Newspaper History

Month: July 2023

  • The Pardon Came Too Late

    From the New York Tribune, July 12, 1915. By Paul Dresser.

    A fair-haired boy in a foreign land at sunrise was to die;
    In a prison-cell he sat alone, from his heart there came a sigh.
    Deserted from the ranks, they said, the reason none could say;
    They only knew the orders were that he should die next day.
    And as the hours glided by, a messenger on wings did fly
    To save this boy from such a fate—a pardon, but it came too late.

    The volley was fired at sunrise, just after break of day
    And while the echoes lingered, a soul had passed away
    Into the arms of his Maker, and there to hear his fate;
    A tear, a sigh, a sad “good-bye”—the pardon came too late.

    And ‘round the camp-fire burning bright the story then was told;
    How his mother on a dying-bed called for her son so bold;
    He hastened to obey her wish, was captured on the way;
    She never saw her boy so fair—he died at break of day.
    And when the truth at last was known, his innocence at once was shown
    To save from such an unjust fate a pardon sent, but ’twas too late.

  • Jim and Joe

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 11, 1915.

    Jim and Joe were boys together,
        Knew the same swift forest streams,
    Roamed the same fair fields and heather
        In the Land of Hope-filled Dreams.

    Jim was filled with strange ambition,
        Wealth he’d wanted from the start;
    Different was Joe’s condition—
        He wanted but a tender heart.

    Two fair sisters soon they married—
        All seemed happy for a while—
    But not long at home Jim tarried
        Ere he sought Wealth’s fickle smile.

    Joe but labored through the morning,
        Often, too, into the night;
    For his wage, the smile adorning
        Wife’s and baby’s faces bright.

    Jim grew rich, and with his power
        O’er his fellows held a sway,
    But, with every passing hour
        Love was stealing swift away.

    Soon the maid whom Jim had married
        Bowed her head and smiled the less;
    Bravely, though, her cross she carried,
        Speaking still of “Jim’s success.”

    Wealth was theirs, all of its treasure
        Theirs to gloat o’er every day;
    Yet they’d lost in greater measure—
        Wealth had driven love away.

    Joe met many sad reverses.
        Unto him was fortune vile;
    Yet he never indulged in curses,
        Rather did he seem to smile.

    Though he hoped for fortune later,
        With a faith in God above,
    He had found a treasure greater
        In the wealth of Mary’s love.

    Though success and wealth we’re after,
        Oft we’re losers in the end—
    Love makes best its own sweet laughter,
        Hardship is its truest friend.

  • The Farmer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 10, 1915. By David.

    When the farmer from his window views his fields that lie below
    And sees the earth in great brown spots beneath the melting snow,
    And perhaps a flock of geese a-flying north against the sky;
    Then he knows that Spring is coming with its duties, by and by.
    And he thinks of all the plowing, and the planting, and the chores,
    That Spring brings to the farmer, and he saunters out of doors
    Where the sun is shining cheerful, and the south wind croons about,
    Sort o’ calling and a-coaxing to the green things to come out—
    And they’re sure to be a-listening, and will soon come pushing through—
    For though springtime brings its duties, it brings its beauties, too.
    Then he feels a sort ‘o hankering for the sorrel team and plow
    And to feel the sweat of labor pearling out upon his brow,
    And to hear the crow a-cawing in the woods, so shrill and loud
    And to see new life a-teeming in every furrow plowed,
    And a-looking in the future he can see the waving corn
    And the oats and wheat a-bowing in the breezes of the morn
    With their tops a-hanging heavy with the dewdrops of the night,
    All sparkling in the sunlight with a sort of heavenly light.
    Then he forgets his gnarled hands all hardened with the toil,
    Forgets his boots warped yellow from contact with the soil,
    And remembers but the healthy tan upon his cheek and brow,
    Remembers that his once cramped soul is free, untrammeled, now,
    And he’s glad he is a farmer, with the whole world at his hands
    A-living close to nature with the things he understands.

  • All for Love

    All for Love

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, July 9, 1915. By Byron.

    Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
    The days of our youth are the days of our glory;

    And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
    Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

    What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
    ’Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled.

    Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—
    What care I for wreaths that can only give glory?

    Oh, Fame! If I ever took delight in thy praises,
    ’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases

    Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
    She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

    There chiefly I saw thee, there only I found thee;
    Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;

    When it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my story
    I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

  • Transformation Scenes

    Transformation Scenes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 8, 1915. By Dolores.

    What makes my sky so grey, so grey?
    What makes the day so drear?
    What makes the robin’s ‘customed notes
    Sound plaintive in my ear?
    What makes each flower its beauty hide
    And stare forth in dismay?
    Just this, the postman has gone by—
    No word from you today.

    What makes the sky so blue, so blue?
    What makes the sun so bright?
    What makes each bird song thrill me through
    With such supreme delight?
    What makes each blade of grass, each flower
    Thrill me with rapture through?
    Just this, the postman came just now
    And brought me word from you.

