Newspaper History

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • The Peace Pact

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 24, 1914. By Edith M. Thomas.

    They were foes as they fell in that frontier fight,
        They were friends as they lay with their wounds unbound,
    Waiting the dawn of their last morning light.
        It was silence all, save a shuddering sound
        From the souls of the dying that rose around;
    And the heart of the one to the other cried,
        As closer they drew, and their arms enwound,
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As the souls of the dying mounted high
        It seemed they could hear the long farewell!
    Then together they spake, and they questioned why—
        Since they hated not—why this evil befell
        And neither the Frank nor the German could tell
    Wherefore themselves and their countrymen died.
        But they said that hereafter in peace they should dwell—
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As they languished there on that field accursed,
        With their wounds unbound, in their mortal pain,
    Spake one to the other, “I faint from thirst!”
        And the other made answer, “What drops remain
        In my water flask thou shalt surely drain!”
    As he lifted the flask the other replied,
        “I pledge thee in this till we meet again—
    There will be no war on the Other Side!”

    And it came to pass as the night wore deep
        That fever through all their veins was fanned,
    So that visions were theirs (yet not from sleep)
        And each was flown to his own loved land.
        But rousing again, one murmured, “Thy hand!
    Thou art my brother—naught shall divide;
        Something went wrong, but understand,
    There will be no war on the Other Side.”

  • Out of Reach

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 13, 1914. By Kate W. Hamilton.

    The grapes on the trellis are purple and sweet,
    They tempt little fingers and clambering feet.
    We will pick them all, there are plenty for each,
    But it’s strange how the finest grow just out of reach.

    But grandfather says—he’s old and wise—
    That the difference is not in the grapes, but our eyes.
    That the things within reach never please us so much
    As the things we can’t have, that are just beyond touch.

    There are beautiful grapes that we crush with our feet
    While we eagerly climb for others more sweet;
    That fruit within reach is the fruit for the day,
    And to pluck as you go is the sensible way.

    Oh, grandfather’s wise, for grandfather is old;
    But no matter how often we all have been told,
    At the vines every morning, it seems to us each
    That the very best grapes are the grapes out of reach.

  • Artists

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 3, 1914. By J. A. Edgerton.

    The world contains many an artist,
        Who knows not the technique of art;
    Who knows not the tricks of the rhymer,
        And yet is a poet at heart;
    Who knows not the use of the chisel,
        Nor the deftness of eye or of hand,
    But whose spirit is filled with a longing
        He never can quite understand.

    There are painters who never touch canvas,
        Musicians who ever are still,
    Who have not the gift of expression,
        Lack adequate training and skill.
    There are men with the dreams of the masters
        Who never are known unto fame,
    Whose spirits are filled with a music
        And beauty they never can name.

    There are orators doomed to be silent,
        And singers who never are heard;
    There are actors untried and unnoted,
        Who with the grand passions are stirred;
    There are millions who struggle unconscious
        Of wonderful gifts they express,
    Whose spirits are ravished by glimpses
        Of thoughts they can never express.

    There are poems unsung and unspoken,
        Transcending the limits of art;
    There are visions unpainted that linger
        In the innermost realms of the heart;
    There are writers that never have written
        And sculptors who delve not in stone;
    There are spirits who thrill with a message
        Yet strive on in silence alone.

    Maybe there’s fruit and an answer
        Somewhere in the regions of bliss;
    At last they may find their lost visions,
        At last they may reach to the goal,
    The ones who fall short of expression
        And yet who are artists in soul.

  • A Vision

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 30, 1914. By Edmund Leavey.

    Was I waking, was I dreaming?
    In the moonlight’s silver gleaming,
        Was there something treading softly, in my room?
    Was it gazing, death-like blazing,
    At my eyes which fear was glazing?
        Was it human or a spectre from the tomb?
    In my bed I lay, and trembled,
    For ’twas nothing it resembled,
        Not a thing that I had ever seen before;
    And my heart-strings swiftly tightened,
    As I more and more grew frightened,
        For the window fast was locked, and barred the door.
    Close it came, and nearer, nearer,
    And I saw it plainer, clearer,
        Saw it take a hidden shape like all that’s fair;
    And it came and stood before me,
    Stood and stooping slightly o’er me,
        Gently whispered to me, cringing, crouching there.
    And as it murmured to me,
    All my fear and torment flew me,
        And my soul was filled with satan-spawned chagrin.
    For it told me, oh, it told me
    “Come behold me, come behold me,
        For you I am as once you might have been.”
    And I drank in all its beauty—
    What was I if true to duty;
        And I begged it answer me if I could win
    To the grace I had passed blindly,
    For it looked so sad and kindly,
        That I knew it would have pity for my sin.
    But its answer chilled and stilled me.
    “No, you’ve killed me, killed me, killed me.
        For it’s you you’ve slain, and I you ne’er can be.”
    Then it left me in the darkness,
    To my soul in all its starkness—
        My forgotten better self—my other me.

  • Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 24, 1914. By Emma Lazarus.

    “O World-God, give me Wealth!” the Egyptian cried.
    His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
    Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
    Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
    Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
    World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
    His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
    Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
    Seek Pharaoh’s race to-day and we shall find
    Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

    “O World-God, give me beauty!” cried the Greek.
    His prayer was granted. All the earth became
    Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
    Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
    Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
    The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
    Of the immortal marble, his the play
    Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
    Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find today
    A broken column and a lute unstrung.

