Newspaper History

Month: May 2022

  • The New Pitcher’s Prayer

    From the Evening Star, May 31, 1914.

    Out on the grass-green diamond
        Thousands and thousands can see
    One, the man who is pitching—
        That little image is me.
    Clad in the garb of a player,
        Built for a pitcher am I,
    Whirling the ball with a motion
        Studied and graceful and high.

    You think you’re the judges before whom
        Pitchers are tried and approved;
    That you are the court and your verdict
        Tells whether I’m kept or removed.
    You do not know, but I’ll tell you,
        I haven’t a chance save as one
    Standing with mask and protector
        Determines my fate, lost or won.

    He can decide and determine,
        His calling of strike or of ball,
    Whether I’m good or a “dead one”—
        You do not matter at all.
    He can call corners or close ones,
        He can determine my fate;
    Make me or mar me at pleasure,
        Label me “star” or a “skate.”

    Umpire, I pray you, kind master,
        Look now with favor on me;
    Give me an inch now of margin,
        Waving your right arm up free.
    Fate’s staring there on the benches;
        The manager’s thinking today
    Will settle my doom or my fortune,
        So, umpire, be good to me, pray!

  • The Phantom Armies

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 30, 1914. By T. C. Harbaugh.

    No drum-beats in the valley
        And no bugles on the hill
    Where the summer breezes daily
        All the battle plain is still;
    When the stars come out at even
        Far above the glist’ning dew,
    There’s a phantom flag in heaven
        There are armies in the blue.

    Comes to them a call to duty
        From the phantom corps of yore,
    Where the roses in their beauty
        Deck the far-off river’s shore;
    Do they dream of comrades sleeping
        Where the winds are wild and free,
    Where the Rapidan is sweeping
        And where lisps the Tennessee?

    O, the pity and the splendor
        Of the thinned, immortal lines!
    Soon the Union’s last defender
        Will be camping ‘neath the pines
    Where no hand heart-ties can sever
        And the shadows long are thrown
    Where the grasses whisper ever
        And no bugle blast is blown.

    They are marching yet in glory
        Where Potomac’s waters shine,
    And the old camps tell the story
        Of the heroes of the line;
    By the peaceful winding river
        Spectral sentries watch the foe
    And their challenge sounds forever
        In the Land of Long Ago.

    See! A line of Blue is marching
        There’s a drum-call in the street
    And the heaven’s overarching
        Seems the veterans to greet;
    They are marching slowly, slowly
        As the flowers to them nod
    And their remnant grows more holy
        As the years pass on to God.

    From out the dim, dead distance
        Charge the squadrons, Blue and Gray.
    There is none to make resistance
        For they vanish, like the spray;
    Not a cry, no word is spoken
        Ghostly banners catch the breeze,
    And the silence is unbroken
        ‘Mong the tall and somber trees.

  • The Modern Catechism

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 29, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Give a definition of success. “Money.”
    Give a synonym for happiness. “Money.”
    What attaches honor to a name?
    What produces privilege and fame?
    What relieves the sinner of all blame?
        “Money.”

    Give a definition of respect. “Money.”
    What enables people to “connect?” “Money.”
    What brings haughty monarchs to their knees?
    What brings titled suitors over seas?
    What makes wisdom look like cottage cheese?
        “Money.”

    Give a ready synonym for goal. “Money.”
    What is more important than the soul? “Money.”
    What removes the ugliness from vice?
    What in lieu of beauty will suffice?
    What is proudly gained at any price?
        “Money.”

  • Changes

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 28, 1914. By Owen Meredith.

    Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
        Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
    The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead,
        And then, we women cannot choose our lot.

    Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;
        Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
    God help us all who need, indeed, His care!
        And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves His sheep.

    My little boy begins to babble now
        Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
    He has his father’s eager eyes, I know;
        And they say, too, his mother’s sunny hair.

    But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
        And I can feel his light breath come and go,
    I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)
        Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.

    Who might have been . . . ah! What I dare not think!
        We all are changed. God judges for us best.
    God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
        And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

    But blame us women not, if some appear
        Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
    Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
        Who knows the past? And who can judge us right?

    Ah! Were we judged by what we might have been,
        And not by what we are, too apt to fall!
    My little child—he sleeps and smiles between
        These thoughts and me. In Heaven we shall know all!

  • Fate

    From The Times Dispatch, May 27, 1914. By Bret Harte.

