Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Modernized Methods

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 5, 1914. By E. A. Brinistool.

    When my wife brought the baby up,
        She followed modernized advice.
    She sterilized each spoon and cup,
        And fumigated all the ice.

    Each toy and plaything ‘round the place
        Received a boric acid bath—
    Yes, wife did rigidly embrace
        The so-called prophylactic path.

    The child received three baths a day
        In water which had been distilled
    Wife clung to the new-fangled way—
        All microbe larvae must be killed.

    The picture books were clarified
        In royal antiseptic style
    By hot air, purged and rarified
        Devoid of all bacilli vile.

    Yet our babe lacks the healthy look
        Of that small filthy Bronson boy
    Who plays down there beside the brook,
        And makes mud pies with childish joy.

    His eyes shine like the stars at night
        He’s dirty but is well and strong.
    My wife declares he is a “fright,”
        And yet, somehow, I fear she’s wrong.

  • The Battle Autumn

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 4, 1914. By John G. Whittier.

    What means the gladness of the plain,
        This joy of eve and morn,
    The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
        And yellow locks of corn?

    Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
        And hearts with hate are hot,
    But even-paced come ‘round the years,
        And nature changes not.

    She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
        With songs our groans of pain;
    She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
        The war field’s crimson stain.

    Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
        Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
    Too near to God to doubt or fear,
        She shares the eternal calm.

    She knows the seed lies safe below
        The fires that burst and burn;
    For all the tears of blood we sow
        She waits the rich return.

    She sees with clearer eye than ours
        The good of suffering born—
    The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
        And ripen like her corn.

    O, give to us, in times like these,
        The vision of her eyes;
    And make her fields and fruited trees
        Our golden prophecies!

    O, give to us her finer ear!
        Above this stormy din.
    We, too, would hear the bells of cheer
        Ring peace and freedom in!

  • The Pacifier

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When I comes home from work at night
        All tired out from minin’ coal,
    An’ black an’ sweaty to the sight
        I ain’t th’ gladdest kind of soul;
    Th’ world don’t make no hit with me,
        I’m mighty weary with my lot,
    An’ every bloomin’ thing I see
        Just seems to feed th’ grouch I’ve got.

    I cusses at my daily work,
        I damn the pitboss to the pit,
    I thinks of all th’ dust an’ murk
        Of minin’—an’ I cusses it;
    I thinks, “Us miners ain’t no men,
        We’re pore dumb beasts that’s hitched and drove;”
    I starts once more to swear—an’ then
        I smells th’ supper on th’ stove!

    It mebbe ain’t so very much
        (A miner ain’t no millionaire),
    But when I scents that stew an’ such
        I—well, I half forgets to swear.
    From worries an’ from troubles, too,
        My thoughts begin to stray an’ rove,
    An’ life assumes a dif’runt hue,
        When I smells supper on th’ stove!

    An’ when they brings that supper in
        An’ wife an’ kids an’ me sets down,
    I finds a sort of pleasant grin
        Has chased away my ugly frown;
    I puts away all thought of strife,
        My appetite I gives the call,
    An’ thinks, “Oh well, this miner’s life
        Ain’t nothin’ awful, after all!”

  • To a Portrait

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, December 2, 1914. By Arthur Symons.

    A pensive photograph
        Watches me from the shelf—
    Ghost of old love and half
        Ghost of myself!

    How the dear waiting eyes
        Watch me and love me yet—
    Sad home of memories,
        Her waiting eyes!

    Ghost of old love, wronged ghost,
        Return, through all the pain
    Of all once loved, long lost,
        Come back again.

    Forget me not, but forgive!
        Alas, too late I cry.
    We are two ghosts that had their chance to live,
        And lost it, she and I.

  • Sweet Kitty Clyde

    From The Commoner, December 1, 1914. By L. V. H. Crosby.

    Oh! who has not seen Kitty Clyde?
        She lives at the foot of the hill
            In a sly little nook
            By the babbling brook,
        That carries her father’s old mill.
    Oh! who does not love Kitty Clyde?
        That sunny-eyed rosy-cheeked lass
            With a sweet dimpled chin
            That looks roguish as sin,
        With always a smile as you pass.

    With a basket to put in her fish,
        Every morning with line and a hook
            This sweet little lass,
            Through the tall heavy grass,
        Steals along by the clear running brook.
        She throws her line into the stream,
    And trips it along the brook side,
        Oh! how I do wish that I were a fish,
    To be caught by sweet Kitty Clyde.

    How I wish that I were a bee.
    I’d not gather honey from flowers,
        But would steal a dear sip
        From Kitty’s sweet lip,
    And make my own hive in her bowers.
    Or if I were some little bird
        I would not build nests in the air;
    But keep close by the side of sweet Kitty Clyde
        And sleep in her soft silken hair.

  • The Reason

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 30, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Got a letter yesterday
        From my cousin Jim.
    Guess it’s been almost a year
        Since I’ve heard from him.
    Says he hopes I’m prosperin’,
        For he’s fond of me;
    Hopes I’ll drop the old-time grudge
        An’ be friends you see.
    Takes occasion to remark,
        Incidental like,
    New kid at this house is named
        In my honor, Ike.

