Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Thumbed Collar

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 20, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

    “Go up and change your collar,” mother often says to me.
    “For you can’t go out in that one, it’s as dirty as can be.
    There are splotches on the surface where they very plainly show.”
    “That is very queer,” I answer, “it was clean an hour ago.”
    But I guess just what has happened, and in this it’s clearly summed:
    He who lets a baby love him often gets his collar thumbed.

    I have gone downtown o’ mornings thinking I was clean and neat,
    And have had some kind friend stop me as I walked along the street
    With the startling information that I wore a collar soiled,
    As he saw the prints and traces where those little thumbs had toiled;
    And I’ve made this explanation—it’s a song I long have hummed—
    He who loves a little baby often gets his collar thumbed.

    And I’m rather proud I reckon to have people here allude
    To the prints upon my collars; they’re my badge of servitude.
    They’re the proudest marks I carry, and I really dread the day
    When there’ll be no sticky fingers, when I start to go away,
    To reach up and soil my neckwear, and my heart sometimes is numbed
    When I think the day is coming when my collars won’t be thumbed.

  • Cactus Centre’s Plutocrat

    From The Sun, October 19, 1913.

    Down here in Cactus Centre prosperity has come;
    A stranger feller brought it—he has made the hull town hum;
    He dropped a thousand dollars on the stage a-comin’ in;
    Every time he missed a kyote the stage driver would win.

    He spent at least ten thousand playin’ poker and roulette.
    There simply wasn’t nothin’ that’d bluff him from a bet;
    He bought a dozen ranches, and the store of Happy Hank;
    He’s started up a stockyards and a factory and bank.

    He’s put a hundred thousand in a gilded liquor perch;
    He lifted up the mortgage on the Cactus Centre church.
    He’s planned an office building where there used to be just tents,
    And he’s put a half a million in a bang-up residence.

    Who is this wealthy stranger that is blowin’ cash so free?
    That there’s the very question that has had us up a tree;
    On a pennant winnin’ ball team he heads the list of names,
    And he’s tryin’ to spend the profits of this year’s world series games.

  • Love Will Find a Way

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 18, 1913.

    Over the mountains
        And over the waves,
    Under the fountains
        And under the graves;
    Under floods that are deepest,
        Which Neptune obey;
    Over rocks that are steepest
        Love will find out the way.

    Where there is no place
        For the glowworm to lie;
    Where there is no space
        For receipt of a fly;
    Where the midge dares not venture
        Lest herself fast she lay;
    If love come, he will enter
        And soon find out his way.

    You may esteem him
        A child for his might;
    Or you may deem him
        A coward from his flight;
    But if she whom love doth honor
        Be conceal’d from the day,
    Set a thousand guards upon her,
        Love will find out the way.

    Some think to lose him
        By having him confined;
    And some do suppose him
        Poor thing to be blind;
    But if ne’er so close ye wall him,
        Do the best that you may,
    Blind love, if so ye call him,
        Will find out his way.

    You may train the eagle
        To stoop to your fist;
    Or you may inveigle
        The phoenix of the east;
    The lioness ye may move her
        To give o’er her prey;
    But you’ll ne’er stop a lover;
        He will find out his way.

  • The Brookside

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 17, 1913. By Richard Monckton Milnes.

    I wandered by the brookside,
        I wandered by the mill;
    I could not hear the brook flow,
        The noisy wheel was still;
    There was no burr of grasshopper,
        No chirp of any bird,
    But the beating of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    I sat beneath the elm tree;
        I watched the long, long shade,
    And as it grew still longer
        I did not feel afraid;
    For I listened for a footfall,
        I listened for a word,
    But the breathing of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    He came not—no, he came not—
        The night came on alone,
    The little stars sat one by one,
        Each on his golden throne;
    The evening wind passed by my cheek,
        The leaves above were stirred,
    But the beating of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    Fast silent tears were flowing,
        When something stood behind;
    A hand was on my shoulder,
        I knew its touch was kind;
    It drew me nearer—nearer,
        We did not speak one word,
    But the beating of our own hearts
        Was all the sound we heard.

  • The System

    From The Times Dispatch, October 16, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    When fellers come around and start to criticizin’ you,
    And find fault concernin’ you and all the things you do;
    When they suggest improvements and point out where you are lame,
    And try to give you pointers on your own particular game,
    Don’t stop to argue with ‘em, for your cue is to stand pat;
    Jes’ do the best that you kin do and let it go at that.

    When fellers tell you that you ought to spend a lot of dough,
    And bust into society and meet folks you should know;
    When they come round and tell you that you’re way behind the game,
    And that the life you’re leadin’ is too commonplace and tame,
    Don’t get excited and go on a social climbin’ bat,
    Spend what you kin afford to spend and let it go at that.

