Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Lying

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 18, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    I’m writing her a letter
        That I’m getting on all right,
    That I’m really feeling better,
        And I’m full of vim and fight.
    I’m telling her I’m working
        Every minute of the day,
    And I have no time for shirking
        And I have no time to play.

    I am telling her that nightly
        I am sitting round the home,
    And that time is passing lightly,
        And I’ve no desire to roam.
    I am telling her I’m hoping
        That a month or two they’ll stay
    Where the hillsides green are sloping
        And the little ones can play.

    I am glad they’re where the breezes
        Gently kiss them as they run,
    And I’m telling her it pleases
        Me to think of all their fun.
    And I write that I’m not lonely,
        But it’s all a fearful sham,
    For they’d come back if they only
        Knew how miserable I am.

    For I miss their sweet caresses
        And I miss their shouts of glee,
    And the empty home depresses
        Now the very soul of me.
    I miss the cry of “pappy”
        From each roguish little tot.
    I am writing that I’m happy
        But I’ll bet she knows I’m not.

  • Light Shining Out of Darkness

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 17, 1914. By William Cowper.

    God moves in a mysterious way
        His wonders to perform;
    He plants His footsteps in the sea
        And rides upon the storm.

    Deep in unfathomable mines
        Of never-failing skill,
    He treasures up His bright designs,
        And works His sovereign will.

    Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
        The clouds ye so much dread
    Are big with mercy, and shall break
        In blessings on your head.

    Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
        But trust Him for His grace;
    Behind a frowning Providence
        He hides a smiling face.

    His purposes will ripen fast,
        Unfolding every hour;
    The bud may have a bitter taste,
        But sweet will be the flower.

    Blind unbelief is sure to err,
        And scan His work in vain;
    God is His own interpreter
        And He will make it plain.

  • A Woman’s Love

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 16, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    A man prefers the one who makes him laugh;
        The cares that he must carry through the day
    Are forgotten or diminished more than half
        If there’s just a chance to laugh along the way!
            But woman—ah, God bless her—
                How her heart does ever leap
            With love—true love and tender—
                For the man who makes her weep!

    I like the maid who gives me cause to smile,
        I love the child that gives me little care;
    Men praise the ones who keep them laughing while
        They bend beneath the burdens they must bear.
            But woman—ah, God bless her!—
                Her love is true and deep
            For the child that brings her sorrow
                And the man who makes her weep.

  • The Two Leaders

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 15, 1914.

    When Luck and Pluck, one summer day,
        When faring forth together,
    Pluck wore a suit of homespun gray,
        Luck had a cap and feather;
    A handsome, dashing fellow he,
        And full of careless pleasure—
    “Come follow me; I hold the key,”
        He cried, “of boundless treasure.”

    He looked so gay, and bold, and strong,
        That listening ears were plenty,
    His train of followers grew long,
        A dozen—fifteen—twenty—
    A hundred—still they came; while Pluck
        Tramped on, with few behind him,
    “Poor plodding fools,” cried laughing Luck,
        “A stupid guide you’ll find him!”

    Luck led his careless troop ahead
        With boasting and with revel.
    The sun shown radiant overhead,
        The road was smooth and level.
    But as the day wore on, behold!
        Athwart the way, a river
    Without a bridge, flowed deep and cold,
        A sight to make one shiver.

    “Well, well,” cried Luck, “We’ll sit and wait,
        It may run dry tomorrow,
    Or we’ll see coming soon or late
        Some boat that we can borrow!”
    So down they sat—and there they stayed
        To wait and hope at leisure,
    While Luck assured them, undismayed,
        They still would reach the treasure.

    But Pluck, with those who tramped behind
        His sturdy figure waited
    No moment on the bank, to find
        Whether the stream abated;
    They plunged, they swam, they fought their way,
        The shore in safety gaining—
    And theirs the treasure is today
        While Luck goes on complaining.

  • Bloody Ludlow

    From The Voice of the People, July 14, 1914. By Lone Wolf.

    The miners brave in Ludlow town,
    By scabby gunmen were shot down,
    When hunger’s pangs made them rebel
    Against their daily, living hell.

