From the Rock Island Argus, November 14, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I always want to read a book When I have work on hand. A most alluring volume then Is lying on the stand. If I have nothing on my mind And work is rather slack The selfsame book a week can lie Unopened on the rack. How tempting when I ought to be So busy making hay Is any book that happens to By lying in my way! I want to cast my pen aside And take a furtive look For just about a half an hour In that alluring book. It doesn’t matter to me what The volume is about. It may be poetry or prose, A treatise on the gout, A little book on fancy work, On how to till the land, Just so it serves to turn me from The work I have in hand. But that is not the worst of it— Oh, no, that isn’t all!— For when temptation thus appears The truth is that I fall. Nor do I read for half an hour And then the covers bang— I keep it up for half a day And let the work go hang!
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
-
Temptation
-
The Arrow Head
From The Washington Herald, November 13, 1912. By Calvin Dill Wilson. They loved their land, broad set between the seas; They hunted, fought, and roamed in careless ease; In native joys the fearless years were spent— The red men owned and ruled a continent; And when we drove them back with hissing lead They left this lasting sign, the arrow head. By storm or glowing sky their souls were stirred; They knew and dearly prized each beast and bird; Their human hearts held love for maidens fair; The warrior gave his child a brave man’s care; Another race has come their land to tread; Of Indian braves there’s left the arrow head. The bark canoe the restless waters skimmed; The hunter watched his prey with eyes undimmed; He mastered nature for his simple need; He reared a daring race of strongest breed; And now into devouring night he’s fled, And left no sign but this, his arrow head. We might have spared to him his valiant pride, Or left him breathing space in land so wide; We something might have learned of him, the free— We owed him manhood, spirit, liberty; But, cruel, we o’er all his soil have spread; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. The panther-footed, lithesome Indian brave We thought not worth our while to try to save. But welcomed hither hordes of king-crushed souls, The worn-out serfs who cringed to lords for doles; We gave an eagle race the grave as bed; Our fields yet hold his sign, the arrow head. He passes, cowed and scorned; we, careless, read Unmoved his tale. “A savage! Let him bleed And eat his heart and weep and swiftly go; Our strength’s our right. The tale is old.” E’en so! For him no tears, no honor! Ghosts have sped; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. We pick the flaked flints from far and near; Museums hold them. “Weapons? Tools? How queer!” Yet, aimed with flashing eye and iron arm, Once flew that flint to keep his child from harm, Or oft it felled the deer that wife be fed; A heart’s own tale has every arrow head. All rich he was, most rich; we made him poor; His ways to him were good; his meat was sure; His tribe was all—we made him stand alone; We could have given bread, we gave a stone. We’re rich, but he has well-nigh vanished— And yet his sign abides, his arrow head. Look on that sign of his once mastery; Have pity now, before he die, all ye; Yet breathe upon the embers of his pride; Restore his manhood ere it quite has died; Be just; take thought, lest we be visited, And fate smite us as with his arrow head. Some day avenging fate may string its bow, And pluck the fields for flints, take aim, and so Send singing on the winds the feather reeds, Straight sighted, true, to smite us for our deeds— Through foes return the ill our lives have bred— And to our hearts send deep the arrow head.
-
A Picture
From The Topeka State Journal, November 12, 1912. By Alice E. Allen. I’ve a little picture— Artist? No one knows— Just a winding country road Where a glad wind blows; With a bit of forest, Cool and green and still Set against a morning sky, Rose and daffodil. There’s a brook that dances Underneath a bridge; There’s a wood-thrush singing Somewhere up the ridge. All the wind is honey-sweet With the wild sweet clover. ’Tis the place to pause and dream All your old dreams over. Oh, I wish that artist Somehow could be told Of the happiness he’s hid In his skies of gold; Could but know the joy it is Just to drop your load, And to go a-wandering Up his forest road.
-
On the Move
From the Rock Island Argus, November 11, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Some are going farther south For a climate new; Some seek cooler northern lands To their strength renew; Some are hiking for the west After health and fame; Western men are going east With the selfsame aim. Some from Mexico are bound For Alaska’s shore; From the north some journey down Where the gulf waves roar; On the warm Pacific slope Some are there from Maine; Others from the far, far west Take the eastern train. In the town where they were born Very few remain. Others come and take their place In the hope of gain. And their paths are often crossed, Touching here and there, As they zigzag back and forth Going everywhere. What a restless age it is For the man perplexed. Stopping first in this man’s town, Striking for the next! Don’t you wish that you could have Planted safe and sound Half the money that it costs For this running round?
-
Dan and Tim and Pat
From The Washington Herald, November 10, 1912. By John Anschute. Dan would have wooed either Madge or Ann If it had not been that Each girl had another suitor: there Was Tim and there was Pat. Dan met his rival Tim one day—said Tim to Dan with a frown: “I’ll throw up a brick and you can court Madge, if it don’t come down.” Tim threw the brick, Dan lost the girl; ’Twas a cinch for him, of course. But Dan didn’t mind it. “Tim,” said he, “I’ll wurk that trick on Pat Bourse.” Dan and Pat stood talking loudly Near an unfinished brick wall, All unmindful of the mortar the masons Above let fall. “We looks aloike to Ann,” said Pat, “an’ The wan that gets her han’ Will have t’ foight an’ whip the other Wan. Do you understand?” “Yes!” said Dan, “but there’s a better way; I learnt it from Tim Troors; I’ll throw a brick up in the air; if the Brick stays up she’s yoors.” “Agreed!” said Pat, and up flew the brick. “O what a cinch!” said Dan; “I’ll go straight way an’ buy the ring, T’ give t’ me Mary Ann.” When the brick had spent its force ’Twas close to the top of the wall; A bricklayer caught and layed it in. Of course, it did not fall. “A fool for luck!” said Dan to Pat, with Passion rough and stormy; “The brick stayed up, bad cuss t’ Troors; Oim goin’ t’ join the ormy.”
