Newspaper History

Category: Evening Star

  • Forever

    From the Evening Star, September 7, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    She treated him as if he had
        Been some unworthy thing;
    It seemed, indeed, to make her glad
        To see him worrying.

    She seemed to study how to make
        His moments doubly sad;
    She seemed to want his heart to break,
        His sorrow made her glad.

    At last, believing her to be
        Unworthy and unkind,
    He ceased his pleading, sensibly
        Declining to be blind.

    The moment that he turned away
        And seemed to cease to care
    She humbly called to him to stay,
        And wilted in despair.

    He tenderly forgave her when
        Her tears began to flow;
    For so it is with maids and men—
        It always will be so.

  • Weighing the Chances

    From the Evening Star, August 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    I’d like to have lived in the classic days
    When luxuries that would now amaze
    Were common; when splendid sybarites
    In feasting would pass their days and nights.
    And yet when patricians boldly shirk
    There must be people to do the work.
    Had I been there it would be my luck
    To be left outside to unload the truck.

    I’d like to march with the heroes bold,
    Where the music sounds and the flags unfold.
    When through dreams like these our fancies flit
    We always imagine that we’d be It.
    And yet I’ll wager that should I be
    A soldier brave they’d allot to me
    No medals bright to adorn my tent.
    I’d be cooking beans for the regiment.

  • Backward Glances

    From the Evening Star, August 8, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    When a man grows old and his feet are cold, and his heart is much the same, then he oft looks back on his winding track, with something of grief and shame. “If we could again,” sigh the ancient men, “but travel that sunlit ground, we would shun the breaks and the dire mistakes which in our past lives abound.” The old men sit by the wall and twit themselves with the things they’ve done, but it’s no avail, for they’re tired and frail, and their race is nearly run. The old men say, when the young that way are passing in joyous throngs, “Oh, youth beware of the gin and snare,” and the answer is heedless songs. For the young are bold and the pilgrims old are dotards, they lightly say; they themselves must learn of the lights that burn to lead them in swamps astray. And the counsel sage of the man of age is idle as gusts of air; he talks in vain of the farers slain in the swamps of the great despair. For the youth must break his own path and make his camp where he thinks it best; he must dree his weird till his silvered beard lies hoar on his withered breast.

  • Too Late!

    From the Evening Star, August 7, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    When there’s gayety assembled and the lights are all aglow
    Why is that we falter in the conversation’s flow?
    Why is it that we do not think till half-past two or three
    Of something which at ten would have been first-rate repartee?
    Repose declines to greet you. It is banished from your bed
    As you keep on thinking over all the things you might have said.

    When your name has just been mentioned in connection with a speech,
    And every thought you ever had has drifted out of reach;
    When you say, “To public speaking, unaccustomed as I am,”
    And then relapse into an imitation of a clam,
    You realize with bitterness than when three hours have fled
    You’ll have insomnia, thinking of the things you might have said.

    ’Tis the fate of many a statesman with a crisis on his hands;
    It’s the same way with a lover who in bashful silence stands.
    In every line of effort we are likely to be caught
    In fierce resentment of some bright but useless afterthought.
    Of all the gloomy specters that oppress our souls with dread,
    The worst are recollections of the things we might have said.

  • Counting the Years

    From the Evening Star, August 2, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    The years shouldn’t count when we’re stating our age, for some men are young when they’re gray, and others are old ere they’ve journeyed a stage in this world and its wonderful way. I know an old graybeard who ought to be dead if years laid a man by the heels; he cheerfully sings as he stands on his head, “A man’s just as old as he feels.” The years do not age us so badly, in truth; it’s worry that makes the blood cold; the man who is blessed with the spirit of youth is young when a hundred years old. The graybeard I wot of, he laughs and he yells and dances Virginia reels, and always and ever his roundelay swells, “A man’s just as old as he feels.” No man should admit that his days are near told, or talk of the past with a sob; no man should admit that he’s growing too old to eat summer corn from the cob. The graybeard I speak of, he’s slicker than grease, he cheers up the world with his spiels; he says (and his words suggest comfort and peace), “A man’s just as old as he feels.” I know a young man who is thirty or less, in years, but he’s old as the hills; he goes around looking for grief and distress, and talks by the day of his ills. The graybeard, God bless him, is younger than that! He ne’er at the wailing place kneels; he chortles, while kicking a hole through his hat, “A man’s just as old as he feels!”

  • Tangled Lives

    From the Evening Star, July 26, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    Oh, Bull’s-Eye Bill was a burglar bold
        Who never did what he was told.
    He smoked and chewed and swore and drank
        And his greatest pleasure was to rob a bank.