    Oh! Workers, rally to their aid!
    Honor the stand the miners made!
    Shall all their efforts be in vain
    And gunmen’s bullets end their pain?

    The gunmen poured in by the score
    To welter in the miner’s gore;
    With rifle, torch and Gatling gun,
    These murderous thugs did riot run.

    They murdered babes and women, too,
    Those hell-hounds, cursed, the pirate crew;
    While Oily John, with smile benign
    Said, “God is good to me and mine.”

    “I own this country,” said John D.;
    “Back to the mines and slave for me!
    If you dare go on strike for bread
    My brave Militia will feed you lead.

    “I own the land, I own the mines,
    Rail, steel and oil, the sun that shines;
    I own the Press, the Church, the State,
    From Mexico to the Golden Gate.”

    The miners now, in bitter strife
    Are fighting hard to maintain life.
    Come workers now, from every land,
    And give our Comrades there a hand.

    Let Revolution’s dawn awake!
    The world for the workers’ take!
    Let “Colorado” be our cry;
    The time has come to win or die.

  • I Want to Go to Morrow

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 13, 1914. By Lew Sully.

    I started on a journey just about a week ago
    For the little town of Morrow, in the state of Ohio.
    I never was a traveler, and really didn’t know
    That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
    I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied
    For tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
    Said I, “My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
    Not later than tomorrow, for I haven’t time to burn.”

    Said he to me, “Now let me see if I have heard you right.
    You want to go to Morrow and come back tomorrow night.
    To go from here to Morrow and return is quite a way—
    You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back today.
    For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don’t you see,
    You could have got to Morrow and returned today at three.
    The train that started yesterday—now understand me right—
    Today it gets to Morrow and returns tomorrow night.”

    Said I, “My boy, it seems to me you’re talking through your hat.
    Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that.”
    “There is,” said he, “and take from me a quiet little tip:
    To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
    The train that goes to Morrow leaves today eight thirty-five.
    Half after ten tomorrow is the time it should arrive.
    Now, if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
    Can you go today to Morrow and come back today, you chump?”

    Said I, “I want to go to Morrow; can I go today
    And get to Morrow by tonight if there is no delay?”
    “Well, well,” said he, “explain to me, and I’ve no more to say,
    Can you go anywhere tomorrow and come back today?
    For if today you’d get to Morrow, surely you’ll agree
    You should have started not today, but yesterday, you see.
    So, if you start to Morrow, leaving today, you flat,
    You won’t get into Morrow till the day that follows that.

    “Now, if you start today to Morrow, it’s a cinch you’ll land
    Tomorrow into Morrow, not today, you understand;
    For the train today to Morrow, if the schedule is right,
    Will get you into Morrow by about tomorrow night.”
    Said I, “I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
    How can I go tomorrow if I leave the town today?”
    Said he, “You cannot go to Morrow any more today,
    For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way.”

    I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear.
    The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
    The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay—
    I didn’t go to Morrow, so I guess I’ll go today.

  • In the “Zoo”

    From The Sun, July 12, 1914. By George T. Marsh.

    Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
        Behind the iron bars.
    Where’er they turn the hand of man
        Their straining vision mars,
    Save only when at night they gaze
        Upon the friendly stars.

    See! There a golden eagle broods
        With glazed, unseeing eyes
    That never more will sweep the snows
        Where blue Sierras rise;
    And there, sick for his native hills,
        A sullen panther lies.

    What dreams of silent polar nights
        Disturb the white bear’s sleep?
    Roams he once more unfettered where
        Eternal ice flows sweep?
    What memories of the jungle’s ways
        Does that gaunt tiger keep?

    Such wistful eyes the hartebeest turn
        Beyond their cramped domain.
    They seem to see the yellowing leagues
        Of wind swept veldt again.
    And look, a springbok lifts his head
        As though he smelled the plain.

    Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
        Behind the iron bars.
    For thus the ruthless hand of man
        Each God-made creature mars.
    But oh, what hungry eyes they raise
        Up to the friendly stars!

  • The Escape

    From The Times Dispatch, July 11, 1914. By Alvin Hattorf.

