Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • Making Sure of It

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 14, 1913.

    Where I went downtown with Mamma they had Santa in a store
    Dressed up like you always see him, walking up and down the floor;
    And they said if you would tell him what you wanted him to bring,
    When he came around on Christmas, you’d get every single thing.

    So I told him that I wanted most a nice big fancy doll,
    One with lots of pretty dresses, hat and gloves and parasol,
    And he said he’d see I got it, but I must be very good,
    And be sure to learn my lessons and mind Mamma as I should.

    Then we went a little further, to the next store in the square,
    And no sooner were we in it than we saw a Santa there.
    And it got me awful puzzled, till I stopped and thought it out,
    And I saw that just one Santa never would get all about.

    Course there must be plenty of them, like policemen on a beat,
    And I wondered if the first one that I told would have our street;
    Cause if they should send the other, how would he know what to do?
    So to have my doll for certain, why I told that Santa, too.

  • The Eagle

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 7, 1913. By Robert Browning.

    Dervish Ferishtah walked the woods one eve,
    And noted on a bough a raven’s nest
    Whereof each youngling gaped with callow beak
    Widened by want; for why? beneath the tree
    Dead lay the mother bird, “A piteous chance!
    How shall they ‘scape destruction?” sighed the sage
    —Or sage about to be, though simple still.
    Responsive to which doubt, sudden there swooped
    An eagle downward, and behold he bore
    (Great hearted) in his talons flesh wherewith
    He stayed their craving, then resought the sky.
    “Ah, foolish, foolish me!” the observer smiled,
    “Who toil and moil to eke out life, when lo,
    Providence cares for every hungry mouth!”
    To profit by which lesson, home went he,
    And certain days sat musing—neither meat
    Nor drink would purchase by his handiwork.
    Then—for his head swam and his limbs grew faint—
    Sleep overtook the unwise one, whom in dream
    God thus admonished: “Hast thou marked my deed?
    Which part assigned by Providence dost judge
    Was meant for man’s example? Should he play
    The helpless weakling, or the helpful strength
    That captures prey and saves the perishing?
    Sluggard, arise, work, eat, then feed who lack!”

  • Little Boy We Used to Know

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 30, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

    The little boy whom we used to know,
    Who came to us when the day burned low,
    Who left his swing and his bat and ball
    Who left his playmates and games and all
    To come and stand by our easy-chair,
    To stand before us with yellow hair,
    On sturdy legs—with his feet apart,
    Before he snuggled against our heart.
    Where is he now with his romp and squeal,
    With his little hurts that a kiss would heal?

    We heard him say his “I lay me down,”
    And we pressed our lips to his tousled crown,
    Then his father tiptoed across the gloom
    And sat him down in the farther room,
    While his mother stayed by his side to croon
    A soft bye-low to a world-old tune
    While he drifted out into Slumberland;
    Then we stood and gazed at him, hand in hand,
    And—looking backward to where he lay—
    It seems ’twas then that he went away.

    It seems that he never came back at all
    To the rubber cat and the bouncing ball,
    To the old rope swing and the games he knew.
    A genie touched him—he grew and grew!
    From the room where our baby had sunk to sleep
    A youth came forth. And his voice is deep
    And his eyes are honest, and he his strong!
    And while still echoes the bye-low song,
    His lips say “Mother!” and then laugh “Dad!”
    And we are frightened—but we are glad!

    Sometimes we stand in the little room
    By the little bed in the evening’s gloom;
    And we miss the faltering “lay me down,”
    And we’d give the world for the tousled crown
    To kiss once more! Oh, Boy! Grown tall,
    We are frightened for you at the thought of all
    The dangers that wait your unwary feet!
    And grieving—for heartaches you’re bound to meet!
    But we are proud for the dear world’s sake
    Because of the man you are going to make.

  • The Woman in Sorrow

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 24, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.

    Ah, who is she who dwells in my heart, the woman sorrowing ever?
    I wooed her and I failed.
    I decked her with wreaths and sang songs in her praise.
    A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
    “I have no joy in thee,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

    I bought jeweled anklets for her feet and fanned her with a fan gem-studded;
    I made for her a bed on a golden couch.
    There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.

    “I have no joy in them,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
    I seated her upon a car of victory, and drove her from end to end of the earth.
    Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
    Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
    “I have no joy in conquests,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.

    I asked her, “Tell me, whom is it thou seekest?”
    She only said, “I do not know his name.”
    Days pass by and she weeps.
    “When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me forever?” she cries, the woman in sorrow.

  • Machine Limitations

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 22, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

    I’d love to sit by this machine
        And slowly touch the yielding keys,
    Till the whole world should see the sheen
        Of rocky river through the trees;
    See the slate cliffs I used to know
        And see the spider-webby span
    Of the bridge I knew long ago
        Away back where my life began.

