Newspaper History

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • In the Garden of My Heart

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 23, 1914. By Caro Roma.

    We never miss the sunshine, until the shadows fall.
    We ne’er regret the bitter words, till passed beyond recall.
    We never miss the laughter, until the eyes are wet—
    We never miss the happiness, till love’s bright sun has set.

    We never miss the singing, until the birds have flown.
    We never miss the blossoms, until the spring has gone.
    We never miss our joyousness, till sorrow bids us wake.
    We never know we have a heart, till it begins to break.

    Dear love, bring back the sunshine, my bitter words forget.
    Bring back the old-time happiness, my eyes with tears are wet.
    Bring back the birds’ soft singing, dear love, why should we part?
    Bid springtime blossoms bloom again in the garden of my heart.

  • The Modern Polonius

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 22, 1914.

    It never pays to whine, my son;
        The world has little time to hear
    Complaints from those who have not won
        The prizes that are scarce and dear.
    The man who haunts a gloomy nook
        Is never cheered and seldom praised;
    Assume an air and try to look
        As if your pay had just been raised.

    It never pays, my son, to let
        Your neighbor see your empty purse,
    Nor will it help your case to fret
        When things have gone from bad to worse;
    When luck deserts you, as it will,
        Conceal the fact from foe and friend
    And try to look as if you still
        Had money that you wished to spend.

    It never pays, my son, to show
        That fear is lurking in your breast;
    When trouble weighs your spirit low
        ’Tis time to smile your merriest.
    I cannot tell you how to strut
        With pride when trouble crushes you,
    Or how to laugh while grieving, but
        I know it is the thing to do.

  • Wolf Tone’s Grave

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 18, 1914. By Thomas Davis.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Small shelter, I ween,
        Are the ruined walls there
    When the storm sweeps down
        On the plains of Kildare.

    Once I stood on the sod
        That lies over Wolfe Tone;
    And I thought how he perished
        In prison alone.
    His friends unavenged,
        And his country unfreed,
    “Oh, bitter,” I said,
        “Is the Patriot’s meed.”

    For in him the heart
        Of a woman combined
    With heroic spirit
        And a governing mind.
    A martyr for Ireland,
        His grave has no stone,
    His name seldom named,
        And his virtues unknown.

    As I stood there I heard
        Both the voices and tread
    Of a band who came into
        The home of the dead.
    They carried no corpse,
        Nor they carried no stone, 
    But they stopped when they came
        To the grave of Wolfe Tone.

    There were students and peasants,
        The wise and the brave,
    And an old man who knew him
        From cradle to grave.
    The children there thought me
        Hard-hearted, for they
    On that sanctified sod
        Were forbidden to play.

    But the old man who saw
        I was mourning there said,
    “We’ve come, sir, to weep
        Where young Wolf Tone is laid.
    And we’re going to build him
        A monument too,
    A plain one, yet fit for
        The simple and true.”

    My heart overflowed,
        And I clasped his old hand,
    And I blessed him, and blessed
        Every one of his band.
    Sweet, sweet tis to find
        That such faith can remain
    To the cause and the man
        So long vanquished and slain.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Far better they suit him
        The ruin and gloom,
    Till Ireland, a nation,
        Can build him a tomb.

  • When the Birds Go North Again

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 21, 1914. By Ella Higginson.

    Oh, every year hath its winter,
        And every year hath its rain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    When new leaves swell in the forest
        And grass springs green on the plain,
    And the alder’s veins turn crimson
        And the birds go north again.

    Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
        And every heart hath its pain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    ’Tis the sweetest thing to remember
        If courage be on the wane,
    When the cold, dark days are over—
        Why, the birds go north again.

  • A Dozen Men in One

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 6, 1914. By Thomas F. Porter.

    How many men fail of success
    And bring upon themselves distress,
    Because year after year they wait
    Ere they their powers concentrate.
    They flit about on roving wing
    And never stick to anything;
    So of each task they undertake
    A failure they are sure to make.

    A while they work with zeal intense,
    But soon a different task commence,
    When, meeting with some slight reverse,
    They change again, perhaps to worse;
    And so they turn about, and shift,
    With no direction idly drift,
    And think, like many another dunce
    To be a dozen men at once.

    Noting how little some folks work,
    Their tasks they are inclined to shirk;
    Seeing how others forge ahead,
    To follow them they oft are led;
    Unsuited to the work, they fail,
    And then at Fate they wrongly rail,
    Or, making but a slight advance
    Claim that they never had a chance.

    Though there are dangers in a rut,
    To this our eyes we must not shut:
    If we in some one line would win,
    At once our task we must begin,
    And not too much our powers divide
    Upon a thousand things outside;
    Nor e’er attempt, in work or fun,
    To be a dozen men in one.

  • Still Waters

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 5, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    Kitty never had no use for men,
        Seemed to us she’d rather read an’ sew;
    None of us could ever point to when
        She had ever entertained a beau.
    Every time a feller came to call,
        Kitty never had a word to say,
    Never even showed him to the hall
        When at 10 o’clock he went away.

    Jim, we used to think, was jes’ as queer,
        Women used to scare him to a chill;
    When the girls come visitin’ us here
        He jes’ spent the evenin’ sittin’ still.
    “Women ain’t fer me,” he used to say,
        “I can’t get accustomed to their ways,”
    Then he’d grab his hat an’ run away
        Jes’ as though his mind was in a daze.

    Jim an’ Kitty scarcely ever spoke,
        Least we never saw ‘em, if they did;
    Never heard ‘em ever pass a joke.
        Much beneath still waters, though, is hid.
    Both of ‘em lived on the farm for years,
        Never once we saw ‘em arm in arm;
    But you shouldn’t judge from what appears,
        Leastwise if you’re livin’ on a farm.

    Kitty disappeared one mornin’ bright,
        All that day we looked in vain for Jim;
    But they both came back again at night,
        Kitty, smiling, hand in hand with him.
    Seemed they both had tired of single life,
        So she said, while brushing back the tears,
    Parson Brown had made ‘em man an’ wife,
        An’ they’d been engaged for twenty years.