Newspaper History

Tag: Margaret E. Sangster

  • Our Own

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 20, 1915. By Margaret E. Sangster.

    If I had known in the morning
    How wearily all the day
        The words unkind
        Would trouble my mind
    I said when you went away,
    I had been more careful, darling
    Nor given you needless pain;
        But we vex our own
        With look and tone
    We might never take back again.

    For though in the quiet evening
    You may give me the kiss of peace,
        Yet it may be
        That never for me
    The pain of the heart should cease.
    How many go forth in the morning
    That never come home at night;
        And hearts have broken
        For harsh words spoken
    That sorrow can ne’er set right.

    We have careful thoughts for the stranger,
    And smiles for the sometimes guest,
        But oft for our own
        The bitter tone
    Though we love our own the best.
    Ah, lips with the curve impatient,
    Ah, brow with that look of scorn
        ‘Twere a cruel fate
        Were the night too late
    To undo the work of the morn.

  • The Mother of a Hero

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 1, 1914. By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.

    A crash, a flash, a momentary triumph,
        The blaze of the sun from out a sky of blue;
    And someone lies, a heap of huddled garments,
        With heart now still that once sang brave and true.

    A blur of smoke against the mountains rugged,
        A buzzard winging slowly through the sky,
    And miles away a little mother—waiting—
        And praying to the gracious God on high.

    A moan, a stream of life blood ebbing swiftly,
        A pair of eyes that close in endless sleep;
    A bullet, sharp and sudden in its coming,
        That leaves a wound so horrible and deep.

    A paper, printed large in glowing headlines,
        That says, “He left a mother, next of kin.”
    A country’s loud approval of a hero—
        And one small woman sobbing through the din!

    A fear, a tear, a pair of hands clasped tightly,
        A mind that sees a sturdy little boy,
    A tiny baby face with roguish dimples,
        A sound of laughter filled with childish joy.

    A nation’s hero, dying first—with glory!
        A man in spirit, though a boy in years,
    A soldier shot in battle, fighting bravely—
        A little mother smiling through the tears!