Newspaper History

Category: The Daily Missoulian

  • Arcadia

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A place where I can hang my hat
        And know that I am home;
    A place from whence I well know that
        I’ll never care to roam.
    A place where there is no dissent
        And love reigns e’er supreme;
    Where no one cares how time is spent,
        And I can sit and dream.

    A place where agents do not come
        To spoil a happy day;
    A place where autos do not hum
        Nor alley felines play.
    A place where phonographs don’t rasp
        Nor pianolas pound;
    A place where neighbors do not gasp
        And peddle lies around.

    A place where skeeters do not skeet
        Nor motorcycles chug;
    A quiet and serene retreat
        Without a mike or bug.
    Where time need not be reckoned by
        And I could take my ease;
    Arcadia’s the place where I
        Could do as I darn please.

  • The Old-Fashioned Presents

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 22, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    How dear to my heart are the gifts of my childhood,
        When fond recollections present them to view;
    The old rubber doll with the whistling stomach,
        Which was such a miracle when it was new.
    The handpainted sled and the 20-cent jackkife,
        The animal blocks and the little tin train
    Brought joy to our hearts that amounted to rapture,
        A joy that we never will pass through again.

    The fine jumping jack and the model pile driver,
        The hose cart and engine that pulled with a string;
    The top hook and ladder, the real magic lantern,
        The drum which my father would burst the first thing.
    Of course, nowadays they would seem sort of foolish—
        The things that old Santa brought when we were small;
    But when you consider the joy that they gave us,
        The old-fashioned presents were best after all.

  • Warning

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 15, 1914.

    When she letteth thee recklessly spend,
        And laugheth to see thee go broke,
    Thou mayest jolly her on without end,
        For she taketh thee but as a joke.

    But when she demureth at price,
        And chideth for what thou hath spent,
    Thou art treading on treacherous ice,
        For the maiden hath solemn intent.

  • Grandpa

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 11, 1914.

    There’s no one in this whole world who knows as much as grandpa does.
    I sometimes think that he must be the wisest man that ever was.
    He can predict the weather better than the regular weather man;
    He doesn’t always guess it right, but then, no other feller can.

    He always tells us, far ahead, how all elections will come out;
    He’s seen so many hot campaigns as never has the slightest doubt.
    Of course, he often makes mistakes, and very seldom calls the turn,
    But there are very few who can, that is so far as I can learn.

    He’s got a safe, sure remedy for every ill that man can find;
    There’s no disease that he can’t cure or none that I can call to mind;
    Of course, sometimes they don’t get well, but that is just part of the game;
    A lot of doctors that I know in this town must admit the same.

    His knowledge is as free as air; he always peddles out advice
    Without the form of being asked; his wisdom is beyond all price.
    Some fellows who have followed it have made their fortunes; some have not;
    For grandpa’s human like the rest, although he’s liked an awful lot.

  • A Mystery

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 7, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    There seems to be no place for me around home anywhere,
    For every time I make a move maw says, “Don’t go in there.”
    There isn’t a clothes press in the house that they’ll let me go in.
    Maw’s bedroom has been closed and locked. They seem to be agin’
    My rummagin’ around the place like I have always done.
    I have so very little space it ain’t a bit of fun.
    When paw comes home at suppertime I can’t go to the door
    And meet him like I used to each evening any more.
    He don’t come in the sittin’ room, but scoots right off upstairs,
    Just like he was a-bein’ chased by taggers or by bears.
    They always talk in whispers, paw and maw, then look at me
    As though I was some circus freak that they had paid to see.
    And when they talk out loud they spell the things they want to say.
    It looks as though, by gingerpop, that I am in the way.
    I heard paw spell out “polar bear” to maw the other night,
    It sorter got me guessin’, for he didn’t spell it right.
    Of course I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes or anything like that,
    But I’ve been lookin’ round a bit and found out quick as scat
    They’re framing up some deal on me. I don’t know as I ought,
    But I’ve dug up most of the things that they went out and bought.
    Of course you musn’t say a word, for I must act surprised
    So that their secret schemes and plans may all be realized.
    They’ve got to have their little joke; they have it every year,
    And start in to ignorin’ me when Christmas time draws near.
    It used to be a mystery, but we will let that pass,
    For I kin see through it nowadays as plain as any glass.