Newspaper History

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • Service

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 11, 1915. By John Milton.

    When I consider how my light is spent
        Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
        And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
        My true account, lest he returning chide—
    Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
    I fondly ask: But Patience to prevent
    That murmur soon replies: God doth not need
        Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
        Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
        And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
        They also serve who only stand and wait.

  • Are All the Children In?

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

    The darkness falls, the wind is high,
    Dense black clouds fill the western sky
        The storm will soon begin;
    The thunders roar, the lightnings flash
    I hear the great round raindrops dash—
        Are all the children in?

    They’re coming softly to my side;
    Their forms within my arms I hide;
        No other arms are sure;
    The storm may rage with fury wild;
    With trusting faith each little child
        With mother feels secure.

    But future days are drawing near;
    They’ll go from this warm shelter here
        Out in the world’s wild din;
    The rain will fall, the cold winds blow,
    I’ll sit alone and long to know
        Are all the children in?

    Will they have shelter then secure,
    Where hearts are waiting strong and sure,
        And love is true when tried?
    Or will they find a broken reed,
    When strength of heart they so much need
        To help them brave the tide?

    God knows it all; His will is best;
    I’ll shield them now, and yield the rest
        In His most righteous hands,
    Sometimes the souls He loves are riven
    By tempests wild, and thus are driven
        Nearer the better land.

    If he should call us home before
    The children land on that blest shore,
        Afar from care and sin,
    I know that I shall watch and wait,
    Till He, the keeper of the gate,
        Lets all the children in.

  • My Teacher

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 30, 1914. By Charles H. Barker.

    To the desk of his teacher a little lad came,
    With his eyes downcast, and his cheeks aflame,
    And he said in a trembling and hesitant tone,
    “I’ve spoiled this leaf; may I have a new one?”

    In place of the sheet so stained and blotted,
    She gave him a new one, clean, unspotted.
    His tear-stained face she lifted, then smiled
    And said, “Try to do better now, my child.”

    To my Teacher I went on my knees, alone;
    The days had passed by and another year flown;
    “Dear Father, hast Thou not a new leaf for me?
    I’ve blotted this other so sadly, I see.”

    In place of the old year so soiled and blotted
    God gave me a new one, clean, unspotted.
    Then into my sorrowing heart He smiled,
    Saying, “Try to do better now, my child.”

  • A Christmas Carol

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 23, 1914. By Edmund Hamilton Sears.

    It came upon the midnight clear,
        The glorious song of old,
    From angels bending near the earth,
        To touch their harps of gold;
    “Peace on earth, good will to men
        From heaven’s all-gracious King!”
    The world in solemn stillness lay
        To hear the angels sing.

    Still through the cloven skies they came,
        With peaceful wings unfurled;
    And still their heavenly music floats
        O’er all the weary world;
    Above its sad and lowly plains
        They bend on hovering wings,
    And o’er its Babel-sounds
        The blessed angels sing.

    But with the woes of sin and strife
        The world has suffered long;
    Beneath the angel strain have rolled
        Two thousand years of wrong;
    And man, at war with man, hears not
        The love song which they bring;
    Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,
        And hear the angels sing!

    And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
        Whose forms are bending low,
    Who toil along the climbing way
        With painful steps and slow,
    Look now, for glad and golden hours
        Come swiftly on the wing;
    Oh, rest beside the weary road
        And hear the angels sing.

    For lo, the days are hastening on
        By prophet bards foretold,
    When with the ever-circling years
        Comes round the age of gold;
    When peace shall over all the earth
        Its ancient splendors fling,
    And the whole world give back the song
        Which now the angels sing!

  • The Tree of Life

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 19, 1914.

    In his mother’s sacred eyes,
        Lit from God’s own altar place,
    Earth grows heaven, and gray time dies
        In the infant’s smiling face.
    From the shroud of withered years
        Love and hope come young again,
    And the heart awakened hears
        Songs that make the life of men.

    Children’s lightsome laughter rings;
        Dull waste places hear their tread,
    And the gleams of gracious wings
        Light old chambers of the dead.
    All bright shapes of memory,
        All glad dreams of youth and love,
    Meet about the Christmas tree
        Underneath the mystic dove.

    Time and fate are babbling words,
        Vain vibrations of the tongue,
    Since the song God’s singing birds
        O’er the Babe of Bethlehem sung.
    Child of death that was to be,
        Child of love and life with men
    Round the holy Christmas tree
        Make us children, too, again.

    Eyes that are love’s deathless shrine,
        Where our holiest prayers arise,
    Blest and blessing, dear, divine,
        Little children’s happy eyes,
    In your light the dark years change,
        From your light all foul things flee,
    And all sweet hopes soar and range
        Round the Christ Child’s Christmas tree.

  • The Call to Arms

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 12, 1914. By W. M. Leets.

    There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
    With her head against the door,
    For the man that’s called to leave her,
    God have pity on the poor!
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        While the lads march down the street.
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Keep your tears until they go.

    There’s a crowd of little children
    That march along and shout,
    For it’s fine to play at soldiers
    Now their fathers are called out.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        But who’ll find them food to eat?
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Ah! the children little know.

