This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
From The Daily Missoulian, December 15, 1914.
When she letteth thee recklessly spend,
And laugheth to see thee go broke,
Thou mayest jolly her on without end,
For she taketh thee but as a joke.
But when she demureth at price,
And chideth for what thou hath spent,
Thou art treading on treacherous ice,
For the maiden hath solemn intent.
From the Newark Evening Star, December 14, 1914. By James J. Montague.
When the happy little children, up along the avenue
Hark for Santa Claus’s coming down the yawning chimney flue,
There’ll be other little children, in another part of town
Where the streets are dark and grimy and the houses tumble down,
Looking through the dingy windows toward the snowflake speckled sky,
Wondering if they will see him when he comes careering by.
Ragged, dirty little children, yet as eager for the joys
That will come to countless houses with the Christmas morning toys,
As the vastly happier children who awaken every year
To the news from down the staircase: “Mr. Santa Claus was here!”
Gaunt and pallid little children, oh so pitiful to see,
But as hungry to be happy as all children ought to be.
Such a little would delight them, just a trifling toy or two,
Just one real old-fashioned Christmas that would make their dreams come true.
Tell old Santa Claus about them, show the old man where they live,
Let him leave them all the good things that he likes so well to give,
Then go ‘round on Christmas morning, and you’ll find it’s well worth while;
For the best of all investments is to buy a baby’s smile.
From The Sun, December 13, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.
A rider from the Two-Bar come with news from off the range:
He said he’d seen a dust cloud that looked almighty strange,
So he rode his bronco over, and there, as bold as brass,
He seen a sheepman feedin’ his flock upon our grass.
The rider turned home, pronto, and he got the boys aroused,
And then they started, whoopin’, for where them woolies browsed.
But I met ’em joggin’ homeward, and I heard the hull bunch groan
When I said: “Now, turn back, fellers, I must play this hand alone.”
I was mad clear to my gizzard when I started for the camp,
And I thought of how I’d punish this vile, sheep-herdin’ scamp;
I’d escort him to the deadline, where he’d run his sheep across,
And in case I had to kill him, why, it wouldn’t be much loss;
And with such thoughts churnin’ in me when I spied his wagon-top
I rode up to the herder as he watched his wooly crop.
But he simply grinned up at me, and he said: “Now, pardner, say,
Let’s set down and have some dinner ‘fore we start to scrap to-day.”
He had a stew jest ready and he dished a plateful out,
And I set and et that plateful and I heard far angels shout;
I could hear gold harps a-twangin’ and my rough thoughts seemed to melt
As he dished another plateful and I loosened up my belt.
Then I laid aside my six-guns while the herder dished more stew,
And at last my foreman rode up, as I knowed that he would do,
And he set cross-legged with me, and he et, and more hands come,
And afore that sheepman’s cookin’ quite the loudest was struck dumb.
It was mulligan he’d made there, all alone out on the hills,
This here cook whose magic humbled all my fightin’ Toms and Bills;
You kin talk of hotel dishes, made by chefs from furrin lands,
But I’ll back this sheepman’s cookin’ ‘gainst all European brands.
So I says, when we had finished: “You kin make yourself to home,
You kin pick the choicest grazin’ and allow your sheep to roam;
We will drive our cattle elsewhere—you kin have whate’er you seek—
If you let us come to dinner, say about three times a week!”
From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 12, 1914. By W. M. Leets.
There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that’s called to leave her,
God have pity on the poor!
But it’s beat, drums, beat,
While the lads march down the street.
And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
Keep your tears until they go.
There’s a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it’s fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So it’s beat, drums, beat,
But who’ll find them food to eat?
And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
Ah! the children little know.
Ther’s a mother who stands watching
For the last look of her son,
A worn, poor widow woman,
And he her only one.
But it’s beat, drums, beat,
Though God knows when we shall meet;
And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
We must smile and cheer them so.
There’s a young girl who stands laughing,
For she thinks a war is grand.
And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
And it’s fine to hear the band.
So it’s beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet;
And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go
To the war.
From The Daily Missoulian, December 11, 1914.
There’s no one in this whole world who knows as much as grandpa does.
I sometimes think that he must be the wisest man that ever was.
He can predict the weather better than the regular weather man;
He doesn’t always guess it right, but then, no other feller can.
He always tells us, far ahead, how all elections will come out;
He’s seen so many hot campaigns as never has the slightest doubt.
Of course, he often makes mistakes, and very seldom calls the turn,
But there are very few who can, that is so far as I can learn.
He’s got a safe, sure remedy for every ill that man can find;
There’s no disease that he can’t cure or none that I can call to mind;
Of course, sometimes they don’t get well, but that is just part of the game;
A lot of doctors that I know in this town must admit the same.
His knowledge is as free as air; he always peddles out advice
Without the form of being asked; his wisdom is beyond all price.
Some fellows who have followed it have made their fortunes; some have not;
For grandpa’s human like the rest, although he’s liked an awful lot.
From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, December 10, 1914. By Ruth Comfort Mitchell.
