Newspaper History

Category: Rock Island Argus

  • If You Could Know

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 20, 1915. By Mabel A. Bunnell.

    If you could know the half of all I yearn to be to you, dear heart!
    Each day that dawns I struggle to be strong and do my part,
    Yet when at last the night comes softly down I humbly pray—
    “Lord, grant me still to prove my tender love just one more day!”

    Just one more day to strive to rise above small troubles, petty care,
    That my cramped soul may break its earth-forged bonds, at last to dare.
    To face the future and to gladly live, with courage new,
    Loyal, and cheerful, facing toward the light for truth and you.

    And yet, I feel, in spite of all the heights which I can never scale,
    In spite of all the many tests in which I daily fail,
    That my deep love—more deep and pure and strong than I can ever show—
    You somehow, through my failure, doubts and fears, will come to know.

    The dreary clouds can’t hide the sun for aye; it glimmers through,
    The sweet, wet violet, struggling through dead leaves, still show its blue.
    And so I trust, though oft I strike Love’s chord with clumsy hand,
    You’ll feel the melody I tried to play and understand.

  • You Can’t Always Tell

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 6, 1915. By Rody M’Phee.

    Hank Simmons was a patriot who loved his native land;
    Whenever danger threatened he would shout to beat the band.
    He was a staunch defender of the honor of the flag,
    And of his country’s martial strength he dearly loved to brag.
    A glorious example to his fellowmen was he
    Of what a pure, unselfish, noble patriot should be.

    The martial spirit he proclaimed from morning until night,
    Till folks began to hope for war to see Hank Simmons fight.
    With just a few good men like him, most everybody felt
    That we could lick the universe with one good solid welt.
    At last the evil day arrived when war became a fact,
    And everybody looked at Hank to see how he would act.

    Of course you think Hank shirked and hid and jarred his neighbors’ pride.
    Well if you do, you’ve struck it wrong—he fought and bled and died!

  • My Son

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 27, 1915. By Douglas Malloch.

    I that had yearned for youth, my own, again,
        And mourned the wasteful hours of younger days,
    I that had sighed for spring, for summer, when
        The snows of winter covered all my ways—
    I that had prayed for years, for only one,
        Have found that prayer answered in my son.

    He is myself again, with hopes of old,
        With old temptations and with old desires;
    He is myself again—the clay to mold
        Into a man, and all the man aspires,
    Who says that youth returns to us no more?
        He is as I was in the days of yore.

    In my own days, in my own days of youth,
        Ah, how I wished a comrade and a friend!—
    To help me keep the quiet path of truth
        And through temptation my own feet attend.
    So shall I journey onward by his side,
        His father—yea, his comrade and his guide.

    I that have failed shall shape success in him.
        I that have wandered point the proper path,
    A signal when the signal lights are dim,
        A roof to fend him from the storms of wrath—
    So we shall journey upward, I and he,
        And he shall be the man I meant to be.

  • Keys

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 25, 1915. By Bessie Chandler.

    Long ago in old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
    Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key;
    Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
    Should return from their long exile to their homes so far away.

    But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
    Vanished, as the years rolled onward, ‘neath the crumbling touch of time.

    Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
    And through all life’s changing phases ever fast we hold the key;
    Our fair country lies behind us, we are exiles, too, in truth,
    For no more shall we behold her—our Granada’s name is Youth.

    We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when now and then
    Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.
    “We are young!” we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee;
    Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key.

  • A Contrast

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 21, 1915. By Ted Robinson.

    The lips of her were scarlet, and she carried golden hair;
    And wondering eyes like April skies, and simple, violet air.
    Yes, she had cheeks like peaches and the innocent white brow
    Of children who can know no sorrow now—no sorrow—now!

    She had pathetic, faded eyes, and she wore silver hair—
    Her forehead showed the crowsfoot cross of many a carking care;
    She had the slender, blue-veined hands of one whose work was done—
    The dim, sweet smile of happiness, lost long ago—and won!

    And close they sat together in the softened twilight hour—
    The tender opening blossom and the scentless, drooping flower;
    Which of them shall we pity with a philosophic mind—
    The bitter life that’s coming, or the sweet life left behind?

  • When the Little Feller Grins

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 19, 1915. By W. D. Nesbit.

    They ain’t much to a baby, till it gets to know yer face
    An’ pesters till you take it an’ hug it ‘round the place,
    An’ grapples at yer whiskers with pudgy-wudgy hands,
    An’ sez a lot o’ gurgles its mother understands.
    An’ the time a gran’dad’s gladness and tickledness begins
    Is when th’ little feller looks up at him an’ grins.

    His grin shows that he knows ye, and trusts ye as a friend—
    A baby isn’t growed up an’ never can pretend!—
    His eyes has honest twinkles an’ somehow you know they start
    From ‘way down in th’ goodness that’s beatin’ in his heart.
    It’s confidence he gives you without no outs and ins
    When he begins to dimple an’ looks at you an’ grins.

