Newspaper History

Category: The Times Dispatch

  • Under Harvest Moon

    From The Times Dispatch, November 2, 1914.

    Last year the harvest moon looked down
        On bounteous fields of grain,
    A peaceful scene where lovers strolled
        Along the shady lane.

    In happy homes the mothers sang
        Their evening lullaby,
    And little children had no fear
        Of danger lurking nigh.

    But now the demon war is loosed
        And terrors fill the night,
    The dangers of the burning home,
        The dangers of the fight.

    Mothers and children hide and wait,
        They listen, fear, and pray,
    While shells are bursting all around
        And armies pass their way.

    Tonight upon the harvest field,
        The moon is shining bright,
    Where soldier forms lie mute and still
        With faces ghastly white.

    Oh, what a reaping! Oh, what loss!
        The flowers of earth cut down—
    The voice of mourning in the field
        And by the ruined town!

  • The Wasters

    From The Times Dispatch, October 29, 1914. By D’Orsay Allen Poor.

    There’s plenty of men who cannot sing,
        There’s plenty who cannot draw,
    That we can spare, with never a care,
        To the terrible god of war.

    There’s plenty of men who cannot paint,
        There’s plenty who cannot write,
    To be sent to the front of the battles’ brunt
        To give up their lives in the fight.

    There’s plenty of men we can easily spare
        The toilers and lowly ones,
    Whose battle in life is a long, long strife—
        Let us feed such as these to the guns.

    For it seems such a pity to waste a voice
        That adds to society’s joys;
    So guard them well from the storms of hell
        And send on the working boys.

    So gather your men from factory and farm,
        And hasten them into the strife,
    So when they leave there is none to grieve
        Except mother and children and wife.

  • Autumn Days

    From The Times Dispatch, October 1, 1914. By George West Diehl.

    The breath of autumn is sighing
        Through the trees,
    Whispering softly, “Summer’s dying,”
        To the leaves.
    And they beneath his frosty kiss
    Are blushing in their happy bliss,
        In the breeze.

    Now in the woodland depths is heard
        Foxes’ tread,
    And the cry of a winging bird
        Overhead.
    A blue haze o’er the landscape lies
    Stretching to where the mountains rise
        Far ahead.

    Beneath the leaning trees, silver gray
        Sycamore.
    The brooklet murmurs on its way
        By green shore.
    High above in the cloudless sky
    Legions of leaves go whirling by
        In full corps.

  • A Flirtation

    From The Times Dispatch, September 20, 1914. By Dorothy M. Smith.

    I’ve been flirting today with a baby
        In the window right over the way,
    And the neighbors are gossiping, maybe;
        But I don’t care a bit what they say.

    He’s a dear little curly-lashed fellow,
        With eyes that are laughing and sweet;
    His hair is like grain, golden yellow;
        He’s blue shoes, for he showed me his feet.

    He glanced at me, pleasantly smiling,
        As though saying, “I wish you’d remain.”
    Then he tapped on the window beguiling
        And flattened his nose ‘gainst the pane.

    He threw me a kiss for a greeting;
        He showed me the lace on his dress;
    But, ah! Why are moments so fleeting?
        The time came for luncheon, I guess.

    Then I waved him good-by—oh, the saddest—
        And smiled to him over the way,
    And he looked, of all babies, the maddest
        When the nurse came and took him away.

    But sometimes he will peek thro’ the curtain,
        And hold the lace edges apart.
    So I’ll watch every day, for I’m certain
        That baby has broken my heart!

  • Profitless Pity

    From The Times Dispatch, September 8, 1914.

    We sigh for the man who might have been great
        If he only had tried in a sensible way;
    We witness his fall and we pity his fate,
        We blame the foul chances that sent him astray;
    We think of the wonders he never has done,
        We dismally speak of the talent he had,
    And grievously, solemnly thinking him one
        Whom fortune has cheated, we murmur, “Too bad!”

