Newspaper History

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • Coronach

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 23, 1915. By Walter Scott.

    He is gone on the mountain,
        He is lost to the forest,
    Like a summer dried fountain,
        When our need was the sorest.
    The font reappearing
        From the raindrops shall borrow
    But to us comes no cheering,
        To Duncan no morrow!

    The hand of the reaper
        Takes the ears that are hoary,
    But the voice of the weeper
        Wails manhood in glory.
    The autumn winds rushing
        Waft the leaves that are serest.
    But our flower was flushing
        When the blighting was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the correi,
        Sage counsel in cumber,
    Red hand in the foray,
        How sound is thy slumber!
    Like the dew on the mountain,
        Like the foam on the river,
    Like the bubble on the fountain,
        Thou art gone, and forever!

  • The Will to Climb

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 17, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    Once as I toiled along the world’s rough road,
    I longed to lift each fellow pilgrim’s load.
    I yearned to smooth all obstacles away
    And make the journey one glad holiday.
    Now that so much of life’s long path is trod,
    I better know the purposes of God.
    As I come nearer to the final goal,
    I grasp the meaning of the Over-Soul.
    This is the message as it comes to me:
    Do well the task thy Maker set for thee.
    Cheer the despairing—ease his load a bit,
    Or teach him how he best may carry it,
    But do not lift it wholly, lest at length
    Thy too great kindness rob him of his strength.
    He wrongs his brother who performs his part,
    Wake thou the sleeping Angel in each heart;
    Inspire the doubting soul to search and find,
    Then go thy way, nor wait for those behind.
    Who tries may follow, and the goal attain;
    Perpetual effort is the price of gain.
    The gods make room upon the heights sublime,
    Only for those who have the will to climb.

  • The Wonderful Something

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, June 29, 1915. By Yeoman Shield.

    There’s a Something that maketh a palace
        Out of four little walls and a prayer
    A something that seeth a garden
        In one little flower that is fair;
    That tuneth two hearts to one purpose
        And maketh one heart of two;
    That smiles when the sky is a gray one
        And smiles when the sky is blue.

    Without it no garden hath fragrance,
        Though it holdeth the wide world’s blooms;
    Without it a palace a prison
        With cells for banqueting rooms;
    This Something that halloweth sorrow
        And stealeth the sting from care;
    This Something that maketh a palace
        Out of our little walls and a prayer.

  • The Violet

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 18, 1915. By Jane Taylor.

    Down in a green and shady bed
        A modest violet grew;
    Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
        As if to hide from view.

    And yet it was a lovely flower,
        Its colors bright and fair;
    It might have graced a rosy bower,
        Instead of hiding there.

    Yet there it was content to bloom,
        In modest tints arrayed;
    And there it spreads its sweet perfume
        Within the silent shade.

    Then let me to the valley go,
        This pretty flower to see;
    That I may also learn to grow
        In sweet humility.

  • Dreams

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 17, 1915. By Rosamond L. McNaught.

    A humble woman stands at her tubs
        The whole of a summer day;
    With splashes and shakes, and wrings and rubs,
        She washes and washes away.
    And think you the duty an ugly thing?
        A stupid grind it seems,
    And the worker does not smile or sing
        But—over the tubs she dreams her dreams.

    Above her sewing a woman bends,
        And cuts and bastes and fits;
    And over mistakes that she sometimes mends
        Perplexed brow she knits.
    Then at her machine, past the set of sun,
        She stitches the long, long seams;
    And though her task is a homely one,
        ’Tis illumed with the flame of a woman’s dreams.

    With a “rock-a-by-by” a woman swings
        Her babe in a rocking chair;
    And she lays her hand, while she sings
        On the darling’s silken hair.
    Both maid and nurse, she is tired to death,
        But her face with glory beams!
    For, quickened by balm of the babe’s soft breath,
        She strings in the dusk a chaplet of dreams.

  • Spring Rain

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 13, 1915. By Robert Loveman.

    It isn’t raining rain to me,
        It’s raining daffodils.
    In every dimpled drop I see
        Wild flowers on the hills.
    The clouds of gray engulf the day
        And overwhelm the town—
    It isn’t raining rain for me
        It’s raining roses down.
    It isn’t raining rain to me,
        But fields of clover bloom
    Where any buccaneering bee
        May find a bed and room.
    A health unto the happy
        A fig for him who frets—
    It isn’t raining rain to me
        It’s raining violets.

  • My Every Wish

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, April 27, 1915. By Jay B. Iden.

