Newspaper History

Category: The Topeka State Journal

  • The Glorious Day

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 22, 1915.

    Gray dawn, and the boom of a fortress gun;
    A cry of death, and the fight’s begun.
    The grass is wet with the night dew yet;
    It will drown in blood ere the sun has set.
    The killers start up from their beds in the clay,
    Their faces as gray as the new born day.
    Just a moment they shrink, for the morn is chill,
    But their hearts leap quick, and their pulses thrill
    As they lunge to their work, and they kill with a will,
    And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill—
        For the fight is on.

    High noon, and the din of a thousand tones;
    Curses and shrieks and sobs and moans;
    Clashing of steel and the rattle of guns,
    And the drip, drip, drip where the red blood runs.
    Stench on the air, and the vultures come;
    The starved dogs wait and the green flies hum.
    Death in a hundred shapes, death everywhere,
    On plain and hill, in the mine, in the air!
    And the killers toil on, and they kill with a will.
    And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill—
        For the fight goes on!

    Black night, and the killers lie down from their toil,
    Throw their blood stained arms on the blood soaked soil;
    And they sleep and they dream of their unfinished work,
    While the starved dogs gorge in the gloom and the murk.
    And the chief of the killers walks forth on the plain,
    Where he stumbles and falls on the forms of the slain.
    And his tin medals rattle, the baubles he’s won,
    And he curses the dead, but he mutters, “Well done!
    ’Twas a glorious day, but there’s work to do still,
    And we’ll kill and we’ll kill and we’ll kill and we’ll kill
        Till the last fight’s won!”

  • A Regal Conflict

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 15, 1915. By Eva Dean.

    The Sunset donned a shining robe;
        “Who else is clothed as well as I?”
    She proudly thought. “I always wear
        The latest colors of the sky.”

    She glanced down at the quiet earth,
        So gravely garbed in green and brown,
    And saw the saucy River there,
        Clad in a copy of her gown.

    Indignantly her cloudy scarf
        She flung aside, so all could see
    The splendor of her glowing gold
        And ruby bordered drapery.

    But straightway, from her bed below,
        The laughing River flaunted wide
    A garment quite as elegant,
        Spread broadly on her flowing tide.

    The angry Sunset, mortified,
        Flushed crimson with embarrassment,
    But down below the River mocked,
        Still shamelessly impertinent.

    Then, purple in her stately rage,
        The Sunset’s glowing visage grew;
    And straight, the River’s dimpled face
        Took on an angry purple, too!

    No more could any Sunset stand.
        She dropped her veil of midnight blue;
    But first she pricked some holes therein
        To watch the flippant River through.

    The River saw the tiny holes
        With their escaping beams so bright,
    And scattered o’er her dancing waves
        As many a taunting, twinkling light.

    So they contend, as they have done,
        For ages more than man has known—
    Wee little man, who, down below,
        Thinks all life’s conflicts are his own!

  • The Mystery

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 12, 1915. By Edward H. Pfeiffer.

    I am a coward, that I know.
        I am a nothingness, sham;
        And yet withal I feel I am
    Fine-chiseled as a cameo.

    I am a crust of slimy mire,
        A slave to fear, to doubt, to shame;
        And yet I feel within my flame
    A soaring spark of solar fire.

    I am a clotted, earthly clod,
        A shade, a mere nonentity;
        I know the beast that lurks in me,
    And yet I feel that I am God!

  • The Chimes of Termonde

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 25, 1914. By Grace Hazard Conkling.

    The groping spires have lost the sky,
        That reach from Termonde town:
    There are no bells to travel by,
        The minster chimes are down.
    It’s forth we must, alone, alone,
        And try to find the way;
    The bells that we have always known,
        War broke their hearts today.

        They used to call the morning
            Along the gilded street,
        And then their rhymes were laughter,
            And all their notes were sweet.

    I heard them stumble down the air
        Like seraphim betrayed;
    God must have heard their broken prayer
        That made my soul afraid.
    The Termonde bells are gone, are gone,
        And what is left to say?
    It’s forth we must, by bitter dawn,
        To try to find the way.

        They used to call the children
            To go to sleep at night;
        And then their songs were tender
            And drowsy with delight.

    The wind will look for them in vain
        Within the empty tower.
    We shall not hear them sing again
        At dawn or twilight hour.
    It’s forth we must, away, away,
        And far from Termonde town,
    But this is all I know today—
        The chimes, the chimes are down!

        They used to ring at evening
            To help the people pray,
        Who wander now bewildered
            And cannot find the way.

  • The Hunter

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    He seeks no rabbits. They are too tame.
    He’s going out for bigger game,
    A thing he has wished to do
    E’er since he was a barefoot boy.
    He’s spent most all his hard earned dough,
    More than he could afford to blow
    Because he wants to go in style
    And do the thing up simply right.
    There’s nothing that he hasn’t bought
    By way of fixin’ that he ought.
    He’s all fussed up in hunting clothes
    Of loud design and out of sight.
    A week goes by. They get no word,
    And start to wonder what’s occurred.
    Until one day a telegram
    Fills them with nervous dread and fear.
    ’Tis short but very eloquent
    And everyone knows what is meant:
    “Mistaken for a deer.”

