Newspaper Poetry

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • The Boy Who Didn’t Pass

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 20, 1914.

    It’s getting cooler weather,
        The summer is nearly done.
    I’ve had a lot of pleasure,
        A great big heap of fun.
    But school days soon are coming,
        And nearly here, alas!
    And I’m that little lunk-head,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    I told my daddy about it,
        He only shook his head.
    I showed my card to mother.
        “It’s just a shame,” she said.
    But grandma cried, “Poor laddie,
        You’ll hate to miss your class.”
    Then, teary-eyed, she kissed me,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    September’s like an ogre
        That’s coming pretty soon.
    I didn’t feel so dreadful
        Last summer when ’twas June.
    But life has lost its roses,
        There’s only rue and grass
    And prickly thistles waiting
        For the boy who didn’t pass.

  • The Village Blacksmith

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 14, 1914. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
        The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
        With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
        Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
        His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
        He earns whate’er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
        For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
        You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
        With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
        When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
        Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
        And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
        And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
        He hears his daughter’s voice
    Singing in the village choir
        And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
        Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
        How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
        A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
        Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
        Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
        Has earned a night’s repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
        For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
        Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
        Each burning deed and thought.

  • Be Careful What You Say

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 12, 1914.

    In speaking of a person’s faults,
        Pray don’t forget your own;
    Remember, those with home of glass
        Should seldom throw a stone.
    If we had nothing else to do
        But talk of those who sin,
    ’Tis better we commence at home
        And from that point begin.

    We have no right to judge a man
        Until he’s fairly tried;
    Should we not like his company
        We know the world is wide.
    Some may have faults—and who has not?
        The old as well as young—
    Perhaps we may, for ought we know,
        Have fifty to their one.

    I’ll tell you of a better plan,
        And find it works full well,
    To try my own defects to cure,
        Before of others tell.
    And though I sometimes hope to be
        No more than some I know,
    My own shortcomings bid me let
        The faults of others go.

    Then let us, when we commence
        To slander friend or foe,
    Think of the harm one word would do
        To those we little know.
    Remember, curses sometimes like
        Our chickens, ‘roost at home’:
    Don’t speak of others’ faults until
        We have none of our own.

  • 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.

  • We Are Seven

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 10, 1914. By William Wordsworth.

    A simple child,
        That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
        What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage girl;
        She was 8 years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
        That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
        And she was wildly clad;
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
        Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little maid,
        How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
        And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
        She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea;

    “Two of us in the churchyard lie,
        My sister and my brother;
    And, in the churchyard cottage, I
        Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
        Sweet maid, how may this be?”

    Then did the little maid reply,
        “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the churchyard lie
        Beneath the churchyard tree.”

    “You run about, my little maid;
        Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the churchyard laid
        Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
        The little maid replied;
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door
        And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
        My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit
        And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sunset, sir,
        When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
        And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was Sister Jane;
        In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her pain,
        And then she went away.

    “So in the churchyard she was laid;
        And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
        My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
        And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
        And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
        “If they two are in Heaven?”
    Quick was the little maid’s reply:
        “O Master! We are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
        Their spirits are in Heaven?”
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little maid would have her will,
        And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

  • The Summer Rain

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, June 27, 1914. By Ninette M. Lowater.

    I hear her dancing on the roof, the fairy footed rain!
    I hear her dancing 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 good 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 Old Oaken Bucket

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, June 17, 1914. By Samuel Woodworth.

    How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
        When fond recollection presents them to view!
    The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
        And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
    The wide spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
        The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
    The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
        The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well—
    The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
        That moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

    That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
        For often at noon when returned from the field,
    I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
        The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
    How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!
        And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
    Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
        And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
    The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
        The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

    How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
        As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
    Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
        Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
    And now far removed from the loved situation,
        The tears of regret will intrusively swell,
    As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
        And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
    The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
        The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

  • Sunset On the Prairies

    From theGrand Forks Daily Herald, June 1, 1914. By J. W. Foley

    They have tamed it with their harrows; they have broken it with plows.
    Where the bison used to range it someone’s built himself a house;
    They have stuck it full of fence posts, they have girded it with wire,
    They have shamed it and profaned it with the automobile tire;
    They have bridged its gullied rivers; they have peopled it with men;
    They have churched it, they have schooled it, they have steepled it — Amen.

