Newspaper History

Month: May 2022

  • Ode to My Back Yard

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 11, 1914. By Mary Dobbins Prior.

    O thou unpromising collection of rocks and roots and clay,
    I view thee with a sinking heart—is there perhaps a way
    To make thee bloom? I doubt it. Upon thy sterile breast
    I’ve scattered soil and nitrate, but thou’st withstood the test.
    One crop alone thou yieldest me, one crop alone succeeds;
    The winds of Heaven plant it. ’Tis weeds and weeds and weeds.
    Weeds of the field and wayside. Weeds of the wood and street,
    They flourish like the bay tree, within thy eighty feet;
    And when across the ocean the wind of Winter roars,
    It bears upon its pinions rare weeds from foreign shores;
    And scorning all the neighbors, straight to my yard they fly,
    And raise a brood of children that never, never die.
    Ah, no! They’re all immortal, and blow it cold or hot
    ’Tis all the same, both wild or tame, they’ll grow in my back lot.

  • Make the Answers Right

    From The Times Dispatch, May 10, 1914. By H. D. C. MacLachlan.

    A little child with lessons all unlearned,
        And problems all unsolved, before me stands.
    With tired, puzzled face to me upturned,
        She holds her slate within her outstretched hands.
    “My sums are hard; I cannot think tonight;
        Dear Father, won’t you make the answers right?”

    And so I come to Thee, O Father dear;
        My lessons are so hard, my brain so weak;
    Life’s problems are unsolved, my way not clear,
        The answers wrong. Thy wisdom I would seek;
    I am so tired and sad and worn tonight—
        Oh, take my life and make the answers right!

  • The Face On the Floor

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 9, 1914. 

    ’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
    Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
    And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
    A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

    “Where did it come from?” someone said. “The wind has blown it in.”
    “What does it want?” another cried. “Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
    “Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work—
    I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk.”

    This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace—
    In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place;
    “Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd—
    To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

    “Give me a drink—that’s what I want—I’m out of funds, you know.
    When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;
    What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou.
    I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

    “There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely; God bless you one and all.
    Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call;
    Give you a song? No, I can’t do that; my singing days are past,
    My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

    “Say, give me another whiskey, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—
    I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;
    That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,
    But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give us another drink.

    “Fill her up, Joe; I want to put some life into my frame—
    Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
    Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too.
    Well, here’s luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

    “You’ve treated me very kindly, and I’d like to tell you how
    I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
    As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
    And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

    “I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
    But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good;
    I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
    For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

    “I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame.
    It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;
    And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
    With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

    “Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see
    Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
    But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smile was freely given,
    And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

    “Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
    With a form like Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
    With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
    If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

    “I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
    Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
    And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,
    Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

    “It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown,
    My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;
    And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
    The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

    “That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,
    I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;
    Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a tear-drop in your eye.
    Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

    “Say, boys, if you give me another whiskey I’ll be glad,
    And I’ll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad;
    Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score—
    You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.”

    Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
    To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
    Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
    With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.

  • All Smiles Tonight, Love

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 8, 1914.

    I’ll deck my brow with roses, for loved ones will be there;
    And the gems that others gave me I’ll wear within my hair,
    And even those that know me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the dance commences, oh, how I will rejoice!
    I’ll sing the songs he taught me without a faltering voice,
    And flatterers gathered ‘round me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the room he enters, with the bride upon his arm,
    I’ll stop to gaze upon her as though she wore a charm.
    And if he smiles upon her as oft he smiled on me
    They’ll know not what I suffer; they’ll find no change in me.

    And when the dance is over, and all have gone to rest,
    I’ll pray for him, dear mother, the one that I love best;
    For once he loved me true, dear, but now he’s cold and strange;
    He said he’d never deceive me. False friends have wrought the change.

  • Tables Turned

    From the Evening Star, May 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    I watched the gently flowing stream
        Where silver ripples stray.
    Beneath the water’s flash and gleam
        I knew the fish would play.
    I thought of many a prize to make
        A rare and tempting dish.
    I sat and dreamed, though half awake,
        That I was stringin’ fish.

    I looked and saw the finny tribe
        Down in the water clear.
    Swift circles they would there describe
        And to my hook draw near.
    I made full many a fervent wish,
        They romped in graceful glee.
    I dreamed that I was stringin’ fish.
        The fish were stringin’ me.

  • Dat’s Da Life

    From the Harrisburg Telegraph, May 6, 1914. By Wing Dinger.

    They make-a greata beega noise
        In deesa town to-day,
    Da crowds all leesten to da tune
        Da beega brass band play.

    I ask, “What ees dees fuss about,
        Why do dey yell hurray?”
    And some one tell me, “Why, you boob,
        Da season starts to-day.”

