Newspaper History

Tag: W. J. Lampton

  • A Militant

    From The Sun, June 14, 1914. By W. J. Lampton.

    She was an elder woman and she came
    Into my office with no shrink of shame.
    But with a manner most aggressively
    As though she owned the whole darn place and me.
    “Good morning, Ma’am,” I said in my best way,
    “What is there I can do for you today?”
    She held me with her eagle eye
    Nor passed my imperfections by.
    “Breathes there the man with soul so dead
    Who never to himself hath said:
    ‘Women shall vote’?” ’Twas thus she spoke,
    And guileless I, considering it a joke,
    Responded, “Well, really now, I cannot say
    But souls don’t die, Ma’am, down our way.”
    Then burned her swarthy cheek like fire
    And shook her very frame for ire—
    “Strike, if you will, this old gray head,
    But share your votes with us,” she said.
    Regardless of what might occur,
    I braced myself and answered her:
    “Indeed, I would most gladly share
    My vote with you, O lady fair,
    But truly now, it can’t be done,
    Because you see I have but one,
    And that the law, however snide,
    Will not allow me to divide.”
    Her brow was sad, her eye, beneath,
    Flashed like a falchion from its sheath:
    “When freedom, from her mountain height,
    Unfurls her banner to the air,
    She’ll split the azure robe of night
    And nail the votes of women there,”
    The lady said, and I replied
    With this faint query on the side:
    “I hate to ask you so, it hurts,
    But say, will Freedom wear slashed skirts?”
    She answered with a look of rage
    Which hid the ashen hue of age:
    “Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day
    When the women shall meet thee in battle array.”
    “But Madam,” I said, “why speak to me thus?
    My name isn’t Lochiel. I don’t know the cuss.”
    The flash of her dark, threatening eyes,
    Forerunning thunder, took my size:
    “When Freedom’s name is understood,
    You’ll not delight the wise and good;
    You dare not set the women free
    And give them law’s equality.
    Farewell, you horrid wretch; I can
    Call you by no worse name than Man.”
    She turned to go and went so fast
    I could not stay her as she passed;
    And yet I would have done so, for
    I am a peaceful bachelor
    Who hates the very thought of war.
    And sure, as far as I’m concerned,
    They may have suffrage and be derned.

  • In Storm and Stress

    From the New York Tribune, March 30, 1913.
 By W. J. Lampton.
 

 How weak is man when nature’s wrath
 Pours out itself upon his path,
 And with the storm and fire and flood
 Exacts the price of goods and blood,
 To leave him stricken, sick and sore
 Bereft of people, home and store.
 And yet how strong is man—the blow
 That falls in one place starts the flow
 Of helpfulness from everywhere,
 With open hands and saving care.
 The speedy answer to the call
 Of loss and sorrow, and from all
 Come hope and courage which uplift
 The faltering head among the drift.
 Which put new life in living when
 The fallen shall arise again.
 How strong is man when nature’s wrath
 Pours out itself upon his path!

  • A Fantasy of Fresh Eggs

    From the New York Tribune, February 18, 1913.
 By W. J. Lampton.
 

 ’Twas on a January day
     When fair Toinette O’Keggs
 Fared forth to market for to buy
     A dozen new laid eggs.
 “I want them strictly fresh,” she said,
     “No other kind for me.”
 “Well, these are just out,” quoth the man,
     “You have our guarantee.”
 So guileless Toinette took the eggs
     Believing what he said,
 And when she opened up the box
     On one of them she read:
 “Whoever gets this egg please write
     To John Smith, Waterloo,
 N. J., and you can bet your life
     That he will write to you.”
 

 Now Toinette’s heart was all agog
     Her soul was filled with bliss
 For she had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
     Of romance such as this.
 So when the shades of evening came
     And all her work was done
 She wrote a note which truly was
     A most romantic one.
 She waited for a month or more
     Then, when all hope had fled
 An answer came from John Smith, who
     In tones of anguish said:
 “Too late, too late; I’m married now,
     And I am full of woe;
 The words you read upon that egg
     I wrote two years ago.”

  • A Wise Nonadvertiser

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 24, 1912.
By W. J. Lampton.
 

 There was a man in our town
   And he was wondrous wise;
 He opened many places, yet
   He wouldn’t advertise.
 
 He thought it foolish to announce
   His business as some think
 They ought to do, and said he had
   No need of printer’s ink.
 
 Promotion of publicity
   He said, was something which
 The more he had of, that much less
   His chance of getting rich.
 
 He said he’d studied it and knew
   That advertising would
 Beyond the shadow of a doubt
   Do more harm than good.
 
 Indeed, this man in our town
   Was truly wondrous wise;
 He was a burglar, which is why
   He didn’t advertise.