Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Just to Be a Boy Again

    From the Rock Island Argus, June 2, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     “Just to be a child again,” sighed the millionaire,
     “Knowing not what woe exists, free from every care;
     Just to be a child again, filled with boyish glee,
     Free from all the ills I bear and from sorrows free.”
     
     ‘Round the corner lay a boy, fretting in his bed.
     “Gee, I wisht I was a man,” dismally he said.
     “Every season seems to bring some disease, somehow.
     Had the scarlet fever last - got the measles now.
     
     “Yes, I’ve had the chicken-pox and the jaundice, too;
     ‘Spose I’ll have the mumps the next - always something new;
     When you’re sick there ain’t no fun, ‘cause you feel so bad;
     When you’re well you go to school - gee, but life is sad!”
     
     “Just to be a boy,” the man murmured with a sigh,
     “Free to frolic as I pleased, all things yet to try;
     Ah, how small men’s triumphs are, what a price we pay
     For the little that we get as we scheme away.”
  • An Alabama Garden

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 1, 1913.
     
    
     Along a pine-clad hill it lies,
     O’erlooked by limpid southern skies,
     A spot to feast a fairy’s eyes,
     A nook for happy fancies.
     The wild bee’s mellow monotone
     Here blends with bird notes zephyr-blown,
     And many an insect voice unknown
     The harmony enhances.
     
     The rose’s shattered splendor flees
     With lavish grace on every breeze,
     And lilies sway with flexile ease
     Like dryads snowy-breasted;
     And where gardenias drowse between
     Rich curving leaves of glossy green,
     The cricket strikes his tambourine,
     Amid the mosses nested.
     
     Here dawn-flushed myrtles interlace,
     And sifted sunbeams shyly trace
     Frail arabesques whose shifting grace
     Is wrought of shade and shimmer;
     At eventide scents quaint and rare
     Go straying through my garden fair,
     As if they sought with wildered air
     The fireflies’ fitful glimmer.
     
     Oh, could some painter’s facile brush
     On canvas limn my garden’s blush,
     The fevered world its din would hush
     To crown the high endeavor;
     Or could a poet snare in rhyme
     The breathings of this balmy clime,
     His fame might dare the dart of Time
     And soar undimmed forever!
  • An Epidemic

    From The Topeka State Journal, May 31, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     The office boy’s grandmother dies
         At least three times a week;
     The bookkeeper develops ills
         Of which he’s apt to speak.
     
     The ribbon clerk abruptly jumps
         His job at 3 p. m.
     He says his kids have got the mumps
         And he must go to them.
     
     The boss does not feel well himself,
         And thinks he needs fresh air;
     He goes out to the baseball park
         And finds his help all there.
  • Poor Young Man

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 30, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     Ah, poor young man! He has no chance to show his worth;
     No undiscovered continents are left on earth;
     Columbus, had it been his fate to live today
     Might serve beneath some section boss for little pay.
     
     Oh, poor young man! He cannot use his gifts, alack!
     No Austerlitz remains to lose, no Rome to sack.
     The past has both Thermopylae and Waterloo—
     What is there that the poor young man may hope to do?
     
     Newton, Galileo, Morse, have lived and wrought;
     Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and Burns and Scott!
     Ah, if they had not written all there was to write
     He might take up his pen and give the world delight.
     
     Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt—how with paint and brush
     May be expected to be supreme? Huge vessels rush
     From hemisphere to hemisphere, the winds defying
     Because a Fulton had a plan he thought worth trying.
     
     Oh, poor young man! He sits downcast, no chance remains
     For him to nobly free a race from galling chains.
     The great things have been done, alas! By craft or stealth
     The magnates have become possessed of all the wealth.
     
     The world has ceased to need men who were born to lead;
     He may not join the splendid few. ’Tis sad indeed!
     He came too late to win renown or claim applause;
     He has no chance to be supreme in any cause.
     
     Ah, poor young man! How sad his fate, how drear his lot.
     To have no hope of being great!—And yet, why not?
     At Homer many, many a man stuck out his tongue
     And told him that the greatest songs had all been sung.
  • The Tender Passion

    From The Washington Times, May 29, 1913.
     By Eugene Geary.
     
    
     Pat Clancy’s in love! He’s a sight to behold;
         An’ his life—he wants some wan to fill it.
     Instead o’ being crowded wid blessin’s untold,
         ’Tis as empty an’ dry as a skillet.
     A short while ago he was gay as a lark,
         An’ the boss was his wages advancin’;
     Till he strolled of a Sunday to see Celtic Park
         An’ join in the games an’ the dancin’.
     ’Twas when he took part in an eight-handed reel
         And danced, as they all tell me, so splendid,
     His head remained clear, not to mention his heel,
         But his heart was clean gone when ’twas ended.
     A pair o’ blue eyes was Pat Clancy’s downfall;
         ’Tis a sorrowful mortal they’ve made him.
     He’s cut all his friends an’ relations an’ all,
         An’ he won’t take a drink if you paid him.
     The boss of his gang, from the town o’ Kanturk
         Don’t know what to make out o’ Clancy;
     Says the divil himself couldn’t keep him to work
         Wid sighin’ for the girl of his fancy.
     An’ ’tis all for a purty young colleen from Clare—
         She hails from the border of Ennis.
     Well, if that’s what’s called love, for my part I declare
         Sure I’d rather have spinal magennis.
  • Happy Days for Pa

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 28, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     Pa is feeling rather chipper; every day he wears a smile
     Though he has no public office and keeps working all the while;
     They have not increased his wages, and they never will, I guess,
     But his look is always cheerful and he’s full of hopefulness.
     
