Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • The Children Santa Claus Forgets

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 14, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    When the happy little children, up along the avenue
    Hark for Santa Claus’s coming down the yawning chimney flue,
    There’ll be other little children, in another part of town
    Where the streets are dark and grimy and the houses tumble down,
    Looking through the dingy windows toward the snowflake speckled sky,
    Wondering if they will see him when he comes careering by.

    Ragged, dirty little children, yet as eager for the joys
    That will come to countless houses with the Christmas morning toys,
    As the vastly happier children who awaken every year
    To the news from down the staircase: “Mr. Santa Claus was here!”
    Gaunt and pallid little children, oh so pitiful to see,
    But as hungry to be happy as all children ought to be.

    Such a little would delight them, just a trifling toy or two,
    Just one real old-fashioned Christmas that would make their dreams come true.
    Tell old Santa Claus about them, show the old man where they live,
    Let him leave them all the good things that he likes so well to give,
    Then go ‘round on Christmas morning, and you’ll find it’s well worth while;
    For the best of all investments is to buy a baby’s smile.

  • Modernized Methods

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 5, 1914. By E. A. Brinistool.

    When my wife brought the baby up,
        She followed modernized advice.
    She sterilized each spoon and cup,
        And fumigated all the ice.

    Each toy and plaything ‘round the place
        Received a boric acid bath—
    Yes, wife did rigidly embrace
        The so-called prophylactic path.

    The child received three baths a day
        In water which had been distilled
    Wife clung to the new-fangled way—
        All microbe larvae must be killed.

    The picture books were clarified
        In royal antiseptic style
    By hot air, purged and rarified
        Devoid of all bacilli vile.

    Yet our babe lacks the healthy look
        Of that small filthy Bronson boy
    Who plays down there beside the brook,
        And makes mud pies with childish joy.

    His eyes shine like the stars at night
        He’s dirty but is well and strong.
    My wife declares he is a “fright,”
        And yet, somehow, I fear she’s wrong.

  • The Pacifier

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    When I comes home from work at night
        All tired out from minin’ coal,
    An’ black an’ sweaty to the sight
        I ain’t th’ gladdest kind of soul;
    Th’ world don’t make no hit with me,
        I’m mighty weary with my lot,
    An’ every bloomin’ thing I see
        Just seems to feed th’ grouch I’ve got.

    I cusses at my daily work,
        I damn the pitboss to the pit,
    I thinks of all th’ dust an’ murk
        Of minin’—an’ I cusses it;
    I thinks, “Us miners ain’t no men,
        We’re pore dumb beasts that’s hitched and drove;”
    I starts once more to swear—an’ then
        I smells th’ supper on th’ stove!

    It mebbe ain’t so very much
        (A miner ain’t no millionaire),
    But when I scents that stew an’ such
        I—well, I half forgets to swear.
    From worries an’ from troubles, too,
        My thoughts begin to stray an’ rove,
    An’ life assumes a dif’runt hue,
        When I smells supper on th’ stove!

    An’ when they brings that supper in
        An’ wife an’ kids an’ me sets down,
    I finds a sort of pleasant grin
        Has chased away my ugly frown;
    I puts away all thought of strife,
        My appetite I gives the call,
    An’ thinks, “Oh well, this miner’s life
        Ain’t nothin’ awful, after all!”

  • Money

    From the Newark Evening Star, November 24, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    I would like to have money and all it will buy,
        But I never will lie to obtain it;
    For wealth I am eager and ready to try,
        But there’s much that I won’t do to gain it.
    I won’t spend my life in a money-mad chase,
        And I’ll never work children to win it;
    I won’t interfere with another man’s race,
        Though millions, perhaps, may be in it.

    There are prosperous things that are crusted with shame
        That I vow I will never engage in.
    There is many a crooked and dishonest game
        With a large and a glittering wage in,
    But I want to walk out with my head held erect,
        Nor bow it and sneakingly turn it;
    Above all your money I place self-respect;
        I’m eager for gold—but I’ll earn it.

  • In and Out

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 31, 1914.

    “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!”
        He sang the old refrain,
    The man on whom the public calls
        To toil with might and main.
    He stepped into his palace grand,
        And then he heard a shout,
    In accents of succinct command,
        The warning, “This way out!”

