Newspaper History

Category: New York Tribune

  • Fairy Tea

    From the New York Tribune, April 5, 1914. By D. K. S.

    ’Twas very, very long ago, in days no longer sung,
    When giants stood about so high, and pixies all were young;
    The Queen of Fairies said one day, “I’m tired of honey dew,
    So hasten now, and mix for me a cup of something new.

    “It must lift the drooping spirit, it must heal the wounded heart;
    It must bring the smile of happiness, and bid the tear depart;
    It must make the young grow younger, and the old no longer old;
    It must make the poor contented, and the rich forget their gold.”

    Now, you can just imagine how the pixies far and wide
    Came hurrying and scurrying with things to be supplied.
    First, they bought a useful caldron which some witches had for sale,
    And the pixies brought sweet water from the Falls of Dryadvale.

    Then they took some sprays of Heartsease as the first thing to infuse,
    And they added Johnny-Jump-Up as an antidote for blues.
    For the young they brought the May-Bloom, Everlasting for the old;
    For the rich and poor the Joy-Weed, which is just as good as gold.

    When it boiled, they cooled and poured it, so the ancient story goes;
    And to the Queen they brought it in the chalice of a rose.
    She sipped, delighted, then she cried, “I issue this decree:
    The cup you have so deftly brewed, I christen Fairy Tea!”

    So when you see the fairy folk “at home” in Dingle Dell,
    All sipping something dainty from their cups of Heather Bell,
    You will notice they are happy, as good fairies ought to be,
    And that’s because they always use their famous Fairy Tea.

  • He Kicked the Dog

    From the New York Tribune, March 7, 1914. By Arthur C. Sharp.

    Sued in the Municipal Court for $100 because he caused the death of a bulldog belonging to Antonio Angarano, Arthur C. Sharp has filed his answer in poetry. The verses read:

    Now comes defendant and submits
    His answer to the court. Admits
    That at the time and at the place
    He kicked said bullpup in the face.

    Admits he lives in Syracuse—
    Denying that is little use.
    All other things in said complaint
    Are here denied because they “Ain’t.”

    Defendant, answering plaintiff’s claim,
    For further defense to the same,
    Alleges that said dog was bad,
    Ugly, vicious, cross and mad.

    And often in a rage would fly
    At dogs or people passing by,
    And for a long time he had stood
    A nuisance in the neighborhood.

    Defendant says that on this day
    As he was passing on his way,
    He saw before his horses’ feet
    This bulldog fighting in the street.

    Defendant, trying to do right
    Endeavored then to stop the fight;
    Alleges that said dog was wild
    With hunger, and his temper riled.

    And at aforesaid time he tried
    To breakfast off defendant’s hide.
    Defendant, showing common sense,
    Then kicked the pup in self-defense.

    Wherefore, defendant now insists
    Plaintiff’s complaint should be dismissed,
    And if the action he has lost
    Demands that plaintiff pay the cost.

  • Gentlemen of the Road

    From the New York Tribune, May 25, 1913.
    (An Oxford don declares that walking is the form of exercise most often associated with high intelligence.)

    If I might leave my dull abode
     And all the strife and cares of town,
 And, light of heart, essay the road
     That leads by wood and open down,
 Then, as I spread those pinions wide
     That bear me through the realms of song,
 My soul would surely soar and glide
     The while my body jogged along.
 
 The lofty mind can ne’er abide
     In hooting car or roaring train;
 Only the rhythmic swinging stride
     Can vivify the sluggish brain.
 Come forth, O muse! and let us fare
     By vale and hill through scented ways
 To fill our lungs with scented air
     And witch the world with wondrous lays!
 
 And as I speed on winged feet
     Thrumming the while my gentle lyre,
 A glorious band I there shall meet
     In unconventional attire,
 Unrazored men with shaggy hair
     Whose faces show a healthy tan;
 Not tramps, indeed, as some declare
     But dons of Oxford to a man!

  • The Bravest Battle

    From the New York Tribune, May 10, 1913.
 By Joaquin Miller.
 

 The bravest battle that ever was fought
     Shall I tell you where and when?
 On the maps of the world you will find it not;
     It was fought by the mothers of men.
 
 Nay, not with cannon or battle shot
     With sword or nobler pen
 Nay, not with eloquent word or thought
     From mouths of wonderful men.
 
 But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart—
     Of woman that would not yield
 But patiently, silently bore her part—
     Lo! there in that battlefield
 
 No marshaling troop, no bivouac song
     No banner to gleam and wave;
 And oh these battles they last so long—
     From babyhood to the grave!
 
 Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars
     She fights in her walled-up town—
 Fights on and on in the endless wars
     Then silent, unseen—goes down.

  • Pipe Song

    From the New York Tribune, April 13, 1913.
 By Herbert Kaufman.
 

