From the Evening Star, July 2, 1913. By Philander Johnson. The person who always insists on the facts Met a troubadour singing his lay; His mood was not rude with intent to intrude As he caroled so light and so gay. And this was the song that came floating so free As he journeyed along without care: “Oh, the Nightingale Sweetly is Singing to Me As the Violets Perfume the Air.” Said the person who thinks in statistics and tracts, “I am sorry that I must arise And say that your lay is from truth far away. It fills me with grief and surprise. For the violet, when it is blossoming wild, No perfume possesses; that’s clear. And it’s proved by the data which I have compiled That we do not have nightingales here.” So, the person who strictest adherence exacts To the precepts by learning laid down Told the throng how the song was essentially wrong And should not be allowed in the town. We heard with respect and we thanked him full loud For the lesson he gave us that day— And then we forgot him and followed the crowd That danced to the troubadour’s lay.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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The Sage and the Troubadour
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He Never Smiled Again
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 1, 1913. By Felicia Hermans. The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England’s glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived—for life may long be borne Ere sorrow breaks its chain; Why comes not death to those that mourn? He never smiled again. There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave; But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him passed the young and fair, In pleasure’s reckless train; But seas dashed o’er his son’s bright hair— He never smiled again. He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing, He saw the tourney’s victor crowned Amidst the knightly ring; A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep— He never smiled again. Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace Of vows once fondly poured, And strangers took the kinsman’s place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears Were left to heaven’s bright rain, Fresh hopes were borne for other years. He never smiled again.
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The Disappointed
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 30, 1913. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. There are songs enough for the hero Who dwells on the heights of fame; I sing for the disappointed— For those who have missed their aim. I sing with a tearful cadence For one who stands in the dark, And knows that his last, best arrow Has bounded back from the mark. I sing for the breathless runner, The eager, anxious soul, Who falls with his strength exhausted Almost in sight of the goal. For the hearts that break in silence, With a sorrow all unknown, For those who need companions, Yet walk their ways alone. There are songs enough for the lovers Who share love’s tender pain; I sing for the one whose passion Is given all in vain. For those whose spirit comrades Have missed them on their way, I sing, with a heart o’erflowing, This minor strain today. And I know the Solar System Must somewhere keep in space A prize for that spent runner Who barely lost the race. For the plan would be imperfect Unless it held some sphere That paid for the toil and talent And love that are wasted here.
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Metamorphosis
From the Bisbee Daily Review, June 29, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. When statesmen go to Washington They are brimful of reform. They are for the common people And they rant and rave and storm. Diagnosing the conditions They set forth the people’s ills, And they load the good old hopper With their remedial bills. For two weeks in January They kick up an awful dust, And they blow until you’re fearful That they’re really going to bust. Then they quiet down serenely And no longer tear their hair. And the folks in February Wonder if they are still there. Then the statesmen are forgotten Till, along in June we learn That the legislative body Is getting ready to adjourn. It is easy to make speeches And of grave reforms to shout, But it’s somewhat different when it Comes to carryin’ ‘em out. Promises are stock in trade with Statesmen who are seeking fame, But old Ultimate Consumer Keeps on digging just the same.
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In Spite of Fate
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. A little boy sat on an old rail fence And gazed at a drooping limb; And a sinful yearning that was intense Kept steadily urging him. His little red features were covered with dirt And his little brown legs were scratched; There were numerous rents in his little checked shirt, And his little blue pants were patched. From one little toe the nail had been torn And one little heel was sore; A child apparently more forlorn I had never beheld before. At last he stood on the topmost rail And reached for that drooping limb; I almost uttered a hopeless wail— I felt so sorry for him. Hand over hand he pulled it down— The limb with the droop, I mean; His face was red and his legs were brown And the apples were small and green. He sat on the rail and he ate and ate; I counted them—there were four; Then, foolishly, recklessly challenging fate, He reached for a couple more. Sadly I turned to pursue my way And sadly I said, “Good-by.” Alas for what I have seen this day, ’Tis sad that the young must die. “You have had your way and you’ve had your will; Your bed will be dark and deep; A week from now upon yonder hill You will lie in a dreamless sleep.” A week had passed and again I chanced To pause ‘neath that fateful tree; With sad remembrance I turned and glanced— A thrill was in store for me. For there on the old rail fence he sat, Eating with calm delight, And, having finished he filled his hat And then sauntered out of sight.
