Newspaper History

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • Nobility

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 19, 1915. By Alice Cary.

    True worth is in being, not seeming—
        In doing each day that goes by
    Some little good—not in dreaming
        Of great things to do by and by.
    For whatever men say in blindness,
        And in spite of the fancies of youth,
    There’s nothing so kingly as kindness,
        There’s nothing so royal as truth.

    We get back our meet as we measure—
        We cannot do wrong and feel right.
    Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
        For justice avenges each slight.
    The air for the wing of the sparrow,
        The bush for the robin and wren,
    But always the path that is narrow
        And straight for the children of men.

    ’Tis not in the pages of story
        The heart of its ills to beguile,
    Though he who makes courtship to glory
        Gives all that he hath for her smile.
    For when from her heights he has won her,
        Alas! It is only to prove
    That nothing’s so sacred as honor,
        And nothing’s so royal as love!

    We cannot make bargains for blisses,
        Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
    And sometimes the thing our life misses
        Helps more than the thing which it gets.
    For good lieth not in pursuing,
        Nor gaining of great nor of small,
    But just in the being, and doing
        As we would be done by, is all.

    Through envy, through malice, through hating,
        Against the world, early and late,
    No jot of our courage abating—
        Our part is to work and to wait.
    And slight is the sting of his trouble
        Whose winnings are less than his worth;
    For he who is honest is noble,
        Whatever his fortunes or birth.

  • War

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 22, 1915.

    War is hell, no matter what
    The fire within that makes it hot!
    Masters, by their devious ways
    Light the red, destructive blaze!
    Talk of God and righteousness;
    What are they in this distress?
    Talk about a soldier’s fame;
    Talk about the glory game;
    Tell us it is good to die
    That a flag may float on high;
    Tell us lofty sentiments
    Grow from blood and pestilence;
    Tell us corpses, strewn around
    Change the soil to hallowed ground;
    Tell us burning houses light
    Straying patriots toward the right;
    Tell us there is cause for cheers
    In the women’s bitter tears;
    Tell us starving children wail
    Only when their armies fail;
    Tell us how great victories bless
    The widows and the fatherless;
    Tell us that the men who died
    Are the country’s joy and pride;
    Tell us—
    What you please to tell
    The simple truth is
    War is hell!

  • Wishes

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 10, 1915. By Howard Arnold Walter.

    I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
        I would be pure, for there are those who care;
    I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
        I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

    I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;
        I would be giving, and forget the gift;
    I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
        I would look up—and laugh—and love—and lift.

  • Inspiration

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 7, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    Though the world is harsh and the game goes wrong
        And the skies are far from clearing,
    And out of the vast uncaring throng
        There’s never a word that’s cheering;
    Though fortune shun me soon and late,
        And destiny jolt and shove me,
    I’ll keep my nerve and I’ll laugh at fate,
        While I have a friend to love me!

    If I have one friend who is leal and true,
        One friend who will not alter,
    I’ll fight the world and the devil, too,
        And never my heart shall falter.
    Though I know despair and I know defeat
        And the clouds hang black above me,
    I’ll fear no fate that is mine to meet
        While I have a friend to love me!

  • The Way of the World

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 30, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    Laugh, and the world laughs with you,
        Weep, and you weep alone.
    This odd old earth must borrow its mirth,
        It has trouble enough of its own.
    Sing, and the hills will answer.
        Sigh, and it is lost on the air.
    The echoes rebound to a joyful sound
        But they shrink from voicing care.

    Rejoice, and men will seek you,
        Grieve and they turn to go;
    They want full measure of your pleasure,
        But they do not want your woe.
    Be glad, and your friends are many,
        Be sad, and you lose them all.
    There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
        But alone you must drink life’s gall.

    Feast and your halls are crowded,
        Fast, and the world goes by—
    Forget and forgive, it will help you to live,
        But no man can help you to die.
    There is room in the halls of pleasure
        For a long and lordly train,
    But one by one we must all march on
        Thro’ the narrow aisle of pain.

  • Reply to When You and I Were Young, Maggie

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 28, 1915.

    The past we can never recall,
        It fled with our youth long ago;
    But its joys and its memories all
        Are ours while we linger below;
    The murmuring brook may be dry,
        And hushed be the voice of the mill,
    But the songs that they sang cannot die
        While pleasures of memory thrill.

