Newspaper History

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • What the Bullet Sang

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 6, 1915. By Bret Harte.

    O joy of creation
        To be!
    O rapture to fly
        And be free!
    Be the battle lost or won,
    Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
    I shall find my love—the one
        Born for me!

    I shall know him where he stands
        All alone
    With the power in his hands
        Not o’erthrown;
    I shall know him by his face
    By his godlike front and grace;
    I shall hold him for a space
        All my own!

    It is he—O my love!
        So bold!
    It is I—all thy love
        Foretold!
    It is I! O love! What bliss!
    Dost thou answer to my kiss?
    O sweetheart! What is this
        Lieth there so cold?

  • The Bright Scenes of Nature

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 26, 1915. By J. McKenna.

    In the bright scenes of nature no greater delights
    Than the bright summer mornings and clear, cloudless nights,
    When we think of the beauty of land and of sea
    Then our hearts fill with gladness and happy are we.
    No picture, how skillful, will ever compare
    To the bright scenes of nature so charming and fair,
    The hills and the valleys, the clear running stream,
    All blending together in beauty serene.

    Let us gaze on the sun, on the sweet summer days
    When it shines in all splendor with bright golden rays.
    Once more let us turn to the sky in the West,
    Bright day is declining, all nature at rest.
    Let us list to the nightingale sing in the trees
    And inhale the sweet roses in June’s gentle breeze
    When we sail o’er the ocean, the moon sparkling bright,
    Reflects on the water its clear, silvery light.

    What joy and what pleasure when evening comes on
    To list to the strains of sweet music and song,
    To meet the dear friends that we all love so well
    In our dear native homestead, where happiness dwells.
    The bright scenes of nature and friends that we love
    Is a reflex of Heaven, the land up above.
    Soon springtime and summer once more will be here
    To bring joy and gladness, fond hopes and good cheer.

  • The Old, Old Song

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 24, 1915. By Charles Kingsley.

    When all the world is young, lad,
        And all the trees are green;
    And every goose a swan, lad,
        And every lass a queen;
    Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
        And round the world away;
    Young blood must have its course, lad,
        And every dog his day.

    When all the world is old, lad,
        And all the trees are brown;
    And all the sport is stale, lad,
        And all the wheels run down;
    Creep home, and take your place there,
        The spent and maimed among;
    God grant you find one face there
        You loved when all was young.

  • The Sorrowfullest Thing

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 19, 1915. By H. M.

    “This is the sorrowfullest thing to know,”
    The Persian said, “the coming of the woe,
        And have no power to stay
        The inevitable day.”

    But he who had the power to bless, and chose
    Iron and blood, and now foresees the close—
        I reckon such a king
        Earth’s sorrowfullest thing.

    He living plumbs the dark abyss of hell,
    Who shudders for the land he loves so well,
        And knows, beyond recall,
        Himself the cause of all.

  • The Girl That Mother Was

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 18, 1915. By Nancy Byrd Turner.

    When we travel back in summer to the old house by the sea
    Where long ago my mother lived, a little girl like me,
    I have the strangest notion that she still is waiting there,
    A small child in a pinafore, with a ribbon in her hair.
    I hear her in the garden when I go to pick a rose;
    She follows me along the path on dancing tipsy-toes;
    I hear her in the hayloft when the hay is slippery sweet—
    A rustle now, a scurry now, a sound of scampering feet;
    Yet though I sit as still as still, she never comes to me,
    The funny little laughing girl my mother used to be.

    Sometimes I nearly catch her as she dodges here and there,
    Her white dress fluttering round a tree or flashing up a stair;
    Sometimes I almost put my hand upon her apron strings—
    Then just before my fingers close, she’s gone again like wings.
    A sudden laugh, a scrap of song, a football on the lawn,
    And yet, no matter how I run, forever up and gone!
    A fairy or a firefly could hardly flit so fast.
    When we come home in summer, I’ve given up at last.
    Then I lay my cheek on mother’s. If there’s only one for me,
    I’d rather have her, anyway, than the girl she used to be!

  • ’Tis Life Beyond

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 8, 1915.

    I watched a sail until it dropped from sight
    Over a rounding sea. A gleam of white—
    A last far-flashed farewell, and like a thought
    Slipt out of mind, it vanished and was not.

