Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Old Game

    From The Seattle Star, March 4, 1913.
     By Berton Braley.
     
    
     Oh, yes, I had quit it “forever,”
         The scissors and paste and all that,
     The haste and the frantic endeavor,
         The typewriter’s merry rat-tat;
     I tired of the holler for “copy,”
         I longed for a life that was tame,
     And my friends called me shabby and sloppy,
         So I dropped from the Newspaper Game.
     
     But something kept whispering, “Billy,
         You’re out of your element here.
     This sinecure’s meant for some Willie
         Who don’t know a scoop from a beer.
     This joint is too tied by decorum,
         This routine is always the same;
     Your clothes don’t wear out where you wore ‘em
         When playing the Newspaper Game.”
     
     Whenever the newsboys would holler,
         Whenever the extras came out,
     I tugged at my unsweated collar
         And my heart-strings were tugged by a doubt,
     Till at last—well, I doubted no longer,
         I passed up my cinch, and I came
     To the call that I knew was the stronger,
         And I plunged in the Newspaper Game.
     
     The typewriters rattled to greet me,
         The smell of sour paste-pots was sweet,
     I found the old “mill” there to meet me,
         I dropped in my battered old seat.
     The news room was dingy and smoky,
         But a shiver of joy shook my frame,
     For I’d quit the “good job” that was pokey,
         And was back at the Newspaper Game.
     
     Below were the linotypes clicking,
         And the smell of hot lead came to me;
     The sport man was nervously flicking
         The ash from his “cigarootee.”
     My typewriter acted unruly,
         My fingers felt clumsy and lame,
     But I knew I was back again, truly,
         To the joy of the Newspaper Game.
     
     You can swear you will leave it behind you.
         You can flee to wherever you will,
     But the newspaper fever will find you,
         The newspaper fervor will thrill.
     It makes—or more likely, it breaks you,
         You die—and leave scarcely a name;
     But not until death overtakes you
         Are you free of the Newspaper Game.
  • What’s the Use?

    From The Topeka State Journal, March 3, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     I thought that I might buy a car and zip around the countryside.
     I went to see an agent and he took me for a nice long ride.
     Somehow the news got noised around and fifteen agents called me
     And took me out in brand new cars, their points of excellence to see.
     
     This thing went all year around, and really, folks, it was immense;
     I toured all over half the state without a nickel of expense.
     Why should I own a touring car? I am not missing any fun;
     I can go riding all the time with agents who would sell me one.
  • A Possibility

    From the Evening Star, March 2, 1913.
     By Berton Braley.
     
    
     When tariff makers of renown
     Shall cut each unjust duty down;
     When landlords ask but little rent;
     When banks and trusts shall be content
     With modest profits now and then
     On trade they do with common men;
     When railroads cease to charge a rate
     Almost the value of the freight;
     When coal men, lumbermen and such
     Shall cease to waste and spoil so much;
     When middlemen shall be no more;
     And he who runs the retail store
     Shall find a profitable way
     To scale the prices we must pay;
     When, in each legislative hall,
     Our “statesmen” serve us, one and all,
     Instead of working for the folk
     Who hold the land beneath their yoke;
     When you and I, with thrifty care,
     Shall stop the leakage here and there,
     Desist from thoughtlessness and haste
     Which mean extravagance and waste;
     When all these goodly things are so,
     The cost of living may get low—
     But, I dunno!
  • Prominence

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 1, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     I have a cousin twice removed who lacks a jaunty air;
     He lives in Turnipopolis and is a leader there;
     Here in the city he would stand back in some safe retreat
     And look with bulging eyes and be afraid to cross the street.
     He moves with very little grace, his clothes are cheaply made,
     But he has money in the bank and all his debts are paid.
     
     He lives at Turnipopolis, where daily, wet or dry,
     The people of the town turn out to watch the train go by;
     And there at times when flags are raised and thrilling songs are sung,
     ’Tis he that makes the speeches to the old and to the young;
     He is the leading citizen, he strokes the children’s curls
     And proudly claims a leader’s right to kiss the pretty girls.
     
     I sometimes wonder if it pays to toil and moil and fret
     Where virtue is so very cheap and life is cheaper yet;
     Where thousands come and thousands go, unnoticed and unknown,
     Where, lacking room a man may still be friendless and alone—
     I sometimes wonder if it pays to merely live for this
     When each might be a leader in some Turnipopolis.
  • The Chauffeur’s Story

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 28, 1913.
     By Ted Robinson.
     
    
     “I shudder yet,” the driver said, “whene’er I tell the tale—
     I’ll think of it till I am dead! Its memory turns me pale.
     ’Twas when I drove old Brown’s imported high-power racing car—
     And I was young and reckless—courted all the thrills there are!
     
    
     “Upon the day this occurred, I’d fifty miles to go
     Ere lunch and you can take my word, I wasn’t driving slow.
     The road was good but narrow. A rail fence on either side
     And the car sped like an arrow in a swift and easy glide.
     
    
     “I took the curves at forty miles, then at our highest speed—
     I shot along those forest aisles with just the road to heed—
     When suddenly there stepped into our track a little child
     With golden hair and eyes of blue—just looked at us and smiled!
     
    
     “Not fifty feet ahead was she—and I, too scared to touch
     Or think of the emergency, or e’en throw out the clutch;
     And even when it was too late—no time to turn aside—
     No space, no field, no open gate—the road was ten feet wide!
     
