Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Changes

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 28, 1914. By Owen Meredith.

    Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
        Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
    The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead,
        And then, we women cannot choose our lot.

    Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;
        Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
    God help us all who need, indeed, His care!
        And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves His sheep.

    My little boy begins to babble now
        Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
    He has his father’s eager eyes, I know;
        And they say, too, his mother’s sunny hair.

    But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
        And I can feel his light breath come and go,
    I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)
        Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.

    Who might have been . . . ah! What I dare not think!
        We all are changed. God judges for us best.
    God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
        And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

    But blame us women not, if some appear
        Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
    Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
        Who knows the past? And who can judge us right?

    Ah! Were we judged by what we might have been,
        And not by what we are, too apt to fall!
    My little child—he sleeps and smiles between
        These thoughts and me. In Heaven we shall know all!

  • Fate

    From The Times Dispatch, May 27, 1914. By Bret Harte.

    The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare,
    The spray of the tempest is white in air,
    The winds are out with the waves at play,
    And I shall not tempt the sea today.

    The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,
    The panther clings to the arching limb,
    The lion’s whelps are abroad at play,
    And I shall not join in the chase today.

    But the ship sailed safely over the sea,
    And the hunters came from the chase in glee,
    And the town that was builded upon a rock
    Was swallowed up in an earthquake shock.

  • It

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 26, 1914.

    They say that now we’ve a third sex
        In woman’s form ’tis set
    But it has male proclivities
        E’en to the cigarette.

    It smokes, it drinks, it lives in flats
        Rides in taxis alone;
    It saws a bone, a sermon spouts
        And quotes Coke or Blackstone.

    They imitate the neuter bee,
        Don’t care a cuss for kids;
    They like to work just as a mule;
        In fact they are hybrids.

    So when we up our grammars take
        And He, She, It we see,
    We know that It is nature’s freak;
        She’s It and It is she.

  • Three Fishers

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 25, 1914. By Charles Kingsley.

    Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
        Out into the west, as the sun went down,
    Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
        And the children stood watching them out of the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,
        Though the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
        And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
    They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
        And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown;
    But men must work, and women must weep,
    Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
        And the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three corpses lie out in the shining sands
        In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down,
    And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
        For those who will never come home to the town.
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep,
        And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

  • To the Willow Tree

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 24, 1914. By Robert Herrick.

    Thou art to all lost love the best,
        The only true plant found,
    Wherewith young men and maids distrest
        And left of love are crown’d.

    When once the lover’s rose is dead,
        Or laid aside forlorn,
    The willow garlands ‘bout the head
        Bedew’d with tears are worn.

    When with neglect, the lover’s bane,
        Poor maids rewarded be
    For their love lost, their only gain
        Is but a wreath from thee.

    And underneath thy cooling shade,
        When weary of the light,
    The love-spent youth and lovesick maid
        Come to weep out the night.

  • Pittypat and Tippytoe

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 23, 1914. By Eugene Field.

    All day long they come and go—
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!
        Footprints up and down the hall,
            Playthings scattered on the floor,
        Finger-marks along the wall,
            Telltale smudges on the door—
    By these presents you shall know,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    How they riot at their play!
    And a dozen times a day
        In they troop, demading bread—
            Only buttered bread will do,
        And that butter must be spread
            Inches thick with sugar too!
    And I never can say “No,”
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
    Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
        For (I much regret to say)
            Tippytoe and Pittypat
        Sometimes interrupt their play
            With an internecine spat;
    Fie, for shame! to quarrel so—
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!

    Oh the thousand worrying things,
    Every day recurrent brings!
        Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
            Search for playthings gone amiss,
        Many a wee complaint to hush,
            Many a little bump to kiss;
    Life seems one vain, fleeting show
    To Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    And when day is at an end,
    There are little duds to mend;
        Little frocks are strangely torn,
            Little shoes great holes reveal
        Little hose, but one day worn,
            Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
    Who but you could work such woe,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe?

    But when comes this thought to me:
    “Some there are that childless be,”
        Stealing to their little beds,
            With a love I cannot speak,
        Tenderly I stroke their heads —
            Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
    God help those who do not know
    A Pittypat or Tippytoe!

