Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Gettysburg

    From The Times Dispatch, November 9, 1913. By W. W. Bays.

    The Southern soldiers sallied forth,
        With Lee—proud Paladin;
    They’d fight the “North” within the North,
        They would, they could but win.
    The “flower of the South” were they,
        From chivalries of old;
    Nor soldiery of any day
        Was cast in better mold.

    On old Potomac’s shore they stood,
        Undaunted at the tide;
    And, dreadless, plunged into the flood,
        And climbed the other side.
    Each eye was lit with Southern fire,
        Each Southern spirit burned;
    Their hot blood hurried in its ire,
        Their faces northward turned.

    The peaceful land of William Penn
        They sought, and soon they found;
    Then shook the wood, the hill, the glen,
        With thunders all around.
    The flaunting flags, the martial tones,
        Hark! Gettysburg, and see!
    The cannon and the smoke—the groans!
        A Southern victory!

    The dawn! and ready for the fray,
        The Northern Lion stands;
    The southern Tiger holds at bay,
        Whose bloody throat expands.
    The Fed’rals move, a thunderous roar,
        And Culp’s contested height,
    The Southrons’ wrest; their volleys pour—
        The vict’ry theirs at night!

    Another dawn! O, what a day!
        How fateful the event!
    The desperate gamesters in the “play”
        Have “staked” a continent!
    The Southron dares—his all he risks,
        On “Seminary’s” crest,
    His miles of bristling basilisks
        Are massed for final test.

    A thousand fiery-throated guns,
        Their deadly volleys pour;
    But dauntlessly the Southern sons
        Descend amid the roar!
    Adown the dell between the heights,
        And up—to never stop—
    The charging corps now climbs and fights
        For “Cemetery’s” top!

    Each line is raked with bomb and balls,
        But still the dauntless South,
    With courage that not hell appalls,
        Hath reached the cannon’s mouth!
    With sabre and with bayonet,
        The fearless foemen fight;
    They’ll perish, but they’ll ne’er forget
        The cause they deemed as right.

    Again, again the Southrons dash;
        Each line’s a severed thread;
    For in the horrid hail and crash,
        The gallant corps is dead!
    The day is lost, the brave advance
        Hath died amid the shock,
    And shivered is the Southern Lance,
        Against the Northern Rock!

    Fell many a Northern brave today,
        Fell many a Southern son,
    With wife and mother far away,
        And far the little one.
    The Great Revolt, whose bloody sea
        Here rose to highest tide,
    Began to ebb, and finally—
        At Appomattox—died.

    The bloody day hath told the tale;
        The star-eyes up on high
    Weep o’er the thousands cold and pale,
        And mournful night-winds cry,
    “O why is this fraternal fray?”
        And spirits of the dead,
    In silent accents seem to say,
        “The ‘why’ no more be said.”

    Now, from this fateful aspect turn,
        And eye and mind release;
    And enmity and hatred spurn
        For Brotherhood and Peace.
    All hail our country—’tis but one;
        All hail, for her we live,
    And to her host of heroes gone,
        All honor do we give.

    All hail today the men of Meade;
        All hail the men of Lee;
    All hail—whichever spelt the deed—
        Defeat or Victory!
    All hail, they meet! Brave veterans!
        Each other to embrace,
    And with them—all “Americans”—
        Love, Loyalty and Peace.

  • All’s Well

    From The Tacoma Times, November 8, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    “All is well”—the word is said
        By the blind men to the blind,
    And the Tory nods his head
        Quite contented in his mind;

    “All is well”—men starve and die
        In the midst of plenty’s store,
    Babies weep and mothers cry,
        Famine lingers at the door,

    Children toil in roaring mills,
        Robbed of all their hours of play,
    Doing work that stunts and kills—
        “All is well,” the Tories cry.

    Women take the wage of shame,
        Driven by the scourge of want;
    Still the slogan is the same,
        “All is well,” resounds the vaunt.

    Law is trampled under foot,
        Right is sunken in the mire
    And the thug, the vicious brute,
        Beats and slugs and kills—for hire.

    Men who dare to speak the truth
        Pace within a prison cell;
    Power rules that knows no ruth,
        Yet men murmur, “All is well!”

    Fetid street and filthy slum—
        Toil that makes men’s lives a hell,
    Want and woe and vice and rum—
        Let’s be thankful “All is well!”

  • The Stone Rejected

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 7, 1913. By Edwin Markham.

    For years it had been trampled in the street
    Of Florence by the drift of heedless feet—
    The stone that Buonarroti made confess
    That shape you know, that marble loveliness.

    You mind the tale—how he was passing by
    When the rude marble caught his Jovian eye,
    That stone men had dishonored and had thrust
    Out to the insult of the wayside dust.
    He stooped to lift it from its mean estate,
    And bore it on his shoulder to the gate,
    Where all day long a hundred hammers rang;
    And soon his chisels round the marble sang,
    Till suddenly the hidden angel shone
    That had been waiting, prisoned in the stone.

    Thus came the cherub, with the laughing face
    That long has lighted up an altar place.

  • The Welcome

    From The Detroit Times, November 6, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    It’s “How do you do” to William,
        But simply “Hello!” to Bill.
    For William has stocks in the safety box,
        While the riches of Bill are nil;
    And William has might and power
        Which people are wary of,
    So they smile and bow to William now,
        But penniless Bill they love!

