Newspaper History

Month: May 2022

  • Don’t

    From The Voice of the People, May 21, 1914. By Covington Hall.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t try to leave the clods
    To wander off in Eden with the children of the gods;
    Don’t worry when the hunters hush the nest-notes of the dove,
    Nor fret when gold is offered for the broken lute of love.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t leave the Land of Trade
    To seek the laughing waters and the woodland’s mystic shade;
    Don’t grieve because they leave you and don’t answer when they call—
    Their tongues are tipt with honey—they are lotus eaters all.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t watch the star that gleams
    To guide you up the mountain to the throneroom of your dreams;
    Don’t turn aside to catch the light that showers from life’s wings,
    Lest you forget the ledger is the holiest of things.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t be a fool and quit
    The sacred House of Dollars just at Music’s feet to sit;
    Don’t heed them when they whisper, “in your higher longings trust,”
    For all except the cashbox is as ashes and as dust.

  • He Wonders If She Knows

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

    “I wonder if you know how fair
        You make the world for me?
    I wonder if you know that where
        You are I long to be?
    Your smile is like the morning sun
        That gladdens all below;
    When you appear the day’s begun,
    But when we part the day is done—
    I wonder if you know or care,
        I wonder if you know?”

    (He wonders if she knows or cares;
        Why should he ever doubt it?
    The lovelorn, longing look he wears
        Has told her all about it.
    Although he never tells her so,
    He may be sure that she will know;
    Love needs no speech—long, long ago
        Love learned to do without it.)

    “I wonder if you ever guess
        That when you linger near
    The world is filled with loveliness,
        That when you leave ’tis drear?
    For you, sweetheart, it is that all
        The fairest breezes blow,
    And from the skies the stars would fall
    Responsive to your witching call;
    You smile to gladden and to bless—
        I wonder if you know?”

    (He wonders if his sweetheart knows
        Or has the wit to guess it;
    He tells it everywhere he goes
        His looks and sights confess it;
    He thinks her lips forbidden fruit,
    Ah, let him cease from being mute,
    And boldly, bravely press his suit—
        She longs for him to press it.)

  • Pa Has Had a Rest and Change

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 19, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Pa’s got back from his vacation,
        With a look that’s wild and strange;
    Seems all full of tribulation,
        Though he’s had his rest and change;
    For a year he had been wishin’
        He could be alone somewhere,
    So he spent his two weeks fishin’,
        Far away from home and care.

    He has forty-seven places
        Where the hungry woodticks died;
    And the color of his face is
        Like a piece of beef that’s dried;
    Both his feet are full of blisters,
        Insects nearly ate him up,
    And last night he called my sister’s
        Beau a pompous little pup.

    Pa’s got back from his vacation,
        Lookin’ like a hungry tramp;
    Once he nearly faced starvation
        When he strayed away from camp.
    He must eat things predigested
        Till his health improves a lot;
    Comin’ home he was arrested
        For the only fish he got.

  • The Broken Pinion

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 18, 1914. By Hezekiah Butterworth.

    I walked through the woodland meadows,
        Where sweet the thrushes sing;
    And I found on a bed of mosses
        A bird with a broken wing.
    I healed its wound, and each morning
        It sang its old sweet strain,
    But the bird with the broken pinion
        Never soared as high again.

    I found a young life broken
        By Sin’s seductive art;
    And touched with a Christlike pity,
        I took him to my heart.
    He lived with a noble purpose
        And struggled not in vain;
    But the life that Sin had stricken
        Never soared as high again.

    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Kept another from the snare;
    And the life that Sin had stricken
        Raised another from despair.
    Each loss has its compensation.
        There is healing for every pain;
    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Never soars as high again.

  • Catclaw and Cactus

    From The Sun, May 17, 1914.

    Catclaw and cactus are thick in the pasture, that sun blistered section of rocks and dry grass;
    The fat little prairie dogs sit by their burrows and rasp out shrill warnings as we gallop past.
    Up in the blue sky the buzzards are soaring; a startled jackrabbit, with fear in his breast,
    Decamps like a streak through the brush scattered wildly—the fauna and flora that mark the great West.

