Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Civilization: 1914

    From The Sun, September 6, 1914. By E. Elwell.

    For the glory of the living weep the millions of the dead;
    For the happiness of hearts that beat, their broken hearts have bled.
    So the pæan of the ages shrills a tragedy of praise
    To the multitudes of martyrs, and the sighing, grief swept days
    That reach piled high to heaven from the mysteries of the past;
    And the first dread soul in torment cries in anguish to the last:

    “We are the human hatreds, the ambitions and the greed,
    The lies that make men monsters, the death thought and the deed;
    We are the lusts primeval, we are the sin and shame
    That have chilled the fire of charity and snuffed the Christ-lit flame.
    We are the deep foundation of the civilized advance;
    We make fact the dreams of horror that the drug ambition grants;
    We have stripped off flowing vestments; we have dropped the cap of state;
    We writhe naked in the frankness of uncovered human hate—
    A hate for others’ happiness that checks the march of power.
    We have made the modern nation, and our curse is all its dower.”

    But the glory of the living may not halt to hark the dead;
    The heart that goes in gladness shall not cease for one that’s bled.
    Though the ages in their sequence e’er will sing a pæan of praise
    To the martyrs by men murdered for the love of fortune’s ways,
    And though prayers go up to heaven from the as yet unborn past,
    The world is ever building a new ruin on the last.

  • Doppleganger

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 5, 1914. By Madison Cawein.

    Oh, I went down the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of other days,
    And on the way I met a ghost, pale in the moonlight’s rays,
    The ghost of one, a little boy, with whom my heart still plays.

    He looked at me, he nodded me, he beckoned with his pole,
    To follow where we oft had gone to that old fishing hole,
    In checker of the shine and shade beneath the old beech pole.

    The old hole, the dark hole, wherein we marked the gleam
    Of minnows streaking, silvery rose, and in its deep a dream
    Of something gone forever down the glimmer of the stream.

    The old hole, the deep hole, o’er which we watched the flash
    Of bronze and brass of dragonflies and listened for the splash
    Of frogs that leaped from lilied banks when round them we would dash.

    He stood beside me there again, with fishing pole and line,
    And looked into my eyes and said, “The fishing will be fine!”
    And bade me follow down the stream and placed his hand in mine.

    But it was strange! I could not speak, however I might try,
    While all my heart choked up with tears, and I could only sigh
    And whisper to myself, “Ah, God, if I could only die!”

    He laughed at me, he beckoned me, but I—I stood wide eyed;
    A spell was on my soul, I knew, that kept me from his side,
    A spell that held me back from him, my boyhood that had died.

    ’Twas there beside the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of long gone by,
    I stood upon its banks awhile when stars were in the sky,
    And oh, I met and talked with him, the child that once was I!

  • The Point of View

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 4, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Some years ago my father drove an ancient piebald mare,
    And when he met a motor car he’d scowl at it and glare.
    Would he turn out? No, not a bit. He’d try to hog the road.
    When they would ask him to give way he’d yell, “I’ve got a load!”
    His hatred for the gas machines was unrelenting, quite.
    It was a mania with him; he talked it day and night.
    He said that any feller who would drive one was a fool;
    For father was a backward man, who followed the old school.

    But things have changed since then a bit. Although for years he roared
    About the gol-dum devil carts, he’s gone and bought a Ford.
    He beats it round the countryside at thirty miles an hour,
    And when an old horse heaves in sight he crowds on all his power.
    He nearly busts with anger when he wants the right of way,
    And hollers, “For the love of Mike, lay over there, you jay!”
    He’s got the latest fol-de-rols, green goggles and the like;
    He is the greatest motor fiend who ambles down the pike.
    It’s just the same old story. Yes, indeed, it’s nothing new.
    The war of horse and car depends upon the point of view.

  • Looking Back

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 3, 1914.

    ’Tis sweet to sing vacation days
        Because, you see, they’re ended;
    From mountain inns and summer bays
        ‘Most everyone has wended
    Back to the walks where duty lies
        And daily tasks are calling.
    Ere long will clouds obscure the skies
        And winter rains be falling.

    In retrospect, methinks, we drain
        A cup of sweetest pleasure
    And wonder if we’ll e’er again
        Have granted us a measure
    Of summer joys so brimming full
        Of mirthfulness and laughter,
    With scarce a thought of labors dull
        And troubles to come after.

    We don’t recall the insect swarm
        That started us to swearing,
    The sultry days and nights so warm
        We almost were despairing;
    The stuffy room, the tiresome bed,
        The food we vowed was “rotten”—
    Though but a week or two has sped,
        These ills are all forgotten.

  • When He is Wrong

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, September 2, 1914.

    I am not a sage or seer,
    There are many problems here
        That I couldn’t solve correctly if I tried.
    That I’m not so very wise
    Is a fact I recognize,
        And it’s something that I do not try to hide.
    But in riding to and fro,
    I have noticed as I go
        Men engaged in worldly conflicts loud and long,
    And a dollar or a dime
    I will wager every time,
        The fellow with the loudest voice is wrong.

    On the trolly cars you’ll find
    Men of every sort and kind,
        And they settle every problem that is known.
    They will quickly put to rout
    Every questionable doubt,
        And they mock at every answer but their own.
    I’ll admit that I don’t know
    Half the things they say are so,
        That I’ve doubts on many questions that are strong;
    But I’m sure it’s safe to bet,
    If a wager you can get,
        That the fellow with the loudest voice is wrong.