    “All’s well,” cried the prison guard, as he walked his beat—the echo came “All’s well.”
    I was still in the silence as they cried away, twelve strokes had lately fell.
    The lightning darted across the sky and a peal of thunder sounded plain,
    The black forms of the pickets were seen, through the lightning and the rain.

    It came in pouring torrents, drowning every sound,
    The convicts in their cells slept on, in spite of the raging storm around.
    But in one cell its prisoner slept, but was wide awake;
    To him the storm was welcome; it seemed that God had sent it for his sake.

    Over and over in his burning brain came the words as he paced the cell;
    The words of the letter pressed to his lips, and again and again they fell:
    “Come, I’m dying—come! ‘ere it be too late;
    I must see you—come!—for my sake.”

    “I’m coming,” he whispered hoarsely; “I’m coming from this prison hell!”
    Then falling upon his knees, he prayed within his cell;
    “Be with me now, Oh! God. Let all happen for the best;
    I’m going; I give all to you—the rest.”

    Quickly he arose; swiftly to the door; the guard had heard not;
    Softly to the bed and he drew a file from his cot.
    Then one by one he began to cut the huge iron bars,
    In nervous anxiety and with many a trembling pause.

    Half-past 12 struck the clock, and the storm raged on in fury;
    One, two sounded, as he paused, tired and weary.
    Again racing to the door and again his heart stopping dread;
    To the window—let down the rope, and began his perilous tread.

    Slowly, yard by yard, sometimes he swung in space,
    Oft pausing to escape detection, then downward in hurrying haste.
    The rain the while beat upon his face, but the lightning flashed less;
    Only the roaring thunder; ’twas as if his escape were blessed.

    At last he reached the ground with one mighty leap;
    Here he crouched trembling, then slowly began to creep.
    The guard paused—did he hear a noise? But no, he paces on.
    The shivering convict pauses below and waits till he is gone.

    Swiftly, cat-like, he climbs the wall, clinging to every rock;
    At last reaching the end, lay panting at the top.
    But only for a moment; he crouches over, high and steep,
    As a crash of thunder drowns the noise of his daring leap.

    Here, stretched upon the ground, then came a thought:
    “What good to see his dying wife for a while—in life to part?”
    He, innocent of crime, to spend the rest in a cell!
    “No, no,” he muttered in his pain, “I’d rather go with her than back to that long, hard hell!”

    In mute appeal he waited for a flash of lightning—and it came.
    The guard saw the escaped, and his gun crashed deadly aim.
    The convict clinched his bleeding breast, but with a smile of joy, better.
    “’Tis best, thank God! Now I’ll be with her forever.”

  • We Are Seven

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 10, 1914. By William Wordsworth.

    A simple child,
        That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
        What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage girl;
        She was 8 years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
        That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
        And she was wildly clad;
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
        Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little maid,
        How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
        And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
        She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea;

    “Two of us in the churchyard lie,
        My sister and my brother;
    And, in the churchyard cottage, I
        Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
        Sweet maid, how may this be?”

    Then did the little maid reply,
        “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the churchyard lie
        Beneath the churchyard tree.”

    “You run about, my little maid;
        Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the churchyard laid
        Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
        The little maid replied;
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door
        And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
        My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit
        And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sunset, sir,
        When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
        And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was Sister Jane;
        In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her pain,
        And then she went away.

    “So in the churchyard she was laid;
        And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
        My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
        And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
        And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
        “If they two are in Heaven?”
    Quick was the little maid’s reply:
        “O Master! We are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
        Their spirits are in Heaven?”
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little maid would have her will,
        And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

  • The Devil As He Is

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 9, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    They give the devil hoofs and horns
        Who picture him with brush or pen,
    So that whoever fears or scorns
        The dread arch enemy of men
    May know him for a fiend, may know
        The cunning that is in his glances,
    And, therefore, meet him as a foe
        However slyly he advances.

    They err who have him thus portrayed
        So that all men may know him well;
    He comes without a hoof displayed
        Or anything that smacks of hell;
    He comes fair-fronted, with a smile
        That quickly rids us of suspicion
    And makes us think him splendid while
        He guides us downward to perdition.