    And daisies will deck the green vale
        And bird-notes hang over the hill,
    And other lips tell the sweet tale,
        When we shall be silent and still.

    The green above is gone, it is true,
        But broad blades of bright waving corn
    Are gemmed with bright diamonds of dew
        Where blithesome birds greeted the morn;
    The corn is as green as the grove,
        The birds sing as sweetly as then,
    And we live the past o’er in our love
        And feel all its pleasures again.

    In that city so silent and lone,
        Where loved ones so peacefully sleep,
    There lies a dear darling, our own,
        Whom angels have taken to keep.
    The roses that blossom and fall,
        And cover her sunny brown hair,
    Sweet fragrance will shed over all,
        When we shall be slumbering there.

    Say not we are feeble with age,
        For age cannot lessen our love.
    This earth-life is but for a span,
        Eternity waits us above.
    The trials of life we have borne,
        With trustfulness, patience and truth;
    The past let us never more mourn,
        There’s a realm of perennial youth.

  • Have I Failed?

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 22, 1915. By S. E. Kiser.

    I have worked and I have won
        Certain pleasing victories;
    If the things that I have done
        Be not heard of overseas,
    Or their merits be denied
        Or unnoticed by the crowd,
    Still, to me they have supplied
        Moments when my heart was proud.

    I have loved and I have heard
        Her who seemed angelic say
    Tenderly the golden word
        That swept all my doubts away;
    Though the world may never look
        For such worth as I have had,
    Or perceive my little nook,
        I have filled it and been glad.

    I have seen her child and mine
        Sleeping in her proud embrace;
    If my gifts be not divine,
        Nor my place a lofty place,
    I have worked and hoped and won
        All the love a man may claim.
    Have I failed if I have done
        Naught to bring me wealth or fame?

  • Our Own

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 20, 1915. By Margaret E. Sangster.

    If I had known in the morning
    How wearily all the day
        The words unkind
        Would trouble my mind
    I said when you went away,
    I had been more careful, darling
    Nor given you needless pain;
        But we vex our own
        With look and tone
    We might never take back again.

    For though in the quiet evening
    You may give me the kiss of peace,
        Yet it may be
        That never for me
    The pain of the heart should cease.
    How many go forth in the morning
    That never come home at night;
        And hearts have broken
        For harsh words spoken
    That sorrow can ne’er set right.

    We have careful thoughts for the stranger,
    And smiles for the sometimes guest,
        But oft for our own
        The bitter tone
    Though we love our own the best.
    Ah, lips with the curve impatient,
    Ah, brow with that look of scorn
        ‘Twere a cruel fate
        Were the night too late
    To undo the work of the morn.

  • A Man

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 5, 1915. By William H. Maxwell.

    Though my face is black, though I’m despised;
    Though scorn for me doth leap from eyes,
    Though hindered in life from doing my part,
    Still I am human, with a human’s heart.
    Rebuffed and reviled, I’m hated and abused;
    The inalienable rights I am refused.
    I am lover of peace, I strive to serve
    While man refuses me that I deserve.
    Earth’s sinners have strayed from Christ’s great plan,
    And my hurt heart rebels, for I am a man.

  • Bum

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 30, 1915. By W. D. Wegeforth.

    He’s a little dog, with a stubby tail, and a moth-eaten coat of tan,
    And his legs are short, of the wabbly sort; I doubt if they ever ran;
    And he howls at night, while in broad daylight he sleeps like a bloomin’ log,
    And he likes the feed of the gutter breed; he’s a most irregular dog.

    I call him Bum, and in total sum he’s all that his name implies,
    For he’s just a tramp with a highway stamp that culture cannot disguise;
    And his friends, I’ve found, in the streets abound, be they urchins or dogs or men;
    Yet he sticks to me with a fiendish glee, it is truly beyond my ken.

    I talk to him when I’m lonesome like and I’m sure that he understands
    When he looks at me so attentively and gently licks my hands;
    Then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say aught thereat,
    For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that!

    So my good old pal, my irregular dog, my flea-bitten, stub-tailed friend,
    Has become a part of my very heart, to be cherished till life-time’s end;
    And on Judgement Day, if I take the way that leads where the righteous meet,
    If my dog is barred by the heavenly guard—we’ll both of us brave the heat.