Newspaper History

Month: July 2022

  • The Escape

    From The Times Dispatch, July 11, 1914. By Alvin Hattorf.

    “All’s well,” cried the prison guard, as he walked his beat—the echo came “All’s well.”
    I was still in the silence as they cried away, twelve strokes had lately fell.
    The lightning darted across the sky and a peal of thunder sounded plain,
    The black forms of the pickets were seen, through the lightning and the rain.

    It came in pouring torrents, drowning every sound,
    The convicts in their cells slept on, in spite of the raging storm around.
    But in one cell its prisoner slept, but was wide awake;
    To him the storm was welcome; it seemed that God had sent it for his sake.

    Over and over in his burning brain came the words as he paced the cell;
    The words of the letter pressed to his lips, and again and again they fell:
    “Come, I’m dying—come! ‘ere it be too late;
    I must see you—come!—for my sake.”

    “I’m coming,” he whispered hoarsely; “I’m coming from this prison hell!”
    Then falling upon his knees, he prayed within his cell;
    “Be with me now, Oh! God. Let all happen for the best;
    I’m going; I give all to you—the rest.”

    Quickly he arose; swiftly to the door; the guard had heard not;
    Softly to the bed and he drew a file from his cot.
    Then one by one he began to cut the huge iron bars,
    In nervous anxiety and with many a trembling pause.

    Half-past 12 struck the clock, and the storm raged on in fury;
    One, two sounded, as he paused, tired and weary.
    Again racing to the door and again his heart stopping dread;
    To the window—let down the rope, and began his perilous tread.

    Slowly, yard by yard, sometimes he swung in space,
    Oft pausing to escape detection, then downward in hurrying haste.
    The rain the while beat upon his face, but the lightning flashed less;
    Only the roaring thunder; ’twas as if his escape were blessed.

    At last he reached the ground with one mighty leap;
    Here he crouched trembling, then slowly began to creep.
    The guard paused—did he hear a noise? But no, he paces on.
    The shivering convict pauses below and waits till he is gone.

    Swiftly, cat-like, he climbs the wall, clinging to every rock;
    At last reaching the end, lay panting at the top.
    But only for a moment; he crouches over, high and steep,
    As a crash of thunder drowns the noise of his daring leap.

    Here, stretched upon the ground, then came a thought:
    “What good to see his dying wife for a while—in life to part?”
    He, innocent of crime, to spend the rest in a cell!
    “No, no,” he muttered in his pain, “I’d rather go with her than back to that long, hard hell!”

    In mute appeal he waited for a flash of lightning—and it came.
    The guard saw the escaped, and his gun crashed deadly aim.
    The convict clinched his bleeding breast, but with a smile of joy, better.
    “’Tis best, thank God! Now I’ll be with her forever.”

  • We Are Seven

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 10, 1914. By William Wordsworth.

    A simple child,
        That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
        What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage girl;
        She was 8 years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
        That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
        And she was wildly clad;
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
        Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little maid,
        How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
        And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
        She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea;

    “Two of us in the churchyard lie,
        My sister and my brother;
    And, in the churchyard cottage, I
        Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
        Sweet maid, how may this be?”

    Then did the little maid reply,
        “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the churchyard lie
        Beneath the churchyard tree.”

    “You run about, my little maid;
        Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the churchyard laid
        Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
        The little maid replied;
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door
        And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
        My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit
        And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sunset, sir,
        When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
        And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was Sister Jane;
        In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her pain,
        And then she went away.

    “So in the churchyard she was laid;
        And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
        My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
        And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
        And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
        “If they two are in Heaven?”
    Quick was the little maid’s reply:
        “O Master! We are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
        Their spirits are in Heaven?”
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little maid would have her will,
        And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

  • The Devil As He Is

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

    They give the devil hoofs and horns
        Who picture him with brush or pen,
    So that whoever fears or scorns
        The dread arch enemy of men
    May know him for a fiend, may know
        The cunning that is in his glances,
    And, therefore, meet him as a foe
        However slyly he advances.

    They err who have him thus portrayed
        So that all men may know him well;
    He comes without a hoof displayed
        Or anything that smacks of hell;
    He comes fair-fronted, with a smile
        That quickly rids us of suspicion
    And makes us think him splendid while
        He guides us downward to perdition.

  • The Fire Alarm

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 8, 1914.

    When riding on their motor trucks
        I see the firemen pass,
    Like soldiers dressed in uniforms
        Of natty blue and brass,
    I think about the volunteers
        Who used, in other days,
    To rally to the fire-alarm
        And battle with the blaze.

    When clanged upon the midnight air
        That sudden summons loud,
    The people tumbled out of bed,
        A wild, excited crowd.
    The barking dogs ran on ahead,
        And shouts and cries arose
    Above the crackle of the flames,
        The hissing of the hose.

    To save a neighbor’s little home
        The axe and hose they plied,
    Until among the cinders black
        The lurid demon died.
    The old red shirts they used to sport
        Are full of moths and holes;
    The men who wore them, too, are dead—
        God rest their gallant souls!

    But still we fear the smoky scourge,
        And tremble with affright,
    When suddenly the fire-alarm
        Blares out upon the night.
    So here’s a tribute from the heart,
        A word of praise for all
    The heroes of the hose and truck
        Who answer to its call.

