Newspaper History

Month: June 2023

  • The Seekers

    From The Sun, June 20, 1915. By Arthur Wallace Peace.

    On life’s high trails two pilgrims met,
    And east and west their ways were set.

    Said one: “I seek the towers tall
    That shelter Merlin’s mystic hall.

    “There shall I learn his secrets grave
    Until the earth shall be my slave.

    “I leave the valley’s peace to roam;
    I bid farewell to love and home.”

    Said one: “I from the heights come down
    To seek the valley kind and brown.

    “There shall I learn from seed and sod
    The quickest pathway unto God.

    “There shall I find my heart’s desire
    Beside a humble hearthside fire.”

    Then on they went with pitying thought,
    Each leaving what the other sought!

  • Rosemary—For Remembrance

    From The Topeka State Journal, June 19, 1915. By Willard Wattler.

    When I would go a-walking
    In springtime on the green
    As other hearty lads may do
    With loves to look and lean,
    There is a hand, a wasted hand
    That slips our hands between.

    And when I bend above you
    And lean to touch your lips,
    Another face is lifted
    As the white heron dips,
    When all the sailor lads come home
    Who man the lonely ships.

    And were we two together
    Too close to breathe or stir,
    With stars our wakeful candles
    Upon strewn boughs of fir,
    I could not lie beside you
    And not remember her.

  • Ballad of the King’s Triumph

    From the Evening Public Ledger, June 18, 1915. By Dana Burnet.

    “Call me my minstrel,” said the king,
        “And let him sing a glee.
    For I have won this summer day
        A mighty victory.

    “Between the tides of dawn and dusk
        Upon a field I stood
    And saw my gallant swords drink deep
        Of body and of blood.

    “So bid my merry minstrel in
        With lute and silver thong,
    And let him take my stained sword
        And sheathe it in a song!”

    The minstrel came, an ancient man,
        And smote a silver string.
    “Oh, gallant is the victory
        And mighty is the king!

    “At dawn he rode with all his knights
        Into a virgin field.
    At dusk the blood of honest men
        Was stained upon his shield.

    “And in the houses of his foes
        A thousand leagues away,
    The hearts of women bled and broke
        Upon a summer’s day.”

    “What song is this?” the monarch cried,
        “What sorrow dost thou sing?”
    “Why, only of the victory
        That crowned my lord and king.”

    The minstrel smiled a fleeting smile
        And smote a splendid chord.
    “Oh, gallant is the use of arms
        And mighty is the sword!

    “For on this day a greening field
        Was won at crimson cost;
    And what the gods of war have gained
        The loves of men have lost.

    “And many a heart of friend and foe
        Has broken on this day,
    And children starve and women weep
        A thousand leagues away!

    “Then cry the triumph to the stars
        And let the heavens ring!
    For gallant is the victory!
        And mighty is the king!”

  • Madrigal

    From the Evening Public Ledger, June 17, 1915. By Edith Ives Woodworth.

                    I.

    She came across the shining hill
        Adown a golden lea,
    Love lightened in her dewy eyes,
        Love piped a melody.

    Love led her to a silver space
        Beneath a gray-leaved tree;
    Dear Heaven! the wind tossed in her hair,
        The sunlight touched her knee.

    Ah, unforgotten morn of gold,
        O river running free,
    I thrilled to see her foam-white foot
        When my love came to me.

                    II.

    Night broods upon the gray-leaved bough
        Around the shadowed door,
    O dark is yon unlighted hill
        And dull the reedy shore.

    Nor will she pass upon the plain
        As once she passed before,
    Nor evermore her foam-white foot,
        My starry love of yore.

  • A Reformer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Bill Jenkins used to toil an’ think fur all that he was worth,
    His purpose bein’ to get out an’ to elevate the earth.
    He wanted reformation an’ he wanted it fur fair,
    An’ he made his fellow-man the object of his special care.
    If his fellow-man was hungry Bill could show him how the fact
    Was due to some bad habit or some ill-considered act;
    He was shocked beyond expression at the faults that he could find,
    But willin’ to be shocked some more, he sought to uplift human kind.

