Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Retribution

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 26, 1914.

    When Peace her olive branch held out,
        And wooed the nations to her arms,
    They rudely drove her from their side,
        And turned their backs upon her charms.
    In vain she pleaded to be heard,
        In vain she tried the world to save
    From all the horrors of grim war,
        That opened up a nation’s grave.

    So, driven forth, she fled away
        No more to come with outstretched hand,
    But to remain across the seas
        Safe sheltered in a friendly land.
    And now they sigh and long for her,
        And strain their horror-stricken eyes
    To catch a glimpse of her white robe,
        Until the hope within them dies.

    But now ’tis they who must seek her,
        And toilsome is the dreadful way,
    Through carnage fields and burning homes,
        Past piles of dead and savage fray,
    Knee deep in bloody rivers’ flow,
        Through scenes whose terrors never cease,
    This is the way they now must go,
        The nations, when they seek for peace.

  • The Prettiest One

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 25, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    The purtiest woman that I ever see,
    I’ll tell you the truth, jest between you an’ me.
    She isn’t no dazzler, and some fellers might
    Not stop to look twice, but she’s my choice all right.
    She’s not so blamed strong for the thing they call style,
    She don’t wear her hair in a half-bushel pile.
    The beauty shops never make much off’n her.
    She don’t have her gowns made in Paris; no, sir!
    She don’t strut around like a peacock and pose.
    She don’t keep a-daubin’ white stuff on her nose.

    I have heard of the beauties of Spain and of France,
    But with me they would not stand a ghost of a chance.
    I have gazed upon paintings of world famous queens,
    And I’ve seen a good many made-up actorines,
    But the woman who used to bounce me on her knee;
    She’s the purtiest woman that I ever see.

  • Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 24, 1914. By Emma Lazarus.

    “O World-God, give me Wealth!” the Egyptian cried.
    His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
    Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
    Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
    Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
    World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
    His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
    Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
    Seek Pharaoh’s race to-day and we shall find
    Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

    “O World-God, give me beauty!” cried the Greek.
    His prayer was granted. All the earth became
    Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
    Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
    Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
    The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
    Of the immortal marble, his the play
    Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
    Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find today
    A broken column and a lute unstrung.

    “O World-God, give me Power!” the Roman cried.
    His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
    A captive to the chariot of his pride.
    The blood of myriad provinces was drained
    To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—
    Invulnerably bulwarked every part
    With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
    Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home:
    A roofless ruin stands where once abode
    The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

    “O Godhead, give me Truth!” the Hebrew cried.
    His prayer was granted. He became the slave
    Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
    Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
    The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
    His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
    Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
    Seek him today, and find in every land.
    No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
    Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

  • The Cat

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 23, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary,
        Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While a short snooze I was snatching,
        Suddenly there came a scratching, and ’twas on my chamber door.
    “’Tis no visitor,” I muttered, “scratching at my chamber door.
        Just the cat and nothing more.”

    I knew what the cat expected, and I knew I was elected
        So I grabbed the noisy feline to perform my nightly chore.
    Down the cold stairway I hurried while the chilly breezelets scurried
        Round my shins and then I let him safely out the kitchen door.
    I had put him out so often that it really made me sore,
        Simply that and nothing more.

    Back to my hall room I ambled and into the bed I scrambled,
        When I heard a fearful wailing that I’d often heard before.
    ’Twas the same old caterwauling and the same old feline calling,
        As he vainly tried to get in at the self-same kitchen door.
    Then I hastened down the stairway and was chilled through to the core,
        Just to let him in once more.

  • The Peasant Soldier

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 22, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    He has no hope for conquest; he has no lust for power;
    His bosom does not burn to share in triumph’s glorious hour;
    He bears no hatred in his heart against his brother man;
    Unlearned he is in strategy or statesman’s scheme or plan.
    But when throughout the troubled land there rings the battle cry,
    Unknowing and unquestioning, he marches forth to die.

    No prizes are there to be gained for his too common kind;
    He wins no splendid spoils of war for those he leaves behind.
    Whatever glory there may be, the great ones of the earth
    Will never yield to his mean kin, all folk of peasant birth.
    But when he sees upon the hills the battle banners fly
    He marches calmly to his death—nor thinks to wonder why.

