Newspaper History

Category: New York Tribune

  • Vintage

    From the New York Tribune, July 26, 1915. By Amy Lowell.

    I will mix me a drink of stars—
    Large stars with polychrome needles,
    Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,
    Cool, quiet, green stars.
    I will tear them out of the sky,
    And squeeze them over an old silver cup,
    And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it,
    So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.

    It will leap and scratch
    As I swallow it down;
    And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire,
    Coiling and twisting in my belly.
    His snortings will rise to my head,
    And I shall be hot, and laugh,
    Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

  • The Pardon Came Too Late

    From the New York Tribune, July 12, 1915. By Paul Dresser.

    A fair-haired boy in a foreign land at sunrise was to die;
    In a prison-cell he sat alone, from his heart there came a sigh.
    Deserted from the ranks, they said, the reason none could say;
    They only knew the orders were that he should die next day.
    And as the hours glided by, a messenger on wings did fly
    To save this boy from such a fate—a pardon, but it came too late.

    The volley was fired at sunrise, just after break of day
    And while the echoes lingered, a soul had passed away
    Into the arms of his Maker, and there to hear his fate;
    A tear, a sigh, a sad “good-bye”—the pardon came too late.

    And ‘round the camp-fire burning bright the story then was told;
    How his mother on a dying-bed called for her son so bold;
    He hastened to obey her wish, was captured on the way;
    She never saw her boy so fair—he died at break of day.
    And when the truth at last was known, his innocence at once was shown
    To save from such an unjust fate a pardon sent, but ’twas too late.

  • The Golf Widow’s Divorce

    From the New York Tribune, July 3, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    A weary female stood in court before a judge quite grim;
    And looking up with abject mien she turned and spoke to him;
    “Your honor”—said she with a voice that bordered on a sigh—
    “I’d like to get a quick divorce”—and tears stood in her eye;
    The Judge looked down upon her just a moment ere he said
    “What has your husband done that you are sorry that you wed?
    Can it be that he beats you—or holds out half his pay?”
    Whereat the female wept again and these sad words did say—

    “He only talks of stymies and of dormies—
    He only talks of ‘hooks’ that lost a bet;
    He plays his golf all day
    And at night he raves away
    Of putts he orter had—but didn’t get;
    He says he orter had a sixty-seven—
    But the hundred that he took was far from right—
    I don’t care if he should play
    This here golluf every day
    If he wouldn’t play it over every night.”

    The stern judge thought a moment with a frown upon his face—
    “I hate divorces,” he replied, “but not in this here case;
    I know the gunman’s often wrong—and yet he has his side;
    And while I sometimes jug a thief—I often let him slide;
    But there are limits to all crime—and one or two so raw
    That fitting punishment is yet beyond the printed law—”
    But when he murmured “twenty years”—the golfer’s hair turned gray
    And now the wife is kinder sad that these words she did say.

  • Showing That One Should Be a Pro-Anti

    From the New York Tribune, May 28, 1915.

    Like countless other neutral guys,
    I’m pretty strong for the Allies.
    My brother joins the other faction
    And justifies each German action.

    We argued. Soon, with sneer and shout,
    We wildly waved our arms about,
    And heated phrases catapulted,
    Till each the other had insulted.

    Our quarrel didn’t end the strife,
    Nor saved a single soldier’s life;
    Our acid, violent verbosity
    Annulled no single small atrocity.

    The sufferings of the maimed and torn,
    For all our talk, must still be borne;
    Our most excited declarations
    Deterred no whit the warring nations.

    For all we raged—nay, almost fought—
    This change is all our wrangle wrought:
    The love each cherished for his brother
    Is gone, and now we hate each other.

  • Charlie Chaplin

    From the New York Tribune, May 26, 1915.

    This Chaplin was wondrously comic, they told me,
    For weeks they continued to pester and scold me
    For sneering; I said that his antics were cheap,
    That his slap-stick endeavors would put me to sleep.
    “But he is so genial,” they said, “and so sunny,
    There never was any one equally funny.
    He walks in the quaintest, most curious fashion,
    So you’ll smile with delight or grin with compassion,
    And surely there’s nothing so fatal to gloom
    As a reel in which Charlie is made to consume
    Some peas with a knife; and his quizzical face,
    And the way that he stumbles all over the place
    Is simply immense; you will joyously roar
    Till the usher relentlessly points to the door.
    Why scorn Charlie Chaplin because he displays
    A species of art which wins popular praise?”

    So I went the next evening to see who was he
    Who seemed to provide such Dickensian glee,
    Whose stupid expressions roused millions of smiles
    And lured hard-earned quarters in fabulous piles;
    I sat and I waited with tremulous pulsing,
    Convinced that I soon would be wildly convulsing
    With uncontrolled giggles; and then on the screen
    Appeared, stumbled, ambled—you know what I mean—
    Our friend Charlie Chaplin; alas and alack,
    With a woebegone gaze and his hand on his back;
    He ran and he fell; and the maniac laughter
    Resounded and rose to the farthermost rafter.