    They ain’t much to a baby, but in its grin you know
    You’re seein’ lots o’ sunshine you lost long, long ago;
    It makes you feel religious—a baby’s heart is clean
    An’ when it gives its favor it’s purpose isn’t mean—
    You think the Lord’s forgiven a hull lot o’ your sins
    When that fat little feller looks up at you an’ grins.

  • A Mother’s Vision

    From the Rock Island Argus, April 7, 1915. By Gertrude Hockridge.

    Sitting alone in the firelight, with aged head bent low
    Over some little garments that were worn in the long ago,
    A woman, old and faded, was dreaming of other years
    And the faces of absent loved ones she saw through a mist of tears.

    All was silent; no echo of footfalls swift and gay;
    The dancing feet of her children had wandered far away.
    Busy and happy and thoughtless, they were scattered far and wide;
    All grown to be men and women—save the little boy who died.

    It was strange that of all the children, he should feel tonight so near.
    His little grave had been covered by the snows of many a year;
    Yet she fancied she saw him enter, that she saw him standing there,
    His blue eyes clear and smiling, the light on his curling hair.

    And a voice spoke from the silence, saying, “This for you I kept;
    But my meaning you could not fathom when for your child you wept.
    The living have left your hearthstone, but with you he shall abide
    In the beauty of deathless childhood, your little boy who died.”

  • The Heart of a Woman

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 31, 1915.

    Laughter and sunshine and story,
        Beauty and sweetness and trust;
    Courage and grandeur and glory,
        Shadow and darkness and dust—
    All things of light and of loving
        The heart of a woman contains,
    Grand virtues, great sweetness and sorrows,
        Peace, happiness, passion and pains.

    One moment it blooms like a garden
        With every sweet blossom life knows,
    A vale of the peace of the ages,
        A pathway through violet and rose—
    And then o’er the darkness and doubting
        The wings of a storm sweep the skies,
    And the garden is tossed in the tempest,
        And the vale in a dark ruin lies.

    One moment so pitiful, tender,
        And then all the rage and the hate
    Fill its beating with infinite shadows
        As it raves against infinite fate.
    One moment so true and so loving,
        So clinging and gentle and sweet,
    All the song of life sweeping its gamut,
        Every blossom of life in its beat.

    And yet, with all changing and travail,
        All sorrow and aching and cross,
    All sunshine today, then tomorrow
        Cast down in the grief of some loss;
    And yet with its battle and thunder,
        Its April of showers and shine,
    God give me the heart of a woman
        And take all the rest that is mine!

  • Only a Dad

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 26, 1915.

    Only a dad with a tired face
    Coming home from the daily race,
    Bringing little of gold or fame
    To show how well he has played the game,
    But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
    To see him come and to hear his voice.

    Only a dad, of a brood of four,
    One of ten million men or more,
    Plodding along in the daily strife,
    Bearing the whips and scorns of life
    With never a whimper of pain or hate
    For the sake of those who at home await.

    Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
    Merely one of the surging crowd,
    Toiling, striving from day to day,
    Facing whatever may come his way;
    Silent, whenever the harsh condemn,
    And bearing it all for the love of them.

    Only a dad, but he gives his all
    To smooth the way for children small,
    Doing, with courage stern and grim,
    The deeds that his father did for him;
    This is the line that for him I pen.
    Only a dad, but the best of men.

  • Zeke Perkins’ New Machine

    From the Rock Island Argus, March 24, 1915.

    Old Zeke Perkins sold his hogs the other day,
    And the gosh-durned fool threw his money right away.
    Rode into town sitting right on a board,
    And he came ridin’ home in a darned little Ford.
    When he came to the house and got to the gate,
    He shut down the throttle and he put on the brake,
    He grabbed for the reins, got the throttle instead,
    And the gol darned Ford kept a chugging ahead.

    Old Zeke Perkins bought an automobile,
    Old Zeke Perkins’ whiskers were red.
    Old Zeke Perkins lost the combination
    And the darn little Ford kept chugging right ahead.

    Zeke jerked on the levers and he turned off the gas,
    He kicked at the pedals and he broke out the glass,
    He cut all the wires, and he pulled off the top,
    But the gosh darned Ford it just wouldn’t stop.
    He pulled out his knife and he smiled so serene,
    Cut a hole in the tank, drained out the gasoline.
    He pulled out his gun, shot the tires full of lead,
    But the gol darned Ford kept chugging right ahead.

    Went right through the fence and up through the lane;
    Mirandy saw him coming and she like to went insane,
    She ran out ahead, then she stopped to see,
    And the Ford struck her squarely where the bustle ought to be.
    She reached out her arm as she went in the air,
    Just as Zeke went by she grabbed him by the hair;
    She bounced on the seat, landed down in the bed,
    And the gol darned Ford kept chugging right ahead.

    He steered for the shed, but just missed the hole,
    Struck an old pig and you ought to see it roll,
    Out through the yard then they landed in a heap,
    In a big muddy pool ‘bout six feet deep.
    Zeke grabbed Mirandy and waded for the shore;
    He was glad that it stopped and wouldn’t go no more.
    He pricked up his ears then he looked back and said,
    “Why, the gol darned Ford is chugging right ahead.”