From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 24, 1912. By S. E. Kiser. Your cheeks have lost their youthful glow Your hair is getting gray We, side by side, in weal and woe Have come a long, long way. ’Tis far to where you learned to care And where I taught you how Your girlish glee is gone and there Are lines across your brow. ’Tis long since I have gladly bent To whisper love to you ’Tis long that we have been content To prosper with the few. I’ve done no wrong to bring regret Or cause you to repine But it is long since you have let Your hand steal into mine. Come, let us stray back o’er the way To where enchantment lies And there, in fancy, all the day Be youthful and unwise. With lavish praise I’ll make you glad And whisper love again— Come, let us be a lass and lad Alone in Lovers’ Lane. Dear, let us steal from jealous Time A precious hour of bliss And you, still girlish and sublime Shall claim a lover’s kiss— ’Tis far to where we learned to care But we will find the way Come, sweetheart, let us journey there Forgetting for a day.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Forgetting the Day
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Just Gladness
From the Rock Island Argus, November 23, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Oh, gladness is a splendid thing For bards to write about When they are very sorely pressed And subjects have run out! Their souls may not be soaked in joy To match the gentle strain And they may have a grouch so large That it would block a train. But still they write of cheerfulness As though it were a part Of their existence and it gushed In torrents from their heart. They put aside their aching tooth, The bill they cannot pay, The rent that’s always overdue, And then they work away. Great gobs of gladness is their theme, The first that comes to hand. They tell the people they should use This one and only brand. But do they use a bit themselves— I mean outside their rime— With which to make a brighter world? I fear they haven’t time. O gladsome gladness, you’re the goods For use in daily life Far better than the grim old grouch Which leads to care and strife! And if the poet does not feel The impulse of his song You’ll find that the advice is good Enough to take along.
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’Twill Come When Due
From the Rock Island Argus, November 22, 1912. By Rev. G. W. Laufer. Despair no more, O troubled heart But hold this lesson true: The noble ship for which you wait Will enter port when due. Though long delayed, she cannot drift Beyond her path of blue; God’s hand is on the pilot wheel And guides her home to you. Console your heart with balm of hope And what is given, do; When time is full, some “sail ahoy” Announces her to you. When she is anchored safe at length Beside her pier and you, The bill of lading will declare That you have more than due.
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Scattered
From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I have cousins in Missouri I have uncles in New York I have sisters in Chicago And an aunt who lives in Cork Second cousins in Australia And in any other place That offhand you might mention. My, but we’re a scattered race! When my father was a youngster In a little Scottish town He was blessed with several brothers— Eight it was; I marked it down— And about as many sisters— Ten I think I heard him say— And when they had grown and married Each one went a different way. And they had—how many children? Goodness knows, for I do not As I never took a census But it must have been a lot. And the children, grown to manhood As myself, for time has flown And we all are growing ancient, Must have children of their own. So the stock is widely scattered From the palm tree to the pine Nearly every state and country Has some relative of mine. And with almost every family It’s the same old tale again, For the world is getting ready For a common race of men.
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The Angel
From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. Carve me an angel, sculptor, and let your stone be white So white that it will shimmer, reflecting back the light— Give it semblance, sculptor—a form and shape like this: A lassie wee and drowsy, who gives a good-night kiss. Too weary from all her playing to open her lips to speak— And carve the chubby fingers that touch her mother’s cheek. Ah, she needs no halo—simply a wayward curl. That is an angel, sculptor—somebody’s little girl. What for an angel, sculptor? Get you marble fine Carve it with patient purpose, coax it to curve and line Drape it with flowing garments, give it the simple charms— Carve us a mother holding her baby in her arms. Wonderful, tender, hopeful, sweet she must be and wise And with the light of heaven glimmering in her eyes. That is an angel, sculptor—see that you carve it sure Showing the love that surges out from a soul all pure. Carve me an angel, sculptor. Carve us a woman, old And grave in all the wrinkles her withered cheek must hold— Wrinkles that tell of sorrow, lines that the laughs have left Give her the knotted fingers no longer quick and deft Bend her with years of toiling, bow her with weight of years Show us the golden beauty wrought of her smiles and tears. Tell in the stone the story, how she is wan and worn Through all her self-denial for the ones that she has borne. That is an angel, sculptor. Grave it, and carve it so And all the world will see it—see it, and bow down low.
