Newspaper History

Category: The Times Dispatch

  • The Mud-Hole in the Road

    From The Times Dispatch, February 18, 1914. By Thomas Lomax Hunter.

    A mud-hole in our road I know
    And every year I’ve watched it grow.
    It used to be a small affair,
    That we, by exercising care,
    Could, with but little trouble pass.
    That was before ’twas “worked,” alas!
    They cut some pieces of pine bough
    And threw them headlong in the slough.
    On this they piled a lot of clay
    And, well contented, went away.
    The clay quite quickly turned to mud.
    The naked pine sticks soon up stood,
    In sharp and threatening array,
    Like some old fossil vertebrae.
    They plowed and dug about its marge,
    Which did its compass much enlarge.
    Thus “worked” the mud-hole grew so wide
    We could not pass on either side.
    But like our old friend, Dr. Foster,
    We reached our middle when we crossed her.
    Now as this mud-hole larger grew
    ’Twas quite a source of revenue
    To those who had, with proper skill,
    So nursed and tended it until
    It needed patching every day,
    If travel still would go that way.
    Moral: If you will but bestow
    The proper work, you can, I know,
    Make e’en a mud-hole thrive and grow.

  • Game Laws

    From The Times Dispatch, January 28, 1914. By T. L. H.

    I take it, Mr. Speaker,
        That these are solemn facts:
    When for a thing’s protection
        Our Legislature acts,
    It accomplishes protection
        By imposing further tax.
    We’ve protected our oysters
        By this efficient plan:
    They can only be destroyed
        By a duly licensed man.
    We’ve protected our fishes
        In our rivers and our bays
    By seeing that the fellow
        Who exterminates them pays.
    It appears now, Mr. Speaker,
        We are asked to do the same
    Very simple operation
        For protection of our game.
    The fellow who in autumn
        Sallies forth with dog and gun
    Must pay the state a license
        Ere he starts to have his fun.
    The effect of which provision
        Very naturally will be
    That when the would-be hunter
        Has surrendered up his fee
    He will not feel that he can do
        Another thing on earth
    Except to take his gun and dog
        And get his money’s worth;
    And while the hunting season lasts
        He’ll never lose a day
    For fear he will not get the worth
        Of what he’s had to pay.
    And yet the game that’s slaughtered
        By a legal licensee
    Is really just about as dead
        As any game can be.
    And while no doubt our furred and feathered
        Friends will give their lives
    Uncomplainingly if by that act
        The Old Dominion thrives,
    You’ll forgive me, Mr. Speaker,
        If this act I’m bound to term a
    Effort to protect the varmints
        By a sort of Tax-idermy.

  • Gettysburg

    From The Times Dispatch, November 9, 1913. By W. W. Bays.

    The Southern soldiers sallied forth,
        With Lee—proud Paladin;
    They’d fight the “North” within the North,
        They would, they could but win.
    The “flower of the South” were they,
        From chivalries of old;
    Nor soldiery of any day
        Was cast in better mold.

    On old Potomac’s shore they stood,
        Undaunted at the tide;
    And, dreadless, plunged into the flood,
        And climbed the other side.
    Each eye was lit with Southern fire,
        Each Southern spirit burned;
    Their hot blood hurried in its ire,
        Their faces northward turned.

    The peaceful land of William Penn
        They sought, and soon they found;
    Then shook the wood, the hill, the glen,
        With thunders all around.
    The flaunting flags, the martial tones,
        Hark! Gettysburg, and see!
    The cannon and the smoke—the groans!
        A Southern victory!

    The dawn! and ready for the fray,
        The Northern Lion stands;
    The southern Tiger holds at bay,
        Whose bloody throat expands.
    The Fed’rals move, a thunderous roar,
        And Culp’s contested height,
    The Southrons’ wrest; their volleys pour—
        The vict’ry theirs at night!

