This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
From the Rock Island Argus, April 8, 1914.
Seek not to learn a lesson
From the busy little ant
That works away forever
And never says, “I can’t.”
For oh the ant is foolish—
If it had proper wit
Instead of laboring away
A thousand other ants each day
Would have to work for it.
From the Rock Island Argus, April 7, 1914. By Henry Howland.
They say that merit only gets the prizes here below,
That honor is reserved for them who strive and who achieve;
They say that worth is certain to be recognized, but though
’Tis sweet to hear the story, it’s not easy to believe.
The best, the oldest wine
Wouldn’t seem so very fine
If the bottle bore no label for which cultured drinkers call;
If they said ’twas cheap we’d not
Give it praise in word or thought—
Much depends upon the label on the bottle after all.
The general whose forces ne’er have had to taste defeat
May owe to luck his victories, may be the tool of chance,
But the enemy in terror makes arrangements to retreat
When he gets into the saddle and gives orders to advance.
The general who fell
May have planned and ordered well,
But he had no reputation as a victor to appall;
They that fought him fearlessly
From his famed successor flee—
There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.
We would class as common drivel much that Scotland’s Bobbie writ
If we didn’t know he wrote it and that hence it is sublime;
Much that Tennyson has left us, with an unknown name to it
We would pass as being nothing but the common brand of rhyme.
The medicine we drink
Oft were better used as ink
But it clears away our headaches and from bed at length we crawl
Full of joy and full of praise
To go plunging in the frays—
There is something in the label on the bottle, after all.
Oh my boy, perhaps you’re trying in a quiet, humble way
To be worthy of the prizes that we take to mean success;
Perhaps you’re meekly hoping for a sweet reward some day
That they’ll hand out to another who you’ll know deserves it less.
With the best that you can do
You must flaunt your merit, too;
Wear the manner of the winner, do not humbly cringe and crawl.
And the smiling fates will bow
As they gladly wreath your brow—
Much depends upon the label on the bottle, after all.
From the Rock Island Argus, April 6, 1914.
The robin that sings in the morning glow
A song that’s full of glee
May be fretting some sad soul here below
With the song that is sweet to me;
The roisterer who, care free, last night
Went reveling late and long
May rail at the robin that gives delight
To me with his matin song.
But little, I think, does the robin care
For the hate of the one that lies
With a heavy heart on his bed up there
And rubs at his bloodshot eyes.
And why should you, as you strive away,
Be chilled by the sneering few?
We can’t please all with the things we say
Or the things that we sing or do.
From the New York Tribune, April 5, 1914. By D. K. S.
’Twas very, very long ago, in days no longer sung,
When giants stood about so high, and pixies all were young;
The Queen of Fairies said one day, “I’m tired of honey dew,
So hasten now, and mix for me a cup of something new.
“It must lift the drooping spirit, it must heal the wounded heart;
It must bring the smile of happiness, and bid the tear depart;
It must make the young grow younger, and the old no longer old;
It must make the poor contented, and the rich forget their gold.”
Now, you can just imagine how the pixies far and wide
Came hurrying and scurrying with things to be supplied.
First, they bought a useful caldron which some witches had for sale,
And the pixies brought sweet water from the Falls of Dryadvale.
Then they took some sprays of Heartsease as the first thing to infuse,
And they added Johnny-Jump-Up as an antidote for blues.
For the young they brought the May-Bloom, Everlasting for the old;
For the rich and poor the Joy-Weed, which is just as good as gold.
When it boiled, they cooled and poured it, so the ancient story goes;
And to the Queen they brought it in the chalice of a rose.
She sipped, delighted, then she cried, “I issue this decree:
The cup you have so deftly brewed, I christen Fairy Tea!”
So when you see the fairy folk “at home” in Dingle Dell,
All sipping something dainty from their cups of Heather Bell,
You will notice they are happy, as good fairies ought to be,
And that’s because they always use their famous Fairy Tea.
From the Evening Star, April 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.
There’s a squatty looking building that was put up years ago,
They called it altitudinous and thought it quite a show.
