Newspaper History

Month: December 2022

  • Grandpa

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 11, 1914.

    There’s no one in this whole world who knows as much as grandpa does.
    I sometimes think that he must be the wisest man that ever was.
    He can predict the weather better than the regular weather man;
    He doesn’t always guess it right, but then, no other feller can.

    He always tells us, far ahead, how all elections will come out;
    He’s seen so many hot campaigns as never has the slightest doubt.
    Of course, he often makes mistakes, and very seldom calls the turn,
    But there are very few who can, that is so far as I can learn.

    He’s got a safe, sure remedy for every ill that man can find;
    There’s no disease that he can’t cure or none that I can call to mind;
    Of course, sometimes they don’t get well, but that is just part of the game;
    A lot of doctors that I know in this town must admit the same.

    His knowledge is as free as air; he always peddles out advice
    Without the form of being asked; his wisdom is beyond all price.
    Some fellows who have followed it have made their fortunes; some have not;
    For grandpa’s human like the rest, although he’s liked an awful lot.

  • He Went for a Soldier

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, December 10, 1914. By Ruth Comfort Mitchell.

    He marched away with a blithe young score of him
        With the first volunteers,
    Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,
        Blushing under the cheers.
    They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,
    Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,
        Pelting him with pinks and with roses —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Not very clear in the kind young heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—
        The music drowned his doubt.
    It’s a fine brave sight they were a-coming there
    To the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there
        While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it —
        Volley and curse and groan;
    Then he has done with the knightly joke of it —
        It’s rending flesh and bone.
    There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking there
    And a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;
        He fights like a rat in a corner —
        Billy the Soldier Boy!

    There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,
        Left on the field for dead;
    The ground all around is smeared with the gore of him—
        Even the leaves are red.
    The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,
    Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;
        A sickening sun grins down on him —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—
        While life is oozing out;
    There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;
    There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,
        Eager for the foul feast spread for them—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    How much longer, O Lord, shall we bear it all?
        How many more red years?
    Story it and glory it and share it all,
        In seas of blood and tears?
    They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;
    They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—
        We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,
        Borne with the hell called War!

  • Little Breeches

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 9, 1914. By John Hay.

    I don’t go much on religion,
        I never ain’t had no show;
    But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
        On the handful o’ things I know.
    I don’t pan out on the prophets
        And free-will, and that sort of thing—
    But I b’lieve in God and the angels
        Ever since one night last spring.

    I come into town with some turnips,
        And my little Gabe come along—
    No four-year-old in the county
        Could beat him for pretty and strong,
    Pert and chipper and sassy,
        Always ready to swear and fight—
    And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
        Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

    The snow come down like a blanket
        As I passed by Taggart’s store;
    I went in for a jug of molasses
        And left the team at the door.
    They scared at something and started—
        I heard one little squall,
    And hell-to-split over the prairie
        Went team, Little Breeches and all.

    Hell-to-split over the prairie!
        I was almost froze with skeer;
    But we rousted up some torches,
        And searched for ’em far and near.
    At last we struck hosses and wagon,
        Snowed under a soft white mound,
    Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
        No hide nor hair was found.

    And here all hopes soured on me,
        Of my fellow critter’s aid—
    I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
        Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
    By this, the torches was played out,
        And me and Isrul Parr
    Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
        That he said was somewhar thar.

    We found it at last, and a little shed
        Where they shut up the lambs at night.
    We looked in and seen them huddled
        Thar, so warm and sleepy and white;
    And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
        As pert as ever you see,
    “I want a chaw of terbacker,
        And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

    How did he git thar? Angels.
        He could never have walked in that storm.
    They jest scooped down and toted him
        To whar it was safe and warm.
    And I think that saving a little child,
        And fetching him to his own,
    Is a durned sight better business
        Than loafing around the throne.

  • The Prayer of the Army Men

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1914. By Kenneth Proctor Littauer.

    At the going, when we stumble up the gangway to the ship,
    While we wish, and curse the wish, that we could stay;
    On the Channel, as we watch the yearning cliffs of England dip,
    Help us, Lord, to hide our sickened hearts away!

    On the marches—on the marches with the blisters on our feet,
    When our kits weigh not much less than half a ton,
    And our one idea of Heaven is a place to sleep and eat—
    Give us strength, Lord, ’til our thirty miles are done!

    Through the weary, starlit vigils when we guard the sleeping tents,
    Where they huddle grey behind us in the gloom,
    Bid us challenge every phantom that our fear of death invents;
    Keep our ears alert to hear the creeping Doom!

    In the trenches, with the bullet-ridden earthworks spurting dust
    And the peering rifle muzzles spitting flame;
    In the sweating bayonet charges, with the thrust and wrench and thrust,
    Hear us when we, dying, call upon Thy name!

    In the winning, in the losing, in the triumph, the despair,
    Be we victors or the holders of defeat,
    Keep us mindful of the honor of a nation that we bear;
    Let our souls, Lord, be above the fate we meet!