 A fig for your flagons of sour old wine!
 Let others seeks solace in beer—
 I don’t give a slam for the joys of the dram,
 It brings me no comfort nor cheer!
 I’ve no sorrows to drown,
 I am free from care’s frown,
 My morrows with promise are ripe,
 I don’t need a thing, I’m as good as a king,
 So long as I puff on my pipe.
 
 Just give me my pipe and a well laden pouch,
 And leave me alone with myself;
 I have more than enough while I sit here and puff,
 And forget about passions and pelf.
 You may toast as you please to the ladies who tease,
 And fuddle your senses with wine;
 But I know of no bliss that is equal to this—
 I’m content with this old pipe of mine.

  • In Storm and Stress

    From the New York Tribune, March 30, 1913.
 By W. J. Lampton.
 

 How weak is man when nature’s wrath
 Pours out itself upon his path,
 And with the storm and fire and flood
 Exacts the price of goods and blood,
 To leave him stricken, sick and sore
 Bereft of people, home and store.
 And yet how strong is man—the blow
 That falls in one place starts the flow
 Of helpfulness from everywhere,
 With open hands and saving care.
 The speedy answer to the call
 Of loss and sorrow, and from all
 Come hope and courage which uplift
 The faltering head among the drift.
 Which put new life in living when
 The fallen shall arise again.
 How strong is man when nature’s wrath
 Pours out itself upon his path!

  • A Fantasy of Fresh Eggs

    From the New York Tribune, February 18, 1913.
 By W. J. Lampton.
 

 ’Twas on a January day
     When fair Toinette O’Keggs
 Fared forth to market for to buy
     A dozen new laid eggs.
 “I want them strictly fresh,” she said,
     “No other kind for me.”
 “Well, these are just out,” quoth the man,
     “You have our guarantee.”
 So guileless Toinette took the eggs
     Believing what he said,
 And when she opened up the box
     On one of them she read:
 “Whoever gets this egg please write
     To John Smith, Waterloo,
 N. J., and you can bet your life
     That he will write to you.”
 

 Now Toinette’s heart was all agog
     Her soul was filled with bliss
 For she had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
     Of romance such as this.
 So when the shades of evening came
     And all her work was done
 She wrote a note which truly was
     A most romantic one.
 She waited for a month or more
     Then, when all hope had fled
 An answer came from John Smith, who
     In tones of anguish said:
 “Too late, too late; I’m married now,
     And I am full of woe;
 The words you read upon that egg
     I wrote two years ago.”

  • A Wet Sheet and Flowing Sea

    From the New York Tribune, February 2, 1913.
 By A. Cunningham.
 

 A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
     A wind that follows fast
 And fills the white and rustling sail
     And bends the gallant mast;
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
     While like the eagle free
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves
     Old England on the lee.
 
 O for the soft and gentle wind!
     I hear a fair one cry;
 But give to me the morning breeze
     And white waves heaving high;
 And white waves heaving high, my lads,
     The good ship tight and free—
 The world of waters is our home
     And merry men are we.
 
 There’s a tempest in yon hornéd moon
     And lightning in yon cloud
 But hark the music, mariners!
     The wind is piping loud;
 The wind is piping loud, my boys,
     The lightning flashes free—
 While the hollow oak our palace is
     Our heritage the sea.

  • The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

    From the New York Tribune, January 5, 1913.
 By Christopher Marlowe.
 

 Come, live with me and be my love,
 And we will all the pleasures prove
 That hills and valleys, dales and field
 And all the craggy mountains yield.
 
 There we will sit upon the rocks
 And see the shepherds feed their flocks
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls
 Melodious birds sing madrigals.
 
 There will I make thee beds of roses
 And a thousand fragrant posies,
 A cap of flowers and a kirtle
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
 
 A gown made of the finest wool,
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
 Fair lined slippers for the cold,
 With buckles of the purest gold.
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds
 With coral clasps and amber studs;
 And if these pleasures may thee move
 Come, live with me and be my love.
 
 Thy silver dishes for thy meat
 As precious as the gods do eat
 Shall on an ivory table be
 Prepared each day for thee and me.
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
 For thy delight each May morning;
 If these delights thy mind may move,
 Then live with me and be my love.

  • The Builders

    From the New York Tribune, December 15, 1912. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
 

All are architects of Fate,
     Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
     Some with ornaments of rhyme.
 
No thing useless is, or low;
     Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
     Strengthens and supports the rest.
 
For the structure that we raise
     Time is with materials filled;
 Our todays and yesterdays
     Are the blocks with which we build.
 
Truly shape and fashion these;
     Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not because no man sees,
     Such things will remain unseen.
 
In the elder days of art
     Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
     For the gods see everywhere.
 
Let us do our work as well,
     Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house where gods may dwell
     Beautiful, entire, clean.
 
Else, our lives are incomplete,
     Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
     Stumble as they seek to climb.
 
Build today, then, strong and sure,
     With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
     Shall tomorrow find its place.
 

Thus alone can we attain
     To those turrets where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain
     And one boundless reach of sky.