Newspaper History

Category: The Topeka State Journal

  • Memories of Childhood

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1913. By John Stanley Crandell.

    My memory loves to linger on the days of long ago,
    When I was just a little chap of seven years or so;
    There wasn’t any woodshed, and there were not any cows,
    And no big and juicy apples hanging down from laden boughs.
    There wasn’t any meadow, and there wasn’t any stream.
    I don’t recall an attic, never tasted milk with cream.
    Still, in spite of all that’s lacking, I can really, truly say
    That my memory loves to linger on that happy bygone day.

    There wasn’t any oaken bucket hanging in the well,
    But the sundaes at the candy store were really something swell.
    I don’t remember smelling any smell of new-mown hay,
    But the odors up the airshaft were different every day.
    I never had to split the wood, or other similar chores;
    My principle hard labor was watching baseball scores.
    I didn’t weed the garden, and I didn’t drive the mare,
    But I did play penny ante and I learned to smoke and swear.

    There wasn’t any mountain path for me to toil and climb,
    But when I got up those five flights I knew it every time.
    I didn’t learn my lessons by the log fire’s ruddy blaze,
    But simply pushed a button and turned on the tungsten rays.
    No charming valley met my gaze, no woods and pastures new,
    But with some kid I’d go to see “The Follies,” or “Revue.”
    There wasn’t any spelling bee, no general store for Pa,
    But I certainly enjoyed myself with Movies-loving Ma.

    And so, altho’ the things worth while in youth I missed, I know,
    My memory loves to linger on those days of long ago.

  • The New Village Store

    From The Topeka State Journal, October 29, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    The village store has changed a pile, or so it seems to me;
    It’s different in stock and style from what it used to be.
    The cracker barrel’s vanished now, the prunes are gone from sight,
    There’s nothing left around, I vow, to tempt your appetite.

    There’s no place left for us to sit, who used to haunt that store;
    Our wisdom and our native wit aren’t heard there any more.
    The place is all so spick and span and certified and smart,
    It’s simply broken up the clan and cracked each loafer’s heart.

    I know it’s making money fast since it has changed its ways;
    It never made much in the past, but those were good old days.
    It was the meeting place, the hub, in that glad time of yore;
    It was the forum of the club—and now it’s just a store.

  • When Our Grandparents Were In Love

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 24, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    Things have changed a mighty sight
        Since our grandpas went to spark;
    There was no electric light
        When they wished to keep it dark;
    They’d no chance to ever call
        Up a girl by telephone;
    Had no taxicabs at all,
        Cabarets were still unknown;
    They were poor and underpaid,
        And were plagued by many cares;
    How, oh, how did they persuade
        Our dear grandmas to be theirs?

    When our grandpas were young men
        They had little cash to burn;
    It was customary then
        To save all that one could earn;
    They were not inclined to flash
        Money where the crowds could see;
    They were stingy with their cash
        For, in fact, they had to be;
    Cocktails gave them no delight,
        Life, no doubt, was very tame,
    But they seemed to hit it right
        With our grandmas, all the same.

    When our grandpas loved and sighed
        As enchanted lovers will,
    They had little cause for pride,
        And their tastes were simple still.
    They possessed no purring cars
        To appeal to women’s hearts;
    On their hands they bore the scars
        Necessary toil imparts;
    Oft I wonder how they won
        Our grandmas, poor old chaps.
    They appear, though, to have done
        Well, despite their handicaps.

  • Child Labor

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 19, 1913. By Dr. Henry Van Dyke.

    Ah, who are these on whom the vital bloom
        Of life has withered to the dust of doom?
    These little pilgrims, prematurely worn
        And bent as if they bore the weight of years?
    These childish faces, pallid and forlorn,
        Too dull for laughter and too hard for tears?
    Is this the ghost of that insane crusade
        That led ten thousand children long ago,
    A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed,
        Yet pressing on through want and woe
    To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid?
        Nay, for a million children now
    Are marching in the long, pathetic line,
        With weary step and early wrinkled brow;
    And at their head appears no holy sign
        Of hope in heaven; for unto them is given
    No cross to carry, but a cross to drag.
        Before their strength is ripe they bear
    The load of labor, toiling underground
        In dangerous mines, and breathing heavy air
    Of crowded shops; their tender lives are bound
        To service of the whirling, clattering wheels
    That fill the factories with dust and noise;
        They are not girls and boys,
    But little “hands,” who blindly, dumbly feed
        With their own blood the hungry god of Greed.