  • The Vanished Hero

    The Vanished Hero

    From the Evening Star, July 7, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Jack Harkaway! Jack Harkaway! Companion of my youth,
    How often we have wandered from the beaten path of truth,
    And reveled in adventure such as none could hope to know
    Save those who sought your guidance for a reckless hour or so!
    You were the hero of my dreams, with strong and ready arm
    To punish the unrighteous and to shield the weak from harm.
    With you the age of chivalry once more was in its prime;
    And your acquaintance only cost a paltry silver dime.

    How warily we tracked the skulking villain to his lair!
    How cleverly we laid for him the unsuspected snare!
    When luck was all against us, as it was through many a page,
    You cheered me with your jolly quips or observations sage.
    We roamed through distant countries and the savages we met
    We conquered with a boldness that I never shall forget.
    There’s nothing that you couldn’t do, when you applied your skill
    To tasks that must have baffled ordinary strength or will.

    There were no movies then and magazines were grimly wise.
    You lived before the aeroplane went flashing through the skies.
    The telephone was but a dream; the motor car a myth.
    All crude was the material that they equipped you with.
    And yet no hero since your time has shown the buoyant grace
    Which you displayed in meeting every peril face to face.
    And it’s many a time I’m longing on an idle summer day
    To sail the seas and roam the woods with you, Jack Harkaway.

  • You Can’t Always Tell

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 6, 1915. By Rody M’Phee.

    Hank Simmons was a patriot who loved his native land;
    Whenever danger threatened he would shout to beat the band.
    He was a staunch defender of the honor of the flag,
    And of his country’s martial strength he dearly loved to brag.
    A glorious example to his fellowmen was he
    Of what a pure, unselfish, noble patriot should be.

    The martial spirit he proclaimed from morning until night,
    Till folks began to hope for war to see Hank Simmons fight.
    With just a few good men like him, most everybody felt
    That we could lick the universe with one good solid welt.
    At last the evil day arrived when war became a fact,
    And everybody looked at Hank to see how he would act.

    Of course you think Hank shirked and hid and jarred his neighbors’ pride.
    Well if you do, you’ve struck it wrong—he fought and bled and died!

  • Why Not?

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 5, 1915.

    A tramp going across a field was accosted by the owner.
    “You’ll have to get out of here.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s posted.”
    “Who posted it?”
    “I did.”
    “What right have you to post it?”
    “Because it’s mine.”
    “Where did you get it?”
    “I inherited it from my father.”
    “Well, where did he get it?”
    “He inherited it from his father.”
    “Hm! Where did he get it?”
    “He inherited it from his father.”
    “Um hm! And where did he get it?”
    “He fought for it.”
    The tramp took off his coat.
    “Well,” he said, “I’ll fight you for it.”

  • Independence Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1915. By Minna Irving.

    From the shores of old Penobscot
        Where the ocean’s roar is heard,
    To the home of sweet magnolias
        And the clear-voiced mocking bird,
    From the pines, that whisper secrets
        To the pale moon overhead,
    To the live oaks in their mosses
        There’s a gleam of white and red.

    From the gray New England homesteads
        Framed in pear and apple trees,
    To the valleys and the vineyards
        By the blue Pacific seas;
    From the rosy glow of morning
        To the sunset’s golden bars,
    Over all the land of freedom
        Is a flash of silver stars.

    North and South alike they glimmer
        East and West the same they shine,
    In the palace and the cabin,
        By the palm and by the pine;
    Where the crowded city clamors,
        Where the sylvan waters call,
    Flies the same immortal banner
        Waving glorious for all.

    ’Twas for this the Continentals
        Starved and suffered long ago,
    Leaving footprints marked in crimson
        On the crust of frozen snow.
    ’Twas for this the infant nation,
        From the arms of Liberty,
    Made its ringing declaration
        To be fetterless and free.

    Just one silken, starry standard
        Broad and bright enough, behold!
    For both white and black together
        To be sheltered in its fold.
    Just one flag above a people
        That, united, lead the way
    To the world’s emancipation
        And its Independence day.

  • The Golf Widow’s Divorce

    From the New York Tribune, July 3, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    A weary female stood in court before a judge quite grim;
    And looking up with abject mien she turned and spoke to him;
    “Your honor”—said she with a voice that bordered on a sigh—
    “I’d like to get a quick divorce”—and tears stood in her eye;
    The Judge looked down upon her just a moment ere he said
    “What has your husband done that you are sorry that you wed?
    Can it be that he beats you—or holds out half his pay?”
    Whereat the female wept again and these sad words did say—

    “He only talks of stymies and of dormies—
    He only talks of ‘hooks’ that lost a bet;
    He plays his golf all day
    And at night he raves away
    Of putts he orter had—but didn’t get;
    He says he orter had a sixty-seven—
    But the hundred that he took was far from right—
    I don’t care if he should play
    This here golluf every day
    If he wouldn’t play it over every night.”

    The stern judge thought a moment with a frown upon his face—
    “I hate divorces,” he replied, “but not in this here case;
    I know the gunman’s often wrong—and yet he has his side;
    And while I sometimes jug a thief—I often let him slide;
    But there are limits to all crime—and one or two so raw
    That fitting punishment is yet beyond the printed law—”
    But when he murmured “twenty years”—the golfer’s hair turned gray
    And now the wife is kinder sad that these words she did say.