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Optimism
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 19, 1912. Never heered him blame the world Fer the troubles that it brought Never heered him rail at life Or express a gloomy thought Seen it rainin’ pitchforks, when Outside labor he had planned All he said wuz: “After this Won’t the sun be simply grand?” Seen his shoulders high with care Didn’t know which way to turn Troubles, troubles everywhere Never, far as I can learn Wailed an’ whimpered at his fate Took ‘em smiling, one by one Telling folks: “When these are past What comes next’ll jes’ be fun.” Seen him to the hubs in mud Wagon stuck an’ hosses tired Never growled about the road Never kicked ‘coz he was mired Rested for a while an’ said To the hosses: “Never mind, Jes’ a rod or two ahead Easier goin’ we shall find.” Seems his woes appealed to him Jes’ as sugar does to boys Used ‘em too, in jes’ that way Made ‘em sweeten up his joys. Allus lookin’ jes’ beyond The edge of trouble to the day (Havin’ known the pangs o’ strife) He’d appreciate his pay.
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The Singer’s Apology
From The Seattle Star, November 18, 1912. By Berton Braley. I have heartened your soul for battle, I have turned your face to the fray, I have stirred your blood to a seething flood with many a valiant lay; I have made your songs of conflict and slogans to lead you on, I have chanted you forth to victory when all your hope was gone. You march to the beat of songs I sing, they comfort your sleep at night And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight! If I go forth to the battle field and join in the conflict there I am only one of a thousand men who does his little share But the songs I make in my sheltered tent as I toil with brain and pen Are the breath that fans the fighting flame in the hearts of a thousand men. And, though I take not to the field or stand in the battle line The word that carries the warriors on to victory is mine! I have lifted your souls from fell defeat to battle again—and win I have sounded a clarion call of faith amid the fighting din What matters it if my hand is weak when I make ten thousand strong By the thrill of a magic chant of words and the rhythm of a song? I keep the private’s courage high, the captain’s eyes alight— And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight!
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No Upheaval
From the Evening Star, November 17, 1912. By Philander Johnson. We’re feelin’ purty cheerful down to Pohick on the Crick. At first the town was lookin’ fur some unexpected trick Such as Fate likes to play on folks that gets well satisfied In order to prevent ‘em from the ways of too much pride. We thought the election was a-goin’ to turn things loose An’ leave us in a state where nothin’ wasn’t any use. Each said that if his party was defeated in the fall Us ordinary people wouldn’t stand no show at all. But there isn’t any sign of an excuse to be forlorn. The stock ain’t lost their appetites fur oats an’ hay an’ corn., An’ people keep on eatin’ jest as in the other days, Creatin’ a demand fur everything thet we kin raise. An’ I’ve noticed it was much the same in ‘lections of the past. We always got a skeer which proved without a cause, at last. Although a governmental change sets rumors flyin’ thick, We keep on goin’ jes’ the same at Pohick on the Crick.
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The Compendium of Knowledge
From The Seattle Star, November 16, 1912. By Berton Braley. I bought a cyclopedia (Ten volumes, bound in calf). Said I, “My reading’s been too light; All froth and useless chaff; I’m really ignorant, I’ve been Too frivolous, by half!” Upon the shelf I placed the set And gazed on it with pride, And I was awed to think how much Of wisdom was inside; What harvestings of wondrous lore, That came from far and wide. Upon that self-same shelf it stands, And it will linger there; For, though I studied patiently, Then wept and tore my hair, At last I gave the problem up, In anguish and despair. For every highbrow in the world Had writ of various things, “Of ships and soap and sealing wax, And cabbages and kings.” I couldn’t understand a word, And still my poor head rings. They wrote in seven syllables, With formulae abstruse; They wallowed deep in Delphic words, Which scared me like the deuce. Among their curves and diagrams, I muttered, “What’s the use?” From out its shelf that set of books Looks down with aspect grand And, gazing at it, I remark: “Is there no soul at hand To write a cyclopedia Which folks can understand?”
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Nothing Serious
From The Seattle Star, November 15, 1912. There’s many a man who kicks against The price of pork and steak, Who says that the cost of chalky milk Gives him a constant ache, Who howls when he buys a dozen eggs And roars a half an hour When buying a cake of laundry soap Or half a sack of flour, Who threatens to cause someone’s arrest And rails against the trust, And says that the cost of living soon Will make the nation bust— BUT Who’ll blow a good five dollar bill For one of the latest shirts And pick out a swell three-dollar tie And make no sign it hurts. Who’ll stand at a bar with twenty men And buy round after round In treating the crowd to foamy drinks And never make a sound!