Newspaper History

Month: September 2022

  • A Vision

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 30, 1914. By Edmund Leavey.

    Was I waking, was I dreaming?
    In the moonlight’s silver gleaming,
        Was there something treading softly, in my room?
    Was it gazing, death-like blazing,
    At my eyes which fear was glazing?
        Was it human or a spectre from the tomb?
    In my bed I lay, and trembled,
    For ’twas nothing it resembled,
        Not a thing that I had ever seen before;
    And my heart-strings swiftly tightened,
    As I more and more grew frightened,
        For the window fast was locked, and barred the door.
    Close it came, and nearer, nearer,
    And I saw it plainer, clearer,
        Saw it take a hidden shape like all that’s fair;
    And it came and stood before me,
    Stood and stooping slightly o’er me,
        Gently whispered to me, cringing, crouching there.
    And as it murmured to me,
    All my fear and torment flew me,
        And my soul was filled with satan-spawned chagrin.
    For it told me, oh, it told me
    “Come behold me, come behold me,
        For you I am as once you might have been.”
    And I drank in all its beauty—
    What was I if true to duty;
        And I begged it answer me if I could win
    To the grace I had passed blindly,
    For it looked so sad and kindly,
        That I knew it would have pity for my sin.
    But its answer chilled and stilled me.
    “No, you’ve killed me, killed me, killed me.
        For it’s you you’ve slain, and I you ne’er can be.”
    Then it left me in the darkness,
    To my soul in all its starkness—
        My forgotten better self—my other me.

  • A Mystery

    From the Evening Star, September 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    My grandsire is a husky chap; his age is eighty-five.
        He has a cheery smile and thinks it’s good to be alive.
    He does not claim perfection. When the New Year comes again
        He makes his resolutions, just the same as other men.
    He seemed to start life’s journey on unfavorable terms.
        His family did not know a thing about these wicked germs.
    They let him travel barefoot and he ate green fruit by stealth.
        I very often wonder how my grandsire kept his health.

    He ate his bread and marmalade and didn’t care a straw
        About the labels which are recommended by the law.
    And when a cut or bruise unto his careless lot befell,
        He tied a rag around it and then left it to get well.
    He tried to love his neighbor and he wasn’t wild for pelf.
        He did the best he could and then forgot about himself.
    He faced the outdoor life without the luxuries of wealth.
        It is a mystery how my good old grandsire kept his health!

  • With Us Once Again

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Rah, Rah, Rah,
    Zip, Boom, Bah.
        Old familiar sound.
    See ‘em wince,
    Bring the splints,
        Call the doctors round.
    Mama’s boy,
    Pride and joy,
        Laid out in the fray;
    Five ribs broke,
    What a joke,
        Dandy work, Hurray!
    Kick their shins,
    Break their chins,
        Tie ‘em in a knot.
    Beat ‘em up,
    Eat ‘em up,
        Drag ‘em ‘round a lot.
    Smash the line;
    Gee! Thats fine.
        Let no man escape.
    Kill the ends,
    Make their friends
        Put on yards of crepe.
    Do your worst;
    Do it first;
        There’s no law to fear.
    Rah, Rah, Rah.
    Zip, Boom, Bah.
        Football season’s here.

  • Far From the Crowd

    From the Evening Star, September 27, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    The twilight softly lingers down to Pohick on the Crick;
    The fields are proudly wavin’ where the golden grain grows thick,
    An’ the moon that slowly rises sheds a soft, mysterious glow
    Across the homes that we-all folks have loved since long ago.
    We’ve had our share of sorrows such as fall to human kind,
    But we think of present duty, an’ the past is left behind,
    Exceptin’ when we pause to rest an’ memory songs resound,
    Like faint an’ distant echoes, as the shadows gather ‘round.

    We know that strangers sometimes smile, while passin’ on their way,
    At the quaint, old-fashioned blossoms in their generous array.
    We know the moss has gathered through the uneventful years
    Around the churchyard stones that have been moistened with our tears,
    But the sound of strife an’ hatred has been silent for so long
    That the weak have learned to look with trustful eyes upon the strong.
    We’re thankful, as we hear of deeds that make our hearts turn sick,
    The Path of Glory doesn’t lead through Pohick on the Crick.

  • Retribution

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 26, 1914.

    When Peace her olive branch held out,
        And wooed the nations to her arms,
    They rudely drove her from their side,
        And turned their backs upon her charms.
    In vain she pleaded to be heard,
        In vain she tried the world to save
    From all the horrors of grim war,
        That opened up a nation’s grave.

    So, driven forth, she fled away
        No more to come with outstretched hand,
    But to remain across the seas
        Safe sheltered in a friendly land.
    And now they sigh and long for her,
        And strain their horror-stricken eyes
    To catch a glimpse of her white robe,
        Until the hope within them dies.