  • The Vanished Country

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 7, 1914. By Grantland Rice.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a cabin in a lane,
    Across the yellow sunshine
        And the silver of the rain;
    A cabin, summer-shaded,
        Where the maples whispered low
    Dream stories of the world winds
        That a fellow used to know;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a land he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s an old-time swinging gate
    Through the early dusk of summer
        Where a girl has come to wait;
    And her hair is like the sundrift
        From the heart of summer skies,
    While the blue of God’s wide heaven
        Crowns the splendor of her eyes;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a girl he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a dream that used to be
    Of Fame within the city
        And a name beyond the sea;
    A dream of laurel wreathings
        That came singing through the light
    The story of the glory
        Of the victor in the fight;
    And it’s queer that, worn and gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a dream he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

  • The Petitioners

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 6, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Pray sometimes for the succor that the mighty among us need;
    Pray for the kindness needed by the led and the ones who lead;
    Pray when the day is ended and pray when the day begins
    For the strength you need and the guidance and the pardoning of your sins,
    But know that the Lord who watches o’er peasants and priests and kings
    Blesses in fullest measure the men who are doing things.

    Pray when the light is breaking for wisdom and strength and grace;
    Pray when the day has ended and the stars gleam cold in space;
    But the day was made for toiling; let the monk in his cloister pray;
    Out in the world is duty claiming your care by day;
    God in the great beginning wrought with a mighty hand,
    Pausing not till His glory spread over sea and land.

    They are lost who mumble prayers when the sun is high,
    Turning away from duty, fearing to dare or try;
    Sitting in dark seclusion, selfishly asking there
    Glory in heaven as payment for the zeal that they show in prayer;
    Over their heads the gleaming sword of destruction swings,
    While God in His mercy listens to the men who are doing things.

  • The Call of the Wild

    From The Sun, July 5, 1914.

    I know a place where the fern is deep
        And the giant fir waves high,
    And a rocky ledge hangs dark and steep,
        And a laughing brook leaps by.
    And it’s there to be with a soul that’s free
        From the street’s discordant jar,
    With a blanket spread on a cedar bed,
        And the voice of the world afar.

    I know of a pool in a leafy dell
        That the wary trout love best,
    And a timid trail to the chaparral
        Where the red deer lie at rest.
    A night bird’s call when the shadows fall
        And a cougar’s eerie cry,
    A silence deep, and a dreamless sleep
        Under the open sky.

  • The Glorious Fourth

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1914. By David.

    When you’re roused from your sleep by a terrible noise
    At four in the morning, you know that the boys
        Are up for the day, and sigh.
    When in through the window a firecracker flies
    And bursts on the floor, driving sleep from your eyes,
        You know it’s the Fourth of July.

    When the cat in wild fear climbs a tree in the gale
    With a bunch of firecrackers attached to her tail,
        Which happens just once a year;
    When Towner seeks a hole under the house
    And keeps just as still as a poor frightened mouse,
        The Glorious Fourth is here.

    When all the world leaves for the woods and the farms,
    From the grey-headed sire to the infant in arms,
        We never wonder why;
    And when, unawares, drenching all in its train,
    Out flashes the lightning and down pours the rain,
        You know it’s the Fourth of July.

    When skyrockets burst and cannons explode,
    Causing horses to run and upset their load,
        And a general panic is nigh;
    When the fire engine comes and commences to play,
    And the ambulance carries the victims away,
        ’Tis the Glorious Fourth of July.

    When the wounds are all dressed and plasters applied
    To scratches and burns, which are shown with great pride
        By little Peter and John;
    When each in sweet sleep has forgotten his grief,
    You retire for the night with a sigh of relief.
        The Glorious Fourth is gone.

  • The Summer Prospectus

    From the Evening Star, July 3, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    I read about the fishing and I read about the trees.
    I read about the scenery all guaranteed to please.
    I read about wild nature with its glories and its grace
    And packed my grip, determined that I’d go and see the place.

    The fish were tired of biting and the trees were not as grand
    As those that flourished in our parks and roadways near at hand.
    And nature in its wildness seems to love a lot of things
    That it provides with various sorts of stickers and of stings.

    And yet those printed pages seemed like poetry so fine
    And a handsome illustration went with every other line.
    No longer will I seek the rolling wave or leafy nook.
    I’ll pack my grip again and go back home and read the book.

  • The Old Cider Barrel

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 2, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    How dear to my heart is the old cider barrel,
        As fond recollection presents it to view;
    The place where they kept it corked up in the cellar
        Is as fresh in my mind as it ever was, too.
    The damp, whitewashed walls, the potatoes and turnips,
        The apples we’d picked when the weather was fair—
    How well I recall them, how gladly I lingered
        Beside the old barrel deposited there—
    The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
        The iron-hooped barrel confronting me there.

    Once armed with a gimlet, I went to the barrel—
        Dear father and mother had gone for the day;
    I bored a small hole and slipped a straw through it,
        And ceased to be troubled while sucking away.
    I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
        Till things in my fancy seemed softly to blend,
    And I couldn’t have told whether I or the barrel
        Was dancing around or still standing on end—
    The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
        The iron-hooped barrel that stood upon end.

    Somehow I got out of the old whitewashed cellar
        And whooped and hurrahed and made merry awhile;
    They say that my shouting aroused all the neighbors
        Who lived in a circle of less than a mile.
    At last my fond parents came home from their visit,
        The things that ensued I shall never forget;
    I acquired a hatred of hard cider barrels
        That long has been rankling and clings to me yet—
    If all the hard cider were spilled in the sewers
        I’d look on the waste and be free from regret.