Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Losing Side

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 31, 1913. By Arthur Legge.

    Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield,
    Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field;
    And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air,
    With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair.
        Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sand
            In the track of a falling tide,
        On the ground where their cause has failed they stand,
            The last of the losing side.

    Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,
    Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth;
    And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed.
    The keenest blades are broken and the strongest arms have failed.
        But souls that know not the breath of shame,
            And tongues that have never lied,
        And the truest hearts and the fairest fame,
            Are here—on the losing side.

    The conqueror’s crown of glory is set with many a gem,
    But I join not in their triumph—there are plenty to shout for them;
    The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day,
    And the world’s best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.
        But dearer to me is the darkened plain,
            Where the noblest dreams have died,
        Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slain
            In the ranks of the losing side.

  • Labor Day

    From The Tacoma Times, August 30, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    It’s time to be finished with playing
        It’s time to pick up and go home
    We’re done with our loafing and straying
        On mountain top, meadow or foam;
    We’ve got to get back to our labor
        And mix with the workaday mob,
    The summer time’s over with, neighbor
        It’s time to get back to the job.

    This day is the last of our heyday
        It marks our last fling for the year,
    And now we’ll look forward to payday
        And know that the autumn time’s here;
    For Labor Day’s rightly named, neighbor,
        It signals Tom, Harry and Bob,
    That it’s time to go back to their labor
        It’s time to get back on the job!

    The season of loafing is over
        The season of languor is done
    We’ve got to quit lying in clover
        And get back to work on the run.
    And though we may question it, neighbor,
        And though we may blubber and sob,
    We’re pleased at the summons to labor,
        We’re glad to get back on the job!

  • The Fairest Spot

    From the Rock Island Argus, August 29, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    One who had traveled far and seen
        The lands that poets praise,
    Who knew the hills and plains of France
        And England’s flowery ways,
    Who through the old world and the new
        Had passed with wondering eyes,
    Stopped where a toiler stood, one day,
        And heard his pensive sighs.

    The scene that spread before them there
        Had naught to give delight;
    There were no lovely vales, no streams
        Nor snowy peaks in sight;
    Nor saw no ships with white sails spread,
        Nor gazed at fruitful plains;
    The fields were small and poor and bare,
        No flowers lined the lanes.

    He that had seen Yosemite
        And journeyed down the Rhine,
    Who had beheld the snow upon
        The tallest Apennine,
    Spoke of the wonders of the world;
        The other shook his head:
    “Here is the fairest scene of all
        The world contains,” he said.

    “But here,” the traveler exclaimed,
        “Is neither lofty height
    Nor ancient castle that may once
        Have housed a gallant knight;
    Here is no splendid waterfall,
        No rich plain spreads away—
    Yet here is laid the fairest scene
        In all the world, you say?”

    “Here is the fairest scene of all,”
        The simple one replied,
    And pointed to a cottage where
        Poor vines crawled up the side.
    “There are no castles here; the fields
        Are small and poor and bare,
    Yet here is earth’s most lovely spot—
        The one I love is there.”

  • To an Old Sweetheart

    From the Omaha Bee, August 28, 1913.

    We’ve loved many a beautiful lady,   
        Golden blonde and the regal brunette,
    Sweetest Phyllis with lashes so shady,
        And Zoe, the distracting soubrette.
    Pretty schoolgirls, small town girls and widows—
        With the latter, lovemaking’s an art—
    But you ask for a toast and I give you
        A toast to your first sweetheart.

    There was Sadie, whose lips were saucy,
        And Marie, whom you met at the beach,
    And the parasol girl, dearest Flossie,
        And Irene, always just out of reach;
    There were some who liked moonlight and dancing—
        What a madness a kiss could impart!
    But, ah, for that peppermint-scented
        First kiss from your baby sweetheart.

    It was long, long ago that you met her
        In the blur of the pink cherry trees,
    Yet, somehow, you cannot forget her—
        Little queen of the bramble-scratched knees;
    Sometimes now in your dreams and your fancies
        She comes stealing with red lips apart
    Down the long lane—o’er memory’s byways—
        Your true love—that baby sweetheart.

  • Prairie Love

    From The Sun, August 27, 1913. By Arthur Chapman.

    The sailor loves the craft he sails—
        He loves each bolt and spar;
    The horseman loves the steed that bears
        Him o’er the plains afar;
    But there is love surpassing all
        Writ in the sailor’s log;
    It is the love that dwells betwixt
        The sheepman and his dog.

