Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • All Smiles Tonight, Love

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 8, 1914.

    I’ll deck my brow with roses, for loved ones will be there;
    And the gems that others gave me I’ll wear within my hair,
    And even those that know me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the dance commences, oh, how I will rejoice!
    I’ll sing the songs he taught me without a faltering voice,
    And flatterers gathered ‘round me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the room he enters, with the bride upon his arm,
    I’ll stop to gaze upon her as though she wore a charm.
    And if he smiles upon her as oft he smiled on me
    They’ll know not what I suffer; they’ll find no change in me.

    And when the dance is over, and all have gone to rest,
    I’ll pray for him, dear mother, the one that I love best;
    For once he loved me true, dear, but now he’s cold and strange;
    He said he’d never deceive me. False friends have wrought the change.

  • Tables Turned

    From the Evening Star, May 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    I watched the gently flowing stream
        Where silver ripples stray.
    Beneath the water’s flash and gleam
        I knew the fish would play.
    I thought of many a prize to make
        A rare and tempting dish.
    I sat and dreamed, though half awake,
        That I was stringin’ fish.

    I looked and saw the finny tribe
        Down in the water clear.
    Swift circles they would there describe
        And to my hook draw near.
    I made full many a fervent wish,
        They romped in graceful glee.
    I dreamed that I was stringin’ fish.
        The fish were stringin’ me.

  • Dat’s Da Life

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, May 6, 1914. By Wing Dinger.

    They make-a greata beega noise
        In deesa town to-day,
    Da crowds all leesten to da tune
        Da beega brass band play.

    I ask, “What ees dees fuss about,
        Why do dey yell hurray?”
    And some one tell me, “Why, you boob,
        Da season starts to-day.”

    I follow to da park dey call
        Da baseball field, and pay
    My leetle quart for one small tick
        To see da two teams play.

    Da players throw da ball about;
        Da crowds dey yell and shout;
    Some times da man day call da “ump”
        Says “safe,” and sometimes “out.”

    And when he say “you’re safe” to one
        Of da home team, he’s right,
    But if he say “you’re out,” da bunch
        Gets mad enough to fight.

    I wouldn’t want to be da ump,
        He’s got one nasty job;
    No matter what he says da crowd
        Calls him one great beeg slob.

    But seeng of love for chickens, cows
        And war, with all eets strife,
    To seet upon da bleachers at
        A ball game, dat’s da life.

  • Cleon and I

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

    Cleon hath four limousines,
        Ne’er a one have I;
    Cleon fares to foreign scenes,
        Here at home stay I;
    Cleon lives where servants hurry
        And the walls are high;
    Cleon oft has cause to worry,
        So, alas, have I.

    Twenty suits of clothes has he,
        Only one have I;
    He makes money easily,
        By hard working I;
    In his glass the old wine bubbles,
        Cleon likes it “dry”;
    Cleon frequently has troubles,
        Ah, well, so do I.

    Cleon is a millionaire,
        I work, wet or dry;
    Cleon’s losing all his hair,
        Little hair have I;
    Cleon oft has indigestion,
        So, indeed, have I;
    What’s the difference, you question?
        This is my reply:

    Cleon’s daughter has eloped
        And his son flies high;
    Hopes that Cleon fondly hoped
        Have been doomed to die;
    Cleon sits alone at night,
        In his breast a sigh;
    My kids stay at home and fight—
        Six of them have I.

  • Blighted Interest

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The sun may shine again—I s’pose it will.
        But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
    The orchard trees may blossom on the hill,
        But that’ll make no difference to me.

    The ones who like the smell of new-plowed ground
        And think a wild rose beautiful and sweet
    Will probably still want to tramp around,
        Glad that the sod is soft beneath their feet.

    The boys will build their little boats and let
        Them float on rivers I could step across;
    The yearlings, with their scraggy coats, will get
        Out in the fields and gain a shiny gloss.

    The cows will stand and chew their cud and dream,
        But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
    The fisherman will loll beside the stream,
        But that will make no difference to me.

    The people in the busy town will try,
        No matter what they have, to still have more;
    The lights will flicker and the flags will fly,
        The wheels will keep on turnin’ as before.

    On Sunday mornings they will ring the bells,
        At quittin’ time they’ll blow the whistles, too;
    The home run will be followed by loud yells,
        And men may sing at what they have to do.

    The world will still roll on, but there is one
        Who said last night that “it could never be;”
    I s’pose we’ll still have sunshine from the sun,
        But that’ll make no difference to me.

  • The Summer Rain

    From The Sun, May 3, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I hear the dancing on the roof, the fairy footed rain!
    I hear her singing in the eaves, and tapping at the pane;
    I hear her calling to the flowers and to the creeping grass,
    And they come laughing up to greet her footsteps as they pass.

