Newspaper History

Tag: Grantland Rice

  • The Immune

    From the Evening Public Ledger, July 19, 1913. By Grantland Rice.

    They saw him charge from trench to trench,
    Through pools of gore and deadly stench.

    They heard him plunge on with a jeer
    When shrapnel took away an ear.

    And when the famous Forty-twos
    Began to drop, with lighted fuse,

    They saw him in his careless pride
    Rise up and kick them to one side.

    And in some wild charge on the line,
    Where chills assail the human spine,

    They saw him face a bayonet
    And yawning, light a cigarette.

    Where deadly mortars scattered gore
    He gave three cheers—and called for more.

    The captains called in wonderment,
    “Who can this hero be?”

    “I used to umpire,” he replied—
    “This stuff is pie for me.”

  • The Golf Widow’s Divorce

    From the New York Tribune, July 3, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    A weary female stood in court before a judge quite grim;
    And looking up with abject mien she turned and spoke to him;
    “Your honor”—said she with a voice that bordered on a sigh—
    “I’d like to get a quick divorce”—and tears stood in her eye;
    The Judge looked down upon her just a moment ere he said
    “What has your husband done that you are sorry that you wed?
    Can it be that he beats you—or holds out half his pay?”
    Whereat the female wept again and these sad words did say—

    “He only talks of stymies and of dormies—
    He only talks of ‘hooks’ that lost a bet;
    He plays his golf all day
    And at night he raves away
    Of putts he orter had—but didn’t get;
    He says he orter had a sixty-seven—
    But the hundred that he took was far from right—
    I don’t care if he should play
    This here golluf every day
    If he wouldn’t play it over every night.”

    The stern judge thought a moment with a frown upon his face—
    “I hate divorces,” he replied, “but not in this here case;
    I know the gunman’s often wrong—and yet he has his side;
    And while I sometimes jug a thief—I often let him slide;
    But there are limits to all crime—and one or two so raw
    That fitting punishment is yet beyond the printed law—”
    But when he murmured “twenty years”—the golfer’s hair turned gray
    And now the wife is kinder sad that these words she did say.

  • The Soul Purger

    From the Evening Public Ledger, May 29, 1915. By Grantland Rice.

    Two out—and the bases full—
        Three runs to win and two to tie;
    And then, amid the boding lull,
        Looms Crawford of the batting eye;
    I watch the pitcher writhe and whirl
        And shoot one from his mounded pen—
    I see the white pill dart and curl
        As Crawford’s bludgeon swings—and then—

    In that one moment through the stands
        There runs—before the groans and cheers—
    The taut grip of ten thousand hands—
        The pulse leap of a thousand years;
    The one great throbbing human call
        Above all science, war or love,
    As crashing bat meets speeding ball
        Or speeding ball meets waiting glove.

    Here end the sorrows of the race—
        All want and wretchedness and crime;
    Where Care must seek another place—
        Where Sin must bide another time;
    Here where the heart’s wiped clean and dry—
        The drudge soul lifted from the pit
    For those who wait for the reply—
        A strike-out—or a two-base hit?

  • The Vanished Country

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 7, 1914. By Grantland Rice.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a cabin in a lane,
    Across the yellow sunshine
        And the silver of the rain;
    A cabin, summer-shaded,
        Where the maples whispered low
    Dream stories of the world winds
        That a fellow used to know;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a land he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s an old-time swinging gate
    Through the early dusk of summer
        Where a girl has come to wait;
    And her hair is like the sundrift
        From the heart of summer skies,
    While the blue of God’s wide heaven
        Crowns the splendor of her eyes;
    And it’s queer that, turning gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a girl he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

    Back in the Vanished Country
        There’s a dream that used to be
    Of Fame within the city
        And a name beyond the sea;
    A dream of laurel wreathings
        That came singing through the light
    The story of the glory
        Of the victor in the fight;
    And it’s queer that, worn and gray,
        Still a fellow looks away
    To a dream he knows has vanished
        Down the Path of Yesterday.

  • 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.

  • Ballad of the Game’s Break

    From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913.
 By Grantland Rice.
 

 The grey wind sings its song of hate—
 The white snow leads a spectral dance;
 We seek—but find no Open Gate
 Through which to make a last advance;
 Lost—on the Threshold of Romance—
 But not as heroes come to die—
 Just say for us—they took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.
 
 The dusk grows deeper where we wait
 And homeward speed one final glance—
 ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate—
 The luck which broke us—lance by lance;
 Around us creep the endless trance
 Of silent heart and sightless eye—
 ’Tis but our score—we took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.
 
 So, Scorer of the Final Slate—
 Last Marker of each circumstance—
 When at the Road’s end, soon or late,
 We stand before the mystic manse—
 Across the limitless expanse
 This is enough—from hell to sky—
 If you should write—“He took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.”