From The Washington Herald, April 6, 1913. By C. P. McDonald. Into the maelstrom of Rosy Thoughts and into the Valley of Dreams He entered, a youth with a happy heart, to follow life’s rainbow gleams; Ever and ever he looked ahead toward the glare of the beckoning heights, Toiling and moiling through days of hope far into the fathomless nights; Alert to the precepts of stern success that thrive in the hearts of men, Crushed to the earth by the iron hand of fate he would rise again. Bruised by adversity, goaded by chance, each day he would grimly smite, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in an uphill fight! Courage was his as he carved his path sans cheers of his fellow men, Stemming his way through each turbulent day that closed but to dawn again; Shoulder to shoulder with mutable luck, undaunted by jests and jeers, He carried his cross with a patience born of failure throughout the years; Building his castles and seeing them fall, he builded anew and smiled; Sounding the depths of his pluck, he knew with faith he was reconciled. Some day achievement all-infinite would dazzle and blind his sight, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a fearless fight! Year after year as his fathers forged, he struggled and staggered on, Over the path of the countless throngs where his sanctified betters had gone; Out of the smoke of each battle fought emerging to war anew, For the things they had done and the conquests won were naught to the deeds he’d do! What of the failures of yesteryear, the wrecks of a long dead day? Should they serve to swerve him and keep him back from the strife of an endless fray? Heaven forfend! He would strive to the end with the last of his curtailed might! For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a losing fight!
Category: The Washington Herald
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The Fighting Blood
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God is Near!
From The Washington Herald, March 21, 1913. By John A. Joyce. God is near upon the ocean God is near upon the land; He is all both rest and motion; We are only grains of sand— Little mites upon life’s billow, May flies buzzing out the hour, Dreams upon a fevered pillow, Dew drops on a withered flower, Only waiting for tomorrow That has never come to man Here we live in joy and sorrow, Chasing phantoms as we can, Chasing pleasure, chasing greatness Over tangled walks and waves, But we learn the bitter lateness Just before we find our graves. Hope is nigh with fairy fingers, Tracing sunbeams on the way; Magic memory ever lingers, Busy with bygone day; Life and death are but the portals To a realm of endless rest, God is working through his mortals, All in some way shall be blessed!
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The Arrow Head
From The Washington Herald, November 13, 1912. By Calvin Dill Wilson. They loved their land, broad set between the seas; They hunted, fought, and roamed in careless ease; In native joys the fearless years were spent— The red men owned and ruled a continent; And when we drove them back with hissing lead They left this lasting sign, the arrow head. By storm or glowing sky their souls were stirred; They knew and dearly prized each beast and bird; Their human hearts held love for maidens fair; The warrior gave his child a brave man’s care; Another race has come their land to tread; Of Indian braves there’s left the arrow head. The bark canoe the restless waters skimmed; The hunter watched his prey with eyes undimmed; He mastered nature for his simple need; He reared a daring race of strongest breed; And now into devouring night he’s fled, And left no sign but this, his arrow head. We might have spared to him his valiant pride, Or left him breathing space in land so wide; We something might have learned of him, the free— We owed him manhood, spirit, liberty; But, cruel, we o’er all his soil have spread; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. The panther-footed, lithesome Indian brave We thought not worth our while to try to save. But welcomed hither hordes of king-crushed souls, The worn-out serfs who cringed to lords for doles; We gave an eagle race the grave as bed; Our fields yet hold his sign, the arrow head. He passes, cowed and scorned; we, careless, read Unmoved his tale. “A savage! Let him bleed And eat his heart and weep and swiftly go; Our strength’s our right. The tale is old.” E’en so! For him no tears, no honor! Ghosts have sped; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. We pick the flaked flints from far and near; Museums hold them. “Weapons? Tools? How queer!” Yet, aimed with flashing eye and iron arm, Once flew that flint to keep his child from harm, Or oft it felled the deer that wife be fed; A heart’s own tale has every arrow head. All rich he was, most rich; we made him poor; His ways to him were good; his meat was sure; His tribe was all—we made him stand alone; We could have given bread, we gave a stone. We’re rich, but he has well-nigh vanished— And yet his sign abides, his arrow head. Look on that sign of his once mastery; Have pity now, before he die, all ye; Yet breathe upon the embers of his pride; Restore his manhood ere it quite has died; Be just; take thought, lest we be visited, And fate smite us as with his arrow head. Some day avenging fate may string its bow, And pluck the fields for flints, take aim, and so Send singing on the winds the feather reeds, Straight sighted, true, to smite us for our deeds— Through foes return the ill our lives have bred— And to our hearts send deep the arrow head.
