
        Comes stealing softly to my bed,
    To clamber in and cuddle down
        And on my bosom lay his head;
    I hear him whisper coaxingly:
        “Please let me sleep with you tonight,”
    And as he nestles close to me
        His childish fears are put to flight.

    Ah, if he knew how weak, how frail
        Am I in whom he puts his trust,
    How blindly and how oft I fail,
        How oft my face is in the dust,
    He would not rush to me when fear
        Comes with her sable wings outspread;
    The faith he has when I am near
        Would cease to bring him to my bed.

    Some day perchance they’ll bring him where
        I long have slept, from visions free;
    And weeping, they may leave him there
        To lie serenely close to me.
    Oh may I hear him, trusting, say
        As he is reaching upward then,
    “Please, father, I have come to lay
        My head upon your breast again.”

  • The Foolish Ant

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 8, 1914.

    Seek not to learn a lesson
        From the busy little ant
    That works away forever
        And never says, “I can’t.”
    For oh the ant is foolish—
        If it had proper wit
    Instead of laboring away
    A thousand other ants each day
        Would have to work for it.

  • The Label On the Bottle

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 7, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    They say that merit only gets the prizes here below,
        That honor is reserved for them who strive and who achieve;
    They say that worth is certain to be recognized, but though
        ’Tis sweet to hear the story, it’s not easy to believe.
        The best, the oldest wine
        Wouldn’t seem so very fine
    If the bottle bore no label for which cultured drinkers call;
        If they said ’twas cheap we’d not
        Give it praise in word or thought—
    Much depends upon the label on the bottle after all.

    The general whose forces ne’er have had to taste defeat
        May owe to luck his victories, may be the tool of chance,
    But the enemy in terror makes arrangements to retreat
        When he gets into the saddle and gives orders to advance.
        The general who fell
        May have planned and ordered well,
    But he had no reputation as a victor to appall;
        They that fought him fearlessly
        From his famed successor flee—
    There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.

    We would class as common drivel much that Scotland’s Bobbie writ
        If we didn’t know he wrote it and that hence it is sublime;
    Much that Tennyson has left us, with an unknown name to it
        We would pass as being nothing but the common brand of rhyme.
        The medicine we drink
        Oft were better used as ink
    But it clears away our headaches and from bed at length we crawl
        Full of joy and full of praise
        To go plunging in the frays—
    There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.

    Oh my boy, perhaps you’re trying in a quiet, humble way
        To be worthy of the prizes that we take to mean success;
    Perhaps you’re meekly hoping for a sweet reward some day
        That they’ll hand out to another who you’ll know deserves it less.
        With the best that you can do
        You must flaunt your merit, too;
    Wear the manner of the winner, do not humbly cringe and crawl.
        And the smiling fates will bow
        As they gladly wreath your brow—
    Much depends upon the label on the bottle, after all.

  • The Ones We Cannot Please

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 6, 1914.

    The robin that sings in the morning glow
        A song that’s full of glee
    May be fretting some sad soul here below
        With the song that is sweet to me;
    The roisterer who, care free, last night
        Went reveling late and long
    May rail at the robin that gives delight
        To me with his matin song.

    But little, I think, does the robin care
        For the hate of the one that lies
    With a heavy heart on his bed up there
        And rubs at his bloodshot eyes.
    And why should you, as you strive away,
        Be chilled by the sneering few?
    We can’t please all with the things we say
        Or the things that we sing or do.

  • Fairy Tea

    From the New York Tribune, April 5, 1914. By D. K. S.

    ’Twas very, very long ago, in days no longer sung,
    When giants stood about so high, and pixies all were young;
    The Queen of Fairies said one day, “I’m tired of honey dew,
    So hasten now, and mix for me a cup of something new.

    “It must lift the drooping spirit, it must heal the wounded heart;
    It must bring the smile of happiness, and bid the tear depart;
    It must make the young grow younger, and the old no longer old;
    It must make the poor contented, and the rich forget their gold.”

    Now, you can just imagine how the pixies far and wide
    Came hurrying and scurrying with things to be supplied.
    First, they bought a useful caldron which some witches had for sale,
    And the pixies brought sweet water from the Falls of Dryadvale.