    Another dawn! O, what a day!
        How fateful the event!
    The desperate gamesters in the “play”
        Have “staked” a continent!
    The Southron dares—his all he risks,
        On “Seminary’s” crest,
    His miles of bristling basilisks
        Are massed for final test.

    A thousand fiery-throated guns,
        Their deadly volleys pour;
    But dauntlessly the Southern sons
        Descend amid the roar!
    Adown the dell between the heights,
        And up—to never stop—
    The charging corps now climbs and fights
        For “Cemetery’s” top!

    Each line is raked with bomb and balls,
        But still the dauntless South,
    With courage that not hell appalls,
        Hath reached the cannon’s mouth!
    With sabre and with bayonet,
        The fearless foemen fight;
    They’ll perish, but they’ll ne’er forget
        The cause they deemed as right.

    Again, again the Southrons dash;
        Each line’s a severed thread;
    For in the horrid hail and crash,
        The gallant corps is dead!
    The day is lost, the brave advance
        Hath died amid the shock,
    And shivered is the Southern Lance,
        Against the Northern Rock!

    Fell many a Northern brave today,
        Fell many a Southern son,
    With wife and mother far away,
        And far the little one.
    The Great Revolt, whose bloody sea
        Here rose to highest tide,
    Began to ebb, and finally—
        At Appomattox—died.

    The bloody day hath told the tale;
        The star-eyes up on high
    Weep o’er the thousands cold and pale,
        And mournful night-winds cry,
    “O why is this fraternal fray?”
        And spirits of the dead,
    In silent accents seem to say,
        “The ‘why’ no more be said.”

    Now, from this fateful aspect turn,
        And eye and mind release;
    And enmity and hatred spurn
        For Brotherhood and Peace.
    All hail our country—’tis but one;
        All hail, for her we live,
    And to her host of heroes gone,
        All honor do we give.

    All hail today the men of Meade;
        All hail the men of Lee;
    All hail—whichever spelt the deed—
        Defeat or Victory!
    All hail, they meet! Brave veterans!
        Each other to embrace,
    And with them—all “Americans”—
        Love, Loyalty and Peace.

  • So Long, Willie

    From The Times Dispatch, November 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    The surgeons rub their hands in glee and sharpen up their saws,
        And Willie’s mother breathes a hopeless sigh.
    Her heart of hearts is grieving and the teardrops fall because
        It’s time to bid her Willie boy goodbye.
    He is a husky youngster and was never sick a day,
        But one can never tell what will befall.
    He may be brought back to her in a basket or he may
        Be brought back to her never more at all.
    You cannot blame the lady for her heart throbs and her fears,
        However vain and needless they may seem,
    For little Willie’s chosen for a sad fate it appears;
        He has been picked for halfback on the team.

  • The System

    From The Times Dispatch, October 16, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    When fellers come around and start to criticizin’ you,
    And find fault concernin’ you and all the things you do;
    When they suggest improvements and point out where you are lame,
    And try to give you pointers on your own particular game,
    Don’t stop to argue with ‘em, for your cue is to stand pat;
    Jes’ do the best that you kin do and let it go at that.

    When fellers tell you that you ought to spend a lot of dough,
    And bust into society and meet folks you should know;
    When they come round and tell you that you’re way behind the game,
    And that the life you’re leadin’ is too commonplace and tame,
    Don’t get excited and go on a social climbin’ bat,
    Spend what you kin afford to spend and let it go at that.

    When folks come round and tell you that you’re too big for your town,
    That you should strike out for a place where you kin win renown;
    When they inform you you’re a chump for working at your wage;
    That you’re not where you should be for a man who’s reached your age;
    When they try to swell your head so you can’t wear your hat,
    Just keep your nut and peg away and let it go at that.

  • The Army

    From The Times Dispatch, September 30, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Army life is simply grand, so a man would understand,
        Judging from the pictures that they send from Washington.
    Advertising is immense, posters stuck upon the fence
        Get the youngster to believing that it’s only fun.
    Soldiers do just as they please; live a life of perfect ease,
        Get a lot of travel that does not cost them a cent.
    Naught to do but sleep and eat. Joy of living is complete;
        Not a moment’s worry over clothing, food and rent.

