From the Rock Island Argus, October 5, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. And this woman, soft of voice, Of whom the poets sung, Who in the ages long ago Was forced to hold her tongue. Good sooth but she is making up And paying back the debt Piled up through all those silent years! Behold the suffragette! Our mother sat around and smiled When men in meeting rose, And when they grandly aired their views Her tongue was in repose. But now the words so long suppressed No longer clog her throat. She fires them out with emphasis And says she wants a vote. No longer will she sit at ease And let him have his way About affairs of church and state, For she will have her say. For when there is a talking fest You find her in the swim, And oftentimes, to his dismay, She knows as much as him. Yes, woman, you have grown a bit And learned a lot of things. You fly as high as any one Since you have spread your wings. Is it for better or for worse? We can’t exactly say: But, though man is a little dazed, He likes you anyway.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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The Suffragette
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The Silvery Lining
From the Rock Island Argus, October 4, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. There’s no use in moaning In weeping and groaning. The sun may be shining Ere yet it is noon. His warm rays may cheer you And hope nestle near you, So cease your repining And look for it soon. Make end to the sighing For swift years are flying And joy at your casement Is calling to you. Make haste, then, to meet it. Go smiling to greet it. Give care its effacement And hide it from view. Oh, turn your face sunward And listen for one word, A message of sweetness, Of love pure and true! Be happy, my dearie; Be smiling and cheery, And then with completeness Will joy come to you.
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The Upstream Pull
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 3, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit. It’s easy when you’re drifting with the current down the stream, When the oars are shipped beside you and the laughing waters gleam; When there’s naught to do but idle in the cushioned seat and bask In the happy, glowing sunshine while the water does the task. But there comes a sudden waking from the fancy and the dream When the time arrives that someone has to pull against the stream. The fellow who’s contented while the current bears him on Finds that every mile he travels shows a wished-for haven gone; Finds the water bears him softly where the waiting chances lie, But unless he does some rowing it will swiftly bear him by; Finds that down the stream the niches that he looks for are all full, And that if he’d seek the right one he must turn about and pull. But it’s easy—very easy—just to float along and dream, Yet the man some time discovers that he cannot float upstream, And he learns, too, that the world is full of folks that like to drift, But the farther down the river there the current grows more swift; And he also learns in sorrow that successful ones would seem To have no use for the fellow who will never pull upstream.
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Mother’s Pumpkin Pie
From the Bisbee Daily Review, October 2, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Some folks prefer the fancy grub they serve at swell cafes, And cookin’ by a foreign chef is really quite a craze. The bill of fare, in fancy French, they like to take in hand To demonstrate that they can make the waiter understand. They order up a high toned meal that may be very fine, But when it comes to eatin’ good, I want no French in mine. I like the good old-fashioned meal, not like the kind you buy. It ends up with a great big slice of mother’s pumpkin pie. We always start in with the soup that is so lickin’ good, That everyone is helped again—that’s always understood. And then we have a husky roast and fixin’s family style, With sweet potatoes, hubbard squash, and father’s bound to pile Enough on every feller’s plate to last him for a week, And we all eat till we can hardly think or breathe or speak. But e’en at that we have to save some space, for bye and bye The climax of the meal must come, in mother’s pumpkin pie. They talk about the joys of wealth and how to live in style, But I am glad that I must live the old way for a while; There’s no dyspepsia in the house when mother’s on the job, No indigestion, dizzy spells or gout araisin’ hob, The meals are always served just right in winter, spring and fall. I like the whole year’s bill of fare, but one thing best of all— When I am through with earthly things and take my place on high, It won’t seem just like heaven without mother’s pumpkin pie.
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Song of the Road
From the Rock Island Argus, October 1, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I love the open road that down The river winds away And reaches on from town to town Through fields with flowers gay, That offers here and there a nook Beneath a shady tree Where proper folk ne’er think to look Nor prying eye may see. I love the high and open sky; I love it when it’s gray. I love the swallows as they fly, The fishes when they play. I love the crashing thunderstorm When ‘neath a stack content, All snuggled up, serene and warm, I watch it till it’s spent. I love the wind that comes and goes With soft and slumb’rous sigh And flutters hollyhock and rose Whene’er it passes by. It kisses tramp and money king Alike in open day. The praises of the road I sing And tramp upon my way.