    When a man begins to shout
    And waves his arms about,
        When he voices his opinion in a shriek;
    When he works with lungs and jaw
    And he tries to overawe
        His brothers who are mild and sane and meek,
    When he tries to advertise
    To the world that he is wise,
        And he seeks to get the notice of the throng
    By the volume of his chatter;
    What the subject doesn’t matter,
        It is always safe to wager that he’s wrong.

  • The Gipsy’s Warning

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 1, 1914.

    Trust him not, O gentle lady,
        Though his voice be low and sweet;
    Heed not him who kneels before thee,
        Softly pleading at thy feet;
    Now thy life is in its morning,
        Cloud not this, thy happy lot.
    Listen to the gipsy’s warning—
        Gentle lady, trust him not.

    Lady, once there lived a maiden,
        Young and pure, and like thee, fair;
    Yet he wooed, and wooed and won her,
        Thrilled her gentle heart with care—
    Then—he heeded not her weeping—
        He cared not her life to save!
    Soon she perished—now she’s sleeping
        In the cold and silent grave!

    Lady, turn not from me so coldly,
        For I have only spoke the truth—
    From a stern and withering sorrow,
        Lady, I would shield thy youth;
    I would shield thee from all danger—
        Shield thee from the tempter’s snare;
    Lady, shun the dark-eyed stranger—
        I have warned thee; now, beware!

    Take your gold—I do not want it;
        Lady, I have prayed for this—
    For the hour that I might foil him,
        And rob him of expected bliss.
    Aye, I see thou art filled with wonder
        At my looks so fierce and wild—
    Lady, in the churchyard yonder
        Sleeps the gipsy’s only child!

  • Speculators

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, August 31, 1914.

    He’d nothing but his little job
        And she her rosy cheek,
    But love still lives on bread and cheese
        And kisses twice a week;
    And so the speculators went
        To get the license out—
    And what’s the use to try to preach
        When the wind of love’s about!

    He’d nothing but his manly will
        And she her gentle grace;
    But, oh, the world and all to him
        Was in her glowing face;
    And so these speculators took
        The problem all must fight—
    And what’s the use to fret and scold
        When all comes out so right!

    He’d nothing but his youth and gleam
        And she her laughing eyes;
    But they were in the vale of dreams
        Beneath the singing skies;
    And so these speculators chose
        Their nest as others do—
    And what’s the use to raise a fuss
        When they only did like you!

  • An Eastern Tale

    From The Sun, August 30, 1914. By Alice Stone Blackwell.

    Mahmoud the Great on a journey went;
    His thoughts were on war and conquest bent,
    Kasajas followed him, musing too;
    But what his thoughts were no man knew.
    The Sultan spoke, “My wise Vizier,
    Marvellous things of thee I hear.
    Say, is it true, as men declare,
    That thou knowest the speech of the birds of the air?”
    Kasajas answered, “Sire, ’tis truth,
    A dervish taught me the art in youth.
    Whatever by birds is chirped or sung
    I comprehend like my mother tongue.”
    Two screech owls perched on a plane tree bare;
    With notes discordant they filled the air.
    The Sultan pointed. “Tell me, pray,
    What is it those birds of evil say?”
    Kasajas listened. “O sire, I fear
    To tell thee plainly the thing I hear.
    Those hateful screech owls talk of thee!”
    “Verily! What can they say of me?
    Tell me the truth and have no fear.
    The truth is best for a monarch’s ear.”
    “Thy servant, sire, obeys thy words.
    This is the talk of those evil birds:
    ‘I am content,’ said the elder one,
    ‘Unto thy daughter to wed my son
    If twenty villages, ruined all,
    To her for her dowry portion fall.’
    ‘Three times twenty such instead
    Shall be her portion,’ the other said.
    ‘Long may Allah, the wise and good,
    Preserve the life of the great Mahmoud!
    Wherever he rides there will be no lack
    Of ruined villages in his track!’”
    The Sultan’s dreams were dark that night.
    When came the dawn the morning light
    He rose from a couch where he found no ease
    And sent an embassage of peace.

  • War

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

    Said the man who molds the cannon to the man who builds the ship,
    “I am giving you a cargo for a strange and fearful trip.
    And if you float or if you sink out yonder in the sea
    I’ll keep on molding cannon; and it’s all the same to me.”

    Said the man who builds the ship unto the cannon molder grim,
    “I’ll take your cannon for a sail where lads all smart and trim
    Will aim and fire true. And if your cannon shattered be,
    I’ll keep on with my building; and it’s all the same to me.”

    “For every gun that cracks we’ll mold a bigger, stouter gun.
    For every ship that sinks we’ll put afloat a better one.
    The lads that come and go—the women weep to lose them thus!
    But we make our ships and cannon, and it’s all the same to us.”

  • My Baby

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    (A poem for every father.)

    I’ve heard a lot of babies squall,
        I’ve heard ‘em east and west,
    But after hearin’ of ‘em all,
        I like my kid’s yell best.

    It doesn’t worry me a bit,
        For every time I hear
    Him tune up to his heart’s content,
        It’s music to my ear.

    Your own kid’s voice is always sweet,
        No matter what the key;
    In all the world no one can sing
        So charmingly as he.

    You think it’s cute when your own child
        Cuts loose with might and main;
    It always is the neighbor’s kid
        That drives you half insane.