Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Just Before the Wedding

    From The Times Dispatch, June 7, 1914. By Lida Keck Wiggins.

    The bride:

    “I wonder if Tom’s mother will like me,
        Or if she will poke fun at all I do;
    I wonder if the nice things she will see
        About me that her son professes to!
    I wonder!”

    The bride’s mother:

    “I wonder if at home he’ll nightly stay,
        And if he will continue to adore her;
    I wonder if she’ll manage him the way
        I have her dear old doting dad before her!
    I wonder!”

    The bridegroom:

    “I wonder if Jeanne’s mother will turn out
        To be a ma-in-law to conjure fear;
    I wonder if she’ll often be about,
        And if she’ll always be so sweet and dear!
    I wonder!”

    The bridegroom’s mother:

    “I wonder if Tom’s wife knows how to cook,
        And if she’ll think I’m very queer and prim;
    I wonder how her house is going to look,
        And if she’s really good enough for him!
    I wonder!”

    The fathers (in chorus):

    “We wonder how much money it will take
        To keep them going for a year or two;
    We wonder if those kids will really make
        A fortune, as they’re planning now to do!
    We wonder!”

  • His Emancipation

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

    “I’ve traveled till I’m sick of traveling;
        I’ve looked at everything there is to see.
    It’s come to pass that nothing seems to bring
        A new sensation or a thrill to me.

    “My taste is dulled, my thirst, alas, no more
        Brings anxious, eager longings to my soul
    Since all I have to do is turn and pour
        Myself another glassful from the bowl.

    “I’ve broken sporting records and I’ve played
        At working corners up in stocks and wheat;
    Such things have lost their charms for me; I’ve made
        The whole great round, the circle is complete.

    “Women, wine and song—bah! Not for me;
        There’s nothing left to long for any more,
    There’s nothing left to do or taste or see,
        The world has not another thrill in store.”

    But fate was kind to him who thus complained;
        It came to pass by happy chance, one day
    That, all alone and with his pockets drained,
        He on a far-off shore was cast away.

    There, where his voice could reach no friendly ear
        And where remittances could not be had,
    Hard masters made him toil from year to year
        And every time he ate his soul was glad.

    He longed for things that he could not obtain;
        The prospect of a day or two of rest,
    The chance to save a little extra gain,
        Sent new thrills trooping gladly through his breast.

    He sat him down no more with listless sighs,
        But with the hope of winning liberty
    He worked and looked ahead with eager eyes,
        Till Death was kind enough to set him free.

  • Before the Start

    From the Rock Island Argus, June 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Stay, you that proudly plan to dare
        And you that seek to do:
    Before you hurry forth to try
    To proudly plant your standard high,
        An honest word with you.

    Who seeks to raise himself above
        The level of the crowd
    Must drag through many a slough of woe
    And suffer many a blinding blow
        And oft sit humbly bowed.

    For every little gain he makes
        Who tries to take the lead
    A hundred disappointments leave
    Their impress on him; to achieve
        The heart must often bleed.

    Stay, you that plan to gain renown
        Or play a splendid part:
    Ten thousand sore discouragements
    Upon your heart shall leave their dents
        Before you get a start.

  • The Sea Sweepers

    From the Evening Star, June 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    There was an old lady who swept back the sea
    And she was as busy as busy could be.
    We laughed to observe her industrious style,
    But she kept at her task with a song and a smile.
        “It’s better,” said she,
        “To work, you’ll agree,
        And it pleases my fancy to sweep back the sea.”

    A neighbor of hers gathered fabulous gain.
    He sought for repose, but the quest was in vain.
    He coveted fame with ambition sincere,
    But for every good word cam a critical sneer.
        “Dear Madam,” said he,
        In a manner quite free,
        “You are wasting your time as you sweep back the sea.”

    “Ho! Ho!” she made answer. “You toil year by year,
    ‘Mid the ebb and flow of despair and good cheer.
    Your task is like mine, only hardly so wise,
    Since I get fresh air and some fine exercise.”
        And he answered, “Ah, me!
        If you like, I will be
        Your partner and help you to sweep back the sea!”

  • The Day’s Work

    From the Rock Island Argus, June 3, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The Slave:

    With weary brain and aching heart
        He greets another day;
    He sadly stumbles forth to start
        Upon his weary way;
    The sun may shine above his head and accented breezes blow,
    But what mean fair, blue skies to him that need compels to go
        To labor where no sunshine falls,
        Shut in by cheerless, dingy walls,
    Estranged from all but woe?

    “The day is done,” he sadly sighs;
        What has it brought to me?
    The sunset’s glow is on the skies—
        Why should I turn to see?
    I am condemned to live and toil the heavy hours away;
    Tomorrow I shall still be where I started yesterday;
        By circumstance to service bound,
        I must pursue a cheerless round,
    And hurry to obey.

    The Lover:

    The sunbeams play across his way,
        And blossoms that are sweet
    Come drifting from the trees to stray
        About his eager feet;
    He hurries onward hopefully where duties claim his care,
    And claims the pleasures that arise from faithful service there—
        And in his heart he bears along
        A little of the West Wind’s song,
    And all his world is fair.

    “How fair the day has been,” he cries,
        When evening’s shadows spread;
    “How rich a glow is in the skies,
        How fair the way ahead!
    Sweet songs have sweetly haunted me through all the splendid day,
    And Hope is calling bravely while I hurry on my way
        To smiling lips and loving arms—
        My path is through a land of charms
    Where friendly fairies play.”

  • Give Us Men!