-
The Plains of Mexico
From the New York Tribune, November 9, 1912. By C. Fox Smith. There’s a country wide and weary, and a scorching sun looks down On the thirsty cattle ranges and a queer old Spanish town, And it’s there my heart goes roving by the trails I used to know; Dusty trails by camps deserted where the tinkling mule trains go, On the sleepy sunlit ranges and the plains of Mexico. Is it only looking backward that the past seems now so fair? Was the sun then somehow brighter, was there something in the air Made no day seem ever weary, never hour that went too slow, When we rode the dusty ranges on the plains of Mexico? Then the long, hot, scented evenings, and the fiddle’s squeaky tune, When we danced with Spanish lasses underneath the golden moon, Girls with names all slow and splendid, hot as fire and cold as snow, In the spicy summer night time on the plains of Mexico. I am growing tired and lonely, and the town is dull and strange— I am restless for the open sky and wandering wings that range; I will get me forth a-roving, I will get me out and go, But no more, no more my road is to the plains of Mexico. For the sun is on the plateau, and the dusty trails go down By the same old cactus hedges to the sleepy Spanish town, But I’ll never find my comrade that I lost there long ago, Never, never more (O, lad I loved loved and left a-lying low!) Where the coward bullet took him on the plains of Mexico.
-
After Rud Kip
From The Topeka State Journal, November 8, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. When the husband meets his helpmeet every morning in debate, And he’s trying to explain to her why he was out so late, There never is any question that his arguments will fail, For the female of the species can talk longer than the male. When the argument is hottest and they get down to brass tacks, And they land each other’s relatives a lot of pungent whacks; You would think that hers were angels and that his should be in jail, For the female of the species can think faster than the male. When they’re whacking up the boodle that he’s earned throughout the week, And deciding how to spend it, he’s a pretty helpless geek; It is hard for him to look at his percentage of the kale, For the female of the species can grab quicker than the male. When they do their weekly shopping and they linger ‘round the store, Till the husband thinks that living is a most decided bore; She can take her a 50-cent piece and get dry goods by the bale, For the female of the species can buy cheaper than the male. When it comes to information on the gossip of the day, On the neighborhood activities and things that people say, She has got her husband beaten when she gets up on the trail, For the female of the species can “hear” lots more than the male.
-
Responsibility
From The Seattle Star, November 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us, However we may try to shift the shame, It’s you and I that really are to blame If things are in a tangle and a muss. If Might is Right, if Goodness yields to Greed, If Mammon thrives, and God is quite forgot, If evil reigns in many a beauty spot, It is because We have not taken heed. The wrongs that live are those we tolerate Because we have not tried to make them right; If Darkness rules where Justice calls for Light, If Love is trampled out by Wrath and Hate, If little children toll and women slave, If some men starve while others feast and waste, If Truth is lost and Liberty disgraced, If millions fast from childhood to the grave, It is because, for all our noise and fuss, We stay content with matters as they are, We have the final choice to make or mar— Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us!
-
My Boy
From The Topeka State Journal, November 6, 1912. By Olive Martin. Gone is the loud din and noise, Put away are all the toys. All youthful things are out of sight, One can’t find a ball or kite. No cap lays on the parlor chair, No jacket on the front hall stair. No one slams the kitchen door, No one spots the hallway floor. I strain my ears to catch the sound Of footsteps down the stairway bound, But all is quiet overhead; I cannot hear the slightest tread. I miss my boy’s loud, cheery call, His whistle, merriment and all. I miss the boyish face so dear, The big gray eyes, serene and clear. You wonder that I am not sad And that my heart is very glad? You think I should regretful be, And in my loss no goodness see? To you the secret I will tell, Assuring you with me all’s well; My boy has grown to manhood tall, So I am happy after all.
-
Grandpa and Me
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 5, 1912. My grandpa says that he was once A little boy like me. I s’pose he was, and yet it does Seem queer to think that he Could ever get my jacket on Or shoes, or like to play With games, and toys, and race with Duke, As I do every day. He’s come to visit us, you see, Nurse says I must be good And mind my manners, as a child With such a grandpa should. For grandpa’s very straight and tall, And very dignified. He knows most all there is to know, And other things beside. So, though my grandpa knows so much I thought that maybe boys Were things he hadn’t studied They make such an awful noise. But when at dinner I asked for Another piece of pie, I thought I saw a twinkle In the corner of his eye. So yesterday, when they went out, And left us two alone I was not quite so much surprised To find how nice he’d grown. You should have seen us romp and run; My, now I almost see That perhaps he was long, long ago A little boy like me.