    When folks come round and tell you that you’re too big for your town,
    That you should strike out for a place where you kin win renown;
    When they inform you you’re a chump for working at your wage;
    That you’re not where you should be for a man who’s reached your age;
    When they try to swell your head so you can’t wear your hat,
    Just keep your nut and peg away and let it go at that.

  • Uncle’s Finish

    From the Evening Star, October 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    My Uncle Jim has done ‘most everything there is to do.
    He says life’s not worth livin’ when there isn’t something new
    To hold a man’s attention. He has tamed a buckin’ hoss
    And drove in trottin’ races without grumblin’ at the loss.
    He has taken railroad journeys an’ he’s viewed the buildin’s high;
    He’s lost a stack of poker chips an’ never blinked an eye.
    But his latest fad’s the queerest that has ever come to him.
    He’s writin’ poetry! Jes’ think of that fur Uncle Jim!

    He writes about the stable an’ the haystack an’ the cows
    An’ comes as near profanity as the police allows.
    He jiggles an’ he joggles till he gets ‘round to a rhyme
    An’ don’t keer what he says, so long as he is keepin’ time!
    We used to think he’d mebbe be a man of useful mold,
    A blacksmith or a congressman or else a farm-hand bold.
    But now we think his chances for great things are mighty slim.
    He’s writin’ poems; an’ that’ll be ‘bout all from Uncle Jim.

  • The Refuge

    From The Tacoma Times, October 14, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Thank the Lord I have my work!—
        In the mighty world of toil
    I can share the weight and irk
        Of the labor and the moil;
    I’m a worker, not a drone;
    Sweat and weariness I’ve known,
    Through the goodly years I’ve been
    Toiling with my fellow men,
    Peddler, poet, boss and clerk—
    Thank the Lord I have my work!

    Thank the Lord I have my work
        Ever near to serve my turn,
    Refuge from the cares that lurk
        And the woes that sear and burn;
    Fate may wear her grimmest mask,
    Love be lost—I have my task;
    Life is hard?—I’ll see it through;
    There is work for me to do;
    Toil shall light the dreary murk;
    Thank the Lord I have my work!

  • Let the People Rule!

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 13, 1913. By Minna Irving.

    There was a man who yearned to be
        Right in the public eye,
    He dreamed at night about his name
        In letters six feet high.
    So first he went upon the stage
        And spouted tragic stuff,
    But only played to empty seats,
        And left it in a huff.

    A preacher next, he made the dust
        From pulpit-cushions soar,
    But quit because a greater man
        Had pounded them before.
    He lectured, but with scant success,
        And then he tried to write,
    But failure sat upon his pen,
        And nipped his genius bright.

    So having found that fame and gold
        For him refused to mix,
    For want of something else to try
        He entered politics.
    He took a phrase he used to scrawl
        In copy-books at school
    To be his slogan at the polls:
        ’Twas, “Let the People Rule.”

    He painted it on banners gay
        And flung them overhead,
    He thundered it in every speech,
        (The only thing he said.)
    Believing that he spoke the truth,
        The people, far and wide,
    As their deliverer greeted him,
        And rallied to his side.

    Behold him now, a demagogue
        In office waxing fat,
    The public at his door must wait
        His pleasure on the mat.
    And does he let the people rule,
        Or even have their say?
    You bet he never does, but lo!
        He lets the people pay.

  • The Young Photographer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 12, 1913.

    He mounts a piece of stovepipe to a soap box turned on end,
        And then to take a picture he will seriously pretend;
    His coat’s the cloth for focussing which covers up his head,
        And where he lacks a shutter there’s an old tin plate instead.

    He sets his little sister in a broken wicker chair,
        And chooses her position with the most excessive care;
    “Look pleasant, please,” he orders, then he fools with his “machine”
        And tells her that the picture will be the best yet seen.

    He photographs each blessed thing that he can get to sit,
        And plays at taking pictures till you think he’ll never quit;
    Each dog and cat within a mile has many times been done,
        And though he shows no pictures, still it doesn’t spoil his fun.

    But since he seems determined to become a photo-man,
        We will help his young ambition in whatever way we can.
    And so on his next birthday we will purchase for his sake
        A proper kind of camera that will real pictures take.

  • A Brave Example

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 11, 1913.

    “We’ll worry along, somehow,”
        He said when misfortunes came,
    And the courage that welled from his dauntless heart
        Fed hope’s undying flame.

    “We’ll worry along, somehow,”
        His face still wore a smile,
    Though the road that he traveled was strewn with thorns
        For many a weary mile.