  • The Prayer of the Army Men

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1914. By Kenneth Proctor Littauer.

    At the going, when we stumble up the gangway to the ship,
    While we wish, and curse the wish, that we could stay;
    On the Channel, as we watch the yearning cliffs of England dip,
    Help us, Lord, to hide our sickened hearts away!

    On the marches—on the marches with the blisters on our feet,
    When our kits weigh not much less than half a ton,
    And our one idea of Heaven is a place to sleep and eat—
    Give us strength, Lord, ’til our thirty miles are done!

    Through the weary, starlit vigils when we guard the sleeping tents,
    Where they huddle grey behind us in the gloom,
    Bid us challenge every phantom that our fear of death invents;
    Keep our ears alert to hear the creeping Doom!

    In the trenches, with the bullet-ridden earthworks spurting dust
    And the peering rifle muzzles spitting flame;
    In the sweating bayonet charges, with the thrust and wrench and thrust,
    Hear us when we, dying, call upon Thy name!

    In the winning, in the losing, in the triumph, the despair,
    Be we victors or the holders of defeat,
    Keep us mindful of the honor of a nation that we bear;
    Let our souls, Lord, be above the fate we meet!

  • The Reason

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 30, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Got a letter yesterday
        From my cousin Jim.
    Guess it’s been almost a year
        Since I’ve heard from him.
    Says he hopes I’m prosperin’,
        For he’s fond of me;
    Hopes I’ll drop the old-time grudge
        An’ be friends you see.
    Takes occasion to remark,
        Incidental like,
    New kid at this house is named
        In my honor, Ike.

    Uncle Pete has written me,
        Quite a letter, too;
    Hopes my health is on the gain,
        Then hands me a few
    Hot ones on his love for me;
        Says it is intense,
    Like to see me if he could,
        Barrin’ the expense.
    To’ard the close he manages
        To slip in a line
    That the suit I gin him once
        Lasted three years, fine.

    Cousin Hank and Brother Bill
        Both have written home,
    Tellin’ us about their trip,
        Where they’re apt to roam.
    They’ve been gone eleven months,
        Prospectin’ out west;
    First we’ve heard from them is now;
        Said they’d done their best
    But their luck seemed kinder poor,
        They’re homesick, almost.
    ‘Long about the twenty-fifth
        They’ll reach Painted Post.

    Letters comin’ all the time,
        Mailmen, as a rule,
    Say I must be runnin’ some
        Correspondence school.
    Sisters, uncles, cousins, aunts,
        Long forgotten friends,
    Sending picture postal cards
        Just to make amends.
    But the end of this rush will
        Come soon, never fear.
    Reason for it all is this:
        Christmas time is near.

  • The Blessings of Hard Times

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 23, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    When Farmer Jones’ Berkshire hog was living on the farm
    His personality was gross, his manner had no charm;
    He daily wallowed in the mud, he guzzled from his trough,
    And grew a mass of embonpoint which nothing could take off.
    And while his body waxed so great that he could hardly crawl,
    His brains became so dull and thick he couldn’t think at all.

    But when one day the farm burned down, the Berkshire hog got loose,
    And had to put his thickening brains to very active use.
    Nobody came to feed him now; he had to hustle ‘round,
    And use his nerve and judgement to provide his daily found.
    And soon new muscles thewed his flanks instead of flabby fat,
    And his once soggy countenance became worth looking at.

    There is no startling moral to this tale of Jones’s swine,
    Except that when one has to work before one sits to dine,
    And has to keep expenses down, the life he learns to lead
    Is pretty sure to keep his brains from running all to seed.
    And though no doubt it will surprise a lot of soft-raised men,
    A little pinch of poverty won’t hurt them—now and then.

  • Bagman Wind

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 5, 1914. By Grif Alexander.

    Bagman Wind has things to sell, rings to sell, swings to sell!
        Bagman Wind has kings to sell! Every one a bargain!
    Scent of sea and scent of flowers; Scent of garden after showers!
        Perfumes faint of passing hours! Every one a bargain!

    Come, who’ll buy? Ye simple folk, who pretend to love a joke,
        Here are dainty rings of smoke—every one a bargain!
    Only cost a puff or two! Purse your mouth and they’ll skidoo!
        Lover’s rings enough for two! And every one a bargain!

    Swings? Why, bless your heart, just these: Clothes on lines and leaves on trees,
        Hammocks, ribbons, ships on seas—every one a bargain!
    (When these high grade goods he shows, how his voice’s ringing blows
        Puffs his wares! But then he knows every one’s a bargain!)

    Kings? Why, lots! Here’s cheerfulness and (for the baby) King Caress,
        And kisses crowned for Kate and Bess—every one a bargain!
    Health and strength he brings to you, cures you when you’re feeling blue!
        He can whisper secrets, too! Every one a bargain!

  • A Love Song

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 4, 1914. By Harriet Monroe.

    Your love is like a blue, blue wave
        The little rainbows play in.
    Your love is like a mountain cave
        Cool shadows darkly stay in.

    It thrills me like great gales at war,
        It soothes like softest singing.
    It bears me, where clear rivers are
        With reeds and rushes swinging;
    Or out to pearly shores afar
        Where temple bells are ringing.