Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • At a Gate On the Hill

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 16, 1914. By Gervais Gage.

    At a gate on the hill in the parting hour,
        When the wind blew soft on the sea,
    He laid in the maiden’s hand a flower;
        “O sweet, thy pledge from me!
            Years shall be sped, the flower be dead,
                But not my love to thee;
                    O not my love to thee!
                It liveth still in a heart on the hill
                    In a tender memorie!”

    At a gate on the hill, in a weary hour
        When the rough wind vexed the sea,
    She held in her hand the faded flower;
        “O sweet, my pledge from thee!
            The years are sped, the flower is dead,
                But not thy love to me,
                    Tho there come no news from the sea;
                It liveth still in a heart on the hill
                    In a quenchless memorie!”

    On a grave by the hill he knelt—alone,
        The wanderer, back from the sea;
    He knelt alone by a white gravestone;
        And carven curiously,
            The scroll he read: —“The flower is dead;
                But not thy love in me,
                    Tho thou stayest long on the sea;
                By a higher hill it waiteth still,
                    At a fairer gate for thee;
                In a deathless tryst with thee!”

  • Little Breeches

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 9, 1914. By John Hay.

    I don’t go much on religion,
        I never ain’t had no show;
    But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
        On the handful o’ things I know.
    I don’t pan out on the prophets
        And free-will, and that sort of thing—
    But I b’lieve in God and the angels
        Ever since one night last spring.

    I come into town with some turnips,
        And my little Gabe come along—
    No four-year-old in the county
        Could beat him for pretty and strong,
    Pert and chipper and sassy,
        Always ready to swear and fight—
    And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
        Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

    The snow come down like a blanket
        As I passed by Taggart’s store;
    I went in for a jug of molasses
        And left the team at the door.
    They scared at something and started—
        I heard one little squall,
    And hell-to-split over the prairie
        Went team, Little Breeches and all.

    Hell-to-split over the prairie!
        I was almost froze with skeer;
    But we rousted up some torches,
        And searched for ’em far and near.
    At last we struck hosses and wagon,
        Snowed under a soft white mound,
    Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
        No hide nor hair was found.

    And here all hopes soured on me,
        Of my fellow critter’s aid—
    I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
        Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
    By this, the torches was played out,
        And me and Isrul Parr
    Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
        That he said was somewhar thar.

    We found it at last, and a little shed
        Where they shut up the lambs at night.
    We looked in and seen them huddled
        Thar, so warm and sleepy and white;
    And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
        As pert as ever you see,
    “I want a chaw of terbacker,
        And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

    How did he git thar? Angels.
        He could never have walked in that storm.
    They jest scooped down and toted him
        To whar it was safe and warm.
    And I think that saving a little child,
        And fetching him to his own,
    Is a durned sight better business
        Than loafing around the throne.

  • Why?

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 6, 1914. By Kate Porter.

    When he was a little boy o’ mine,
        And e’en before he came,
    I thought of him as a hero brave,
        A man who’d win a name.

    The little hands that clung to mine
        I taught to work alone,
    The little mind I taught to think
        Without depending on my own.

    I made his little body strong,
        I made him brave and true,
    Although I knew that all the while
        From me he further grew.

    Then why should I be sorrowing,
        His country’s call has come?
    Oh, why should I not feel my pride?
        He bravely leaves his home.

    His land is what I trained him for,
        So why should tears fall fast?
    The man-child that I gave to it
        Goes forth to serve at last!

    As strong as any mother’s son
        I watched him ride away,
    Yet why do I keep thinking him
        My little boy today?

    Long years it’s been since I last heard
        His voice in childish key,
    And why do I keep hearing now
        A little cry for me?

    ’Twas sweet to hold his baby form
        (How safe he was with me!)
    But ever in my mind I hold
        The man that was to be.

    And now how fades that vision bright,
        This thought of him, in pain!
    Ah, why can I but see instead
        My little boy again?

  • The Lawless Heart

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 25, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    Dull trade hath bound me in its grip,
        And never shall I be free,
    Yet I dream of the decks of a pirate ship
        In the roll of the open sea;
    I dream of the pennant dread and black
        That flies at the mast alway,
    As we swoop along on a merchant’s track
        In the sting of the flying spray!

    Oh, I am a law-abiding chap,
        Yet deep in my heart I’d be
    A buccaneer with a scarlet cap
        And a Terror of the Sea;
    As lawless and ruthless a bandit brute
        As history ever knew,
    Roaming the seas in search of loot
        At the head of an evil crew!

    Oh, here at home I am meek and mild,
        A man with a family,
    Yet I dream of deeds that are dark and wild
        And of red, red fights at sea;
    And under my breath I softly hum
        A stave from a pirate song,
    And my throat grows parched for pirate rum,
        For I have been dry so long!

