Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • October

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 6, 1914. By Folger McKinsey.

    A poem in the wind,
        A song in the sea;
    A dream in the sun,
        A hymn on the lea;
    A bird in the sky,
        A laugh in the morn;
    A heaven nearby
        And the gold in the corn.

    A wine in the blood,
        A fire in the heart;
    A will in the soul
        To be doing one’s part;
    A place in the world
        For the effort and zeal
    That ring with the joy
        Of the righteous and real.

    A dawn in the vale,
        A flame on the steep;
    A fire in the maple,
        A mist on the deep;
    A lilt and a lyric,
        A shout and a word;
    A streak of red wine
        On the breast of a bird.

  • Mary’s Dream

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 2, 1914. By John Lowe.

    The moon had climbed the highest hill
        That rises o’er the source of Dee,
    And from the eastern summit shed
        Her silver light on tower and tree;
    When Mary laid her down to sleep,
        Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
    When, soft and low, a voice was heard
        Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”

    She from her pillow gently raised
        Her head to ask who there might be,
    And saw young Sandy shivering stand
        With visage pale and hollow e’e.
    “Oh, Mary dear, cold is my clay,
        It lies beneath a stormy sea;
    Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
        So Mary, weep no more for me.

    “Three stormy nights and stormy days
        We tossed upon the raging main;
    And long we strove our barque to save,
        But all our striving was in vain.
    Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
        My heart was filled with love for thee.
    The storm is past and I at rest,
        So Mary, weep no more for me.

    “Oh, maiden dear, thyself prepare!
        We soon shall meet upon that shore
    Where love is free from doubt and care,
        And thou and I shall part no more!”
    Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled;
        No more of Sandy could she see,
    But soft the passing spirit said,
        “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”

  • Hohenlinden

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 16, 1914. By Thomas Campbell.

    On Linden, when the sun was low,
    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
    And dark as winter was the flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    But Linden saw another sight,
    When the drum beat at the dead of night
    Commanding fires of death to light—
    The darkness of her scenery.

    By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
    Each horseman drew his battle blade,
    And furious, every charger neighed
    To join the dreadful revelry.

    Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
    Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
    And louder than the bolts of heaven
    Far flashed the red artillery.

    But redder yet that light shall glow
    On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    ’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
    Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun,
    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
    Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

    The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
    Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
    And charge with all thy chivalry!

    Few shall part where many meet!
    The snow shall be their winding sheet,
    And every turf beneath their feet
    Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

  • Doppleganger

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 5, 1914. By Madison Cawein.

    Oh, I went down the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of other days,
    And on the way I met a ghost, pale in the moonlight’s rays,
    The ghost of one, a little boy, with whom my heart still plays.

    He looked at me, he nodded me, he beckoned with his pole,
    To follow where we oft had gone to that old fishing hole,
    In checker of the shine and shade beneath the old beech pole.

    The old hole, the dark hole, wherein we marked the gleam
    Of minnows streaking, silvery rose, and in its deep a dream
    Of something gone forever down the glimmer of the stream.

    The old hole, the deep hole, o’er which we watched the flash
    Of bronze and brass of dragonflies and listened for the splash
    Of frogs that leaped from lilied banks when round them we would dash.

    He stood beside me there again, with fishing pole and line,
    And looked into my eyes and said, “The fishing will be fine!”
    And bade me follow down the stream and placed his hand in mine.

    But it was strange! I could not speak, however I might try,
    While all my heart choked up with tears, and I could only sigh
    And whisper to myself, “Ah, God, if I could only die!”

    He laughed at me, he beckoned me, but I—I stood wide eyed;
    A spell was on my soul, I knew, that kept me from his side,
    A spell that held me back from him, my boyhood that had died.

    ’Twas there beside the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of long gone by,
    I stood upon its banks awhile when stars were in the sky,
    And oh, I met and talked with him, the child that once was I!

  • Looking Back

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 3, 1914.

    ’Tis sweet to sing vacation days
        Because, you see, they’re ended;
    From mountain inns and summer bays
        ‘Most everyone has wended
    Back to the walks where duty lies
        And daily tasks are calling.
    Ere long will clouds obscure the skies
        And winter rains be falling.

    In retrospect, methinks, we drain
        A cup of sweetest pleasure
    And wonder if we’ll e’er again
        Have granted us a measure
    Of summer joys so brimming full
        Of mirthfulness and laughter,
    With scarce a thought of labors dull
        And troubles to come after.

    We don’t recall the insect swarm
        That started us to swearing,
    The sultry days and nights so warm
        We almost were despairing;
    The stuffy room, the tiresome bed,
        The food we vowed was “rotten”—
    Though but a week or two has sped,
        These ills are all forgotten.

  • Kilvany

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 17, 1914. By John Hay.

    The song of Kilvany. Fairest she
    In all the land of Savatthe.
    She had one child, as sweet and gay
    And dear to her as the light of day.
    She was so young, and he so fair,
    The same bright eyes, and the same dark hair;
    To see them by the blossoming way,
    They seemed two children at their play.

    There came a death-dart from the sky,
    Kilvany saw her darling die.
    The glimmering shade his eyes invades,
    Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades;
    His warm heart feels the icy chill,
    The round limbs shudder, and are still;
    And yet Kilvany held him fast
    Long after life’s last pulse was past;
    As if her kisses could restore
    The smile gone out forevermore.

    But when she saw her child was dead,
    She scattered ashes on her head,
    And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
    And rushing wildly through the street,
    She sobbing fell at Buddha’s feet.

    “Master, all-helpful, help me now!
    Here at thy feet I humbly bow;
    Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!”
    She groveled on the marble floor,
    And kissed the dead child o’er and o’er.
    And suddenly upon the air
    There fell the answer to her prayer:
    “Bring me tonight a lotus tied
    With thread from a house where none have died.”

