From the Richmond Times Dispatch, June 30, 1915.
“Oh, why should the spirit
Of mortal be proud?”
The male of the species
Is never allowed
By the once gentler sex
To voice his belief—
Which you’ll own well enough
Accounts for his grief.
No, this age deals a blow
To man, in his pride;
He’s wisest when meekest—
That can’t be denied.
From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, June 29, 1915. By Yeoman Shield.
There’s a Something that maketh a palace
Out of four little walls and a prayer
A something that seeth a garden
In one little flower that is fair;
That tuneth two hearts to one purpose
And maketh one heart of two;
That smiles when the sky is a gray one
And smiles when the sky is blue.
Without it no garden hath fragrance,
Though it holdeth the wide world’s blooms;
Without it a palace a prison
With cells for banqueting rooms;
This Something that halloweth sorrow
And stealeth the sting from care;
This Something that maketh a palace
Out of our little walls and a prayer.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1915. By Henry Van Dyke.
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
I traveled fast for this—to take thee by the hand.
A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his port will be,
So faced I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.
O cooler than a grove of palm, in some heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face.
Then furl the sail, let the oar, forget the paths of foam!
The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 27, 1915.
Now, riches don’t make happiness,
A very ancient saw;
And yet, a maid who’s in distress
Quite often goes to law
And asks enormous damages
To heal a broken heart,
And when her lawyer makes his pleas
The jury takes her part,
So that, in just a little while,
Her breach of promise suit
Extracts the coin to live in style
From one who proved a “brute.”
And while it mayn’t be happiness
That makes her features glow,
Whate’er it is, it doth express
A joyous mood, I know.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 26, 1915.
He met each day serenely,
Without a trace of care;
The weather seemed to suit him,
If rainy ’twas or fair.
He ne’er was heard complaining
That fate had used him wrong;
The hills around re-echoed
The music of his song.
His ways were rough and ready,
His clothes were common, too;
But he would soon be wealthy,
As everybody knew.
And on his mighty shoulders
Life’s burdens lightly lay;
He owned a small repair shop
Upon a broad highway
Where motor cars disabled
Were mended in a trice,
And, free from competition
He charged a fancy price.
From The Detroit Times, June 25, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
I know as my life grows older,
And mine eyes have clearer sight—
That under each rank wrong, somewhere
There lies the root of right;
That each sorrow has a purpose,
By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
But sure as the sun brings morning,
Whatever is—is best.
I know that each sinful action,
As sure as the night brings shade
Is somewhere, sometime punished
Tho’ the hour be long delayed.
I know that the soul is aided
Sometimes by the heart’s unrest
And to grow means often to suffer—
But whatever is—is best.
I know there are no errors
In the great eternal plan,
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
And I know as my soul speeds onward
In its grand eternal quest,
I shall say as I look back earthward,
Whatever is—is best.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 24, 1915.
“I’ve wandered through the city,” murmured Hezekiah Bings.
“I’ve seen an’ heard a lot of mighty interestin’ things.
I’ve seen the motor cars that went all screamin’ on their way
An’ sprained an eyelid winkin’ at a motion picture play.
I’ve heard the trolley buzzin’ down below or up above
An’ got into the crowds where nervous people shout and shove;
I am full of strange impressions that I gained by night an’ day—
Oh, take me to some quiet spot where they kin fade away.
Jes’ let me sit upon the fence an’ contemplate the scenery;
Some place where everything is not conducted by machinery.
“I’ve listened to the whistle an’ the rattle an’ the roar
An’ joined the eager throng that stood around and cheered the score.
I’ve chased a car for blocks an’ then I’ve swung upon a strap
Until I felt that I was scattered all around the map.
I dearly love the city with its music an’ its lights,
But I’ve improved my mind enough a-lookin’ at the sights.
The dearest place I know of, an’ its there I long to roam,
Is where you buy a ticket that’ll carry you back home.
So start me for the country, with its sunlight and its greenery,
Where you kin live an’ die without assistance from machinery.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 23, 1915.
His heart dwells in fair country lanes,
The pleasant rural places,
Where days go by as in a dream
And no one ever races
In maddened quest of fame and wealth,
Unmoved by love or pity,
And tramples weaker brothers down,
As folks do in the city.
His heart dwells in the peaceful realm
Of meadow, hill and dale,
Where smoky billows never stain
The cloud-ships as they sail,
And where there’s much that’s more worth while
Than worldly place and power,
And something of God’s plan is taught
By every wayside flower.
From The Detroit Times, June 22, 1915. By W. J. P.
The lengthening shadows fall, and darkness sweepeth
Her saddened heart o’er all; full long she weepeth,
For he she loved has gone and left her sighing,
Alone, disgraced, undone—the day is dying.
She trusted, ah, too well. Would one had spoken
Ere she had sunk to hell, and now, heartbroken,
She dwells upon the past, her fate decrying,
The sunlight fades at last—the day is dying.
Receiving nought but scorn, by kin forsaken;
With pain and sorrow torn, by anguish shaken,
She, in her woeful plight, hope from her flying,
Awaits the coming night—the day is dying.
The night shades gather fast, the daylight fadeth,
A calm and peace at last her soul pervadeth;
Her heart sinks on her breast, hushed is her crying;
Her soul has found its rest—the day is dying.
From The Topeka State Journal, June 21, 1915.
The statesmen can get busy, wave the old flag and orate,
But the cost of living rises just the same.
They may call the money barons and they may investigate,
But the cost of living rises just the same.
They may threaten, they may bluster, they may scream and paw the air;
They may plead and they may grovel and in madness tear their hair;
They can tell of real conditions and the awful truth lay bare,
But the cost of living rises just the same.