From The Seattle Star, September 25, 1912. By Berton Braley. The burglar in the story book Is really quite a noble crook. He’s sure to be a gentleman Upon whose high-bred face you scan A goodliness that seems to shine With every motive pure and fine. His clothes are always very smart And, my! He has a tender heart. A baby always makes him quit His burgling in the midst of it, And if a lady, young and slim, Should meet him in the hallway dim, He tells her all about his life— A bitter struggle, full of strife— And leaves the house, his bosom warm With brave endeavor to reform. Ah, yes, he is a pleasing crook, The burglar in the story book. Alas, for story-book repute, The real-life burglar is a brute. He is not cultured, swell or smart; He has a hard and ruthless heart. For sentiment he has no time. There is no glamour to his crime, And if he meets you in the hall He’ll doubtless murder you, that’s all. He’s pretty tough and bad and low, The burglar that policemen know.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Burglars
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A Wise Nonadvertiser
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 24, 1912. By W. J. Lampton. There was a man in our town And he was wondrous wise; He opened many places, yet He wouldn’t advertise. He thought it foolish to announce His business as some think They ought to do, and said he had No need of printer’s ink. Promotion of publicity He said, was something which The more he had of, that much less His chance of getting rich. He said he’d studied it and knew That advertising would Beyond the shadow of a doubt Do more harm than good. Indeed, this man in our town Was truly wondrous wise; He was a burglar, which is why He didn’t advertise.
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Trouble Enough
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 23, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. We do not need to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow; We’ll find enough to worry us before we’re through today; We waste our time in fretting O’er what’s to come, forgetting The goodness and the gladness that are rich along the way. We do not need to ponder On what we left back yonder— Back yonder on the blotted page that tells of yesterday; We should recall the gladness, And not bring up the sadness, But let the gloom go to the dark and let the sunshine stay. This casting up of trouble Will only make it double— Will only wilt the flowers that are sweet along the road. This thing of being tearful Instead of waxing cheerful Because of what has gone, will only add unto our load. So, what’s the use to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow, Or clutch the sorrows that we thought were ours on yesterday? Today will have its fretting, But let us go, forgetting And joy will overtake us while we walk along the way.
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Building of the Temple
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 22, 1912. By A. W. Peach. With hammers ringing on the lofty frame The unknown millions toil within the din, And seek no end of leisure or of fame, But simple happiness they hope to win. The great dome mounts to meet the watching stars Wide as the spinning earth from zone to zone And far upon the upper beams and bars The dreamers and truth seekers work alone. They toil with faith in One who yet above Has planned the structure’s ever rising height With wisdom more than man’s and deeper love, With hope that they are mounting to His sight. Through centuries the ceaseless hammers ring; Though once they paused when stilled by hate and strife, Now evermore the workmen toil and sing, And stroke by stroke is wrought the temple life.
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Happy Days
From the Evening Star, September 21, 1912. By Philander Johnson. Oh, happy was the childhood hour When Father paid the bills And left us free to grasp the flower That blossomed on the hills! Those were the days in which we took No thought of taxes high, Nor feared the grafter or the crook Who might be drawing nigh. Three meals per day were always there; So was the dwelling place. We thought that Father’s greatest care Was simply to say grace. And so we wandered light and free, Without a trace of woe, Each had no thoughts save those of glee, Unless he stubbed his toe. Now greater wisdom bids us pause And grateful memory thrills. We were so happy then because Dear Father paid the bills.
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The Poor Tool
From The Tacoma Times, September 20, 1912. By Berton Braley. Of all of the nuisances known unto man Since old Doctor Noah saw land, The worst it has been my misfortune to scan Is always right near to my hand; And though I have tried it again and again, I never shall care for the postoffice pen. It’s sticky and clotted and gummy and old, It’s cluttered with shavings and hair; In damp, muggy weather it’s covered with mould, And though you may handle with care, You’ll find, when you’re through, that your fingers — all ten Are blackened with ink from the postoffice pen. It scratches and sputters and stutters in spots, It spatters your cuffs and your sleeve; It tears through the paper, it smudges and blots, And a trail of distress it will leave; For never in all of humanity’s ken Could anyone WRITE with a postoffice pen.
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The Observer
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 19, 1912. I like to sit beside the road A-waitin’ fur the mail. Each day the driver will unload His treasures, without fail. And, be the weather dry or wet, A-standin’ in the row, Amanda Boggs is there to get A letter from her beau. I’ve watched her now fur quite a while, An’ lately I perceive She’s lost her laughin’, careless smile, And seems inclined to grieve. I can’t help sharin’ her regret, That seems each day to grow. I wish Amanda Boggs would get A letter from her beau. Her eyes were never made fur tears, However light their mist. These ought to be the happiest years In all her birthday list. Her feet should dance an’ never set A solemn pace an’ slow. I wish Amanda Boggs would get A letter from her beau. Why, there’s Amanda, ‘cross the way, With sunshine in her face! I haven’t seen in many a day Such joyous, girlish grace. I share her happiness, and yet I’d never let her know How glad I am to see her get A letter from her beau.
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A Bachelor’s Outburst
From the New York Tribune, September 18, 1912. Dear Sir, I am a bachelor; My income is twelve hun’. ‘Tis small, no doubt, yet I contrive To have a deal of fun. You’ll think me selfish, yet until I’m richer, I must own, I’d rather be a bachelor, And jog along alone. Far be it from me to deride Or scoff at wedded bliss; I’ve thought the matter over well, And my opinion’s this: Though bachelors are selfish things, ‘Twould just as selfish be To take a wife, and bring her to A life of drudgery. Suppose I loved a girl (I do), D’you think I’d care to see Her toil, and soil her pretty hands The livelong day for me? If I grow rich, I’ll crave the hand Of her whom I adore; If not, dear sir, I must remain A lonely bachelor.
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Sure Fire
From The Tacoma Times, September 17, 1912. By Berton Braley. My son, when you go to a vodyville show You’ll notice that people will shriek At jokes they have heard since the long, long ago And heard twenty times every week; The moral is plain, if you’ll read as you run; A novelty adds to our zest, But when it comes down to extracting the “Mon” The old stuff gets over the best! It may be all right when you’re courting a dame To talk about Ibsen and such, But take it from me—if you’d win at the game, You won’t stick to Ibsen so much; You’ll tell HER that SHE’S of a beauteous mold, A stunner becomingly dressed; You’ll tell all the lies that men always have told The old stuff gets over the best. In politics, business, society, art, However the world has progressed, It still remains true to the words I impart, “The old stuff gets over the best!”
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The Daily Grind
From the Rock Island Argus, September 16, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Writing pieces for the paper, Mostly foolishness and vapor; Sometimes reason may slip in, Nor is that a deadly sin, But it is a sad mistake That a writer should not make, Lest the reader go to sleep Or declare it is too deep And the paper fling aside, Going forth to take a ride. Writing for the public print, Gossip, story, beauty hint— Anything to fill the space That a streak of blues will chase; Anything that’s light and not Clogged with too involved a plot; Anything that’s not designed To make labor for the mind Or to air high sounding views, Lest the reader take a snooze. Writing for the public mart, For the eye and for the heart, Something simple, straight and plain That will rest the reader’s brain And will put him in the mood For the predigested food That adorns the printed page In this restless, rushing age; That will feed him something light Ere he goes to sleep at night. For we do not read to learn— We have knowledge, yes, to burn— But we read to be amused And to hear our foes abused. There is work enough, indeed, Where we toil at breakneck speed. So when we sit down at night With a paper and a light Nothing we are after then That will make us work again.