Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Cry of the Dreamer

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 14, 1915. By John Boyle O’Reilly.

    I am tired of planning and toiling
        In the crowded hives of men;
    Heart-weary of building and spoiling
        And spoiling and building again.
    And I long for the dear old river,
        Where I dreamed my youth away,
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a toiler dies in a day.

    I am sick of the showy seeming
        Of a life that is half a lie;
    Of the faces lined with scheming
        In the throng that hurries by.
    From the sleepless thought’s endeavor,
        I would go where the children play;
    For a dreamer lives forever
        And a thinker dies in a day.

    I can feel no pride, but pity,
        For the burdens the rich endure;
    There is nothing sweet in the city
        But the patient lives of the poor.
    Oh, the little hands too skillful,
        And the child mind choked with weeds!
    The daughter’s heart grown willful,
        And the father’s heart that bleeds!

    No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
        From trophies of mart and stage,
    I would fly to the wood’s low rustle
        And the meadow’s kindly page.
    Let me dream as of yore by the river
        And be loved for the dream alway;
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a thinker dies in a day.

  • A Sad Story of Life

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 13, 1915.

    A member of the chorus
        Who visited a seer
    Was told that in six months she would
        Be married to a peer.

    Such talk should be discounted,
        It leads young girls astray;
    This maiden bought a lot of things
        For which she could not pay.

    And when she’d hoped to marry
        Her luck was very poor,
    For she was doing one-night stands
        She’d never done before.

    And no one said, “My lady,
        His lordship waits below.”
    Instead she warbled ragtime songs
        And critics panned the show.

  • The Mystery

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 12, 1915. By Edward H. Pfeiffer.

    I am a coward, that I know.
        I am a nothingness, sham;
        And yet withal I feel I am
    Fine-chiseled as a cameo.

    I am a crust of slimy mire,
        A slave to fear, to doubt, to shame;
        And yet I feel within my flame
    A soaring spark of solar fire.

    I am a clotted, earthly clod,
        A shade, a mere nonentity;
        I know the beast that lurks in me,
    And yet I feel that I am God!

  • Service

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 11, 1915. By John Milton.

    When I consider how my light is spent
        Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
        And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
        My true account, lest he returning chide—
    Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
    I fondly ask: But Patience to prevent
    That murmur soon replies: God doth not need
        Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
        Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
        And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
        They also serve who only stand and wait.

  • The Old Piano

    From The Sun, January 10, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

    And now, at last, you’ve got to go,
        I’ve come to say good-by.
    Forgive an old man’s weakness and
        The tears which fill my eyes.
    For five-and-twenty years I’ve played
        Upon your friendly keys,
    Which, yellowed ‘neath their tuneful tasks
        Are rich in memories.
    My little children, all of them,
        Have learned to play on you;
    One key was cracked by Johnny’s tooth,
        One scratched by Baby Sue.
    And one note never has regained
        Its old sonorous tone
    Since Tom, to stop his “practice,” went
        And hit it with a stone.
    I lift your lid, the rusty strings
        With ghostly echoes start
    To quiver with the long farewell
        That’s bursting from my heart.
    Your sounding board, melodic in
        The long, long yesterday,
    Vibrates with Tosti’s sweet “Good Night”
        My wife so loved to play.
    Like sad handshake a final chord
        Is lovingly caressed.
    May your career now ended be,
        And this your last long rest!
    I cannot bear the thought of you
        By fond use made divine,
    Responding to the ruthless touch
        Of other hands than mine;
    I cannot think of cheap dance hall,
        All smoke and heat and beer,
    With drunken fingers banging at
        The keys I hold so dear;
    But rather may you stand, forgot,
        So harmonies may fill
    The twilight of your life, safe in
        A warehouse, cool and still.

  • Are All the Children In?

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 9, 1915.

    The darkness falls, the wind is high,
    Dense black clouds fill the western sky
        The storm will soon begin;
    The thunders roar, the lightnings flash
    I hear the great round raindrops dash—
        Are all the children in?

    They’re coming softly to my side;
    Their forms within my arms I hide;
        No other arms are sure;
    The storm may rage with fury wild;
    With trusting faith each little child
        With mother feels secure.

    But future days are drawing near;
    They’ll go from this warm shelter here
        Out in the world’s wild din;
    The rain will fall, the cold winds blow,
    I’ll sit alone and long to know
        Are all the children in?

    Will they have shelter then secure,
    Where hearts are waiting strong and sure,
        And love is true when tried?
    Or will they find a broken reed,
    When strength of heart they so much need
        To help them brave the tide?

    God knows it all; His will is best;
    I’ll shield them now, and yield the rest
        In His most righteous hands,
    Sometimes the souls He loves are riven
    By tempests wild, and thus are driven
        Nearer the better land.

    If he should call us home before
    The children land on that blest shore,
        Afar from care and sin,
    I know that I shall watch and wait,
    Till He, the keeper of the gate,
        Lets all the children in.

  • The Ballad Automobilious

    From The Sun, January 8, 1915.

    The gas tank’s full of gasoline
        The crank case full of oil;
    From top to tire, the whole machine
        Springs eager to its toil.

    The top and windshield both are down,
        In rush the sun and wind;
    They smooth away my furrowed frown
        And drive care from my mind.

    The engine’s purr, the hum of gears
        All blend and make me feel
    A newer music of the spheres,
        A symphony of steel.

    Before me lies the broad highway
        Through village, wood and farm;
    It lures me on, and I obey
        Its overwhelming charm.

    No more I sigh, like Mercury,
        To fly on winged heel,
    For Vulcan with new sorcery
        Has forged me wings of steel!

  • Recompensed

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 7, 1915.

    Who tries and fails,
        Yet lives to learn
    What priceless things
        Some people spurn—
    A book, a pipe,
        A faithful friend,
    Refreshing sleep
        When labors end;
    An eye to see
        All nature fair,
    What hues the fields
        And mountains wear;
    Who knows content
        And happiness
    And is consoled
        When sorrows press—
    That man, e’en though
        He’s poor indeed,
    For fame and wealth
        Has little need.

  • Kindness

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, January 6, 1915. By John Boyle O’Reilly.

    “What is the real good?”
        I asked in a musing mood.
    Order, said the law court;
        Knowledge, said the school;
    Truth, said the wise man;
        Pleasure, said the fool;
    Love, said the maiden;
        Beauty, said the page;
    Freedom, said the dreamer;
        Home, said the sage;
    Fame, said the soldier;
        Equity, the seer.
    Spake my heart full sadly,
        “The answer is not here.”
    Then within my bosom
        Softly this I heard:
    “Each heart holds the secret—
        Kindness is the word.”

  • To a Photographer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 5, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    I have known joy and woe and toil and fight;
        I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,
        And Time, the Sculptor, with a master hand
    Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight
    The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,
        Of struggle and of service and command;
        And now you show me This—this waxen, bland
    And placid—unlined, untroubled, white!
    This is not I—this fatuous face you show
        Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please.
    Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know,
        I have spent blood and brain achieving these;
    Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,
    They are my scars of battle—Put Them Back!