    He drew comparisons ‘twixt folks that didn’t get along
    An’ those who like himself seemed rather confident an’ strong.
    He felt a bit superior an’ the feelin’ kind o’ grew
    That he hadn’t no bad habits—leastways only one or two.
    Yet his schemes for reformation on a strictly wholesale plan,
    They didn’t seem of value to his sufferin’ fellow-man.
    He sometimes gave expressions to opinions almost rude
    To what he would refer to as “the world’s ingratitude.”

    He took the failure to accept his good advice to heart.
    The folks admitted that his talk was mighty fine an’ smart.
    He didn’t understand the ways of honest, kindly care.
    Great wisdom ain’t uncommon, but true sympathy is rare.
    He stopped an’ thought it over an’ his pulse beat fast an’ warm
    As he said, “I wouldn’t wonder if it’s me that needs reform!
    This world would surely hit a pace that’s generous an’ good
    If every one reformed hisself an’ done the best he could.”

  • The Battle

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, June 15, 1915. By Wilfred Wilson Gibson.

    All day beneath the hurtling shells
        Before my burning eyes
    Hover the dainty demoiselles—
        The peacock dragon flies.

    Unceasingly they dart and glance
        Above the stagnant stream—
    And I am fighting here in France
        As in a senseless dream—

    A dream of shattering black shells
        That hurtle overhead,
    And dainty dancing demoiselles
        Above the dreamless dead.

  • The Tide

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, June 14, 1915. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    The tide rises, the tide falls,
    The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
    Along the sea-sands damp and brown
    The traveler hastens toward the town.
        And the tide rises, the tide falls.

    Darkness settles on roof and walls,
    But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;
    The little waves, with their soft white hands,
    Efface the footprints in the sands.

    The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
    Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
    The day returns, but nevermore
    Returns the traveler to the shore,
        And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  • The Artist

    From The Sun, June 13, 1915.

    When nature with a mission grave
        Was by the Lord endowed
    She painted on the sea a wave
        And on the sky a cloud.
    And on the land she drew a hill
        And on the hill a tree,
    And in the vale she placed a rill
        That traveled to the sea.

    And then, progressing without doubt,
        She took a little brush
    And in the stream she placed a trout,
        And on the tree a thrush.
    And on the waves she painted foam
        And roses in the wild;
    And in the shelter of a home
        A woman and a child.

    And did all this perfection bring?
        Ah, no! Experience shows
    She caused the little thrush to sing,
        Gave perfume to the rose.
    And best of all, the artist wise,
        And in her happiest style,
    Put love into the woman’s eyes
        And made the baby smile!

  • Off to the Bank

    From the Evening Star, June 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    “It’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete,
    “The bank whose solidity can’t be beat—
    The bank o’ the stream that reflects the glint
    Of the golden coin from the sunshine mint,
    Where the jewels don’t need a safety box,
    But are tossed where the water hits the rocks
    Into the air with a sparkle gay,
    With plenty to spare and some more next day.
    Oh, there’s never a thought of gain or loss
    As you sit on a cushion built of moss.
    The stately pillars are trees that grow
    With a grace that your builders may never know.
    There I may draw from the mighty store
    All that I need an’ come back fur more
    With a welcome endurin’ an’ complete;
    So it’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete.

  • The Halt

    From the Evening Star, June 11, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    “Wait a little,” said the robin,
        “For the song I have to sing.”
    “Wait a little,” said the rosebud,
        “For a bit of blossoming.”
    I know the world is busy,
        But the sunshine and the smile
    Shouldn’t wholly be forgotten.
        Let us wait a little while.

    Wait a little on the beauty.
        Wait a little on the song.
    They will leave you better fitted
        For the tasks that need the strong.
    Life holds nothing for the laggard,
        But the road is many a mile,
    And there’s hope and strength in halting
        Only just a little while.