Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • A Notable Difference

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

    When a feller gets elected, everything is gay and bright;
    Your friends will gather ‘round you and declare that you’re all right;
    Your words will be repeated, as they shake you by the hand,
    Assuring you your future will be something good and grand.
    Those friends appear so numerous that, as you look them o’er,
    You wonder why you haven’t seen a lot of them before.
    And each looks rather wistful as he joins the cheers so free
    And sings his special version of “Then You’ll Remember Me.”

    But as the years go rolling by, how many of them say,
    “I wonder what he did to get an office, anyway!”
    When you’ve done your best to please them, you will hear that tapping sound,
    Which tells you that a tribe of Hammer Boys is prowling ‘round.
    You think about the beautiful bouquets they used to throw,
    And sigh, at realizing that they withered long ago.
    For the meetings and the greetings show a very different style
    When a feller has been holding public office for a while.

  • Hopeless

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 6, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    They’ve got him in a padded cell,
        He raves from morn till night.
    He has a pencil and a slate,
        And writes with all his might.

    He sets a lot of figures down,
        Then rubs them out again,
    Upon his face there is a look
        That is akin to pain.

    He’s had this slate for seven months,
        The pencil squeaks and squeaks;
    He concentrates upon the job,
        And never sanely speaks.

    They’re watching him both day and night,
        Their care is never lax.
    He’s trying but to figure out
        His income tax.

  • The World Smiles On

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 5, 1914. By A. Walter Utting.

    Yesterday my kitty died.
    Yet this morning by the side
    Of our house a songbird came,
    And it warbled just the same
    As it did before my loss;
    And the bushes just across
    From the barn sang when the breeze
    Struck their twigs; and all the trees
    Acted just as glad and gay
    As they used to every day
    ‘Fore my kitty died! The sun
    Shined with brightness. Never one
    Seemed to know how much I cried
    ‘Cause my pretty kitty died.

    How can all the world smile on
    When my precious one has gone?
    How can joy and happiness
    Still exist while my distress
    Seems to flood this great big earth?
    Can’t they understand the worth
    Of my loss? Or can’t they know
    Of the dreadful, awful blow
    That has fallen on my heart?
    Why, I thought myself a part
    Of the world; thought when I sighed
    I would find that all had cried;
    Yet the sun shines just the same
    As before my sorrow came!

  • Nellie of Kelmar

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 4, 1914.

    The sunset bells had ceased their song;
        The sunset fires had gone,
    And twilight, falling from the stars,
        Fell on us two alone.
    Soft, undulating waves of grain
        Beneath the mountain’s crest
    Lay as a mesh of silken lace
        Upon a sobbing breast.

    The golden peaks just glorified
        Grew somber, sad and sear;
    The whippoorwills began their flight,
        Yet I still lingered there.
    For fairer than the roses wild
        And purer than each star
    Was she who lingered by my side,
        Dear Nellie of Kelmar.

    With passion deep my lips were fraught
        And breathed my bosom’s cry;
    Then softer than the dying day
        Her answer was a sigh.
    Oh bliss, oh rapture, treasured sweets,
        Of love dream void of pain;
    I’d give my life, my soul, my all
        To live that hour again.

  • The Poet and His Fancy

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 3, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    “Master of my own destiny am I,”
        The poet in his attic bravely wrote;
    “I ask no master when I wish to lie
        Upon the sward and watch the clouds that float
    Across the sky that is my very own;
        My knee is bent to neither lord nor king.
    I proudly serve my own sweet will alone,
        As free as is the bird upon the wing.

    “I scoff at him who bows to king or wife,
        Afraid to let his fancy e’en have play.
    Who, in his groove must live a narrow life,
        A slave receiving orders day by day;
    I, being free to do as I may please,
        Permit my soul to soar, and laugh at care;
    To me there come a thousand ecstasies
        That those who chafe in bonds may never share.

    “I am a law unto myself; I fill
        The place that I elect; I choose my sphere,
    I serve no master but my own sweet will,
        I am a stranger to the thing called fear.”
    But as he sang his lank landlady came.
        Her air was positive, her look was grim;
    She called him many a disrespectful name,
        And flung his satchel downstairs after him.

  • Desires

    From The Detroit Times, February 2, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I wish that I could be
        An old standpatter
    To look around and see
        Nothing the matter.
    All new thoughts to repel
        With brain that’s flaccid,
    And think that all is well,
        Serene and placid.

    What calm, what peace is his;
        He’s well contented;
    To him all progress is
        A thing demented;
    The world has gone ahead,
        And all things show it;
    Forward the age has sped—
        He doesn’t know it.