    Then they took some sprays of Heartsease as the first thing to infuse,
    And they added Johnny-Jump-Up as an antidote for blues.
    For the young they brought the May-Bloom, Everlasting for the old;
    For the rich and poor the Joy-Weed, which is just as good as gold.

    When it boiled, they cooled and poured it, so the ancient story goes;
    And to the Queen they brought it in the chalice of a rose.
    She sipped, delighted, then she cried, “I issue this decree:
    The cup you have so deftly brewed, I christen Fairy Tea!”

    So when you see the fairy folk “at home” in Dingle Dell,
    All sipping something dainty from their cups of Heather Bell,
    You will notice they are happy, as good fairies ought to be,
    And that’s because they always use their famous Fairy Tea.

  • The Old Building

    From the Evening Star, April 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    There’s a squatty looking building that was put up years ago,
    They called it altitudinous and thought it quite a show.
    But other structures were designed, as men more daring grew,
    And this one seemed to dwindle. Its admirers were but few.
    It nestles in a canyon. Windows loftily aloof
    Gaze down upon the chimneys and the flagpole on its roof.
    Nobody lifts his head today and turns a wondering eye
    On the squatty looking building that we used to think was high.

    Oh, many a glimpse of glory shines and fades in life’s events,
    As the theme of song and story with a nation’s compliments.
    There’s many a statue chiseled for posterity to see
    That doesn’t even make the tourist query, “Who was he?”
    As other times bring other men triumphant to our view,
    The world forgets the old in contemplation of the new.
    And we mention bygone greatness with a reminiscent sigh—
    It is like the good old building that we used to think was high.

  • The Angels’ Whisper

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, April 3, 1914. By Anonymous.

    The baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
    For her husband was out on the wild raging sea;
        And the tempest was swelling
        Round the fisherman’s dwelling
    And she cried, “Dermot, darling, O come back to me.”

    Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,
    And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;
        O blessed be that warning,
        My child thy sleep adorning
    For I know that the Angels are whispering with thee.

    And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
    O pray to them softly, my baby, with me;
        And say thou would’st rather
        They’d watch o’er thy father
    For I know that the Angels are whispering with thee.

    The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,
    And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;
        And closely caressing
        Her child with a blessing
    Said, “I knew that the Angels were whispering with thee.”

  • The Alarm Clock

    From The Topeka State Journal, April 2, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    Each night I bravely wind it up
        And set it by my head,
    Then say my “Now I lay me down”
        And snugly go to bed.
    And in the watches of the night
        I think of it with dread.
    So grim and wakeful sitting there
        With minatory ticks,
    To sound its dreadful reveille
        At quarter after six.
    I wake up wondering what’s the time,
        And strike a match to see,
    It looks me coldly in the face
        And answers half past three.
    I hear the patter of the hail
        Against the window pane,
    Then turn me in my downy couch
        And seek for sleep again.
    I think about the bitter cold
        And try to sleep in vain,
    And like a felon in his cell,
        Condemned and all forlorn,
    I feel it is a death watch set
        To sound my doom at morn.
    When, after tossing to and fro,
        And tribulations long,
    I fall into a fitful sleep,
        It sounds its baneful gong.
    I boil indignant out of bed
        And choke the strident pest,
    While passions primitive and fierce
        Possess my angry breast.
    Oh, how I’d like to take a club
        And knock it galley-west.

  • Little Boy

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 1, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    My little boy, the way is long
        That you shall have to go;
    God grant you may be brave and strong
        To do your part, to show
    Whate’er may be the goal you seek,
        Whate’er the height you gain,
    Consideration for the weak
        And those who strive in vain.

    My little boy, ambition’s call
        Will oft be sweet to you;
    God grant you strength to turn from all
        That wicked men pursue,
    To let no gain come to your hand
        If blood must be the price,
    To spurn the profits that demand
        Another’s sacrifice.

    My little boy, with all to learn
        And laughing still at play,
    God give you manliness to spurn
        What honor thrusts away,
    To keep you free from guile and greed,
        Where’er your course may lie,
    To do the brave, heroic deed,
        Though doing it, you die.