Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Homely Recipe

    From the Evening Star, May 13, 1913.
     By Philander Johnson.
     
    
     When you’re feelin’ kind o’ lonely
         An’ you’re gettin’ sort o’ blue
     An’ you think that life is only
         A great blunder through an’ through
     Don’t rely on publications
         Full o’ philosophic dreams
     Or on novels or orations
         Built on socialistic schemes.
     
     If you’re threatened with “conniptions”
         Of a violence intense
     Just obtain a few prescriptions
         From old Doctor Commonsense.
     He’ll advise a little laughter,
         Just as much as life can spare
     To be followed quickly after
         With some sunshine and fresh air.
  • The Lonely Little Boy

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     The little boy whom you forget
         To play with when the days are fair
     The child whose hopes are sinless yet
         Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer
     Will soon leave off his childish ways
         And learn the things that men must learn;
     Why do you waste the precious days
         That never, never can return?
     
     You never lead him by the hand
         Nor make his little joys your own
     Ambition sends you her command
         And he is left to play alone;
     He never climbs upon your knee
         Delighted at the long day’s end
     To find that you have time to be
         His fond and sympathetic friend.
     
     You never can afford to waste
         A precious hour arousing him
     The prizes after which you haste
         Are always far away and dim;
     You must be ever pressing on
         Forgetting, while you strive and plan
     How soon his childhood will be gone
         How quickly he will be a man.
     
     You never pause with him to hear
         The breeze that sings among the reeds
     You have no time to give the dear
         Sweet sympathy for which he pleads;
     You never rush with him in wild
         Pursuit of fairies through the glen
     Yourself again a careless child
         Freed from the cares that worry men.
     
     Have you no treasured memories
         Of one who gladly played with you
     Before you had been robbed of ease
         And when your cares were small and few?
     Ah, will you rob him of the joy
         Of looking back along the years
     When he has ceased to be a boy
         And Duty’s call rings in his ears?
     
     The little boy whom you forget
         To play with when the days are fair
     The child whose thoughts are sinless yet
         Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer
     Will soon leave off his childish ways
         And you will sit somewhere alone
     Regretting precious wasted days
         And joys that might have been your own.
  • Mother’s Day Remembrance

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 11, 1913.
     By Will B. Tomlinson.
     
    
     Toward glories eternal, a vision appears
     Through the mists of the morning, the sunshine and tears.
     ’Tis the smile of my Mother, as sacred with joy
     As the greeting celestial she bends to her boy.
     
     And her love is as true and as precious to me
     As it was in the years when I knelt at her knee
     And her hand in caressing lay soft on my head
     As she prayed for a blessing, in days that are fled.
     
     Often wayward and thoughtless I know I have been.
     I have wounded the heart that appealed for me then.
     Still, I feel that in heaven I’m never forgot
     For if others forsake me, my Mother will not.
     
     When I look at myself, I’ve nothing to claim—
     Neither merit, nor wealth, nor plaudits of fame.
     But I grudge not to others such blessings as fall
     For the love of my Mother is better than all.
     
     Here’s a blossom, the fairest, as pure as the dew
     Else I never could wear it, dear Mother, for you.
     And I would that its fragrance were wafted afar
     Like the vapor of incense, or beam of a star
     
     Till it tells you in heaven, with breathings divine
     That I love you, dear Mother, sweet Mother of mine.
  • The Bravest Battle

    From the New York Tribune, May 10, 1913.
     By Joaquin Miller.
     
    
     The bravest battle that ever was fought
         Shall I tell you where and when?
     On the maps of the world you will find it not;
         It was fought by the mothers of men.
     
     Nay, not with cannon or battle shot
         With sword or nobler pen
     Nay, not with eloquent word or thought
         From mouths of wonderful men.
     
     But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart—
         Of woman that would not yield
     But patiently, silently bore her part—
         Lo! there in that battlefield
     
     No marshaling troop, no bivouac song
         No banner to gleam and wave;
     And oh these battles they last so long—
         From babyhood to the grave!
     
     Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars
         She fights in her walled-up town—
     Fights on and on in the endless wars
         Then silent, unseen—goes down.
  • Gardening

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913.
     By Edgar A. Guest.
     
    
     I hold that gardening’s splendid fun.
         I am the chap that some think odd.
     I like to rise and greet the sun
         To turn and break the stubborn clod.
     It’s great to spend an hour or two
         Some care unto the back yard giving;
     But this I will admit to you:
         I’d hate to do it for a living.
     
     There is no toil that quite compares
         To delving daily with a spade
     And with a hoe cut down the tares
         Or bring a front lawn up to grade.
     With joy it makes the pulses throb
         And starts the heart beating gaily;
     ’Tis true I glory in the job
         But I would hate to do it daily.
     
     Take it from me, you sluggish men
         Whose arteries may someday harden
     For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen;
         You ought to labor in a garden.
     Go bend your backs above a spade
         And strain your muscles with a hoe;
     There is no more delightful trade
         Unless that way you earn your dough.
     
     I glory in the stubborn ground
         And conquer it with fertilizer
     Now every morning I am found
         A bright and smiling early riser.
     It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt
         And lug out chunks of solid clay;
     In confidence, though, I’ll assert:
         I’d hate to do it by the day.
     