    He banged all his colleagues, and kicked them around,
    And stepped on their throats as they lay on the ground;
    He ran with his hat on the side of his head;
    And the populace roared till their faces were red.
    Thus then, he continued; and when he had ended,
    The girl that was with me said, “Isn’t he splendid!”
    “O yes,” I replied, with a sorrowful sigh,
    “The masses adore him, and now I know why:
    With his silly confusion and countenance glum
    Their ideal American Hero has come!”

  • Metempsychosis

    From the New York Tribune, May 4, 1915.

    Oh, do you remember the day of our fate,
        In that mystical age of a dim, long ago—
    When you were a princess and I was a slave,
    You throned in a palace, I chained in a cave,
        In that land where the rivers of paradise flow?
    By chance you passed near me, I dared raise my eyes,
        And love shot an arrow that through my heart drave;
    My soul broke its fetters and flew to your side;
    It called, and you listened and to it replied—
        Though you were a princess and I was a slave!

    We loved—and they slew us! They called on the gods,
        And the gods made them answer, and cruelly smote:
    “Ye gain not Nirvana!”—and we died as they spoke,
    But our death was not death—we but slept, we awoke—
         And you were a cat, love, and I was a goat!
    And we fled from each other, we fled to find death;
        For death we went crying, but nought could avail.
    Accursed we wandered, shunning cities and men,
    And when I next saw you and knew you again—
        Then you were a bear, love, and I was a whale!

    The centuries dripped through the year-glass of time;
        We were birds, we were fish, we were snakes, we were apes.
    One penance completed, the next would begin;
    We had loved, and the gods said our loving was sin,
        And we roamed through the earth in a thousand brute shapes.
    But love, it was worth all the sorrow and shame,
        All the pain that we bore, all the tears that we gave;
    For now it is ended—there is nothing we owe;
    Our debts to the gods have been cancelled, and lo!—
        Again you’re my princess, again I’m your slave!

  • Requiescas in Pace!

    From the New York Tribune, November 21, 1914. By Irwin.

    When you are dead and buried, friend,
        There’s nothing to delight or grieve you;
    You live, you die, and that’s the end,
        Let no religious myth deceive you.

    Your goodly wife no more will meet
        You as you wave the evening paper;
    Once dead you’ll read no sporting sheet,
        You’ll cut no latest fox-trot caper.

    For death destroys your petty “I,”
        You do not know that you’ve existed;
    Though folks may pity you, and cry,
        They’ve got their metaphysics twisted.

    They weep for you and mourn your fate,
        And prate of all the joys you’re losing;
    You’re happy (this they never state),
        In one eternal, dreamless snoozing.

    They moan, dissolved in salty tears,
        Their wailing is a mournful riot;
    The fools! They quake with noisy fears,
        At least you rest in peace and quiet.

  • Edelweiss

    From the New York Tribune, October 27, 1914. By Giovanni.

    A rose I brought from Fancy’s bowers;
        She waved my offering away,
    And said, “The vows of youth are flowers,
        And wither like them in a day.”
    Unheeded now her way she goes—
        My passion faded like the rose.

    I trod the mountain-peak of years;
        Time’s snowflakes mingled with my hair;
    My heart was free from hopes and fears—
        Then Fate unveiled a maiden fair.
    I sought the flower that will not fade,
        And brought a blossom to the maid.

    Its fadeless bloom no message told;
        Flung under foot the blossom lay.
    She said, “It grows in Winter’s cold,
        And youth must have the buds of May.
    Your flower and you are of the snows—
        Today my lover brought a rose!”

  • Butchered to Make a Moving-Picture Play

    From the New York Tribune, April 25, 1914. By Vieux Moustache.

    In days of old when knights were bold
        And pure heroics were the fashion,
    Men’s honor was not bought and sold,
        And wars were waged with actual passion.

    But nowadays we go to war
        For motion-picture syndicators;
    Our armies fight, our cannon roar
        To furnish gold for speculators.

    The public yearns for scenes of crime
        And ceaselessly insists on thrillers,
    And managers work overtime
        Inventing new theater fillers.

    And war is IT. It has the drop
        On Cutey as a money-maker,
    And even Bunny cannot cop
        The cash like films of hell’s half-acre.

    We read of Huerta and his crew
        In scareheads terse and semi-Sapphic;
    Of bloodstained Villa. Yet the two
        Are puppets cinematographic.

    Things are, alas, not what they seem,
        And war, as I have tried to prove, is
    No more a glory and a dream
        But just an adjunct to the movies.

  • Honest Liar

    From the New York Tribune, April 12, 1914.

    Here’s to the man who lies to us, who’s careless of the truth,
    Who slaps us on the back and says, “Gee! How you hold your youth!”
    Who shrinks not at the future when he has a lie to tell,
    But when you’re sick and tired and blue, declares, “You’re looking well!”

    Here’s to the man who tells us lies when solemn truth would hurt,
    Who says, “I’ll back you through and through, if it should take my shirt,”
    Who, when you’re “off” and cannot write just as you think you should,
    Will tune you up for better things with, “That’s what I call good!”

    Or when you paint a picture that is wrong in every part,
    Will make you think the daub is great by saying, “Now, that’s art!”
    He lies—but it’s in charity, if lying ever was,
    So here’s his health, for though he lies, he’s honest when he does.