    I follow to da park dey call
        Da baseball field, and pay
    My leetle quart for one small tick
        To see da two teams play.

    Da players throw da ball about;
        Da crowds dey yell and shout;
    Some times da man day call da “ump”
        Says “safe,” and sometimes “out.”

    And when he say “you’re safe” to one
        Of da home team, he’s right,
    But if he say “you’re out,” da bunch
        Gets mad enough to fight.

    I wouldn’t want to be da ump,
        He’s got one nasty job;
    No matter what he says da crowd
        Calls him one great beeg slob.

    But seeng of love for chickens, cows
        And war, with all eets strife,
    To seet upon da bleachers at
        A ball game, dat’s da life.

  • Cleon and I

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Cleon hath four limousines,
        Ne’er a one have I;
    Cleon fares to foreign scenes,
        Here at home stay I;
    Cleon lives where servants hurry
        And the walls are high;
    Cleon oft has cause to worry,
        So, alas, have I.

    Twenty suits of clothes has he,
        Only one have I;
    He makes money easily,
        By hard working I;
    In his glass the old wine bubbles,
        Cleon likes it “dry”;
    Cleon frequently has troubles,
        Ah, well, so do I.

    Cleon is a millionaire,
        I work, wet or dry;
    Cleon’s losing all his hair,
        Little hair have I;
    Cleon oft has indigestion,
        So, indeed, have I;
    What’s the difference, you question?
        This is my reply:

    Cleon’s daughter has eloped
        And his son flies high;
    Hopes that Cleon fondly hoped
        Have been doomed to die;
    Cleon sits alone at night,
        In his breast a sigh;
    My kids stay at home and fight—
        Six of them have I.

  • Blighted Interest

    From the Rock Island Argus, May 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The sun may shine again—I s’pose it will.
        But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
    The orchard trees may blossom on the hill,
        But that’ll make no difference to me.

    The ones who like the smell of new-plowed ground
        And think a wild rose beautiful and sweet
    Will probably still want to tramp around,
        Glad that the sod is soft beneath their feet.

    The boys will build their little boats and let
        Them float on rivers I could step across;
    The yearlings, with their scraggy coats, will get
        Out in the fields and gain a shiny gloss.

    The cows will stand and chew their cud and dream,
        But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
    The fisherman will loll beside the stream,
        But that will make no difference to me.

    The people in the busy town will try,
        No matter what they have, to still have more;
    The lights will flicker and the flags will fly,
        The wheels will keep on turnin’ as before.

    On Sunday mornings they will ring the bells,
        At quittin’ time they’ll blow the whistles, too;
    The home run will be followed by loud yells,
        And men may sing at what they have to do.

    The world will still roll on, but there is one
        Who said last night that “it could never be;”
    I s’pose we’ll still have sunshine from the sun,
        But that’ll make no difference to me.

  • The Summer Rain

    From The Sun, May 3, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I hear the dancing on the roof, the fairy footed rain!
    I hear her singing in the eaves, and tapping at the pane;
    I hear her calling to the flowers and to the creeping grass,
    And they come laughing up to greet her footsteps as they pass.

    She brings the promise of the year, of food for hungry herds,
    Shelter and food for wildwood things, and for the singing birds;
    And food for man, the dainty fruits, the yellow wheat and corn,
    And all the largesse of the earth are of her bounty born.

    Sing high and sweet, O summer rain, with verdure crown the hills,
    Fill to the brim our wells and springs, fill all the little rills;
    Earth laughs with joy to see you spread your banners in the sky,
    For in the bounteous gifts you bring our wealth and welfare lie.

  • The Girl I Left Behind Me

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 2, 1914.

    The dames of France are fond and free,
        And Flemish lips are willing,
    And soft the maids of Italy,
        And Spanish eyes are thrilling;
    Still though I bask beneath their smile,
        Their charms all fail to bind me,
    And my heart falls back to Erin’s isle,
        To the girl I left behind me.

    For she’s as fair as Shannon’s side,
        And purer than its water,
    But she refused to be my bride,
        Though many a year I sought her;
    Yet, since to France I sail’d away,
        Her letters oft remind me,
    That I promis’d never to gainsay
        The girl I left behind me.

    She says, “My own dear love, come home,
        My friends are rich and many,
    Or else abroad with you I’ll roam,
        A soldier stout as any;
    If you’ll not come, nor let me go,
        I’ll think you have resigned me.”
    My heart nigh broke when I answered, “No,”
        To the girl I left behind me.

    For never shall my true love brave
        A life of war and toiling,
    And never as a skulking slave
        I’ll tread my native soil on;
    But were it free, or to be freed,
        The battle’s close would find me
    To Ireland bound, nor message need
        From the girl I left behind me.