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Father’s Lullaby
From the Evening Star, June 27, 1913. By Walt Mason.
Hush my child, cut out the yelling! It will do no good, by durn; for I fear there is no telling when your mother will return. Father’s here to rock the cradle and to sing a dulcet note; father’s here, sweet child, to ladle paregoric down your throat. In your couch of wood and wattle, take your rest, my little sweet, drinking cow’s milk from a bottle, while your mother, on the street, tells about the Women’s Battle for their Sacred Rights, by jing; here’s your little wooden rattle, here’s your silver teething ring. Ah, this imitation nursing brings to baby’s face a frown, while your mother’s nobly cursing laws that keep the women down. Milk from can and milk from bottle, and the milk the druggists make, seem to paralyze your throttle and to make your tummy ache; but, my child, your mother’s doing work too long undone, alas! She is storming round and shooing poor male critters off the grass. With her woman suffrage rabies she is frothing at the snoot, and she can’t take care of babies—that’s for dad, the poor galoot. So, my dear, be bright and chipper; sing and smile as fine as silk; father’s here to poor a dipper of the predigested milk.
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The Owld Names
From The Washington Times, June 26, 1913. By Eugene Geary. The good owld names are dyin’ out We called our children dear; No wonder that we’re talked about— It’s worser every year. We used to have the names iv saints An’ marthyrs at our call; To mention them now brings complaints— Och, that’s the worst iv all! There’s Pat an’ Bridget Finnegan, Who called their daughter Maude, An’ may I never sin again, Their youngest b’y is Claude. An’ when me next-dure neighbor’s wife Prisints a young gossoon, He’s doomed to travel all thro’ life As Percy George McCune. Besides, there’s Pether Rafferty, Who hates the owld green sod, Tho’ tisn’t many years since he Was carryin’ the hod. He an’ his wife—‘twould make ye wild— Announce, wid pride an’ glee, The marriage of their only child, Miss Genevieve Maree. The names iv grand owld Irish Kings We’ll never hear them more; Instead they have new-fangled things— Begob, it makes me sore. The hayroes, saints an’ marthyrs, too, No longer have the call. Our race will soon be lost to view— Sure, that’s the worst iv all.
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Homesick — for the Home and the Girl
From The Tacoma Times, June 25, 1913. By Berton Braley. I’m just a bit tired of the city; It’s lost quite a lot of its thrill; I’m sick of the pavements, all gritty, The racket that never is still. I’m weary of plunder and pillage And all of the hurry and whirl. I want to go back to the village And sit on the porch with a Girl. I want to hear picket gates clicking As the young men come over to call, And the deep and monotonous ticking Of the grandfather clock in the hall, To harken to the laughter and singing That comes on the breezes awhirl And the creak of the hammocks all swinging And me on the porch with a Girl! And the leaves would be whispering lowly, And the flowers would perfume the air, And the night would grow quieter slowly, And—gee, but I wish I was there; I s’pose I’d get nothing but blame from The folks in the city’s mad swirl, But I want to go back where I came from And sit on the porch with a Girl!
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Little Words
From the Evening Star, June 24, 1913. By Walt Mason.
A little word is but a sound, a sawed-off chunk of wind; we scatter little words around from here to farthest Ind. They are such inexpensive things we don’t economize, and so the world we live in rings with foolish words and wise. A little word costs just a breath, the shortest breath you drew; yet it may wound some heart to death—some heart that’s good and true. And it may wreck some man’s renown, or stain a woman’s fame, and bring bright castles tumbling down into the muck of shame. Your little words, like poisoned darts, may crooked fly, or straight, and carry into loving hearts the venom of dire hate. Be not so lavish with the breath that forms the words of woe, the words that bear the chill of death and lay true friendships low. A word is but a slice of air that’s fashioned by your tongue; so never let it bring despair or grief to old or young. But give to it the note of love and it will surely seem the symbol of the life above, and of an angel’s dream.
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An Optimist
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 23, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. “I cannot answer yes,” quoth she, As I knelt down to sue; “One heart is not enough, you see, For all who come to woo.” “Alas!” I cried, “my fate is rough!” Then flashed a thought profound: “Still - though you have not hearts enough - I’ve arms to go around!”