    Propositions look all right, army doesn’t even fight;
        Uncle Sam has got no scrap with any foreign power.
    Soldiers simply loaf a lot with no chance of getting shot,
        Lying in their hammocks reading novels by the hour.
    Hoeing taters on the farm loses all its old-time charm,
        Bill Jones packs his satchel and he hikes out for the town.
    Horny handed son of toil leaves the old parental soil,
        Bound for ease and freedom and perhaps in time renown.

    Bill, with other raw recruits, had to black the captain’s boots,
        Curry horses, scour the pans, act as chambermaid.
    Drill all day with all his might, do guard duty late at night—
        That’s the way in times of peace the army game is played.
    There’s no loafing ‘neath the trees; hard to find these hours of ease
        That the artist pictured in the poster on the fence.
    There is not a chance to shirk, army life is much like work,
        Same as any other walk of life in that one sense.

  • Great

    From The Times Dispatch, September 9, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    It’s great to have a million;
        A feller can stand pat;
    Or e’en a hundred thousand—
        A man can live on that.
    And fifty thousand dollars
        Is not so very bad;
    If I could get but thirty
        I’d be most mighty glad.
    I might say that five thousand
        Would look real swell to me,
    Or even say twelve hundred,
        It’s not so bad to see.

    Five hundred ain’t so fancy,
        Some folks would think it tame;
    But I would take one hundred
        And be glad just the same.
    And get right down to fifty,
        Some people call it small,
    But twenty-five is better
        Than having none at all.
    Ten dollars ain’t so many,
        You say, but man alive,
    I’ll give you my opinion,
        It’s great to have a five.

  • Too Late

    From The Times Dispatch, September 6, 1913.

    This poem was written in the dead-house of the Federal prison at Camp Chase, Ohio, by “Col. W. S. H.” of the Confederate army. A fellow-prisoner was engaged to a beautiful Southern lady; she proved faithless, and her letter breaking the troth came soon after his death. This was the colonel’s reply.

    Your letter came, but came too late,
        For Heaven had claimed its own;
    Ah! sudden change from prison bars
        Unto the Great White Throne!
    And yet I think he would have stayed
        For one more day of pain,
    Could he have read those tardy words
        Which you have sent—in vain.

    I wish that you were by me now
        As I draw the sheet aside,
    To see how pure the look he wore
        A while before he died.
    Yet the sorrow that you gave him
        Still had left its weary trace,
    And a meek and saintly sadness
        Dwells upon his pallid face.

    “Her love,” he said, “could change for me
        The winter’s cold to spring”;
    Ah! trust of thoughtless maiden’s love,
        Thou art a bitter thing.
    For when these valleys fair, in May
        Once more with bloom shall wave,
    The Northern violets shall blow
        Above his humble grave.

    Your dole of scanty words had been
        But one more pang to bear;
    Though to the last he kissed with love
        This tress of your soft hair.
    I did not put it where he said,
        For when the angels come
    I would not have them find the sign
        Of falsehood in the tomb.

    Tonight the cold winds whistle by
        As I my vigil keep
    Within the prison dead-house, where
        Few mourners come to weep.
    A rude plank coffin holds him now,
        Yet Death gives always grace;
    And I would rather see him thus
        Than clasped in your embrace.

    Tonight your rooms are very gay
        With wit and wine and song;
    And you are smiling just as if
        You never did a wrong.
    Your hand so fair that none would think
        It penned these words of pain;
    Your skin so white—would God your soul
        Were half so free of stain!

    I’d rather be this dear, dear friend
        Than you in all your glee;
    For you are held in grievous bonds,
        While he’s forever free.
    Whom serve we in this life we serve
        In that which is to come.
    He chose his way, you yours; let God
        Pronounce the fitting doom.