Newspaper History

Category: The Topeka State Journal

  • Ambition

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 11, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    When he made just three plunks a week
        He thought if he made five
    He’d surely be the happiest
        Young business man alive.
    He finally got five a week,
        But wasn’t happy then.
    He never would be satisfied
        Until he pulled down ten.
    When he got ten a week he thought
        His compensation mean;
    He knew he’d reach his heart’s desire
        If he could get fifteen.
    He got his fifteen, then he knew
        A person could not thrive
    In this expensive day and age
        On less than twenty five.
    He finally got twenty five,
        The sum he’d thought so nifty,
    But found he couldn’t be content
        And live on less than fifty.
    He got his fifty one fine day,
        And then he found out that
    He never could be happy quite
        Without one hundred flat.
    He made some wise deals after that
        And gathered in a million.
    But was he happy? No, indeed,
        He had to have a billion.
    And it is safe to say that if
        He really got his billion,
    Old age could find him fighting to
        Accumulate a trillion.

  • Hopeless

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 6, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    They’ve got him in a padded cell,
        He raves from morn till night.
    He has a pencil and a slate,
        And writes with all his might.

    He sets a lot of figures down,
        Then rubs them out again,
    Upon his face there is a look
        That is akin to pain.

    He’s had this slate for seven months,
        The pencil squeaks and squeaks;
    He concentrates upon the job,
        And never sanely speaks.

    They’re watching him both day and night,
        Their care is never lax.
    He’s trying but to figure out
        His income tax.

  • The World Smiles On

    From The Topeka State Journal, February 5, 1914. By A. Walter Utting.

    Yesterday my kitty died.
    Yet this morning by the side
    Of our house a songbird came,
    And it warbled just the same
    As it did before my loss;
    And the bushes just across
    From the barn sang when the breeze
    Struck their twigs; and all the trees
    Acted just as glad and gay
    As they used to every day
    ‘Fore my kitty died! The sun
    Shined with brightness. Never one
    Seemed to know how much I cried
    ‘Cause my pretty kitty died.

    How can all the world smile on
    When my precious one has gone?
    How can joy and happiness
    Still exist while my distress
    Seems to flood this great big earth?
    Can’t they understand the worth
    Of my loss? Or can’t they know
    Of the dreadful, awful blow
    That has fallen on my heart?
    Why, I thought myself a part
    Of the world; thought when I sighed
    I would find that all had cried;
    Yet the sun shines just the same
    As before my sorrow came!

  • The Country Doctor

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 17, 1914. By William F. Kirk.

    Day in, day out, night out, night in,
    Where snow is thick and fees are thin,
    He hustles with his cheery grin
        To fight with ills.
    The drives are long, the nights are cold,
    He suffers hardships left untold
    To call upon some mother old
        Across the hills.

    Little he says about his pay;
    Often he gives his skill away,
    And though he’s getting bent and gray
        He has no wealth.
    His life has been an endless trial,
    His motto has been self-denial;
    Freely he gives from every vial
        For some one’s health.

    The gallant soldier goes away
    While fife and drum and bugle play
    Bravely to conquer or to slay—
        That is his part.
    The country doctor rides alone
    Through rugged roads, o’er stock and stone,
    To heal men, not to make them moan;
        God bless his heart!

  • An Unkind Burglar

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 2, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A burglar came to my house,
    I did not say a word,
    I did not hoot,
    I did not shoot
    To let him know I heard.
    I let him search my mansion,
    I cuddled up in bed,
    Pretended sleep,
    I did not peep,
    But let him think me dead.
    I knew what he was after:
    The key to my garage.
    He found it, too.
    He would, I knew,
    And then I saw him dodge
    Out of the door right quickly,
    I followed him that far.
    He looked around,
    Surveyed the ground,
    And then he stole my car.
    I smiled and laughed and cackled
    Until I thought I’d croak,
    To see a bold
    Bad burglar sold—
    ’Twas a delicious joke.
    I went back to my slumbers
    As happy as could be.
    I’d lost my car
    Ho-ho, har-har,
    I’d saved some dough, maybe.
    But soon I was awakened
    Familiar with the sound,
    The same old clang,
    The same old bang,
    The same old grind and pound.
    He’d driven it ten minutes.
    That guy gives me a pain.
    It made such a fuss
    The ornery cuss
    Had brought it back again.

  • The Kid’s Mystery

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 26, 1913.

