Newspaper History

Month: December 2022

  • Even as the Beasts

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 31, 1914. By Lord Byron.

    There is no hope for nations!—Search the page
    Of many thousand years—the daily scene,
    The flow and ebb of each recurring age,
    The everlasting To Be and Hath Been,
    Hath taught us naught, or little; still we lean
    On things that rot beneath our weight and wear
    Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
    For ’tis our nature strikes us down; the beasts
    Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts
    Are of as high an order—they must go
    Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
    Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
    What have they given your children in return?
    A heritage of servitude and woes,
    A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows!

  • My Teacher

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 30, 1914. By Charles H. Barker.

    To the desk of his teacher a little lad came,
    With his eyes downcast, and his cheeks aflame,
    And he said in a trembling and hesitant tone,
    “I’ve spoiled this leaf; may I have a new one?”

    In place of the sheet so stained and blotted,
    She gave him a new one, clean, unspotted.
    His tear-stained face she lifted, then smiled
    And said, “Try to do better now, my child.”

    To my Teacher I went on my knees, alone;
    The days had passed by and another year flown;
    “Dear Father, hast Thou not a new leaf for me?
    I’ve blotted this other so sadly, I see.”

    In place of the old year so soiled and blotted
    God gave me a new one, clean, unspotted.
    Then into my sorrowing heart He smiled,
    Saying, “Try to do better now, my child.”

  • The Guests of Sleep

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 29, 1914. By Theodosia Garrison.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

    A varied company—
        Scholar and clown and king,
    Or prince or priest, or great or least,
        He gives them welcoming.

    For each he fills the cup
        Where poppy petals swim,
    Wherefrom each guest at his behest
        Drinks deeply, toasting him.

    And old men drink of youth,
        And sad men of delight,
    And weary men drink deep again
        The pulsing wine of might.

    And poets drink of song,
        But best and oh, most sweet,
    Above that brim where poppies swim
        The lips of lovers meet.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

  • Arcadia

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A place where I can hang my hat
        And know that I am home;
    A place from whence I well know that
        I’ll never care to roam.
    A place where there is no dissent
        And love reigns e’er supreme;
    Where no one cares how time is spent,
        And I can sit and dream.

    A place where agents do not come
        To spoil a happy day;
    A place where autos do not hum
        Nor alley felines play.
    A place where phonographs don’t rasp
        Nor pianolas pound;
    A place where neighbors do not gasp
        And peddle lies around.

    A place where skeeters do not skeet
        Nor motorcycles chug;
    A quiet and serene retreat
        Without a mike or bug.
    Where time need not be reckoned by
        And I could take my ease;
    Arcadia’s the place where I
        Could do as I darn please.

  • The Battle Christmas

    From The Sun, December 27, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    There are columns to be riven
        In the very face of hell,
    And the wild dumb beasts are driven
        To their doom of shot and shell.
    But above the shriek of battle
        And the chargers’ dying woe
    Sounds the lowing of the cattle
        In a manger long ago.

    There is midnight on the nations,
        There is hate instead of love.
    And the guns’ reverberations
        Shake the vaulted skies above.
    But beyond the thunders ringing
        As the foe replies to foe
    We can hear the angels singing
        On a midnight long ago.

  • Arithmetic

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 26, 1914. By Grip Alexander.

    The ashman worked away with vim.
        His terms are far from small.
    Before a man can talk to him
        He’s got to hire a haul.

    Said I, “Well, here’s a great to-do!
        I’ve ashes fine to sell,
    And I must give them all to you
        And give you cash as well!”

    He showed me all his teeth and laughed
        A laugh to raise the roof,
    And flashed an answer free from craft,
        “Dat sholy am de truf!”

    “At fifteen cents a barrel flat,
        Ten barrels to the load,
    Each night ’tis mighty riches that
        You tote to your abode.”

    Said he, “Well, sah, it’s dish yere way!
        All business am a risk,
    Ah mos’ly makes one load a day—
        Excusin’ when trade’s brisk.

    “Ah pays a quartah at de dump,
        An’ dat don’ make me holler;
    But when dem prices takes a jump
        It done cost half a dollar.

    “An’ dat ol’ ornery hoss o’ mine
        Is needin’ oats an’ hay.
    Ah guess his livin’ ain’ too fine
        At sixty cents a day.”

