Newspaper History

Month: January 2023

  • Once on a Time

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, January 31, 1915. By Kendall Banning.

    Once on a time, once on a time,
        Before the Dawn began,
    There was a nymph of Dian’s train
        Who was beloved of Pan;
    Once on a time a peasant lad
        Who loved a lass at home;
    Once on a time a Saxon king
        Who loved a queen of Rome.

    The world has but one song to sing,
        And it is ever new.
    The first and last of all the songs,
        For it is ever true—
    A little song, a tender song,
        The only song it hath;
    “There was a youth of Ascalon
        Who loved a girl of Gath.”

    A thousand thousand years have gone,
        And aeons still shall pass,
    Yet shall the world forever sing
        Of him who loved a lass—
    An olden song, a golden song,
        And sing it unafraid:
    “There was a youth, once on a time,
        Who dearly loved a maid.”

  • A Tale of the Trail

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 30, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    This life’s a middlin’ crooked trail, and after forty year
    Of knockin’ round, I’m free to say the right ain’t always clear.
    I’ve seen a lot of folks go wrong—get off the main high road
    An’ fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men,
    I ain’t been perfect all my life an’ may not be again;
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right—an’ only lost his way.

    I like to think the good in folks by far outweighs the ill;
    The trail of life is middlin’ hard an’ lots of it uphill.
    There’s places where there ain’t no guides or signboards up, an’ so
    It’s part guess work an’ partly luck which way you chance to go.
    I’ve seen the trails fork some myself, an’ when I had to choose
    I wasn’t sure when I struck out if it was win or lose.
    So when I see a man who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right an’ only lost his way.

    I’ve seen a lot of folks start out with grit an’ spunk to scale
    The hills’ that purple over there, an’ somehow lose the trail;
    I’ve seen ’em stop an’ start again, not sure about the road,
    And found ’em lost on some blind trail, almost before they knowed.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’, tired out, with every pathway blind,
    With cliffs before ’em, mountains high, an’ sloughs an’ swamps behind.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’ through the dusk, when twilight’s gettin’ gray,
    An’ lookin’ for the main highroad—poor chaps who’ve lost their way.

    It ain’t so far from Right to Wrong—the trail ain’t hard to lose;
    There’s times I’d almost give my horse to know which one to choose.
    There ain’t no guides or signboards up to keep you on the track;
    Wrong’s sometimes white as driven snow, an’ right looks awful black.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men;
    I’ve lost the trail sometimes myself, an’ may get lost again.
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray,
    I want to shove my hand in his an’ help him find the way!

  • In the Newspaper Room at the Public Library

    From The Sun, January 29, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

    With travel stained feet
        Stands the lonesome youth
    One hour long
        In the library booth.
    Bending, homesick,
        All the while
    Over a blessed
        Newspaper file.
    Homely old paper,
        Looks to me;
    Banal and trite,
        It seems to be,
    But watch his eyes scan it
        Up and down,
    Blessed old paper
        From the blessed home town.

    Type is shabby
        And ink is poor.
    Has a colored supplement
        For a lure;
    Gives advice to girls
        And hints on dress,
    Steers new married couples
        To happiness;
    Yet in the trite sheet
        A vista lies
    Of the Somewhere Else
        To those homesick eyes,
    Of the Somewhere Else
        With its memories sweet
    To the lonesome youth
        With the travel stained feet.

  • The Death of a Favorite Cat

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 28, 1915. By Thomas Gray.

    ’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
    Where China’s gayest art had dyed
        The azure flowers that blow;
    Demurest of the tabby kind,
    The pensive Selima reclined,
        Gazed on the lake below.

    Her conscious tail her joy declared;
    The fair round face, the snowy beard,
        The velvet of her paws,
    Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
    Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
        She saw; and purred applause.

    Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
    Two angel forms were seen to glide,
        The Genii of the stream;
    Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
    Through richest purple to the view
        Betrayed a golden gleam.

    The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
    A whisker first and then a claw,
        With many an ardent wish,
    She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
    What female heart can gold despise?
        What cat’s averse to fish?

    Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
    Again she stretched, again she bent,
        Nor knew the gulf between.
    (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
    The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
        She tumbled headlong in.

    Eight times emerging from the flood
    She mewed to every watery god,
        Some speedy aid to send.
    No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
    Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
        A Favourite has no friend!

    From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
    Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
        And be with caution bold.
    Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
    And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
        Not all that glitters, gold.

  • Paying the Fiddler

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 27, 1915. By Roy K. Moulton.

    I remember way back in ’84,
    The folks was madder’n ever before,
    When they noticed first the increased expense,
    And they have been hollerin’ ever sence.
    They holler till they’re sick and sore and lame,
    But they keep on payin’ just the same.
    They holler till they’re sick and sore and shout
    There ain’t one thing they will do without.
    For every family in this broad land
    Is as good as the next one. Understand?
    They caterwaller and they wipe their eyes,
    But they don’t seem willing to economize.
    When one feller gits some jimcrack new,
    The next feller’s got to have one, too.
    They all keep digging down in their jeans
    And tryin’ to live beyond their means.
    If this goes on to the end of time,
    The cost of living is going to climb,
    Fer when you put on new-fangled frills,
    You surely have got to pay the bills.

  • Children of the Dead

    From The Sun, January 26, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

    Gone are the hearts that bore them,
        Gone with the dead and missed.
    Lost are the hands which soothed them,
        Still are the lips that kissed.
    Silenced the songs which lulled them,
        Sweet at the close of day,
    Oh, for the angel mothers
        So far, so far away!

    Who is to plan their future?
        Who is to teach them games?
    Who is to answer questions?
        Who is to give them names?
    Where winds the path tomorrow?
        Where runs the road next year?
    Who is to guide their footsteps
        Up through the hills from here?

