Newspaper History

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • My Ships

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 13, 1915. By Jack Carter.

    I am sitting alone in the gloaming
    With the firelight flickering low,
    And the sky so dark and lowering
    Is tinged by the sun’s red glow,
    And the many ships that I freighted,
    With hopes too bright to last
    How they haunt me, haunt me, haunt me,
    Those wrecks of the lone dead past.

    There’s the ship that I launched at twenty—
    It was laden with thoughts sublime.
    I would plan out the lives of nations,
    When my life reached its summer time.
    I would see that all strife and warfare,
    And oppressions be swept from the deck.
    Alas, for the dreary eventide,
    My ship came home a wreck.

    Then I sent out another vessel,
    And the cargo it carried was love.
    There was home and a wife and children,
    And the bliss was from heaven above.
    But the joys could not last forever
    And the storm clouds rose on her lea.
    She ran on the rocks, they crushed her,
    And she sank down into the sea.

    Once more I sent out a vessel,
    It was trim from stem to stern.
    It went for to bring me riches,
    And with orders to never return
    Till ’twas full of all precious substance,
    And its wake left a golden track.
    A crash, and t’was gone forever.
    Not even a plank came back.

    But there’s one came back from the shadows
    Out of all my ships just one—
    Shall I tell you the cargo it brought me?
    It was only the deeds I had done
    For the troubled, the suffering, the outcast;
    I’d forgotten them all long ago.
    The whisper from lips just passing,
    And the sad, sad tale of woe.

    A life to the one who had fallen,
    A striving to ease the pain.
    Just bread cast out on the waters,
    And it all came back again.
    And you never can buy this vessel.
    The wealth of the whole wide world
    Cannot pilot it out of the harbor
    For its sails and its flag are furled.

  • Auctioning Off the Baby

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 5, 1915. By Mary T. Holley.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        Dainty, dimpled and sweet
    From the curls above his forehead
        To the beautiful rosy feet,
    From tips of his wee pink fingers
        To the light of his clear blue eyes
    What am I offered for Baby?
        Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A shop full of sweets?” Ah, no!
    That’s too much beneath his value
        Who is sweetest of all below!
    The naughty, beautiful darling!
        One kiss from his rosy mouth
    Is better than all the dainties
        Of East, or West, or South.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A pile of gold?” Ah dear,
    Your gold is too hard and heavy
        To purchase my brightness here.
    Would the treasures of all the mountains
        Far in the wonderful lands
    Be worth the clinging and clasping
        Of these dear little peach blow hands?

    So what am I offered for Baby?
        “A rope of diamonds?” Nay,
    If your brilliants were larger and brighter
        Than the stars of the milky way,
    Would they ever be half so precious
        As the light of those lustrous eyes
    Still full of the heavenly glory
        They brought from beyond the skies?

    Then what am I offered for Baby?
        “A heart full of love and a kiss.”
    Well if anything ever could tempt me
        ‘Twould be such an offer as this.
    But how can I know if your loving
        Is tender and true and divine
    Enough to repay what I’m giving
        In selling this sweetheart of mine?

    So we will not sell the Baby!
        Your gold and gems and stuff
    Were they ever so rare and precious
        Would never be half enough!
    For what would we care, my dearie,
        What glory the World put on
    If our beautiful darling was going,
        If our beautiful darling was gone?

  • Rain on the Roof

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 2, 1915. By Coates Kinney.

    When the humid shadows hover
        Over all the starry spheres,
    And the melancholy darkness
        Gently weeps in rainy tears,
    What a joy to press the pillow
        Of a cottage chamber bed,
    And to listen to the patter
        Of the soft rain overhead.

    Every tinkle on the shingles
        Has an echo in the heart,
    And a thousand dreamy fancies
        Into busy being start;
    And a thousand recollections
        Weave their air-threads into woof
    As I listen to the patter
        Of the rain upon the roof.

