Newspaper History

Month: July 2022

  • Waiting

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 21, 1914. By John Burroughs.

    Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
        Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
    I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,
        For lo! my own shall come to me.

    I stay my haste, I make delays,
        For what avails this eager pace?
    I stand amid the eternal ways,
        And what is mine shall know my face.

    Asleep, awake, by night or day,
        The friends I seek are seeking me;
    No wind can drive my bark astray,
        Nor change the tides of destiny.

    What matter if I stand alone?
        I wait with joy the coming years;
    My heart shall reap where it has sown,
        And garner up its fruit of tears.

    The waters know their own and draw
        The brook that springs in yonder height;
    So flows the good with equal law
        Unto the soul of pure delight.

    The stars come nightly to the sky;
        The tidal wave unto the sea;
    Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
        Can keep my own away from me.

  • Song

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 20, 1914. By William Shenstone.

    I told my nymph, I told her true,
    My fields were small, my flocks were few;
    While faltering accents spoke my fear
    That Flavia might not prove sincere.

    Of crops destroyed by vernal cold,
    And vagrant sheep that left my fold—
    Of these she heard, yet bore to hear:
    And is not Flavia then sincere?

    How, changed by Fortune’s fickle wind,
    The friends I loved became unkind,
    She heard, and shed a generous tear;
    And is not Flavia then sincere?

    How, if she deigned my love to bless,
    My Flavia must not hope for dress—
    This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear.
    And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.

    Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains!
    Go reap the plenty of your plains;
    Despoiled of all which you revere,
    I know my Flavia’s love sincere.

  • A Backyard Ballade

    From The Times Dispatch, July 19, 1914. By J. H. Greene.

    A gray expanse of weathered wall
        I view from my lone window seat,
    Whose other windows, one and all,
        So empty, lifeless and effete,
    Above a yard burnt up with heat,
        Fill me with fancies saturnine—
    When something makes my gloom retreat—
        White lingerie upon a line!

    Light, laughing laces flirt and fall,
        And stockings, wind-filled to the feet,
    Dance tangoes at an airy ball
        To music that the breezes beat.
    Oh, swirling skirts so indiscreet,
        You dance away black moods of mine!
    Encore, oh hurricane, I entreat,
        This lingerie upon a line!

    Oh, dance from dawn to even fall,
        Wind-woman, zephyr-souled and sweet!
    What sarabands are at your call?
        Where did you learn that ballet suite?
    Yours is an art of the elite,
        Oh, silken, swinging columbine,
    Abstracted of all sex conceit—
        Just lingerie upon a line!

    But disillusion comes complete—
        When something surely masculine
    Is added to that silken cheat
        Of lingerie upon a line!

  • Lying

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 18, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    I’m writing her a letter
        That I’m getting on all right,
    That I’m really feeling better,
        And I’m full of vim and fight.
    I’m telling her I’m working
        Every minute of the day,
    And I have no time for shirking
        And I have no time to play.

    I am telling her that nightly
        I am sitting round the home,
    And that time is passing lightly,
        And I’ve no desire to roam.
    I am telling her I’m hoping
        That a month or two they’ll stay
    Where the hillsides green are sloping
        And the little ones can play.

    I am glad they’re where the breezes
        Gently kiss them as they run,
    And I’m telling her it pleases
        Me to think of all their fun.
    And I write that I’m not lonely,
        But it’s all a fearful sham,
    For they’d come back if they only
        Knew how miserable I am.

    For I miss their sweet caresses
        And I miss their shouts of glee,
    And the empty home depresses
        Now the very soul of me.
    I miss the cry of “pappy”
        From each roguish little tot.
    I am writing that I’m happy
        But I’ll bet she knows I’m not.

  • Light Shining Out of Darkness

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 17, 1914. By William Cowper.

    God moves in a mysterious way
        His wonders to perform;
    He plants His footsteps in the sea
        And rides upon the storm.

    Deep in unfathomable mines
        Of never-failing skill,
    He treasures up His bright designs,
        And works His sovereign will.

    Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
        The clouds ye so much dread
    Are big with mercy, and shall break
        In blessings on your head.

    Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
        But trust Him for His grace;
    Behind a frowning Providence
        He hides a smiling face.

    His purposes will ripen fast,
        Unfolding every hour;
    The bud may have a bitter taste,
        But sweet will be the flower.

    Blind unbelief is sure to err,
        And scan His work in vain;
    God is His own interpreter
        And He will make it plain.

  • A Woman’s Love

    From the Rock Island Argus, July 16, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    A man prefers the one who makes him laugh;
        The cares that he must carry through the day
    Are forgotten or diminished more than half
        If there’s just a chance to laugh along the way!
            But woman—ah, God bless her—
                How her heart does ever leap
            With love—true love and tender—
                For the man who makes her weep!

    I like the maid who gives me cause to smile,
        I love the child that gives me little care;
    Men praise the ones who keep them laughing while
        They bend beneath the burdens they must bear.
            But woman—ah, God bless her!—
                Her love is true and deep
            For the child that brings her sorrow
                And the man who makes her weep.

  • The Two Leaders

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 15, 1914.

    When Luck and Pluck, one summer day,
        When faring forth together,
    Pluck wore a suit of homespun gray,
        Luck had a cap and feather;
    A handsome, dashing fellow he,
        And full of careless pleasure—
    “Come follow me; I hold the key,”
        He cried, “of boundless treasure.”

