Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Fire Alarm

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 8, 1914.

    When riding on their motor trucks
        I see the firemen pass,
    Like soldiers dressed in uniforms
        Of natty blue and brass,
    I think about the volunteers
        Who used, in other days,
    To rally to the fire-alarm
        And battle with the blaze.

    When clanged upon the midnight air
        That sudden summons loud,
    The people tumbled out of bed,
        A wild, excited crowd.
    The barking dogs ran on ahead,
        And shouts and cries arose
    Above the crackle of the flames,
        The hissing of the hose.

    To save a neighbor’s little home
        The axe and hose they plied,
    Until among the cinders black
        The lurid demon died.
    The old red shirts they used to sport
        Are full of moths and holes;
    The men who wore them, too, are dead—
        God rest their gallant souls!

    But still we fear the smoky scourge,
        And tremble with affright,
    When suddenly the fire-alarm
        Blares out upon the night.
    So here’s a tribute from the heart,
        A word of praise for all
    The heroes of the hose and truck
        Who answer to its call.

  • The Vanished Country

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 7, 1914. By Grantland Rice.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a cabin in a lane,
    Across the yellow sunshine
        And the silver of the rain;
    A cabin, summer-shaded,
        Where the maples whispered low
    Dream stories of the world winds
        That a fellow used to know;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a land he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s an old-time swinging gate
    Through the early dusk of summer
        Where a girl has come to wait;
    And her hair is like the sundrift
        From the heart of summer skies,
    While the blue of God’s wide heaven
        Crowns the splendor of her eyes;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a girl he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a dream that used to be
    Of Fame within the city
        And a name beyond the sea;
    A dream of laurel wreathings
        That came singing through the light
    The story of the glory
        Of the victor in the fight;
    And it’s queer that, worn and gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a dream he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

  • The Petitioners

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 6, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Pray sometimes for the succor that the mighty among us need;
    Pray for the kindness needed by the led and the ones who lead;
    Pray when the day is ended and pray when the day begins
    For the strength you need and the guidance and the pardoning of your sins,
    But know that the Lord who watches o’er peasants and priests and kings
    Blesses in fullest measure the men who are doing things.

    Pray when the light is breaking for wisdom and strength and grace;
    Pray when the day has ended and the stars gleam cold in space;
    But the day was made for toiling; let the monk in his cloister pray;
    Out in the world is duty claiming your care by day;
    God in the great beginning wrought with a mighty hand,
    Pausing not till His glory spread over sea and land.

    They are lost who mumble prayers when the sun is high,
    Turning away from duty, fearing to dare or try;
    Sitting in dark seclusion, selfishly asking there
    Glory in heaven as payment for the zeal that they show in prayer;
    Over their heads the gleaming sword of destruction swings,
    While God in His mercy listens to the men who are doing things.

  • The Call of the Wild

    From The Sun, July 5, 1914.

    I know a place where the fern is deep
        And the giant fir waves high,
    And a rocky ledge hangs dark and steep,
        And a laughing brook leaps by.
    And it’s there to be with a soul that’s free
        From the street’s discordant jar,
    With a blanket spread on a cedar bed,
        And the voice of the world afar.

    I know of a pool in a leafy dell
        That the wary trout love best,
    And a timid trail to the chaparral
        Where the red deer lie at rest.
    A night bird’s call when the shadows fall
        And a cougar’s eerie cry,
    A silence deep, and a dreamless sleep
        Under the open sky.

  • The Glorious Fourth

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1914. By David.

    When you’re roused from your sleep by a terrible noise
    At four in the morning, you know that the boys
        Are up for the day, and sigh.
    When in through the window a firecracker flies
    And bursts on the floor, driving sleep from your eyes,
        You know it’s the Fourth of July.

    When the cat in wild fear climbs a tree in the gale
    With a bunch of firecrackers attached to her tail,
        Which happens just once a year;
    When Towner seeks a hole under the house
    And keeps just as still as a poor frightened mouse,
        The Glorious Fourth is here.

    When all the world leaves for the woods and the farms,
    From the grey-headed sire to the infant in arms,
        We never wonder why;
    And when, unawares, drenching all in its train,
    Out flashes the lightning and down pours the rain,
        You know it’s the Fourth of July.

    When skyrockets burst and cannons explode,
    Causing horses to run and upset their load,
        And a general panic is nigh;
    When the fire engine comes and commences to play,
    And the ambulance carries the victims away,
        ’Tis the Glorious Fourth of July.

