Newspaper History

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • The Pacifier

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When I comes home from work at night
        All tired out from minin’ coal,
    An’ black an’ sweaty to the sight
        I ain’t th’ gladdest kind of soul;
    Th’ world don’t make no hit with me,
        I’m mighty weary with my lot,
    An’ every bloomin’ thing I see
        Just seems to feed th’ grouch I’ve got.

    I cusses at my daily work,
        I damn the pitboss to the pit,
    I thinks of all th’ dust an’ murk
        Of minin’—an’ I cusses it;
    I thinks, “Us miners ain’t no men,
        We’re pore dumb beasts that’s hitched and drove;”
    I starts once more to swear—an’ then
        I smells th’ supper on th’ stove!

    It mebbe ain’t so very much
        (A miner ain’t no millionaire),
    But when I scents that stew an’ such
        I—well, I half forgets to swear.
    From worries an’ from troubles, too,
        My thoughts begin to stray an’ rove,
    An’ life assumes a dif’runt hue,
        When I smells supper on th’ stove!

    An’ when they brings that supper in
        An’ wife an’ kids an’ me sets down,
    I finds a sort of pleasant grin
        Has chased away my ugly frown;
    I puts away all thought of strife,
        My appetite I gives the call,
    An’ thinks, “Oh well, this miner’s life
        Ain’t nothin’ awful, after all!”

  • Money

    From the Newark Evening Star, November 24, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    I would like to have money and all it will buy,
        But I never will lie to obtain it;
    For wealth I am eager and ready to try,
        But there’s much that I won’t do to gain it.
    I won’t spend my life in a money-mad chase,
        And I’ll never work children to win it;
    I won’t interfere with another man’s race,
        Though millions, perhaps, may be in it.

    There are prosperous things that are crusted with shame
        That I vow I will never engage in.
    There is many a crooked and dishonest game
        With a large and a glittering wage in,
    But I want to walk out with my head held erect,
        Nor bow it and sneakingly turn it;
    Above all your money I place self-respect;
        I’m eager for gold—but I’ll earn it.

  • In and Out

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 31, 1914.

    “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!”
        He sang the old refrain,
    The man on whom the public calls
        To toil with might and main.
    He stepped into his palace grand,
        And then he heard a shout,
    In accents of succinct command,
        The warning, “This way out!”

    The statesman or the warrior bold
        Strives on from year to year,
    Until before his eyes unfold
        The scenes of pomp and cheer.
    And when he seeks the sweet repose
        He earned, beyond a doubt,
    Fate all his dreaming overthrows,
        And hollers, “This way out!”

  • A Michigan Lament

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 30, 1914.

    Let the flowers die by the wayside,
        For why should they live while I
    Am dying of love unrequited
        With a tear in my hazel eye?
    As I laid my fair head on his bosom,
        And put my small hand in his hand,
    I detected the odor of perfume—
        I knew it was Natalie’s brand.

    O, the birdies are resting in treetops,
        The insects are wooing in flowers,
    Girls are dreaming behind counters in city shops,
        While grief, bitter grief, fills my hours.

    O, Natalie, Natalie, Natalie,
        How could you treat me so?
    That little spray of perfumery
        Has ruined a young life with woe.
    And soon the black Kalamazoo river,
        With the stars shining brightly above,
    Will be the white shroud of a maiden
        Who could not live without love.

  • The Bitter Wit

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 20, 1914.

    To speak unkindly isn’t wit,
        To say things that wound the heart
    Is never clever—not a bit.
        Though at the time you think it smart,
    Far better is it to remain
        As silent as a marble bust
    Than speak and leave a track of pain
        Behind a smiling, bitter thrust.

    The poisoned barb within a jest
        That leaves a fellow being hurt
    Is not a cleverness the test,
        Nor of a brain that is alert.
    To gibe at age or private scars,
        Or sacred griefs proclaims the cad
    And he who does it sadly mars
        The laughter that should leave us glad.

    Unkindness isn’t wit at all,
        There’s little humor in a sneer.
    One cannot drench his speech in gall
        And seek to laugh away the tear.
    And he who poisons thus the gay
        Is just as cowardly as he
    Who kicks a cripple’s crutch away
        And laughs his helplessness to see.

  • The Death the Soldier Dies

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 5, 1914. By Robert Burns Wilson.