    She brings the promise of the year, of food for hungry herds,
    Shelter and food for wildwood things, and for the singing birds;
    And food for man, the dainty fruits, the yellow wheat and corn,
    And all the largesse of the earth are of her bounty born.

    Sing high and sweet, O summer rain, with verdure crown the hills,
    Fill to the brim our wells and springs, fill all the little rills;
    Earth laughs with joy to see you spread your banners in the sky,
    For in the bounteous gifts you bring our wealth and welfare lie.

  • The Girl I Left Behind Me

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 2, 1914.

    The dames of France are fond and free,
        And Flemish lips are willing,
    And soft the maids of Italy,
        And Spanish eyes are thrilling;
    Still though I bask beneath their smile,
        Their charms all fail to bind me,
    And my heart falls back to Erin’s isle,
        To the girl I left behind me.

    For she’s as fair as Shannon’s side,
        And purer than its water,
    But she refused to be my bride,
        Though many a year I sought her;
    Yet, since to France I sail’d away,
        Her letters oft remind me,
    That I promis’d never to gainsay
        The girl I left behind me.

    She says, “My own dear love, come home,
        My friends are rich and many,
    Or else abroad with you I’ll roam,
        A soldier stout as any;
    If you’ll not come, nor let me go,
        I’ll think you have resigned me.”
    My heart nigh broke when I answered, “No,”
        To the girl I left behind me.

    For never shall my true love brave
        A life of war and toiling,
    And never as a skulking slave
        I’ll tread my native soil on;
    But were it free, or to be freed,
        The battle’s close would find me
    To Ireland bound, nor message need
        From the girl I left behind me.

  • The Mother of a Hero

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 1, 1914. By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.

    A crash, a flash, a momentary triumph,
        The blaze of the sun from out a sky of blue;
    And someone lies, a heap of huddled garments,
        With heart now still that once sang brave and true.

    A blur of smoke against the mountains rugged,
        A buzzard winging slowly through the sky,
    And miles away a little mother—waiting—
        And praying to the gracious God on high.

    A moan, a stream of life blood ebbing swiftly,
        A pair of eyes that close in endless sleep;
    A bullet, sharp and sudden in its coming,
        That leaves a wound so horrible and deep.

    A paper, printed large in glowing headlines,
        That says, “He left a mother, next of kin.”
    A country’s loud approval of a hero—
        And one small woman sobbing through the din!

    A fear, a tear, a pair of hands clasped tightly,
        A mind that sees a sturdy little boy,
    A tiny baby face with roguish dimples,
        A sound of laughter filled with childish joy.

    A nation’s hero, dying first—with glory!
        A man in spirit, though a boy in years,
    A soldier shot in battle, fighting bravely—
        A little mother smiling through the tears!

  • The Testing

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 30, 1914. By Edwin Markham.

    When in the dim beginning of the years
    God mixed in man the rapture and the tears
    And scattered through his brain the starry stuff,
    He said, “Behold! Yet this is not enough,
    For I must test his spirit to make sure
    That he can dare the vision and endure.

    “I will withdraw my face,
    Veil me in shadow for a certain space
    And leave behind only a broken clue,
    A crevice where the glory glimmers through.
    Some whisper from the sky,
    Some footprint in the road to track me by.

    “I will leave man to make the fateful guess,
    Will leave him torn between the no and yes,
    Leave him unresting till he rests in Me,
    Drawn upward by the choice that makes him free—
    Leave him in tragic loneliness to choose,
    With all in life to win or all to lose.”

  • The Burglar

    From The Topeka State Journal, April 29, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    It was near midnight’s holy hour,
        In vain we courted sleep;
    The shadders was a-dancing round
        And made our nerves all creep,
    When suddenly we heard a sound,
        A soft step on the stair;
    We gazed into the hall, and lo,
        A burglar bold was there.

    He acted perfectly at home,
        And never noticed us;
    He went about his business
        Without the slightest fuss.
    He must have known he was observed,
        Of that we could have vowed,
    For when he took some of our stuff
        We chuckled right out loud.

    When ma-in-law’s false teeth he took
        We smiled chuck full of glee.
    This burglar was a kind gazabo,
        A jolly rogue was he.
    And when he took Bill’s phonograph
        And dropped it in his sack,
    We laughed so loud we could be heard
        To Timbuktu and back.

    He carried off our coo-coo clock,
        And it ne’er more will tell
    Of our arrival nightly and
        Sound our domestic knell.
    And when he took our wife’s pink hat,
        We hate from tip to brim,
    We felt like getting out of bed
        And shaking hands with him.

    He took our parrot and we yelled
        Aloud in fiendish mirth,
    And then got up and helped him pack
        For all that we were worth.
    We handed him a good cigar
        And made him promise that
    Whenever he came ‘round this way
        He’d burglarize our flat.