    She rose, and laughed with thankful joy,
    Sure that the god would save the boy.
    She found a Lotus by the stream;
    She plucked it from its noonday gleam.
    And then from door to door she fared,
    To ask what house by death was spared.
    Her heart grew cold to see the eyes
    Of all dilate in slow surprise;
    “Kilvany, thou hast lost thy head;
    Nothing can help a child that’s dead.

    “There stands not by the Ganges’ side
    A house where none have ever died.”
    Thus, through the long and weary day,
    From every door she bore away
    Within her heart, and on her arm,
    A heavier load, a deeper harm.
    By gates of gold and ivory,
    By wattled huts of poverty,
    The same refrain heard poor Kilvany,
    “The living are few, the dead are many.”

    The evening came so still and fleet
    And overtook her hurrying feet.
    And, heartsick, by the sacred lane
    She fell, and prayed the god again.
    She sobbed and beat her bursting breast:
    “Ah, thou have mocked me, Mightiest!
    Lo I have wandered far and wide—
    There stands no house where none hath died.”

    And Buddha answered, in a tone
    Soft as a flute at twilight blown,
    But grand as heaven and strong as death
    To him who hears with ears of faith:
    “Child, thou art answered. Murmur not!
    Bow, and accept the common lot!”
    Kilvany heard with reverence meet,
    And laid her child at Buddha’s feet.

  • The Battle of Blenheim

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 15, 1914. By Robert Southey.

    It was a summer evening,
        Old Kaspar’s work was done,
    And he before his cottage door
        Was sitting in the sun,
    And by him sported on the green
        His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

    She saw her brother Peterkin
        Roll something large and round,
    Which he beside the rivulet
        In playing there had found;
    He came to ask what he had found,
        That was so large, and smooth, and round.

    Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
        Who stood expectant by;
    And then the old man shook his head,
        And, with a natural sigh,—
    “‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
        “Who fell in the great victory.

    “I find them in the garden,
        For there’s many here about;
    And often when I go to plough,
        The ploughshare turns them out!
    For many thousand men,” said he,
        “Were slain in that great victory.”

    “Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
        Young Peterkin, he cries;
    And little Wilhelmine looks up
        With wonder-waiting eyes;
    “Now tell us all about the war,
        And what they fought each other for.”

    “It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
        “Who put the French to rout;
    But what they fought each other for,
        I could not well make out;
    But everybody said,” quoth he,
        “That ’twas a famous victory.

    “My father lived at Blenheim then,
        Yon little stream hard by;
    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
        And he was forced to fly;
    So with his wife and child he fled,
        Nor had he where to rest his head.

    “With fire and sword the country round
        Was wasted far and wide,
    And many a childing mother then,
        And new-born baby died;
    But things like that, you know, must be
        At every famous victory.

    “They say it was a shocking sight
        After the field was won;
    For many thousand bodies here
        Lay rotting in the sun;
    But things like that, you know, must be
        After a famous victory.

    “Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
        And our good Prince Eugene.”
    “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
        Said little Wilhelmine.
    “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
        “It was a famous victory.

    “And everybody praised the Duke
        Who this great fight did win.”
    “But what good came of it at last?”
        Quoth little Peterkin.
    “Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
        “But ’twas a famous victory.”

  • The Long-Hour Men

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 8, 1914.

    When close upon the sunset hour
        The welcome whistle blows,
    The workman takes his dinner pail
        And homeward gaily goes.
    He finds the table neatly spread,
        And supper smoking hot,
    And softly hums a little tune,
        Contented with his lot.

    He trots the baby on his knee,
        And when the paper’s read,
    Knocks out the ashes from his pipe,
        And early goes to bed.
    His health is good, his heart is light,
        His slumber sweet and sound—
    How different is it with the men
        Who make the wheels go round!

    The banker sits before his desk
        Till far into the night,
    A thousand things demand his care
        And thread his locks with white.
    The manufacturer is late
        When notes are falling due,
    And threatened strikes and damage suits
        The merchant’s path pursue.

    Eight hours, and then the toiler drops
        His yoke beside his tools,
    Eight hours, and all the spindles rest,
        The flaming furnace cools.
    But still the business man, although
        His eyes for sleep are dim,
    Must grind away, there is as yet
        No eight-hour law for him.

  • Hymn Before Action

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 6, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    The earth is full of anger,
        The seas are dark with wrath,
    The Nations in their harness
        Go up against our path;
    Ere yet we loose the legions—
        Ere yet we draw the blade,
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, aid!

    High lust and forward bearing,
        Proud heart, rebellious brow—
    Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
        We seek Thy mercy now!
    The sinner that forswore Thee,
        The fool that passed Thee by,
    Our times are known before Thee—
        Lord, grant us strength to die!

    From panic, pride and terror
        Revenge that knows no reign,
    Light haste and lawless error,
        Protect us yet again.
    Cloak Thou, our underserving,
        Make firm the shuddering breath;
    In silence and unswerving
        To taste Thy lesser death!

    E’en now the vanguard gathers,
        E’en now we face the fray—
    As Thou didst help our fathers,
        Help Thou our host today!
    Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
        In life, in death made clear—
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, hear!

  • A Chance to Help

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 1, 1914.

    This life is full of ups and downs
        That fill us with dismay;
    For one whom fickle fortune crowns
        A thousand pass away
    Unhonored and unsung, without
        Regard for years of toil
    They spend amid the rabble rout,
        In heartache and turmoil.

    And yet, despite these odds so great,
        We know this much is so;
    A man, no matter what his fate,
        If high, forsooth, or low,
    Can make some other mortal glad
        And shed a ray of cheer,
    And prove this world is not so bad
        As often doth appear.