Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Self Important Man

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 1, 1913.

    A young man who wore flaming ties
        Was loudly heard to say
    He’d like to take a little rest,
        But could not get away.

    It seems he thought the busy firm
        For which he was a clerk
    Would only last the briefest time
        If he should stop from work.

    And yet, if ever he got fired
        Some morning by the boss,
    The people he says need him so
        Would scarcely feel his loss.

    The world is full of men like that
        Whose self-inflation’s such
    They think this world without their aid
        Would not amount to much.

  • The Prime Need

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

    She tried this thing and then tried that
        To keep from growing frightful;
    She thought when she was like a slat
        That plumpness was delightful;
    But, having lost her slenderness,
        She starved herself and banted;
    Each added pound brought new distress,
        And dismally she panted.

    She tried to fight the wrinkles back
        By using many lotions;
    She sighed, “Alas!” and sobbed, “Alack!”
        And harbored sad emotions;
    Her eyes, once beautiful, no more
        Were filled with fine expression;
    She lost the smile that years before
        Had been her choice possession.

    She tried in many, many ways
        To keep from growing frightful;
    Of all things that she valued, praise
        Was always most delightful;
    She mourned the hardness of her lot,
        Her eyes were often tearful—
    And all because she’d just forgot
        The need of keeping cheerful.

  • A Woman’s Love

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 30, 1913. By John Hay.

    A sentinel angel sitting high in glory
    Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
    “Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story:

    “I loved—and, blind with passionate love, I fell;
    Love brought me down to death, and death to hell,
    For God is just, and death for sin is well.

    “I do not rage against his high decree,
    Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;
    But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

    “Great Spirit! Let me see my love again,
    And comfort him one hour, and I were fain
    To pay a thousand years of fire and pain.”

    Then said the pitying angel, “Nay, repent
    That wild vow! Look, the dial finger’s bent
    Down to the last hour of thy punishment!”

    But still she wailed, “I pray thee, let me go!
    I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.
    Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!”

    The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,
    And upward, joyous, like a rising star,
    She rose and vanished in the ether far.

    But soon down the dying sunset sailing,
    And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
    She fluttered back, with broken hearted wailing.

    She sobbed, “I found him by the summer sea
    Reclined, his head upon a maiden’s knee—
    She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!”

    She wept, “Now let my punishment begin.
    I have been fond and foolish. Let me in
    To expiate my sorrow and my sin.”

    The angel answered, “Nay, sad soul, go higher!
    To be deceived in your true heart’s desire
    Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire.”

  • Ambition

    From The Topeka State Journal, July 29, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Let others work and lose their health
    In piling up the sordid wealth,
        But that is not my wish.
    Let others burn the midnight oils,
    Devising ways of grabbing spoils;
        I’d rather sit and fish.

    Let others solve the problems great,
    Affecting the affairs of state;
        None of that on my dish.
    Let others hew the nation’s path
    And bear the thankless public’s wrath,
        I’d rather sit and fish.

    Let others lead the strenuous life
    That’s full of worry, toil and strife,
        But that’s not my ambish.
    Let others wear their lives away
    By living five years every day;
        I’d rather sit and fish.

  • Summer Fiction

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 28, 1913. By Arthur Chapman.

    Ere Jones went on his prized vacation
        He said, “I’ll need some books to read;
    ’Twill add unto my recreation
        If I can scan a fiction screed.”
    So to the phone soon Jones was turning,
        And to the book store sent a call;
    “For fiction,” quoth Jones, “I am yearning,
        So send the new books—send them all.”

    And so, next morn, ere Jones was leaving,
        Two moving vans stopped at his door;
    The driver asked, “Shall we be heaving
        These books upon the lawn or floor?
    There’s seven more loads on the way, sir—
        Three motorcycle loads beside;
    The fiction crop this year they say, sir,
        Is heavy—that can’t be denied.”

    And Jones rushed out and saw them carting
        Love tales and “crook” yarns by the ton;
    “Oh, what,” he cried with optics starting,
        “Is this mad thing that I have done?”
    And straightaway in a heap he tumbled—
        The ambulance took him away—
    But still the fiction order rumbled
        Up to the Jones front door all day.

  • We Kissed Again

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 27, 1913. By Tennyson.