    I’d love to take the world with me
        Across my white typewriter keys,
    Until the whole wide world should see
        The things I see, feel the same breeze
    Upon its cheek; should go and wade
        With me across the shallow ford,
    And climb the cliff’s face unafraid,
        And drink with me from the old gourd.

    The keys are unresponsive things!
        They never quite interpret right
    The song that’s in one heart and sings
        Its throbbing notes out to the night;
    The song of youth and gladsome days
        The song of blossomed slopes and bees
    The song of sumach bordered ways
        And forest glades and shady trees.

    They never can quite make the world
        See the rare color in the air—
    As if the sunset banners furled
        Had lost their sweetest color there;
    A color red as sweetheart lips!
        A color holding all the gold
    Of truant locks; pink as the tips
        Of little fingers known of old.

    Let my stiff fingers stray across
        The ivory faces as they may,
    I cannot make the branches toss,
        I cannot make the roses sway
    The way I’d like the world to see,
        The way I’d like the world to know,
    Or the whole world would sing with me
        Sweet love songs of the long ago.

  • The Bird Let Loose

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 21, 1913. By Thomas More.

    The bird let loose in Eastern skies
        When hastening fondly home
    Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
        Where idle warblers roam.
    But high she shoots through air and light
        Above all low delay,
    Where nothing earthly bounds her flight
        Nor shadow dims her way.

    So grant me, God, from every care
        And stain of passion free.
    Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air
        To hold my course to thee!
    No sin to cloud nor lure to stray
        My soul as home she springs;
    Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
        Thy freedom in her wings!

  • The Stone Rejected

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 7, 1913. By Edwin Markham.

    For years it had been trampled in the street
    Of Florence by the drift of heedless feet—
    The stone that Buonarroti made confess
    That shape you know, that marble loveliness.

    You mind the tale—how he was passing by
    When the rude marble caught his Jovian eye,
    That stone men had dishonored and had thrust
    Out to the insult of the wayside dust.
    He stooped to lift it from its mean estate,
    And bore it on his shoulder to the gate,
    Where all day long a hundred hammers rang;
    And soon his chisels round the marble sang,
    Till suddenly the hidden angel shone
    That had been waiting, prisoned in the stone.

    Thus came the cherub, with the laughing face
    That long has lighted up an altar place.

  • Longings

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 24, 1913. By Charles Kingsley.

    Oh! That we two were Maying
        Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;
    Like children with violets playing
        In the shade of the whispering trees.

    Oh! That we two sat dreaming
        On the sward of some sheep trimmed down,
    Watching the white mists streaming
        Over river and mead and town.

    Oh! That we two lay sleeping
        In our rest in the churchyard sod;
    With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast
        And our souls at home with God.

  • The Brookside

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 17, 1913. By Richard Monckton Milnes.

    I wandered by the brookside,
        I wandered by the mill;
    I could not hear the brook flow,
        The noisy wheel was still;
    There was no burr of grasshopper,
        No chirp of any bird,
    But the beating of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    I sat beneath the elm tree;
        I watched the long, long shade,
    And as it grew still longer
        I did not feel afraid;
    For I listened for a footfall,
        I listened for a word,
    But the breathing of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    He came not—no, he came not—
        The night came on alone,
    The little stars sat one by one,
        Each on his golden throne;
    The evening wind passed by my cheek,
        The leaves above were stirred,
    But the beating of my own heart
        Was all the sound I heard.

    Fast silent tears were flowing,
        When something stood behind;
    A hand was on my shoulder,
        I knew its touch was kind;
    It drew me nearer—nearer,
        We did not speak one word,
    But the beating of our own hearts
        Was all the sound we heard.

  • The Young Photographer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 12, 1913.

    He mounts a piece of stovepipe to a soap box turned on end,
        And then to take a picture he will seriously pretend;
    His coat’s the cloth for focussing which covers up his head,
        And where he lacks a shutter there’s an old tin plate instead.

    He sets his little sister in a broken wicker chair,
        And chooses her position with the most excessive care;
    “Look pleasant, please,” he orders, then he fools with his “machine”
        And tells her that the picture will be the best yet seen.

    He photographs each blessed thing that he can get to sit,
        And plays at taking pictures till you think he’ll never quit;
    Each dog and cat within a mile has many times been done,
        And though he shows no pictures, still it doesn’t spoil his fun.

    But since he seems determined to become a photo-man,
        We will help his young ambition in whatever way we can.
    And so on his next birthday we will purchase for his sake
        A proper kind of camera that will real pictures take.