Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Soliloquy of an Old Soldier

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 4, 1915. By O. C. A. Child.

    You need not watch for silver in your hair,
        Or try to smooth the wrinkles from your eyes,
    Or wonder if you’re getting quite too spare,
        Or if your mount can bear a man your size.

    You’ll never come to shirk the fastest flight,
        To query if she really cares to dance,
    To find your eye less keen upon the sight,
        Or lose your tennis wrist or golfing stance.

    For you the music ceased on highest note—
        Your charge had won, you’d scattered them like sand,
    And then a little whisper in your throat,
        And you asleep, your cheek upon your hand.

    Thrice happy fate, you met it in full cry,
        Young, eager, loved, your glitt’ring world all joy—
    You ebbed not out, you died when tide was high,
        An old campaigner envies you, my boy!

  • The Good Old Hymns

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1915. By Frank L. Stanton.

    There’s a lot of music in ‘em—the hymns of long ago,
    And when some gray-haired brother sings the ones I used to know,
    I sorter want to take a hand, I think of days gone by,
    “On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye!”

    There’s lots of music in ‘em—those dear, sweet hymns of old,
    With visions bright of lands of light and shining streets of gold;
    And I hear ‘em ringing—singing, where mem’ry, dreaming, stands,
    “From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands.”

    They seem to sing forever of holier, sweeter days,
    When the lilies of the love of God bloomed white in all the ways;
    And I want to hear their music from the old-time meetin’s rise
    Till “I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies.”

    We never needed singin’ books in them old days—we knew
    The words, the tunes of every one—the dear old hymn book through!
    We didn’t have no trumpets then, no organs built for show,
    We only sang to praise the Lord, “from whom all blessings flow.”

    An’ so I love the good old hymns, and when my time shall come—
    Before my light has left me and my singing lips are dumb—
    If I can hear ‘em sing them then, I’ll pass without a sigh
    To “Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie.”

  • The Dawn of the New Day

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 2, 1915. By Edward Neville Vose.

    The old year dies ‘mid gloom and woe—
        The saddest year since Christ was born,
    And those who battle in the snow
        All anxious-eyed look for the morn—
    The morn when wars shall be no more,
        The morn when Might shall cease to reign,
    When hushed shall be the cannons’ roar
        And Peace shall rule the earth again.

    As ye from far survey the fray
        And strive to succor those who fall,
    Let each give thanks that not today
        To us the clarion bugles call—
    That not today to us ’tis said,
        “Bow down the knee, or pay the cost
    Till all ye loved are maimed or dead,
        Till all ye had is wrecked and lost.”

    Should that grim summons to us come
        God grant we’d all play heroes’ parts,
    And bravely fight for land and home
        While red blood flows in loyal hearts.
    But now a duty nobler far
        Has come to us in this great day—
    We are the nations’ guiding star,
        They look to us to lead the way.

    They look to us to lead the way
        To liberty for all the world.
    The dawning of that better day
        When war’s torn banners shall be furled—
    The day when men of every race
        Their right divine shall clearly see
    To rule themselves by their own grace,
        Forever and forever free.

  • Looking Ahead

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 1, 1915. By S. E. Kiser.

    A year is gone forever,
        But out beyond us lies
    A year for brave endeavor
        And splendid enterprise
    Where honors are awaiting
        The worthy and the wise.

    There shall be love and mating,
        And truth shall still be good;
    There shall be less of hating
        And more of Brotherhood,
    And right shall be more clearly
        And fairly understood.

    The new year shall not merely
        Bring added age to those
    Who value virtue dearly
        And strive as Vice’s foes,
    But Justice shall more nearly
        Yield honest men repose.

  • Even as the Beasts

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 31, 1914. By Lord Byron.

    There is no hope for nations!—Search the page
    Of many thousand years—the daily scene,
    The flow and ebb of each recurring age,
    The everlasting To Be and Hath Been,
    Hath taught us naught, or little; still we lean
    On things that rot beneath our weight and wear
    Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
    For ’tis our nature strikes us down; the beasts
    Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts
    Are of as high an order—they must go
    Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
    Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
    What have they given your children in return?
    A heritage of servitude and woes,
    A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows!

