Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • A Blasted Hope

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 8, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Joe Brigham was our “white man’s hope,” Joe measures six foot four;
    He tips the beam around about two fifty, mebbe more;
    His muscles are as hard as rocks; he has a bulldog jaw
    And fists that are about as big as I have ever saw.

    He’s workin’ in our shingle mill, and till a week ago
    We all felt confident that he could lay Jack Johnson low;
    He beat up nearly every man around this neighborhood—
    At least the ones who couldn’t run as fast as big Joe could.

    We brought an expert up from town to learn him how to box;
    Joe nearly killed him the first night with one or two swift knocks;
    A feller from Chicago come to look him over then;
    He told us that the white race soon would be on top agen.

    He said that John L., even when he had been at his best,
    Would not have made a match for Joe—that made him throw some chest!
    He give up workin’ in the mill and trained a week or so
    And then knocked out a giant that they’d brought from Buffalo.

    Although he’d licked us nearly all, we put our hate aside;
    You see he’d got us fairly filled with what’s called local pride;
    We watched his trainin’ right along, and cheered him when he passed;
    It seemed as though the white man’s sun had rose agen at last.

    But all our hopes are blasted now; Joe beat his wife one night,
    And when her daddy found it out he went to set things right;
    When he’d got through the neighbors found Joe bleedin’ on the floor,
    And he is meekly workin’ in the shingle mill once more.

  • Capture of Cactus Center

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 7, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    Down here in Cactus Center our hull citadel’s been took
    By a movin’ picture outfit that is fillin’ every nook;
    We’ve been crowded out by actors till there ain’t a bed in town;
    We sleep in traps and blankets, out on the prairie brown;
    They’re doin’ light housekeepin’ on the Blue Front’s upper floor,
    And the booze joint closes early, so’s to let the actors snore;
    There’s a bunch of leadin’ ladies roped and hog tied the hotel,
    And there’s actors first at table when throbs out the dinner bell.

    They are stagin’ wondrous dramas on the ranches hereabouts,
    And the cattle go plumb loco when they hear the actors’ shouts;
    There are juveniles and “heavies” prancin’ round the lonely hills;
    There are guns forever poppin’, but they ain’t the sort that kills;
    There’s a sound like canvas rippin’ when a bunch shoots off some blanks,
    While the sweatin’ operators turn them movin’ kodak cranks;
    Roll my bed, give me a grubstake—I must mush out in the sand
    Where there’s rattlesnakes and gilas, but there ain’t no movie band.

    Lo the Injun dreams of goin’ to a huntin’ ground of peace,
    Where there’s no objection follers when he lifts a white man’s fleece;
    It is a land of runnin’ water, where the grass is always good,
    Where there’s buffalo and fodder, and the squaws can gather wood;
    But the cowboy now is dreamin’ of a place that’s like poor Lo’s,
    Where there’s signs up, in addition, barrin’ movin’ picter shows;
    For there ain’t no joy in Cow Land, and sighs fill the native’s breast,
    Since the shutter’s took to clickin’ in the movie-haunted west!

  • Opportunity

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 6, 1914. By Walter Malone.

    They do me wrong who say I come no more
        When once I knock and fail to find you in;
    For every day I stand outside your door,
        And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

    Wail not for precious chances passed away,
        Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
    Each night I burn the records of the day;
        At sunrise every soul is born again.

    Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;
        To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb;
    My judgements seal the dead past with its dead,
        But never blind a moment yet to come.

    Tho’ deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep;
        I lend my arm to all who say “I can!”
    No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep
        But yet might rise and be again a man.

    Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
        Dost reel from righteous retribution’s blow?
    Then turn from blotted archives of the past
        And find the future pages white as snow.

    Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell;
        Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven;
    Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell;
        Each night a start to guide thy feet to heaven.

  • The Psychological Moment

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

                    HE.
    We two may never meet again;
        The world is wide, seas may divide us;
    Why should we squander or disdain
        This chance with which Fate has supplied us?
    Why should we dream of future bliss,
        A present gladness blindly losing?
    Tomorrow you may crave the kiss
        That you are stubbornly refusing.

    Tomorrow, when it is too late,
        When leagues between us may be lying,
    You may bemoan your lonely fate
        And waste the hours in futile sighing;
    Perhaps within a mile or two
        The ways we go may be diverging;
    Why scorn the kiss I offer you?
        Tomorrow I may not be urging.

                  SHE.
    We two may never meet, I know,
        And splashing seas may lie between us;
    Hereafter there may never grow
        A potted palm or vine to screen us;
    I may, as you have said, give way
        To useless sighing and to sorrow,
    And mourn the chance I have today,
        When I sit down to think, tomorrow.

    But, even if our ways shall part
        And if our hopes must bloom asunder,
    Shall happiness avoid my heart,
        And no fond lips press mine, I wonder?
    Nay, though through No Man’s Land I fare,
        I’ll meet some brave one—never doubt it—
    Who will gladly embrace me there,
        Without first lecturing about it.

