Newspaper History

Category: The Sun

  • Amoris Dementia

    From The Sun, March 12, 1914. By George B. Morewood.

    I’m sick all through, from top to toes
    The way my pulses ebb and flow
    Would seem to indicate, alack,
    That my complaint is cardiac;
    But I have lost all taste for food,
    So gastric ills I must include;
    Again, though far indeed from death,
    At times a catch comes in my breath;
    My bosom heaves till ‘twould appear
    That pulmonary trouble’s near.
    Next there’s a tingling of the nerves
    That diagnosis well deserves,
    Since of all ills by which man’s cursed
    The neuropathic are the worst.
    I met a lady fair last week
    To whom I found it hard to speak.
    My vocal cords must be amiss.
    Else, whence came their paralysis?
    Cerebric lesions, too, I fear,
    Because my mind was far from clear.
    But I’ve one symptom stranger yet,
    Though thus completely I’m upset.
    Life seems more joyous, strange to tell,
    Than e’er it did when I was well.
    What’s wrought me up to such a pitch?
    I am the victim of a witch!
    I feel her spell is o’er me thrown,
    ’Tis she can cure and she alone!

  • Deception in Cactus Centre

    From The Sun, March 8, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    We are strong, down here in Cactus, for the majesty of law,
    But a heart throb’s sure to stop us ‘ere we make the halter draw;
    That is why we freed a hoss thief that was caught near Bridger’s Buttes,
    Though he rode Slim Johnson’s pinto and he trailed three stolen brutes;
    We was all prepared to send him where he’d join more of his kind
    When he says, “Gents, just one minute, in my shirt front youse’ll find
    A package that I’d gaze on, if it’s all the same to youse.”
    So our leader reached in, rough like, and drew out two baby shoes.

    Well, we stood around there awkward, and we sorter scuffed our feet;
    You could hear our spurs make music, and it sounded soft and sweet;
    We was due to start proceedin’s, it was gittin’ cold and late,
    But somehow we’d lost our ferver to enact the role of fate;
    We jest milled there in the moonlight, and nobody said a word;
    Some was lookin’ to their saddles, but at last Bear Hawkins stirred
    And he freed this hoss thief feller, and we rode away by twos,
    ‘Cause you can’t hang anybody who is packin’ baby shoes.

    Yes, of course the law was cheated, for we found the game was old;
    He had worked the same at Sage Crick, and at Range View, we was told;
    And he never had no children, and the shoes he’d simply found;
    Such we learned, with other details when the story got around;
    But in spite of all the laughter that we’ve drawed down by our act
    We would play the same cards over—that’s a cold, hard twisted fact;
    So we scorn the jeers of Piñon, and we don’t mind Lone Tree’s hoots,
    ‘Cause we know they’d do what we done when we found them baby boots.

  • The Four Lights

    From The Sun, February 8, 1914. By McLandburgh Wilson.

    Four little flames, each burning clear,
    Set out to choose a life career.

    One said: “Within a church I’ll burn
    And thought of men to heaven turn.”

    One said: “I’ll in a lighthouse bide
    And ships upon the ocean guide.”

    One said: “A scholar’s lamp I’ll be
    And knowledge shall be spread by me.”

    One said: “Upon a hearth I’ll glow
    Where only two or three may know.”

    Time snuffed the altar candle out,
    But other faiths still conquered doubt.

    The beacon into darkness fell
    But ships had compass, horn and bell.

    The scholar’s light went out, but then
    He still could learn from life and men.

    But when the hearthflame ash was cold
    All earth no substitute could hold.

  • The Mother of Bearded Men

    From The Sun, February 1, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I am the mother of bearded men, and the names that I called them by
    When I watched their sleep in their cradles, and hushed each tear and sigh,
    Are known and spoken where men meet men, and life moves swift along,
    For they do their share of the world’s work, and they are sure and strong.

    Clear are their eyes and their glances kind, as when their years were few;
    Deep voices call me mother, and the tones are gentle and true;
    They give me love and honor, though they are wiser now than I,
    But I think of the little children who slept in my arms and I sigh.