    Now in memory comes my mother
        As she used in years agone,
    To survey her darling dreamers
        Ere she left them till the dawn.
    Oh! I see her leaning o’er me
        As I list to this refrain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

    Then my little seraph sister,
        With her wings and waving hair,
    And her bright-eyed cherub brother—
        A serene, angelic pair—
    Glide around my wakeful pillow
        With their praise or mild reproof
    As I listen to the murmur
        Of the soft rain on the roof.

    And another comes to thrill me
        With her eyes’ delicious blue;
    And forgot I, gazing on her,
        That her heart was all untrue;
    I remember that I loved her
        As I ne’er may love again,
    And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate
        To the patter of the rain.

    There is naught in art’s bravuras
        That can work with such a spell
    In the spirit’s pure deep fountains
        Whence the holy passions swell
    As that melody of Nature,
        That subdued, subduing strain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

  • Something to Worry About

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 1, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    They said it hurt morals, and maybe it harmed
    Good morals, but folks were not greatly alarmed;
    The few were concerned, but the many were prone
    To leave the whole matter severely alone.

    They said it hurt culture, and maybe it had
    A bearing on culture most certainly bad,
    But left to itself it would work itself out.
    There wasn’t a thing to be worried about.

    They said it hurt learning, and maybe it did,
    But learning’s a thing that expects to be hid.
    And while there was much, they agreed, to be learned,
    There wasn’t good cause to be gravely concerned.

    They said it hurt manhood, and maybe it meant
    Some injury to it, as far as it went;
    But this was no reason for clamor or fuss
    As long as it didn’t directly hurt us.

    But when it hurt Business, the folks over town
    Unitedly said that it must be put down
    Whatever it was, and they stamped the thing out—
    For then it was something to worry about!

  • The Good Night Kiss

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 25, 1915. By W. D. Humphrey.

    I am tired of tongues that are lying
        In their cunning schemes for gain—
    I am tired of worry and sighing
        That ravish the soul and brain—
    And I long for the peace of the wildwood
        Near the dear old home that I miss,
    And the happy trust of childhood,
        And mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of faces smiling
        In deceit to hide the frown—
    And life’s false joys beguiling
        The soul but to drag it down;
    And I long once more to listen
        To the sound of a step I miss—
    That I knew when the tears would glisten
        At my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of all the idols
        That claim a right to my heart—
    I am tired of falsehoods’ bridles
        That are worn by all in the mart.
    And it’s ever the words that were spoken
        In truth and love that I miss—
    When each night I received their token
        In my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of living and learning
        That the false exceeds the true—
    I am tired with years of yearning
        For a love like my childhood knew
    When life seemed not deceiving,
        And I dreamed it held but bliss—
    When I slept in peace believing
        In mother’s good night kiss.

  • Song of Life

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 20, 1915. By Charles Mackay.

    A traveler on a dusty road
        Strewed acorns on the lea;
    And one took root and sprouted up,
        And grew into a tree.
    Love sought its shade at even-time,
        To breathe its early vows;
    And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
        To bask beneath its boughs.
    The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
        The birds sweet music bore—
    It stood a glory in its place,
        A blessing ever more.

    A little spring had lost its way
        Amid the grass and fern;
    A passing stranger scooped a well
        Where weary men might turn.
    He walled it in, and hung with care
        A ladle on the brink;
    He thought not of the deed he did,
        But judged that Toil might drink.
    He passed again, and lo! the well,
        By summer never dried,
    Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues,
        And saved a life beside.

    A nameless man, amid the crowd,
        That thronged the daily mart,
    Let fall a word of hope and love,
        Unstudied from the heart—
    A whisper on the tumult thrown,
        A transitory breath,
    It raised a brother from the dust,
        It saved a soul from death.
    O germ! O fount! O word of love!
        O thought at random cast!
    Ye were but little at the first,
        But mighty at the last.

  • Little Brown Hands

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 9, 1915.

    They drive home the cows from the pasture
    Up thro’ the long, shady lane,
    Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat field
    That is yellow with ripening grain.

    They find in the thick, waving grasses
    Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
    They gather the earliest snowdrops
    And the first crimson buds of the rose.

