Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Independence Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1915. By Minna Irving.

    From the shores of old Penobscot
        Where the ocean’s roar is heard,
    To the home of sweet magnolias
        And the clear-voiced mocking bird,
    From the pines, that whisper secrets
        To the pale moon overhead,
    To the live oaks in their mosses
        There’s a gleam of white and red.

    From the gray New England homesteads
        Framed in pear and apple trees,
    To the valleys and the vineyards
        By the blue Pacific seas;
    From the rosy glow of morning
        To the sunset’s golden bars,
    Over all the land of freedom
        Is a flash of silver stars.

    North and South alike they glimmer
        East and West the same they shine,
    In the palace and the cabin,
        By the palm and by the pine;
    Where the crowded city clamors,
        Where the sylvan waters call,
    Flies the same immortal banner
        Waving glorious for all.

    ’Twas for this the Continentals
        Starved and suffered long ago,
    Leaving footprints marked in crimson
        On the crust of frozen snow.
    ’Twas for this the infant nation,
        From the arms of Liberty,
    Made its ringing declaration
        To be fetterless and free.

    Just one silken, starry standard
        Broad and bright enough, behold!
    For both white and black together
        To be sheltered in its fold.
    Just one flag above a people
        That, united, lead the way
    To the world’s emancipation
        And its Independence day.

  • The Golf Widow’s Divorce

    From the New York Tribune, July 3, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    A weary female stood in court before a judge quite grim;
    And looking up with abject mien she turned and spoke to him;
    “Your honor”—said she with a voice that bordered on a sigh—
    “I’d like to get a quick divorce”—and tears stood in her eye;
    The Judge looked down upon her just a moment ere he said
    “What has your husband done that you are sorry that you wed?
    Can it be that he beats you—or holds out half his pay?”
    Whereat the female wept again and these sad words did say—

    “He only talks of stymies and of dormies—
    He only talks of ‘hooks’ that lost a bet;
    He plays his golf all day
    And at night he raves away
    Of putts he orter had—but didn’t get;
    He says he orter had a sixty-seven—
    But the hundred that he took was far from right—
    I don’t care if he should play
    This here golluf every day
    If he wouldn’t play it over every night.”

    The stern judge thought a moment with a frown upon his face—
    “I hate divorces,” he replied, “but not in this here case;
    I know the gunman’s often wrong—and yet he has his side;
    And while I sometimes jug a thief—I often let him slide;
    But there are limits to all crime—and one or two so raw
    That fitting punishment is yet beyond the printed law—”
    But when he murmured “twenty years”—the golfer’s hair turned gray
    And now the wife is kinder sad that these words she did say.

  • Gentle Revenge

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, July 2, 1915.

    When she gave him a smile—
        As she did in the dance—
    It was not done in guile,
        Nor with wish to enhance
            His burning affection;
    But the fact was, it had
        That effect, just the same,
    And the poor foolish lad
        Was so scorched by love’s flame
            He moped in dejection.

    Which perceiving, she felt
        She had played the wrong part,
    And then felt pity melt
        To its kin in her heart—
            A fitting location.
    So this damsel and swain
        Tuned their lives to Love’s lays,
    And walked down Lover’s Lane
        For the rest of their days—
            Grief got a vacation!

  • The Don’t-Worriers

    From the Evening Star, July 1, 1915.

    We started a “Don’t Worry” Club at Pohick on the Crick.
    We thought we’d stop the troubles that were gatherin’ too thick.
    We’d heard about the way that exercisin’ of the mind
    Would help us to be gay an’ leave our earthly cares behind.
    Sim Slicer said that he was through with worryin’ each day
    ‘Bout goin’ home an’ hearin’ what his wife would have to say.
    An’ all the fellers, they agreed the proper thing to do
    Was jes’ to think of pleasant things an’ hope that they’d come true.

    We sat an’ talked about the world so full of nature’s charm,
    An’ no one made allusions to the mortgage on the farm.
    We all took life so easy that Bill Briggs, who keeps the store,
    Resolved to shut it up an’ never fret hisself no more.
    Sim Slicer’s wife she led a crowd who said a thing or two
    ‘Bout various things, includin’ mortgages a-fallin’ due.
    It was a blissful dream from which we wakened all too quick.
    Now everybody’s worryin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.

  • Discretion

    From the Richmond Times Dispatch, June 30, 1915.

    “Oh, why should the spirit
        Of mortal be proud?”
    The male of the species
        Is never allowed
    By the once gentler sex
        To voice his belief—
    Which you’ll own well enough
        Accounts for his grief.
    No, this age deals a blow
        To man, in his pride;
    He’s wisest when meekest—
        That can’t be denied.

  • The Wonderful Something

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, June 29, 1915. By Yeoman Shield.

    There’s a Something that maketh a palace
        Out of four little walls and a prayer
    A something that seeth a garden
        In one little flower that is fair;
    That tuneth two hearts to one purpose
        And maketh one heart of two;
    That smiles when the sky is a gray one
        And smiles when the sky is blue.

    Without it no garden hath fragrance,
        Though it holdeth the wide world’s blooms;
    Without it a palace a prison
        With cells for banqueting rooms;
    This Something that halloweth sorrow
        And stealeth the sting from care;
    This Something that maketh a palace
        Out of our little walls and a prayer.

  • Coming Back

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1915. By Henry Van Dyke.

    Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
    Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
    I traveled fast for this—to take thee by the hand.

    A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
    A mariner without a dream of what his port will be,
    So faced I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

    O cooler than a grove of palm, in some heat-weary place,
    O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
    The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face.

    Then furl the sail, let the oar, forget the paths of foam!
    The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
    To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.

  • A First Class Substitute

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 27, 1915.

    Now, riches don’t make happiness,
        A very ancient saw;
    And yet, a maid who’s in distress
        Quite often goes to law
    And asks enormous damages
        To heal a broken heart,
    And when her lawyer makes his pleas
        The jury takes her part,
    So that, in just a little while,
        Her breach of promise suit
    Extracts the coin to live in style
        From one who proved a “brute.”
    And while it mayn’t be happiness
        That makes her features glow,
    Whate’er it is, it doth express
        A joyous mood, I know.

  • The Master of His Fate

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 26, 1915.

    He met each day serenely,
        Without a trace of care;
    The weather seemed to suit him,
        If rainy ’twas or fair.

    He ne’er was heard complaining
        That fate had used him wrong;
    The hills around re-echoed
        The music of his song.

    His ways were rough and ready,
        His clothes were common, too;
    But he would soon be wealthy,
        As everybody knew.

    And on his mighty shoulders
        Life’s burdens lightly lay;
    He owned a small repair shop
        Upon a broad highway

    Where motor cars disabled
        Were mended in a trice,
    And, free from competition
        He charged a fancy price.

  • Whatever Is—Is Best

    From The Detroit Times, June 25, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    I know as my life grows older,
        And mine eyes have clearer sight—
    That under each rank wrong, somewhere
        There lies the root of right;
    That each sorrow has a purpose,
        By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
    But sure as the sun brings morning,
        Whatever is—is best.

    I know that each sinful action,
        As sure as the night brings shade
    Is somewhere, sometime punished
        Tho’ the hour be long delayed.
    I know that the soul is aided
        Sometimes by the heart’s unrest
    And to grow means often to suffer—
        But whatever is—is best.

    I know there are no errors
        In the great eternal plan,
    And all things work together
        For the final good of man.
    And I know as my soul speeds onward
        In its grand eternal quest,
    I shall say as I look back earthward,
        Whatever is—is best.