  • Growing

    From The Sun, January 4, 1914. By Gilbert Cannan.

    When I was but a little boy
    I knew no more than a little tiny joy.
    When I was young and twenty-five,
    Then I was fearfully alive.
    And when I grew and became a man,
    Then I was the top of creation’s plan;
    I melted into love’s desire—
    I was the ore and I the fire.
    And when I knew that I was old,
    Then I was minted into gold.

  • Death of the Year

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1914. By Lilian Lauferty.

    When the snows grow bold and the stars are cold,
    And the Winter night-winds prey,
    When the ice holds fast and the world is cast
    In a mold of white and gray;

    Then the gloaming falls on the sky’s soft walls,
    And the lights of the dark are hung,
    While the hushed year lies under brooding skies
    Where the censer moon is hung,

    Then the silence speaks over plains and peaks,
    And the hush of life draws near,
    ’Til the screaming wail of the wind and hail
    Sounds the death song of the year.

  • An Unkind Burglar

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 2, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A burglar came to my house,
    I did not say a word,
    I did not hoot,
    I did not shoot
    To let him know I heard.
    I let him search my mansion,
    I cuddled up in bed,
    Pretended sleep,
    I did not peep,
    But let him think me dead.
    I knew what he was after:
    The key to my garage.
    He found it, too.
    He would, I knew,
    And then I saw him dodge
    Out of the door right quickly,
    I followed him that far.
    He looked around,
    Surveyed the ground,
    And then he stole my car.
    I smiled and laughed and cackled
    Until I thought I’d croak,
    To see a bold
    Bad burglar sold—
    ’Twas a delicious joke.
    I went back to my slumbers
    As happy as could be.
    I’d lost my car
    Ho-ho, har-har,
    I’d saved some dough, maybe.
    But soon I was awakened
    Familiar with the sound,
    The same old clang,
    The same old bang,
    The same old grind and pound.
    He’d driven it ten minutes.
    That guy gives me a pain.
    It made such a fuss
    The ornery cuss
    Had brought it back again.

  • If You Treat the World Right

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 1, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    If you treat the world right, if you give it its due,
    It is likely to try to deal fairly with you;
    If you give it a smile when you have one to spare,
    You will find that the days will more often be fair.

    If you ask for no more than you honestly earn,
    If you look for no more than a proper return
    On investments you make and on risks that you take,
    You will seldom sit nursing a foolish heart-ache.

    If you pick out your friends just for friendship, instead
    Of favoring those who push you ahead,
    Disappointments will soon get to passing you by,
    And the clouds will be fewer that darken your sky.

    If you cheer where you may and give aid where you can,
    If you learn that greed never has strengthened a man,
    That selfishness is but a loathsome disease,
    You will find less to grieve you and much more to please.

    If you learn that the weak are the ones who complain,
    You will find good in much you have viewed with disdain;
    If you treat the world right, if you give it its due
    It is likely to deal pretty fairly with you.

  • Individuality

    From The Seattle Star, December 31, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    You can’t be Shelley or Keats or Burns,
        Or Caesar or Edmund Kean;
    They had their chance and they did their turns
        And now they are gone, I ween.
    And why should you copy each august shade
        Who lies on a graveyard shelf?
    HE didn’t copy, his fame was made
        By being his own true self!

    You can’t be Kipling or Roosevelt,
        Or Wilson or Bryan, too;
    But you can be known, and you can be felt
        By being Yourself all through;
    No man grows great when he imitates,
        For that is the way to fail;
    The fellow who wins from the frowning fates
        Must mark out his own clear trail!

    You may not reach to the heights of fame,
        For few can climb so high,
    But at least you can play in the lively game
        Whenever you want to try;
    You may not get to the top at all,
        Nor capture renown or pelf,
    But, win or lose, or rise or fall,
        At least you can be yourself!

  • A First-Rate Book

    From The Detroit Times, December 30, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    I’ve been reading of slaughter and battle,
        Of glory and gumption and gore,
    Of raids upon foemen and cattle
        And hair-raising stunts by the score.
    Of heroes of mightiest bravery,
        Of villains with records unsavory,
    Of righteousness, evil and knavery,
        And plenty of olden time lore.

    I’ve been reading some lovely romances
        And tales of adventure, as well,
    Of men who took uttermost chances
        And braved any fate that befell.
    I’ve reveled, with eyes that were glistery,
        In fairy tales, magic and mystery,
    Theology, logic and history,
        And poems that none can excel.

    And I read all of this in one volume,
        One volume I’d never looked through
    Till I plunged in its close-printed column—
        And its treasures lay bare to my view.

    So I learned, after decades unheeding,
        What wise men have long been conceding,
    That the Bible is chuck full of reading,
        And mighty good stuff it is, too!