But other structures were designed, as men more daring grew,
And this one seemed to dwindle. Its admirers were but few.
It nestles in a canyon. Windows loftily aloof
Gaze down upon the chimneys and the flagpole on its roof.
Nobody lifts his head today and turns a wondering eye
On the squatty looking building that we used to think was high.
Oh, many a glimpse of glory shines and fades in life’s events,
As the theme of song and story with a nation’s compliments.
There’s many a statue chiseled for posterity to see
That doesn’t even make the tourist query, “Who was he?”
As other times bring other men triumphant to our view,
The world forgets the old in contemplation of the new.
And we mention bygone greatness with a reminiscent sigh—
It is like the good old building that we used to think was high.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, April 3, 1914. By Anonymous.
The baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was out on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman’s dwelling
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, O come back to me.”
Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;
O blessed be that warning,
My child thy sleep adorning
For I know that the Angels are whispering with thee.
And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
O pray to them softly, my baby, with me;
And say thou would’st rather
They’d watch o’er thy father
For I know that the Angels are whispering with thee.
The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;
And closely caressing
Her child with a blessing
Said, “I knew that the Angels were whispering with thee.”
From The Topeka State Journal, April 2, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.
Each night I bravely wind it up
And set it by my head,
Then say my “Now I lay me down”
And snugly go to bed.
And in the watches of the night
I think of it with dread.
So grim and wakeful sitting there
With minatory ticks,
To sound its dreadful reveille
At quarter after six.
I wake up wondering what’s the time,
And strike a match to see,
It looks me coldly in the face
And answers half past three.
I hear the patter of the hail
Against the window pane,
Then turn me in my downy couch
And seek for sleep again.
I think about the bitter cold
And try to sleep in vain,
And like a felon in his cell,
Condemned and all forlorn,
I feel it is a death watch set
To sound my doom at morn.
When, after tossing to and fro,
And tribulations long,
I fall into a fitful sleep,
It sounds its baneful gong.
I boil indignant out of bed
And choke the strident pest,
While passions primitive and fierce
Possess my angry breast.
Oh, how I’d like to take a club
And knock it galley-west.
From the Rock Island Argus, April 1, 1914. By Henry Howland.
My little boy, the way is long
That you shall have to go;
God grant you may be brave and strong
To do your part, to show
Whate’er may be the goal you seek,
Whate’er the height you gain,
Consideration for the weak
And those who strive in vain.
My little boy, ambition’s call
Will oft be sweet to you;
God grant you strength to turn from all
That wicked men pursue,
To let no gain come to your hand
If blood must be the price,
To spurn the profits that demand
Another’s sacrifice.
My little boy, with all to learn
And laughing still at play,
God give you manliness to spurn
What honor thrusts away,
To keep you free from guile and greed,
Where’er your course may lie,
To do the brave, heroic deed,
Though doing it, you die.
From the Rock Island Argus, March 31, 1914. By Henry Howland.
I saw her once before
In the short skirt she wore,
And again
She went dancing round and round,
With a wince at every bound,
As in pain.
They say that in her prime,
Ere the cruel hand of Time
Hurt her so,
She possessed a pretty face
And could hop from place to place
On one toe.
But now her look is sad,
And she moves as if she had
Aching feet;
Every bald head’s look is grim
As she glances down at him
In his seat.
My old grandad oft has said—
Poor old grandpa, he is dead,
Long ago—
That she once was all the rage
As she skipped upon the stage,
To and fro.
But she’s fat and flabby now
And as graceful as a cow
On the trot;
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin,
So I’ll not.
In the chorus let her stay;
It may be her only way
To survive.
You may cease to be a peach
Too, young lady, when you reach
Sixty-five.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 30, 1914. By Sir Edward Dyer (1540-1607).
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords or grows by kind;
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely pomp, no wealthy store
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore
No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall;
For why? My mind doth serve for all.
I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.
Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a king
Content with that my mind doth bring.
Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store;
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at another’s loss,
I grudge not at another’s gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain;
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by the rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust,
A cloaked craft their store of skill;
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.
My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear my chief defense;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offense;
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!