    It’s “How do you do?” to William,
        With something of fear and awe,
    When we’re face to face in the market place,
        Where gold is the chiefest law,
    But the children and men and women,
        They turn with right good will
    From work or play when he comes their way
        And holler “Hello” to Bill!

    It’s “How do you do?” to William,
        With the thought of his cash in view;
    While not a stamp has Bill, the scamp!
        We like him because—we do!
    Now had you your choice of greetings
        Which one would meet your will?
    The “How Do You Do?” for William
        Or the simple “Hello!” for Bill?

  • Well, Not Too Much So

    From The Seattle Star, November 5, 1913.

    Life is money to the miser,
        To the loafer life is rest;
    To the preacher life’s a sermon,
        To the joker it’s a jest.

    Life’s a battle to the soldier,
        To the teacher it’s a school;
    To the grafter it’s a good thing,
        It’s a failure to the fool.

    Life’s an everlasting effort
        To shun duty, by the shirk,
    But it’s just one long vacation
        For the man who loves his work.

  • The Child of Yesterday

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 4, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    Pretty little maiden, yesterday a child,
    Free from affectation, merely running wild;
    Kicking up and laughing, climbing fences, too—
    What a lot of changes have come over you!

    Pretty little maiden, guileless in your glee,
    Yesterday you lightly sat upon my knee;
    Yesterday you kissed me when I went away;
    I have found a woman in your place today.

    Now your legs are hidden and you shout no more;
    You’re a helpless creature—you so lithe before!
    You must be assisted where you used to climb,
    You must guard your actions gravely all the time.

    You have lost the freedom of the careless child;
    You no more may ever gallop, glad and wild;
    Wholly artificial, you must lace and friz
    And be cold and proper—what a shame it is!

  • So Long, Willie

    From The Times Dispatch, November 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    The surgeons rub their hands in glee and sharpen up their saws,
        And Willie’s mother breathes a hopeless sigh.
    Her heart of hearts is grieving and the teardrops fall because
        It’s time to bid her Willie boy goodbye.
    He is a husky youngster and was never sick a day,
        But one can never tell what will befall.
    He may be brought back to her in a basket or he may
        Be brought back to her never more at all.
    You cannot blame the lady for her heart throbs and her fears,
        However vain and needless they may seem,
    For little Willie’s chosen for a sad fate it appears;
        He has been picked for halfback on the team.

  • The Man Who Had No Chance

    From the Evening Star, November 2, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    I used to fret because I thought
        My chances were so few;
    It seemed to me that there was not
        Much left for me to do;
    The splendid things had all been done—
        At least I thought they had—
    I craved a chance, and finding none,
        Considered matters bad.

    I used to list myself with those
        Who had been born too late;
    I had no reason to suppose
        I might be rich or great;
    No chance at all remained for me—
        At least, it seemed so then—
    To win renown or worthily
        Rise o’er my fellow men.

    The great things had been done before
        I came upon the scene;
    There was no chance for me to score,
        My fate was poor and mean;
    I often hopelessly complained
        As I reviewed the case,
    Because no chance for me remained
        To serve the human race.

    And now, as I look back I find
        Myself despondent still;
    I am distressed in heart and mind,
        I claim no happy thrill;
    Condemned to shiver in the cold,
        I cannot now resist
    Sad memories as I behold
        The chances I have missed.

  • The Right Road

    From The Tacoma Times, November 1, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Where’s the road to happiness,
        Where’s the joyous way?
    Where’s the path to Arcady
        Ever blithe as May?
    Here be many roads to take,
        Wisdom, there, ahoy!
    What’s the proper turn to make
        For the road of joy?

    “Take whatever road is straight,
        Carol as you go,
    Help a comrade bear his pack
        If it bends him low,
    Take your chances as they come,
        Famine days or fat,
    If Dame Fortune treat you ill
        Dare to laugh at that!”

    What’s the road to Happiness?
        How then shall we make it?
    “Tisn’t just the way you TAKE,
        But the WAY you take it!”

  • The World at Its Best

    From the Rock Island Argus, October 31, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    It’s a grand old world to be livin’ in when the grass begins to sprout;
    It’s the finest world that I’ve ever seen when the leaves are a-comin’ out;
    It’s a bully world in the fair June days when the colts kick up their heels;
    It’s a fine old world when the little chicks get to scratchin’ for their meals,
    And I’ll tell you, boys, it’s a good old world ‘long about this time o’ year,
    When the turkey’s fat and the ax is sharp and Thanksgivin’ day is near.

    It’s a fine old world when the spring work’s done and the crops begin to grow;
    It’s a grand old world when the days are short and the fields are white with snow;
    It’s a bully world in the summer time when you smell the sweet new hay;
    It’s a dandy world when you’ve sold your wheat and the profit’s put away,
    And I’ll tell you, boys, it’s a great old world when the girl you love the best
    Sits alone with you where the light is low, with her cheek agin your vest.

    It’s a splendid world when a fellow’s young and limber and full of vim
    And a good square meal is the finest thing that a body can show to him;
    It’s a great old world in the summer time and a fine old world in fall;
    It’s a bully world when you’ve saved so much that you don’t need to care at all;
    But I’ll tell you, boys, it’s the dearest world and the fairest and sweetest world
    When you look down into your young wife’s lap where your first little child is curled.