Newspaper History

Category: Albuquerque Morning Journal

  • When I Am Laid Below the Hill

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, July 21, 1915. By Anonymous.

    When I am laid below the hill,
        I pray you, friend, that you will not
    Increase my virtues, if you will,
        Nor let my faults be all forgot.
    But think of me as with you yet,
        The good and bad there is of me,
    For truly I shall not forget
        In whatsoever place I be.

    Nor tears, nor sighs, that I am dead,
        But rather that you sing and smile
    And tell some favored jest, instead,
        As though I heard you all the while.
    For I shall hear you, and shall see
        And know if you be blithe or sad,
    For I shall keep and hold with me
        The golden moments we have had.

    But will you miss me? Aye, forsooth,
        The very thing I’d have you do,
    For in that stranger land, in truth,
        I also shall be missing you.
    Yet life is such a goodly thing,
        Blent of the bitter and the sweet,
    That I would rather we could cling
        To all the gladness we may meet.

    When I am laid below the hill,
        Go back as though I walked with you,
    And sing our brave old ballads still,
        And laugh as we were wont to do.
    Across the little gap that bars
        I shall take this fair memory,
    And you the other side the stars
        Will then still be the friend of me.

  • 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 Dog

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, May 16, 1915.

    I’ve never known a dog to wag
        His tail in glee he didn’t feel,
    Nor quit his old-time friend to tag
        At some more influential heel.
    The yellowest cur I ever knew
    Was to the boy who loved him true.

    I’ve never known a dog to show
        Half-way devotion to his friend,
    To seek a kinder man to know
        Or richer, but unto the end
    The humblest dog I ever knew
    Was, to the man that loved him, true.

    I’ve never known a dog to fake
        Affection for a present gain,
    A false display of love to make,
        Some little favor to attain.
    I’ve never known a Prince or Spot
    That seemed to be what he was not.

    But I have known a dog to fight
        With all his strength to shield a friend
    And, whether wrong or whether right,
        To stick with him until the end.
    And I have known a dog to lick
    The hand of him that men would kick.

    And I have known a dog to bear
        Starvation’s pangs from day to day
    With him who had been glad to share
        His bread and meat along the way.
    No dog, however mean or rude,
    Is guilty of ingratitude.

    The dog is listed with the dumb,
        No voice has he to speak his creed,
    His messages to humans come
        By faithful conduct and by deed.
    He shows, as seldom mortals do,
    A high ideal of being true.

  • Brave Love

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 23, 1915. By Mary Kyle Dallas.

    He’d nothing but his violin,
        I’d nothing but my song,
    But we were wed when skies were blue
        And summer days were long.
    And when we rested by the hedge
        The robins came and told
    How they had dared to woo and win
        When early spring was cold.
    We sometimes supped on dewberries
        Or slept among the hay,
    But oft the farmer’s wives at eve
        Came out to hear us play.
    The rare old tunes—the dear old tunes;
        We could not starve for long
    While my man had his violin
        And I my sweet love song.

    The world has aye gone well with us,
        Old man, since we were one;
    Our homeless wanderings down the lanes—
        It long ago was done;
    But those who wait for gold or gear,
        For houses and for kine,
    Till youth’s sweet spring grows brown and sere
        And love and beauty tine,
    Will never know the joy of hearts
        That met without a fear
    When you had but your violin
        And I a song, my dear.

  • The Sixty-Year-Old Boys

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 18, 1915. By Strickland Gillilan.

    It once was the rule, in your lifetime and mine,
    That the fifty-year man was far gone in decline.
    That he wore bushy whiskers and stooped as he walked,
    And quavered a bit in his voice as he talked.
    But, oh, what a change has come over mankind!
    The fifty-year youngster of now isn’t blind
    Or halt or decrepit or whiskered—nay! nay!
    The sixty-year “kid” is the rule of today!

    There may be some snow at his temples, ’tis truth;
    But folks say, “Some people grow gray in their youth.”
    He’s carefully groomed, and he’s straight as a rod;
    He laughs like a child and he smiles like a god.
    He’s natty and nobby and brisk as a boy—
    To meet him, to be in his presence, is joy.
    Instead of December, he’s April or May—
    The sixty-year youngster is with us to stay.

