Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • From Wishing Land

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 28, 1914. By Robert Louis Stevenson.

    Dear lady, tapping at your door
        Some little verses stand,
    And beg on this auspicious day
        To come and kiss your hand.

    Their syllables all counted right,
        Their rhymes each in its place,
    Like birthday children at the door,
        They wait to see your face.

    Rise, lady, rise and let them in;
        Fresh from the fairy shore,
    They bring you things you wish to have,
        Each in its pinafore.

    For they have been to Wishing Land
        This morning in the dew,
    And all your dearest wishes bring—
        All granted—home to you.

    What these may be they would not tell
        And could not if they would;
    They take the packets sealed to you
        As trusty servants should.

    But there was one that looked like Love,
        And one that smelt of Health,
    And one that had a jingling sound—
        I fancy it was Wealth.

    Ah well, they are but wishes; still
        O lady fair, for you,
    I know that all you wish is kind,
        O pray it all come true.

  • Waiting

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 21, 1914. By John Burroughs.

    Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
        Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
    I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,
        For lo! my own shall come to me.

    I stay my haste, I make delays,
        For what avails this eager pace?
    I stand amid the eternal ways,
        And what is mine shall know my face.

    Asleep, awake, by night or day,
        The friends I seek are seeking me;
    No wind can drive my bark astray,
        Nor change the tides of destiny.

    What matter if I stand alone?
        I wait with joy the coming years;
    My heart shall reap where it has sown,
        And garner up its fruit of tears.

    The waters know their own and draw
        The brook that springs in yonder height;
    So flows the good with equal law
        Unto the soul of pure delight.

    The stars come nightly to the sky;
        The tidal wave unto the sea;
    Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
        Can keep my own away from me.

  • The Vanished Country

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 7, 1914. By Grantland Rice.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a cabin in a lane,
    Across the yellow sunshine
        And the silver of the rain;
    A cabin, summer-shaded,
        Where the maples whispered low
    Dream stories of the world winds
        That a fellow used to know;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a land he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s an old-time swinging gate
    Through the early dusk of summer
        Where a girl has come to wait;
    And her hair is like the sundrift
        From the heart of summer skies,
    While the blue of God’s wide heaven
        Crowns the splendor of her eyes;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a girl he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a dream that used to be
    Of Fame within the city
        And a name beyond the sea;
    A dream of laurel wreathings
        That came singing through the light
    The story of the glory
        Of the victor in the fight;
    And it’s queer that, worn and gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a dream he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

  • Fortunate Man

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 26, 1914.

    He does not yearn for riches
        That may be wrongly spent;
    He plods along life’s highway,
        His heart filled with content.

    Great fame may never crown him,
        Nor minions on him wait,
    But he knows where fish are biting
        And his backyard’s full of bait.

  • Solace

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, June 12, 1914. By Walter Malone.

    When I am bowed with grief, let me not say,
    “Lord, I am cheered in my adversity
    To know that countless thousands in this world
    Today are bowed with burdens heavier
    Than those allotted unto me.” Let not
    The selfish thought that hearts of others ache
    With pangs more poignant than mine own be made
    A balm to soothe me to contentedness.
    No, rather let me say, “Though I am thrall
    To sorrow, it is comfort unto me
    To know that countless others at this hour
    Are glad of heart. I thank Thee that my gloom
    Eclipses not the noontide of their joy.”
    O brother, though my heart be desolate,
    Lonely and dreary, let my solace be
    To know that in Thy house is warmth and love,
    Dancing and feasting, and the sound of mirth;
    Yes, brother, let my worthier comfort be to know
    Thy path is bright though mine is dark.

  • To Beatrice

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, June 9, 1914. By Richard Mansfield.

        Bring me that coat!
    I wore it when I wooed her first!
    Her mittened hand was on the sleeve
    And stayed me when I feigned to read
    Her silence a command to leave.

    Search well the pockets, will you find
    A tiny, useless bit of lace?
    I stole it from the hand that hid
    The smile that dawned upon her face.

        Bring me that coat!
    Be sure no vestige of these now
    Of amber-scented lock no trace?
    There is a silent witness still
    More precious far than glove or lace!

    ’Tis here where you may scarcely see
    The little rent a blackthorn tore;
    That’s where her loving fingers delved,
    That’s where her loving glances bore!

    Look at the stitches close and neat,
    You’ll barely find the rent I tore—
    She mended all my life like that!
    Bring me that coat, that coat once more!

  • Give Us Men!

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, June 2, 1914. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

    “God give us men! A time like this demands
    Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands;
    Men whom the lust of lucre does not kill;
    Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
    Men who possess opinions and a will ;
    Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
    Men who can stand before a demagogue
    And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking;
    Tall men, uncrowned, who live above the fog,
    In public duty, and in private thinking;
    For while the rabble with their thumb-worn creeds,
    Their large professions, and their little deeds,
    Mingle in selfish strife, Lo! Freedom weeps;
    Wrong rules the land, and waiting justice sleeps.”

  • It

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 26, 1914.

    They say that now we’ve a third sex
        In woman’s form ’tis set
    But it has male proclivities
        E’en to the cigarette.

    It smokes, it drinks, it lives in flats
        Rides in taxis alone;
    It saws a bone, a sermon spouts
        And quotes Coke or Blackstone.

    They imitate the neuter bee,
        Don’t care a cuss for kids;
    They like to work just as a mule;
        In fact they are hybrids.

    So when we up our grammars take
        And He, She, It we see,
    We know that It is nature’s freak;
        She’s It and It is she.

  • To the Willow Tree

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 24, 1914. By Robert Herrick.

    Thou art to all lost love the best,
        The only true plant found,
    Wherewith young men and maids distrest
        And left of love are crown’d.

    When once the lover’s rose is dead,
        Or laid aside forlorn,
    The willow garlands ‘bout the head
        Bedew’d with tears are worn.

    When with neglect, the lover’s bane,
        Poor maids rewarded be
    For their love lost, their only gain
        Is but a wreath from thee.

    And underneath thy cooling shade,
        When weary of the light,
    The love-spent youth and lovesick maid
        Come to weep out the night.

  • His Pipe

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 16, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    Though grandpa left us long ago, with years and labors ripe,
    Yet still upon the shelf we keep his old black briar pipe.
    And when we take it down we seem to see above the bowl
    The keen blue eyes that mirrored forth his wise and kindly soul.
    We took our sorrows to his knee, he listened to them all,
    From sister Letty’s love affairs, to Benny’s “losted” ball,
    And when he filled and lit his pipe, we knew that he had found
    The end of all the trouble-skeins our careless hands unwound.

    So when my grown-up heart is sad with life’s eternal pain,
    With reverential touch I take the old black pipe again.
    About it hangs the aroma of good tobacco still,
    And calls his sturdy spirit back to brace my weakened will.
    Through that old pipe he speaks to me, just as he used to do,
    And bids me face the world again with strength and courage new,
    And Hope around me folds once more her rainbow-colored cloak,
    And all my little troubles fade as once they did—in smoke.