    The statesman or the warrior bold
        Strives on from year to year,
    Until before his eyes unfold
        The scenes of pomp and cheer.
    And when he seeks the sweet repose
        He earned, beyond a doubt,
    Fate all his dreaming overthrows,
        And hollers, “This way out!”

  • A Michigan Lament

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 30, 1914.

    Let the flowers die by the wayside,
        For why should they live while I
    Am dying of love unrequited
        With a tear in my hazel eye?
    As I laid my fair head on his bosom,
        And put my small hand in his hand,
    I detected the odor of perfume—
        I knew it was Natalie’s brand.

    O, the birdies are resting in treetops,
        The insects are wooing in flowers,
    Girls are dreaming behind counters in city shops,
        While grief, bitter grief, fills my hours.

    O, Natalie, Natalie, Natalie,
        How could you treat me so?
    That little spray of perfumery
        Has ruined a young life with woe.
    And soon the black Kalamazoo river,
        With the stars shining brightly above,
    Will be the white shroud of a maiden
        Who could not live without love.

  • The Bitter Wit

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 20, 1914.

    To speak unkindly isn’t wit,
        To say things that wound the heart
    Is never clever—not a bit.
        Though at the time you think it smart,
    Far better is it to remain
        As silent as a marble bust
    Than speak and leave a track of pain
        Behind a smiling, bitter thrust.

    The poisoned barb within a jest
        That leaves a fellow being hurt
    Is not a cleverness the test,
        Nor of a brain that is alert.
    To gibe at age or private scars,
        Or sacred griefs proclaims the cad
    And he who does it sadly mars
        The laughter that should leave us glad.

    Unkindness isn’t wit at all,
        There’s little humor in a sneer.
    One cannot drench his speech in gall
        And seek to laugh away the tear.
    And he who poisons thus the gay
        Is just as cowardly as he
    Who kicks a cripple’s crutch away
        And laughs his helplessness to see.

  • The Death the Soldier Dies

    From the Newark Evening Star, October 5, 1914. By Robert Burns Wilson.

    Such is the death the soldier dies;
        He falls, the column speeds away;
    Upon the dabbled grass he lies,
        His brave heart following still, the fray.

    The smoke wreaths drift among the trees,
        The battle storms along the hill;
    The glint of distant arms he sees,
        He hears his comrades shouting still.

    A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
        And vanish in the roiling din;
    He knows the sweeping charge is made,
        The cheering lines are closing in.

    Unmindful of his mortal wound,
        He faintly calls and seeks to rise;
    But weakness drags him to the ground.
        Such is the death the soldier dies.

  • He Did It

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 19, 1914.

    Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
        But he, with a chuckle, replied,
    That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
        Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
    So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
        On his face. If he worried he hid it.
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    Somebody scoffed, “Oh, you’ll never do that,
        At least no one ever has done it,”
    But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
        And the first thing he knew he’d begun it.
    With the lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
        If any doubt rose he forbid it;
    He started to sing as he tackled the thing
        That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

    There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done;
        There are thousands who prophesy failure;
    There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
        The dangers that wait to assail you.
    But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
        Then take off your coat and go to it.
    Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

  • When Some One Cares

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 10, 1914.

    When you meet some disappointment, an’ yer feelin’ kinda blue;
    When yer plans have all got sidetracked er some friend has proved untrue;
    When yer toiling, praying, struggling at the bottom uv the stairs—
    It is like a panacea—jest to know that some one cares.

    Some one who can appreciate one’s efforts when he tries;
    Some one who seems to understand—an’ so can sympathize;
    Some one who, when he’s far away, still wonders how he fares—
    Some one who never can forget—some one who really cares.

    It will send a thrill of rapture through the framework uv the heart;
    It will stir the inner bein’ till the tear drops want to start;
    For this life is worth the livin’, when some one yer sorrow shares—
    Life is truly worth the livin’, when you know that some one cares.

    Oh, this world is not all sunshine—many day’s hard clouds disclose;
    There’s a cross for ev’ry joy bell, an’ a thorn for ev’ry rose;
    But the cross is not so grievous, ner the thorn the rosebud wears—
    An’ the clouds have silver linin’s—when some one really cares.