    The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare,
    The spray of the tempest is white in air,
    The winds are out with the waves at play,
    And I shall not tempt the sea today.

    The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,
    The panther clings to the arching limb,
    The lion’s whelps are abroad at play,
    And I shall not join in the chase today.

    But the ship sailed safely over the sea,
    And the hunters came from the chase in glee,
    And the town that was builded upon a rock
    Was swallowed up in an earthquake shock.

  • It

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 26, 1914.

    They say that now we’ve a third sex
        In woman’s form ’tis set
    But it has male proclivities
        E’en to the cigarette.

    It smokes, it drinks, it lives in flats
        Rides in taxis alone;
    It saws a bone, a sermon spouts
        And quotes Coke or Blackstone.

    They imitate the neuter bee,
        Don’t care a cuss for kids;
    They like to work just as a mule;
        In fact they are hybrids.

    So when we up our grammars take
        And He, She, It we see,
    We know that It is nature’s freak;
        She’s It and It is she.

  • Three Fishers

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 25, 1914. By Charles Kingsley.

    Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
        Out into the west, as the sun went down,
    Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
        And the children stood watching them out of the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,
        Though the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
        And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
    They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
        And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown;
    But men must work, and women must weep,
    Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
        And the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three corpses lie out in the shining sands
        In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down,
    And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
        For those who will never come home to the town.
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep,
        And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

  • To the Willow Tree

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 24, 1914. By Robert Herrick.

    Thou art to all lost love the best,
        The only true plant found,
    Wherewith young men and maids distrest
        And left of love are crown’d.

    When once the lover’s rose is dead,
        Or laid aside forlorn,
    The willow garlands ‘bout the head
        Bedew’d with tears are worn.

    When with neglect, the lover’s bane,
        Poor maids rewarded be
    For their love lost, their only gain
        Is but a wreath from thee.

    And underneath thy cooling shade,
        When weary of the light,
    The love-spent youth and lovesick maid
        Come to weep out the night.

  • Pittypat and Tippytoe

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 23, 1914. By Eugene Field.

    All day long they come and go—
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!
        Footprints up and down the hall,
            Playthings scattered on the floor,
        Finger-marks along the wall,
            Telltale smudges on the door—
    By these presents you shall know,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    How they riot at their play!
    And a dozen times a day
        In they troop, demading bread—
            Only buttered bread will do,
        And that butter must be spread
            Inches thick with sugar too!
    And I never can say “No,”
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
    Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
        For (I much regret to say)
            Tippytoe and Pittypat
        Sometimes interrupt their play
            With an internecine spat;
    Fie, for shame! to quarrel so—
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!

    Oh the thousand worrying things,
    Every day recurrent brings!
        Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
            Search for playthings gone amiss,
        Many a wee complaint to hush,
            Many a little bump to kiss;
    Life seems one vain, fleeting show
    To Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    And when day is at an end,
    There are little duds to mend;
        Little frocks are strangely torn,
            Little shoes great holes reveal
        Little hose, but one day worn,
            Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
    Who but you could work such woe,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe?

    But when comes this thought to me:
    “Some there are that childless be,”
        Stealing to their little beds,
            With a love I cannot speak,
        Tenderly I stroke their heads —
            Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
    God help those who do not know
    A Pittypat or Tippytoe!

    On the floor and down the hall,
    Rudely smutched upon the wall,
        There are proofs in every kind
            Of the havoc they have wrought,
        And upon my heart you’d find
            Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
    Oh, how glad I am ’tis so,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

  • Her Successor

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 22, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    She was so gentle and so fair
        That I was gladdened when we met;
    She had a modest, pensive air.
        In fancy I behold her yet;
    She moved with such unstudied grace
        That she appeared to float along;
    The beauty of her youthful face
        Was such as urges bards to song.

    Again I saw her; years had passed;
        Alas, she had been wooed and won;
    A listless look at me she cast,
        Then went on mending for her son;
    She wore a wrapper that was red,
        A knot of hair, uncrimped and small;
    Her beauty and her grace had fled—
        She didn’t seem to care at all.

    And then he came who once, mayhap,
        Had deemed her earth’s most lovely thing—
    Had gladly held her on his lap—
        And decked her finger with his ring;
    He passed her with a grunt, no more,
        And then forgetting she was there,
    Got down at full length on the floor
        And gamboled with their son and heir.