From the Evening Star, September 15, 1912. By Philander Johnson. By hard experience we learn, Whatever our position, And pay, whichever way we turn, Right dearly for tuition. Before we walk we have to creep; We rise with many a tumble; Before we learn life’s road to keep How often must we stumble! Ere we can learn to think we grope Through much fantastic folly. Our smiles of friendship and of hope Are earned through melancholy. And so it is with every man, And so with many a nation; It is a part of nature’s plan— Compulsory education.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Instruction
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The Great Event
From the Rock Island Argus, September 14, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. The county fair is now on tap And all the porkers proud Are showing off their very best Before the gaping crowd. The cattle in the narrow stalls, The horses on the track, Are showing, each and every one, How lofty they can stack. The barker at the circus tent Is tearing in the air Great jagged holes, that each and all May know that he is there. The peanut and the popcorn man Are chasing far and wide To see that every hungry child Is with lunch supplied. Up in the building on the hill, Where cabbage is displayed Beside the pumpkins and the corn And goose eggs, freshly laid, The folks who raised it stand around To hear its praises told, And each one swells and feels as gay As any two-year-old. The father and the mother come, And all the kids are there. The listen to the big brass band And at the players stare. They take in everything in sight That gives them thrills or mirth, And you can bet most anything They get their money’s worth.
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Back to the Soil
From the Bisbee Daily Review, September 13, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. They’re urgin’ weary city men to go back to the soil, To tinker up their shattered nerves by good old honest toil. They say it does a feller good to live close to the ground With not a high-toned French cafe for fifty miles around. That may sound fine and dandy when a feller is town-bred, And doesn’t know a spring tooth harrow from a foldin’ bed, But to us fellers on the farm who’ve been agin’ the game All of our lives, that sage advice sounds purty doggone tame. It ain’t so gol dum dandy and it ain’t so gol dum fine To hop out of the hay at four instid of eight or nine. It ain’t so ‘tarnal cheerful to do three hours’ work before The farmer’s wife yells: “Breakfast” from the old farm kitchen door. It ain’t no sort of easy snap to work right through till night, And do back-breaking stunts as long as there is any light. They say it is a rest-cure and it possibly may be, But as a rest it never yet has quite appealed to me. The poets write quite purty of the everlastin’ hills, The wooded glens and lowin’ kine and little babbling rills. Of course, it is the only life that’s healthful right along, But still it ain’t what you would always call a glad sweet song. There’s plenty of the other thing, the hard, heartrendin’ toil And I guess that them city guys who go back to the soil Would about one good hot day with sun a-beatin’ down, And then they’d pack their grips and gladly yell, “Back to the Town.”
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Creeping Up the Stairs
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 12, 1912. Author Unknown. In the softly fading twilight Of a weary, weary day, With a quiet step I entered Where the children were at play; I was brooding over some trouble Which had met me unawares, When a little voice came ringing: “Me is creeping up the stairs.” Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings With a breath and force divine, And such melodies awakened As no wording can define. And I turned to see our darling, All forgetful of my cares, When I saw the little creature Slowly creeping up the stairs. Step by step she bravely clambered On her little hands and knees, Keeping up a constant chattering, Like a magpie in the trees, Till at last she reached the topmost When over all her world’s affairs She delightfully stood a victor After creeping up the stairs. Fainting heart, behold an image Of man’s brief and struggling life, Whose best prizes must be captured With a noble, earnest strife; Onward, upward reaching ever, Bending to the weight of cares, Hoping, fearing, still expecting, We go creeping up the stairs. On their steps may be no carpet, By their side may be no rail; Hands and knees may often pain us, And the heart may almost fail; Still above there is the glory, Which no sinfulness impairs, With its joy and rest forever, After creeping up the stairs.
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The Real Friend
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 11, 1912. If ever I find a people’s friend, Who does not brag about himself; And doesn’t seek some selfish end; Is not acquiring wads of pelf, But strives in honor day by day And always does the best he can To smooth the rough and rugged way, Over which must pass his fellow-man, I’ll cling to him with all my might, And sing his praises as I go. His speech will not be stale and trite, And in his eyes a light will glow. He will not spend his days in ease, While busy men are at their work. Mouthing the phrases thought to please To hide the fact that he’s a shirk. Nor will his bank account grow fat The while he fights the people’s cause; He will not seek the glory that Depends alone on men’s applause. But if he loves his fellow-men, And tolls for them, he will not care That he must labor often when There’s neither cheers nor spotlight’s glare. Too many pose as public friends Who merely work their tireless jaws, And use, to cover selfish ends, The mantle of the people’s cause. Too many drop all useless work To thrive upon this empty plea, That all the burdens now that irk Some day they’ll take from you and me. A people’s friend is one who strives Without a thought of gain or fame, To happier, better make our lives Than what they were before he came.
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The Farewell Swat
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 10, 1912. ‘Tis the last fly of summer that flits on the wing; And my heart almost bleeds for the lonesome young thing! No mate of his old age, no comrade has he To stick in the jelly, or drown in the tea! I know if I spare him he’ll frisk on my nose; Or perch on my bald spot, disturb my repose! Bereft of his vigor and shorn of his pride, I’ll send him to rest, where the good flies reside! So (swat!) let me finish his earthly career— Then (bing!) goes a globe from my best chandelier; And (smash!) my screen swatter is dashed at his head— But, gosh! ‘Twas a finger bowl shattered instead. Well, (biff!) ain’t it awful, I’ve missed him once more? And (bang!) this destruction is making me sore. So kindly let’s gather the wreckage away, And hope that we land him on some other day!