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Dan and Tim and Pat
From The Washington Herald, November 10, 1912. By John Anschute. Dan would have wooed either Madge or Ann If it had not been that Each girl had another suitor: there Was Tim and there was Pat. Dan met his rival Tim one day—said Tim to Dan with a frown: “I’ll throw up a brick and you can court Madge, if it don’t come down.” Tim threw the brick, Dan lost the girl; ’Twas a cinch for him, of course. But Dan didn’t mind it. “Tim,” said he, “I’ll wurk that trick on Pat Bourse.” Dan and Pat stood talking loudly Near an unfinished brick wall, All unmindful of the mortar the masons Above let fall. “We looks aloike to Ann,” said Pat, “an’ The wan that gets her han’ Will have t’ foight an’ whip the other Wan. Do you understand?” “Yes!” said Dan, “but there’s a better way; I learnt it from Tim Troors; I’ll throw a brick up in the air; if the Brick stays up she’s yoors.” “Agreed!” said Pat, and up flew the brick. “O what a cinch!” said Dan; “I’ll go straight way an’ buy the ring, T’ give t’ me Mary Ann.” When the brick had spent its force ’Twas close to the top of the wall; A bricklayer caught and layed it in. Of course, it did not fall. “A fool for luck!” said Dan to Pat, with Passion rough and stormy; “The brick stayed up, bad cuss t’ Troors; Oim goin’ t’ join the ormy.”
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Beyond the Sunset
From The Washington Herald, November 4, 1912. By John A. Joyce. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the summer never ends And ingratitude is absent Among all celestial friends And our earthly tribulation Is forgotten on that shore, With happiness in splendor And sweet rest forever more. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the flowers ever bloom, And pure love is everlasting To dispel the shades of gloom, Where the soul is plumed with beauty In an atmosphere of peace, And greed and vicious malice Shall forever fade and cease. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where suspicion cannot go And hypocrisy is never known To entrap with nameless woe, And where conscience ever lingers As transparent as the sun With hope and faith forever When this sordid life is done. There’s a land beyond the sunset And as bright as morning dew, With immortal angels singing For the faithful, brave, and true, Who never sold their honor On this venal, vernal sod But in the silence of their soul Held worship for their God. There’s a land beyond the sunset And another land up higher Where the soul is ever soaring And infused with heavenly fire, Where other suns and planets Roll around in mystic sway In their brilliant evolution And eternal right of way.
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Halloween
From The Washington Herald, October 27, 1912. I’ve often wished I could go back To childhood’s happy hours, When life’s illusions were not lost; No thorns among the flowers. But never have I longed so much To live that glad time o’er, As when on Halloween I hear “Tick-tack” on pane or door! What elfin pranks we boys did play Upon the neighbors ‘round Until they thought us sprites let loose To tease, torment, confound! Oh, never can I quite forget The joy that would elate, As when we stole to schoolmaster’s And carried off his gate! What traps for the unwary laid; We plotted and connived, And in the twilight’s misty gloom Our evil deeds would thrive. And then the jolly games we played! Again I hear the glee That rang throughout the crowded hall When ghostly sights we’d see. And then the fun of roasting nuts— If I never had enough— Upon that night I’d have my fill Of apples and sweet stuff! Then in a circle round the hearth, We’d in the future peer. Forebodings evil made us quake, And “good luck” signs would cheer. I oft, amid life’s strife and care, From memory’s storehouse gleam That night most dear to all boys’ hearts— The night of Halloween!
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To the Passing Seasons
From The Washington Herald, October 13, 1912. By George Sands Johnson. There are no blossoms left to tell The happy days of Spring! While parting anthems of farewell Through haunted chambers ring. Amid vast shrines where ages dwell In peace and joy, unseen, Deep voices of glad visions well And sparkle through the green. Sweet memory of joyous hours That charm the backward gaze, Clusters around the folded flowers, Still gleam through autumn haze. And as the summer passes by, Where autumn’s shadows brood, Gray specters of dead beauty sigh In solemn solitude. How fleet and strange is fate and time! As life is swept along Through seasons dreary and sublime To join the vanished throng.