    But now ’tis they who must seek her,
        And toilsome is the dreadful way,
    Through carnage fields and burning homes,
        Past piles of dead and savage fray,
    Knee deep in bloody rivers’ flow,
        Through scenes whose terrors never cease,
    This is the way they now must go,
        The nations, when they seek for peace.

  • The Prettiest One

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 25, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    The purtiest woman that I ever see,
    I’ll tell you the truth, jest between you an’ me.
    She isn’t no dazzler, and some fellers might
    Not stop to look twice, but she’s my choice all right.
    She’s not so blamed strong for the thing they call style,
    She don’t wear her hair in a half-bushel pile.
    The beauty shops never make much off’n her.
    She don’t have her gowns made in Paris; no, sir!
    She don’t strut around like a peacock and pose.
    She don’t keep a-daubin’ white stuff on her nose.

    I have heard of the beauties of Spain and of France,
    But with me they would not stand a ghost of a chance.
    I have gazed upon paintings of world famous queens,
    And I’ve seen a good many made-up actorines,
    But the woman who used to bounce me on her knee;
    She’s the purtiest woman that I ever see.

  • Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 24, 1914. By Emma Lazarus.

    “O World-God, give me Wealth!” the Egyptian cried.
    His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
    Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
    Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
    Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
    World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
    His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
    Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
    Seek Pharaoh’s race to-day and we shall find
    Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

    “O World-God, give me beauty!” cried the Greek.
    His prayer was granted. All the earth became
    Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
    Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
    Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
    The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
    Of the immortal marble, his the play
    Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
    Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find today
    A broken column and a lute unstrung.

    “O World-God, give me Power!” the Roman cried.
    His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
    A captive to the chariot of his pride.
    The blood of myriad provinces was drained
    To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—
    Invulnerably bulwarked every part
    With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
    Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home:
    A roofless ruin stands where once abode
    The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

    “O Godhead, give me Truth!” the Hebrew cried.
    His prayer was granted. He became the slave
    Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
    Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
    The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
    His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
    Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
    Seek him today, and find in every land.
    No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
    Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

  • The Cat

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 23, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary,
        Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While a short snooze I was snatching,
        Suddenly there came a scratching, and ’twas on my chamber door.
    “’Tis no visitor,” I muttered, “scratching at my chamber door.
        Just the cat and nothing more.”

    I knew what the cat expected, and I knew I was elected
        So I grabbed the noisy feline to perform my nightly chore.
    Down the cold stairway I hurried while the chilly breezelets scurried
        Round my shins and then I let him safely out the kitchen door.
    I had put him out so often that it really made me sore,
        Simply that and nothing more.

    Back to my hall room I ambled and into the bed I scrambled,
        When I heard a fearful wailing that I’d often heard before.
    ’Twas the same old caterwauling and the same old feline calling,
        As he vainly tried to get in at the self-same kitchen door.
    Then I hastened down the stairway and was chilled through to the core,
        Just to let him in once more.

  • The Peasant Soldier

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 22, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    He has no hope for conquest; he has no lust for power;
    His bosom does not burn to share in triumph’s glorious hour;
    He bears no hatred in his heart against his brother man;
    Unlearned he is in strategy or statesman’s scheme or plan.
    But when throughout the troubled land there rings the battle cry,
    Unknowing and unquestioning, he marches forth to die.

    No prizes are there to be gained for his too common kind;
    He wins no splendid spoils of war for those he leaves behind.
    Whatever glory there may be, the great ones of the earth
    Will never yield to his mean kin, all folk of peasant birth.
    But when he sees upon the hills the battle banners fly
    He marches calmly to his death—nor thinks to wonder why.

  • Off to School

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 21, 1914. By J. W. Foley.

    Father is patting his shoulder
        And lifting his grip;
    Proud of him as he grows older,
        (But biting his lip.)
    Aunty improving his going
        By giving advice.
    And mother her tears overflowing,
        And wiping her eyes.

    Father pretending to joke him
        While saying goodbye;
    Sister seems trying to choke him
        While fixing his tie;
    Uncle is chaffing and winking,
        Disguising his sighs,
    While mother is standing and thinking
        And wiping her eyes.

    Old chums are wishing successes
        And shaking his hand;
    Girls with pink bows and white dresses
        Are hoping he’ll land
    Top o’ the heap in his classes—
        He can if he tries—
    And mother’s white handkerchief passes
        While wiping her eyes.

    Towser’s tail wagging and shaking,
        He must understand;
    Little Tob—brother is taking
        Him fast by the hand;
    Standing on tip toes to kiss him
        And wiping goodbyes,
    And mother—who knows how she’ll miss him?—
        Just wiping her eyes.

    Father is counseling to him
        Of college and den.
    Boy, as we yesterday knew him,
        But never again.
    Mother once more may caress him,
        And then the goodbyes
    And murmur and whisper “God bless him!”
        While wiping her eyes.