Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Henrietta

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 22, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    Henrietta was a maiden with a pair of witching eyes
        And her voice was like the sweetest music man has ever heard.
    She had all the charms that nature in her gracious mood supplies—
        Henrietta was a beauty, as you doubtless have inferred.

    She possessed a gentle manner and a temper that was sweet,
        She was always doing something for the ones who needed aid;
    Scandal was a thing she never found it pleasing to repeat,
        From the path that leads to heaven Henrietta never strayed.

    She possessed no taste for ragtime and she ne’er indulged in slang,
        Henrietta was artistic from her fingers to her toes;
    Sweetest ecstasies were given to her hearers when she sang,
        She was free from affectation and was not inclined to pose.

    She respected age, believing that the old could be sublime,
        And instead of reading novels she dipped into classic lore;
    She could neatly darn a stocking or construct a witty rhyme,
        And she wasn’t always thinking of the pretty things she wore.

    Do not think and do not say that Henrietta was a myth,
        Do not say that one so perfect never on this earth was known;
    Henrietta lives and answers to the name of Mrs. Smith;
        I’ve described her as Smith saw her ere he claimed her for his own.

  • Tired Mothers

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 21, 1913. By Mary Riley Smith.

    A little elbow leans upon your knee,
        Your tired knee that has so much to bear.
    A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly
        From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
    Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
        Of warm moist fingers holding yours so tight;
    You do not prize this blessing over much,
        You are almost too tired to pray tonight.

    But it is blessedness! A year ago
        I did not see it as I do today—
    We are so dull and thankless, and so slow
        To catch the sunshine till it slips away;
    And now it seems surpassing strange to me
        That while I wore the badge of motherhood,
    I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
        The little child that brought me only good.

    And if some night, when you sit down to rest,
        You miss this elbow from your tired knee,
    This restless curly head from off your breast,
        This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
    If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped,
        And ne’er would nestle in your palm again;
    If the white feet into the grave had tripped,
        I could not blame you for your heartache then.

    I wonder so that mothers even fret
        At little children clinging to their gown,
    Or that footprints, when the days are wet,
        Are ever black enough to make them frown.
    If I could find a little muddy boot,
        Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor—
    If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
        And hear it patter in my home once more.

    If I could mend a broken cart today,
        Tomorrow make a kite to reach the sky—
    There is no woman in God’s world could say
        She was more blissfully content than I.
    But, ah, the dainty pillow next my own
        Is never rumpled by a shining head;
    My singing birdling from its nest has flown—
        The little boy I used to kiss is dead!

  • First One In

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 20, 1913.

    See the happy youngsters,
        Racing through the wood,
    For the old loved water
        Where the swimming’s good.

    Now they’re at the pool side,
        And with shout and jest
    Each strives in undressing
        To outdo the rest.

    Then white limbs a moment
        In the sunlight gleam,
    As a lithe young body
        Cleaves the glassy stream.

    Then a head emerges,
        And above the din
    Rings the cry of triumph,
        “I’m the first one in!”

  • Human Experience

    From The Washington Herald, July 19, 1913. By John A. Joyce.

    In the morning of life
    I was filled with ambition
    To roam o’er the world
        And see sights afar;
    But somehow in age
    I am prone to contrition
    At missing the splendors
        That shone in my star.

    Many friends came around me
    In moments of pleasure,
    Who drank at my banquet
        And laughed at my wit.
    Yet when they had found
    That I lost all my treasure
    They left me in sorrow
        And silence to sit.

    The voice of the crowd
    As it rung in my praises
    Awakened a joy
        I imagined would last.
    But, alas, my ambition
    Lies under the daisies
    And the wrecks of my glory
        Are strewn in the past!

  • Hot Weather Ease

    From The Detroit Times, July 18, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Oh, bother me not with duty
        And hector me not with work.
    No possible sum of booty
        Could make me do aught but shirk.
    The office can go to thunder
        And business can go to pot.
    I’m going to remain here under
        The shade of the porch—it’s hot!

    If Wall Street is in a flurry,
        If Washington’s in a muss,
    I murmur, “Well, I should worry.”
        I mutter, “Well, what’s the fuss.”
    For politics cannot stir me,
        I don’t give a hang for trade,
    And nothing on earth can spur me
        To move from my spot of shade.

    The toilers may all deride me,
        They say I’m a sloth, I know.
    But a tinkling pitcher’s beside me
        And the hammock is swinging slow.
    There’s no one on earth that has a
        More absolute sense of ease.
    Oh, it’s me for the cool piazza
        And the breath of the lazy breeze!

  • A Modest Man’s Ambition

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.

    I’d like to live on Easy Street for just a little while;
    I’d like to have a cushioned seat and daily cause to smile;
    I’d like to have the right to say to some pale-featured clerk:
    “I guess that I’ll play golf today, but you stay here and work.”
    It must be fine, it seems to me, to merely boss a job
    And have so much that one can be well hated by the mob.

    This thing of working day by day, without a chance to rest,
    While others put their tasks away and journey east and west,
    Sometimes becomes a kind of grind, devoid of any thrill;
    One’s muscles slacken and one’s mind becomes more flabby still;
    I wish that I, from toiling free, had riches that were vast,
    So that the mob might scowl at me when I rode proudly past.

