Newspaper History

Month: November 2022

  • Conceit

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 10, 1914. By George Cohan.

    I’m the best pal that I ever had.
        I like to be with me;
    I like to sit and tell myself
        Things confidentially.

    I often sit and ask me
        If I shouldn’t or I should,
    And I find that my advice to me
        Is always pretty good.

    I never got acquainted with
        Myself till here of late;
    And I find myself a bully chum.
        I treat me simply great.

    I talk with me and walk with me
        And show me right and wrong;
    I never knew how well myself
        And I could get along.

    I never try to cheat me;
        I’m as truthful as can be,
    No matter what may come or go
        I’m on the square with me.

    It’s great to know yourself, and have
        A pal that’s all your own;
    To be such company for yourself
        You’re never left alone.

    You’ll try to dodge the masses,
        And you’ll find the crowds a joke
    If you only treat yourself as well
        As you treat other folk.

    I’ve made a study of myself,
        Compared with me the lot,
    And I’ve finally concluded
        I’m the best friend I’ve got.

    Just get together with yourself
        And trust yourself with you,
    And you’ll be surprised how well yourself
        Will like you if you do.

  • June in India

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 9, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in
        And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
        Full on the bosom of the tortured town;
    Till night falls, heavy as remembered sin

    That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
        And, hour on hour, the dry eyed Moon in spite
        Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
    The torment of the uncomplaining trees.

    Far off the Thunder bellows her despair
    To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
        In vain. No help the heaped up clouds afford
        But wearier weight of burdened, burning air,
    What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky
    Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!

  • Lone Dog

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, November 8, 1914. By Rutherford McLeod.

    I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog and lone,
    I’m a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own,
    I’m a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep,
    I love to sit and bay the moon to keep fat souls from sleep.

    I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
    A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
    Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
    But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and hate.

    Not for me the other dogs running by my side,
    Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide,
    O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
    Wide wind and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest!

  • Lost Loves

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, November 7, 1914. By Andrew Lang.

    Who wins his love shall lose her,
        Who loses her shall gain;
    For still the spirit woos her—
        A soul without a stain
    And memory still pursues her
        With longings not in vain!

    He loses her who gains her,
        Who watches day by day
    The dust of time that stains her,
        The griefs that leave her gray,
    The flesh that yet enchains her
        Whose grace hath passed away!

    Oh, happier he who gains not
        The love some seem to gain;
    The joy that custom stains not
        Shall still with him remain;
    The loveliness that wanes not
        The love that ne’er can wane.

    In dreams she grows not older,
        The lands of dream among;
    Though all the world wax colder
        Though all the songs be sung;
    In dreams doth he behold her,
        Still fair and kind and young.

  • A Homely Gratitude

    From the Evening Star, November 6, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    Thankful fur the sunshine bright
        And thankful fur the rain;
    Thankful fur the moon so white
        An’ fur the wind’s refrain!

    Thankful fur the stars that shine
        When shadows gather near;
    Thankful fur the friends of mine
        That gather fur good cheer!

    Thankful fur the work that brings
        The rest that builds anew,
    An’ made me ‘most forget the things
        Fur which my thanks are due!

  • Bagman Wind

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 5, 1914. By Grif Alexander.

    Bagman Wind has things to sell, rings to sell, swings to sell!
        Bagman Wind has kings to sell! Every one a bargain!
    Scent of sea and scent of flowers; Scent of garden after showers!
        Perfumes faint of passing hours! Every one a bargain!

    Come, who’ll buy? Ye simple folk, who pretend to love a joke,
        Here are dainty rings of smoke—every one a bargain!
    Only cost a puff or two! Purse your mouth and they’ll skidoo!
        Lover’s rings enough for two! And every one a bargain!

    Swings? Why, bless your heart, just these: Clothes on lines and leaves on trees,
        Hammocks, ribbons, ships on seas—every one a bargain!
    (When these high grade goods he shows, how his voice’s ringing blows
        Puffs his wares! But then he knows every one’s a bargain!)

    Kings? Why, lots! Here’s cheerfulness and (for the baby) King Caress,
        And kisses crowned for Kate and Bess—every one a bargain!
    Health and strength he brings to you, cures you when you’re feeling blue!
        He can whisper secrets, too! Every one a bargain!

  • A Love Song

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 4, 1914. By Harriet Monroe.

    Your love is like a blue, blue wave
        The little rainbows play in.
    Your love is like a mountain cave
        Cool shadows darkly stay in.

    It thrills me like great gales at war,
        It soothes like softest singing.
    It bears me, where clear rivers are
        With reeds and rushes swinging;
    Or out to pearly shores afar
        Where temple bells are ringing.

  • The Ancient Spell

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, November 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When a ship puts out to sea
        Swinging slowly from the quay,
    Somehow warm enchantment gleams
        From each mast and stack and spar
    As she takes the trail o’ dreams
        Where all brave adventures are.
    Life seems big and blithe and free
        When a ship puts out to sea.

    Slaves of time and circumstance,
        Humdrum folk and dull are we,
    Yet we sense the old romance
        When a ship puts out to sea,
    And we watch her flag unfurled
        To the wind that sweeps the world,
    Watch her dim and fade and then
        Sighing, turn to toil again.

    Yet, although we may not be
        With her on the deeps that call,
    We can feel the mystery
        And the glamour of it all—
    When a ship puts out to sea.

  • Under Harvest Moon

    From The Times Dispatch, November 2, 1914.

    Last year the harvest moon looked down
        On bounteous fields of grain,
    A peaceful scene where lovers strolled
        Along the shady lane.

    In happy homes the mothers sang
        Their evening lullaby,
    And little children had no fear
        Of danger lurking nigh.

    But now the demon war is loosed
        And terrors fill the night,
    The dangers of the burning home,
        The dangers of the fight.

    Mothers and children hide and wait,
        They listen, fear, and pray,
    While shells are bursting all around
        And armies pass their way.

    Tonight upon the harvest field,
        The moon is shining bright,
    Where soldier forms lie mute and still
        With faces ghastly white.

    Oh, what a reaping! Oh, what loss!
        The flowers of earth cut down—
    The voice of mourning in the field
        And by the ruined town!

  • Prayer for Home Land

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 1, 1914. By E. A. Guest.

    God bless the old United States,
        God keep her people strong;
    God guard the peace within her gates
        And fill her land with song.
    Teach us who dwell beneath her flag
        To cherish peaceful ways;
    To cease of cannon’s strength to brag
        And uniforms to praise.

    God bless the old United States,
        Where Freedom’s banner flies,
    Where joyously the mother waits
        With bright and smiling eyes,
    The father, coming home at night,
        His day of toiling done,
    And where to meet him with delight
        His happy children run.

    Here all the tears are honest tears
        And pain is honest pain,
    And here, secure throughout the years
        The toilers’ homes remain.
    Here firesides are not desolate
        By needless shot and shell,
    But honor and reward await
        The men who labor well.

    God bless the old United States,
        God bless her people, too;
    God keep forever at her gates
        The old red, white and blue.
    And may its beauties never die,
        But every year increase;
    God grant that flag shall ever fly
        Above a land at peace.