    “O World-God, give me Power!” the Roman cried.
    His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
    A captive to the chariot of his pride.
    The blood of myriad provinces was drained
    To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—
    Invulnerably bulwarked every part
    With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
    Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home:
    A roofless ruin stands where once abode
    The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

    “O Godhead, give me Truth!” the Hebrew cried.
    His prayer was granted. He became the slave
    Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
    Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
    The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
    His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
    Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
    Seek him today, and find in every land.
    No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
    Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

  • Off to School

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 21, 1914. By J. W. Foley.

    Father is patting his shoulder
        And lifting his grip;
    Proud of him as he grows older,
        (But biting his lip.)
    Aunty improving his going
        By giving advice.
    And mother her tears overflowing,
        And wiping her eyes.

    Father pretending to joke him
        While saying goodbye;
    Sister seems trying to choke him
        While fixing his tie;
    Uncle is chaffing and winking,
        Disguising his sighs,
    While mother is standing and thinking
        And wiping her eyes.

    Old chums are wishing successes
        And shaking his hand;
    Girls with pink bows and white dresses
        Are hoping he’ll land
    Top o’ the heap in his classes—
        He can if he tries—
    And mother’s white handkerchief passes
        While wiping her eyes.

    Towser’s tail wagging and shaking,
        He must understand;
    Little Tob—brother is taking
        Him fast by the hand;
    Standing on tip toes to kiss him
        And wiping goodbyes,
    And mother—who knows how she’ll miss him?—
        Just wiping her eyes.

    Father is counseling to him
        Of college and den.
    Boy, as we yesterday knew him,
        But never again.
    Mother once more may caress him,
        And then the goodbyes
    And murmur and whisper “God bless him!”
        While wiping her eyes.

  • School Days

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 14, 1914.

    It’s lonesome in the stable yard and where the chickens “peep.”
    It’s dull and stupid, ‘round the house, the kitten’s fast asleep;
    Old Towser, nosin’ everywhere and huntin’ ‘round the place,
    Comes back to whine and paw my knee and look up in my face;
    And mother, in the kitchen there, amongst the pans and things,
    Is busy, but I haven’t heard the song she always sings;
    There’s somethin’ missin’, somethin’ wrong that spoils the work and play—
    And don’t I know it? Well, I guess, he’s gone to school today.

    I try to work and not to think, but trying all I can,
    I stop and wonder why it’s still—no drummin’ on a pan,
    No rustlin’ in the apple trees, no splashin’ by the pump,
    And no one hid behind the post to “Boo” and make me jump,
    And in the house it’s all so prim—no tickin’ of the clock.
    I look at ma and she at me; no need for us to say
    What ails us both; we know too well—he’s gone to school today.

    He started out at half-past eight, all rigged up in his best,
    And with the slate beneath his arm, the books and all the rest;
    And mother fixed his tie once more, and did her best to smile.
    And I stood by and praised him up and laughed about his “style.”
    But when he marched off down the road and stopped to wave goodbye,
    ’Twas kind of choky in my throat and misty in my eye.
    Proud of him? Well, I rather guess, and happy too—but, say,
    It’s mighty lonesome round the place. He’s gone to school today.

    But ‘tisn’t just the lonesomeness that ails us, don’t you know?
    It isn’t jest because he’s gone till four o’clock or so;
    It’s like the little worsted socks that’s in the bureau there;
    It’s like the little dresses, too, that once he used to wear;
    The thought that something’s past and gone, outgrown and put away—
    That brings to mother’s heart and mine the bittersweet today.
    It’s jest another forward step, in Time’s unchanging rule—
    Our baby’s left us now for good; our boy has gone to school.

  • The Boy Who Didn’t Pass

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 20, 1914.

    It’s getting cooler weather,
        The summer is nearly done.
    I’ve had a lot of pleasure,
        A great big heap of fun.
    But school days soon are coming,
        And nearly here, alas!
    And I’m that little lunk-head,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    I told my daddy about it,
        He only shook his head.
    I showed my card to mother.
        “It’s just a shame,” she said.
    But grandma cried, “Poor laddie,
        You’ll hate to miss your class.”
    Then, teary-eyed, she kissed me,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    September’s like an ogre
        That’s coming pretty soon.
    I didn’t feel so dreadful
        Last summer when ’twas June.
    But life has lost its roses,
        There’s only rue and grass
    And prickly thistles waiting
        For the boy who didn’t pass.

  • The Village Blacksmith

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 14, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
        The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
        With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
        Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
        His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
        He earns whate’er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
        For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
        You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
        With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
        When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
        Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
        And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
        And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
        He hears his daughter’s voice
    Singing in the village choir
        And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
        Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
        How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
        A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
        Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
        Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
        Has earned a night’s repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
        For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
        Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
        Each burning deed and thought.

  • Be Careful What You Say

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 12, 1914.

    In speaking of a person’s faults,
        Pray don’t forget your own;
    Remember, those with home of glass
        Should seldom throw a stone.
    If we had nothing else to do
        But talk of those who sin,
    ’Tis better we commence at home
        And from that point begin.

    We have no right to judge a man
        Until he’s fairly tried;
    Should we not like his company
        We know the world is wide.
    Some may have faults—and who has not?
        The old as well as young—
    Perhaps we may, for ought we know,
        Have fifty to their one.

    I’ll tell you of a better plan,
        And find it works full well,
    To try my own defects to cure,
        Before of others tell.
    And though I sometimes hope to be
        No more than some I know,
    My own shortcomings bid me let
        The faults of others go.

    Then let us, when we commence
        To slander friend or foe,
    Think of the harm one word would do
        To those we little know.
    Remember, curses sometimes like
        Our chickens, ‘roost at home’:
    Don’t speak of others’ faults until
        We have none of our own.