Newspaper History

Month: May 2023

  • Song of the Submarine

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 31, 1915.

    I nose along with decks awash—
        All hid by flying spray;
    And carefully I search the sea
        For ships on which to prey.
    For none may know just when I come,
        And none know when I go;
    As quick as breath, as sure as death,
        I send them all below.
    Into her side my missile goes
        To wound her sore, and then
    Like frightened sheep, into the deep,
        Drop cursing, praying men.

    Sing ho! for ships I’ve met and sunk;
        Sing ho! my hearties, ho!
    A great machine quick turned to junk,
        Gone to a grave below
    Where silent things weave in and out
        And ragged sea weeds grow.

    I nose along beneath the fog
        That curtains all the sea;
    A slimy eel, all made of steel,
        A thing of mystery.
    For none may see and none may hear,
        Nor learn my deadly hate
    Until they know the crashing blow
        That shivers every plate.
    As through her side my missile goes
        To wound her sore and deep,
    And from her deck, a twisted wreck,
        Her white-faced seamen leap.

    Sing ho! for ships I’ve yet to meet;
        Sing ho! my hearties, ho!
    Pick and pride of some mighty fleet,
        Gone at a single blow,
    Down where the slimy sea-snakes creep,
        Their evil eyes aglow.

  • Civilization

    From the Evening Star, May 30, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Civilization! Mighty word,
    Which with all reverence is heard!
    You teach the world to read and write
    And into day transform the night.
    And yet ’tis ever in your name
    That armies march to fearful fame.
    As we your blessings great compute,
    We ask one favor more: Don’t shoot!

    As pictures fair entrance our eyes,
    And splendid buildings swiftly rise,
    Some of your skill you set apart
    For guns to shatter works of art.
    As Science seeks our lives to save
    She digs anew the soldier’s grave.
    As you are wise and resolute,
    We pray, be generous, Don’t shoot!

  • The Soul Purger

    From the Evening Public Ledger, May 29, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    Two out—and the bases full—
        Three runs to win and two to tie;
    And then, amid the boding lull,
        Looms Crawford of the batting eye;
    I watch the pitcher writhe and whirl
        And shoot one from his mounded pen—
    I see the white pill dart and curl
        As Crawford’s bludgeon swings—and then—

    In that one moment through the stands
        There runs—before the groans and cheers—
    The taut grip of ten thousand hands—
        The pulse leap of a thousand years;
    The one great throbbing human call
        Above all science, war or love,
    As crashing bat meets speeding ball
        Or speeding ball meets waiting glove.

    Here end the sorrows of the race—
        All want and wretchedness and crime;
    Where Care must seek another place—
        Where Sin must bide another time;
    Here where the heart’s wiped clean and dry—
        The drudge soul lifted from the pit
    For those who wait for the reply—
        A strike-out—or a two-base hit?

  • Showing That One Should Be a Pro-Anti

    From the New York Tribune, May 28, 1915.

    Like countless other neutral guys,
    I’m pretty strong for the Allies.
    My brother joins the other faction
    And justifies each German action.

    We argued. Soon, with sneer and shout,
    We wildly waved our arms about,
    And heated phrases catapulted,
    Till each the other had insulted.

    Our quarrel didn’t end the strife,
    Nor saved a single soldier’s life;
    Our acid, violent verbosity
    Annulled no single small atrocity.

    The sufferings of the maimed and torn,
    For all our talk, must still be borne;
    Our most excited declarations
    Deterred no whit the warring nations.

    For all we raged—nay, almost fought—
    This change is all our wrangle wrought:
    The love each cherished for his brother
    Is gone, and now we hate each other.

  • My Son

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 27, 1915. By Douglas Malloch.

    I that had yearned for youth, my own, again,
        And mourned the wasteful hours of younger days,
    I that had sighed for spring, for summer, when
        The snows of winter covered all my ways—
    I that had prayed for years, for only one,
        Have found that prayer answered in my son.

    He is myself again, with hopes of old,
        With old temptations and with old desires;
    He is myself again—the clay to mold
        Into a man, and all the man aspires,
    Who says that youth returns to us no more?
        He is as I was in the days of yore.

    In my own days, in my own days of youth,
        Ah, how I wished a comrade and a friend!—
    To help me keep the quiet path of truth
        And through temptation my own feet attend.
    So shall I journey onward by his side,
        His father—yea, his comrade and his guide.

    I that have failed shall shape success in him.
        I that have wandered point the proper path,
    A signal when the signal lights are dim,
        A roof to fend him from the storms of wrath—
    So we shall journey upward, I and he,
        And he shall be the man I meant to be.

  • Charlie Chaplin

    From the New York Tribune, May 26, 1915.