    We never waste sighs on the poor little man
        Who strives without talent, obscure and unschooled,
    Who daily is doing the best that he can
        By worthiness urged and by decency ruled;
    We never have pity for him as we pass
        Where, lacking fair gifts, he is trying to rise;
    His case never moves us to murmur, “Alas!”
        No matter how bravely he manfully tries.

    Ah well, perhaps heaven, when heaven is gained,
        Will furnish the gifts the unnoticed ones lack,
    And there the ambitious who have not complained
        May win all their hopes and their eagerness back;
    But never in heaven, if heaven is fair,
        May the talented ones who have fallen in shame
    Partake of the glory the worthy may share
            Or find any joy in the city they claim.

  • The Mother

    From The Times Dispatch, August 13, 1914.

    I hear the blaring bands go by; I hear the marching feet;
    All day they drum their dreadful dirge along the dusty street.
    I hear the crowds give cheer on cheer of fierce and furious joy,
    And wonder if they see him there—my little, little boy.
    A baby only yesterday, with soft and sunny hair;
    So helpless and so innocent; so fragile, and so fair!

    So strong I felt to shield him then, safe sheltered in my arm,
    It seemed the whole wide world could never do him any harm.
    And oh, the long, long nights I watched beside his trundle bed
    To fight away the pain that racked his little fevered head.
    I fought his battles for him then; he leaves my side today
    To fight far greater ones alone, and oh, so far away.

    The little dimpled hand that lay so trustingly in mine
    Must grasp a rifle barrel soon along the firing line.
    My baby boy I held so close I felt his fluttering breath
    Has left me empty-armed and gone to see the face of death.
    And never mother’s voice to soothe, nor mother’s arm to shield,
    From all the direful perils of the smoke-hung battlefield.

  • War

    From The Times Dispatch, August 9, 1914. By H. W.

    “What,” one asks, “of the trumpet blast
        And banners in the dawn?
    And what of the grain in the fallow field
        When the husbandman has gone?”

    This: If ye know not how to wield
        The sword with a steady hand
    The grain that stood in your broad, green field
        Shall be reaped by an alien band.

    This: If ye be not strong to fight
        And ready to shield and save,
    The woman and child shall starve and die,
        Or live as the foeman’s slave.

    Shelter and food and wife and child—
        Since ever the world began—
    The strong shall win and the strong shall keep
        So long as man is man.

    The weapons ye use are greater far
        Than those the cave-man bore;
    The battle line is farther flung
        Than it was in the time before.

    But the things ye strive for have not changed,
        Nor shall they change at all,
    And the strong shall win and the strong shall keep,
        And the weak shall surely fall.

    Justice and pity, and mercy? Yes.
        But they die without the sword.
    For wrong is weak and fails in the end,
        But it does not yield to a — word!

    And life and love, and the right to live—
        Since ever the world began,
    They have gone to the clean and true and strong,
        And shall—while man is man!

  • A Backyard Ballade

    From The Times Dispatch, July 19, 1914. By J. H. Greene.

    A gray expanse of weathered wall
        I view from my lone window seat,
    Whose other windows, one and all,
        So empty, lifeless and effete,
    Above a yard burnt up with heat,
        Fill me with fancies saturnine—
    When something makes my gloom retreat—
        White lingerie upon a line!

    Light, laughing laces flirt and fall,
        And stockings, wind-filled to the feet,
    Dance tangoes at an airy ball
        To music that the breezes beat.
    Oh, swirling skirts so indiscreet,
        You dance away black moods of mine!
    Encore, oh hurricane, I entreat,
        This lingerie upon a line!

    Oh, dance from dawn to even fall,
        Wind-woman, zephyr-souled and sweet!
    What sarabands are at your call?
        Where did you learn that ballet suite?
    Yours is an art of the elite,
        Oh, silken, swinging columbine,
    Abstracted of all sex conceit—
        Just lingerie upon a line!