  • A Mystery

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 7, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    There seems to be no place for me around home anywhere,
    For every time I make a move maw says, “Don’t go in there.”
    There isn’t a clothes press in the house that they’ll let me go in.
    Maw’s bedroom has been closed and locked. They seem to be agin’
    My rummagin’ around the place like I have always done.
    I have so very little space it ain’t a bit of fun.
    When paw comes home at suppertime I can’t go to the door
    And meet him like I used to each evening any more.
    He don’t come in the sittin’ room, but scoots right off upstairs,
    Just like he was a-bein’ chased by taggers or by bears.
    They always talk in whispers, paw and maw, then look at me
    As though I was some circus freak that they had paid to see.
    And when they talk out loud they spell the things they want to say.
    It looks as though, by gingerpop, that I am in the way.
    I heard paw spell out “polar bear” to maw the other night,
    It sorter got me guessin’, for he didn’t spell it right.
    Of course I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes or anything like that,
    But I’ve been lookin’ round a bit and found out quick as scat
    They’re framing up some deal on me. I don’t know as I ought,
    But I’ve dug up most of the things that they went out and bought.
    Of course you musn’t say a word, for I must act surprised
    So that their secret schemes and plans may all be realized.
    They’ve got to have their little joke; they have it every year,
    And start in to ignorin’ me when Christmas time draws near.
    It used to be a mystery, but we will let that pass,
    For I kin see through it nowadays as plain as any glass.

  • Why?

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 6, 1914. By Kate Porter.

    When he was a little boy o’ mine,
        And e’en before he came,
    I thought of him as a hero brave,
        A man who’d win a name.

    The little hands that clung to mine
        I taught to work alone,
    The little mind I taught to think
        Without depending on my own.

    I made his little body strong,
        I made him brave and true,
    Although I knew that all the while
        From me he further grew.

    Then why should I be sorrowing,
        His country’s call has come?
    Oh, why should I not feel my pride?
        He bravely leaves his home.

    His land is what I trained him for,
        So why should tears fall fast?
    The man-child that I gave to it
        Goes forth to serve at last!

    As strong as any mother’s son
        I watched him ride away,
    Yet why do I keep thinking him
        My little boy today?

    Long years it’s been since I last heard
        His voice in childish key,
    And why do I keep hearing now
        A little cry for me?

    ’Twas sweet to hold his baby form
        (How safe he was with me!)
    But ever in my mind I hold
        The man that was to be.

    And now how fades that vision bright,
        This thought of him, in pain!
    Ah, why can I but see instead
        My little boy again?

  • Modernized Methods

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 5, 1914. By E. A. Brinistool.

    When my wife brought the baby up,
        She followed modernized advice.
    She sterilized each spoon and cup,
        And fumigated all the ice.

    Each toy and plaything ‘round the place
        Received a boric acid bath—
    Yes, wife did rigidly embrace
        The so-called prophylactic path.

    The child received three baths a day
        In water which had been distilled
    Wife clung to the new-fangled way—
        All microbe larvae must be killed.

    The picture books were clarified
        In royal antiseptic style
    By hot air, purged and rarified
        Devoid of all bacilli vile.

    Yet our babe lacks the healthy look
        Of that small filthy Bronson boy
    Who plays down there beside the brook,
        And makes mud pies with childish joy.

    His eyes shine like the stars at night
        He’s dirty but is well and strong.
    My wife declares he is a “fright,”
        And yet, somehow, I fear she’s wrong.

  • The Battle Autumn

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 4, 1914. By John G. Whittier.

    What means the gladness of the plain,
        This joy of eve and morn,
    The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
        And yellow locks of corn?

    Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
        And hearts with hate are hot,
    But even-paced come ‘round the years,
        And nature changes not.

    She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
        With songs our groans of pain;
    She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
        The war field’s crimson stain.

    Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
        Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
    Too near to God to doubt or fear,
        She shares the eternal calm.

    She knows the seed lies safe below
        The fires that burst and burn;
    For all the tears of blood we sow
        She waits the rich return.

    She sees with clearer eye than ours
        The good of suffering born—
    The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
        And ripen like her corn.

    O, give to us, in times like these,
        The vision of her eyes;
    And make her fields and fruited trees
        Our golden prophecies!

    O, give to us her finer ear!
        Above this stormy din.
    We, too, would hear the bells of cheer
        Ring peace and freedom in!

  • The Pacifier

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When I comes home from work at night
        All tired out from minin’ coal,
    An’ black an’ sweaty to the sight
        I ain’t th’ gladdest kind of soul;
    Th’ world don’t make no hit with me,
        I’m mighty weary with my lot,
    An’ every bloomin’ thing I see
        Just seems to feed th’ grouch I’ve got.

    I cusses at my daily work,
        I damn the pitboss to the pit,
    I thinks of all th’ dust an’ murk
        Of minin’—an’ I cusses it;
    I thinks, “Us miners ain’t no men,
        We’re pore dumb beasts that’s hitched and drove;”
    I starts once more to swear—an’ then
        I smells th’ supper on th’ stove!

    It mebbe ain’t so very much
        (A miner ain’t no millionaire),
    But when I scents that stew an’ such
        I—well, I half forgets to swear.
    From worries an’ from troubles, too,
        My thoughts begin to stray an’ rove,
    An’ life assumes a dif’runt hue,
        When I smells supper on th’ stove!

    An’ when they brings that supper in
        An’ wife an’ kids an’ me sets down,
    I finds a sort of pleasant grin
        Has chased away my ugly frown;
    I puts away all thought of strife,
        My appetite I gives the call,
    An’ thinks, “Oh well, this miner’s life
        Ain’t nothin’ awful, after all!”

  • To a Portrait

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, December 2, 1914. By Arthur Symons.

    A pensive photograph
        Watches me from the shelf—
    Ghost of old love and half
        Ghost of myself!

    How the dear waiting eyes
        Watch me and love me yet—
    Sad home of memories,
        Her waiting eyes!

    Ghost of old love, wronged ghost,
        Return, through all the pain
    Of all once loved, long lost,
        Come back again.

    Forget me not, but forgive!
        Alas, too late I cry.
    We are two ghosts that had their chance to live,
        And lost it, she and I.