    There’s somethin’ doin’ in our flat,
        ‘Taint like it used to be;
    There seems to be some secret that
        They’re keepin’ ‘way from me.
    They’re whisperin’ from morn to night,
        It makes me gol ding sick;
    For every time I come in sight
        They all shet up right quick.

    It seems like I can’t go about
        The rooms or anywhere,
    Unless somebody has to shout,
        “You mustn’t go in there.”
    Pa’s room is locked up like a jail,
        It never was before;
    And ma, she hollers and turns pale
        If I go near the door.

    But when they think that I’m in bed
        These fine December nights,
    I’m underneath the lounge instead,
        A-seein’ all the sights
    That in the sittin’ room are shown
        When dad unwraps the stuff.
    I let ‘em think they are alone,
        So you can hang their bluff.

    When I’ve snuck back and closed my eyes
        In bed, I can’t help think
    Of pa and ma’s great big surprise
        And I can’t sleep a wink.
    They’re handing me an awful game,
        And I’m dead wise this year,
    But I’m right tickled just the same
        That Christmas morn is near.

  • Our Apartment House

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Cabbage on the second floor,
        Liver on the first;
    What is being cooked next door?
        Must be wienerwurst.

    Onions? You can bet two hats
        What a cook prepares
    Anywhere around our flats
        Everybody shares.

  • The Lost Auto

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Lying one day neath the auto,
        Sweating and soaked with oil;
    I worked at a cranky engine
        And my only reward was toil.

    I know not what I was saying,
        As I tinkered and wrenched and tore;
    I doubt not ’twas something quite savage,
        It may be I even swore.

    My patience gave out on that engine,
        With a hammer I hit it a thump
    That jarred loose some thingamadinkus
        And started it up at a jump.

    Before one could twinkle an eyelid,
        Before there was time for surprise,
    That car tore away down the highway,
        And I lay glaring up at the skies.

    I sprang up and madly I followed,
        But soon gave it up in disgust,
    For that runaway car quickly vanished
        In a thick snorting cyclone of dust.

    I sought it in byways and hedges,
        In highways and in busy streets;
    And, though I made thorough inquiries,
        With never a trace did I meet.

    Perhaps in some future existence,
        In worlds far beyond mortal’s ken,
    I shall once more make search for that auto,
        But I doubt if I find it then.

  • The Old Magic

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 6, 1913. By Berton Braley.

    I left the sea behind, that I might dwell
        ‘Mid streets where millions hurry to and fro,
    Where surging crowds and roaring traffic swell
        The city’s vast enchantment that I know;
        But still the vagrant breezes whisper low
    Of rolling deeps and spaces wide and free,
        Of reef and shoal and derelict and floe,
    To mightier magic of the surging sea!

    I love the city and I love it well,
        Its gold and want, its happiness and woe;
    Sometimes it seems no glamour may excel
        The city’s vast enchantment that I know;
        But memory will never have it so—
    She brings again the days “that used to be.”
        Once more I feel, as in the long ago,
    The mightier magic of the surging sea.

    The city streets—what stories they could tell!
        Touched with the wonder of the passing show,
    The seething life, the loves and hates that spell
        The city’s vast enchantment that I know;
        The noise and haste, the myriad lights aglow,
    The plots and schemes, the mirth and mystery.
        And yet I hear, in all the winds that blow,
    The mightier magic of the surging sea.

    What thrill it gives, what dreams it can bestow
    The city’s vast enchantment that I know!
    But I must follow, when this calls to me,
    The mightier magic of the surging sea.

  • The Millionaire’s Romance

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 26, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Gas turned low,
        They confess
    Their romance.
        She says Yes,
    Date is named,
        Cards sent out.
    Soon they’re on
        Marriage route.
    Friends all say,
        “Dandy match,
    She’s a queen,
        He’s a ‘catch.’”
    Thing’s all right
        For a while.
    He’s for clubs,
        She’s for style.
    Chorus girl
        Soon he sees,
    Sends her flowers
        Just to please.
    Wife finds out,
        Doesn’t care;
    Goes abroad
        Everywhere.
    Lawyer starts
        Then, of course,
    Wife’s suit
        For divorce.
    Husband fails
        To appear
    In the court
        Or come near.
    Get divorce
        Without a flaw;
    They both yell,
        “Hip Hurrah.”
    Alimony
        Paid each week.
    Now they’re friends,
        So they speak.