  • Off to School

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 21, 1914. By J. W. Foley.

    Father is patting his shoulder
        And lifting his grip;
    Proud of him as he grows older,
        (But biting his lip.)
    Aunty improving his going
        By giving advice.
    And mother her tears overflowing,
        And wiping her eyes.

    Father pretending to joke him
        While saying goodbye;
    Sister seems trying to choke him
        While fixing his tie;
    Uncle is chaffing and winking,
        Disguising his sighs,
    While mother is standing and thinking
        And wiping her eyes.

    Old chums are wishing successes
        And shaking his hand;
    Girls with pink bows and white dresses
        Are hoping he’ll land
    Top o’ the heap in his classes—
        He can if he tries—
    And mother’s white handkerchief passes
        While wiping her eyes.

    Towser’s tail wagging and shaking,
        He must understand;
    Little Tob—brother is taking
        Him fast by the hand;
    Standing on tip toes to kiss him
        And wiping goodbyes,
    And mother—who knows how she’ll miss him?—
        Just wiping her eyes.

    Father is counseling to him
        Of college and den.
    Boy, as we yesterday knew him,
        But never again.
    Mother once more may caress him,
        And then the goodbyes
    And murmur and whisper “God bless him!”
        While wiping her eyes.

  • A Flirtation

    From The Times Dispatch, September 20, 1914. By Dorothy M. Smith.

    I’ve been flirting today with a baby
        In the window right over the way,
    And the neighbors are gossiping, maybe;
        But I don’t care a bit what they say.

    He’s a dear little curly-lashed fellow,
        With eyes that are laughing and sweet;
    His hair is like grain, golden yellow;
        He’s blue shoes, for he showed me his feet.

    He glanced at me, pleasantly smiling,
        As though saying, “I wish you’d remain.”
    Then he tapped on the window beguiling
        And flattened his nose ‘gainst the pane.

    He threw me a kiss for a greeting;
        He showed me the lace on his dress;
    But, ah! Why are moments so fleeting?
        The time came for luncheon, I guess.

    Then I waved him good-by—oh, the saddest—
        And smiled to him over the way,
    And he looked, of all babies, the maddest
        When the nurse came and took him away.

    But sometimes he will peek thro’ the curtain,
        And hold the lace edges apart.
    So I’ll watch every day, for I’m certain
        That baby has broken my heart!

  • He Did It

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 19, 1914.

    Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
        But he, with a chuckle, replied,
    That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
        Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
    So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
        On his face. If he worried he hid it.
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    Somebody scoffed, “Oh, you’ll never do that,
        At least no one ever has done it,”
    But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
        And the first thing he knew he’d begun it.
    With the lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
        If any doubt rose he forbid it;
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done;
        There are thousands who prophesy failure;
    There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
        The dangers that wait to assail you.
    But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
        Then take off your coat and go to it.
    Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

  • Modern Courtship

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 18, 1914.

    They sat upon a boulder
        That looked toward the sea.
    The wild waves washed the pebbly beach;
        The gulls dipped gracefully
    To catch the flying, silvery spray,
        But nature had no power
    With all her charms to draw one glance
        In this most solemn hour.
    They noted not the glorious sun,
        The bright and cloudless skies,
    But found a source of pure delight
        Within each other’s eyes.
    The minutes and the hours flew by,
        And still they sat alone.
    He held her slender fingers
        Tightly clasped within his own.
    The sun shone on; the waves rolled high,
        Just as they did before,
    But naught saw they of light or shade
        Or heard the ocean’s roar.
    At last he whispered, “Will you be
        My love, my bride, my wife,
    And walk together hand in hand
        Along the road of life?”
    She laid her head upon his breast,
        In manner shy, demure;
    Then raised her melting glance to his,
        And softly murmured, “Sure.”

  • The Suicide

    From The Sun, September 17, 1914.

    “Farewell, false world,” he wildly cries
        And registers despair.
    The frightened damsel vainly tries
        To grab him by the hair.

    Into the rushing tide he flops
        Despite the maiden’s squeal.
    The operator never stops
        The progress of his reel.

    “You did it like a pair of clams,”
        The chief yells from the shore.
    “Some action to it now, you hams!
        Go over it once more.”