     His overcoat is seedy and his pants bag at the knees;
     We are not among the people who can travel overseas;
     The price of living’s higher than it ought to be, ’tis true,
     But pa’s clinging to his courage and he takes a hopeful view.
     
     The folks next door have lately had to cut expenses down;
     It seems they’ve been unlucky—it’s the talk all over town;
     They have sold their new electric—ma pretends it was too bad—
     So it seems pa needn’t buy one, and it makes him mighty glad.
  • Hot Air

    From the Evening Star, May 27, 1913.
    By Walt Mason.

    The man who deals in rainbows has come to town by stealth, to catch the village vain beaux with tales of sudden wealth. I hear his gorgeous ravings, his winter dreams and sich: “Bring me,” he says, “your savings, and I will make you rich; I’ve coal mines in Nebraska (where coal does not exist), and peach groves in Alaska (no peaches there, I wist); the nectarine and prune shine on trees I have for sale, and I can sell you moonshine, so hand me out your kale.” The easy marks are digging their kopecks from the jar, for hot air, never twigging what easy marks they are. They hope to rake in riches and never pay the price; a sucker always itches to be a sacrifice. I sidestep such disasters as these men have in view; to my hard-earned piasters I stick like patent glue. I cannot be enchanted by any hot air crank; my coin is safely planted down in the village bank. I buy no dazzling ophirs a million miles away, no Belgian hares or gophers in Persia or Cathay. No fish in the Nyanzas, no ice plants up in Nome; no ginseng farms in Kansas, no silk works far from home. I save my clammy rubles till there’s a seemly pile, and sidestep lots of troubles, and dance and sing and smile.

  • Alexander Selkirk

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 26, 1913.
    By William Cowper.

    Alexander Selkirk, the Scottish sailor, was the prototype of the marooned traveler in Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe (1719).

    I am a monarch of all I survey,
         My right there is none to dispute.
     From the center all round to the sea
         I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
     O Solitude, where are the charms
         That sages have seen in thy face?
     Better dwell in the midst of alarms
         Than reign in this horrible place.
     
     I am out of humanity’s reach;
         I must finish my journey alone;
     Never hear the sweet music of speech—
         I start at the sound of my own.
     The beasts that roam over the plain
         My form with indifference see;
     They are so unacquainted with men,
         Their tameness is shocking to me.
     
     Society, friendship, and love
         Divinely bestowed upon man,
     O had I the wings of a dove,
         How soon would I taste you again!
     My sorrows I then might assuage
         In the ways of religion and truth;
     Might learn from the wisdom of age
         And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
     
     Religion! what treasure untold
         Resides in that heavenly word!
     More precious than silver and gold,
         Or all that this earth can afford,
     But the sound of the church-going bell
         These valleys and rocks never heard—
     Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
         Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
     
     Ye winds that have made me your sport,
         Convey to this desolate shore
     Some cordial, endearing report
         Of a land I shall visit no more.
     My friends, do they now and then send
         A wish or a thought after me?
     O tell me I yet have a friend,
         Though a friend I am never to see.
     
     How fleet is the glance of a mind!
         Compared with the speed of its flight,
     The tempest itself lags behind;
         And the swift-winged arrows of light,
     When I think of my own native land,
         In a moment I seem to be there
     But, alas! recollection at hand
         Soon hurries me back to despair.
     
     But the sea fowl is gone to her nest;
         The beast is laid down in his lair;
     Even here is a season of rest,
         And I to my cabin repair.
     There’s mercy in every place;
         And mercy, encouraging thought
     Gives even affliction a grace,
         And reconciles man to his lot.
  • Gentlemen of the Road

    From the New York Tribune, May 25, 1913.
    (An Oxford don declares that walking is the form of exercise most often associated with high intelligence.)

    If I might leave my dull abode
         And all the strife and cares of town,
     And, light of heart, essay the road
         That leads by wood and open down,
     Then, as I spread those pinions wide
         That bear me through the realms of song,
     My soul would surely soar and glide
         The while my body jogged along.
     
     The lofty mind can ne’er abide
         In hooting car or roaring train;
     Only the rhythmic swinging stride
         Can vivify the sluggish brain.
     Come forth, O muse! and let us fare
         By vale and hill through scented ways
     To fill our lungs with scented air
         And witch the world with wondrous lays!
     
     And as I speed on winged feet
         Thrumming the while my gentle lyre,
     A glorious band I there shall meet
         In unconventional attire,
     Unrazored men with shaggy hair
         Whose faces show a healthy tan;
     Not tramps, indeed, as some declare
         But dons of Oxford to a man!
  • Still With Us

    From the Evening Star, May 24, 1913.
     By Philander Johnson.
     
    
         Oh, the dear old funny story
         Still appearing in its glory—
     What a train of memories it will invite!
         It will bring fond recollections
         Of the humorous reflections
     That the lecturers would stand up and recite.
         Each comedian rehearsed it
         After-dinner speakers nursed it
     We would hear it set to music light and gay.
         Even leaders of the nation
         As a means of illustration
     In their speeches kept it going on its way.
     
         Ivy climbs upon the steeple
         And the faces of the people
     Are wrinkling and their hair is turning gray;
         And the landmarks of each city
         Slowly crumble—more’s the pity—
     Till improvements come and sweep them all away.
         But that good old comic whimsy
         Though it seemed so wan and flimsy
     Still provides a glint of fiction or of truth.
         It’s a wondrous demonstration
         Of the one thing in creation
     That rejoices in an everlasting youth.