Newspaper History

Month: May 2023

  • Poor Archery

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, May 11, 1915.

    Dan Cupid once a-scouting went,
        To search for victims, cause commotion;
    The bow that wings his shafts was bent,
        The shafts tipped with love’s fateful potion,
            And when a shaft sped from that bow
            ’Twas bound to lay somebody low.

    To right and left this archer mad
        Dispatched his messengers of worry,
    Nor cared he if his aim was bad,
        For Cupid’s always in a hurry.
            “If age, not youth, receive a dart,
            Why then,” quoth he, “let old age smart.”

    His marksmanship was much at fault,
        For hearts that scorned him heard love singing,
    While hearts left bare to his assault—
        That begged the blow that he was bringing—
            Escaped all wounds and mourned that he
            Should leave them whole and fancy free.

    Perhaps you’ve wondered in what way
        Dan Cupid’s victims are selected;
    Perhaps you’ve thought sometimes that they
        Had not been properly inspected.
            Well, this is why: Dan banks on chance
            And speeds his darts without a glance.

  • Wishes

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 10, 1915. By Howard Arnold Walter.

    I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
        I would be pure, for there are those who care;
    I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
        I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

    I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;
        I would be giving, and forget the gift;
    I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
        I would look up—and laugh—and love—and lift.

  • The Fairy’s Invitation

    From The Sun, May 9, 1915. By Lillian MacDonald.

    Dear child, I’ve brought a toadstool,
        It’s a table for our feast,
    And a cowslip (such a bargain—
        Worth three daisies at the least!)

    With five small cups upon it,
        Full of sparkling, shining dew,
    And of violets for perfume
        We will scatter just a few.

    We’ve pollen in a rose leaf;
        Other dainties, more or less;
    For it takes such choice refreshments
        To make parties a success.

    Please come at half past midnight;
        I’ll send Glowworm to attend.
    Until supper time, believe me,
        Your devoted Fairy Friend.

  • Little Boy Blue

    From The Detroit Times, May 8, 1915. By Eugene Field.

    The little toy dog is covered with dust,
        But sturdy and staunch he stands;
    And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
        And his musket molds in his hands.
    Time was when the little toy dog was new,
        And the soldier was passing fair;
    And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
        Kissed them and put them there.

    “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
        “And don’t you make any noise!”
    So, toddling off to his trundle bed,
        He dreamt of the pretty toys;
    And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
        Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
    Oh! the years are many, the years are long
        But the little toy friends are true!

    Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
        Each in the same old place,
    Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
        The smile of a little face;
    And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
        In the dust of that little chair,
    What has become of our Little Boy Blue
        Since he kissed them and put them there.

  • Inspiration

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 7, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    Though the world is harsh and the game goes wrong
        And the skies are far from clearing,
    And out of the vast uncaring throng
        There’s never a word that’s cheering;
    Though fortune shun me soon and late,
        And destiny jolt and shove me,
    I’ll keep my nerve and I’ll laugh at fate,
        While I have a friend to love me!

    If I have one friend who is leal and true,
        One friend who will not alter,
    I’ll fight the world and the devil, too,
        And never my heart shall falter.
    Though I know despair and I know defeat
        And the clouds hang black above me,
    I’ll fear no fate that is mine to meet
        While I have a friend to love me!

  • Grandmother’s Dream

    From the Evening Star, May 6, 1915. By Sydney Dare.

    Mamma said, “Little one, go and see
    If grandmother’s ready to come to tea.”
    I knew I mustn’t disturb her, so
    I stepped very gently along, tip-toe,
    And stood a moment to take a peep,
    And there was grandmother, fast asleep.

    I knew it was time for her to wake
    And thought I’d give her a little shake,
    Or tap at her door, or softly call,
    But I hadn’t the heart for that at all.
    She looked so sweet, and so quiet there,
    Lying back in her high armchair,
    With her dear white hair and a little smile
    That means she’s loving you all the while.

    I didn’t make a speck of noise,
    I knew she was dreaming of little boys
    And girls, who lived with her long ago
    And then went to heaven (she told me so).

    I went close, but I didn’t speak
    One word, but I gave her on her cheek
    The softest bit of a little kiss,
    Just like a whisper, and then said this:
    “Grandmother, dear, it’s time for tea.”
    She opened her eyes and looked at me
    And said, “Why, pet, I have just now dreamed
    Of a little angel who came, and seemed
    To kiss me lovingly on my face.”
    She pointed right at the very place.

    I never told her ’twas only me,
    But took her hand and we went to tea.

  • War Risks

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 5, 1915. By C. Fox Smith.

    “Let’s go aft”… and out she slides,
    Pitching when she meets the tides…
    She for whom our cruisers keep
    Lordly vigil in the deep…
    Sink or swim, lads, war or no,
    Let the poor old hooker go.

