This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 18, 1914. By Grace Sorenson.
I call it not success
To gain a fortune or
To win renown, unless
In climbing upward thou
Hast left a trail behind
Of happiness for those
Along the way. If greed
Has been thy only aim,
Then thou hast missed the goal
Of life, while he who treads
The lowly paths and helps
His fellowmen receives
A greater joy than thou
Canst find in wealth or fame.
From The Topeka State Journal, January 17, 1914. By William F. Kirk.
Day in, day out, night out, night in,
Where snow is thick and fees are thin,
He hustles with his cheery grin
To fight with ills.
The drives are long, the nights are cold,
He suffers hardships left untold
To call upon some mother old
Across the hills.
Little he says about his pay;
Often he gives his skill away,
And though he’s getting bent and gray
He has no wealth.
His life has been an endless trial,
His motto has been self-denial;
Freely he gives from every vial
For some one’s health.
The gallant soldier goes away
While fife and drum and bugle play
Bravely to conquer or to slay—
That is his part.
The country doctor rides alone
Through rugged roads, o’er stock and stone,
To heal men, not to make them moan;
God bless his heart!
From the Rock Island Argus, January 16, 1914. By Henry Howland.
She was so gentle and so fair
That just to see her made me glad;
She spoke in accents sweet and rare,
And praised the talent that I had;
The admiration in her look
Awoke my pride and made me strut;
I gave to her my latest book,
Its precious pages still uncut.
She took it with such pure delight
That pleasure lingered in my breast;
I thanked the gods that I could write
And that the book contained my best;
She held it as a precious thing—
Indeed, she pressed it to her heart,
And set my own heart fluttering
By sweetly dwelling on my art.
She was so graceful, so sublime
That I was filled with sudden joy;
My cares took flight and for a time
I was again a blushing boy;
She sweetly spoke about the glee
That presently should be her own
In conning my brave lines when she
Could be unhindered and alone.
Ah! That was three long years ago!
I called upon her yesterday;
My book was on the stand, and so
I picked it up from where it lay;
I felt the old joy in my heart,
The sweet old thrill of boyhood—but
’Twas doomed to suddenly depart;
The pages all remained uncut.
From The Tacoma Times, January 15, 1914. By Berton Braley.
I care not what your place may be,
A job that’s most laborious
With mighty little salary,
Or one that’s fat and glorious,
But, be your labor great or small,
Of this you must be sensible—
Some other guy can do it all,
No man is indispensable!
When you begin to swell with pride
And cater to the gallery
And put on lots of “dog” and “side”
Because they’ve raised your salary,
Why, then’s the time you’ll tumble quick;
Such ways are indefensible;
Some other guy can do your trick;
No man is indispensable!
It’s well enough to know your worth
And know just what to do with it,
But don’t imagine that the earth
Will quit when you are through with it;
No, it will roll upon its way
And—what seems reprehensible—
Some other guy will draw your pay;
No man is indispensable!
From The Tacoma Times, January 14, 1914. By Berton Braley.
Girlie, I’ve noticed the flashy guy,
The one who’s chasing around with you;
Believe me sister, he don’t get by;
You want to chuck him—and sudden, too;
He may look grand and he may talk great,
But take my warning and cut him out,
For the guy who’s honest and true and straight
Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!
Them friends of his that you’ve had to meet
Ain’t just the kind that you ought to choose,
For how kin a decent girl keep sweet
In a crowd that’s given to paint and booze?
There’s too much glitter and flash and glare;
That duck’s too much of a “good old scout;”
Believe me sister, the guy who’s square
Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!
You get some feller that thinks you’re queen
And tries to keep you from any wrong;
This present party is far too keen
On leadin’ you off with the giddy throng;
The true-blue feller will treat you white,
But not where the spigots fizz and spout;
Believe me, sister, the guy who’s right
Don’t court his girl by the high-ball route!
From The Tacoma Times, January 13, 1914. By Berton Braley.
I serve the Lords of Laughter,
I serve the gods of mirth,
I make the world a dafter
And yet a gladder earth;
When woes grow thick and thicker
And life seems inky black,
By magic of a snicker
I drive the sorrows back.
