Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Song of the Wind

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 23, 1913.
     By Robert Loveman.
     
    
     The wind has a mind of his own
         He’s a lover and rover free
     He mutters among the clouds
         He flutters above the sea;
     He ravages regions rare
         Where savages leap in glee
     He strips the forests bare
         In autumnal ecstasy.
     
     The wind is a child of earth
         Of ocean, air and sky,
     He joys at a young world’s birth
         He moans when the old ones die;
     He can woo a nodding rose to rest
         Or trample an empire down,
     He’s sceptered king of everything
         And the high stars are his crown.
  • Back to the Hotel

    From The Washington Times, May 22, 1913.
     By Helen Rowland.
     
    
     I know a little bachelor, with lots and lots of pelf
     And all the pennies that he gets he spends upon himself;
     But oh, how he can moralize! And oh, how he does pine
     For the “sweet old-fashioned woman,” and extol the “clinging vine!”
     And when, each night, he meets “the boys,” where golden beakers foam
     He cries in tones dramatic, “Woman’s place is in the home!”
     
     I know a lot of lovely maids, oh quite a score or more
     And each would make a charming wife for this same bachelor.
     But the “horrid things” insist on trotting downtown every day
     And slaving in an office—just to keep the wolf away.
     They should be darning someone’s socks or knitting baby-shoes.
     Their place is “in the home,” of course—somebody’s home—but whose?
     
     I know a girl of scarce sixteen, who rouses me to scorn
     She never stays at home at all, but trudges off each morn
     And pounds a little type-machine—oh, “just to pass the time”—
     And help her mother pay the rent. Such folly is sublime!
     Some one should really tell her to her pretty little face
     That girls were made for “ornaments.” The home is woman’s place!
     
     I live, myself, within a big luxurious hotel;
     And, when I want my dusting done, I simply ring a bell.
     I never do a single thing, but scribble all day long.
     I know, alas, this “idle” life is very, very wrong.
     I should be doing fancy work, or polishing my nails.
     But how I’d pay my bills that way—Well, there my fancy fails!
     
     What are the women coming to—to go at such a pace!
     The “sweet old-fashioned girl” sat ‘round and just massaged her face,
     Worked cushion-tops, and curled her hair, and gossiped by the hour;
     But lo, the modern woman goes at sixty-five horse-power!
     Ah, well, I trust that some of them will read this little “pome,”
     And realize, at last, that “Woman’s place is in the home!”
     
     Then Katy will not come back each day to put away my clothes,
     And who will write my quips for me—well, Heaven only knows!
     The typist and the laundry-maid, the waitress and the clerk
     Will stay at home, like ladies then, and do “a woman’s work.”
     And all the men will gather where the golden beakers foam—
     And wonder who on earth will do the work outside the home?
  • Crossing the Bar

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 21, 1913.
     By Tennyson.
     
    
     Sunset and evening star
         And one clear call for me,
     And may there be no moaning of the bar
         When I put out to sea.
     
     But such a tide, as moving seems asleep,
         Too full for sound and foam,
     When that which drew from out the boundless deep
         Turns again home.
     
     Twilight and evening bell,
         And after that the dark,
     And may there be no sadness or farewell
         When I embark.
     
     For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
         The flood may bear me far
     I hope to see my Pilot face to face
         When I have crossed the bar.
  • The Tramp

    From the Evening Star, May 20, 1913.
    By Walt Mason.

    He’s idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his roof is the heaven, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer to boss him around; his joys do not whither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no sane man can need ‘em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweet spangled moiler, who raises ten kids on a dollar a day?

  • At Last

    From The Topeka State Journal, May 19, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     In eighteen hundred and twenty when Jim Purdy was nineteen,
     He wrote a comic story for a well known magazine.
     The story was accepted by the editor and when
     Jim Purdy got the news he was the happiest of men.
     He thought of course his story would within a month appear,
     But strange to say it didn’t get in print at all that year.
     Ten years he waited, then he wrote quite anxiously to learn
     The reason, and they told him that his yarn must wait its turn.
     
     He called upon the editor along in sixty-nine,
     And was informed his story was still waiting in the line.
     He asked for information as to when it might appear.
     They told him that it might perhaps, come out most any year.
     Jim Purdy waited patiently and lost his teeth and hair
     And bought each issue hoping he would find his story there.
     He talked about it all day long and dreamed of it at night;
     His great-grandchildren’s children could not understand him quite.
     
     One day the mail man brought a check. Old Jim pricked up his ears.
     ’Twas what he had been waiting for nigh on to ninety years.
     That week was sure a lucky one. The magazine came too;
     He trembled with excitement as he looked its pages through.
     His one hundred and seven years all seemed to leave him when
     He let a warwhoop out which seemed to make him young again.
     “I’ll write some more,” he cackled, as he quite forgot the past.
     “I’ve lived to see the thing in print. They’ve published it at last.”
  • San Francisco

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 18, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     A pall hung over the broad blue bay;
     In smoking ruins the city lay—
     The splendid city so bravely planned—
     And Horror hastened from land to land
     And Sorrow’s sign was on every door
     For the far-famed city that was no more.
     
