Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • ‘Twas Always Thus

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 22, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     I dwelt within a palace grand
     With hired help on every hand
     I ran the place at large expense
     The luxury was just immense.
     I lived on porterhouse and quail
     My chef knew no such word as “fail.”
     I had a splendid limousine
     A seven-passenger machine
     I also owned a racing car
     And there was not a thing to mar
     My peace of mind. I knew no toil
     I didn’t have to do a thing
     From spring to fall and fall to spring.
     I had no worry on my mind
     Or vain regret of any kind.
     My castle was a sight to see
     I had ten men to wait on me
     And when I got a bill, by heck,
     My secretary wrote a check.
     I lolled about and took my ease
     With bank notes piled up to my knees.
     Then something happened suddenly
     My wife came in the room and she
     Said as she gave my hair a jerk:
     “Wake up, you chump, and go to work.”
  • The Pendulum of Time

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 21, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     I remember back in the eighties when Hank Frisby went to school
     Everybody in the village had him doped out for a fool.
     Fer he was so gol dum homely, all the critics in the place
     Said there wasn’t no intelligence or larnin’ in his face.
     He was tall, rawboned and knockneed and as awkward as a cow
     And the gals they always passed him by and never smiled nohow.
     He was bashful and was awkward and he seemed to have no vim
     And the fellows round the school house always poked their fun at him.
     
    
     Nuthin’ much was said about it when he left our town one day
     Hardly anybody knowed the fact that he had gone away.
     Once in a while they’d mention Hank and wonder where he went
     But nobody ever found out, fer they didn’t care a cent.
     Nigh a dozen years passed by and then one day a thing occurred
     And it caused more lively gossip than the town had ever heard.
     Great big auto came a-tearin’ down the main street with a yank
     And the feller in the back seat givin’ orders—he was Hank.
     
    
     Hank had been out west and struck a vein of ore both wide and deep
     And he picked up half a million while our town folks were asleep.
     When he jumped out of his auto full of vigor and of vim
     You should have seen the town folks all a toadyin’ to him.
     He put up a splendid mansion and he wed the village belle
     And he has his dinner evenin’s—or at least that’s what they tell.
     He’s mayor now and owns a mill, a railroad and a bank
     And there’ no one in the village who ain’t mighty proud of Hank.
  • Easy

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 20, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     It isn’t so hard to be happy
         And have everything that you need
     A yacht and a fine automobile
         Which grinds out a wonderful speed;
     Fine porterhouse steak every evening
         And eggs for your breakfast each morn;
     A fine house and lot in the suburbs
         And clothes that are not patched and worn
      A lot of hard coal in the cellar
         A library full of fine books
     A houseful of excellent servants
         Including the finest of cooks
     A trip to the seashore each summer
         And Europe whene’r you would go;
     No,  it isn’t so hard to be happy
         If you’ve got nine millions or so.
  • Sauerkraut

    From the Evening Star, February 19, 1913.
     By Walt Mason.
     
    
     Who was it first invented kraut, and put it in a barrel?
     Some scientist should find it out, and deck his tomb with laurel.
     For kraut’s a good old honest dish, and when, with eager talons,
     We throw it in our holds we wish that we could eat three gallons.
     For sauerkraut’s savory and clean, and not the least corrody
     And it contains no nicotine, or benjamin of sody.
     I always give a joyous shout, glad are my feelings inner
     When grandma says she’ll cook some kraut (with other things) for dinner.
     And toward the stove, throughout the day, with anxious eyes I’m looking;
     And neighbors seven miles away all know just what’s a-cooking.
     The incense that you read about around the dump is gropin’
     When granny cooks a mess of kraut and leaves the windows open.
     I see the neighbors going by, they sniff the sauerkraut boiling,
     And often I can hear them sigh: “For kraut I’m fairly spoiling!”
     Ah, sauerkraut is a noble dish, beloved of wise old fogies!
     And why do foolish people wish their weed in plugs or stogies?
  • A Fantasy of Fresh Eggs

    From the New York Tribune, February 18, 1913.
     By W. J. Lampton.
     
    
     ’Twas on a January day
         When fair Toinette O’Keggs
     Fared forth to market for to buy
         A dozen new laid eggs.
     “I want them strictly fresh,” she said,
         “No other kind for me.”
     “Well, these are just out,” quoth the man,
         “You have our guarantee.”
     So guileless Toinette took the eggs
         Believing what he said,
     And when she opened up the box
         On one of them she read:
     “Whoever gets this egg please write
         To John Smith, Waterloo,
     N. J., and you can bet your life
         That he will write to you.”
     
