Newspaper History

Tag: Minna Irving

  • Independence Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1915. By Minna Irving.

    From the shores of old Penobscot
        Where the ocean’s roar is heard,
    To the home of sweet magnolias
        And the clear-voiced mocking bird,
    From the pines, that whisper secrets
        To the pale moon overhead,
    To the live oaks in their mosses
        There’s a gleam of white and red.

    From the gray New England homesteads
        Framed in pear and apple trees,
    To the valleys and the vineyards
        By the blue Pacific seas;
    From the rosy glow of morning
        To the sunset’s golden bars,
    Over all the land of freedom
        Is a flash of silver stars.

    North and South alike they glimmer
        East and West the same they shine,
    In the palace and the cabin,
        By the palm and by the pine;
    Where the crowded city clamors,
        Where the sylvan waters call,
    Flies the same immortal banner
        Waving glorious for all.

    ’Twas for this the Continentals
        Starved and suffered long ago,
    Leaving footprints marked in crimson
        On the crust of frozen snow.
    ’Twas for this the infant nation,
        From the arms of Liberty,
    Made its ringing declaration
        To be fetterless and free.

    Just one silken, starry standard
        Broad and bright enough, behold!
    For both white and black together
        To be sheltered in its fold.
    Just one flag above a people
        That, united, lead the way
    To the world’s emancipation
        And its Independence day.

  • The Soldier’s Easter Song

    From The Topeka State Journal, June 4, 1915. By Minna Irving.

    Back from gory battle came a soldier Easter Day,
    The streets were full of people in their Easter garments gay;
    Silver bells were ringing in the steeples overhead,
    The soldier he was wounded, and this is what he said:
    “It’s a long way to glory, it’s a long way to go
    From the dim and quiet churches where the Easter lilies blow.
    Good-by to home and comfort, farewell to sweethearts dear,
    It’s a long, long way to glory, and my heart’s right here.”

    When the soldier joined the colors he was full of thoughts of Fame,
    But he found among the trenches that they never spoke her name.
    Coming home upon a furlough with his right arm in a sling,
    He was strong for peace eternal when the chimes began to ring:
    “It’s a long way to glory, it’s a long way to go,
    The route is marked in crimson with the blood of friend and foe.
    There’s a girl I want to marry, we have waited ‘most a year,
    It’s a long, long way to glory when my heart is here.

    “I would rather have a cottage, and a garden and a cow,
    Than a V. C. on my bosom, and a laurel on my brow.
    War has led me through his shambles till my soul is worn to rags;
    Give us peace the wide world over, fold away the battle-flags;
    It’s a long way to glory, it’s a long way to go,
    It’s a long way to glory and the hardest road I know.
    From the snowy Easter lilies may the dove of peace appear,
    It’s a long, long way to glory, for my heart’s right here.”

  • The Little Ball Player

    From the Newark Evening Star, June 19, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    With legs apart and shoulders bent
        And sparkling eyes he stands,
    The magic sphere of his delight
        Clutched tightly in his hands.
    With all his strength he sends the ball,
        And views its rapid flight,
    A frown upon his chubby face
        So softly pink and white.

    His aim was true, he straightens up
        And feels himself a man
    Who hears upon a crowded field
        The plaudits of the fan.
    Tricycle now, and teddy bear,
        And choo-choo cars and all,
    Are toys he’ll never want again—
        He’s learned to play baseball!

  • His Pipe

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, May 16, 1914. By Minna Irving.

    Though grandpa left us long ago, with years and labors ripe,
    Yet still upon the shelf we keep his old black briar pipe.
    And when we take it down we seem to see above the bowl
    The keen blue eyes that mirrored forth his wise and kindly soul.
    We took our sorrows to his knee, he listened to them all,
    From sister Letty’s love affairs, to Benny’s “losted” ball,
    And when he filled and lit his pipe, we knew that he had found
    The end of all the trouble-skeins our careless hands unwound.

    So when my grown-up heart is sad with life’s eternal pain,
    With reverential touch I take the old black pipe again.
    About it hangs the aroma of good tobacco still,
    And calls his sturdy spirit back to brace my weakened will.
    Through that old pipe he speaks to me, just as he used to do,
    And bids me face the world again with strength and courage new,
    And Hope around me folds once more her rainbow-colored cloak,
    And all my little troubles fade as once they did—in smoke.

  • In a Nutshell

    From The Detroit Times, August 12, 1913. By Minna Irving.

    We heard with equanimity
        That coal was soaring high,
    We bore it when the price of meat
        Went kiting to the sky;
    When eggs and butter followed suit
        We stood it like a sport.
    But lo, the worst has come at last—
        The peanut crop is short.

    When sailing Coney Island-ward
        Across the ocean swells,
    No longer can we leave a wake
        Of bobbing empty shells.
    And when to circuses and such
        We merrily resort,
    We cannot feed the elephant—
        The peanut crop is short.

    Oh, what is Summer time without
        The tuber of delight?
    We ought to bust the peanut trust,
        We ought to make a fight;
    We ought to put our woe in print,
        We ought to go to court,
    We ought to take the war-path when
        The peanut crop is short.

  • Reuben Buys a Farm

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 21, 1913.
 By Minna Irving.
 

 The day was bright and sunny,
 And business going well.
 But Reuben in his office
 A prey to dreaming fell.
 He thought of woods and meadows
 With all their sylvan charm.
 “Good bye, old town,” he murmured,
 “For Reuben buys a farm.”
 
 He found a roomy dwelling
 With roses round the door.
 A covered well behind it,
 A picket fence before.
 And ancient apple-orchards
 Where sang, secure from harm,
 An orchestra of robins,
 So Reuben bought the farm.
 
 But getting up so early
 To milk by lantern-light,
 And feed the pigs and chickens,
 Was not unmixed delight.
 A pain was in his shoulder,
 A cramp was in his arm,
 And life was full of trouble
 For Reuben on the farm.
 
 He loved his growing garden
 And pleasant pasture lands;
 But not his aching muscles
 And badly blistered hands.
 The household gathered round him
 And viewed him with alarm.
 “We all,” they said, “should hustle
 When Reuben buys a farm.”
 
 Now Paul attends the horses,
 The cows are Mary’s care,
 The pigs and geese and chickens
 Jeannette’s attention share.
 And George in ducks discovers
 A never-failing charm.
 So everybody’s happy
 While Reuben runs the farm.