    They toss the hay in the meadow,
    They gather the elder-bloom white;
    They find where the dusky grapes purple
    In the soft-tinted October light.

    They know where the apples hang ripest
    And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;
    They know where the fruit hangs thickest
    On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

    They gather the delicate seaweeds,
    And build tiny castles of sand;
    They pick up the beautiful seashells,
    Fairy barks, that have drifted to land.

    They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
    Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;
    And at night time are folded in slumber
    By a song that a fond mother sings.

    Those who toil bravely are strongest,
    The humble and poor become great;
    And from those brown-handed children
    Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

    The pen of the author and statesman,
    The noble and wise of our land—
    The sword and the chisel and palette
    Shall be held in the little brown hand.

  • A Tale of the Trail

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 30, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    This life’s a middlin’ crooked trail, and after forty year
    Of knockin’ round, I’m free to say the right ain’t always clear.
    I’ve seen a lot of folks go wrong—get off the main high road
    An’ fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men,
    I ain’t been perfect all my life an’ may not be again;
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right—an’ only lost his way.

    I like to think the good in folks by far outweighs the ill;
    The trail of life is middlin’ hard an’ lots of it uphill.
    There’s places where there ain’t no guides or signboards up, an’ so
    It’s part guess work an’ partly luck which way you chance to go.
    I’ve seen the trails fork some myself, an’ when I had to choose
    I wasn’t sure when I struck out if it was win or lose.
    So when I see a man who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right an’ only lost his way.

    I’ve seen a lot of folks start out with grit an’ spunk to scale
    The hills’ that purple over there, an’ somehow lose the trail;
    I’ve seen ’em stop an’ start again, not sure about the road,
    And found ’em lost on some blind trail, almost before they knowed.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’, tired out, with every pathway blind,
    With cliffs before ’em, mountains high, an’ sloughs an’ swamps behind.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’ through the dusk, when twilight’s gettin’ gray,
    An’ lookin’ for the main highroad—poor chaps who’ve lost their way.

    It ain’t so far from Right to Wrong—the trail ain’t hard to lose;
    There’s times I’d almost give my horse to know which one to choose.
    There ain’t no guides or signboards up to keep you on the track;
    Wrong’s sometimes white as driven snow, an’ right looks awful black.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men;
    I’ve lost the trail sometimes myself, an’ may get lost again.
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray,
    I want to shove my hand in his an’ help him find the way!

  • Discontent

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 20, 1915.

    Formed of the elemental fierce unrest
    That seethes forever in the human breast,
    Coeval with the race of Man am I.
    I seem a curse from which he fain would fly;
    And in his efforts to escape from me
    He pits his might against Immensity,
    And bends the laws of Nature to his will;
    Yet I shall goad him ever on until
    He solve the problem of Infinity
    And read the meaning of life’s mystery.
    Then when he rests on heights as yet untrod,
    And learns that he himself is part of God,
    He’ll know that I first taught him to aspire—
    That I, the Curse, impelled him from the mire.

  • The Cry of the Dreamer

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 14, 1915. By John Boyle O’Reilly.

    I am tired of planning and toiling
        In the crowded hives of men;
    Heart-weary of building and spoiling
        And spoiling and building again.
    And I long for the dear old river,
        Where I dreamed my youth away,
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a toiler dies in a day.

    I am sick of the showy seeming
        Of a life that is half a lie;
    Of the faces lined with scheming
        In the throng that hurries by.
    From the sleepless thought’s endeavor,
        I would go where the children play;
    For a dreamer lives forever
        And a thinker dies in a day.

    I can feel no pride, but pity,
        For the burdens the rich endure;
    There is nothing sweet in the city
        But the patient lives of the poor.
    Oh, the little hands too skillful,
        And the child mind choked with weeds!
    The daughter’s heart grown willful,
        And the father’s heart that bleeds!

    No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
        From trophies of mart and stage,
    I would fly to the wood’s low rustle
        And the meadow’s kindly page.
    Let me dream as of yore by the river
        And be loved for the dream alway;
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a thinker dies in a day.