Newspaper History

Month: January 2023

  • Service

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 11, 1915. By John Milton.

    When I consider how my light is spent
        Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
        And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
        My true account, lest he returning chide—
    Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
    I fondly ask: But Patience to prevent
    That murmur soon replies: God doth not need
        Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
        Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
        And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
        They also serve who only stand and wait.

  • The Old Piano

    From The Sun, January 10, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

    And now, at last, you’ve got to go,
        I’ve come to say good-by.
    Forgive an old man’s weakness and
        The tears which fill my eyes.
    For five-and-twenty years I’ve played
        Upon your friendly keys,
    Which, yellowed ‘neath their tuneful tasks
        Are rich in memories.
    My little children, all of them,
        Have learned to play on you;
    One key was cracked by Johnny’s tooth,
        One scratched by Baby Sue.
    And one note never has regained
        Its old sonorous tone
    Since Tom, to stop his “practice,” went
        And hit it with a stone.
    I lift your lid, the rusty strings
        With ghostly echoes start
    To quiver with the long farewell
        That’s bursting from my heart.
    Your sounding board, melodic in
        The long, long yesterday,
    Vibrates with Tosti’s sweet “Good Night”
        My wife so loved to play.
    Like sad handshake a final chord
        Is lovingly caressed.
    May your career now ended be,
        And this your last long rest!
    I cannot bear the thought of you
        By fond use made divine,
    Responding to the ruthless touch
        Of other hands than mine;
    I cannot think of cheap dance hall,
        All smoke and heat and beer,
    With drunken fingers banging at
        The keys I hold so dear;
    But rather may you stand, forgot,
        So harmonies may fill
    The twilight of your life, safe in
        A warehouse, cool and still.

  • Are All the Children In?

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 9, 1915.

    The darkness falls, the wind is high,
    Dense black clouds fill the western sky
        The storm will soon begin;
    The thunders roar, the lightnings flash
    I hear the great round raindrops dash—
        Are all the children in?

    They’re coming softly to my side;
    Their forms within my arms I hide;
        No other arms are sure;
    The storm may rage with fury wild;
    With trusting faith each little child
        With mother feels secure.

    But future days are drawing near;
    They’ll go from this warm shelter here
        Out in the world’s wild din;
    The rain will fall, the cold winds blow,
    I’ll sit alone and long to know
        Are all the children in?

    Will they have shelter then secure,
    Where hearts are waiting strong and sure,
        And love is true when tried?
    Or will they find a broken reed,
    When strength of heart they so much need
        To help them brave the tide?

    God knows it all; His will is best;
    I’ll shield them now, and yield the rest
        In His most righteous hands,
    Sometimes the souls He loves are riven
    By tempests wild, and thus are driven
        Nearer the better land.

    If he should call us home before
    The children land on that blest shore,
        Afar from care and sin,
    I know that I shall watch and wait,
    Till He, the keeper of the gate,
        Lets all the children in.

  • The Ballad Automobilious

    From The Sun, January 8, 1915.

    The gas tank’s full of gasoline
        The crank case full of oil;
    From top to tire, the whole machine
        Springs eager to its toil.

    The top and windshield both are down,
        In rush the sun and wind;
    They smooth away my furrowed frown
        And drive care from my mind.

    The engine’s purr, the hum of gears
        All blend and make me feel
    A newer music of the spheres,
        A symphony of steel.

    Before me lies the broad highway
        Through village, wood and farm;
    It lures me on, and I obey
        Its overwhelming charm.

    No more I sigh, like Mercury,
        To fly on winged heel,
    For Vulcan with new sorcery
        Has forged me wings of steel!

  • Recompensed

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 7, 1915.

    Who tries and fails,
        Yet lives to learn
    What priceless things
        Some people spurn—
    A book, a pipe,
        A faithful friend,
    Refreshing sleep
        When labors end;
    An eye to see
        All nature fair,
    What hues the fields
        And mountains wear;
    Who knows content
        And happiness
    And is consoled
        When sorrows press—
    That man, e’en though
        He’s poor indeed,
    For fame and wealth
        Has little need.