  • My Teacher

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 30, 1914. By Charles H. Barker.

    To the desk of his teacher a little lad came,
    With his eyes downcast, and his cheeks aflame,
    And he said in a trembling and hesitant tone,
    “I’ve spoiled this leaf; may I have a new one?”

    In place of the sheet so stained and blotted,
    She gave him a new one, clean, unspotted.
    His tear-stained face she lifted, then smiled
    And said, “Try to do better now, my child.”

    To my Teacher I went on my knees, alone;
    The days had passed by and another year flown;
    “Dear Father, hast Thou not a new leaf for me?
    I’ve blotted this other so sadly, I see.”

    In place of the old year so soiled and blotted
    God gave me a new one, clean, unspotted.
    Then into my sorrowing heart He smiled,
    Saying, “Try to do better now, my child.”

  • The Guests of Sleep

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 29, 1914. By Theodosia Garrison.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

    A varied company—
        Scholar and clown and king,
    Or prince or priest, or great or least,
        He gives them welcoming.

    For each he fills the cup
        Where poppy petals swim,
    Wherefrom each guest at his behest
        Drinks deeply, toasting him.

    And old men drink of youth,
        And sad men of delight,
    And weary men drink deep again
        The pulsing wine of might.

    And poets drink of song,
        But best and oh, most sweet,
    Above that brim where poppies swim
        The lips of lovers meet.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

  • Arcadia

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A place where I can hang my hat
        And know that I am home;
    A place from whence I well know that
        I’ll never care to roam.
    A place where there is no dissent
        And love reigns e’er supreme;
    Where no one cares how time is spent,
        And I can sit and dream.

    A place where agents do not come
        To spoil a happy day;
    A place where autos do not hum
        Nor alley felines play.
    A place where phonographs don’t rasp
        Nor pianolas pound;
    A place where neighbors do not gasp
        And peddle lies around.

    A place where skeeters do not skeet
        Nor motorcycles chug;
    A quiet and serene retreat
        Without a mike or bug.
    Where time need not be reckoned by
        And I could take my ease;
    Arcadia’s the place where I
        Could do as I darn please.

  • The Battle Christmas

    From The Sun, December 27, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    There are columns to be riven
        In the very face of hell,
    And the wild dumb beasts are driven
        To their doom of shot and shell.
    But above the shriek of battle
        And the chargers’ dying woe
    Sounds the lowing of the cattle
        In a manger long ago.

    There is midnight on the nations,
        There is hate instead of love.
    And the guns’ reverberations
        Shake the vaulted skies above.
    But beyond the thunders ringing
        As the foe replies to foe
    We can hear the angels singing
        On a midnight long ago.

  • Arithmetic

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 26, 1914. By Grip Alexander.

    The ashman worked away with vim.
        His terms are far from small.
    Before a man can talk to him
        He’s got to hire a haul.

    Said I, “Well, here’s a great to-do!
        I’ve ashes fine to sell,
    And I must give them all to you
        And give you cash as well!”

    He showed me all his teeth and laughed
        A laugh to raise the roof,
    And flashed an answer free from craft,
        “Dat sholy am de truf!”

    “At fifteen cents a barrel flat,
        Ten barrels to the load,
    Each night ’tis mighty riches that
        You tote to your abode.”

    Said he, “Well, sah, it’s dish yere way!
        All business am a risk,
    Ah mos’ly makes one load a day—
        Excusin’ when trade’s brisk.

    “Ah pays a quartah at de dump,
        An’ dat don’ make me holler;
    But when dem prices takes a jump
        It done cost half a dollar.

    “An’ dat ol’ ornery hoss o’ mine
        Is needin’ oats an’ hay.
    Ah guess his livin’ ain’ too fine
        At sixty cents a day.”

    “Dump charges, stabling, feed,” I said,
        “Will eat up cash like sin.
    And wear and tear! Say, uncle Ned,
        Just where do you come in?”

    The look he flashed was bright and quick,
        His voice was soft, caressin’,
    “Ah’s right smart at arithmetic,
        But dat sho has me guessin’!”