Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • The Tryst

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 25, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

    Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
    Lamps were all out, doors were shut in the town, and stars were hidden in clouds in the murky sky of August.
    Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?
    He woke up starting, and the rude light from the woman’s lamp struck his forgiving eyes.
    It was the dancing girl, drunk with the wine of her youth, starred with jewels and clouded with a pale blue mantle.
    She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.
    “Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman, “graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you.”
    The ascetic answered, “Go on your way, fair woman. When the time is ripe I will come and see you.”
    Suddenly, the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.
    The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

    ————————————————

    The new year had not begun yet.
    The wind was wild. The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossoms.
    Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.
    The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
    From the mid-sky smiled the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
    The young ascetic was walking in the lonely city road, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaints.
    Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.
    What woman was it lying on the earth in the shadow of the wall at his feet?
    Struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, she was driven away from the town with haste for fear of her fatal touch.
    The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.
    “Who are you, kind angel of mercy?” asked the woman.
    “The time, at last, has come for me to visit you, and I have come,” replied the young ascetic.

  • A Busy Little Man

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 24, 1913.

    Again he comes, on eager feet,
        His wagon at his heels;
    He pauses at my window seat
        And for my trade appeals.

    “What will you have?” I hear him ask
        In brisk, storekeeper voice;
    And I must lay aside my task
        And gravely make my choice.

    And he, as I each package name,
        As gravely hands it out;
    Then, with my note in pay for same,
        He hurries on his route.

    For cash, it seems, he little cares—
        He knows my word is good;
    And so I question not his wares
        As good housekeepers should.

    I fear the coffee that I buy
        Is pebbles, picked with care;
    I dare not in the sugar pry
        For only sand is there.

    My beefsteak is a sorry show—
        I think it must be bone;
    And for a loaf of bread I know
        He’s wrapped me up a stone.

    But bless his heart! I help him play
        In every way I can;
    And so he labors through the day
        A busy little man.

  • She Was a Phantom of Delight

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 22, 1913. By William Wordsworth.

    She was a phantom of delight
    When first she gleamed upon my sight;
    A lovely apparition sent
    To be a moment’s ornament;
    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
    Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair;
    But all things else about her drawn
    From May time and the cheerful dawn,
    A dancing shape, an image gay,
    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

    I saw her upon nearer view,
    A spirit, yet a woman too!
    Her household motions light and free,
    And steps of virgin liberty;
    A countenance in which did meet
    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
    A creature not too bright or good
    For human nature’s daily food;
    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

    And now I see with eye serene
    The very pulse of the machine;
    A being breathing thoughtful breath
    A traveler between life and death;
    The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
    A perfect woman, nobly planned
    To warn, to comfort, and command;
    And yet a spirit still and bright
    With something of angelic light.

  • Who’s Got a Job for the Panama Gang?

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    Here we are, gentlemen; here’s the whole gang of us,
        Pretty near through with the job we are on;
    Size up our work—it will give you hang of us—
        South to Balboa and north to Colon.
    Yes, the canal is our letter of reference;
        Look at Culebra and glance at Gatun;
    What can we do for you—got any preference,
        Wireless to Saturn or bridge to the moon?

    Don’t send us back to a life that is flat again,
        We who have shattered a continent’s spine;
    Office work—Lord, but we couldn’t do that again!
        Haven’t you something that’s more in our line?
    Got any river they say isn’t crossable?
        Got any mountains that can’t be cut through?
    We specialize in the wholly impossible,
        Doing things “nobody ever could do!”

    Take a good look at the whole husky crew of us,
        Engineers, doctors, and steam-shovel men;
    Taken together you’ll find quite a few of us
        Soon to be ready for trouble again.
    Bronzed by the tropical sun that is blistery,
        Chuckful of energy, vigor and tang,
    Trained by a task that’s the biggest in history,
        Who has a job for the Panama gang?

  • Be My Sweetheart

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 14, 1913. By Eugene Field.

    Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        When birds are on the wing,
    When bee and bud and babbling flood
        Bespeak the birth of spring;
    Come sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        And wear this posy ring.

    Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        In the golden summer glow
    Of the earth aflush with the gracious blush
        Which the ripening fields foreshow;
    Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        As into the noon we go.

    Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        When falls the bounteous year,
    When the fruit and wine of tree and vine
        Give us their harvest cheer;
    O sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
        For winter, it draweth near.

    Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        When the year is white and old,
    When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,
        And the hand of age is cold;
    Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
        ‘Till the year of our love be told.

  • The Self Important Man

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 1, 1913.

    A young man who wore flaming ties
        Was loudly heard to say
    He’d like to take a little rest,
        But could not get away.

    It seems he thought the busy firm
        For which he was a clerk
    Would only last the briefest time
        If he should stop from work.

    And yet, if ever he got fired
        Some morning by the boss,
    The people he says need him so
        Would scarcely feel his loss.

    The world is full of men like that
        Whose self-inflation’s such
    They think this world without their aid
        Would not amount to much.

  • A Woman’s Love

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 30, 1913. By John Hay.

    A sentinel angel sitting high in glory
    Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
    “Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story:

    “I loved—and, blind with passionate love, I fell;
    Love brought me down to death, and death to hell,
    For God is just, and death for sin is well.

    “I do not rage against his high decree,
    Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;
    But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

    “Great Spirit! Let me see my love again,
    And comfort him one hour, and I were fain
    To pay a thousand years of fire and pain.”

    Then said the pitying angel, “Nay, repent
    That wild vow! Look, the dial finger’s bent
    Down to the last hour of thy punishment!”

    But still she wailed, “I pray thee, let me go!
    I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.
    Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!”

    The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,
    And upward, joyous, like a rising star,
    She rose and vanished in the ether far.

    But soon down the dying sunset sailing,
    And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
    She fluttered back, with broken hearted wailing.

    She sobbed, “I found him by the summer sea
    Reclined, his head upon a maiden’s knee—
    She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!”

    She wept, “Now let my punishment begin.
    I have been fond and foolish. Let me in
    To expiate my sorrow and my sin.”

    The angel answered, “Nay, sad soul, go higher!
    To be deceived in your true heart’s desire
    Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire.”

  • We Kissed Again

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 27, 1913. By Tennyson.

    As thro’ the land at eve we went,
        And plucked the ripened ears,
    We fell out, my wife and I,
    We fell out, I know not why,
        And kissed again with tears.

    And blessings on the falling out
        That all the more endears,
    When we fall out with those we love,
        And kiss again with tears!

    For when we came where lies the child
        We lost in other years,
    There above the little grave,
    O there above the little grave,
        We kissed again with tears.

  • First One In

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 20, 1913.

    See the happy youngsters,
        Racing through the wood,
    For the old loved water
        Where the swimming’s good.

    Now they’re at the pool side,
        And with shout and jest
    Each strives in undressing
        To outdo the rest.

    Then white limbs a moment
        In the sunlight gleam,
    As a lithe young body
        Cleaves the glassy stream.

    Then a head emerges,
        And above the din
    Rings the cry of triumph,
        “I’m the first one in!”

  • Spinning

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 9, 1913.
 By Helen Hunt Jackson.
 

 Like a blind spinner in the sun,
     I tread my days;
 I know that all the threads will run
     Appointed ways;
 I know each day will bring its task,
 And, being blind, no more I ask.
 
 I do not know the name or use
     Of that I spin;
 I only know that some one came
     And laid within
 My hand the thread, and said, “Since you
 Are blind, but one thing you can do.”
 
 Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
     And tangled fly.
 I know wild storms are sweeping past,
     And fear that I
 Shall fail; but dare not try to find
 A safer place, since I am blind.
 
 I know not why, but I am sure
     That tint and place
 In some great fabric to endure
     Past time and race
 My threads will have; so from the first,
 Though blind, I never felt accursed.
 
 I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung
     From one short word
 Said over me when I was young—
     So young, I heard
 It; knowing not that God’s name signed
 My brow, and sealed me his, though blind.
 
 But whether this be seal or sign
     Within, without,
 It matters not. The bond divine
     I never doubt.
 I know he set me here, and still,
 Am glad, and blind, I wait his will.
 
 But listen, listen, day by day
     To hear their tread
 Who bear the finished web away,
     And cut the thread
 And bring God’s message in the sun,
 “Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.”