Newspaper History

Month: September 2022

  • When Some One Cares

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 10, 1914.

    When you meet some disappointment, an’ yer feelin’ kinda blue;
    When yer plans have all got sidetracked er some friend has proved untrue;
    When yer toiling, praying, struggling at the bottom uv the stairs—
    It is like a panacea—jest to know that some one cares.

    Some one who can appreciate one’s efforts when he tries;
    Some one who seems to understand—an’ so can sympathize;
    Some one who, when he’s far away, still wonders how he fares—
    Some one who never can forget—some one who really cares.

    It will send a thrill of rapture through the framework uv the heart;
    It will stir the inner bein’ till the tear drops want to start;
    For this life is worth the livin’, when some one yer sorrow shares—
    Life is truly worth the livin’, when you know that some one cares.

    Oh, this world is not all sunshine—many day’s hard clouds disclose;
    There’s a cross for ev’ry joy bell, an’ a thorn for ev’ry rose;
    But the cross is not so grievous, ner the thorn the rosebud wears—
    An’ the clouds have silver linin’s—when some one really cares.

  • The Two Glasses

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 9, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.
    One was ruddy and red as blood,
    And one was clear as the crystal flood.

    Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
    “Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
    I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
    Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;
    For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
    Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
    From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
    From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
    I have blasted many an honored name;
    I have taken virtue and given shame;
    I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
    That has made his future a barren waste.
    Far greater than any king am I,
    Or than any army beneath the sky.
    I have made the arm of the driver fail,
    And sent the train from the iron rail.
    I have made good ships go down at sea,
    And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
    Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
    Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,
    “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”

    Said the glass of water, “I cannot boast
    Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
    But I can tell of hearts that were sad
    By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
    Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
    Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
    I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
    Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
    I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
    And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
    I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
    I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
    I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
    That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.
    I can tell of manhood debased by you,
    That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
    I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
    I gladden the heart of man and maid;
    I set the wine-chained captive free,
    And all are better for knowing me.”

    These are the tales they told each other,
    The glass of wine and its paler brother,
    As they sat together, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.

  • Profitless Pity

    From The Times Dispatch, September 8, 1914.

    We sigh for the man who might have been great
        If he only had tried in a sensible way;
    We witness his fall and we pity his fate,
        We blame the foul chances that sent him astray;
    We think of the wonders he never has done,
        We dismally speak of the talent he had,
    And grievously, solemnly thinking him one
        Whom fortune has cheated, we murmur, “Too bad!”

    We never waste sighs on the poor little man
        Who strives without talent, obscure and unschooled,
    Who daily is doing the best that he can
        By worthiness urged and by decency ruled;
    We never have pity for him as we pass
        Where, lacking fair gifts, he is trying to rise;
    His case never moves us to murmur, “Alas!”
        No matter how bravely he manfully tries.

    Ah well, perhaps heaven, when heaven is gained,
        Will furnish the gifts the unnoticed ones lack,
    And there the ambitious who have not complained
        May win all their hopes and their eagerness back;
    But never in heaven, if heaven is fair,
        May the talented ones who have fallen in shame
    Partake of the glory the worthy may share
            Or find any joy in the city they claim.

  • Soon or Late

    From the Rock Island Argus, September 7, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    When things have all gone wrong, when they
        Whom you have deemed your friends have turned,
    Because ill luck has come your way,
        And sought their pleasures, unconcerned;
    When all your plans have gone amiss
        And all your hopes have taken flight,
    Then you have need of her fond kiss
        Who waits to welcome you, at night.

    When Fate has been inclined to cheat
        You of rewards you hoped to claim,
    When, with the bruises of defeat,
        And bending under bitter blame,
    You turn, at night, to them who still
        Are faithful, patient, loving, just,
    You need the little one to fill
        Your heart with hope, your soul with trust.

    When all goes well, when Fortune beams
        Upon you with her fairest smile;
    When Luck befriends you and it seems
        That effort still is well worth while,
    When smiling flatterers proceed
        To put your lingering doubts to flight,
    You may forget that you have need
        Of them who wait for you at night.

    The sky that is today so blue
        May cease tomorrow to be clear;
    The friends who now appear so true
        May shun you when you need their cheer;
    But they who nightly give you kind
        Glad greetings, faithfully will wait;
    Be true to them, for you will find
        That they are needed, soon or late.

  • Civilization: 1914

    From The Sun, September 6, 1914. By E. Elwell.

    For the glory of the living weep the millions of the dead;
    For the happiness of hearts that beat, their broken hearts have bled.
    So the pæan of the ages shrills a tragedy of praise
    To the multitudes of martyrs, and the sighing, grief swept days
    That reach piled high to heaven from the mysteries of the past;
    And the first dread soul in torment cries in anguish to the last:

    “We are the human hatreds, the ambitions and the greed,
    The lies that make men monsters, the death thought and the deed;
    We are the lusts primeval, we are the sin and shame
    That have chilled the fire of charity and snuffed the Christ-lit flame.
    We are the deep foundation of the civilized advance;
    We make fact the dreams of horror that the drug ambition grants;
    We have stripped off flowing vestments; we have dropped the cap of state;
    We writhe naked in the frankness of uncovered human hate—
    A hate for others’ happiness that checks the march of power.
    We have made the modern nation, and our curse is all its dower.”

    But the glory of the living may not halt to hark the dead;
    The heart that goes in gladness shall not cease for one that’s bled.
    Though the ages in their sequence e’er will sing a pæan of praise
    To the martyrs by men murdered for the love of fortune’s ways,
    And though prayers go up to heaven from the as yet unborn past,
    The world is ever building a new ruin on the last.

  • Doppleganger

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 5, 1914. By Madison Cawein.