    But disillusion comes complete—
        When something surely masculine
    Is added to that silken cheat
        Of lingerie upon a line!

  • The Escape

    From The Times Dispatch, July 11, 1914. By Alvin Hattorf.

    “All’s well,” cried the prison guard, as he walked his beat—the echo came “All’s well.”
    I was still in the silence as they cried away, twelve strokes had lately fell.
    The lightning darted across the sky and a peal of thunder sounded plain,
    The black forms of the pickets were seen, through the lightning and the rain.

    It came in pouring torrents, drowning every sound,
    The convicts in their cells slept on, in spite of the raging storm around.
    But in one cell its prisoner slept, but was wide awake;
    To him the storm was welcome; it seemed that God had sent it for his sake.

    Over and over in his burning brain came the words as he paced the cell;
    The words of the letter pressed to his lips, and again and again they fell:
    “Come, I’m dying—come! ‘ere it be too late;
    I must see you—come!—for my sake.”

    “I’m coming,” he whispered hoarsely; “I’m coming from this prison hell!”
    Then falling upon his knees, he prayed within his cell;
    “Be with me now, Oh! God. Let all happen for the best;
    I’m going; I give all to you—the rest.”

    Quickly he arose; swiftly to the door; the guard had heard not;
    Softly to the bed and he drew a file from his cot.
    Then one by one he began to cut the huge iron bars,
    In nervous anxiety and with many a trembling pause.

    Half-past 12 struck the clock, and the storm raged on in fury;
    One, two sounded, as he paused, tired and weary.
    Again racing to the door and again his heart stopping dread;
    To the window—let down the rope, and began his perilous tread.

    Slowly, yard by yard, sometimes he swung in space,
    Oft pausing to escape detection, then downward in hurrying haste.
    The rain the while beat upon his face, but the lightning flashed less;
    Only the roaring thunder; ’twas as if his escape were blessed.

    At last he reached the ground with one mighty leap;
    Here he crouched trembling, then slowly began to creep.
    The guard paused—did he hear a noise? But no, he paces on.
    The shivering convict pauses below and waits till he is gone.

    Swiftly, cat-like, he climbs the wall, clinging to every rock;
    At last reaching the end, lay panting at the top.
    But only for a moment; he crouches over, high and steep,
    As a crash of thunder drowns the noise of his daring leap.

    Here, stretched upon the ground, then came a thought:
    “What good to see his dying wife for a while—in life to part?”
    He, innocent of crime, to spend the rest in a cell!
    “No, no,” he muttered in his pain, “I’d rather go with her than back to that long, hard hell!”

    In mute appeal he waited for a flash of lightning—and it came.
    The guard saw the escaped, and his gun crashed deadly aim.
    The convict clinched his bleeding breast, but with a smile of joy, better.
    “’Tis best, thank God! Now I’ll be with her forever.”

  • Just Before the Wedding

    From The Times Dispatch, June 7, 1914. By Lida Keck Wiggins.

    The bride:

    “I wonder if Tom’s mother will like me,
        Or if she will poke fun at all I do;
    I wonder if the nice things she will see
        About me that her son professes to!
    I wonder!”

    The bride’s mother:

    “I wonder if at home he’ll nightly stay,
        And if he will continue to adore her;
    I wonder if she’ll manage him the way
        I have her dear old doting dad before her!
    I wonder!”

    The bridegroom:

    “I wonder if Jeanne’s mother will turn out
        To be a ma-in-law to conjure fear;
    I wonder if she’ll often be about,
        And if she’ll always be so sweet and dear!
    I wonder!”

    The bridegroom’s mother:

    “I wonder if Tom’s wife knows how to cook,
        And if she’ll think I’m very queer and prim;
    I wonder how her house is going to look,
        And if she’s really good enough for him!
    I wonder!”

    The fathers (in chorus):

    “We wonder how much money it will take
        To keep them going for a year or two;
    We wonder if those kids will really make
        A fortune, as they’re planning now to do!
    We wonder!”