    They have smothered all its campfires, where the beaten plainsmen slept,
    They have driven up their cattle where the skulking coyote crept;
    They have made themselves a pasture where the timid deer would browse;
    Where the antelope were feeding they have dotted o’er with cows;
    There’s the yokel’s tuneless whistling down the bison’s winding trail.
    Where the redman’s arrow fluttered, there’s a woman with a pail
    Driving up the cows for milking. They have cut its wild extent
    Into forty acre patches till its glory all is spent.

    I remember in the sixties, when as far as I could see
    It had neither lord nor ruler but the buffalo and me;
    Ere the blight of man was on it, and the endless acres lay
    Just as God Almighty left them on the restful seventh day;
    When no sound rose from its vastness but a murmured hum and din
    Like the echo void of silence in an unheard prairie hymn.
    And I lay at night and rested in my bed of blankets curled
    Much alone as if I was the only man in all the world.

    But the prairie’s passed or passing with the passing of the years
    Till there is no west worth knowing and there are no pioneers;
    They have riddled it with railroads, throbbing on and on and on,
    They have ridded it of dangers till the zest of it is gone.
    And I’ve saddled up my pony, for I’m dull and lonesome here,
    To go westward, westward, westward, till we find a new frontier;
    To get back to God’s own wildness and the skies we used to know;
    But there is no West; it’s conquered—and I don’t know where to go.

  • The Phantom Armies

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 30, 1914. By T. C. Harbaugh.

    No drum-beats in the valley
        And no bugles on the hill
    Where the summer breezes daily
        All the battle plain is still;
    When the stars come out at even
        Far above the glist’ning dew,
    There’s a phantom flag in heaven
        There are armies in the blue.

    Comes to them a call to duty
        From the phantom corps of yore,
    Where the roses in their beauty
        Deck the far-off river’s shore;
    Do they dream of comrades sleeping
        Where the winds are wild and free,
    Where the Rapidan is sweeping
        And where lisps the Tennessee?

    O, the pity and the splendor
        Of the thinned, immortal lines!
    Soon the Union’s last defender
        Will be camping ‘neath the pines
    Where no hand heart-ties can sever
        And the shadows long are thrown
    Where the grasses whisper ever
        And no bugle blast is blown.

    They are marching yet in glory
        Where Potomac’s waters shine,
    And the old camps tell the story
        Of the heroes of the line;
    By the peaceful winding river
        Spectral sentries watch the foe
    And their challenge sounds forever
        In the Land of Long Ago.

    See! A line of Blue is marching
        There’s a drum-call in the street
    And the heaven’s overarching
        Seems the veterans to greet;
    They are marching slowly, slowly
        As the flowers to them nod
    And their remnant grows more holy
        As the years pass on to God.

    From out the dim, dead distance
        Charge the squadrons, Blue and Gray.
    There is none to make resistance
        For they vanish, like the spray;
    Not a cry, no word is spoken
        Ghostly banners catch the breeze,
    And the silence is unbroken
        ‘Mong the tall and somber trees.

  • Changes

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, May 28, 1914. By Owen Meredith.

    Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
        Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
    The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead,
        And then, we women cannot choose our lot.

    Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;
        Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
    God help us all who need, indeed, His care!
        And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves His sheep.

    My little boy begins to babble now
        Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
    He has his father’s eager eyes, I know;
        And they say, too, his mother’s sunny hair.

    But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
        And I can feel his light breath come and go,
    I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)
        Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.

    Who might have been . . . ah! What I dare not think!
        We all are changed. God judges for us best.
    God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
        And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

    But blame us women not, if some appear
        Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
    Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
        Who knows the past? And who can judge us right?

    Ah! Were we judged by what we might have been,
        And not by what we are, too apt to fall!
    My little child—he sleeps and smiles between
        These thoughts and me. In Heaven we shall know all!