    Oh, I went down the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of other days,
    And on the way I met a ghost, pale in the moonlight’s rays,
    The ghost of one, a little boy, with whom my heart still plays.

    He looked at me, he nodded me, he beckoned with his pole,
    To follow where we oft had gone to that old fishing hole,
    In checker of the shine and shade beneath the old beech pole.

    The old hole, the dark hole, wherein we marked the gleam
    Of minnows streaking, silvery rose, and in its deep a dream
    Of something gone forever down the glimmer of the stream.

    The old hole, the deep hole, o’er which we watched the flash
    Of bronze and brass of dragonflies and listened for the splash
    Of frogs that leaped from lilied banks when round them we would dash.

    He stood beside me there again, with fishing pole and line,
    And looked into my eyes and said, “The fishing will be fine!”
    And bade me follow down the stream and placed his hand in mine.

    But it was strange! I could not speak, however I might try,
    While all my heart choked up with tears, and I could only sigh
    And whisper to myself, “Ah, God, if I could only die!”

    He laughed at me, he beckoned me, but I—I stood wide eyed;
    A spell was on my soul, I knew, that kept me from his side,
    A spell that held me back from him, my boyhood that had died.

    ’Twas there beside the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of long gone by,
    I stood upon its banks awhile when stars were in the sky,
    And oh, I met and talked with him, the child that once was I!

  • The Point of View

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 4, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Some years ago my father drove an ancient piebald mare,
    And when he met a motor car he’d scowl at it and glare.
    Would he turn out? No, not a bit. He’d try to hog the road.
    When they would ask him to give way he’d yell, “I’ve got a load!”
    His hatred for the gas machines was unrelenting, quite.
    It was a mania with him; he talked it day and night.
    He said that any feller who would drive one was a fool;
    For father was a backward man, who followed the old school.

    But things have changed since then a bit. Although for years he roared
    About the gol-dum devil carts, he’s gone and bought a Ford.
    He beats it round the countryside at thirty miles an hour,
    And when an old horse heaves in sight he crowds on all his power.
    He nearly busts with anger when he wants the right of way,
    And hollers, “For the love of Mike, lay over there, you jay!”
    He’s got the latest fol-de-rols, green goggles and the like;
    He is the greatest motor fiend who ambles down the pike.
    It’s just the same old story. Yes, indeed, it’s nothing new.
    The war of horse and car depends upon the point of view.

  • Looking Back

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 3, 1914.

    ’Tis sweet to sing vacation days
        Because, you see, they’re ended;
    From mountain inns and summer bays
        ‘Most everyone has wended
    Back to the walks where duty lies
        And daily tasks are calling.
    Ere long will clouds obscure the skies
        And winter rains be falling.

    In retrospect, methinks, we drain
        A cup of sweetest pleasure
    And wonder if we’ll e’er again
        Have granted us a measure
    Of summer joys so brimming full
        Of mirthfulness and laughter,
    With scarce a thought of labors dull
        And troubles to come after.

    We don’t recall the insect swarm
        That started us to swearing,
    The sultry days and nights so warm
        We almost were despairing;
    The stuffy room, the tiresome bed,
        The food we vowed was “rotten”—
    Though but a week or two has sped,
        These ills are all forgotten.

  • When He is Wrong

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, September 2, 1914.

    I am not a sage or seer,
    There are many problems here
        That I couldn’t solve correctly if I tried.
    That I’m not so very wise
    Is a fact I recognize,
        And it’s something that I do not try to hide.
    But in riding to and fro,
    I have noticed as I go
        Men engaged in worldly conflicts loud and long,
    And a dollar or a dime
    I will wager every time,
        The fellow with the loudest voice is wrong.

    On the trolly cars you’ll find
    Men of every sort and kind,
        And they settle every problem that is known.
    They will quickly put to rout
    Every questionable doubt,
        And they mock at every answer but their own.
    I’ll admit that I don’t know
    Half the things they say are so,
        That I’ve doubts on many questions that are strong;
    But I’m sure it’s safe to bet,
    If a wager you can get,
        That the fellow with the loudest voice is wrong.

    When a man begins to shout
    And waves his arms about,
        When he voices his opinion in a shriek;
    When he works with lungs and jaw
    And he tries to overawe
        His brothers who are mild and sane and meek,
    When he tries to advertise
    To the world that he is wise,
        And he seeks to get the notice of the throng
    By the volume of his chatter;
    What the subject doesn’t matter,
        It is always safe to wager that he’s wrong.

  • The Gipsy’s Warning

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 1, 1914.

    Trust him not, O gentle lady,
        Though his voice be low and sweet;
    Heed not him who kneels before thee,
        Softly pleading at thy feet;
    Now thy life is in its morning,
        Cloud not this, thy happy lot.
    Listen to the gipsy’s warning—
        Gentle lady, trust him not.

    Lady, once there lived a maiden,
        Young and pure, and like thee, fair;
    Yet he wooed, and wooed and won her,
        Thrilled her gentle heart with care—
    Then—he heeded not her weeping—
        He cared not her life to save!
    Soon she perished—now she’s sleeping
        In the cold and silent grave!

    Lady, turn not from me so coldly,
        For I have only spoke the truth—
    From a stern and withering sorrow,
        Lady, I would shield thy youth;
    I would shield thee from all danger—
        Shield thee from the tempter’s snare;
    Lady, shun the dark-eyed stranger—
        I have warned thee; now, beware!

    Take your gold—I do not want it;
        Lady, I have prayed for this—
    For the hour that I might foil him,
        And rob him of expected bliss.
    Aye, I see thou art filled with wonder
        At my looks so fierce and wild—
    Lady, in the churchyard yonder
        Sleeps the gipsy’s only child!