    Oh, I could not hold them dearer, and I would not turn them back
    To wander again through life’s thorny maze, and again to climb its track.
    But when the lonely evening comes, and no one has need of me,
    It’s Oh, for the little children who once leaned upon my knee!

  • Growing

    From The Sun, January 4, 1914. By Gilbert Cannan.

    When I was but a little boy
    I knew no more than a little tiny joy.
    When I was young and twenty-five,
    Then I was fearfully alive.
    And when I grew and became a man,
    Then I was the top of creation’s plan;
    I melted into love’s desire—
    I was the ore and I the fire.
    And when I knew that I was old,
    Then I was minted into gold.

  • The Hopeful Father

    From The Sun, November 16, 1913.

    My son had made the team; he played
        Left end and did it splendidly—
    At least he did it well till they’d
        Knocked out his teeth and wrenched his knee;
    I sat and watched when he was downed
        By seven heavy buccaneers
    Who jammed his visage in the ground
        Thereby evoking hearty cheers.

    His comrades raised him from the mud
        And quickly bore him out of sight;
    His face was all besmeared with blood,
        The people shouted with delight.
    It mattered not to them if he
        Had finished his career on earth;
    Mishaps were what they wished to see,   
        For thus they got their money’s worth.

    He’s now attended by a nurse
        And after this he will be lame;
    It might, however, have been worse;
        I won six dollars on the game;
    Therefore I’ll cling to hope, and chuck
        The grief with which I have been filled,
    For next time it may be my luck
        To see some other maimed or killed.

  • Old Blood and Young

    From The Sun, October 26, 1913.

    I can’t see why it is, my son,
        That you and I can not agree;
    The things that you consider fun
        Seem utter foolishness to me.

    Why is it that you fail to feel
        That folly should be bravely spurned?
    The pleasures that to you appeal
        Leave me serene and unconcerned.

    You seem to be so very blind
        To things that clearly I perceive;
    I give you warning, but to find
        That you must see ere you believe.

    I let no passion urge or sway,
        I hold myself in firm control,
    But, deaf to all that I can say,
        You lightly jeopardize your soul.

    Why is it that you will not heed?
        Why can’t you see what I behold?
    I wonder if it is, indeed,
        Because you’re young and I am old.

  • Get and Give

    From The Sun, October 23, 1913. By McLandburgh Wilson.

        Said Get to Give,
        “You could not live
    If it were not for me;
        I first must fill
        The purse you spill;
    Am I not Charity?”

        Said Give to Get,
        “I lead you yet,
    Blind fool, do you not see
        The alms you strew
        Were given you
    In greater charity?”

  • Cactus Centre’s Plutocrat

    From The Sun, October 19, 1913.

    Down here in Cactus Centre prosperity has come;
    A stranger feller brought it—he has made the hull town hum;
    He dropped a thousand dollars on the stage a-comin’ in;
    Every time he missed a kyote the stage driver would win.

    He spent at least ten thousand playin’ poker and roulette.
    There simply wasn’t nothin’ that’d bluff him from a bet;
    He bought a dozen ranches, and the store of Happy Hank;
    He’s started up a stockyards and a factory and bank.

    He’s put a hundred thousand in a gilded liquor perch;
    He lifted up the mortgage on the Cactus Centre church.
    He’s planned an office building where there used to be just tents,
    And he’s put a half a million in a bang-up residence.

    Who is this wealthy stranger that is blowin’ cash so free?
    That there’s the very question that has had us up a tree;
    On a pennant winnin’ ball team he heads the list of names,
    And he’s tryin’ to spend the profits of this year’s world series games.

  • Woman

    From The Sun, October 5, 1913.

    Chaucer calls her an angel who truth and grace imparts.
    Shakespeare says her looks are books, academies and arts.
    Tom Moore says she is fickle, Byron calls her fiend,
    Swinburne hails her eyes as veils, wherein her soul lies screened.

    Know well these bards! Then doubt, who can,
    She is the mirror of the man.