Newspaper History

Month: August 2022

  • The After-Thought

    From the Evening Star, August 21, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    “I fear I’m not a sportsman true,” said Nimrod McIntyre.
    “Some things that sportsmen have to do I cannot quite admire.
    Amid the joy with which we hail a triumph great or small,
    I can’t help feeling sorry for the creature that must fall.

    “I get the thrill which comes when in the water clear I look
    And see the fish that battles to gain freedom from the hook.
    And yet it’s not the joy unqualified that I would wish,
    For way down in my heart my sympathies are with the fish.

    “When, with my trusty gun in hand, to slay a bird I fail,
    I don’t feel blue at all. My sympathies are with the quail.
    And yet I fish and shoot; but with no genuine desire
    To kill a thing! Why is this so?” said Nimrod McIntyre.

  • The Boy Who Didn’t Pass

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 20, 1914.

    It’s getting cooler weather,
        The summer is nearly done.
    I’ve had a lot of pleasure,
        A great big heap of fun.
    But school days soon are coming,
        And nearly here, alas!
    And I’m that little lunk-head,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    I told my daddy about it,
        He only shook his head.
    I showed my card to mother.
        “It’s just a shame,” she said.
    But grandma cried, “Poor laddie,
        You’ll hate to miss your class.”
    Then, teary-eyed, she kissed me,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    September’s like an ogre
        That’s coming pretty soon.
    I didn’t feel so dreadful
        Last summer when ’twas June.
    But life has lost its roses,
        There’s only rue and grass
    And prickly thistles waiting
        For the boy who didn’t pass.

  • The Lesson

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 19, 1914.

    She gazes at her little brood,
        Their clamorous wants she must supply.
    New tenderness is in her tones—
        “Oh, blest and happy mother I!

    “But yesterday this humdrum life,
        Its homely burdens, wearied me.
    Impatient I, and discontent,
        My cares were all that I could see!

    “From dawn to dusk new tasks arose—
        How blessed each one seems today!
    The plain farm duties! How I joy
        Here, safe, protected, dull to stay!

    “The plenteous fields are stretching wide,
        The quiet village lies below,
    No rumor comes of pillage, want,
        There’s no alarm of threatening foe!

    “Gay hollyhocks nod by the wall,
        The boughs with ripening fruit hang low,
    From yonder oat field sounds the voice
        Of one whose fealty well I know!

    God pity women overseas,
        Whose husbands, sons, must give to die.
    God make me thankful! They deserved
        Love, safety, peace as much as I!”

  • A Peaceful Heart’s Desire

    From The Sun, August 18, 1914. By C. E. E.

    I’m tired of seeing Mars preempt the center of the stage.
    I’m tired of seeing war news spread across the whole front page;
    I’m wearying of armies, forts and mines and fighting crews.
    I want to see the old familiar headlines in the news.

    Instead of “German Shell Fire Sets a Belgian Town Aflame,”
    I’d read of “Kansan Victimized by Wire Tapping Game.”
    I see that “Thousand Belgians Put a German Corps to Flight,”
    But want to know that “Pankhurst Vows She Will Not Eat a Bite.”

    I learn today that “French and German Birdmen Clash in Air,”
    But miss the “Actress, Jilted, Sues a Pittsburg Millionaire.”
    What boots it that “Italians Threaten Now to Join the Fray,”
    If I can’t read that “Scientist Makes Hens Lay Twice a Day”?

    And though it’s true that “Russia Captures Eighty German Spies,”
    I long to learn that “T. R. Stamps Barnes’s Statements Willful Lies.”
    I’m wearying of armies, forts and mines and fighting crews.
    I want to see the old familiar headlines in the news!

  • Kilvany

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 17, 1914. By John Hay.

    The song of Kilvany. Fairest she
    In all the land of Savatthe.
    She had one child, as sweet and gay
    And dear to her as the light of day.
    She was so young, and he so fair,
    The same bright eyes, and the same dark hair;
    To see them by the blossoming way,
    They seemed two children at their play.