    Such is the death the soldier dies;
        He falls, the column speeds away;
    Upon the dabbled grass he lies,
        His brave heart following still, the fray.

    The smoke wreaths drift among the trees,
        The battle storms along the hill;
    The glint of distant arms he sees,
        He hears his comrades shouting still.

    A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
        And vanish in the roiling din;
    He knows the sweeping charge is made,
        The cheering lines are closing in.

    Unmindful of his mortal wound,
        He faintly calls and seeks to rise;
    But weakness drags him to the ground.
        Such is the death the soldier dies.

  • He Did It

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 19, 1914.

    Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
        But he, with a chuckle, replied,
    That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
        Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
    So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
        On his face. If he worried he hid it.
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    Somebody scoffed, “Oh, you’ll never do that,
        At least no one ever has done it,”
    But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
        And the first thing he knew he’d begun it.
    With the lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
        If any doubt rose he forbid it;
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done;
        There are thousands who prophesy failure;
    There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
        The dangers that wait to assail you.
    But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
        Then take off your coat and go to it.
    Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

  • When Some One Cares

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 10, 1914.

    When you meet some disappointment, an’ yer feelin’ kinda blue;
    When yer plans have all got sidetracked er some friend has proved untrue;
    When yer toiling, praying, struggling at the bottom uv the stairs—
    It is like a panacea—jest to know that some one cares.

    Some one who can appreciate one’s efforts when he tries;
    Some one who seems to understand—an’ so can sympathize;
    Some one who, when he’s far away, still wonders how he fares—
    Some one who never can forget—some one who really cares.

    It will send a thrill of rapture through the framework uv the heart;
    It will stir the inner bein’ till the tear drops want to start;
    For this life is worth the livin’, when some one yer sorrow shares—
    Life is truly worth the livin’, when you know that some one cares.

    Oh, this world is not all sunshine—many day’s hard clouds disclose;
    There’s a cross for ev’ry joy bell, an’ a thorn for ev’ry rose;
    But the cross is not so grievous, ner the thorn the rosebud wears—
    An’ the clouds have silver linin’s—when some one really cares.

  • The Two Glasses

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 9, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.
    One was ruddy and red as blood,
    And one was clear as the crystal flood.

    Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
    “Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
    I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
    Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;
    For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
    Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
    From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
    From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
    I have blasted many an honored name;
    I have taken virtue and given shame;
    I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
    That has made his future a barren waste.
    Far greater than any king am I,
    Or than any army beneath the sky.
    I have made the arm of the driver fail,
    And sent the train from the iron rail.
    I have made good ships go down at sea,
    And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
    Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
    Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,
    “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”

    Said the glass of water, “I cannot boast
    Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
    But I can tell of hearts that were sad
    By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
    Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
    Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
    I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
    Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
    I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
    And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
    I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
    I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
    I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
    That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.
    I can tell of manhood debased by you,
    That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
    I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
    I gladden the heart of man and maid;
    I set the wine-chained captive free,
    And all are better for knowing me.”

    These are the tales they told each other,
    The glass of wine and its paler brother,
    As they sat together, filled to the brim,
    On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.

  • The Gipsy’s Warning

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 1, 1914.

    Trust him not, O gentle lady,
        Though his voice be low and sweet;
    Heed not him who kneels before thee,
        Softly pleading at thy feet;
    Now thy life is in its morning,
        Cloud not this, thy happy lot.
    Listen to the gipsy’s warning—
        Gentle lady, trust him not.

    Lady, once there lived a maiden,
        Young and pure, and like thee, fair;
    Yet he wooed, and wooed and won her,
        Thrilled her gentle heart with care—
    Then—he heeded not her weeping—
        He cared not her life to save!
    Soon she perished—now she’s sleeping
        In the cold and silent grave!

    Lady, turn not from me so coldly,
        For I have only spoke the truth—
    From a stern and withering sorrow,
        Lady, I would shield thy youth;
    I would shield thee from all danger—
        Shield thee from the tempter’s snare;
    Lady, shun the dark-eyed stranger—
        I have warned thee; now, beware!

    Take your gold—I do not want it;
        Lady, I have prayed for this—
    For the hour that I might foil him,
        And rob him of expected bliss.
    Aye, I see thou art filled with wonder
        At my looks so fierce and wild—
    Lady, in the churchyard yonder
        Sleeps the gipsy’s only child!