Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Wolf Tone’s Grave

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 18, 1914. By Thomas Davis.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Small shelter, I ween,
        Are the ruined walls there
    When the storm sweeps down
        On the plains of Kildare.

    Once I stood on the sod
        That lies over Wolfe Tone;
    And I thought how he perished
        In prison alone.
    His friends unavenged,
        And his country unfreed,
    “Oh, bitter,” I said,
        “Is the Patriot’s meed.”

    For in him the heart
        Of a woman combined
    With heroic spirit
        And a governing mind.
    A martyr for Ireland,
        His grave has no stone,
    His name seldom named,
        And his virtues unknown.

    As I stood there I heard
        Both the voices and tread
    Of a band who came into
        The home of the dead.
    They carried no corpse,
        Nor they carried no stone, 
    But they stopped when they came
        To the grave of Wolfe Tone.

    There were students and peasants,
        The wise and the brave,
    And an old man who knew him
        From cradle to grave.
    The children there thought me
        Hard-hearted, for they
    On that sanctified sod
        Were forbidden to play.

    But the old man who saw
        I was mourning there said,
    “We’ve come, sir, to weep
        Where young Wolf Tone is laid.
    And we’re going to build him
        A monument too,
    A plain one, yet fit for
        The simple and true.”

    My heart overflowed,
        And I clasped his old hand,
    And I blessed him, and blessed
        Every one of his band.
    Sweet, sweet tis to find
        That such faith can remain
    To the cause and the man
        So long vanquished and slain.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Far better they suit him
        The ruin and gloom,
    Till Ireland, a nation,
        Can build him a tomb.

  • Annual Ordeal

    From the Evening Star, April 17, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    When sunshine gets the better of the days so chill and raw,
    Dear father gets a hammer and a chisel and a saw.
    He says in thoughtful tones that match his stern superior frown,
    “A lot o’ things about this shack are getting all run down.
    The bells and lights need fixing and the doors are out of plumb.
    There’s not a lock or hinge that doesn’t call for oiling some!”
    It’s then we see a very anxious look on mother’s face,
    As she remarks, “He’s starting in to fool around the place.”

    There are grease spots on the carpet; there are scratches on the door.
    There are holes and splintered sections in the polished hardwood floor.
    If you pause to press a button it will shock you without fail.
    The plaster drops in bunches where he tried to drive a nail.
    But no one dares to criticize the work that he has done;
    So long as father pays the bills, he ought to have his fun.
    But there’s a sense of nervousness that nothing can efface
    When spring arrives and father starts to fool around the place.

  • The Eight-Hour Man

    From the Evening Star, April 16, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    The man who works eight hours a day
        Goes home with joyous mind,
    Prepared to take his share of play
        And leave his cares behind.

    The statesman burns the midnight oil
        And starts his task anew;
    A day makes fruitless all his toil—
        His work is never through.

    The lawyer lives in fierce suspense,
        The doctor’s rest is rare.
    The financier finds wealth immense
        A weight of serious care.

    And Nature in her curious plan,
        Unfolded day by day,
    Seems after all to love the man
        Who works eight hours a day.

  • S. Watkins

    From the Rock Island Argus, April, 15, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Sim Watkins was a chap who used to get his feelin’s hurt
    Most every time he turned around; he thought folks done him dirt
    If they’d neglect to run across the street to shake his hand;
    He used to have a notion that folks set around and planned
    To slight him everywhere he went; most everything you’d say
    He’d twist till it would seem a slur at him, some way.

    At parties when the girls would get alone and giggle, Sim
    Was always sure to think that they were makin’ fun of him;
    At meetin’ when the preacher threw out hints, as preachers do,
    Sim always took ‘em to himself, kept puttin’ on the shoe;
    If folks would count the change he’d give it made him mad, you see
    He thought by that they had their doubts about his honesty.

    He’s dead and gone, he didn’t leave a great deal when he went.
    In lookin’ high and low for slights his time was mostly spent.
    And I suppose, if he’s above, where people get their wings,
    And draw the tickets for the harps and golden crowns and things,
    He’s settin’ back and thinkin’ that the happy angels there
    Are laughin’ at the way he looks in what he has to wear.

  • The Things I Miss

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, April 14, 1914. By Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

    An easy thing, O Power divine,
    To thank Thee for these gifts of Thine:
    For summer’s sunshine, winter’s snow,
    For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow,
    But when shall I attain to this—
    To thank Thee for the things I miss?

    For all young fancy’s early gleams,
    The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams,
    Hopes unfilled and pleasures known
    Through others’ fortunes, not my own,
    And blessings seen that are not given,
    And never will be this side of heaven.

    Had I, too, shared the joys I see,
    Would there have been a heaven for me?
    Could I have felt Thy presence near
    Had I possessed what I held dear?
    My deepest fortune, highest bliss,
    Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.

    Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;
    Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;
    A Power that works above my will
    Still leads me onward, upward still;
    And then my heart attains to this—
    To thank Thee for the things I miss.

  • The Watch Dog

    From The Times Dispatch, April 13, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    No doubt the watch dog pleases to perfection
    Those timid souls who need a dog’s protection.
    I’d rather sleep ‘mid perils and dismay
    Than hear, all night, a watch dog’s honest bay.
    I had a watch dog once. When it grew dark
    The faithful creature started in to bark,
    Deep, steady basso barks that never ceased
    Until Aurora reddened in the east.
    Ah, many a night and oft I’ve lain awake
    And heard that brave dog barking for my sake,
    And wished some burglar kind would come and shoot,
    Stab, poison, brain, and massacre the brute.
    I soon found out that prowling thieves regard
    A deep-mouthed canine barking in a yard
    As favoring very much their occupation;
    It drowns the noise of their operation.
    I wished that dog upon a friend of mine
    Who yearned to be the ward of some canine.
    I think a dog is scarcely worth his keep
    When all that he can guard against is sleep.

  • Honest Liar

    From the New York Tribune, April 12, 1914.

    Here’s to the man who lies to us, who’s careless of the truth,
    Who slaps us on the back and says, “Gee! How you hold your youth!”
    Who shrinks not at the future when he has a lie to tell,
    But when you’re sick and tired and blue, declares, “You’re looking well!”

    Here’s to the man who tells us lies when solemn truth would hurt,
    Who says, “I’ll back you through and through, if it should take my shirt,”
    Who, when you’re “off” and cannot write just as you think you should,
    Will tune you up for better things with, “That’s what I call good!”

    Or when you paint a picture that is wrong in every part,
    Will make you think the daub is great by saying, “Now, that’s art!”
    He lies—but it’s in charity, if lying ever was,
    So here’s his health, for though he lies, he’s honest when he does.

  • The Artistic Temperament

    From The Topeka State Journal, April 11, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Maggie Jones studied music and learned how to sing
    And she went in quite strong for the grand opera thing.
    When she visited home her reception was grand,
    But her language the old folks could not understand
    For she spoke with a strange, almost foreign accent
    On account of her artistic temperament.

    Henry Peck was the pride and the joy of his town
    Till one day he leaped into a sudden renown
    When he drew a cartoon which called forth glad acclaim
    And secured a half-Nelson on old Mister Fame.
    Then he quit work and hasn’t a single red cent,
    On account of his artistic temperament.

    Katie Binks made good money typewriting until
    Someone told her she had fine artistic skill
    And she went in for painting just three months ago
    And she spent all her coin on a fine studio.
    Katie’s just been ejected for missing the rent
    On account of her artistic temperament.

  • The Mind That Overlapped

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    He started writing verses that were easily understood,
    And here and there was some person who told him that they were good;
    He dealt with themes that were common, his language was plain and strong,
    And a few people frankly told him he was blessed with the gift of song.

    He began to throw in italics, haphazard, it may be said,
    And here and there was a foot-note to enlighten the ones who read.
    And here and there was a stanza too deep for the common kind;
    The people began to marvel at the mightiness of his mind.

    He dropped the common, adopting an allegorical style,
    And the critics had to interpret his meaning, after a while.
    And the people were filled with wonder, not understanding a bit,
    And the poet had fame and riches and fancied that he was it.

    His meaning got deeper and deeper, till even the critics themselves
    Were stumped if they read without taking their reference books from the shelves.
    And his glory kept growing and spreading, he was hailed as a prophet, indeed;
    Whenever he wrote a new poem, six nations stopped working to read.

    Thus, filled with thoughts of his greatness and scorning the simple ways,
    He wound and criss-crossed and doubled in a metaphorical maze.
    Till clutching his brow, he read slowly his latest, and said with a sigh,
    “It’s so deep that I can’t understand it—my God, what a wonder am I!”

  • As a Little Child

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 9, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Oft through the dark my little one
        Comes stealing softly to my bed,
    To clamber in and cuddle down
        And on my bosom lay his head;
    I hear him whisper coaxingly:
        “Please let me sleep with you tonight,”
    And as he nestles close to me
        His childish fears are put to flight.

    Ah, if he knew how weak, how frail
        Am I in whom he puts his trust,
    How blindly and how oft I fail,
        How oft my face is in the dust,
    He would not rush to me when fear
        Comes with her sable wings outspread;
    The faith he has when I am near
        Would cease to bring him to my bed.

    Some day perchance they’ll bring him where
        I long have slept, from visions free;
    And weeping, they may leave him there
        To lie serenely close to me.
    Oh may I hear him, trusting, say
        As he is reaching upward then,
    “Please, father, I have come to lay
        My head upon your breast again.”