  • Vacation Song

    From The Topeka State Journal, September 12, 1913.

    Little bank roll, ere we part,
    Let me hold you to my heart;
    All the year I’ve clung to you,
    I’ve been faithful, you’ve been true;
    Little bank roll, in a day
    You and I will start away
    To a gay and festive spot;
    I’ll come home, but you will not.

  • Mud Pies

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 26, 1913. By Anna P. Bryant.

    Plums are pebbles, and you can mix
    Nice brown dirt and chopped-up sticks,
    Pat it down and set in the sun—
    When it gets hard your pie is done!

    Sand is frosting; sift it fine;
    Sprinkle thick till it gets a shine
    Just like mother’s—I guess that you
    Would have a piece if I asked you to.

    Mince and apple and custard thick!
    Haven’t I done my baking quick?
    Watch me, now, while I cut my pie—
    Whoever wants a piece say “I!”

  • Beyond the Night

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 23, 1913. By Grantland Rice.

    The city lights are bright with flame where up and down the street
    The city’s gleam flares up the way for countless drifting feet;
    And yet, I often turn away, where through a window pane
    A dim, old-fashioned candle light shines down a country lane.

    The city has a thousand songs—a multitude to sing
    A thousand voices sweep the night where dim cathedrals ring;
    And yet I often turn away where all the morning through
    A mocking bird calls back to me across the silver dew.

    The city has a mighty voice—a siren voice that calls
    Where Fame is pleading night and day within her star-crowned walls;
    And yet I often turn away where in the fading light
    A waiting mother used to call her boy in from the night.

  • Ambition

    From The Topeka State Journal, July 29, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

    Let others work and lose their health
    In piling up the sordid wealth,
        But that is not my wish.
    Let others burn the midnight oils,
    Devising ways of grabbing spoils;
        I’d rather sit and fish.

    Let others solve the problems great,
    Affecting the affairs of state;
        None of that on my dish.
    Let others hew the nation’s path
    And bear the thankless public’s wrath,
        I’d rather sit and fish.

    Let others lead the strenuous life
    That’s full of worry, toil and strife,
        But that’s not my ambish.
    Let others wear their lives away
    By living five years every day;
        I’d rather sit and fish.

  • An Epidemic

    From The Topeka State Journal, May 31, 1913.
 By Roy K. Moulton.
 

 The office boy’s grandmother dies
     At least three times a week;
 The bookkeeper develops ills
     Of which he’s apt to speak.
 
 The ribbon clerk abruptly jumps
     His job at 3 p. m.
 He says his kids have got the mumps
     And he must go to them.
 
 The boss does not feel well himself,
     And thinks he needs fresh air;
 He goes out to the baseball park
     And finds his help all there.

  • At Last

    From The Topeka State Journal, May 19, 1913.
 By Roy K. Moulton.
 

 In eighteen hundred and twenty when Jim Purdy was nineteen,
 He wrote a comic story for a well known magazine.
 The story was accepted by the editor and when
 Jim Purdy got the news he was the happiest of men.
 He thought of course his story would within a month appear,
 But strange to say it didn’t get in print at all that year.
 Ten years he waited, then he wrote quite anxiously to learn
 The reason, and they told him that his yarn must wait its turn.
 
 He called upon the editor along in sixty-nine,
 And was informed his story was still waiting in the line.
 He asked for information as to when it might appear.
 They told him that it might perhaps, come out most any year.
 Jim Purdy waited patiently and lost his teeth and hair
 And bought each issue hoping he would find his story there.
 He talked about it all day long and dreamed of it at night;
 His great-grandchildren’s children could not understand him quite.
 
 One day the mail man brought a check. Old Jim pricked up his ears.
 ’Twas what he had been waiting for nigh on to ninety years.
 That week was sure a lucky one. The magazine came too;
 He trembled with excitement as he looked its pages through.
 His one hundred and seven years all seemed to leave him when
 He let a warwhoop out which seemed to make him young again.
 “I’ll write some more,” he cackled, as he quite forgot the past.
 “I’ve lived to see the thing in print. They’ve published it at last.”