I serve the Lords of Laughter
And oh, I love to wake
The roar that shakes the rafter
And makes the midriff quake;
I care not for the flouting
Of bards who sneer at me
If I can hear the shouting
Of great and gorgeous glee!
Oh, may the songs I sing you
Lift every heavy cloud,
And may I always bring you
Clean laughter, long and loud!
So when I pass hereafter
This truth the world may tell,
“He served the Lords of Laughter
And always served them well!”
From The Seattle Star, January 12, 1914. By Berton Braley.
Why does the dog throw back his head
And howl at night to greet the moon?
In ages long forgot and dead,
When earth was still a block new hewn,
The wolf pack roamed the wilderness,
And with them ran, all gaunt and gray,
The father of our friend today,
A white-fanged wolf—whom time has made
Into the slave of man, his aid,
A comrade ever faithful grown,
Who sleeps beside his own hearth stone.
But now and then when moonlight thrills
Across the valley and the hills,
The old wild magic steals again
Over the canine friend of men;
He seems to slink the forest through,
The ancient forest that he knew;
He seems to hear again the pack
That bays upon the white moon’s track,
And from his throat and shaggy jowl
Issues again the old wolf howl,
The ululating lupine wail
That once re-echoed on the trail!
I know not if this tale be truth,
But so ’twas told me, in my youth!
From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 11, 1914.
Some people say that summer is the only time to walk,
Or be outdoors, but Pop and me we don’t believe such talk;
Why we go out the coldest days and tramp an hour or two,
And we see lots and lots of things that stay-homes never do.
For if the trees are brown and bare and all the flowers are dead,
The woods are full of evergreens and berries bright and red;
And crows are flying round the fields and calling far and loud,
Or gathering in the tree-tops like a big convention crowd.
And rabbits run across the road and scamper off so shy,
Or maybe squirrels on some high limb peep at us quick and sly;
And when the wind blows ‘round the hill the leaves fly everywhere,
Or whirl off like a flock of birds upon the frosty air.
And if when we’re a-walking out it should begin to snow,
We button up and hike along till we are all aglow;
And when we get back home again we look so fresh an’ strong,
That folks say, “My but you look fine—I wish I’d went along.”
From the Rock Island Argus, January 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.
The world will give applause to him who rules in great affairs,
To him who in a lofty place assumes a nation’s cares;
His name is passed from lip to lip, his fame is spread abroad,
And they are envied whom he deigns to please with smile or nod;
But there’s another, poor perhaps, unhonored and unknown,
To whom I raise my hat, because of worth that is his own—
The honest man who daily does the best that he may do
And makes the world his debtor for a worthy son or two.
The crowds will gladly shout his name who guides a splendid fleet
And makes his country’s foemen feel the sorrow of defeat;
For him the waiting bands will play, for him the flags will fly,
For him the people will applaud and raise the arches high;
But while they crown him and are glad to stand and watch him pass
I lift my hat to one for whom there is no sounding brass—
The honest man whose sons are taught so they may understand
The worth of honor and the debt they owe their native land.
The world will give sweet praise to him who has enriched its art,
And learn to prize the poet’s song if it shall touch the heart.
There will be high rewards for them who govern and direct,
The warrior and the statesman will be named with the elect;
But there is one whom few will deign to gladden with applause,
Though all his efforts, all his hopes, involve a worthy cause—
The honest man whose sons are taught that honor still is good,
Who, all unnoticed, triumphs in his right of parenthood.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 9, 1914. By Philander Johnson.
If I were a youngster and were going back to school,
I don’t believe that I’d annoy the teacher, as a rule;
For teachers have a serious time. They’re busy day by day
Discovering the shorter cuts that lead to Wisdom’s way.
And sometimes when you hold tomorrow’s lesson in great dread,
Your teacher’s working hard upon the lesson just ahead.
She’s always striving earnestly her duty to fulfill
And hoping you’ll all like her—which I’m confident you will.
Remember that her feelings may be very much like yours
Regarding the restraints which every studious mind endures.
She’d very much prefer a vastly longer holiday,
No doubt she’s fond of skating or of riding in a sleigh.
Don’t picture her a tyrant with a hard and haughty heart.
She’ll try to help you like her if you’ll only make a start.
Don’t bother her with mischief and with foolish little jokes.
A teacher values kindness just the same as other folks.