Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • Jimmy’s Diagnosis

    From the Perth Amboy Evening News, January 3, 1913.
     
    
     My pa says, “Step lively, son,
         An’ do as you are bid.”
     My sister, too, the biggest one,
         Calls out, “I want you, kid!”
     Ma wants some kindlin’ from below
         Or somethin’ else like that,
     An’ grandpa’s goin’ out, an’ so
         I’ve got to hunt his hat.
     
     If I start out to go an’ play—
         It doesn’t matter when—
     Somebody ‘fore I get away
         Will call me back again.
     An’ when they git me back about?
         The only thing they do
     Is look at me an’ holler out,
         “I’ve got a job for you!”
     
     It makes no difference how I try,
         Them jobs is never done.
     ‘Cause ‘fore I git one finished, why,
         They find another one.
     An’ if I have some doggone task
         An’ go to play instead
     They all say they’re surprised an’ ask,
         “Whatever ails the kid?”
     
     You bet I know what ails me too.
         I ain’t no reg’lar dunce.
     They always want that I should do
         Too many jobs at once.
     But I don’t see why they should call
         Me “lazybones.” Well, yes,
     The thing that ails me most of all
         Is too much folks, I guess.
  • The Secrets of the Sea

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 2, 1913.
     By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
     
    
     Ah, what pleasant visions haunt me
         As I gaze upon the sea!
     All the old romantic legends,
         All my dreams come back to me.
     
     Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
         Such as gleam in ancient lore;
     And the singing of the sailors
         And the answer from the shore!
     
     Most of all the Spanish ballad
         Haunts one oft and tarries long,
     Of the noble Count Arnaldos
         And the sailors mystic song.
     
     Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
         Where the sand as silver shines
     With a soft, monotonous cadence
         Flow its unrhymed lyric lines—
     
     Telling how the count Arnaldos,
         With his hawk upon his hand,
     Saw a fair and stately galley
         Steering onward to the land—
     
     How he heard the ancient helmsman
         Chant a song so wild and clear
     That the sailing sea-bird slowly
         Poised upon the mast to hear—
     
     Till his soul was full of longing,
         And he cried with impulse strong—
     “Helmsman! For the love of heaven,
         Teach me, too, that wondrous song!”
     
     “Wouldst thou (so the helmsman answered),
         Learn the secret of the sea?
     Only those who brave its dangers
         Comprehend its mystery.”
     
     In each sail that skims the horizon,
         In each landyard blowing breeze,
     I behold that stately galley,
         Hear those mournful melodies—
     
     Till my soul is full of longing
         For the secret of the sea,
     And the heart of the great ocean
         Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
  • New Year’s Resolutions

    From The Seattle Star, January 1, 1913.
     By Berton Braley.
     
    
     We won’t be too ambitious in a resoluting way,
         We’ll plan on very little of the new deal stuff.
     For neither Rome nor Athens was completed in a day
         And reforming’s not accomplished by a great big bluff.
     We’re going to take it gently and by stages and degrees;
         Our goodness will not raise us to a higher sphere.
     But we’ll try to show improvement in our actions, if you please,
         And be a LITTLE better than we were last year!
     
    
     We shan’t upset the country by our thoughtfulness and care,
         We’ll go on being selfish to a large extent.
     But may be there’ll be troubles we can kind of help to share,
         And maybe we’ll be gentler in our temperament;
     We shall not have a halo for the charity we do
         (A mortal with a halo would be mighty queer)
     But we’ll moderate our tempers—(can we count a bit on you?)
         And we’ll be a LITTLE kinder than we were last year!
     
    
     We won’t be too ambitious in the matter of reform,
         But we’ll be a little better if we find we can.
     And where the market’s crowded and the game is getting warm
         We’ll be a little nicer to our fellow man.
     We shan’t be shining angels and we wouldn’t if we could,
         We only hope for progress and we start right here.
     We want to be—not perfect, or even “goody good!”—
         But Better Human Beings than we were last year!
  • The Parting Guest

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 31, 1912. By Edmund C. Stedman.
     
    
     Where are the good things promised me
         By the Old Year that’s dying?
     And what care I how ill he be
         Who was so given to lying?
     A comely youth, he sought my door
     And tarried till his locks were hoar;
     A fair and foul, capricious guest
     Who swore to give me of his best;
         Who pledged himself a true year;
         But he was then—the New Year.
     
     Where are the silver and the gold
         Ere now should fill my wallet?
     What mean these scanty clothes and old,
         This attic room and pallet?
     The purse he dangled in my view
     Betwixt his juggling hands slipped through.
     He found me poor, he left me poorer,
     But now a richer friend, and surer,
         Awaits me—in the New Year.
     
     Where are the poet’s bays he said
         My dulcet song should gain me?
     The wreath that was to crown my head
         The applause that should sustain me?
     Alack! Round other brows than mine
     I see the fresh-won laurels twine!
     Still, for the music’s sake, I sing;
     The world may listen yet, and fling
         Its garlands—in the New Year.
     
     Where is the one dear face to love
         His golden months should bring me,
     Whose smile a recompense would prove
         For all the ills that sting me?
     My heart still beats in loneliness;
     There is no darling hand to press;
     But, oh, I dream we yet shall meet,
     And trust to find her kisses sweet,
         And win her—in the New Year!
     
     Where are the works in patience wrought;
         The grace to love my neighbor;
     The sins left off, the wisdom taught
         Of suffering and labor;
     The fuller life; the strength to wait;
     The equal heart for other fate?
     Well may I speed the parting guest
     And take this stranger to my breast!
         Be thou, indeed a true year,
         O fair and welcome New Year!
  • The Years

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 30, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit.
     
    
     Sunrise, and noon, and sunset,
         And day slips into day;
     Twilight, and dark, and daylight—
         A year has rolled away.
     Budding, and bloom, and fading,
         Green tree, and leafless bough;
     Seeding, and growth, and harvest—
         So dies an old year now.
     
     Singing, and sighs, and silence,
         The frownings and the smiles,
     Toiling, and stress, and resting,
         And grave or gayer whiles;
     Days that have brought their honors,
         And days that left their scars—
     Over it all the marvel
         Of each night with its stars.
     
     Dreamings, and hopes, and plannings,
         Tasks that begin and end;
     Hours that have brought the silence
         Alike to foe and friend.
     Words that were sad or merry,
         Draughts that were bittersweet;
     Greetings, and hail, and parting—
         The old and new year meet.
     
     Sunrise, and noon, and sunset,
         Day will slip into day;
     Twilight, and dark, and daylight,
         The year will roll away;
     Sunshine, and song, and gladness,
         Fair dreams that come in sleep,
     Birdsong, and nodding blossoms—
         These we are fain to keep.
     
     Darkness, and light, and shadows,
         Sorrow and golden cheer,
     Blend into God’s completeness,
         Into the finished year,
     Into a memory-fabric
         Woven of shade and shine—
     These are the years unfolding
         In lives like yours and mine.
  • The Daily Dangle

    From the Evening Star, December 29, 1912. By Philander Johnson.
     
    
     They sing about the dear old farm,
         And of the leafy lane,
     And of the village school whose charm
         They cannot quite explain.
     And since they wander through the map
         While touching strains are sung,
     I’ll carol of the street car strap,
         Where I have often hung!
     
     How I swayed with courage stout,
     Like some banner tossed about!
         I almost learned to take a little nap.
     With a cultivated twist
     Of the muscles of my wrist,
         I have dangled daily from the street car strap!
     
     We strive to view the roof o’erhead
         With an expression sweet.
     We say “Beg pardon!” as we tread
         On one another’s feet.
     How proudly shines the polished place
         Round which our hands we wrap,
     As in suspension there we grace
         The dear old street car strap!
     
     How it helped to keep my nerve
     As we went around the curve
         And almost fell into somebody’s lap.
     I enjoy my only chance
     At a modern ragtime dance
         As I hang upon that dear old street car strap.
  • Hayin’ Time

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 28, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     All the treetoads are a yellin’
         And the bees are buzzin’ round.
     The grasshoppers are hoppin’
         Here and there upon the ground.
     All the birds are sweetly singin’
         And all nature seems in tune.
     Makes a feller feel like workin’
         Workin’ morning, night, and noon.
     And a sweet and wholesome odor
         Is a-risin’ from the earth.
     And the old sun is a-shinin’,
         Shinin’ down for all it’s worth.
     All the country folks are hustlin’
         Startin’ at the break of day.
     Mother, she is busy cannin’,
         Me and dad are makin’ hay.
     
     Tell you what, we got to go some
         For there ain’t no time to lose,
     Four o’clock most every mornin’
         Finds a feller in his shoes.
     Then he’s got to feed the horses
         And the pigs and mind the sheep
     ’Til he gets ‘em to the pasture
         While you folks in town all sleep.
     When it comes along to breakfast,
         Feller’s got an appetite
     And the salt pork and the taters
         And the beans taste out of sight,
     Then we hustle for the meadow
         And we hit her up ’til noon.
     When the dinner bell starts ringin’
         And she never rings too soon.
     
     Half an hour and then we’re at it
         Pitching hay our very best
     And we never stop for nothin’
         Till the sun sinks in the west.
     Then we’ve got to feed the horses
         Milk the cows and get the sheep
     And about the hour of nine we’re
         All in bed and fast asleep.
     Then we all get up at daylight
         And we start right in once more,
     Tell you what, a city feller
         Never’d think of gettin’ sore
     On his job, if he’d just travel
         Out here on some hot day
     And just stand around and look at
         Me and dad a-makin’ hay.
  • The Day After

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 27, 1912.
     
    
     The stockings all are empty and brand new toys are broke,
         The Christmas tree’s a bit the worse for wear,
     Good Santa Claus has vanished for another year, at least,
         And his pocketbook is making papa swear.
     The doctors are quite busy making flying calls about,
         For Willie and poor Mamie have a pain,
     But had such fun that in despite of subsequent events,
         They’d like to have it over all again.
     
     The turkey stuffed and roasted and the toothsome big mince pie
         That made one feel serene and satisfied,
     When ‘round about the laden board the happy family sat,
         Till none could eat more good things if they tried,
     Have taken dire revenge, and since last night the folks look pale,
         And efforts to feel chipper are quite vain,
     But still the feeling of that dinner was so good a one,
         We all would eat it every bit again.
     
     That is the trouble with good times—you have to pay for them.
         But then they’re worth enjoying while they last;
     So it is wiser just to take the present when it comes,
         And not think what it will feel like when it’s past.
     Perhaps the wise and prudent will dispense with present joys,
         And shun bright nights with mornings cold and gray,
     But then they miss a lot of fun who always look ahead,
         Let good times go for fear of them next day.
  • The Wager

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, December 26, 1912.
     
    
     El Shamar was a builder
         Of fame long years ago;
     Ar Hamel was a poet
         Of whom we little know.
     
     But once, a legend has it,
         Shamar stood and smiled
     Before a palace golden
         Which he had reared and styled.
     
     “Ar Hamel, I’m a builder,
         And you a singer—say,
     You write a song; I’ll wager
         Your song first fades away!”
     
     Ar Hamel wrote a love song;
         A fragile thing it seemed
     Beside the palace golden
         That in the sunshine gleamed.
     
     But when the lofty palace
         Had crumbled into dust,
     And on the wind was dancing,
         The plaything of each gust;
     
     When Shamar long had vanished,
         Forgotten was his name,
     When Hamel, happy hearted,
         Was known no more to fame;
     
     Still in that land the love song
         Was sung by lovers true;
     The love song was immortal,
         Its theme forever new!
  • Good Will to Men

    From The Tacoma Times, December 25, 1912. By Berton Braley.
     
    
     Diverse feasts upon his golden plate
     And Lazarus is at his gate,
     The same starved beggar whom we know
     From nineteen hundred years ago,
     In reeking slum and tenement,
     The children whimper, wan and spent,
     And hunger-sharpened tongues deride
     The mockery of Christmas-tide,
     And mothers weep in woe forlorn—
     Was it for this that Christ was born?
     
     In flaring light and glaring hall
     Vice holds her strident carnival,
     And mortals fight and steal and lie
     For gold to join this revel high;
     Men sell their truth, their souls, their fame,
     And women know the taint of shame
     By greed and passion downward whirled
     Along the Highway of the World;
     And true men cry, in wrath and scorn,
     “Was it for this that Christ was born?”
     
     And yet—though toilers taste distress
     While wasters roll in idleness,
     Though Mammon seems to hold in sway
     The people of this later day,
     It is but seeming—truth and right
     Are leading all the world to light,
     And old abuses fall to dust
     Before our new-born faith and trust.
     
     We are not heedless—Christmas chimes
     Ring the true spirit of the times,
     Of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men,”
     Brave words that thrill and thrill again,
     For in the deeps of every heart
     The little flames of fervor start,
     And grow and grow until we burn
     All bitter wrongs to overturn,
     Till all the world we’re children of
     Shall know the perfect rule of Love!
    
    Ah Gentle Savior, pierced and torn,
    It was for THIS that You were born!