    Soon, hull down, will England’s shore,
    Smudged and faint, be seen no more;
    Soon the following gulls return
    Where the friendly dock-lights burn…
    Soon the cold stars, climbing high,
    March across the empty sky…
    Empty seas beyond her bow,
    (Lord, she’s on her lonesome now.)

    When the white fog, stooping low,
    Folds in darkness friend and foe…
    When the fast great liners creep
    Veiled and silent through the deep…
    When the hostile searchlight’s eye
    Sweeps across the midnight sky,
    Lord of light and darkness, then,
    Stretch Thy wing o’er merchantmen!

    When the waters known of old
    Death in dreadful shape may hold…
    When the mine’s black treachery
    Secret walks the insulted sea…
    (Lest the people wait in vain
    For their cattle and their grain),
    Since thy name is mercy, then,
    Lord, be kind to merchantmen!

  • Metempsychosis

    From the New York Tribune, May 4, 1915.

    Oh, do you remember the day of our fate,
        In that mystical age of a dim, long ago—
    When you were a princess and I was a slave,
    You throned in a palace, I chained in a cave,
        In that land where the rivers of paradise flow?
    By chance you passed near me, I dared raise my eyes,
        And love shot an arrow that through my heart drave;
    My soul broke its fetters and flew to your side;
    It called, and you listened and to it replied—
        Though you were a princess and I was a slave!

    We loved—and they slew us! They called on the gods,
        And the gods made them answer, and cruelly smote:
    “Ye gain not Nirvana!”—and we died as they spoke,
    But our death was not death—we but slept, we awoke—
         And you were a cat, love, and I was a goat!
    And we fled from each other, we fled to find death;
        For death we went crying, but nought could avail.
    Accursed we wandered, shunning cities and men,
    And when I next saw you and knew you again—
        Then you were a bear, love, and I was a whale!

    The centuries dripped through the year-glass of time;
        We were birds, we were fish, we were snakes, we were apes.
    One penance completed, the next would begin;
    We had loved, and the gods said our loving was sin,
        And we roamed through the earth in a thousand brute shapes.
    But love, it was worth all the sorrow and shame,
        All the pain that we bore, all the tears that we gave;
    For now it is ended—there is nothing we owe;
    Our debts to the gods have been cancelled, and lo!—
        Again you’re my princess, again I’m your slave!

  • Moving Pictures

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 3, 1915. By David.

    On Farnam Street, where Sixteenth joins, one day
    I idly watched the masses on their way,
    And as one waking, slowly comprehends,
    I knew these for my life-long, well-tried friends,
    Who, from the world of fiction strayed away,
    Escaping from the printed page, that they
    Might taunt me with resemblances unique
    Of face and form. I did not dare to speak,
    And scarce believed so many years had flown,
    For Dickens, Scott and Hawthorne must have known
    These self-same folk. They were all here, and more:
    Mark Tapleys, yes, and Pickwicks by the score;
    Good Don Quixote, without lance or shield.
    Rough Robert Burns and gentle Eugene Field
    With all their characters. Then Tiny Tim
    And Jenny Wren came by with Sunny Jim;
    Then Scrooge and David Harum with a Priest;
    Then Mr. Opp and Beauty and the Beast;
    Perlmutter and Abe Potash, come to life;
    And then poor Mr. Caudle with his wife;
    And Jean Val Jean with Cossette by his side;
    Then Edwin dear, and Angeline, his bride;
    And Sary Gamp and Betsy Prigg in tears;
    And Marys, Marthas, Clara Vere de Veres;
    Shy Minnehaha, too, and Susan Clegg,
    And surely that was Amy, Joe and Meg;
    Gay Wallingford and Blackie Daw, his pard;
    And Eloise without her Abelard.
    Here were they all, our friends, the saints and crooks,
    To make the characters of future books.
    From every walk of life they came to meet
    On equalizing plane, the public street,
    Where each, engrossed in his own selfish lot,
    To jostling stranger gave no second thought,
    Though ‘twould bring smiles and tears if they had seen
    These self-same pictures on a movie screen.

  • The Non-Combatants

    From The Sun, May 2, 1915.

    Why should we mourn that shot and shell
        Are sweeping lives away
    When each man has his private hell
        And dies anew each day?

    Upon the bloody field where death
        His thundering summons calls,
    The men who face the cannon’s breath
        May win to glory’s halls.

    Mixed in that elemental strife
        Perhaps they may forget
    The heartaches that we bear through life,
        The sorrow, the regret.

    Sweeter by far the lot they choose
        Than ours who stay behind,
    Who find what we would gain we lose,
        Unbound what we would bind.

    We envy them the deaths they die,
        Our hearts must die each day,
    We greet with sad and hopeless eye
        Each morn’s returning ray.

    They fall, to live forever more
        In glory’s brightest page,
    We live in sorrow to deplore
        The bars around our cage.

    The gods on high, if gods there be
        To comfort or condemn,
    Shall, if they judge with equity,
        Lament for us, not them.