    
     “All these I saw as in a dream—the lassie’s happy face
     One of those moments that will seem to hold a lifetime’s space—
     ’Twas just one smile of innocence—ah, would it be her last?
     And then—she climbed up on the fence and watched me thunder past!”
  • A Long Wait

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 27, 1913.
     
    
     “In twenty years from now,” said Pete,
     “Just look for me on Easy street.”
     
     The time went by, with hopeful air
     We looked and found he wasn’t there.
     
     But one whom we did question said,
     The while he wagged a hoary head,
     
     “I once did know a fellow who
     Lived back this way, a mile or two,
     
     “He might have been the man you seek.
     He earned, I think, twelve plunks a week.
     
     “And had so large a family,
     From debt he never did get free.
     
     “And when at last he closed his eyes
     And went, I hope, to Paradise,
     
     “He whispered, ere his spirit passed,
     ‘I’ve come to Easy street at last!’”
  • Living Too Long

    From the Evening Star, February 26, 1913.
     By Walt Mason.
     
    
     I would not care to live, my dears
     Much more than seven hundred years
         If I should last that long;
     For I would tire of things in time
     And life at last would seem a crime
         And I a public wrong.
     Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom you know
     Was born a hundred years ago
         And states the fact with mirth;
     He’s rather proud that he has hung 
     Around so long while old and young
         Were falling off the earth.
     But when his boastful fit is gone
     A sadness comes his face upon
         That speaks of utter woe;
     He sits and broods and dreams again
     Of vanished days, of long dead men,
         His friends of long ago.
     There is no loneliness so dread
     As that of one who mourns his dead
         In white and wintry age;
     Who when the lights extinguished are
     The other players scattered far
         Still lingers on the stage.
     There is no solitude so deep
     As that of him whose friends, asleep
         Shall visit him no more;
     Shall never ask, “How do you stack,”
     Or slap him gaily on the back
         As in the days of yore.
     I do not wish to draw my breath
     Until the papers say that death
         Has passed me up for keeps;
     When I am tired I want to die
     And in my cozy casket lie
         As one who calmly sleeps.
     When I am tired of dross and gold
     When I am tired of heat and cold
         And happiness has waned,
     I want to show the neighbor folk
     How gracefully a man can croak
         When he’s correctly trained.
  • Well and Ill

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 25, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     When I am well I think with pity
         Of those who have to work away
     As I do, in the busy city
         Week in, week out, day after day.
     It seems so futile to be moiling
         And I am tempted to rebel
     Against the ones who keep me toiling
         Relentlessly—when I am well.
     
    
     I think with envy of the wealthy
         Who for their health seek distant climes
     And wish that I were not so healthy
         So that I might fare sometimes;
     I long to leave the noise and rattle
         To get away from all the strife
     Forgetting that the ceaseless battle
         The toilers wage is all of life.
     
    
     I see about me weary faces
         That show the need of change and rest;
     I wonder why men cling to places
         Whose profits are but small at best.
     “Poor fools,” I say, “they are but wasting
         Their strength where toil is profitless
     When each might far from here be tasting
         The sweets of well-earned carelessness.
     
    
     When I am ill, and cannot hurry
         With those who haste away to town
     To toil and moil and scheme and worry
         I curse the fates that keep me down;
     It seems a pity to be quiet
         While there the wheels are whirring still;
     And thinking of the rush and riot
         I scorn repose—when I am ill.
  • Restraint of Trade

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 24, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     “Oh, what’s our country coming to?” The trade restrainer cried,
     “What may a man hereafter do to bring him wealth and pride?
     They’re sending millionaires to jail and fining them because
     They happen now and then to fail to keep within the laws.
         It’s awful, simply awful!
             Have the judges gone insane?
         Once a thing was always lawful
             If it brought sufficient gain;
     But they’re scolding men of millions for the methods they pursue
     And they’re sending them to prison—what’s the country coming to?
     
    
     “We keep attorneys who should know how far we may proceed—
     How far it may be safe to go in satisfying greed;
     They point the loopholes out, they find the technicalities
     And yet the courts are not inclined to listen to our pleas!
         It’s frightful, simply frightful!
             Have the judges lost their wits?
         Have they suddenly grown spiteful
             That they wish to give us fits?
     They are fining men of millions—that would bother very few—
     But they’re sending us to prison! What’s the country coming to?
     
    
     “We’ve got to have another deal. That’s getting very plain;
     Why, even now, when we appeal it sometimes is in vain;
     This can’t go on—the thing must cease! If courts are pitiless
     How can we rapidly increase the millions we possess?
         They pain us, deeply pain us!
             What has made the judges sore
         That they wish to thus restrain us?
             Never was the like before!
     Once they merely lightly fined us and we paid without ado;
     Now they threaten us with prison—what’s the country coming to?”
  • When the Tide is Out

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 23, 1913.
     By Alexander Blackburn.
     
    
     I stood by the shore at the ebb of the tide
     When the beach grew each moment more ugly and wide—
     There were moss-covered rocks, slimy weeds and black mud
     All the beauty was gone from the place where I stood;
     With the salt-laden breeze came the stench of decay
     And I said, “The sea’s charm has been taken away.”
     Then there came for my cheer this truth which all know:
     As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow.
     
    
     On the shores of the ocean of life there are days
     When the tide is at ebb and heart has no praise.
     When the flotsam and jetsam are strewn on the strand
     And our hopes are but wrecks on the sin-blackened sand;
     When the fragrance of joy has a sickening taint
     And we turn from the scenes with eyes wet and heart faint;
     Till there comes from above the blest truth we all know:
     As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow.