Category: Newspapers

This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.

  • The Real Fellow

    From the Evening Star, December 24, 1912. By Philander Johnson.
     
    
     There’s a Santa Claus in pictures with a reindeer and a sleigh
     And a smile so bright and happy that it drives all care away;
     A man with a conveyance and a span of reindeer light
     And a store of treasure big enough for every child’s delight.
     
     There’s a man who boards a car with bundles six feet long by two
     And has his hat pushed off by people who are passing through,
     But he smiles, while in determined mood again he sets his jaws.
     The fellow with the bundle is the real life Santa Claus.
     
     There’s a man who climbs a ladder when the daily toil is done
     And hangs up toys and trimmings to help out the day of fun.
     His collar’s sadly wilted and his hair is all awry
     And he tears his brand-new trousers on a nail while passing by.
     
     He nails and saws and hammers and he doesn’t mind the work;
     The hours are swiftly flying and he doesn’t dare to shirk.
     He hums a little ditty while he hammers, nails, and saws—
     The fellow with the workshop is the real life Santa Claus.

  • Content

    From The Seattle Star, December 23, 1912. By Berton Braley.
     
    
     It’s lots of fun to travel
         Around from place to place,
     To watch the road unravel,
         The country change its face;
     It’s fun to be a rover,
         A pilgrim, now and then,
     But when the journey’s over
         I’m glad I’m home again.
     
     To visit friends is pleasure
         Wherever they may be;
     Such joys I always treasure
         And hold in memory.
     And yet—somehow—why is it?
         No matter where I’ve been,
     When finished is my visit
         I’m glad I’m home again.
     
     Home, where I can be selfish
         And lazy-like as well,
     Withdraw like any shellfish
         Within my comfy shell
     To shun the wide world’s tourney
         And loaf around my den—
     I’ve had a pleasant journey.
         I’m glad I’m home again.
  • ’Twas the Night Before Christmas

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 22, 1912. By Clement Clarke Moore.
     
    
     'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
     Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
     The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
     In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
     The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
     While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
     And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
     Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
     When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
     I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
     Away to the window I flew like a flash,
     Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
     The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
     Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
     When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
     But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
     With a little old driver so lively and quick,
     I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
     More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
     And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
     "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
     On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
     To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
     Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
     As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
     When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
     So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
     With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
     And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
     The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
     As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
     Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
     He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
     And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
     A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
     And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
     His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
     His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
     His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
     And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
     The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
     And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
     He had a broad face and a little round belly
     That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
     He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
     And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
     A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
     Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
     He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
     And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
     And laying his finger aside of his nose,
     And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
     He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
     And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
     But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
     “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
  • A Small Order

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 21, 1912.
     
    
     This is all that I expect
         Santa Claus to bring to me:
     One large boat—my old one’s wrecked;
         One large, lovely Christmas tree;
     Then I need a larger drum,
     That says “boom” instead of “tum”;
     And I want a nice long whip
     That will make our tomcat skip;
     Then I hope to get a ball
     That will dent the hardest wall,
     And a bat that will not split
     Every time that it is hit;
     Next I’d choose a pair of skates
     Just as nice as sister Kate’s,
     And a bright large monoplane
     That will carry rag-doll Jane;
     Then I’d like a lot of things
     That are run by hidden springs—
     Rats and spiders, and the like;
     And I need a brand new bike
     With a coaster-brake that will
     Make work easy down a hill.
     
     There! That’s all I asked him for.
         Still, I’m hoping (since he’s Dutch)
     That he’ll bring a few things more—
         As I have not asked for much!
  • A Strenuous Courtship

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 20, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     Hank annexed a motorcycle
         Of the chugging, snorting kind,
     Then he went and called for Sadie
         And she clambered on behind.
     
     Through the city street they snorted
         Forty-seven miles an hour,
     Scaring people, dogs, and horses,
         Always crowding on more power.
     
     Sadie wrapped both arms around him
         And she hung on for dear life,
     Faster, faster, cutting through the
         Atmosphere just like a knife.
     
     Jolting, jarring, popping, snapping,
         Like the fourth day of July,
     On the wings of John D.’s petrol
         Did our Hank and Sadie fly.
     
     Hank he hollered: “Honest, Sadie,
         Ain’t it what you might call bliss?
     ’Tis a cinch, my little lady,
         I could ride through life like this.”
     
     “There ain’t nuthin’ to prevent it,”
         Screamed our Sadie in his ear,
     But the motor was so noisy,
         Hank could not exactly hear.
     
     Seven times did Sadie scream and
         Try to make him understand;
     Finally he got her answer
         And he blushed to beat the band.
     
     Then he turned around to kiss her.
         ’Tis a foolish thing to do
     When you’re on a bumpy highway,
         And you’re hitting fifty-two.
     
     Some time later they were rescued,
         They were hanging in a tree;
     Sadie, she was bruised and shaken,
         Hank had just a busted knee.
     
     In the hospital they married,
         Showing that they still had spunk,
     Then he sold the motorcycle
         To a man who dealt in junk.
     
     That was many moths ago and
         Now on cycles they don’t ride.
     But they run a horseless carriage
         With a cherub tucked inside.
  • Over the Hills to the Poorhouse

    From The Detroit Times, December 19, 1912. By Will M. Carleton.
     
    
     Over the hill to the poorhouse I’m trudgin’ my weary way—
     I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—
     I who am smart an’ chipper, for all the years I’ve told,
     As many another woman that’s only half as old.
     
     Over the hill to the poorhouse—I can’t quite make it clear!
     Over the hill to the poorhouse—it seems so horrid queer!
     Many a step I’ve taken a toilin’ to and fro,
     But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
     
     What is the use of heapin’ on me a pauper’s shame?
     Am I lazy or crazy? Am I blind or lame?
     True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;
     But charity ain’t no favor, if one can live without.
     
     I am willin’ and anxious an’ ready any day
     To work for a decent livin’, and pay my honest way;
     For I can earn my victuals, an’ more too, I’ll be bound,
     If anybody only is willin’ to have me ‘round.
     
     Once I was young an’ han’some—I was, upon my soul—
     Once my cheeks were roses, my eyes as black as coal;
     And I can’t remember, in them days, of hearin’ people say,
     For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
     
     ‘Tain’t no use of boastin’, or talkin’ over free,
     But many a house an’ home was open then to me;
     Many a han’some offer I had from likely men,
     And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
     
     And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,
     But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
     For life was all before me, an’ I was young an’ strong,
     And I worked the best that I could in tryin’ to get along.
     
     And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay,
     With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;
     Till we had half a dozen, an’ all growed clean an’ neat,
     An’ went to school like others, an’ had enough to eat.
     
     So we worked for the children, and raised ‘em every one;
     Worked for ‘em summer and winter, just as we ought to’ve done;
     Only perhaps we humored ‘em, which some good folks condemn,
     But every couple’s childr’n’s a heap the best to them.
     
     Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!
     I’d have died for my daughters, I’d had died for my sons;
     And God He made that rule of love; but when we’re old and gray;
     I’ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
     
     Strange, another thing; when our boys and girls was grown,
     And when, exceptin’ Charley, they’d left us there alone;
     When John he nearer an’ nearer come, an’ dearer seemed to be,
     The Lord of Hosts He come one day an’ took him away from me.
     
     Still I was bound to struggle, an’ never to cringe or fall—
     Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
     And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,
     Till at last he went a courtin’, and brought a wife from town.
     
     She was somewhat dressy, an’ hadn’t a pleasant smile—
     She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o’ style;
     But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
     But she was hard and proud, an’ I couldn’t make it go.
     
     She had an edication, an’ that was good for her;
     But when she twitted me on mine, ’twas carryin’ things too fur;
     An’ I told her once, ‘fore company (an’ it almost made her sick),
     That I never swallowed a grammar, or ‘et a ‘rithmetic.
     
     So ’twas only a few days before the thing was done—
     They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
     And a very little cottage one family will do,
     But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.
     
     An’ I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,
     An’ it made me independent, an’ then I didn’t try;
     But I was terribly staggered, an’ felt it like a blow,
     When Charley turned ag’in me, an’ told me I could go.
     
     I went to live with Susan, but Susan’s house was small,
     And she was always a hintin’ how snug it was for us all;
     And what with her husband’s sisters, and what with childr’n three,
     ’Twas easy to discover that there wasn’t room for me.
     