    The love is born of lonely nights
        And days upon the plain,
    Of storms upon the mountain tops,
        Of toil in cold and rain;
    At even, in the fire glow,
        What comradeship so strong
    As that ‘twixt dog and shepherd when
        The night wind sings its song?

    The ranch lights twinkle o’er the ways
        Where many comrades tramped;
    They light the uplands, once so drear,
        Where dog and herder camped;
    But still that friendship must abide
        In newer fields afar,
    For love that’s born of lonely life
        Is deathless as a star.

  • Mud Pies

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 26, 1913. By Anna P. Bryant.

    Plums are pebbles, and you can mix
    Nice brown dirt and chopped-up sticks,
    Pat it down and set in the sun—
    When it gets hard your pie is done!

    Sand is frosting; sift it fine;
    Sprinkle thick till it gets a shine
    Just like mother’s—I guess that you
    Would have a piece if I asked you to.

    Mince and apple and custard thick!
    Haven’t I done my baking quick?
    Watch me, now, while I cut my pie—
    Whoever wants a piece say “I!”

  • The Tryst

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 25, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

    Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
    Lamps were all out, doors were shut in the town, and stars were hidden in clouds in the murky sky of August.
    Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?
    He woke up starting, and the rude light from the woman’s lamp struck his forgiving eyes.
    It was the dancing girl, drunk with the wine of her youth, starred with jewels and clouded with a pale blue mantle.
    She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.
    “Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman, “graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you.”
    The ascetic answered, “Go on your way, fair woman. When the time is ripe I will come and see you.”
    Suddenly, the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.
    The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

    ————————————————

    The new year had not begun yet.
    The wind was wild. The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossoms.
    Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.
    The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
    From the mid-sky smiled the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
    The young ascetic was walking in the lonely city road, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaints.
    Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.
    What woman was it lying on the earth in the shadow of the wall at his feet?
    Struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, she was driven away from the town with haste for fear of her fatal touch.
    The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.
    “Who are you, kind angel of mercy?” asked the woman.
    “The time, at last, has come for me to visit you, and I have come,” replied the young ascetic.

  • A Busy Little Man

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 24, 1913.

    Again he comes, on eager feet,
        His wagon at his heels;
    He pauses at my window seat
        And for my trade appeals.

    “What will you have?” I hear him ask
        In brisk, storekeeper voice;
    And I must lay aside my task
        And gravely make my choice.

    And he, as I each package name,
        As gravely hands it out;
    Then, with my note in pay for same,
        He hurries on his route.

    For cash, it seems, he little cares—
        He knows my word is good;
    And so I question not his wares
        As good housekeepers should.

    I fear the coffee that I buy
        Is pebbles, picked with care;
    I dare not in the sugar pry
        For only sand is there.

    My beefsteak is a sorry show—
        I think it must be bone;
    And for a loaf of bread I know
        He’s wrapped me up a stone.

    But bless his heart! I help him play
        In every way I can;
    And so he labors through the day
        A busy little man.

  • Beyond the Night

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 23, 1913. By Grantland Rice.

    The city lights are bright with flame where up and down the street
    The city’s gleam flares up the way for countless drifting feet;
    And yet, I often turn away, where through a window pane
    A dim, old-fashioned candle light shines down a country lane.

    The city has a thousand songs—a multitude to sing
    A thousand voices sweep the night where dim cathedrals ring;
    And yet I often turn away where all the morning through
    A mocking bird calls back to me across the silver dew.

    The city has a mighty voice—a siren voice that calls
    Where Fame is pleading night and day within her star-crowned walls;
    And yet I often turn away where in the fading light
    A waiting mother used to call her boy in from the night.

  • She Was a Phantom of Delight

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 22, 1913. By William Wordsworth.

    She was a phantom of delight
    When first she gleamed upon my sight;
    A lovely apparition sent
    To be a moment’s ornament;
    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
    Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair;
    But all things else about her drawn
    From May time and the cheerful dawn,
    A dancing shape, an image gay,
    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

    I saw her upon nearer view,
    A spirit, yet a woman too!
    Her household motions light and free,
    And steps of virgin liberty;
    A countenance in which did meet
    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
    A creature not too bright or good
    For human nature’s daily food;
    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

    And now I see with eye serene
    The very pulse of the machine;
    A being breathing thoughtful breath
    A traveler between life and death;
    The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
    A perfect woman, nobly planned
    To warn, to comfort, and command;
    And yet a spirit still and bright
    With something of angelic light.