     Think you I mind this aching back
         Or care because my muscles twinge
     Or that my bones, with each attack
         Remind me of a rusty hinge?
     No! Gardening is wholly joy
         A source of pleasure unalloyed;
     But, confidentially, my boy,
         I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.
  • John Barleycorn

    From The Seattle Star, May 8, 1913.
     (Acknowledgements to Jack London)
     
    
     He’s just around the corner
         He’s just across the street
     His voice is warm and comradely
         His words are soft and sweet.
     He poses as ADVENTURE
         All debonair and brave
     Though all the deeds of Barleycorn
         Lead only to the grave.
     
     He comes to you with laughter
         He comes to you with song
     With soothing lies to trick the weak
         And glamour for the strong.
     Along the road that you must tread
         Wherever you may fare
     At every turn or resting place
         John Barleycorn is there!
     
     He masquerades as valor
         He swaggers as romance
     And down the road of broken hopes
         He leads the merry dance.
     His eyes are red and gloating
         There’s poison on his breath
     For call him any name you will
         John Barleycorn is death.
  • Sweet Sixteen

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 7, 1913.
     By Samuel Minturn Peck.
     
    
     Tho’ starlight through the lattice vine
         Fell slanting on her brow
     The roses white, with dew a-shine
         Swayed on the wind-rocked bough
     And waved a perfume quaint and fine
         Like incense round her mouth
     Where dwelt mid curve and hue divine
         The glamor of the South.
             Just sixteen years of joys and fears—
                 Just sixteen years hath she
                     But her eyes are blue
                     And her heart is true
                 And she’s all the world to me.
     
     The rose tree hid the stars from me
         But I could watch her eyes;
     They shone like stars upon the sea
         Soft mirrored from the skies.
     Her little hands upon her knee
         In folded stillness lay
     And in the dusk gloamed winsomely
         Like lily buds astray.
             Just sixteen years of joys and fears—
                 Just sixteen years hath she
                     But her faith is sure
                     And her soul is pure
                 And she’s all the world to me.
     
     A silence fell. It seemed a spell
         Had fallen on my Sweet.
     I saw her quivering bosom swell
         I heard my heart a-beat.
     I spoke!—but what? I cannot tell
         I hardly know the rest;
     But as the timid tear-drops fell
         I clasped her to my breast.
             Just sixteen years of smiles and tears—
                 Just sixteen years hath she
                     But the wedding chimes
                     Will ring betimes
                 For my little bride to be.
  • Confidence

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 6, 1913.
     
    
     Sister Kittie’s home from college with a host of modern kinks
     In the way of hygienics, sanitation, food and drinks.
     Proteins and carbohydrates she combines exactly right
     For the strictly balanced ration she identifies at sight.
     She knows all about digestion, what is best for us to eat
     What we need for body-building, growth and force, repair and heat;
     And the dinner table’s lovely when my sister has it set
     But we haven’t lost our confidence in Mother’s cooking yet.

  • We’re All A-Fishin’

    From The Detroit Times, May 5, 1913.
     By Frank R. Leet.
     
    
     Pop sez that this world we live in
         Is one big fishin’ pond
     An’ we’ve all been fishin’ fer somethin’
         Since th’ time the first day dawned.
     
     He sez some are fishin’ fer trouble
         An’ others are fishin’ fer fame
     An’ the banks of life are alive with girls
         A-fishin’ to change their names.
     
     He sez the grafters are fishin’ fer suckers
         Newly weds are fishin’ fer bliss
     Ministers are fishin’ fer souls to save
         The lover to hook a kiss.
     
     He sez the vain ones are fishin’ fer compliments
         The bums are fishin’ fer booze
     The nabobs are fishin’ fer diamonds and things
         The poor fer food and shoes.
     
     He sez that we’re at it all of the time
         A-fishin’ fer what we wish
     So, when I’m not really a-fishin’ fer fish
         I’m fishin’ to fish fer fish.
  • Let’s Go Fishing

    From The San Francisco Call, May 4, 1913.
     By Hazen Conklin.
     
    
     All day long I sit a-dreaming
     Of a brook, its waters gleaming
     As it splashes, dances, races
     On its way ‘mongst woodsy places;
     Of a troutbrook, pooled and ready
     For the hand that’s quick and steady.
     Though my desk, in hopeless clutter
     Calls me back to bread and butter
     Work seems sordid, unromantic
     Its insistences pedantic
     And I sit a-dreaming, wishing:
     Come on, Tom, let’s go a-fishing!
     
     In my fancy I am wading
     Where the arching trees are shading
     Pools where fondly one surmises
     One can coax those lighting “rises”
     Overhung by rocks, moss-garnished
     Under which, with truth unvarnished
     One can swear the big trout darted
     Just before the trout line parted.
     Say! What is the call of duty
     When compared to speckled beauty!
     I can hear my line a-swishing:
     Come on, Dick, let’s go a-fishing!
     
     Oh! This beastly grind of working!
     Can’t you feel the fever jerking
     At your coat sleeve, coaxing, teasing
     Saying: “Come, we’ll find appeasing
     For the appetite within you,”
     All the while that you continue
     Adding figures, scribbling phrases
     Threading stupid business mazes?
     Rod and reel and flies and hamper
     Right across each page they scamper.
     Be a sport and stop your wishing:
     Come on, Harry, let’s go FISHING!