    If I were told my every wish kind heaven’d grant to me,
    I’d take my childhood back again, but, dear Lord, make it free
    From all the prickly nettles that beset my childish way
    And left their cruel scars upon my heart from day to day.
    We hear folks talk of poverty, of how it trains the mind,
    And steels us ‘gainst adversity, and helps us to be kind;
    But you who’ve never felt its sting, on whom good fortune’s smiled,
    Oh, wist ye not the longings of a hungry-hearted child.

    If I were told my every wish kind heaven’d grant to me,
    I’d take my childhood back again, but not its poverty.
    I’d take the breath of daisy blooms, the warm, warm April rain,
    The dear wild roses clinging to the fence along the lane;
    I’d take the path I used to know at eve along the hill,
    I’d pause again beside the wood to hear the whippoorwill;
    I’d be again the wanton child, so wayward, wild and free,
    And hear again, at eventide, my mother calling me.

    If I were told every wish kind heaven would fulfill,
    I’d ask but for my childhood days, the old, old days—but still,
    If they should bring the old, old wants, the trials hard to bear,
    My father worn with toil and dread, my mother worn with care,
    If I should see the neighbor folk in gay apparel pass,
    I think I’d do as I did then, fall sobbing in the grass;
    The warm, warm grass that spread about the sheltering maple tree,
    Which seemed to throw its great arms out to hide our poverty.

    So, if perchance, my every wish kind heaven’d grant to me,
    I would not call my childhood back; nay, rather let it be.
    Not all the glad days on the hill where thick the daisies grew,
    Nor all the wild flowers blossoming amid the morning dew;
    Nor all the pleasant dreams I dreamed, o’ still midsummer nights,
    Nor all the games I used to play where hawthorne blooms were white;
    Nor all the songs my mother sang of Erin’s sparkling streams—
    Such wishes, ay, they could but rise from ashes of her dreams.

  • Company K

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, April 8, 1915. By Gilbert Fletcher.

    He sang and hummed in his workshop,
        Whittled and carved all day,
    That the children of many nations
        Could have his toys for play.

    Rank after rank of soldiers,
        Wonderfully finished and done,
    Stood on the shelves above him,
        Armed with their wooden guns.

    Company I was finished.
        He was carving at Company K,
    Dreaming of children who’d love them
        In lands that were far away.

    Dreamed of a child commander,
        Of his wooden soldiers arow,
    Facing a Teddy bear peril,
        Bent on destroying the foe.

    Laughed and sang and was happy,
        As he thought of these men at war,
    When the bear charged in among them
        And scattered them over the floor.

    Company K is unfinished,
        Unpainted and covered with dust.
    Their helmets are tarnished and dingy
        And speckled with spots of rust.

    They have waited long in this armory shop
        For the swing of the workshop door,
    Trying to fathom and figure the time
        That he will be gone to war.

    So they can’t understand why this woman
        Cried in this shop today
    As she tenderly kissed the dusty men
        Who were to be Company K.

  • Her Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 19, 1915. By L. M. Montgomery.

    She gave not out of her golden store,
        For no golden store had she,
    And faithful love was her only wealth
        For a gracious ministry.
    But royal gifts to the world she gave
        With every quiet day,
    And many a heart was richer far
        Because she had passed that way.

    She gave of her truest sympathy
        To those who were worn and sad;
    She gave a song in a darksome place
        That made the listener glad.
    She gave a loving and tender word
        To a tired, discouraged soul,
    And lo, it rose in a newfound strength
        To win the wished for goal.

    She gave not out of her golden store,
        For no golden store had she.
    And never the voice of fame was heard
        To herald her ministry.
    But she gave the oil of joy for tears
        And sunshine to banish gloom,
    And beauty and sweetness beneath her steps
        Sprang rainbow-like to bloom.

  • Regret

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 16, 1915. By Henry Waldorf Francis.

    I am the brooding Ghost of words that should have been unspoken;
    I am the scourge of hearts that have the hearts of others broken;
    I am the lash of Conscience hurt by things past all undoing,
    Over the grave of other days bitter memories strewing!

    I am the biting aftermath of love and good neglected,
    I am the everlasting sting of better things rejected;
    I am the sharp, consuming grief unthought of in the breeding,
    Avenging wrath of all who give to Mercy’s voice no heeding!

    I am the Guest who comes unbid with voice forever chiding,
    Deep in the secret heart of man I am the long abiding;
    Would you avoid the pain of me, the mocking, cutting laughter,
    Pause ere you speak or act to ask if I may come thereafter!