Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • A Wet Sheet and Flowing Sea

    From the New York Tribune, February 2, 1913.
     By A. Cunningham.
     
    
     A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
         A wind that follows fast
     And fills the white and rustling sail
         And bends the gallant mast;
     And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
         While like the eagle free
     Away the good ship flies, and leaves
         Old England on the lee.
     
     O for the soft and gentle wind!
         I hear a fair one cry;
     But give to me the morning breeze
         And white waves heaving high;
     And white waves heaving high, my lads,
         The good ship tight and free—
     The world of waters is our home
         And merry men are we.
     
     There’s a tempest in yon hornéd moon
         And lightning in yon cloud
     But hark the music, mariners!
         The wind is piping loud;
     The wind is piping loud, my boys,
         The lightning flashes free—
     While the hollow oak our palace is
         Our heritage the sea.
  • Zoological Myths

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 1, 1913.
     
    
     Certain creatures oft heard of, pray who ever saw?
     There’s the camel whose back broke beneath the last straw.
     There’s the wonderful goose that laid eggs of pure gold,
     And the bull that got in where the china was sold.
     There’s the ass that the skin of a lion doth wear,
     And the wrong pig we frequently get by the ear.
     The wild horses that never, no never could drag
     Us somewhere—there’s the cat we let out of the bag.
     There’s the bird that goes whispering secrets around,
     Whoever has seen it, whoever has found?
     There’s the oft-mentioned dog in the manger that stands,
     And the elephant someone has got on his hands.
     There’s the ravenous wolf from our doors that we keep,
     And the wolf that goes round in the clothing of sheep.
     There’s the nightmare that somebody tells us they’ve had.
     There’s the cat with nine lives and the March hare that’s mad.
     And the fox that declared that the high grapes were sour,
     And the grim dogs of war—it would take quite an hour
     Just to list all the odd, freakish creatures that we
     Nearly every day hear of, but never once see.
  • The Believer

    From The Detroit Times, January 31, 1913.
     By Berton Braley.
     
    
     The game may be a hard one and the cash come slow
     You may be hoeing bravely on a long, long row.
     Perhaps the goal you’re seeking seems so far away
     That you wonder if the effort can be made to pay.
     But just when you are weary and the world seems vile,
     There’s something happens to you and it’s all worth while;
     For love comes in the picture, and your dreams come true
     When you find a little woman who believes in you.
     
     When the world is blind and careless through the long, long years
     When it doesn’t seem to bother with your hopes or fears
     When your friends are very doubtful and your foes are grim
     And everybody jeers you till your hopes grow dim;
     Still, you can make the riffle, you can come out best
     In spite of many doubters and of all the rest
     There’s nothing under heaven that a man can’t do
     If you have a little woman who believes in you!
  • The Artistic Temperament

    From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 30, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     Maggie Jones studied music and learned how to sing.
     And she went in quite strong for grand opera thing.
     When she visited home her reception was grand,
     But her language the old folks could not understand;
     For she spoke with a strange, almost foreign accent
     On account of her artistic temperament.
     
     Henry Peck was the pride and the joy of his town,
     ’Til one day he leaped into a sudden renown
     When he drew a cartoon which called forth glad acclaim,
     And secured a half-Nelson on old Mistress Fame.
     Then he quit work and hasn’t a single red cent,
     On account of his artistic temperament.
     
     Katie Binks made good money type-writing until
     Some one told her she had a fine artistic skill;
     And she went in for painting just three months ago
     And she spent all her coin on a fine studio.
     Katie’s just been ejected for missing the rent,
     On account of her artistic temperament.
     
     William Hanks was a blacksmith and was all the rage
     With the home talent shows, so he went on the stage.
     Now his wife has divorced him and he’s had a hunch
     That he’s well on the road to the gin mill free lunch.
     For hard work has not recently been Williams bent,
     On account of his artistic temperament.
     
     In the works of the slangist high art is a “shine,”
     And hereafter it’s naught but the old fame for mine.
     For three square meals a day and a quiet home game
     Is a mighty sight better than laurels and fame.
     For there’s no peace of mind and no lasting content,
     When you’re stung by the artistic temperament.
  • His Woeful Fate

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 29, 1913.
     
    
     The horns were blaring, loud and long,
     The drum went “Oom-ta-ta!”
     I saw a melancholy man
     Stand in the orchestra.
     He bowed him o’er his big bass viol
     And sadly sawed away,
     Although a show was on the boards
     ’Twas thought extremely gay.
     
     The chorus kicked so high, so high,
     The funny men came out,
     The audience roared its applause
     With laughter-laden shout;
     Contagious mirth filled all the air,
     Increasing all the while,
     But he who played the big bass viol
     Was never seen to smile.
     
     He ne’er looked upward to the stage,
     Where festive maidens danced,
     Though at his cold impassive face
     The leading lady glanced.
     Oblivious to all around
     And heedless of the crowd,
     His eyes scarce wandered from his notes,
     His head was ever bowed.
     
     Oh, what could be the tragedy
     Which held this man in thrall,
     Who seemed so passionless and calm
     And yet so sad withal?
     Had some great sorrow ruined his life,
     Or scandal’s tainted breath?
     Ah, no, we rather think that he
     Was simply bored to death.
     
     How oft he’s toiled through scenes like these
     Let no one try to say;
     His soul on such fare surfeited,
     He longs to slip away.
     And doubtless never again be forced
     To earn his daily bread
     Where banal jokes and “ragtime” songs
     Roll o’er his hapless head.
  • The Critic

    From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 28, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     My father says the paper somehow ain’t got up just right.
     He finds a lot of fault with it when he reads it at night.
     He says there ain’t a gol dum thing in it worth while to read,
     And that it doesn’t print the kind of stuff the people need.
     He tosses it aside and says it’s strictly “on the bum”—
     But you ought to hear the holler when the paper doesn’t come.
     