    My life is ordered and shaped and bound
        And kept to its rule and line,
    But my thoughts can wander the whole world round
        And my dreams—my dreams are mine!
        And I hungrily long to be
    A pirate chief on a low, black ship
        In the roll of the open sea!

  • The Dreamer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 14, 1914. By Theodosia Garrison.

    The gypsies passed her little gate—
        She stopped her wheel to see
    A brown-faced pair who walked the road
        Free as the wind is free;
    And suddenly her tiny room
        A prison seemed to be.

    Her shining plates against the walls,
        Her sunlit sanded floor,
    The brass-bound wedding chest that held
        Her linen’s snowy store,
    The very wheel whose running died—
        Seemed only chains she bore.

    She watched the foot-free gypsies pass;
        She never knew or guessed
    The wishful dream that drew them close—
        The longing in each breast
    To some day know a home like hers
        Wherein their hearts might rest.

  • June in India

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 9, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in
        And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
        Full on the bosom of the tortured town;
    Till night falls, heavy as remembered sin

    That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
        And, hour on hour, the dry eyed Moon in spite
        Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
    The torment of the uncomplaining trees.

    Far off the Thunder bellows her despair
    To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
        In vain. No help the heaped up clouds afford
        But wearier weight of burdened, burning air,
    What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky
    Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!

  • Self-Dependence

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 23, 1914. By Matthew Arnold.

    Weary of myself, and sick of asking
    What I am, and what I ought to be,
    At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
    Forward, forward, o’er the starlit sea.

    And a look of passionate desire
    O’er the sea and to the stars I send;
    “Ye who from childhood up have calm’d me,
    Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

    “Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
    On my heart your mighty charm renew;
    Still, still let me as I gaze upon you
    Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

    From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
    Over the lit sea’s unquiet way,
    In the rustling night air came the answer—
    “Would’st thou be as these are? Live as they.

    “Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
    Undistracted by the sights they see,
    These demand not that the things without them
    Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

    “And with joy the stars perform their shining,
    And the sea its long moon-silver’d roll;
    For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
    All the fever of some differing soul.

    “Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
    In what state God’s other works may be,
    In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
    These attain the mighty life we see.”

    O air-born voice! Long since, severely clear,
    A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
    “Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
    Who finds himself loses his misery!”

  • A Great Leader

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 21, 1914.

    An Emporer went to the front,
        With colors proudly flying;
    His soldiers bore the battle’s brunt,
        The wounded and the dying.

    Upon a hill he viewed the scene,
        Beyond the range of firing,
    Or telephoned his troopers keen
        With energy untiring.

    At noon he scarcely stopped to take
        A cup o’ tea to warm him,
    Brewed by a chef too prone to quake
        Lest anything should harm him.

    The shades of night came down ere long
        And closed the bloody battle,
    And quiet reigned the hosts among,
        Save for the foe’s death rattle.

    Informed the victory was won,
        The monarch’s heart grew lighter
    And much he plumed himself upon
        His prowess as a fighter.

  • First Love

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 19, 1914. By W. W. Hendree.

    Who has not had some little life-romance—
        Some dream of love so painful, yet so sweet?
    Who has not felt his heart thrilled by a glance,
        Nor known the ecstacy when fond lips meet?
    Such things grow tasteless as the years advance
        And age cools down the blood from feverheat;
    But still, although the thought of passion dies,
        We linger fondly o’er its memories.

    Few ever marry their first early love;
        But after one has mingled in the strife
    Of varied passions—after fate has wove
        More than one broken thread into his life,
    Then he begins to feel the dearth of love,
        And takes into his heart and home a wife;
    And oft, though love be wanting at the first,
        A sweet affection grows, by circumstances nursed.

    But still through all there oftentimes will break
        A whisper of the past we had thought dumb,
    And recollections swift and sweet will make
        The present seem so sad and wearisome;
    It sometimes seems as if the heart would break
        In thinking of the dreary years to come,
    And for the moment in our hearts we sin
        With vain regrets of that which might have been.

  • Gone But Not Forgotten

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 9, 1914.

    I knew a certain citizen
        Who wouldn’t take a drink;
    He wouldn’t smoke, he wouldn’t swear,
        He wouldn’t even think
    Of many sorts of wickedness
        That other men commit;
    Among the ultra-pious folk
        He seemed to make a hit.

    His prayers to the throne of grace
        Uprose day after day,
    In church he joined the singing when
        The organ ‘gan to play.
    For years he led a model life,
        But when away he went
    The savings bank he’d organized
        Was left without a cent.