Newspaper History

Category: The Bridgeport Evening Farmer

  • Rest

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, April 24, 1915. By Almont Barnes.

    Burn low, O light, and let the darkness in!
        Let silence be where fitful sounds have been;
    Let soul to body be no more a mate;
        Let each, too tired, be sweetly desolate.

    Yea, let the soul, e’en as a too loved bride,
        Turn gently from its sacred body’s side;
    Love slumber more than love; turn and be still;
        Now that they both, or not, have had their will.

    What matters it? They both are tired to death;
        They, married with the breathing of a breath,
    Would gather up the feet and be at rest,
        Content to be oblivious of the best—

    And happier so all discord to elude,
        All bitter pain, in that great solitude
    That reaches like a sea, cool, infinite,
        O’er folded hands and lips to memory sweet—

    A sea of grassy waves, foam fringed with flowers,
        The tenderest gift of any gift of ours;
    For lo, the last of all, with floral wile
        We woo the mutest thing, the grave, to smile.

    If one goes gladly, at the close of day,
        Puts all the playthings of his world away,
    Pulls down the curtain, lays his aching head
        And weary body on a downy bed—

    Divested of all care, but robbed in sleep,
        Not any one will make it cause to weep;
    Then after one sigh, if there be no breath,
        What rest is kindlier than the sleep of death?

    O soul, we each have wearied! Let us turn
        Both breast from breast. There is no more to learn.
    There may be dawn beyond the midnight’s pall;
        But now sweet rest is better—best of all.

  • ’Spacially Jim

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, April 12, 1915. By Bessie Morgan.

    I was mighty good lookin’ when I wus young,
        Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim.
    With fellers a-courtin’ me Sunday nights
        ‘Spacially Jim.

    The likeliest one of ‘em all wus he,
        Chipper an’ han’som an’ trim,
    But I tossed up my head an’ made fun o’ the crowd,
        ‘Spacially Jim.

    I said I hadn’t no ‘pinion o’ men,
        An’ I wouldn’t take stock in him,
    But they kep on a-comin’ in spite o’ my talk,
        ‘Spacially Jim.

    I got so tired o’ havin’ ‘em round,
        ‘Spacially Jim!
    I made up my mind I’d settle down
        An’ take up with him.

    So we wus married on Sunday in church,
        ’Twus crowded full to the brim.
    ‘Twus the only way to get rid of ‘em all—
        ‘Spacially Jim.

  • Creeds

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, February 6, 1915.

    Believe as I believe, no more, no less;
    That I am right, and no one else, confess;
    Feel as I feel, think only as I think;
    Eat what I eat, and drink but what I drink;
    Look as I look, do always as I do,
    And then, and only then, I’ll fellowship with you.

    That I am right, and always right, I know,
    Because my own convictions tell me so;
    And to be right is simply this to be
    Entirely and in all respects like me;
    To deviate a hair’s breadth, or begin
    To question, doubt, or hesitate, is sin.

    I reverence the Bible if it be
    Translated first and then explained by me;
    By churchly laws and customs I abide,
    If they with my opinion coincide;
    All creeds and doctrines I admit divine,
    Excepting those which disagree with mine.

    Let sink the drowning if he will not swim
    Upon the plank that I throw out to him;
    Let starve the hungry if he will not eat
    My kind and quality of bread and meat;
    Let freeze the naked if he will not be
    Clothed in such garments as are made for me.

    ‘Twere better that the sick should die than live,
    Unless they take the medicine I give;
    ‘Twere better sinners perish than refuse
    To be conformed to my peculiar views;
    ‘Twere better that the world stand still than move
    In any other way than that which I approve.

  • He Went for a Soldier

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, December 10, 1914. By Ruth Comfort Mitchell.

    He marched away with a blithe young score of him
        With the first volunteers,
    Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,
        Blushing under the cheers.
    They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,
    Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,
        Pelting him with pinks and with roses —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Not very clear in the kind young heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—
        The music drowned his doubt.
    It’s a fine brave sight they were a-coming there
    To the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there
        While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it —
        Volley and curse and groan;
    Then he has done with the knightly joke of it —
        It’s rending flesh and bone.
    There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking there
    And a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;
        He fights like a rat in a corner —
        Billy the Soldier Boy!

    There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,
        Left on the field for dead;
    The ground all around is smeared with the gore of him—
        Even the leaves are red.
    The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,
    Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;
        A sickening sun grins down on him —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—
        While life is oozing out;
    There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;
    There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,
        Eager for the foul feast spread for them—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    How much longer, O Lord, shall we bear it all?
        How many more red years?
    Story it and glory it and share it all,
        In seas of blood and tears?
    They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;
    They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—
        We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,
        Borne with the hell called War!