    I should not wish to always loaf, without a single care;
    The idler is a useless oaf whose outlook is unfair,
    But, oh, I fancy ‘twould be good to have things fashioned so
    That if I wished to quit I could, and pack my things and go.
    And it would give me such delight to see them look with hate
    Who’ve never tried to earn the right to quit their present state.

    I am not yearning to have more than any man would need;
    I’d want a butler at my door, but I’m opposed to greed;
    I’d have an auto and a yacht and live in splendid style;
    To trouble I should give no thought, I’d wear a constant smile;
    I’d let my chest bulge out with pride, with pride my heart should throb,
    If I possessed so much that I’d be hated by the mob.

  • You Have to Find Out for Yourself

    From The Seattle Star, July 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Now Adam most probably knew
        Much more about life than his son,
    But I’ll warrant his son snorted, “Pooh,”
        When father told what should be done.

    Like many a boy who is bright,
        He said, “The Old Man’s on the Shelf.”
    Well—he learned that his father was right,
        But he had to find out for himself.

    And so it has gone down the years,
        The young ever doubting the old
    And suffering sorrow and tears
        Because they refuse to be told.

    Each girl—oh, you couldn’t tell her;
        Each boy was a wise little elf
    And so, as was bound to occur,
        He had to find out for himself.

    Through trouble and sorrow and pain
        We gather the little we know,
    And then when we try to explain
        Our children just laugh as they go.

    You laughed at the words of your dad
        (And you’ve paid both in worry and pelf)
    And you’ll get the same deal from your lad,
        For he has to find out for himself!

  • This Only

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 15, 1913.

    Bring me not wisdom,
        Though folly be vain;
    Bring me not riches,
        Though poverty’s pain;
    Bring me not splendor,
        Though rags may be vile;
    Bring me not glory,
        But teach me to smile.

    Give me not power,
        Though smallness be mean;
    Give me not grandeur,
        But make me serene;
    Bring me not homage,
        But leave me obscure,
    If mine be the courage
        To hope and endure.

  • Ambrosia

    From The Seattle Star, July 14, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    There’s many a viand that pleases my taste
    And adds to my joy and the girth of my waist.
    I’m fond of ice cream and of crackers and cheese
    And terrapin, too, with my palate agrees;
    Of food that is simple and food that is rare
    I find I can utilize all of my share,
    But wondrous, indeed, are the inroads I make
    On cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak!

    Ah, me! How I pity the mortal who dwells
    In big boarding houses or costly hotels.
    No matter how richly and grandly he dines,
    With French-fried dishes and notable wines,
    He never can know the delights of the deed
    Of raiding the icebox in search of a feed;
    He never can know what it is to partake
    Of cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.

    For when the fore part of the evening has sped
    And the stomach expresses a wish to be fed,
    To satisfy hunger that follows the play,
    I have no desire for the gaudy cafe;
    Ah, no! I would stick to my regular hunch
    And dig in the icebox in search of my lunch.
    At home, in the kitchen, my fast I would break
    With cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.

  • A Black Man’s Appeal

    From The Washington Herald, July 13, 1913. By Walter H. Brooks, D. D., pastor of the Nineteenth Street Baptist Church, Washington, DC.

     By a “Christian People” hated,
     By these “Christians” robbed, outraged.
 We are outcasts in the nation—
     Weeping, praying, not enraged.
 
 Christless “Christians,” O the pity!
     Men who glory in their might,
 Strong to crush the weaker peoples,
     Blind to every sense of right.
 
 With their lips this nation honors
     Christ as teacher, Savior, Lord;
 What a mockery in splendor
     While their deeds with hell accord.
 
 Have the shepherds all forgotten,
     “Vengeance to our God belongs?”
 Did he not requite this people
     For past centuries of wrongs?
 
 O ye statesmen, save your people;
     Stay the madness of their hate,
 Lest the God of vengeance, rising,
     Bring them to a direr fate.
 
 Let the other nations teach you.
     Spain has lost a Western world;
 Where her standard proudly floated,
     Not a flag is now unfurled.
 
 England, too, unjust and cruel,
     Lost what now you boast with pride,
 And your ships of war, majestic,
     Every sea and ocean ride.
 
 Are you stronger than the Romans
     Who made all the world their own?
 Where are now the mighty Caesars?
     Pomp, and power, and lands are gone.
 
 Yes, the pride of ancient nations
     One by one has passed away.
 O ye statesmen, patriots, hear me:
     Stay our country’s final day.
 
 Laugh? They laughed and scorned the prophets
     Who foretold the Pharaohs’ fall,
 Proud Philistia’s kings derided,
     Hebrew monarchs, Assyrians, all.
 
 But their kingdoms, empires perished;
     Ancient ruins mark their states.
 God of nations, rise, defend us
     From this people’s galling hate.
 
 Guard our names from grossest slanders,
     Forged by men who hate the race;
 All the wrongs we bear, remember,
     Lighten every heart and face.
 
 Then though men and living demons
     Burn, and kill, and rob, and lie,
 We will brook our lot and conquer,
     Filled with power from on high.