    
     Now Toinette’s heart was all agog
         Her soul was filled with bliss
     For she had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
         Of romance such as this.
     So when the shades of evening came
         And all her work was done
     She wrote a note which truly was
         A most romantic one.
     She waited for a month or more
         Then, when all hope had fled
     An answer came from John Smith, who
         In tones of anguish said:
     “Too late, too late; I’m married now,
         And I am full of woe;
     The words you read upon that egg
         I wrote two years ago.”
  • Lovely Mary Donnelly

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 17, 1913.
     By William Allingham.
     
    
     O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you I love the best!
     If fifty girls were around you, I’d hardly see the rest;
     Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
     Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
     
     Oh, you’re the flower of womankind, in country or in town;
     The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down.
     If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright,
     And ask you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right.
     
     Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall
     Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
     Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
     With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
     
     O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress—
     It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less;
     The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low
     But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
  • Abou ben Adhem

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 16, 1913.
     By Leigh Hunt.
     
    
     Abou ben Adhem—may his tribe increase!
     Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace
     And saw within the moonlight in his room
     Making it rich and like a lily in bloom
     An angel writing in a book of gold
     Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold
     And to the presence in the room he said,
     “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head
     And, with a look made of all sweet accord
     Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
     “And is my name one?” Said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
     Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low
     But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then,
     Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
     
    
     The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
     It came again, with a great wakening light
     And showed the names whom love of God had blessed—
     And lo, Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!
  • O, Time!

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 15, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight!
     Give me conceit again, just for tonight;
     Carry me back to the days when I wore
     Loud clothes and in fact, was a gay sophomore;
     Smooth from my forehead all traces of care
     Cover my poll with a thatch of dark hair;
     Put all the doubts that assail me to sleep
     Give back the self-love I neglected to keep.
     
     Tired of the hollow, the base and untrue.
     I long to be somewhere around 22,
     With the boundless conceit that enlivened me then,
     When I fancied I wielded a masterful pen;
     When I thought that the things which I wrote were sublime,
     And was sure that my fame must endure through all time—
     When I proudly believed that my wisdom was deep
     And that genius was resting when I went to sleep.
     
     Turn backward, O time, for tonight, won’t you please
     And let me be gladdened by youth’s ecstasies?
     Permit me to have the cock-sureness of yore
     That I had when I strutted, a proud sophomore,
     Believing I knew all a mortal might know
     And sure I was chosen to lead here below;
     Oh put all the doubts that perplex me to sleep,
     Give back the conceit I’ve neglected to keep.
  • Ballad of the Game’s Break

    From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913.
     By Grantland Rice.
     
    
     The grey wind sings its song of hate—
     The white snow leads a spectral dance;
     We seek—but find no Open Gate
     Through which to make a last advance;
     Lost—on the Threshold of Romance—
     But not as heroes come to die—
     Just say for us—they took a chance
     And lost—without an alibi.
     
     The dusk grows deeper where we wait
     And homeward speed one final glance—
     ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate—
     The luck which broke us—lance by lance;
     Around us creep the endless trance
     Of silent heart and sightless eye—
     ’Tis but our score—we took a chance
     And lost—without an alibi.
     
     So, Scorer of the Final Slate—
     Last Marker of each circumstance—
     When at the Road’s end, soon or late,
     We stand before the mystic manse—
     Across the limitless expanse
     This is enough—from hell to sky—
     If you should write—“He took a chance
     And lost—without an alibi.”
  • An Opinion From Punkin Hollow

    From the Rock Island Argus, February 13, 1913.
     By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     There’s always something goin’ on to make the cowards quake with dread
     And set around and talk about the dangers that are on ahead;
     I’ll bet you that when Caesar fell the folks who kept the stores in Rome
     Expected that the mobs would rise to drive them out of house and home;
     But things kept goin’ right along, the old world never swerved a jot
     And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot.
     
     When Cromwell got his dander up and went to knockin’ things about
     I’ll bet that lots of folks supposed the world was goin’ up the spout;
     The radicals, I s’pose, were blamed for recklessly destroyin’ trade
     And probably wild howls went up for all the changes that were made.
     But England didn’t go to smash. In fact the rip-up helped a lot,
     And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot.
     
     It’s always been the same old cry. We hear it every now and then;
     Some man that ain’t afraid steps out and does things for his fellow men.
     And they throw up their hands and say, because his way is strange or new,
     That he has knocked the bottom out and things will soon be fallin’ through.
     But gener’ly it happens that what needs upsettin’ gets upsot,
     And when the crowds get back to work the whole affair is soon forgot.