     He reads about the weddin’s and he snorts like all git out.
     He reads the social doin’s with a most derisive shout.
     He says they make the papers for the wimmen folks alone.
     He’ll read about the parties and he’ll fume and fret and groan;
     He says of information it does not contain a crumb
     But you ought to hear him holler when the paper doesn’t come.
     
     He’s always first to grab it and he reads it plumb clear through.
     He doesn’t miss an item or a want ad—that is true.
     He says, “They don’t know what we want, them durn newspaper guys;
     I’m goin’ to take a day some time and go and put ‘em wise.
     It sometimes seems as though they must be deaf and blind and dumb”—
     But you ought to hear him holler when the paper doesn’t come.
  • A Parable for Reformers

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1913.
     
    
     ’Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed,
     Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant;
     But over its terrible edge there had slipped
     A duke, and full many a peasant.
     So the people said something would have to be done
     But their projects did not at all tally.
     Some said, “Put a fence around the edge of the cliff”;
     Some, “An ambulance down in the valley.”
     
     But the cry for the ambulance carried the day
     And it spread through the neighboring city.
     A fence may be useful or not, it is true
     But each heart became brimful of pity
     For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff
     And the dwellers in highways and valley
     Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence,
     But an ambulance down in the valley.
     
     “For the cliff is all right if you’re careful,” they said,
     “And if folks ever slip and are dropping,
     It isn’t the slipping that hurts them so much
     As the shock down below when they’re stopping.”
     So day after day as those mishaps occurred,
     Quick forth would these rescuers sally
     To pick up the victims who fell off the cliff
     With their ambulance down in the valley.
     
     Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old,
     For the voice of true wisdom is calling:
     “To rescue the fallen is good, but it’s best
     To prevent other people from falling.”
     Better close up the source of temptation and crime
     Than deliver from dungeon or galley;
     Better put a strong fence around the top of the cliff
     Than an ambulance down in the valley.
  • The Happy Wayfarer

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 26, 1913.
     
    
     Bill Wanders was smoking
     And thusly he spake:
     The high cost of living
     Ne’er keeps me awake,
     I travel wherever
     It suits me to go—
     Far south when the blizzards
     Of winter time blow,
     Then north in the summer,
     To ‘scape from the heat.
     I sleep when it pleases,
     I’ve plenty to eat.
     
     I never pay money
     For riding on trains,
     A fight with the brakeman
     The worst of my pains.
     No hotel clerk flaunts me,
     No head waiter frowns,
     I tarry quite cheaply
     In dozens of towns.
     ’Tis true that my garments
     Aren’t always well pressed;
     It frequently happens
     I’m carelessly dressed.
     
     And needing a bath and
     A shave, maybe, too.
     But granted these hardships,
     My troubles are few.
     O glad is the life of
     A knight of the road,
     Though little respected
     At home or abroad.
     Let socialists rave and
     Economists fight,
     Bill Wanders will tell you
     This world is all right!
  • The Result

    From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 25, 1913.
     By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     Old Ez Jones don’t chaw tobacker, for he quit on New year’s day,
     And he’s grouchy as a grizzly with an achin’ tooth, they say.
     Henry Perkins, he quit smokin’ and he feels so tarnal mean
     That he’s tried to start a scrap with every feller he has seen.
     So old Ez and Hank they chanced to meet one day in Tibbitt’s store,
     And we saw a scrap the like of which we’d never seen before,
     For they broke up all the furniture and knocked the stovepipes down
     And they’ve both been laid up ever since and livin’ on the town.
     
     Abner Hanks has quit hard cider and he is so all fired cross
     That his wife has thrashed him seven times to show him who is boss.
     Amos Higgins cut out swearin’ and gives his feelings vent
     He has booted all the cats and dogs wherever he has went.
     Deacon Stubbs has sued Hi Maskins and Hi has sued the Deac
     On their old time line fence squabble and their families don’t speak.
     Both have swore off takin’ snuff and both are out for war,
     But they neither of ‘em seem to know just what they’re lawin’ for.
     
     Old Squire Hibbard has been busy tryin’ suits and fixin’ bail,
     And there’s sixteen cases waiting and there’s twenty men in jail.
     Never seen such scand-lus doin’s in this little village, quite.
     Seems like everybody’s peevish and is looking for a fight.
     Some is nervous, some is gloomy, some is desperit and so
     It doesn’t seem like the same old town we allus used to know.
     But I guess she will get righted and congenial when the men
     Who have all been swearin’ off start in to swearin’ on again.
  • The Shoe Clerk

    From The Tacoma Times, January 24, 1913.
     By Berton Braley.
     
    
     Each time I go to buy my shoes,
     I say, “Now THIS time I will choose
     A last to fit my dainty foot
     And simply seek Myself to suit.
     I will not let the subtle clerk
     With siren voice and oily smirk
     Persuade me that I ought to fall
     For shoes too pointed and too small.”
     
     But when I enter in the store
     It goes exactly as of yore;
     The clerk convinces me that I
     Have no idea what to buy,
     And by some magic makes me see
     That what he wants to sell to me—
     A pair of shoes too short and tight—
     Is really just exactly right.
     He makes me think a narrow toe
     Is really very broad, and so
     I buy HIS choice—and not the pair
     Which common sense would bid me wear.
     
     Result—my corns their aches renew,
     I have a painful week or two;
     But when that pair wears out—ah, then,
     I’ll do the same fool thing again!