    Hurrah for the feel of a battered stock saddle—the slapping of brush against weather worn chaps;
    The smell of a wet horse—the sound of his hoofbeats—the jingle of spurs and the creaking of straps!
    Your cities seem nothing but dens of corruption, for here steady breezes blow sweet without rest.
    Just give me a horse and some square miles of pasture, and leave me at peace far out here in the West.

  • His Pipe

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 16, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    Though grandpa left us long ago, with years and labors ripe,
    Yet still upon the shelf we keep his old black briar pipe.
    And when we take it down we seem to see above the bowl
    The keen blue eyes that mirrored forth his wise and kindly soul.
    We took our sorrows to his knee, he listened to them all,
    From sister Letty’s love affairs, to Benny’s “losted” ball,
    And when he filled and lit his pipe, we knew that he had found
    The end of all the trouble-skeins our careless hands unwound.

    So when my grown-up heart is sad with life’s eternal pain,
    With reverential touch I take the old black pipe again.
    About it hangs the aroma of good tobacco still,
    And calls his sturdy spirit back to brace my weakened will.
    Through that old pipe he speaks to me, just as he used to do,
    And bids me face the world again with strength and courage new,
    And Hope around me folds once more her rainbow-colored cloak,
    And all my little troubles fade as once they did—in smoke.

  • The Cruel World

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 15, 1914.

    Before him flowery pastures spread,
        He hears a glad brook flow along,
    And from a branch above his head
        There falls a sweet June shower song.

    There is mild fragrance in the breeze
        That blows from orchards far away;
    The musing cows beneath the trees
        Are being peaceful while they may.

    His limbs are straight and young and strong,
        He gazes forth from undimmed eyes,
    But, thinking that the world’s gone wrong,
        He sees a far-off cloud and sighs.

  • It Can’t Be Done

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, May 14, 1914. By Wing Dinger.

    The editor is yelling
        For my poem to-day,
    And as it is nine thirty
        I’ll write it right away.

    Now let me see, what subject
        Will likely bring a smile.
    I have it—but excuse me
        For just a little while.

    Someone came in to see me
        On business, that was why
    I asked you to excuse me,
        And now to write I’ll try.

    I’ve got to do some hustling,
        Because it’s half past ten.
    Well, here goes—but pray pardon,
        There is my phone again.

    I have just two more minutes
        To write this verse of fun,
    And I’ve forgot my subject—
        By jove, it can’t be done.

  • Horatius at the Bridge

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 13, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Then out spake brave Horatius,
        The captain of the gate:
    “Halt! Every mother’s son of you,
        Both friends and foemen wait!
    Let not a blow be given
        No matter what the odds,
    For the ashes of your sires
        Or the temples of your gods.

    “Hew not the bridge, sir consul,
        Please put your ax away;
    I’ll later call upon you
        To hew, but not today—
    In yon straight path a thousand
        May well be stopped by three;
    There I will stand and have command—
        Not now, but presently.”

    Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
        A counterfeiter bold:
    “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
        With thee the bridge I’ll hold!”
    And out spake young Herminius,
        A strong-arm artist he:
    “I will abide by thy left side
        And keep the bridge with thee.”

    “Horatius,” quoth the consul,
        “Behold yon great array;
    Why may I not begin to hew,
        Why counsel this delay?
    For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
        Spare neither land nor gold,
    Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life—
        At least, so I’ve been told.”

    “Fool,” answered brave Horatius,
        “Hold off till I say when;
    We must await in patience
        The moving picture men!
    As soon as they get ready,
        And not till then, cut loose—
    We want this scrap recorded
        On films for future use.”

  • Too Wearisome

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    I’d like to be among the few
        Who, needing rest, may be at ease;
    I mean those lucky people who
        May turn from duty when they please—
    The ones who, feeling weariness,
        May knock off early for the day
    And have no fear that pitiless
        Taskmasters will reduce their pay.

    I’d like to have the right to let
        Some other who was under me
    Remain at work to stew and fret
        While I went roving carelessly;
    I’d like to hold an office which
        Might be left to another’s care,
    While I sought pleasure with the rich
        Or sat at blissful ease somewhere.

    But I have noticed that the men
        Who have the privilege I lack,
    Who may depart, not caring when
        Their interests shall call them back—
    I’ve noticed that those who possess
        This privilege, which seems sublime,
    Are overcome with weariness
        About three-quarters of the time.