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, June 2, 1914. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

    “God give us men! A time like this demands
    Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands;
    Men whom the lust of lucre does not kill;
    Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
    Men who possess opinions and a will ;
    Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
    Men who can stand before a demagogue
    And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking;
    Tall men, uncrowned, who live above the fog,
    In public duty, and in private thinking;
    For while the rabble with their thumb-worn creeds,
    Their large professions, and their little deeds,
    Mingle in selfish strife, Lo! Freedom weeps;
    Wrong rules the land, and waiting justice sleeps.”

  • Sunset On the Prairies

    From theGrand Forks Daily Herald, June 1, 1914. By J. W. Foley

    They have tamed it with their harrows; they have broken it with plows.
    Where the bison used to range it someone’s built himself a house;
    They have stuck it full of fence posts, they have girded it with wire,
    They have shamed it and profaned it with the automobile tire;
    They have bridged its gullied rivers; they have peopled it with men;
    They have churched it, they have schooled it, they have steepled it — Amen.

    They have smothered all its campfires, where the beaten plainsmen slept,
    They have driven up their cattle where the skulking coyote crept;
    They have made themselves a pasture where the timid deer would browse;
    Where the antelope were feeding they have dotted o’er with cows;
    There’s the yokel’s tuneless whistling down the bison’s winding trail.
    Where the redman’s arrow fluttered, there’s a woman with a pail
    Driving up the cows for milking. They have cut its wild extent
    Into forty acre patches till its glory all is spent.

    I remember in the sixties, when as far as I could see
    It had neither lord nor ruler but the buffalo and me;
    Ere the blight of man was on it, and the endless acres lay
    Just as God Almighty left them on the restful seventh day;
    When no sound rose from its vastness but a murmured hum and din
    Like the echo void of silence in an unheard prairie hymn.
    And I lay at night and rested in my bed of blankets curled
    Much alone as if I was the only man in all the world.

    But the prairie’s passed or passing with the passing of the years
    Till there is no west worth knowing and there are no pioneers;
    They have riddled it with railroads, throbbing on and on and on,
    They have ridded it of dangers till the zest of it is gone.
    And I’ve saddled up my pony, for I’m dull and lonesome here,
    To go westward, westward, westward, till we find a new frontier;
    To get back to God’s own wildness and the skies we used to know;
    But there is no West; it’s conquered—and I don’t know where to go.

  • The New Pitcher’s Prayer

    From the Evening Star, May 31, 1914.

    Out on the grass-green diamond
        Thousands and thousands can see
    One, the man who is pitching—
        That little image is me.
    Clad in the garb of a player,
        Built for a pitcher am I,
    Whirling the ball with a motion
        Studied and graceful and high.

    You think you’re the judges before whom
        Pitchers are tried and approved;
    That you are the court and your verdict
        Tells whether I’m kept or removed.
    You do not know, but I’ll tell you,
        I haven’t a chance save as one
    Standing with mask and protector
        Determines my fate, lost or won.

    He can decide and determine,
        His calling of strike or of ball,
    Whether I’m good or a “dead one”—
        You do not matter at all.
    He can call corners or close ones,
        He can determine my fate;
    Make me or mar me at pleasure,
        Label me “star” or a “skate.”

    Umpire, I pray you, kind master,
        Look now with favor on me;
    Give me an inch now of margin,
        Waving your right arm up free.
    Fate’s staring there on the benches;
        The manager’s thinking today
    Will settle my doom or my fortune,
        So, umpire, be good to me, pray!

  • The Phantom Armies

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 30, 1914. By T. C. Harbaugh.

    No drum-beats in the valley
        And no bugles on the hill
    Where the summer breezes daily
        All the battle plain is still;
    When the stars come out at even
        Far above the glist’ning dew,
    There’s a phantom flag in heaven
        There are armies in the blue.

    Comes to them a call to duty
        From the phantom corps of yore,
    Where the roses in their beauty
        Deck the far-off river’s shore;
    Do they dream of comrades sleeping
        Where the winds are wild and free,
    Where the Rapidan is sweeping
        And where lisps the Tennessee?

    O, the pity and the splendor
        Of the thinned, immortal lines!
    Soon the Union’s last defender
        Will be camping ‘neath the pines
    Where no hand heart-ties can sever
        And the shadows long are thrown
    Where the grasses whisper ever
        And no bugle blast is blown.

    They are marching yet in glory
        Where Potomac’s waters shine,
    And the old camps tell the story
        Of the heroes of the line;
    By the peaceful winding river
        Spectral sentries watch the foe
    And their challenge sounds forever
        In the Land of Long Ago.

    See! A line of Blue is marching
        There’s a drum-call in the street
    And the heaven’s overarching
        Seems the veterans to greet;
    They are marching slowly, slowly
        As the flowers to them nod
    And their remnant grows more holy
        As the years pass on to God.

    From out the dim, dead distance
        Charge the squadrons, Blue and Gray.
    There is none to make resistance
        For they vanish, like the spray;
    Not a cry, no word is spoken
        Ghostly banners catch the breeze,
    And the silence is unbroken
        ‘Mong the tall and somber trees.

  • The Modern Catechism

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

    Give a definition of success. “Money.”
    Give a synonym for happiness. “Money.”
    What attaches honor to a name?
    What produces privilege and fame?
    What relieves the sinner of all blame?
        “Money.”

    Give a definition of respect. “Money.”
    What enables people to “connect?” “Money.”
    What brings haughty monarchs to their knees?
    What brings titled suitors over seas?
    What makes wisdom look like cottage cheese?
        “Money.”

    Give a ready synonym for goal. “Money.”
    What is more important than the soul? “Money.”
    What removes the ugliness from vice?
    What in lieu of beauty will suffice?
    What is proudly gained at any price?
        “Money.”