Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Broken Pinion

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 18, 1914. By Hezekiah Butterworth.

    I walked through the woodland meadows,
        Where sweet the thrushes sing;
    And I found on a bed of mosses
        A bird with a broken wing.
    I healed its wound, and each morning
        It sang its old sweet strain,
    But the bird with the broken pinion
        Never soared as high again.

    I found a young life broken
        By Sin’s seductive art;
    And touched with a Christlike pity,
        I took him to my heart.
    He lived with a noble purpose
        And struggled not in vain;
    But the life that Sin had stricken
        Never soared as high again.

    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Kept another from the snare;
    And the life that Sin had stricken
        Raised another from despair.
    Each loss has its compensation.
        There is healing for every pain;
    But the bird with a broken pinion
        Never soars as high again.

  • Catclaw and Cactus

    From The Sun, May 17, 1914.

    Catclaw and cactus are thick in the pasture, that sun blistered section of rocks and dry grass;
    The fat little prairie dogs sit by their burrows and rasp out shrill warnings as we gallop past.
    Up in the blue sky the buzzards are soaring; a startled jackrabbit, with fear in his breast,
    Decamps like a streak through the brush scattered wildly—the fauna and flora that mark the great West.

    Hurrah for the feel of a battered stock saddle—the slapping of brush against weather worn chaps;
    The smell of a wet horse—the sound of his hoofbeats—the jingle of spurs and the creaking of straps!
    Your cities seem nothing but dens of corruption, for here steady breezes blow sweet without rest.
    Just give me a horse and some square miles of pasture, and leave me at peace far out here in the West.

  • His Pipe

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 16, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    Though grandpa left us long ago, with years and labors ripe,
    Yet still upon the shelf we keep his old black briar pipe.
    And when we take it down we seem to see above the bowl
    The keen blue eyes that mirrored forth his wise and kindly soul.
    We took our sorrows to his knee, he listened to them all,
    From sister Letty’s love affairs, to Benny’s “losted” ball,
    And when he filled and lit his pipe, we knew that he had found
    The end of all the trouble-skeins our careless hands unwound.

    So when my grown-up heart is sad with life’s eternal pain,
    With reverential touch I take the old black pipe again.
    About it hangs the aroma of good tobacco still,
    And calls his sturdy spirit back to brace my weakened will.
    Through that old pipe he speaks to me, just as he used to do,
    And bids me face the world again with strength and courage new,
    And Hope around me folds once more her rainbow-colored cloak,
    And all my little troubles fade as once they did—in smoke.

  • The Cruel World

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 15, 1914.

    Before him flowery pastures spread,
        He hears a glad brook flow along,
    And from a branch above his head
        There falls a sweet June shower song.

    There is mild fragrance in the breeze
        That blows from orchards far away;
    The musing cows beneath the trees
        Are being peaceful while they may.

    His limbs are straight and young and strong,
        He gazes forth from undimmed eyes,
    But, thinking that the world’s gone wrong,
        He sees a far-off cloud and sighs.

  • It Can’t Be Done

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, May 14, 1914. By Wing Dinger.

    The editor is yelling
        For my poem to-day,
    And as it is nine thirty
        I’ll write it right away.

    Now let me see, what subject
        Will likely bring a smile.
    I have it—but excuse me
        For just a little while.

    Someone came in to see me
        On business, that was why
    I asked you to excuse me,
        And now to write I’ll try.

    I’ve got to do some hustling,
        Because it’s half past ten.
    Well, here goes—but pray pardon,
        There is my phone again.

    I have just two more minutes
        To write this verse of fun,
    And I’ve forgot my subject—
        By jove, it can’t be done.

  • Horatius at the Bridge

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 13, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Then out spake brave Horatius,
        The captain of the gate:
    “Halt! Every mother’s son of you,
        Both friends and foemen wait!
    Let not a blow be given
        No matter what the odds,
    For the ashes of your sires
        Or the temples of your gods.

    “Hew not the bridge, sir consul,
        Please put your ax away;
    I’ll later call upon you
        To hew, but not today—
    In yon straight path a thousand
        May well be stopped by three;
    There I will stand and have command—
        Not now, but presently.”

    Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
        A counterfeiter bold:
    “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
        With thee the bridge I’ll hold!”
    And out spake young Herminius,
        A strong-arm artist he:
    “I will abide by thy left side
        And keep the bridge with thee.”

    “Horatius,” quoth the consul,
        “Behold yon great array;
    Why may I not begin to hew,
        Why counsel this delay?
    For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
        Spare neither land nor gold,
    Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life—
        At least, so I’ve been told.”

    “Fool,” answered brave Horatius,
        “Hold off till I say when;
    We must await in patience
        The moving picture men!
    As soon as they get ready,
        And not till then, cut loose—
    We want this scrap recorded
        On films for future use.”

  • Too Wearisome

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    I’d like to be among the few
        Who, needing rest, may be at ease;
    I mean those lucky people who
        May turn from duty when they please—
    The ones who, feeling weariness,
        May knock off early for the day
    And have no fear that pitiless
        Taskmasters will reduce their pay.

    I’d like to have the right to let
        Some other who was under me
    Remain at work to stew and fret
        While I went roving carelessly;
    I’d like to hold an office which
        Might be left to another’s care,
    While I sought pleasure with the rich
        Or sat at blissful ease somewhere.

    But I have noticed that the men
        Who have the privilege I lack,
    Who may depart, not caring when
        Their interests shall call them back—
    I’ve noticed that those who possess
        This privilege, which seems sublime,
    Are overcome with weariness
        About three-quarters of the time.

  • Ode to My Back Yard

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 11, 1914. By Mary Dobbins Prior.

    O thou unpromising collection of rocks and roots and clay,
    I view thee with a sinking heart—is there perhaps a way
    To make thee bloom? I doubt it. Upon thy sterile breast
    I’ve scattered soil and nitrate, but thou’st withstood the test.
    One crop alone thou yieldest me, one crop alone succeeds;
    The winds of Heaven plant it. ’Tis weeds and weeds and weeds.
    Weeds of the field and wayside. Weeds of the wood and street,
    They flourish like the bay tree, within thy eighty feet;
    And when across the ocean the wind of Winter roars,
    It bears upon its pinions rare weeds from foreign shores;
    And scorning all the neighbors, straight to my yard they fly,
    And raise a brood of children that never, never die.
    Ah, no! They’re all immortal, and blow it cold or hot
    ’Tis all the same, both wild or tame, they’ll grow in my back lot.

  • Make the Answers Right

    From The Times Dispatch, May 10, 1914. By H. D. C. MacLachlan.

    A little child with lessons all unlearned,
        And problems all unsolved, before me stands.
    With tired, puzzled face to me upturned,
        She holds her slate within her outstretched hands.
    “My sums are hard; I cannot think tonight;
        Dear Father, won’t you make the answers right?”

    And so I come to Thee, O Father dear;
        My lessons are so hard, my brain so weak;
    Life’s problems are unsolved, my way not clear,
        The answers wrong. Thy wisdom I would seek;
    I am so tired and sad and worn tonight—
        Oh, take my life and make the answers right!

  • The Face On the Floor

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 9, 1914. 

    ’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
    Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
    And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
    A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

    “Where did it come from?” someone said. “The wind has blown it in.”
    “What does it want?” another cried. “Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
    “Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work—
    I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk.”

    This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace—
    In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place;
    “Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd—
    To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

    “Give me a drink—that’s what I want—I’m out of funds, you know.
    When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;
    What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou.
    I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

    “There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely; God bless you one and all.
    Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call;
    Give you a song? No, I can’t do that; my singing days are past,
    My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

    “Say, give me another whiskey, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—
    I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;
    That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,
    But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give us another drink.

    “Fill her up, Joe; I want to put some life into my frame—
    Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
    Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too.
    Well, here’s luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

    “You’ve treated me very kindly, and I’d like to tell you how
    I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
    As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
    And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

    “I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
    But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good;
    I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
    For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

    “I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame.
    It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;
    And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
    With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

    “Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see
    Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
    But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smile was freely given,
    And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

    “Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
    With a form like Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
    With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
    If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

    “I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
    Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
    And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,
    Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

    “It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown,
    My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;
    And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
    The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

    “That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,
    I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;
    Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a tear-drop in your eye.
    Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

    “Say, boys, if you give me another whiskey I’ll be glad,
    And I’ll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad;
    Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score—
    You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.”

    Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
    To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
    Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
    With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.