Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Auctioning Off the Baby

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 5, 1915. By Mary T. Holley.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        Dainty, dimpled and sweet
    From the curls above his forehead
        To the beautiful rosy feet,
    From tips of his wee pink fingers
        To the light of his clear blue eyes
    What am I offered for Baby?
        Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A shop full of sweets?” Ah, no!
    That’s too much beneath his value
        Who is sweetest of all below!
    The naughty, beautiful darling!
        One kiss from his rosy mouth
    Is better than all the dainties
        Of East, or West, or South.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A pile of gold?” Ah dear,
    Your gold is too hard and heavy
        To purchase my brightness here.
    Would the treasures of all the mountains
        Far in the wonderful lands
    Be worth the clinging and clasping
        Of these dear little peach blow hands?

    So what am I offered for Baby?
        “A rope of diamonds?” Nay,
    If your brilliants were larger and brighter
        Than the stars of the milky way,
    Would they ever be half so precious
        As the light of those lustrous eyes
    Still full of the heavenly glory
        They brought from beyond the skies?

    Then what am I offered for Baby?
        “A heart full of love and a kiss.”
    Well if anything ever could tempt me
        ‘Twould be such an offer as this.
    But how can I know if your loving
        Is tender and true and divine
    Enough to repay what I’m giving
        In selling this sweetheart of mine?

    So we will not sell the Baby!
        Your gold and gems and stuff
    Were they ever so rare and precious
        Would never be half enough!
    For what would we care, my dearie,
        What glory the World put on
    If our beautiful darling was going,
        If our beautiful darling was gone?

  • To a False Patriot

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, March 4, 1915.

    He came obedient to the call;
        He might have shirked, like half his mates
    Who, while their comrades fight and fall
        Still go to swell the football gates.

    And you, a patriot in your prime,
        You waved a flag above his head
    And hoped he’d have a high old time
        And slapped him on the back and said:

    “You’ll show ‘em what we British are!
        Give us your hand, old pal, to shake!”
    And took him round from bar to bar
        And made him drink—for England’s sake.

    That’s how you helped him. Yesterday
        Clear-eyed and earnest, keen and hard,
    He held himself the soldier’s way—
        And now they’ve got him under guard.

    That doesn’t hurt you; you’re all right.
        Your easy conscience takes no blame,
    But he, poor boy, with morning’s light,
        He eats his heart out, sick with shame.

    What’s that to you? You understand
        Nothing of all his bitter pain;
    You have no regiment to brand,
        You have no uniform to stain.

    No vow of service to abuse,
        No pledge to king and country due;
    But he had something dear to lose,
        And he has lost it—thanks to you.

  • Clouds

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 3, 1915. By David.

    I had a friend when I was down
        And everything seemed rotten,
    And all the blessings I had known
        Had long since been forgotten,
    When crops were bad and eggs were scarce
        And pigs got in the clover,
    Who came and leaned against my fence
        And cheerfully looked over,
    And with a smug smile full of glee
        And whistle aggravating
    Regaled me with the maxim terse,
        In tone exasperating:
    “Remember that behind the clouds
        The sun is always shining,
    And clouds of life as well as sky
        Have each their silver lining.”

    Oh, then I had a fierce desire
        To seize upon a missile
    And end his exhortation
        With the stopping of his whistle.
    But with a sickly smile I said,
        All platitudes eschewing,
    “That all depends upon the point
        From which you do your viewing.
    And also it depends upon
        The way the cloud’s inclining.
    ’Tis doubtless true, my clouds to you
        May have a silver lining,
    But silver linings do not show
        To those directly under.
    They may be there; I do not know.
        To me they look like thunder.”

  • Rain on the Roof

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 2, 1915. By Coates Kinney.

    When the humid shadows hover
        Over all the starry spheres,
    And the melancholy darkness
        Gently weeps in rainy tears,
    What a joy to press the pillow
        Of a cottage chamber bed,
    And to listen to the patter
        Of the soft rain overhead.

    Every tinkle on the shingles
        Has an echo in the heart,
    And a thousand dreamy fancies
        Into busy being start;
    And a thousand recollections
        Weave their air-threads into woof
    As I listen to the patter
        Of the rain upon the roof.

    Now in memory comes my mother
        As she used in years agone,
    To survey her darling dreamers
        Ere she left them till the dawn.
    Oh! I see her leaning o’er me
        As I list to this refrain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

    Then my little seraph sister,
        With her wings and waving hair,
    And her bright-eyed cherub brother—
        A serene, angelic pair—
    Glide around my wakeful pillow
        With their praise or mild reproof
    As I listen to the murmur
        Of the soft rain on the roof.

    And another comes to thrill me
        With her eyes’ delicious blue;
    And forgot I, gazing on her,
        That her heart was all untrue;
    I remember that I loved her
        As I ne’er may love again,
    And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate
        To the patter of the rain.

    There is naught in art’s bravuras
        That can work with such a spell
    In the spirit’s pure deep fountains
        Whence the holy passions swell
    As that melody of Nature,
        That subdued, subduing strain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

  • Something to Worry About

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 1, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    They said it hurt morals, and maybe it harmed
    Good morals, but folks were not greatly alarmed;
    The few were concerned, but the many were prone
    To leave the whole matter severely alone.