    This Chaplin was wondrously comic, they told me,
    For weeks they continued to pester and scold me
    For sneering; I said that his antics were cheap,
    That his slap-stick endeavors would put me to sleep.
    “But he is so genial,” they said, “and so sunny,
    There never was any one equally funny.
    He walks in the quaintest, most curious fashion,
    So you’ll smile with delight or grin with compassion,
    And surely there’s nothing so fatal to gloom
    As a reel in which Charlie is made to consume
    Some peas with a knife; and his quizzical face,
    And the way that he stumbles all over the place
    Is simply immense; you will joyously roar
    Till the usher relentlessly points to the door.
    Why scorn Charlie Chaplin because he displays
    A species of art which wins popular praise?”

    So I went the next evening to see who was he
    Who seemed to provide such Dickensian glee,
    Whose stupid expressions roused millions of smiles
    And lured hard-earned quarters in fabulous piles;
    I sat and I waited with tremulous pulsing,
    Convinced that I soon would be wildly convulsing
    With uncontrolled giggles; and then on the screen
    Appeared, stumbled, ambled—you know what I mean—
    Our friend Charlie Chaplin; alas and alack,
    With a woebegone gaze and his hand on his back;
    He ran and he fell; and the maniac laughter
    Resounded and rose to the farthermost rafter.

    He banged all his colleagues, and kicked them around,
    And stepped on their throats as they lay on the ground;
    He ran with his hat on the side of his head;
    And the populace roared till their faces were red.
    Thus then, he continued; and when he had ended,
    The girl that was with me said, “Isn’t he splendid!”
    “O yes,” I replied, with a sorrowful sigh,
    “The masses adore him, and now I know why:
    With his silly confusion and countenance glum
    Their ideal American Hero has come!”

  • Keys

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 25, 1915. By Bessie Chandler.

    Long ago in old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
    Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key;
    Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
    Should return from their long exile to their homes so far away.

    But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
    Vanished, as the years rolled onward, ‘neath the crumbling touch of time.

    Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
    And through all life’s changing phases ever fast we hold the key;
    Our fair country lies behind us, we are exiles, too, in truth,
    For no more shall we behold her—our Granada’s name is Youth.

    We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when now and then
    Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.
    “We are young!” we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee;
    Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key.

  • The Tenderfeet

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 24, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.

    From old New York we journeyed westward—
        ’Twas something like two weeks ago—
    We both were armed with six-foot tickets
        Which read for Sheridan, Wyo.;
    When we arrived we bought sombreros
        And I donned cowboy boots, well greased,
    Yet people say, whene’er they meet us:
        “We see you folks are from the east.”

    We thought a few more things were needed
        To make us fit the western scene,
    So chaps and spurs I quickly purchased—
        Likewise a shirt of vivid green;
    My wife is dressed like Annie Oakley—
        She looks a movie queen at least—
    Yet people say, whene’er they greet us:
        “We see you’re just here from the east.”

    We’ve loaded up with deadly weapons,
        We’ve raised our boot heels one inch more;
    We’re wearing hatbands made of snakeskin,
        We’ve read up on wild western lore;
    We talk of trappers, scouts and cowboys;
        Each rides a livery stable beast;
    But still we hear that hated greeting:
        “We see you’re not long from the east.”

  • Gaining by Giving

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 23, 1915.

    You who’re healthy, you who’re wealthy, you are lucky, I’ll agree,
    But I wonder if you’re happy as you’d really like to be.
    Nay, I know, if you are selfish, with a selfish aim and end,
    You’re less happy than the beggar who is sharing with a friend.

    All the money you have hidden on your little, private shelf
    Will procure you little joy, if it’s only for yourself.
    For the moral law is written on each real, human heart
    That our happiness is measured by the shared—not hoarded part.

    Joy’s strange, and though we seek it, yet we seldom understand
    Why it smilingly eludes us as we grasp with selfish hand.
    But we’re yet to learn, most of us, that it is as God intends—
    That our joy grows the greater as we give it to our friends.

    For, as sure as you are living, and as sure as you will die,
    Joy never was intended on some hidden shelf to lie.
    And you’ll never know the joy that is lasting, deep and true
    ‘Till you’ve shared, in love with others, that which God has given you.

  • War

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 22, 1915.

    War is hell, no matter what
    The fire within that makes it hot!
    Masters, by their devious ways
    Light the red, destructive blaze!
    Talk of God and righteousness;
    What are they in this distress?
    Talk about a soldier’s fame;
    Talk about the glory game;
    Tell us it is good to die
    That a flag may float on high;
    Tell us lofty sentiments
    Grow from blood and pestilence;
    Tell us corpses, strewn around
    Change the soil to hallowed ground;
    Tell us burning houses light
    Straying patriots toward the right;
    Tell us there is cause for cheers
    In the women’s bitter tears;
    Tell us starving children wail
    Only when their armies fail;
    Tell us how great victories bless
    The widows and the fatherless;
    Tell us that the men who died
    Are the country’s joy and pride;
    Tell us—
    What you please to tell
    The simple truth is
    War is hell!