    Miss Susan Slosh was a suffragette,
        A militant of the ultra set.
    She’d burn a castle or she’d wreck a train
        Or heave brick-bats through a window pane.

    When Bull’s-Eye Bill and Susan wed
        ’Twas a very fine match, the neighbors said.
    But Bill got blue ‘cause his wife would roam.
        She’d rather go to prison than remain at home.

    The tears would course down his cheeks so pale
        As he begged her to please come out on bail.
    “A jail’s all right for a man,” says he,
        “But it ain’t no place for a woman to be.”

    So they disagreed an’ their ways they went.
        She gets locked up to her heart’s content.
    And Bill gets to cussin’ now and then
        ‘Bout women usurpin’ the sphere of men.

  • Be Patient

    From the Evening Star, July 12, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    We all must have our evil days—that is the earthly plan; and when you’re treading rocky ways be patient as you can. For if, in brooding o’er your ills, you spend the dragging time, and if you count the weary hills you know you yet must climb, you’re pretty sure to overlook the good things on your way; the bank of flowers, the singing brook, the meadow sweet with hay. You hear the ravens croak and squawk as you pursue the trail; but if you listen as you walk, you’ll hear the nightingale. The brambles have your garments torn and multiplied your woes; but if you look, near every thorn you’ll doubtless find a rose. The clouds are banking in the west, you see the lightning’s gleam, but there’s an inn where pilgrims rest beside the fire and dream. “The night is closing cold and damp, and I am lost,” you moan; but in some window there’s a lamp that burns for you alone. And if we’re wise we all can sense the joy beyond the care; there always is a recompense for every grief we bear. So when a rough and dreary road and frowning sky we scan, let’s stand up straight beneath our load—be patient as we can!

  • Fresh Air

    From the Evening Star, July 7, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    The country’s full of wholesome air, undoped, uncolored, undefiled; it’s blowing round us everywhere, enough for woman, man and child. And yet we box ourselves up tight the whole year round in dusty rooms; and sickness gets the foolish wight who in this way stale air consumes. And then he blows his wad for pills, and things you shake before you take, and tells long tales about his ills, describing every grievous ache. Fresh air preventive is and cure of half the ills beneath our hats, within the reach of people poor, as well as that of plutocrats. And that’s the reason why, no doubt, the fresh air cure-all doesn’t win; it’s why we keep the pure air out, and try to keep the stale air in. We can’t have faith in any dope that doesn’t cost like old Sam Hill; and so we anchor faith and hope to plaster, potion and to pill. We’ll buy the old expensive drugs until some faker sees ’twill pay to sell fresh air in gallon jugs, and then we’ll buy it every day. And, while the smiling faker thrives, in testimonials we’ll declare that fresh air saved our fading lives when all the docs were in despair. So let us wait for that glad day when fresh air’s bottled in New York; we’ll want it when we have to pay a plunk a throw, and pull a cork.

  • A Small Philosopher

    From the Evening Star, July 6, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 A little baby laughed one day;
     I paused and wondered why.
 None of the wealth could it display
     For which the grown folk sigh.
 
 Its wardrobe seemed exceeding slim.
     No jewelry it wore.
 Its home was up a side street dim,
     Behind a dusty store.
 
 It hadn’t even teeth or hair.
     Its hands were frail and small.
 And yet it sat goo-gooing there,
     As if it had them all.
 
 It seemed to say that happiness
     Rests not with pomp or pelf;
 It comes not from what you possess,
     But from your real self.

  • Public Enemies

    From the Evening Star, July 5, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    If you build a line of railway over hills and barren lands, giving lucrative employment to about a million hands; if you cause a score of cities by your right of way to rise, where there formerly was nothing but some rattlesnakes and flies; if, when bringing kale to others you acquire a little kale, then you’ve surely robbed the peepul, and you ought to be in jail. If by planning and by toiling you have won some wealth and fame, it will make no odds how squarely you have played your little game; your success is proof sufficient that you are a public foe; you’re a soulless malefactor, to the dump you ought to go; it’s a crime for you to prosper where so many others fail; you have surely robbed the peepul and you ought to be in jail. Be a chronic politician, deal in superheated air; roast the banks and money barons—there is always safety there; but to sound the note of business is a crime so mean and base that the fellow guilty of it ought to go and hide his face; change the builder’s song triumphant for the politician’s wail, or we’ll think you’ve robbed the peepul, and we’ll pack you off to jail.