Newspaper History

Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Keys

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 25, 1915. By Bessie Chandler.

    Long ago in old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
    Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key;
    Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
    Should return from their long exile to their homes so far away.

    But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
    Vanished, as the years rolled onward, ‘neath the crumbling touch of time.

    Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
    And through all life’s changing phases ever fast we hold the key;
    Our fair country lies behind us, we are exiles, too, in truth,
    For no more shall we behold her—our Granada’s name is Youth.

    We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when now and then
    Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.
    “We are young!” we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee;
    Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key.

  • The Tenderfeet

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 24, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.

    From old New York we journeyed westward—
        ’Twas something like two weeks ago—
    We both were armed with six-foot tickets
        Which read for Sheridan, Wyo.;
    When we arrived we bought sombreros
        And I donned cowboy boots, well greased,
    Yet people say, whene’er they meet us:
        “We see you folks are from the east.”

    We thought a few more things were needed
        To make us fit the western scene,
    So chaps and spurs I quickly purchased—
        Likewise a shirt of vivid green;
    My wife is dressed like Annie Oakley—
        She looks a movie queen at least—
    Yet people say, whene’er they greet us:
        “We see you’re just here from the east.”

    We’ve loaded up with deadly weapons,
        We’ve raised our boot heels one inch more;
    We’re wearing hatbands made of snakeskin,
        We’ve read up on wild western lore;
    We talk of trappers, scouts and cowboys;
        Each rides a livery stable beast;
    But still we hear that hated greeting:
        “We see you’re not long from the east.”

  • Gaining by Giving

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 23, 1915.

    You who’re healthy, you who’re wealthy, you are lucky, I’ll agree,
    But I wonder if you’re happy as you’d really like to be.
    Nay, I know, if you are selfish, with a selfish aim and end,
    You’re less happy than the beggar who is sharing with a friend.

    All the money you have hidden on your little, private shelf
    Will procure you little joy, if it’s only for yourself.
    For the moral law is written on each real, human heart
    That our happiness is measured by the shared—not hoarded part.

    Joy’s strange, and though we seek it, yet we seldom understand
    Why it smilingly eludes us as we grasp with selfish hand.
    But we’re yet to learn, most of us, that it is as God intends—
    That our joy grows the greater as we give it to our friends.

    For, as sure as you are living, and as sure as you will die,
    Joy never was intended on some hidden shelf to lie.
    And you’ll never know the joy that is lasting, deep and true
    ‘Till you’ve shared, in love with others, that which God has given you.

  • War

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 22, 1915.

    War is hell, no matter what
    The fire within that makes it hot!
    Masters, by their devious ways
    Light the red, destructive blaze!
    Talk of God and righteousness;
    What are they in this distress?
    Talk about a soldier’s fame;
    Talk about the glory game;
    Tell us it is good to die
    That a flag may float on high;
    Tell us lofty sentiments
    Grow from blood and pestilence;
    Tell us corpses, strewn around
    Change the soil to hallowed ground;
    Tell us burning houses light
    Straying patriots toward the right;
    Tell us there is cause for cheers
    In the women’s bitter tears;
    Tell us starving children wail
    Only when their armies fail;
    Tell us how great victories bless
    The widows and the fatherless;
    Tell us that the men who died
    Are the country’s joy and pride;
    Tell us—
    What you please to tell
    The simple truth is
    War is hell!

  • The Home Team

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 21, 1915.

    I hate to see the home team lose;
    A contest dropped gives me blues;
    But when they win—they sometimes do!
    I go home happy, same as you.

    Yet, after all, why should I care
    Because nine men from everywhere—
    Except the town in which I live—
    Have acted as a human sieve
    Through which the red-hot ones have poured
    Like water through a leaky gourd?

    And why should I bemoan the fact
    That nine strong men have whacked and whacked
    The summer air in vain desire
    To make a showing for their hire?
    Nine men I scarcely know by sight
    And might not recognize tonight.

    Why mourn because some other town
    Has scoured the earth and found one Brown
    Who throws a zigzag ball that jolts
    Like lubricated thunderbolts,
    While our man’s curves drift o’er the plate
    In manner tempting unto fate?

    Yea, verily, why should I fret?
    ’Tis naught to me, and yet—and yet
    If you’d but seen the awful way
    In which our team behaved today!

  • Better Than Much Learning

    From the Richmond Times-Dispatch, May 20, 1915.

    Pretty little Polly lacks
        The intellectual bent—
    In fact, for culture and the like
        She wouldn’t give a cent.
    And at the highbrow festivals
        She wonders what is meant.