  • Kindness

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, January 6, 1915. By John Boyle O’Reilly.

    “What is the real good?”
        I asked in a musing mood.
    Order, said the law court;
        Knowledge, said the school;
    Truth, said the wise man;
        Pleasure, said the fool;
    Love, said the maiden;
        Beauty, said the page;
    Freedom, said the dreamer;
        Home, said the sage;
    Fame, said the soldier;
        Equity, the seer.
    Spake my heart full sadly,
        “The answer is not here.”
    Then within my bosom
        Softly this I heard:
    “Each heart holds the secret—
        Kindness is the word.”

  • To a Photographer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 5, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    I have known joy and woe and toil and fight;
        I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,
        And Time, the Sculptor, with a master hand
    Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight
    The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,
        Of struggle and of service and command;
        And now you show me This—this waxen, bland
    And placid—unlined, untroubled, white!
    This is not I—this fatuous face you show
        Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please.
    Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know,
        I have spent blood and brain achieving these;
    Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,
    They are my scars of battle—Put Them Back!

  • Soliloquy of an Old Soldier

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 4, 1915. By O. C. A. Child.

    You need not watch for silver in your hair,
        Or try to smooth the wrinkles from your eyes,
    Or wonder if you’re getting quite too spare,
        Or if your mount can bear a man your size.

    You’ll never come to shirk the fastest flight,
        To query if she really cares to dance,
    To find your eye less keen upon the sight,
        Or lose your tennis wrist or golfing stance.

    For you the music ceased on highest note—
        Your charge had won, you’d scattered them like sand,
    And then a little whisper in your throat,
        And you asleep, your cheek upon your hand.

    Thrice happy fate, you met it in full cry,
        Young, eager, loved, your glitt’ring world all joy—
    You ebbed not out, you died when tide was high,
        An old campaigner envies you, my boy!

  • The Good Old Hymns

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1915. By Frank L. Stanton.

    There’s a lot of music in ‘em—the hymns of long ago,
    And when some gray-haired brother sings the ones I used to know,
    I sorter want to take a hand, I think of days gone by,
    “On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye!”

    There’s lots of music in ‘em—those dear, sweet hymns of old,
    With visions bright of lands of light and shining streets of gold;
    And I hear ‘em ringing—singing, where mem’ry, dreaming, stands,
    “From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands.”

    They seem to sing forever of holier, sweeter days,
    When the lilies of the love of God bloomed white in all the ways;
    And I want to hear their music from the old-time meetin’s rise
    Till “I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies.”

    We never needed singin’ books in them old days—we knew
    The words, the tunes of every one—the dear old hymn book through!
    We didn’t have no trumpets then, no organs built for show,
    We only sang to praise the Lord, “from whom all blessings flow.”

    An’ so I love the good old hymns, and when my time shall come—
    Before my light has left me and my singing lips are dumb—
    If I can hear ‘em sing them then, I’ll pass without a sigh
    To “Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie.”

  • The Dawn of the New Day

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 2, 1915. By Edward Neville Vose.

    The old year dies ‘mid gloom and woe—
        The saddest year since Christ was born,
    And those who battle in the snow
        All anxious-eyed look for the morn—
    The morn when wars shall be no more,
        The morn when Might shall cease to reign,
    When hushed shall be the cannons’ roar
        And Peace shall rule the earth again.

    As ye from far survey the fray
        And strive to succor those who fall,
    Let each give thanks that not today
        To us the clarion bugles call—
    That not today to us ’tis said,
        “Bow down the knee, or pay the cost
    Till all ye loved are maimed or dead,
        Till all ye had is wrecked and lost.”

    Should that grim summons to us come
        God grant we’d all play heroes’ parts,
    And bravely fight for land and home
        While red blood flows in loyal hearts.
    But now a duty nobler far
        Has come to us in this great day—
    We are the nations’ guiding star,
        They look to us to lead the way.

    They look to us to lead the way
        To liberty for all the world.
    The dawning of that better day
        When war’s torn banners shall be furled—
    The day when men of every race
        Their right divine shall clearly see
    To rule themselves by their own grace,
        Forever and forever free.