This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
From The Washington Herald, December 19, 1913. By John Kendrick Bangs.
When Heart says “Do,” and Head says “Don’t,”
And Bill’s inclined to say “I won’t!”
It may be wrong to follow Heart
And from the paths of Head depart,
But all the same I’ve heard much song
On roads wise Head hath branded wrong,
And sooner found the light that’s true
On byways Heart hath brought to view!
From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.
Cabbage on the second floor,
Liver on the first;
What is being cooked next door?
Must be wienerwurst.
Onions? You can bet two hats
What a cook prepares
Anywhere around our flats
Everybody shares.
From the Rock Island Argus, December 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.
I am longing for the pleasures that the fields alone can give;
I am sick of being crowded where the luckless millions live;
I am yearning for the freedom that the farmer’s boy enjoys
Out there where no busy builders are producing ceaseless noise,
Where the frost has made the wattles of the troubled rooster blue
And the kitchen door-step’s buried under snow a foot or two.
I am sighing for the pleasure that the farmer doubtless feels
As he wades out in the mornings to give Boss and Spot their meals;
How I long to be there helping to haul wood upon the sled
And to have the joy of chopping up the chunks behind the shed;
I can hardly keep from turning from the city with its ills
To go out and help the farmer who is doping for his chills.
What a joy ‘twould be to never have to dodge or skip and jump;
And how sweet in zero weather it would be to thaw the pump;
How I hanker for such gladness as the farmer may possess
While he has to do the milking when it’s ten below or less;
I would say good-bye forever to the city if I could—
Gee, I’d like to be a farmer in the winter—YES I WOULD!
From The Seattle Star, December 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.
In the days of old Rameses, when he ruled along the Nile,
There were human sacrifices of a rather gory style.
And if tender-hearted people at this sort of thing demurred,
“It’s a Necessary Evil,” they were told, when it occurred.
“For the mighty gods require it, and we mustn’t tell them ‘No,’
Or the crops would cease to prosper and the Nile would cease to flow!”
Yet in time this custom perished, ‘spite of priest and king and thrall,
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!
In the time of Mr. Nero, who was emperor of Rome,
There were Necessary Evils which were very much at home.
There were gladiators’ battles and a lot of other games,
Such as feeding Christian martyrs to the lions or the flames.
But the reign of Nero ended and he had his little day,
And those Necessary Evils were completely swept away—
Swept away like little sandhills in a sudden windy squall—
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!
There were good and kindly people who defended slavery
As a Necessary Evil which was simply bound to be.
Yet it’s washed away forever by the blood of noble men;
It’s a Necessary Evil which will not come back again!
So the Barroom and the Brothel, which are ever talked about
As two Necessary Evils which we cannot do without—
They shall go like those before them, they shall crumble to their fall—
For a Necessary Evil’s no necessity at all!
From the Rock Island Argus, December 15, 1913. By Henry Howland.
We’ve married sister off at last, and pa and ma are glad;
The troubles that we had are past; we’ve all quit feelin’ sad;
Now mebby I’ll have things to wear that wasn’t pa’s before,
And none of us will have to care about expense no more.
They say his father’s got a pile; he gave a house to sis,
Where him and her will live in style, with servants, after this.
Pa used to fret a lot about the price of meat and coal,
But now his heart is free from doubt and joy is in his soul.
We put on all the airs we could when he began to come.
I acted as they said I should and pa quit bein’ glum.
Ma, every chance she got, would tell about our pedigree,
And made him think we had a swell and old, old fambly tree.
We all pretended to believe that sis was somethin’ great
And that we’d set around and grieve if she would meet her fate.
Ma often got him coaxed aside and in a tremblin’ tone
Would tell about the boys who’d tried to win her for their own.
We went in debt to dress her well—of course he never knew.
Gee, but we kept her lookin’ swell; she was outclassed by few.
Pa cut my hair to save expense; we kept things clean and neat,
And everything was cooked immense when he stayed here to eat.
We’ve got her married off at last, and pa and ma are glad.
The troubles that we had are past; we’ve all quit bein’ sad.
It took all we could raise to dress her so she’d catch a prize;
The way the plan worked out I guess it pays to advertise.
From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 14, 1913.
Where I went downtown with Mamma they had Santa in a store
Dressed up like you always see him, walking up and down the floor;
And they said if you would tell him what you wanted him to bring,
When he came around on Christmas, you’d get every single thing.