    When the wounds are all dressed and plasters applied
    To scratches and burns, which are shown with great pride
        By little Peter and John;
    When each in sweet sleep has forgotten his grief,
    You retire for the night with a sigh of relief.
        The Glorious Fourth is gone.

  • The Summer Prospectus

    From the Evening Star, July 3, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    I read about the fishing and I read about the trees.
    I read about the scenery all guaranteed to please.
    I read about wild nature with its glories and its grace
    And packed my grip, determined that I’d go and see the place.

    The fish were tired of biting and the trees were not as grand
    As those that flourished in our parks and roadways near at hand.
    And nature in its wildness seems to love a lot of things
    That it provides with various sorts of stickers and of stings.

    And yet those printed pages seemed like poetry so fine
    And a handsome illustration went with every other line.
    No longer will I seek the rolling wave or leafy nook.
    I’ll pack my grip again and go back home and read the book.

  • The Old Cider Barrel

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 2, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    How dear to my heart is the old cider barrel,
        As fond recollection presents it to view;
    The place where they kept it corked up in the cellar
        Is as fresh in my mind as it ever was, too.
    The damp, whitewashed walls, the potatoes and turnips,
        The apples we’d picked when the weather was fair—
    How well I recall them, how gladly I lingered
        Beside the old barrel deposited there—
    The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
        The iron-hooped barrel confronting me there.

    Once armed with a gimlet, I went to the barrel—
        Dear father and mother had gone for the day;
    I bored a small hole and slipped a straw through it,
        And ceased to be troubled while sucking away.
    I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
        Till things in my fancy seemed softly to blend,
    And I couldn’t have told whether I or the barrel
        Was dancing around or still standing on end—
    The old cider barrel, the hard cider barrel,
        The iron-hooped barrel that stood upon end.

    Somehow I got out of the old whitewashed cellar
        And whooped and hurrahed and made merry awhile;
    They say that my shouting aroused all the neighbors
        Who lived in a circle of less than a mile.
    At last my fond parents came home from their visit,
        The things that ensued I shall never forget;
    I acquired a hatred of hard cider barrels
        That long has been rankling and clings to me yet—
    If all the hard cider were spilled in the sewers
        I’d look on the waste and be free from regret.

  • Superior Wisdom

    From the Evening Star, July 1, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    A collar built to suffocate;
    A hat that seems a leaden weight;
    A shirt and over that a coat
    To shed each cool wave set afloat;
    Suspenders which are far from light,
    Or else a belt pulled safe and tight—
    In these suffering man so neat
    Goes forth to battle with the heat.

    A filmy cloud of rustling lace,
    That floats along with clinging grace;
    A bit of color, which the breeze
    May toss about with buoyant ease—
    The man stands by and gasps for air
    And then exclaims while gazing there
    On comfortable loveliness,
    “How foolishly those women dress!”

  • The Lamp of Learning

    From the Rock Island Argus, June 29, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The preacher looks out over empty pews,
        The scholar sits unnoticed and alone;
    The poet, collarless and needing shoes,
        Sings soulfully, unheeded and unknown.

    The actor who was born to grace the stage
        Reads splendidly the lines penned by the bard,
    But no one notices his noble rage,
        He is a creature robbed of all regard.

    The artist who has striven well and long
        Walks through the empty gallery and sighs;
    His canvases attract no eager throng,
        And hunger dulls the luster of his eyes.

    The halls of art are desolate and drear,
        The sacred lamp of learning feebly glows;
    Round roped arenas people wildly cheer,
        Or overcrowd the moving picture shows.

  • The Bloodless Sportsman

    From The Sun, June 28, 1914. By Henry Kelman.

    I go a-gunning, but take no gun;
        I fish without a pole;
    And I bag good game and catch such fish
        As suit a sportsman’s soul.

    For the choicest game that the forest holds,
        And the best fish of the brook
    Are never brought down by a rifle shot,
        And are never caught with a hook.

    I bob for fish by the forest brook,
        I hunt for game in the trees.
    For bigger birds than wing the air
        Or fish than swim the seas.

    A rodless Walton of the brooks,
        A bloodless sportsman I—
    I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods,
        The dreams that haunt the sky.

    The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,
        The brooks for the fishers of song;
    To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
        The streams and the woods belong.

    There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine,
        And thoughts in a flower bell curled;
    And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern
        Are as new and as old as the world.