    As thro’ the land at eve we went,
        And plucked the ripened ears,
    We fell out, my wife and I,
    We fell out, I know not why,
        And kissed again with tears.

    And blessings on the falling out
        That all the more endears,
    When we fall out with those we love,
        And kiss again with tears!

    For when we came where lies the child
        We lost in other years,
    There above the little grave,
    O there above the little grave,
        We kissed again with tears.

  • Tangled Lives

    From the Evening Star, July 26, 1913. By Philander Johnson.

    Oh, Bull’s-Eye Bill was a burglar bold
        Who never did what he was told.
    He smoked and chewed and swore and drank
        And his greatest pleasure was to rob a bank.

    Miss Susan Slosh was a suffragette,
        A militant of the ultra set.
    She’d burn a castle or she’d wreck a train
        Or heave brick-bats through a window pane.

    When Bull’s-Eye Bill and Susan wed
        ’Twas a very fine match, the neighbors said.
    But Bill got blue ‘cause his wife would roam.
        She’d rather go to prison than remain at home.

    The tears would course down his cheeks so pale
        As he begged her to please come out on bail.
    “A jail’s all right for a man,” says he,
        “But it ain’t no place for a woman to be.”

    So they disagreed an’ their ways they went.
        She gets locked up to her heart’s content.
    And Bill gets to cussin’ now and then
        ‘Bout women usurpin’ the sphere of men.

  • The Reward

    From the South Bend News Times, July 25, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    He passed Love up for money and got the cash he sought,
    For gold he gave up Friendship—which can’t be sold or bought,
    He bade good-bye to pleasure, he said farewell to fun,
    He only wanted cash in hand—and cash was what he won.

    He had no heart for laughter, no time to dream or dance,
    Adventure had no charms for him, he scoffed at fair Romance,
    The Joy of Living called to him, but ah, he wouldn’t hear,
    What did he care if grass were green and skies were blue and clear?

    He knew that profits mounted up, that interest was high,
    But gold of dawn or sunset seemed worthless to his eye,
    For all the fun and frolic, the sorrow or the pain,
    The wonder of the busy world, its struggle, stress and strain,
    Were nothing much but noise to him, and so he toiled along
    And never knew the face of joy or listened to her song.

    For all his greed of heart and hand, his trail of wrong and fraud,
    What punishment shall come to him whose money was his god?
    Behold, he hath his punishment and more he needeth not.
    He gave his very soul for Gold—and Gold is All he got!

  • Hot Weather

    From The Washington Herald, July 24, 1913.

    I pick the paper up and see
        That matters are acute.
    It’s 98 at Kankakee,
        And 99 at Butte.

    It’s torrid up at Devil’s Lake;
        Hot in Quebec, we learn.
    The cities fairly seem to bake
        Wherever we may turn.

    I pick the paper up and see
        From Oshkosh to Fort Worth,
    That forty cities claim to be
        The hottest upon earth.

  • The Journey Home

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 23, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    He left the little old town, one day,
        To pursue success and to win renown;
    The seasons passed in too dull a way
        To give him joy in the little old town;
    In the little old town the streets were wide
        And the buildings low and pleasures cheap,
    And he pitied those who were satisfied
        To stay where the people were half asleep.

    He left the little old town to win
        The large rewards that to worth belong,
    To add to the city’s unceasing din,
        To try his powers among the strong.
    And he proudly thought, as he turned to gaze
        At the little old town in its peacefulness
    Of a distant glorious day of days
        When he would return, having claimed success.

    He thought of the villagers dozing there,
        Deaf to Ambition’s persuasive call,
    Content, because they were free from care,
        To claim rewards that were few and small.
    And he thought of a girl whose eyes were wet
        When, wishing him well, she said goodbye,
    But he hurried away, to soon forget
        Where the roar was loud and the walls were high.

    And often he thought in his lonely nook,
        When his muscles ached and his heart was sad,
    Of the little old town with its sleepy look,
        Where the streets were wide and the children glad,
    And often he thought of the peace out there,
        And often he wondered if, after all,
    The people were wasting the seasons where
        The days were long and the rewards were small.

    He had thought of a glorious day of days
        When he would return to the little old town
    And listen to those who would give him praise
        For his proud success and his wide renown,
    And tomorrow he will be traveling back,
        No more to care and no more to sigh
    For the glory the little old town may lack—
        To lie and rest where his parents lie.