He marched away with a blithe young score of him
With the first volunteers,
Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,
Blushing under the cheers.
They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,
Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,
Pelting him with pinks and with roses —
Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Not very clear in the kind young heart of him
What the fuss was about,
But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—
The music drowned his doubt.
It’s a fine brave sight they were a-coming there
To the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there
While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—
Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it —
Volley and curse and groan;
Then he has done with the knightly joke of it —
It’s rending flesh and bone.
There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking there
And a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;
He fights like a rat in a corner —
Billy the Soldier Boy!
There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,
Left on the field for dead;
The ground all around is smeared with the gore of him—
Even the leaves are red.
The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,
Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;
A sickening sun grins down on him —
Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of him
What the fuss was about,
See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—
While life is oozing out;
There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;
There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,
Eager for the foul feast spread for them—
Billy, the Soldier Boy!
How much longer, O Lord, shall we bear it all?
How many more red years?
Story it and glory it and share it all,
In seas of blood and tears?
They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;
They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—
We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,
Borne with the hell called War!
From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 9, 1914. By John Hay.
I don’t go much on religion,
I never ain’t had no show;
But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
On the handful o’ things I know.
I don’t pan out on the prophets
And free-will, and that sort of thing—
But I b’lieve in God and the angels
Ever since one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along—
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Pert and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight—
And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart’s store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started—
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And searched for ’em far and near.
At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hopes soured on me,
Of my fellow critter’s aid—
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled
Thar, so warm and sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As pert as ever you see,
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that’s what’s the matter of me.”
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm.
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fetching him to his own,
Is a durned sight better business
Than loafing around the throne.
From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1914. By Kenneth Proctor Littauer.
At the going, when we stumble up the gangway to the ship,
While we wish, and curse the wish, that we could stay;
On the Channel, as we watch the yearning cliffs of England dip,
Help us, Lord, to hide our sickened hearts away!
On the marches—on the marches with the blisters on our feet,
When our kits weigh not much less than half a ton,
And our one idea of Heaven is a place to sleep and eat—
Give us strength, Lord, ’til our thirty miles are done!
Through the weary, starlit vigils when we guard the sleeping tents,
Where they huddle grey behind us in the gloom,
Bid us challenge every phantom that our fear of death invents;
Keep our ears alert to hear the creeping Doom!
In the trenches, with the bullet-ridden earthworks spurting dust
And the peering rifle muzzles spitting flame;
In the sweating bayonet charges, with the thrust and wrench and thrust,
Hear us when we, dying, call upon Thy name!
In the winning, in the losing, in the triumph, the despair,
Be we victors or the holders of defeat,
Keep us mindful of the honor of a nation that we bear;
Let our souls, Lord, be above the fate we meet!
From The Daily Missoulian, December 7, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.
There seems to be no place for me around home anywhere,
For every time I make a move maw says, “Don’t go in there.”
There isn’t a clothes press in the house that they’ll let me go in.
Maw’s bedroom has been closed and locked. They seem to be agin’
My rummagin’ around the place like I have always done.
I have so very little space it ain’t a bit of fun.
When paw comes home at suppertime I can’t go to the door
And meet him like I used to each evening any more.
He don’t come in the sittin’ room, but scoots right off upstairs,
Just like he was a-bein’ chased by taggers or by bears.
They always talk in whispers, paw and maw, then look at me
As though I was some circus freak that they had paid to see.
And when they talk out loud they spell the things they want to say.
It looks as though, by gingerpop, that I am in the way.
I heard paw spell out “polar bear” to maw the other night,
It sorter got me guessin’, for he didn’t spell it right.
Of course I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes or anything like that,
But I’ve been lookin’ round a bit and found out quick as scat
They’re framing up some deal on me. I don’t know as I ought,
But I’ve dug up most of the things that they went out and bought.
Of course you musn’t say a word, for I must act surprised
So that their secret schemes and plans may all be realized.
They’ve got to have their little joke; they have it every year,
And start in to ignorin’ me when Christmas time draws near.
It used to be a mystery, but we will let that pass,
For I kin see through it nowadays as plain as any glass.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 6, 1914. By Kate Porter.
When he was a little boy o’ mine,
And e’en before he came,
I thought of him as a hero brave,
A man who’d win a name.
The little hands that clung to mine
I taught to work alone,
The little mind I taught to think
Without depending on my own.
I made his little body strong,
I made him brave and true,
Although I knew that all the while
From me he further grew.
Then why should I be sorrowing,
His country’s call has come?
Oh, why should I not feel my pride?
He bravely leaves his home.
His land is what I trained him for,
So why should tears fall fast?
The man-child that I gave to it
Goes forth to serve at last!
As strong as any mother’s son
I watched him ride away,
Yet why do I keep thinking him
My little boy today?
Long years it’s been since I last heard
His voice in childish key,
And why do I keep hearing now
A little cry for me?
’Twas sweet to hold his baby form
(How safe he was with me!)
But ever in my mind I hold
The man that was to be.
And now how fades that vision bright,
This thought of him, in pain!
Ah, why can I but see instead
My little boy again?