    But pretty Polly dances like
        A dainty woodland sprite,
    And e’en to watch her elfish grace
        Is pure unmixed delight.
    And Polly’s lips are scarlet buds,
        Her neck is milky white.

    What does little Polly care
        That no one thinks her wise?
    Why, wisdom doesn’t stand a chance
        When she employs her eyes,
    And each discerning man in sight
        To do her bidding flies.

  • A Confederate Veteran’s Dream

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 19, 1915. By Lance Hendrix.

    He marches away in his slumbers,
        With a gay, romantic heart,
    And thinks of the coming battles
        In which he will soon take part.
    He thinks of a mother he’s leaving,
        And a sister so bonny and gay,
    But his thoughts are most of another,
        His beautiful, dark-eyed May.

    Again he’s with Lee in Virginia,
        Where the Rappahannock flows,
    And forming in line of battle
        To fight the northern foes.
    His heart is again rent with passion,
        His mind is fiery with hate;
    He rushes into the battle,
        Leaving his safety to fate.

    He sees the flag of the southland
        Flaunt proudly in the breeze,
    And hears the shouts of the soldiers
        Ringing in all the trees.
    He sees the opposing enemy
        Retire from the field in defeat,
    And a thrill runs through his body
        From his head to the sole of his feet.

    The scene is removed in a moment
        To another battle field,
    Where the fight has raged for hours,
        And neither side will yield.
    Again the vision takes him
        To a field that’s farther away,
    Where the men in blue are victorious,
        And slowly retreat the gray.

    Very true and vivid
        Do all those battles seem.
    But, alas! he wakes to find
        That he’s only had a dream.
    A little maid before him,
        Her head a mass of gold,
    Whispers softly, “Grandfather dear,
        Your tea is getting cold.”

  • The Violet

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 18, 1915. By Jane Taylor.

    Down in a green and shady bed
        A modest violet grew;
    Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
        As if to hide from view.

    And yet it was a lovely flower,
        Its colors bright and fair;
    It might have graced a rosy bower,
        Instead of hiding there.

    Yet there it was content to bloom,
        In modest tints arrayed;
    And there it spreads its sweet perfume
        Within the silent shade.

    Then let me to the valley go,
        This pretty flower to see;
    That I may also learn to grow
        In sweet humility.

  • Dreams

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 17, 1915. By Rosamond L. McNaught.

    A humble woman stands at her tubs
        The whole of a summer day;
    With splashes and shakes, and wrings and rubs,
        She washes and washes away.
    And think you the duty an ugly thing?
        A stupid grind it seems,
    And the worker does not smile or sing
        But—over the tubs she dreams her dreams.

    Above her sewing a woman bends,
        And cuts and bastes and fits;
    And over mistakes that she sometimes mends
        Perplexed brow she knits.
    Then at her machine, past the set of sun,
        She stitches the long, long seams;
    And though her task is a homely one,
        ’Tis illumed with the flame of a woman’s dreams.

    With a “rock-a-by-by” a woman swings
        Her babe in a rocking chair;
    And she lays her hand, while she sings
        On the darling’s silken hair.
    Both maid and nurse, she is tired to death,
        But her face with glory beams!
    For, quickened by balm of the babe’s soft breath,
        She strings in the dusk a chaplet of dreams.

  • The Dog

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, May 16, 1915.

    I’ve never known a dog to wag
        His tail in glee he didn’t feel,
    Nor quit his old-time friend to tag
        At some more influential heel.
    The yellowest cur I ever knew
    Was to the boy who loved him true.

    I’ve never known a dog to show
        Half-way devotion to his friend,
    To seek a kinder man to know
        Or richer, but unto the end
    The humblest dog I ever knew
    Was, to the man that loved him, true.

    I’ve never known a dog to fake
        Affection for a present gain,
    A false display of love to make,
        Some little favor to attain.
    I’ve never known a Prince or Spot
    That seemed to be what he was not.

    But I have known a dog to fight
        With all his strength to shield a friend
    And, whether wrong or whether right,
        To stick with him until the end.
    And I have known a dog to lick
    The hand of him that men would kick.

    And I have known a dog to bear
        Starvation’s pangs from day to day
    With him who had been glad to share
        His bread and meat along the way.
    No dog, however mean or rude,
    Is guilty of ingratitude.

    The dog is listed with the dumb,
        No voice has he to speak his creed,
    His messages to humans come
        By faithful conduct and by deed.
    He shows, as seldom mortals do,
    A high ideal of being true.