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The Smiler
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 30, 1912. There’s an idiotic fellow, whom I meet where’er I go; He’s the crazy kind of fellow all the little children know. You wouldn’t think him silly from his manner nor his style; Still, it seems, he must be foolish, for he always wears a smile. When the way is long and weary and load is hard to bear; When you’re weighted down with trouble and there’s no one seems to care, That’s the time this foolish fellow comes a-singing up the road, With a word and smile to cheer you and to help you with your load. With his smiling “Buck up, partner, ‘cause we’re bound to pull it through; Though your load’s too big for one man, it’s a little load for two.” And you feel yourself uplifted with the strength to play your part, With his arm to aid your body and his smile to brace your heart. No, he hasn’t got ambition, but his life-work never ends; He knows a million people, and he’s got a million friends. He doesn’t strive for fame and wealth, he hasn’t got a goal; He’s just a simple fellow, with God’s sunshine in his soul. Yes, he’s just a foolish fellow, with the eyes that cannot see All the misery and sadness that are plain to you and me, But he knows the joy of living, all that makes the world worth while; And I’d like to be as foolish as the man behind the smile.
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The Distant Hymn
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. In a throbbing cadence, Through the twilight dim, In a crooning murmur, Comes an olden hymn. Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet, While the mellow echoes Whispering, repeat. Organ-tones and voices— Perfectly they blend, Till we fall to hoping That they will not end— That the lulling measures May drift on and on, Till they greet the rapture Of the glowing dawn. Rich and low and tender, On the air of night, Wafting with it incense, Bringing us delight, Comes the wordless music From the far away, Lending newer glory To the dying day. Thus may all the singing Echo to the throne, Like this hymn at twilight, Into beauty grown— Like this mellow music, Perfect and complete, Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet.
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Look Who’s Here!
From The Tacoma Times, September 28, 1912. By Berton Braley. Now we are back to the months with the “r” in ‘em; Now are the bivalves again to the fore; Restaurant cooks on the menus are starrin’ ‘em; Oysters are back to their glory once more, Raw on the halfshell or stewed most deliciously, Skewered with bacon or temptingly fried, Ah, how we welcome them! How expeditiously Food such as this is invited inside! Doubtless there’s plenty of germs to avoid in ‘em, Microbes of everything under the sun, Cholera, ptomaine and double typhoid in ‘em; Still, now the season again has begun, We will take chances on what we may meet in ‘em, Spite of the warnings of doctor and sage. Oysters are bully, and folks who have eaten’ ‘em Frequently live to a noble old age
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Convinced
From the Evening Star, September 27, 1912. By Philander Johnson. We had another speaker down to Pohick on the Crick. We all put on our Sunday clothes an’ had ‘em neat an’ slick. We waited for his eloquence to thrill us through an’ through Deliverin’ instructions on what nations ought to do. But he never stood before us on that platform strong and high! Before he struck the steps the Miggins baby caught his eye. He grabbed it from its mother an’ he held it up to view An’ shook his finger at it while he hollered “Coochy-coo!” You should have heard the cheerin’! We set up a mighty shout! You should have seen the way fond parents trotted babies out. An’ he never turned an eyelash. To the finish he was game. He took the little fellers an’ he treated all the same. We’ll vote for him for certain. Every mother in the town Will see that every father gets the proper ballot down; Though I must confess in private, I don’t understand—do you?— Why we’d send a man to office jes’ for sayin’ “Coochy-coo!”
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Hospitality
From The Seattle Star, September 26, 1912. By Berton Braley. Jenkins spent his money, Took me to a show, Took me out to dinner Where the big guns go, Bought me smokes in plenty, Blew his money free; Still I didn’t like his Hospitality. Barney gave me greeting Free of “froth and foam,” Smiled and beamed upon me, Took me to his home; Made me feel at ease there With his family; That’s the true and honest Hospitality. ‘Tisn’t in the splendor, ‘Tisn’t in the style, But in thoughtful kindness And the welcome smile. Money cannot buy it, Not for any fee; It’s a gift of nature— Hospitality.