From The Topeka State Journal, April 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. He fell upon his bended knees And said: “Oh Agnes, wed me please.” He told her that she was his queen The grandest gal he’d ever seen That no one had no eyes like her’n— At least so fur as he could learn. He said he’d never seen so rare And gorgeous a display of hair. He said her figger was immense And hoped she wouldn’t take offense Because he mentioned such a thing, For of it poets often sing. He said he’d traveled all around And never had he heard a sound So musical as was her voice. She was his one and only choice. He’d give her all he had to give, Without her he could never live. No friend was by, his speech to stay. He wound up in the usual way. She gave to him her maiden heart— It was a cinch right from the start. For, while she let him have his say, He had no chance to get away. She had him lashed right to the mast And tied and shackled hard and fast. He didn’t know what he had said, He simply knew that they were wed; And when to breakfast she came down, Years later in an old house gown, Without a sign of curl or rat, And ready for the daily spat, He wondered how in thunder she Could have inspired the ecstasy Upon that great momentous night On which he made and won his fight. And then it percolates his brain As it has done time and again That she just had him hypnotized Until he raved and idolized.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Hypnotism
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The Washer Woman’s Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 2, 1913. By Tronquill. In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope; Working, singing all alone, In a sort of undertone, “With a savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” Sometimes happening along, I had heard the semisong, And I often used to smile More in sympathy than guile; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard, As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. Not in sorrow nor in glee, Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long, “With the savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” It’s a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she, Just as poor as poor could be, But her spirit always rose Like the bubbles in the clothes. And, though widowed and alone, Cheered with the monotone, Of a Savior and a friend, Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub On the washboard in the tub, While the baby sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools With old scissors stuck in spools, She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I would not wish to strip From that washer woman’s lip Any song that she can sing, Any hope that song can bring. For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end.
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Consistency
From The Tacoma Times, April 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. He raved at women’s folly In following the fads, Declared, with melancholy, His money went in scads To sate his wifie’s passion For shoes and hats and those Materials of fashion Like lingerie and hose. At corsets he was sneering, At powder and at paint, Tight shoes would set him jeering With words not few or faint; He laughed at bogus tresses; He scorned the hobble skirt, Condemning women’s dresses With vim and vigor curt. So wifie dressed one morning To please her hubby’s taste, All artifices scorning, Uncorseted her waist; Her shoes of size most ample (A hygienic last) She meant, she said, to trample Her follies of the past. Her nose was free from powder, Her hair was all her own, Yet far from feeling prouder At how her sense had grown, Her husband bellowed, “Woman, You look a perfect fright; Go dress like something human; You surely are a sight!”
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Ae Fond Kiss
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 31, 1913. By Robert Burns. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love forever, Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be like a joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
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In Storm and Stress
From the New York Tribune, March 30, 1913. By W. J. Lampton. How weak is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path, And with the storm and fire and flood Exacts the price of goods and blood, To leave him stricken, sick and sore Bereft of people, home and store. And yet how strong is man—the blow That falls in one place starts the flow Of helpfulness from everywhere, With open hands and saving care. The speedy answer to the call Of loss and sorrow, and from all Come hope and courage which uplift The faltering head among the drift. Which put new life in living when The fallen shall arise again. How strong is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path!
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Fifty Years Apart
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 29, 1913. They sit in the winter gloaming, And the fire burns bright between; One has passed seventy summers, And the other just seventeen. They rest in a happy silence As the shadows deepen fast; One lives in a coming future, And one in a long, long past. Each dreams of a rush of music, And a question whispered low; One will hear it this evening, One heard it long ago. Each dreams of a loving husband Whose brave heart is hers alone; For one the joy is coming, For one the joy has flown. Each dreams of a life of gladness Spent under the sunny skies; And both the hope and the memory Shine in the happy eyes. Who knows which dream is the brightest? And who knows which is the best? The sorrow and joy are mingled, But only the end is rest.
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Rock Me to Sleep
From The Detroit Times, March 28, 1913. Backward, turn backward, Oh time, in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight! Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, Oh tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain— Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, Oh mother! My heart calls for you. Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I tonight for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.
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The Gladdest Time
From the Rock Island Argus, March 27, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. I like it in the morning when The sun shines in across my bed And seems to kind of whisper then “Get up, you little sleepy head,” And just outside my window, where A limb sticks upward from a tree The sparrows often sit and stare And nod their heads and chirp at me. I like it in the evening when The sounds all seem so far away, And all the men go home again Who had to work so hard all day, For then my muvver always sings And dresses in her nicest gown, And soon we’ll hear the train that brings My papa back to us from town. I like it best on Sunday, when We don’t get up till very late, Because the maid’s so weary then And has to sleep till nearly eight, And after we’ve had breakfast, why, My papa doesn’t start away, But stays at home, and he and I Keep all the house upset all day.
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The Hurricane
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 26, 1913. By William Cullen Bryant. King of the winds! I feel thee nigh, Blow thy breath in the burning sky! But I wait, with a thrill in every vein For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! On the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— A glare that is neither night or day. A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! He is come! Do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! We bid thee hail! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thundercloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that? —’tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured in the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! Well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds! —ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all, And I, cut off from the world remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.
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The Old Home Folks
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 25, 1913. By Will Chamberlain. Not on the chance acquaintance, Nor yet on the new found friend, When the storms about us gather For comfort may we depend. If I should be permitted, Aside from all light jokes, To choose for you the truest, I would pick the old home folks. From them I would name a husband For the dimpled, would-be bride; A childhood mate or sweetheart, In whom she might confide. The old home folks are surest To notice if we succeed, And they are the first to sorrow With us when our hearts do bleed. So do not be quick in forsaking The faithfully tried for the new, Who may seem so apt and clever When the skies are soft and blue. For tho’ it is said the prophet Has honor except at home, Love blossoms there for the masses— The prophet afar may roam. And when in the fading twilight We put off life’s stern jokes, Those who will stand to us closest Will be the old home folks. While away on their sunny hilltops, By Elysian breezes fanned, God’s own home folks will greet us With a smile and outstretched hand.