Newspaper History

Category: Evening Journal

  • All the Time

    From the Evening Journal, April 2, 1915. By James Buckham.

    There’s a prosy kind of motto that you’ll find is very rife
    With the people you most envy for their rare success in life.
    I’ll admit it’s not romantic, has no touch of the sublime,
    But it’s just the rule to work by—namely, At it all the time.

    You’ll observe that men and women, who, ’tis said, have made their mark
    Do not drop the chalk of effort at the first approach of dark;
    And you’ll find them at life’s blackboard when the sun begins to climb
    For, obedient to their motto, they keep at it all the time.

    The thing God sets them doing gets to be their chief delight;
    ’Tis their first thought in the morning, and their last concern at night.
    They will turn away from pleasure just as promptly as from crime;
    Simple duty is their safeguard, for they’re at it all the time.

  • In Memoriam

    From the Evening Journal, February 5, 1915.

    How long he struggled against disease,
        That baffled skill and care;
    How long he lingered, racked with pain,
        And suffering hard to bear.

    Hour by hour we saw him fade,
        And slowly sink away,
    Yet in our hearts we prayed
        That he might longer stay.

    His willing hands are folded
        His toils on earth are done;
    His troubles are all ended,
        His heavenly crown is won.

    Oft we wander to the graveyard,
        Flowers to place with loving care;
    On the grave of our dear father,
        Who so sweetly sleepeth there.

  • The Day

    From the Evening Journal, January 18, 1915. By Henry Chappell.

    (The author of this magnificent poem is a railway porter at Bath, England, and is known to his comrades as the “Bath Railway Poet.” A poem such as this lifts him to the rank of a national poet).

    You boasted the Day, and you toasted the Day,
        And now the Day has come.
    Blasphemer, braggart, and coward all,
    Little you reck of the numbing ball,
    The blasting shell, or the “white arm’s” fall,
        As they speed poor humans home.

    You spied for the Day, you lied for the Day,
        And woke the Day’s red spleen.
    Monster, who asked God’s aid divine,
    Then strewed His seas with the ghastly mine;
    Not all the waters of all the Rhine
        Can wash thy foul hands clean.

    You dreamed for the Day, you schemed for the Day;
        Watch how the Day will go.
    Slayer of age and youth and prime
    (Defenceless slain for never a crime)
    Thou art steeped in blood as a hog in slime,
        False friend and cowardly foe.

    You have sown for the Day, you have grown for the Day;
        Yours is the harvest red.
    Can you hear the groans and the awful cries?
    Can you see the heap of slain that lies,
    And sightless turned to the flame-split skies
        The glassy eyes of the dead?

    You have wronged for the Day, you have longed for the Day
        That lit the awful flame.
    ’Tis nothing to you that hill and plain
    Yield sheaves of dead men amid the grain;
    That widows mourn for their loved ones slain,
        And mothers curse thy name.

    But after the Day there’s a price to pay
        For the sleepers under the sod.
    And Him you have mocked for many a day—
    Listen, and hear what He has to say,
    “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.”
        What can you say to God?