So I told him that I wanted most a nice big fancy doll,
One with lots of pretty dresses, hat and gloves and parasol,
And he said he’d see I got it, but I must be very good,
And be sure to learn my lessons and mind Mamma as I should.
Then we went a little further, to the next store in the square,
And no sooner were we in it than we saw a Santa there.
And it got me awful puzzled, till I stopped and thought it out,
And I saw that just one Santa never would get all about.
Course there must be plenty of them, like policemen on a beat,
And I wondered if the first one that I told would have our street;
Cause if they should send the other, how would he know what to do?
So to have my doll for certain, why I told that Santa, too.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 13, 1913. By Kate Masterson.
Today, upon the avenue, I met him face to face.
His gray eyes sought my own of blue, beneath their film of lace.
I passed him, flushing, through the throng, the while he poised his hat.
The air sang in my ears a song—Freddie is growing fat!
Ten years ago—ten years ago! ’Twas summer when we met,
And roses bloom and breezes blow about that Junetime yet.
So fresh, so lovely and so sweet; a tender, old, dead day!
Now in the afternoon we meet—he’s wearing a toupee!
No straight-front model bound his waist, vested in English style.
His keen glance swept my bodice laced, his gray eyes seemed to smile;
And yet his look was reverent, dim, o’er full with memory.
But as I slowly measured him, he seemed to size up me.
Ah, love and summer and romance! If we could but delay
When time leads us a merry dance and steals our joys away;
If, like a rose, we fade in truth, in the chill grasp of fate!
But Cupid grins when love and youth begin to take on weight!
From the Rock Island Argus, December 12, 1913. By Henry Howland.
He left the little town because he thought
He needed a horizon that was wider;
He fancied he had talent and he sought
The city as a suitable provider
Of opportunities such as he dared
To think were all he needed to win glory;
The little town, he solemnly declared,
Was such an old and oft-repeated story.
He sought the city with its rush and roar,
And with its glare and glitter and its splendor;
He thought about the little town no more,
Forgot the friendships that had been so tender;
He found his opportunity inside
A cage where day by day he labored grimly,
Where sweet, fresh air and sunlight were denied,
Where hope loomed up sometimes—but very dimly.
His home consisted of four little rooms,
Within a building that was far from peerless.
They were as dark as are Egyptian tombs,
And just about as stuffy and as cheerless;
Day after day he went the same small round,
Nor ever found new scenes to rest his eyes on,
But, sadly pinched, he fancied he had found
Though high walls shut him in, a broad horizon.
From The Washington Herald, December 11, 1913. By Emma Frances Lee Smith.
I have turned aside from the world and its pride
The strength of my love to prove;
I have set my pace to a wonderful race,
With feet that are swift to move—
Be it soon or late—to serve, or to wait—
At the cry of the terrified.
Through flood and flame, in the Master’s name,
Comfort and help I bring;
My mission blest is to offer rest
And peace, to the suffering;
I give no heed to rank or to creed;
I look not askance at shame.
On the wreck-strewn trail of the howling gale,
I hasten with warmth and cheer;
O’er the shrouded head of the mangled dead,
I bend with a pitying tear;
To famine’s white lip my cup I slip;
I quiet the mourner’s wail.
In the wake of the knell of hurtling shell,
The clangor of crashing steel,
My watch I keep where the wounded sleep,
And the dead lie heel to heel;
I speed the soul to its happy goal—
A tireless sentinel.
From East to West on my merciful quest,
I follow the Red Cross far;
Under Southern skies I have seen it rise;
It glows ‘neath the Northern star;
Its crimson sign is a badge divine,
Mid the panoply of war.
From The Seattle Star, December 10, 1913. By Berton Braley.
I’m sick of your mobs and machinery,
I’m weary of second-hand thrills;
I’m tired of your two-by-four scenery,
Your nice little valleys and hills;
I want to see peaks that are bare again
And ragged and rugged and high;
To know the old tang in the air again,
And the blue of the clear Western sky!
Once more in each fiber and fold of me
I feel the old wonderment brew;
And again has the spell taken hold of me,
The spell of the mountains I knew;
So the city means nothing but slavery,
And my heart is a load in my breast,
And life will be stale and unsavory
Till I stand on the hills of the West.
Let the homebodies “hobo” and “rover” me;
Poor plodders, they never can know
How the fret for the hills has come over me
And the fever that bids me to go
Away from traditions gone moldering,
Away from the paths overtired,
To the place where the mountains are shouldering
Right up to the Archways of God!