  • Epistle to a Friend

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 25, 1915. By Robert Burns.

    I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
        A something to have sent you,
    Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
        Than just a kind momento;
    But how the subject-theme may gang,
        Let time and chance determine;
    Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
        Perhaps turn out a sermon.

    Ye’ll try the world fu’ soon, my lad,
        And, Andrew dear, believe me,
    Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
        And muckle they may grieve ye.
    For care and trouble set your thought,
        Even when your end’s attained;
    And a’ your views may come to nought,
        Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

    I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
        The real, harden’d wicked,
    What hae nae check but human law,
        Are to a few restricked;
    But, och! mankind are unco weak,
        And little to be trusted;
    If self the wavering balance shake,
        It’s rarely right adjusted!

    Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
        Their fate we shouldna censure;
    For still, the important end of life
        They equally may answer;
    A man may hae an honest heart,
        Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
    A man may tak a neibor’s part,
        Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

    Aye free, aff-han’ your story tell,
        When wi’ a bosom crony;
    But still keep something to yoursel’,
        Ye scarcely tell to ony.
    Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
        Frae critical dissection;
    But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
        Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.

    The sacred lowe o’ well-plac’d love,
        Luxuriantly indulge it;
    But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
        Tho’ naething should divulge it:
    I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
        The hazard of concealing;
    But, och! it hardens a’ within,
        And petrifies the feeling!

    To catch Dame Fortune’s golden smile,
        Assiduous wait upon her;
    And gather gear by every wile
        That’s justified by honour;
    Not for to hide it in a hedge,
        Nor for a train attendant;
    But for the glorious privilege
        Of being independent.

    The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip,
        To haud the wretch in order;
    But where ye feel your honour grip,
        Let that aye be your border;
    Its slightest touches, instant pause—
        Debar a’ side-pretences;
    And resolutely keep its laws,
        Uncaring consequences.

    The great Creator to revere,
        Must sure become the creature;
    But still the preaching cant forbear,
        And even the rigid feature;
    Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
        Be complaisance extended;
    An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
        For Deity offended!

    When ranting round in Pleasure’s ring,
        Religion may be blinded;
    Or if she gie a random sting,
        It may be little minded;
    But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n,
        A conscience but a canker—
    A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
        Is sure a noble anchor!

    Adieu, dear amiable youth!
        Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
    May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
        Erect your brow undaunting!
    In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,”
        Still daily to grow wiser;
    And may you better reck the rede,
        Than ever did th’ adviser!

  • Story of the Little Brothers

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 24, 1915. By E. B. Barry.

    We are the little brothers, homeless in cold and heat,
    Four footed little beggars, roaming the city street,
    Snatching a bone from the gutter, creeping thro’ alleys drear,
    Stoned and sworn at and beaten, our hearts consumed with fear.
    You pride yourselves on the beauty of your city, fair and free,
    Yet we are dying by thousands in coverts you never see;
    You boast of your mental progress, of your libraries, schools and halls,
    But we who are dumb denounce you, as we crouch beneath their walls.
    You sit in your tinseled playhouse and weep o’er a mimic wrong;
    Our woes are the woes of the voiceless, our griefs are unheeded in song.
    You say that the same God made us; when before his throne you come,
    Shall you clear yourselves in his presence on the plea that he made us dumb?
    Are your hearts too hard to listen to a starving kitten’s cries?
    Or too gay for the patient pleading in a dog’s beseeching eyes?
    Behold us, your little brothers, starving, beaten, oppressed—
    Stretch out a hand to help us that we may have food and rest.
    Too long have we roamed neglected, too long have we sickened with fear,
    The mercy you hope and pray for you can grant us now and here.

  • An Epoch of Unanimity

    From the Evening Star, January 23, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    A baby is the pet of fate.
        The people who draw near it
    All say that it is something great
        And gather round to cheer it.

    Its smiles are sought by every one;
        Its frown is viewed with terror,
    And nothing it has said or done
        Is ever called an error.

    Alas, these days it must forsake!
        As it is growing older,
    The people who observe it make
        Their criticisms bolder.

    Although in life it travels far—
        To high position, maybe—
    No man can be as popular
        As when he was a baby!

  • The Glorious Day

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 22, 1915.

    Gray dawn, and the boom of a fortress gun;
    A cry of death, and the fight’s begun.
    The grass is wet with the night dew yet;
    It will drown in blood ere the sun has set.
    The killers start up from their beds in the clay,
    Their faces as gray as the new born day.
    Just a moment they shrink, for the morn is chill,
    But their hearts leap quick, and their pulses thrill
    As they lunge to their work, and they kill with a will,
    And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill—
        For the fight is on.

    High noon, and the din of a thousand tones;
    Curses and shrieks and sobs and moans;
    Clashing of steel and the rattle of guns,
    And the drip, drip, drip where the red blood runs.
    Stench on the air, and the vultures come;
    The starved dogs wait and the green flies hum.
    Death in a hundred shapes, death everywhere,
    On plain and hill, in the mine, in the air!
    And the killers toil on, and they kill with a will.
    And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill—
        For the fight goes on!

    Black night, and the killers lie down from their toil,
    Throw their blood stained arms on the blood soaked soil;
    And they sleep and they dream of their unfinished work,
    While the starved dogs gorge in the gloom and the murk.
    And the chief of the killers walks forth on the plain,
    Where he stumbles and falls on the forms of the slain.
    And his tin medals rattle, the baubles he’s won,
    And he curses the dead, but he mutters, “Well done!
    ’Twas a glorious day, but there’s work to do still,
    And we’ll kill and we’ll kill and we’ll kill and we’ll kill
        Till the last fight’s won!”