    “Dump charges, stabling, feed,” I said,
        “Will eat up cash like sin.
    And wear and tear! Say, uncle Ned,
        Just where do you come in?”

    The look he flashed was bright and quick,
        His voice was soft, caressin’,
    “Ah’s right smart at arithmetic,
        But dat sho has me guessin’!”

  • The Chimes of Termonde

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 25, 1914. By Grace Hazard Conkling.

    The groping spires have lost the sky,
        That reach from Termonde town:
    There are no bells to travel by,
        The minster chimes are down.
    It’s forth we must, alone, alone,
        And try to find the way;
    The bells that we have always known,
        War broke their hearts today.

        They used to call the morning
            Along the gilded street,
        And then their rhymes were laughter,
            And all their notes were sweet.

    I heard them stumble down the air
        Like seraphim betrayed;
    God must have heard their broken prayer
        That made my soul afraid.
    The Termonde bells are gone, are gone,
        And what is left to say?
    It’s forth we must, by bitter dawn,
        To try to find the way.

        They used to call the children
            To go to sleep at night;
        And then their songs were tender
            And drowsy with delight.

    The wind will look for them in vain
        Within the empty tower.
    We shall not hear them sing again
        At dawn or twilight hour.
    It’s forth we must, away, away,
        And far from Termonde town,
    But this is all I know today—
        The chimes, the chimes are down!

        They used to ring at evening
            To help the people pray,
        Who wander now bewildered
            And cannot find the way.

  • The Right Spirit

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 24, 1914.

    “I’m very glad to be alive,”
        A sturdy fellow said,
    “Although ’tis true I seldom thrive
        And I’m not often fed
    On dainty dishes. Still, I get
        A good substantial fare
    And manage to keep out of debt
        By taking proper care.

    “This suit I have on isn’t what
        You might consider fine,
    But then that sort is never got
        For seven ninety-nine.
    And while my overcoat was bought
        At least three years ago,
    It keeps me warm when I am caught
        Where winds of winter blow.

    “All luxuries I rather think
        I’ll ever be denied;
    No costly wines are mine to drink,
        I walk instead of ride.
    But, nevertheless, as you’ll infer,
        I’m far from being blue.
    What’s that? A Merry Christmas, sir?
        Why, thanks. The same to you!”

  • A Christmas Carol

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 23, 1914. By Edmund Hamilton Sears.

    It came upon the midnight clear,
        The glorious song of old,
    From angels bending near the earth,
        To touch their harps of gold;
    “Peace on earth, good will to men
        From heaven’s all-gracious King!”
    The world in solemn stillness lay
        To hear the angels sing.

    Still through the cloven skies they came,
        With peaceful wings unfurled;
    And still their heavenly music floats
        O’er all the weary world;
    Above its sad and lowly plains
        They bend on hovering wings,
    And o’er its Babel-sounds
        The blessed angels sing.

    But with the woes of sin and strife
        The world has suffered long;
    Beneath the angel strain have rolled
        Two thousand years of wrong;
    And man, at war with man, hears not
        The love song which they bring;
    Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,
        And hear the angels sing!

    And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
        Whose forms are bending low,
    Who toil along the climbing way
        With painful steps and slow,
    Look now, for glad and golden hours
        Come swiftly on the wing;
    Oh, rest beside the weary road
        And hear the angels sing.

    For lo, the days are hastening on
        By prophet bards foretold,
    When with the ever-circling years
        Comes round the age of gold;
    When peace shall over all the earth
        Its ancient splendors fling,
    And the whole world give back the song
        Which now the angels sing!

  • The Old-Fashioned Presents

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 22, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    How dear to my heart are the gifts of my childhood,
        When fond recollections present them to view;
    The old rubber doll with the whistling stomach,
        Which was such a miracle when it was new.
    The handpainted sled and the 20-cent jackkife,
        The animal blocks and the little tin train
    Brought joy to our hearts that amounted to rapture,
        A joy that we never will pass through again.

    The fine jumping jack and the model pile driver,
        The hose cart and engine that pulled with a string;
    The top hook and ladder, the real magic lantern,
        The drum which my father would burst the first thing.
    Of course, nowadays they would seem sort of foolish—
        The things that old Santa brought when we were small;
    But when you consider the joy that they gave us,
        The old-fashioned presents were best after all.