    He looked so gay, and bold, and strong,
        That listening ears were plenty,
    His train of followers grew long,
        A dozen—fifteen—twenty—
    A hundred—still they came; while Pluck
        Tramped on, with few behind him,
    “Poor plodding fools,” cried laughing Luck,
        “A stupid guide you’ll find him!”

    Luck led his careless troop ahead
        With boasting and with revel.
    The sun shown radiant overhead,
        The road was smooth and level.
    But as the day wore on, behold!
        Athwart the way, a river
    Without a bridge, flowed deep and cold,
        A sight to make one shiver.

    “Well, well,” cried Luck, “We’ll sit and wait,
        It may run dry tomorrow,
    Or we’ll see coming soon or late
        Some boat that we can borrow!”
    So down they sat—and there they stayed
        To wait and hope at leisure,
    While Luck assured them, undismayed,
        They still would reach the treasure.

    But Pluck, with those who tramped behind
        His sturdy figure waited
    No moment on the bank, to find
        Whether the stream abated;
    They plunged, they swam, they fought their way,
        The shore in safety gaining—
    And theirs the treasure is today
        While Luck goes on complaining.

  • Bloody Ludlow

    From The Voice of the People, July 14, 1914. By Lone Wolf.

    The miners brave in Ludlow town,
    By scabby gunmen were shot down,
    When hunger’s pangs made them rebel
    Against their daily, living hell.

    Oh! Workers, rally to their aid!
    Honor the stand the miners made!
    Shall all their efforts be in vain
    And gunmen’s bullets end their pain?

    The gunmen poured in by the score
    To welter in the miner’s gore;
    With rifle, torch and Gatling gun,
    These murderous thugs did riot run.

    They murdered babes and women, too,
    Those hell-hounds, cursed, the pirate crew;
    While Oily John, with smile benign
    Said, “God is good to me and mine.”

    “I own this country,” said John D.;
    “Back to the mines and slave for me!
    If you dare go on strike for bread
    My brave Militia will feed you lead.

    “I own the land, I own the mines,
    Rail, steel and oil, the sun that shines;
    I own the Press, the Church, the State,
    From Mexico to the Golden Gate.”

    The miners now, in bitter strife
    Are fighting hard to maintain life.
    Come workers now, from every land,
    And give our Comrades there a hand.

    Let Revolution’s dawn awake!
    The world for the workers’ take!
    Let “Colorado” be our cry;
    The time has come to win or die.

  • I Want to Go to Morrow

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 13, 1914. By Lew Sully.

    I started on a journey just about a week ago
    For the little town of Morrow, in the state of Ohio.
    I never was a traveler, and really didn’t know
    That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
    I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied
    For tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
    Said I, “My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
    Not later than tomorrow, for I haven’t time to burn.”

    Said he to me, “Now let me see if I have heard you right.
    You want to go to Morrow and come back tomorrow night.
    To go from here to Morrow and return is quite a way—
    You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back today.
    For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don’t you see,
    You could have got to Morrow and returned today at three.
    The train that started yesterday—now understand me right—
    Today it gets to Morrow and returns tomorrow night.”

    Said I, “My boy, it seems to me you’re talking through your hat.
    Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that.”
    “There is,” said he, “and take from me a quiet little tip:
    To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
    The train that goes to Morrow leaves today eight thirty-five.
    Half after ten tomorrow is the time it should arrive.
    Now, if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
    Can you go today to Morrow and come back today, you chump?”

    Said I, “I want to go to Morrow; can I go today
    And get to Morrow by tonight if there is no delay?”
    “Well, well,” said he, “explain to me, and I’ve no more to say,
    Can you go anywhere tomorrow and come back today?
    For if today you’d get to Morrow, surely you’ll agree
    You should have started not today, but yesterday, you see.
    So, if you start to Morrow, leaving today, you flat,
    You won’t get into Morrow till the day that follows that.

    “Now, if you start today to Morrow, it’s a cinch you’ll land
    Tomorrow into Morrow, not today, you understand;
    For the train today to Morrow, if the schedule is right,
    Will get you into Morrow by about tomorrow night.”
    Said I, “I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
    How can I go tomorrow if I leave the town today?”
    Said he, “You cannot go to Morrow any more today,
    For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way.”

    I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear.
    The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
    The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay—
    I didn’t go to Morrow, so I guess I’ll go today.

  • In the “Zoo”

    From The Sun, July 12, 1914. By George T. Marsh.

    Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
        Behind the iron bars.
    Where’er they turn the hand of man
        Their straining vision mars,
    Save only when at night they gaze
        Upon the friendly stars.

    See! There a golden eagle broods
        With glazed, unseeing eyes
    That never more will sweep the snows
        Where blue Sierras rise;
    And there, sick for his native hills,
        A sullen panther lies.

    What dreams of silent polar nights
        Disturb the white bear’s sleep?
    Roams he once more unfettered where
        Eternal ice flows sweep?
    What memories of the jungle’s ways
        Does that gaunt tiger keep?

    Such wistful eyes the hartebeest turn
        Beyond their cramped domain.
    They seem to see the yellowing leagues
        Of wind swept veldt again.
    And look, a springbok lifts his head
        As though he smelled the plain.

    Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
        Behind the iron bars.
    For thus the ruthless hand of man
        Each God-made creature mars.
    But oh, what hungry eyes they raise
        Up to the friendly stars!