    And so he drifts along
        Through all the flurry;
    To him there’s nothing wrong,
        So he should worry;
    To me life’s sometimes grim
        And all things matter,
    And yet I envy him,
        The old standpatter.

  • The Mother of Bearded Men

    From The Sun, February 1, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I am the mother of bearded men, and the names that I called them by
    When I watched their sleep in their cradles, and hushed each tear and sigh,
    Are known and spoken where men meet men, and life moves swift along,
    For they do their share of the world’s work, and they are sure and strong.

    Clear are their eyes and their glances kind, as when their years were few;
    Deep voices call me mother, and the tones are gentle and true;
    They give me love and honor, though they are wiser now than I,
    But I think of the little children who slept in my arms and I sigh.

    Oh, I could not hold them dearer, and I would not turn them back
    To wander again through life’s thorny maze, and again to climb its track.
    But when the lonely evening comes, and no one has need of me,
    It’s Oh, for the little children who once leaned upon my knee!

  • The Fiddler’s Farewell

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 31, 1914. By Alfred Noyes.

    With my fiddle to my shoulder,
        And my hair turning gray,
    And my heart growing older
        I must shuffle on my way!
    Tho’ there’s not a hearth to greet me
        I must reap as I sowed,
    And the sunset shall meet me
        At the turn of the road.

    Oh, the whin’s a dusky yellow
        And the road a rosy white,
    And the blackbird’s call is mellow
        At the falling of the night;
    And there’s honey in the heather
        Where we’ll make our last abode,
    My tunes and me together
        At the turn of the road.

    I have fiddled for your city
        Thro’ market place and inn!
    I have poured forth my pity
        On your sorrow and your sin!
    But your riches are your burden,
        And your pleasure is your goad!
    I’ve the whin-gold for guerdon
        At the turn of the road.

    Your village lights’ll call me
        As the lights of home the dead;
    But a black night befall me
        Ere your pillows rest my head;
    God be praised, tho’ like a jewel
        Every cottage casement showed,
    There’s a star that’s not so cruel!
        At the turn of the road.

    Nay, beautifully and kindly
        Are the faces drawing nigh,
    But I gaze on them blindly
        And hasten, hasten by;
    For O, no face of wonder
        On earth has ever glowed
    Like the One that waits me yonder
        At the turn of the road.

    Her face is lit with splendor,
        She dwells beyond the skies;
    But deep, deep and tender
        Are the tears in her eyes;
    The angels see them glistening
        In pity for my load,
    And—she’s waiting there, she’s listening
        At the turn of the road.

  • A Prayer

    From The Tacoma Times, January 30, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    Oh, Master of the World of men
        And Ruler of Eternity,
    Neither with voice nor flowing pen
        Have I asked many things from Thee;
    I have not begged for wealth or fame
        With selfish prayers of little worth,
    Nor have I called upon Thy name
        To smite my enemies to earth.

    Yet now to Thee I raise my eyes
        And lift my voice for Thee to hear;
    No rich and sordid gift I prize,
        No plethora of gold and gear;
    Only this single boon I pray,
        That in a busy world and wide,
    Whether my life be grave or gay,
        I may not grow self-satisfied.

    So, till my final hour is spent,
        Until my work and play are through,
    Lord, let me never be content
        With what I am or what I do;
    Deliver me from smug conceit
        Which clogs the heart and mind in action—
    This is the prayer which I repeat,
        “Lord, guard me from self-satisfaction!”

  • Justice

    From The Detroit Times, January 29, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    The Bandit ravaged through the land
    And left his mark on every hand,
    For desolation lined the path
    Which he had made in greed and wrath;
    He looted, pillaged, far and wide,
    The sweet and smiling country side;
    He spoiled and wasted like a flame
    And people trembled at his name;
    His glutton cravings to allay
    He did not hesitate to slay.
    Not bravely, in fair open fight,
    But meanly, foully in the night!

    At last the people rose in ire
    And trailed him on through muck and mire,
    By stream and copse, by hill and dale,
    They followed grimly on his trail
    Until that final moment when
    They had him cornered in his den.
    They brought him forth with choking smoke
    Yet, as he stumbled out, he spoke
    And said, “By all the rules, I swear
    This sort of treatment isn’t fair;
    You show no just respect for me
    Nor for this cave, my property;
    You are not acting as you should”—
    But some one shot him where he stood.
    “He may be right,” the men agreed;
    “Perhaps we did not give due heed
    To all the rules and all the laws—
    But he’d no right to howl, because
    He plundered on a ruthless plan
    And broke each law of God and man;
    His hands with blood and gore were red;
    We reckon he is better dead.”

    (I wonder if the trusts and such
    Which have us strongly in their clutch
    Might, by some distant chance, be able
    To see the moral of this fable.)