    On the floor and down the hall,
    Rudely smutched upon the wall,
        There are proofs in every kind
            Of the havoc they have wrought,
        And upon my heart you’d find
            Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
    Oh, how glad I am ’tis so,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

  • Her Successor

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 22, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    She was so gentle and so fair
        That I was gladdened when we met;
    She had a modest, pensive air.
        In fancy I behold her yet;
    She moved with such unstudied grace
        That she appeared to float along;
    The beauty of her youthful face
        Was such as urges bards to song.

    Again I saw her; years had passed;
        Alas, she had been wooed and won;
    A listless look at me she cast,
        Then went on mending for her son;
    She wore a wrapper that was red,
        A knot of hair, uncrimped and small;
    Her beauty and her grace had fled—
        She didn’t seem to care at all.

    And then he came who once, mayhap,
        Had deemed her earth’s most lovely thing—
    Had gladly held her on his lap—
        And decked her finger with his ring;
    He passed her with a grunt, no more,
        And then forgetting she was there,
    Got down at full length on the floor
        And gamboled with their son and heir.

  • Don’t

    From The Voice of the People, May 21, 1914. By Covington Hall.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t try to leave the clods
    To wander off in Eden with the children of the gods;
    Don’t worry when the hunters hush the nest-notes of the dove,
    Nor fret when gold is offered for the broken lute of love.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t leave the Land of Trade
    To seek the laughing waters and the woodland’s mystic shade;
    Don’t grieve because they leave you and don’t answer when they call—
    Their tongues are tipt with honey—they are lotus eaters all.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t watch the star that gleams
    To guide you up the mountain to the throneroom of your dreams;
    Don’t turn aside to catch the light that showers from life’s wings,
    Lest you forget the ledger is the holiest of things.

    Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t be a fool and quit
    The sacred House of Dollars just at Music’s feet to sit;
    Don’t heed them when they whisper, “in your higher longings trust,”
    For all except the cashbox is as ashes and as dust.

  • He Wonders If She Knows

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 20, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    “I wonder if you know how fair
        You make the world for me?
    I wonder if you know that where
        You are I long to be?
    Your smile is like the morning sun
        That gladdens all below;
    When you appear the day’s begun,
    But when we part the day is done—
    I wonder if you know or care,
        I wonder if you know?”

    (He wonders if she knows or cares;
        Why should he ever doubt it?
    The lovelorn, longing look he wears
        Has told her all about it.
    Although he never tells her so,
    He may be sure that she will know;
    Love needs no speech—long, long ago
        Love learned to do without it.)

    “I wonder if you ever guess
        That when you linger near
    The world is filled with loveliness,
        That when you leave ’tis drear?
    For you, sweetheart, it is that all
        The fairest breezes blow,
    And from the skies the stars would fall
    Responsive to your witching call;
    You smile to gladden and to bless—
        I wonder if you know?”

    (He wonders if his sweetheart knows
        Or has the wit to guess it;
    He tells it everywhere he goes
        His looks and sights confess it;
    He thinks her lips forbidden fruit,
    Ah, let him cease from being mute,
    And boldly, bravely press his suit—
        She longs for him to press it.)

  • Pa Has Had a Rest and Change

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 19, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Pa’s got back from his vacation,
        With a look that’s wild and strange;
    Seems all full of tribulation,
        Though he’s had his rest and change;
    For a year he had been wishin’
        He could be alone somewhere,
    So he spent his two weeks fishin’,
        Far away from home and care.

    He has forty-seven places
        Where the hungry woodticks died;
    And the color of his face is
        Like a piece of beef that’s dried;
    Both his feet are full of blisters,
        Insects nearly ate him up,
    And last night he called my sister’s
        Beau a pompous little pup.

    Pa’s got back from his vacation,
        Lookin’ like a hungry tramp;
    Once he nearly faced starvation
        When he strayed away from camp.
    He must eat things predigested
        Till his health improves a lot;
    Comin’ home he was arrested
        For the only fish he got.