  • A Gentleman’s Trade

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 15, 1915.

    When gentlemen wearied of castle and court
        In kingdoms that flourished of yore,
    They deemed it a pleasant and elegant sport
        To mix for a while in war,
    And skill with the mace and the crossbow and lance—
        Good well-seasoned killing ability—
    Enrolled a man’s name on the scroll of romance
        As a person of lofty gentility.

    When guns were invented the man who could aim
        With a steady and murderous eye
    Was the man who excelled in the gentleman’s game
        And whose rank was uncommonly high.
    Nobility rated according as men
        In murder grew cunning and keen;
    The gentle killed five and the gentler killed ten,
        While the gentlest killed twelve or fifteen.

    And now, when the howitzers mow down a crowd
        With a single discharge of a shell,
    The gentlemen soldiers should feel very proud
        For they seem to be doing quite well.
    When sometimes a couple of thousand or more
        Are slaughtered by one cannonade,
    It can’t be denied that the business of war
        Is still a real gentleman’s trade.

  • The Glory of the Garden

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 10, 1915. By Rudyard Kipling.

    Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
    Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
    With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
    But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

    For where the old thick laurels grow along the thin red wall,
    You’ll find the tool and potting sheds which are the heart of all,
    The cold frames and the hothouses, the dung pits and the tanks,
    The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

    And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ’prentice boys
    Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
    For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
    The glory of the garden it abideth not in words.

    And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
    And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
    But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
    For the glory of the garden occupieth all who come.

    Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
    By singing, “Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade
    While better men than we go out and start their working lives
    At grubbing weeds from gravel paths with broken dinner knives.

    There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
    There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
    But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
    For the glory of the garden glorifieth every one.

    Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
    If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
    And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden
    You will find yourself a partner in the glory of the garden.

    Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
    That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
    So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
    For the glory of the garden that it may not pass away!
    And the glory of the garden it shall never pass away!

  • The Baby

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 9, 1915. By Victor Hugo.

    Like the tiny glint of light piercing through the dusty gloom
    Comes her little laughing face through the shadows of my room.

    And my pen forgets its way as it hears the patt’ring tread
    While her prattling treble tones chase the thought from out my head.

    She is queen and I her slave, one who loves her and obeys
    For she rules her world of home with imperious baby ways.

    In she dances, calls me “Dear!” turns the pages of my books
    Thrones herself upon my knee, takes my pen with laughing looks.

    Makes disorder reign supreme, turns my papers upside down,
    Draws me cabalistic signs, safe from fear of any frown.

    Crumples all my verses up, pleased to hear the crackling sound;
    Makes them into balls, and then—flings them all upon the ground.

    Suddenly she flits away, leaving me alone again
    With a warmth about my heart, and a brighter, clearer brain.

    And although the thoughts return that her coming drove away
    The remembrance of her laugh lingers with me through the day.

    And it chances, as I write, I may take a crumpled sheet
    On which, God knoweth why! read my fancies twice as sweet.

  • Spring Bloom

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 4, 1915. By Juliet Wilbor Tompkins.

    The spring desire is on me, for the shops are all athrong,
    And the longing to be spending is a fever and a song.
    I will buy a frock of linen, silver green and grassy cool,
    Oh, a linen like a willow, with the mirror for a pool!
    I will buy a lacy jacket and a rosy morning cap;
    Ah, mother don’t be angry—it’s the rising of the sap.

    The spring desire is on me, and I cannot sleep at night,
    For my stockings shall be azure, and my shoes a dancing white.
    There shall roses be and ribbons round the hat that I shall trim,
    Oh, a laughing hat to crown me, with a shadow in the brim!
    I will choose the fairest colors, I will buy the finest weaves;
    Ah, mother please forgive me—I am putting out my leaves.

    Let me out into the morning—oh, my heart is on ahead
    To the heaped and growing counters of the city garden bed.
    I must fold away the winter, I must make me fine and sweet
    From the throat that’s full of singing to the glory of my feet!
    I will buy a silver tissue, I will buy a golden plume;
    Ah, mother you remember—I am bursting into bloom!