    There came a death-dart from the sky,
    Kilvany saw her darling die.
    The glimmering shade his eyes invades,
    Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades;
    His warm heart feels the icy chill,
    The round limbs shudder, and are still;
    And yet Kilvany held him fast
    Long after life’s last pulse was past;
    As if her kisses could restore
    The smile gone out forevermore.

    But when she saw her child was dead,
    She scattered ashes on her head,
    And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
    And rushing wildly through the street,
    She sobbing fell at Buddha’s feet.

    “Master, all-helpful, help me now!
    Here at thy feet I humbly bow;
    Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!”
    She groveled on the marble floor,
    And kissed the dead child o’er and o’er.
    And suddenly upon the air
    There fell the answer to her prayer:
    “Bring me tonight a lotus tied
    With thread from a house where none have died.”

    She rose, and laughed with thankful joy,
    Sure that the god would save the boy.
    She found a Lotus by the stream;
    She plucked it from its noonday gleam.
    And then from door to door she fared,
    To ask what house by death was spared.
    Her heart grew cold to see the eyes
    Of all dilate in slow surprise;
    “Kilvany, thou hast lost thy head;
    Nothing can help a child that’s dead.

    “There stands not by the Ganges’ side
    A house where none have ever died.”
    Thus, through the long and weary day,
    From every door she bore away
    Within her heart, and on her arm,
    A heavier load, a deeper harm.
    By gates of gold and ivory,
    By wattled huts of poverty,
    The same refrain heard poor Kilvany,
    “The living are few, the dead are many.”

    The evening came so still and fleet
    And overtook her hurrying feet.
    And, heartsick, by the sacred lane
    She fell, and prayed the god again.
    She sobbed and beat her bursting breast:
    “Ah, thou have mocked me, Mightiest!
    Lo I have wandered far and wide—
    There stands no house where none hath died.”

    And Buddha answered, in a tone
    Soft as a flute at twilight blown,
    But grand as heaven and strong as death
    To him who hears with ears of faith:
    “Child, thou art answered. Murmur not!
    Bow, and accept the common lot!”
    Kilvany heard with reverence meet,
    And laid her child at Buddha’s feet.

  • Children

    From The Sun, August 16, 1914. By Lucine Finch

    Mother,
    Why can’t I see the wind?
    My mother,
    Why?
    I see the sky,
    I see the stars,
    I can see the fire,
    The green ocean
    Far as to the sky;
    Why can’t I see the wind?
    My mother,
    Why?

    Oh child,
    I do not know—
    Dear child,
    The wind is—
    Dear,
    I do not know—
    Run now, and play.

    Mother,
    Why can’t I see my thoughts?
    My mother,
    Why?
    Like birds they fly,
    I feel them go;
    I am the cage,
    They are wild birds
    Reaching to the sky!
    Why can’t I see my thoughts?
    My mother,
    Why?

    Oh, child,
    I do not know—
    Dear child,
    Our thoughts are—
    Dear,
    I do not know—
    Run now, and play.

    Mother,
    Why can I not see God?
    My mother,
    Why?
    I can see you
    And father dear;
    I can see people
    Oh, everywhere,
    All passing by;
    Why can I not see God?
    My mother,
    Why?

    Oh, child,
    I do not know—
    Dear child,
    God—God is—
    Dear,
    I do not know—
    Run now, and play.

  • The Battle of Blenheim

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 15, 1914. By Robert Southey.

    It was a summer evening,
        Old Kaspar’s work was done,
    And he before his cottage door
        Was sitting in the sun,
    And by him sported on the green
        His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

    She saw her brother Peterkin
        Roll something large and round,
    Which he beside the rivulet
        In playing there had found;
    He came to ask what he had found,
        That was so large, and smooth, and round.

    Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
        Who stood expectant by;
    And then the old man shook his head,
        And, with a natural sigh,—
    “‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
        “Who fell in the great victory.

    “I find them in the garden,
        For there’s many here about;
    And often when I go to plough,
        The ploughshare turns them out!
    For many thousand men,” said he,
        “Were slain in that great victory.”

    “Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
        Young Peterkin, he cries;
    And little Wilhelmine looks up
        With wonder-waiting eyes;
    “Now tell us all about the war,
        And what they fought each other for.”

    “It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
        “Who put the French to rout;
    But what they fought each other for,
        I could not well make out;
    But everybody said,” quoth he,
        “That ’twas a famous victory.

    “My father lived at Blenheim then,
        Yon little stream hard by;
    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
        And he was forced to fly;
    So with his wife and child he fled,
        Nor had he where to rest his head.

    “With fire and sword the country round
        Was wasted far and wide,
    And many a childing mother then,
        And new-born baby died;
    But things like that, you know, must be
        At every famous victory.

    “They say it was a shocking sight
        After the field was won;
    For many thousand bodies here
        Lay rotting in the sun;
    But things like that, you know, must be
        After a famous victory.

    “Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
        And our good Prince Eugene.”
    “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
        Said little Wilhelmine.
    “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
        “It was a famous victory.

    “And everybody praised the Duke
        Who this great fight did win.”
    “But what good came of it at last?”
        Quoth little Peterkin.
    “Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
        “But ’twas a famous victory.”

  • The Village Blacksmith

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 14, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
        The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
        With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
        Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
        His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
        He earns whate’er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
        For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
        You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
        With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
        When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
        Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
        And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
        And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
        He hears his daughter’s voice
    Singing in the village choir
        And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
        Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
        How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
        A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
        Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
        Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
        Has earned a night’s repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
        For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
        Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
        Each burning deed and thought.

  • The Mother

    From The Times Dispatch, August 13, 1914.

    I hear the blaring bands go by; I hear the marching feet;
    All day they drum their dreadful dirge along the dusty street.
    I hear the crowds give cheer on cheer of fierce and furious joy,
    And wonder if they see him there—my little, little boy.
    A baby only yesterday, with soft and sunny hair;
    So helpless and so innocent; so fragile, and so fair!

    So strong I felt to shield him then, safe sheltered in my arm,
    It seemed the whole wide world could never do him any harm.
    And oh, the long, long nights I watched beside his trundle bed
    To fight away the pain that racked his little fevered head.
    I fought his battles for him then; he leaves my side today
    To fight far greater ones alone, and oh, so far away.

    The little dimpled hand that lay so trustingly in mine
    Must grasp a rifle barrel soon along the firing line.
    My baby boy I held so close I felt his fluttering breath
    Has left me empty-armed and gone to see the face of death.
    And never mother’s voice to soothe, nor mother’s arm to shield,
    From all the direful perils of the smoke-hung battlefield.

  • Be Careful What You Say

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 12, 1914.

    In speaking of a person’s faults,
        Pray don’t forget your own;
    Remember, those with home of glass
        Should seldom throw a stone.
    If we had nothing else to do
        But talk of those who sin,
    ’Tis better we commence at home
        And from that point begin.

    We have no right to judge a man
        Until he’s fairly tried;
    Should we not like his company
        We know the world is wide.
    Some may have faults—and who has not?
        The old as well as young—
    Perhaps we may, for ought we know,
        Have fifty to their one.

    I’ll tell you of a better plan,
        And find it works full well,
    To try my own defects to cure,
        Before of others tell.
    And though I sometimes hope to be
        No more than some I know,
    My own shortcomings bid me let
        The faults of others go.

    Then let us, when we commence
        To slander friend or foe,
    Think of the harm one word would do
        To those we little know.
    Remember, curses sometimes like
        Our chickens, ‘roost at home’:
    Don’t speak of others’ faults until
        We have none of our own.