    They said it hurt culture, and maybe it had
    A bearing on culture most certainly bad,
    But left to itself it would work itself out.
    There wasn’t a thing to be worried about.

    They said it hurt learning, and maybe it did,
    But learning’s a thing that expects to be hid.
    And while there was much, they agreed, to be learned,
    There wasn’t good cause to be gravely concerned.

    They said it hurt manhood, and maybe it meant
    Some injury to it, as far as it went;
    But this was no reason for clamor or fuss
    As long as it didn’t directly hurt us.

    But when it hurt Business, the folks over town
    Unitedly said that it must be put down
    Whatever it was, and they stamped the thing out—
    For then it was something to worry about!

  • The Price of Philosophy

    From the Evening Star, February 28, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    A lot of wisdom was produced by Hezekiah Bings.
    He wrote about the good and true and various other things,
    But his very best production was a long typewritten page
    Descriptive of the vices and the follies of the age.
    He said a man should be above the cares of sordid pelf;
    He ought to seek the birds and flowers and just enjoy himself;
    The stuff that we call money is a superstitious sign
    Which mystifies us as to what is yours and what is mine;
    We should avoid its contact, for with evil it is fraught,
    And happiness is something which with coin cannot be bought.
    The men who crave not lucre, scribbled Hezekiah Bings,
    Escape the cares which have undone philosophers and kings.
    He copied it with care and then—oh, reader, do not laugh—
    He sold those beauteous thoughts for seven dollars and a half.

  • Research

    From the Evening Star, February 27, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    “What constitues ‘Society?’” inquired the Man from Mars;
    “Is it a gathering of wealth and intellectual stars?”
    “Ho! ho!” replied the rustic youth who wore a grin serene,
    “Society’s our Mayday dance upon the village green.”
    “Not so,” the housemaid gaily said, “That isn’t it at all.
    To find society, you should attend the coachman’s ball.”
    The serious woman said, “If for society you search,
    You’ll find the very best there is by coming to my church.”
    The studious one remarked, “The very highest social force
    You may discover if you will attend our lecture course.”
    And some said that society was made for games of chance,
    And others mentioned art and brains and beauty and the dance.
    The Man from Mars looked puzzled and remarked, “It seems to me
    Society is all mankind, including even me;
    And each of us looks just beyond his own familiar sphere;
    The impulse is what made me leave my home and come down here.
    Society’s a picture which we fill with fays and elves
    And, when we meet them, find that they are persons like ourselves.”

  • The Bright Scenes of Nature

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 26, 1915. By J. McKenna.

    In the bright scenes of nature no greater delights
    Than the bright summer mornings and clear, cloudless nights,
    When we think of the beauty of land and of sea
    Then our hearts fill with gladness and happy are we.
    No picture, how skillful, will ever compare
    To the bright scenes of nature so charming and fair,
    The hills and the valleys, the clear running stream,
    All blending together in beauty serene.

    Let us gaze on the sun, on the sweet summer days
    When it shines in all splendor with bright golden rays.
    Once more let us turn to the sky in the West,
    Bright day is declining, all nature at rest.
    Let us list to the nightingale sing in the trees
    And inhale the sweet roses in June’s gentle breeze
    When we sail o’er the ocean, the moon sparkling bright,
    Reflects on the water its clear, silvery light.

    What joy and what pleasure when evening comes on
    To list to the strains of sweet music and song,
    To meet the dear friends that we all love so well
    In our dear native homestead, where happiness dwells.
    The bright scenes of nature and friends that we love
    Is a reflex of Heaven, the land up above.
    Soon springtime and summer once more will be here
    To bring joy and gladness, fond hopes and good cheer.

  • The Good Night Kiss

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 25, 1915. By W. D. Humphrey.

    I am tired of tongues that are lying
        In their cunning schemes for gain—
    I am tired of worry and sighing
        That ravish the soul and brain—
    And I long for the peace of the wildwood
        Near the dear old home that I miss,
    And the happy trust of childhood,
        And mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of faces smiling
        In deceit to hide the frown—
    And life’s false joys beguiling
        The soul but to drag it down;
    And I long once more to listen
        To the sound of a step I miss—
    That I knew when the tears would glisten
        At my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of all the idols
        That claim a right to my heart—
    I am tired of falsehoods’ bridles
        That are worn by all in the mart.
    And it’s ever the words that were spoken
        In truth and love that I miss—
    When each night I received their token
        In my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of living and learning
        That the false exceeds the true—
    I am tired with years of yearning
        For a love like my childhood knew
    When life seemed not deceiving,
        And I dreamed it held but bliss—
    When I slept in peace believing
        In mother’s good night kiss.

  • The Old, Old Song

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 24, 1915. By Charles Kingsley.

    When all the world is young, lad,
        And all the trees are green;
    And every goose a swan, lad,
        And every lass a queen;
    Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
        And round the world away;
    Young blood must have its course, lad,
        And every dog his day.

    When all the world is old, lad,
        And all the trees are brown;
    And all the sport is stale, lad,
        And all the wheels run down;
    Creep home, and take your place there,
        The spent and maimed among;
    God grant you find one face there
        You loved when all was young.