     An’ then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I’ve got,
     For Thomas’s buildings’d cover the half of an acre lot;
     But all the childr’n was on me—I couldn’t stand their sauce—
     And Thomas said I needn’t think I was comin’ there to boss.
     
     An’ then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,
     And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;
     And one of ‘em said ’t was too warm there for any one so old,
     And t’other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
     
     So they have shirked and slighted me, an’ shifted me about—
     So they have well-nigh soured me, an’ wore my old heart out;
     But still I’ve borne up pretty well, an’ wasn’t much put down,
     Till Charley went to the poor-master, an’ put me on the town.
     
     Over the hill to the poorhouse—my childr’n dear, good-bye!
     Many a night I’ve watched you when only God was nigh;
     And God’ll judge between us; but I will always pray
     That you shall never suffer the half I do today.
  • Her Coat

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1912.
     
    
     When winter to the leafless world
         His coming still delays,
     She watches the thermometer
         With eager wistful gaze;
     And half a dozen times an hour
         She wishes she could go
     Where zero juggles with the bulb,
         And all is frozen snow.
     
    
     She reads the weather man’s report,
         And jumps for joy one day
     Because at last a frigid wave
         Is somewhere on the way.
     No, she is not an Eskimo
         From polar lands remote,
     She only wants it cold enough
         To wear her new fur coat.
  • Youth

    From The Seattle Star, December 17, 1912. By Berton Braley.
     
    
     I’m glad I’m young and fond of youthful laughter,
         Finding much joy in all this wondrous earth;
     My heart a house—filled up from floor to rafter
         With love of life and light and gentle mirth—
     I’m glad I’m young, with eyes that still can twinkle,
         With ears that pleasure when the songs are sung,
     And lips that still recall the way to crinkle
         At jest and whimsy—ah, I’m glad I’m young!
     
    
     I’m glad I’m young, although my hair has whitened
         And I am near my three-score years and ten;
     Youth in my heart has kept my spirits lightened,
         The ways of youth are still within my ken;
     And if I cannot dance—I watch and listen,
         Thinking of memories to which I’ve clung;
     My blood still leaps, my eyes are still aglisten,
         And, though I’m old, I’m glad that I am young!
     
    
  • The Machine

    From the Evening Star, December 16, 1912. By Philander Johnson.
    
    
     How lucky is the great machine,
         Set up with cunning art.
     It runs unwearied and serene,
         A flywheel at its heart.
     Its stomach is the furnace great;
         Its muscles are of steel;
     It does not halt or hesitate;
         It does not think or feel.
     Its veins are filled with fluid fire;
         It knows no bliss or pain;
     No fierce, unsatisfied desire
         Persuades it to complain.
     When it is ill, no nostrums quench
         The energy that thrills—
     A man comes with a monkey wrench
         And cures it up or kills.
     And when it cannot do the tasks
         It has performed for years,
     It seeks the scrap pile and it asks
         No sympathy or tears.
  • The Builders

    From the New York Tribune, December 15, 1912. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
     
    
    All are architects of Fate,
         Working in these walls of Time;
    Some with massive deeds and great,
         Some with ornaments of rhyme.
     
    No thing useless is, or low;
         Each thing in its place is best;
    And what seems but idle show
         Strengthens and supports the rest.
     
    For the structure that we raise
         Time is with materials filled;
     Our todays and yesterdays
         Are the blocks with which we build.
     
    Truly shape and fashion these;
         Leave no yawning gaps between;
    Think not because no man sees,
         Such things will remain unseen.
     
    In the elder days of art
         Builders wrought with greatest care
    Each minute and unseen part;
         For the gods see everywhere.
     
    Let us do our work as well,
         Both the unseen and the seen;
    Make the house where gods may dwell
         Beautiful, entire, clean.
     
    Else, our lives are incomplete,
         Standing in these walls of Time,
    Broken stairways, where the feet
         Stumble as they seek to climb.
     
    Build today, then, strong and sure,
         With a firm and ample base;
    And ascending and secure
         Shall tomorrow find its place.
     
    
    Thus alone can we attain
         To those turrets where the eye
    Sees the world as one vast plain
         And one boundless reach of sky.