Newspaper History

Category: The Sun

  • The Twilight Witch: Slumber Song

    From The Sun, September 14, 1913. By Madison Cawein.

    The twilight witch comes with her stars
        And strews them through the blue;
    Then breathes below the sunset bars
        A breath of meadow rue;
    She trails her veil across the skies
        And mutters to the trees,
    And in the wood, with firefly eyes,
        She wakes the mysteries.
    The twilight witch, with elf and fay,
    Is coming down the slumber way.
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch, with crescent moon,
        Stoops on the wooded hill;
    She answers to the owlet’s tune,
        And to the whippoorwill.
    She leans above the reedy pool
        And wakes the drowsy frog,
    And with the toadstool, dim and cool,
        Rims gray the old dead log.
    The twilight witch comes stealing down
    To take you off to slumber town.
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch with windlike tread
        Has entered in the room;
    She steals around your trundle bed
        And whispers in the gloom.
    She says: “I brought my steed along,
        My faery steed of gleams,
    To bear you, like a breath of song,
        Into the land of dreams.
    I am the witch who takes your hand
    And leads you off to faeryland,
        The far off land of sleep.”

  • Prairie Love

    From The Sun, August 27, 1913. By Arthur Chapman.

    The sailor loves the craft he sails—
        He loves each bolt and spar;
    The horseman loves the steed that bears
        Him o’er the plains afar;
    But there is love surpassing all
        Writ in the sailor’s log;
    It is the love that dwells betwixt
        The sheepman and his dog.

    The love is born of lonely nights
        And days upon the plain,
    Of storms upon the mountain tops,
        Of toil in cold and rain;
    At even, in the fire glow,
        What comradeship so strong
    As that ‘twixt dog and shepherd when
        The night wind sings its song?

    The ranch lights twinkle o’er the ways
        Where many comrades tramped;
    They light the uplands, once so drear,
        Where dog and herder camped;
    But still that friendship must abide
        In newer fields afar,
    For love that’s born of lonely life
        Is deathless as a star.

  • The Secret

    From The Sun, August 10, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    The way to reach the man who toils
        Amid the dingy workings
    Is not by stratagems and spoils
        Or oily smiles and smirkings.
    You give him model homes and such,
        Or clubs in which to revel;
    You still will find yourself in “Dutch”
        Unless you’re on the level.
    It isn’t coddling that he likes,
        Or lordly condescension.
    Such methods will not stop his strikes
        Or banish all contention.
    You must be fair and square and just,
        A man among your brothers
    Before old doubtings turn to trust
        Or ancient hatred smothers.
    Whatever motive yours may be
        In time he’s sure to find it.
    He looks through every deed to see
        The spirit that’s behind it.
    And though he may misunderstand
        Repel, at first, and doubt you,
    He’ll warmly grasp the proffered hand
        When he is sure about you.
    The boys within the breaker shed,
        The miners, deep below them,
    Are slow of faith and hard of head;
        You’ve simply got to show them
    And prove your varied aims and ends
        Are not those of the devil—
    For man and master can be friends—
        If both are on the level.

  • Wish You Was Here

    From The Sun, August 3, 1913.

    Got a card from Steve this mornin’, doggone his trav’lin’ skin
    He’s up around Niag’ry Falls a-writin’ home agin.
    Seems like that boy’s one glory is to wander full an’ free
    An’ furder off he gits, I gosh, th’ more he writes to me.
    He sends these picture postal cards, with photos showin’ that
    The world is allus beautif’lest where you ain’t livin’ at.
    His messages reads all the same, in letters large an’ clear
    He writes from Maine er Kankakee an’ says—
        “Wish you was here!”

    Nobody ever seems to know just when he’ll go er where.
    We git his destination from the card that says he’s there.
    An’ he ain’t more than settled down to loaf a day er two
    Till he gits thinkin’ up the names of ever’one he knew.
    An’ then with ever’ doggone cent he possibly kin spare
    He buys the Unitary church, the Depot an’ the Square.
    He buys ‘bout ever’thing they is in Bath er Belvidere,
    Then mails the whole blame business home an’ says—
        “Wish you was here!”

    I guess he’s at Niag’ry now; he was last time he wrote,
    But that don’t prove conclusively he ain’t in Terry Hote.
    He may be down in Panama er snoopin’ round in Nome.
    Nobody knows just where he’s at—except he ain’t at home!
    I guess we’d never hear from him fer months er mebbe years
    If some kind soul had not devised these picture souvenirs.
    Yes, I expect if Steve would die he’d rise up from his bier
    To pen a card to all his friends an’ say—
        “Wish you was here!”