    Yet to the helmsman standing at the wheel
    Broad seas still stretched beneath the gliding keel.
    Disaster? Change? He felt no slightest sign,
    Nor dreamed he of that far horizon line.

    So may it be, perchance, when down the tide
    Our dear ones vanish, peacefully they glide
    On level seas, nor mark the unknown bound.
    We call it death—to them ’tis life beyond.

  • Work the Blessing

    From the Newark Evening Star, January 16, 1915. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    Once I thanked God for many a glittering thing
        Which now I know was worthless and which passed
        With things forgotten and behind me cast,
    As I moved onward, borne by time’s swift wing,
    But never thought I then that work could be
        God’s gift, but rather, punishment it seemed;
        And often in my lonely hours I dreamed
    Of days when from its bond I should be free.

    But now I know that work is man’s best friend,
        Heaven’s highest blessing to a world like this;
        And now I ask no longer ease and bliss,
    But only this: “Give me until the end
    Strength for the needed toil as each day passes by.
    When I can work no longer let me die.

  • Little Johnnie’s Fears

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 21, 1914.

    Where we used to live we had
        A fireplace, big and wide,
    An’ all that Santy had to do
        Was hold his breath an’ slide,
    An’ squeeze hisself until he fit
        The hole, an’ then jest drop—
    An’ he knowed where the stockin’s was,
        ‘Cause that was where he’d stop.

    Where we used to live it was
        No trick for him to climb
    Up to the chimbly on the roof
        An’ find us, Christmas-time;
    But now I’m worryin’ for fear
        He won’t know where he’s at,
    Or mebbe can’t get in at all!
        We’re livin’ in a flat.

    We’re livin’ in a flat, an’ say,
        You mus’ be mos’ polite,
    Or else the janitor he’ll go
        An’ lock you out at night!
    There ain’t no chimbly to our house
        Where Santy Claus can slide—
    There ain’t no fireplace—just a pipe
        About two inches wide.

    They heat our flat with steam—that’s why
        I’m afraid he can’t get in
    With all his toys, an’ drums an’ things,
        Unless he’s awful thin;
    An’ how’s he gon’ to wiggle out
        When he gets in? Gee whiz!
    There’s such an awful little hole
        There where the sizzle is!

  • The Children Santa Claus Forgets

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 14, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    When the happy little children, up along the avenue
    Hark for Santa Claus’s coming down the yawning chimney flue,
    There’ll be other little children, in another part of town
    Where the streets are dark and grimy and the houses tumble down,
    Looking through the dingy windows toward the snowflake speckled sky,
    Wondering if they will see him when he comes careering by.

    Ragged, dirty little children, yet as eager for the joys
    That will come to countless houses with the Christmas morning toys,
    As the vastly happier children who awaken every year
    To the news from down the staircase: “Mr. Santa Claus was here!”
    Gaunt and pallid little children, oh so pitiful to see,
    But as hungry to be happy as all children ought to be.

    Such a little would delight them, just a trifling toy or two,
    Just one real old-fashioned Christmas that would make their dreams come true.
    Tell old Santa Claus about them, show the old man where they live,
    Let him leave them all the good things that he likes so well to give,
    Then go ‘round on Christmas morning, and you’ll find it’s well worth while;
    For the best of all investments is to buy a baby’s smile.

  • Modernized Methods

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 5, 1914. By E. A. Brinistool.

    When my wife brought the baby up,
        She followed modernized advice.
    She sterilized each spoon and cup,
        And fumigated all the ice.

    Each toy and plaything ‘round the place
        Received a boric acid bath—
    Yes, wife did rigidly embrace
        The so-called prophylactic path.

    The child received three baths a day
        In water which had been distilled
    Wife clung to the new-fangled way—
        All microbe larvae must be killed.

    The picture books were clarified
        In royal antiseptic style
    By hot air, purged and rarified
        Devoid of all bacilli vile.

    Yet our babe lacks the healthy look
        Of that small filthy Bronson boy
    Who plays down there beside the brook,
        And makes mud pies with childish joy.

    His eyes shine like the stars at night
        He’s dirty but is well and strong.
    My wife declares he is a “fright,”
        And yet, somehow, I fear she’s wrong.