     And tearful men to their brethren said:
     “Its glory is gone and its greatness dead;
     Its marble halls and its stately homes
     Its towering walls and its lofty domes
     Its well-won pride and its careless glee
     Forever and ever have ceased to be!”
     
     But another city has risen there;
     They have made it great, they have made it fair;
     Its wharves have called to the wide world’s fleets
     And traffic roars through its crowded streets;
     Still glorified by the old romance
     It grieves no more o’er its sad mischance.
     
     They have left no trace on the flame-swept hills
     Of the twisted beams and the blackened sills,
     And over the haunts where vice was bred
     The glittering roofs of trade are spread;
     With matchless courage and splendid zeal
     They have made a marvel of stone and steel.
     
     They have planned with hope, they have wrought with pride
     And the spirit lives that men thought had died
     And they who were stricken so sorely dwell
     In a fairer city than that which fell
     And all that was lost in that day of despair
     They have bravely reclaimed and glorified there.
     
     The high hills gleam that were desolate
     And riches stream through the Golden Gate;
     A splendid city superbly planned
     Sends forth her greeting to every land,
     And fleets are sailing from every shore
     To the far-famed city that grieves no more.
  • My Pa

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 17, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     My pa is not a millionaire,
         He’s never been elected yet
     To any office anywhere,
         There’s lots of things that we can’t get;
     Ma often wishes we could buy
         The costly things the neighbors do;
     The price of livin’ is so high
         We have to skimp and worry through.
     
     I guess my pa was never meant
         To be a leader in the strife;
     Ma says he’ll not be president
         Nor get ahead much in this life.
     But he can make a whistle, though
         Just from a piece of willow tree;
     I wish that you could see the bow
         And arrow that he fixed for me.
     
     My pa gets paid so much a week
         Because he doesn’t own a store;
     Ma says if he was not so meek
         And mild he might be drawin’ more.
     We have no car nor runabout
         And nearly always have to save;
     Ma’s heart is often full of doubt,
         But pa keeps hopin’ and is brave.
     
     Sometimes I help him in the yard
         When he comes home on Saturdays;
     I’m sorry he must work so hard
         And wish that he could get a raise;
     Most all the time ma needs a lot
         Of things we can’t afford, and which
     The neighbors nearly all have got
         Because they managed to get rich.
     
     My pa sometimes takes me away
         Out in the country for fresh air;
     We build dams in the streams and play
         That both of us are boys, out there;
     Ma says that pa, long, long ago
         Just got to be a mere machine;
     I wouldn’t want to trade him, though
         For any pa I’ve ever seen.
  • Would It Not Be Well?

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 16, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     We speak in accents kind and fair
         Concerning those who have departed;
     We praise the ones who travel where
         The shoreless seas are all uncharted.
     Oh, it is well that we should raise
         Our voices in a grand, sweet chorus
     And passing o’er their foibles, praise
         The worth of them that go before us.
     
     But would it not be better still
         If men might sometimes gladly hear us
     Give forth expressions of goodwill
         And kindness while they lingered near us?
     ’Tis well to praise the dead, to be
         Respectful to them and forgiving;
     But would it not be good if we
         More often spoke well of the living?
  • The Missing Flowers

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 15, 1913.
     By Samuel Minturn Peck.
     
    
     There was a little woman flower
         Sweeter far than all
     The violets and the daffodils
         That come at Springtime’s call.
     
     All the blossoms loved her,
         Even the happy birds;
     They piped their little hearts to her
         Because they had no words.
     
     ’Tis spring again. The skies are blue;
         Blossoms and birds I see
     But the little flower maiden—
         Oh tell me where is she!
     
     The sorrowing Wind low-answered:
         “Flower, and bird, and fern,
     And in the year, the autumn leaf—
         They only may return.”
     
     “’Tis true, tis true, O Wind,” I sighed,
         “Tis bitter, too, alack:
     In life what we love most and lose
         Can nevermore come back.”
  • Blessed Damozels

    From the Evening Star, May 14, 1913.
    By Walt Mason.

    Full soon the sweet girl graduates in white attire will rise, and tell, in forty-seven states, where Italy now lies. The beauteous maidens of the land, the bold, aspiring youths, on platforms flower-bedecked will stand and hand us vital truths. Life seems to them an easy thing; a banner’s all they need; a motto in the air to fling, so he who runs may read. A watchword couched in ancient Greek will smooth the road to fame; ah, me, when roses tint the cheek, life seems an easy game! But mark these women old and worn, who, at commencement time, gaze on the festival and mourn—their presence seems a crime! They found this life a harder road than e’er they dreamed it was, with more of whip and spur and goad than of the world’s applause. There is a shadow on each brow, stilled is their buoyant song; their eyes are weak and faded now, for they have wept so long. They’re bent from bearing heavy weights, from toiling day and night; they once were sweet girl graduates, serene in snowy white. “Beyond the Alps,” we heard them say, high purpose in their eyes, upon a bygone happy day, “the land Italian lies!” Life leads through tangled wilderness, and not through bosky dells, but who’d discourage or distress the Blessed Damozels?