    Uncle Pete has written me,
        Quite a letter, too;
    Hopes my health is on the gain,
        Then hands me a few
    Hot ones on his love for me;
        Says it is intense,
    Like to see me if he could,
        Barrin’ the expense.
    To’ard the close he manages
        To slip in a line
    That the suit I gin him once
        Lasted three years, fine.

    Cousin Hank and Brother Bill
        Both have written home,
    Tellin’ us about their trip,
        Where they’re apt to roam.
    They’ve been gone eleven months,
        Prospectin’ out west;
    First we’ve heard from them is now;
        Said they’d done their best
    But their luck seemed kinder poor,
        They’re homesick, almost.
    ‘Long about the twenty-fifth
        They’ll reach Painted Post.

    Letters comin’ all the time,
        Mailmen, as a rule,
    Say I must be runnin’ some
        Correspondence school.
    Sisters, uncles, cousins, aunts,
        Long forgotten friends,
    Sending picture postal cards
        Just to make amends.
    But the end of this rush will
        Come soon, never fear.
    Reason for it all is this:
        Christmas time is near.

  • A Little Nonsense

    From the Evening Star, November 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    A little nonsense now and then
    Is relished by the best of men;
    But so is ice cream, cake and pie.
    ’Tis surely a mistake to try
    To make a meal of stuff that’s sweet,
    Avoiding simple bread and meat.
    And when a statesman is inclined
    To dish up for the public mind
    A mental bill of fare that’s made
    Of syrup, fluff and marmalade,
    The public, weary though polite,
    Complains of loss of appetite
    And turns away, with yearning fraught
    For simple, homemade food for thought.

  • The Children

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 28, 1914. By Charles Dickens.

    When the lessons and tasks are all ended
        And the school for the day is dismissed,
    And the little ones gather around me
        To bid me “good night,” and be kissed;
    O, the little white arms that encircle
        My neck in a tender embrace;
    O, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,
        Shedding the sunshine of love on my face.

    And when they are gone I set dreaming
        Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
    Of love that my heart will remember
        When it wakes to the pulse of the past.
    Ere the world and its wickedness made me
        A partner of sorrow and sin,
    When the glory of God was about me
        And the glory of gladness within.

    O, my heart grows weak as a woman’s,
        And the fountains of feeling will flow,
    When I think of the paths, steep and stony
        Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
    Of the mountains of sin hanging o’er them,
        Of the tempests of fate blowing wild;
    O, there is nothing on earth half so holy
        As the innocent heart of a child.

    They are idols of hearts and of households,
        They are angels of God in disguise;
    His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
        His glory still gleams in their eyes.
    O, those truants from home and from Heaven,
        They have made me manly and mild
    And I know now how Jesus could liken
        The kingdom of God to a child.

    I ask not a life for the dear ones
        All radiant, as others have done.
    But that life may have just enough shadow
        To temper the glare of the sun.
    I would pray God to guard them from evil
        But my prayers would bound back to myself
    Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
        But a sinner must pray for himself.

    The twig is so easily bended,
        I have banished the rule and the rod;
    I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
        They have taught me the wisdom of God.
    My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
        Where I shut them from breaking a rule.
    My frown is sufficient correction
        My love is the law of the school.

    I shall leave the old house in the Autumn
        To traverse its threshold no more.
    Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones
        That mustered each morn at the door!
    I shall miss the “good nights” and the kisses
        And the gush of their innocent glee,
    The group on the green and the flowers
        That are brought every morning to me.

    I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
        Their song in the school and the street;
    I shall miss the low hum of their voices
        And the tramp of their delicate feet.
    When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
        And Death says “the school is dismissed,”
    May the little ones gather around me,
        To bid me “good night” and be kissed.

  • The Old Clock

    From the Evening Star, November 27, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    My Uncle Jim, he has a clock.
        He bought it years ago.
    It used to sound a smart “tick tock,”
        But now it’s kept for show.
    It used to move with nimble hands
        To count the minutes o’er,
    But now its record always stands
        At strictly half-past four.

    “It’s weary now,” said Uncle Jim.
        “It did its work right well;
    And fading into memories dim
        Are tales it used to tell.
    It sort of halted on the way
        It went so well of yore.
    And, finally, it stopped one day
        Right there, at half-past four.

    “That is the hour when I awoke
        To greet the dawn anew,
    And next, the hour that softly spoke
        Of toiling almost through.
    My old clock tells of early day
        Of the rest in store;
    And so I simply let it stay
        Content at half-past four.”

  • Should Not Be Overlooked

    From the Evening Star, November 26, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    A man and his wife in a little back room,
    Who hadn’t an oil stove to lighten the gloom,
    Whose children were learning to ask with a sob
    The reason why father was out of a job,
    Beheld from the window a well-laden dray
    With gifts for the sufferers far, far away.
    “I am tempted,” the woman explained, with a moan,
    “To wish ourselves there, where the want is well known.”

    A generous thrill sets the heart all aglow
    For the sorrows of people we never may know.
    Like astronomers searching the stars far away,
    Regardless of earth and our own little day,
    The distant and strange we would fain understand,
    Regardless of problems that lie close at hand—
    For instance, those folks in the little back room,
    Who shiver and hunger up there in the gloom.