    Ther’s a mother who stands watching
    For the last look of her son,
    A worn, poor widow woman,
    And he her only one.
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        Though God knows when we shall meet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        We must smile and cheer them so.

    There’s a young girl who stands laughing,
    For she thinks a war is grand.
    And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
    And it’s fine to hear the band.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        To the fall of many feet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        God go with you where you go
        To the war.

  • The Battle Autumn

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 4, 1914. By John G. Whittier.

    What means the gladness of the plain,
        This joy of eve and morn,
    The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
        And yellow locks of corn?

    Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
        And hearts with hate are hot,
    But even-paced come ‘round the years,
        And nature changes not.

    She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
        With songs our groans of pain;
    She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
        The war field’s crimson stain.

    Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
        Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
    Too near to God to doubt or fear,
        She shares the eternal calm.

    She knows the seed lies safe below
        The fires that burst and burn;
    For all the tears of blood we sow
        She waits the rich return.

    She sees with clearer eye than ours
        The good of suffering born—
    The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
        And ripen like her corn.

    O, give to us, in times like these,
        The vision of her eyes;
    And make her fields and fruited trees
        Our golden prophecies!

    O, give to us her finer ear!
        Above this stormy din.
    We, too, would hear the bells of cheer
        Ring peace and freedom in!

  • The Children

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 28, 1914. By Charles Dickens.

    When the lessons and tasks are all ended
        And the school for the day is dismissed,
    And the little ones gather around me
        To bid me “good night,” and be kissed;
    O, the little white arms that encircle
        My neck in a tender embrace;
    O, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,
        Shedding the sunshine of love on my face.

    And when they are gone I set dreaming
        Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
    Of love that my heart will remember
        When it wakes to the pulse of the past.
    Ere the world and its wickedness made me
        A partner of sorrow and sin,
    When the glory of God was about me
        And the glory of gladness within.

    O, my heart grows weak as a woman’s,
        And the fountains of feeling will flow,
    When I think of the paths, steep and stony
        Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
    Of the mountains of sin hanging o’er them,
        Of the tempests of fate blowing wild;
    O, there is nothing on earth half so holy
        As the innocent heart of a child.

    They are idols of hearts and of households,
        They are angels of God in disguise;
    His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
        His glory still gleams in their eyes.
    O, those truants from home and from Heaven,
        They have made me manly and mild
    And I know now how Jesus could liken
        The kingdom of God to a child.

    I ask not a life for the dear ones
        All radiant, as others have done.
    But that life may have just enough shadow
        To temper the glare of the sun.
    I would pray God to guard them from evil
        But my prayers would bound back to myself
    Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
        But a sinner must pray for himself.

    The twig is so easily bended,
        I have banished the rule and the rod;
    I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
        They have taught me the wisdom of God.
    My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
        Where I shut them from breaking a rule.
    My frown is sufficient correction
        My love is the law of the school.

    I shall leave the old house in the Autumn
        To traverse its threshold no more.
    Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones
        That mustered each morn at the door!
    I shall miss the “good nights” and the kisses
        And the gush of their innocent glee,
    The group on the green and the flowers
        That are brought every morning to me.

    I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
        Their song in the school and the street;
    I shall miss the low hum of their voices
        And the tramp of their delicate feet.
    When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
        And Death says “the school is dismissed,”
    May the little ones gather around me,
        To bid me “good night” and be kissed.

  • Leaves

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 17, 1914. By Vina Sheard.

    Summer is past for the little leaves,
        So the wind by night and day
    Gathers them close, while he sighs and grieves,
        And carries them all away.

    Leaves that are yellow and beaten gold,
        Leaves of a passionate red,
    Leaves that are broken and brown and old,
        Leaves that are withered and dead.

    Some he will blow to the mad sea waves,
        And in the ebb and flow,
    They will reach the green forgotten graves
        Of the drowned that lie below.

    Some he will drift to the place of sleep,
        The great brown Mother of rest,
    And to Slumber, dreamless, sweet and deep,
        She will hush them on her breast.

    For the fleeting days of blue and gold
        They will fret no more or sigh—
    They will not know it grows dark and cold,
        Or stir when the rain sweeps by.

    And none shall unfold the mystery
        Of the things that come and go,
    Save only He who holdeth the sea,
        And maketh the winds to blow.

  • October Party

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 26, 1914.

    October gave a party;
        The leaves by hundreds came—
    The Ashes, Oaks and Maples
        And those of every name.
    The sunshine spread a carpet,
        And everything was grand.
    Miss Weather led the dancing,
        Professor Wind the band.

    The Chestnut came in yellow,
        The Oaks in crimson dressed;
    The lovely Misses Maple
        In scarlet looked the best,
    And balanced all their partners,
        And gayly fluttered by;
    The sight was like a rainbow
        New fallen from the sky.

    Then, in the rustic hollows
        At “hide-and-seek” they played.
    The party closed at sundown,
        And everybody stayed.
    Professor Wind played louder;
        They flew along the ground,
    And then the party ended
        In jolly “hands around.”