From The Washington Herald, October 27, 1912. I’ve often wished I could go back To childhood’s happy hours, When life’s illusions were not lost; No thorns among the flowers. But never have I longed so much To live that glad time o’er, As when on Halloween I hear “Tick-tack” on pane or door! What elfin pranks we boys did play Upon the neighbors ‘round Until they thought us sprites let loose To tease, torment, confound! Oh, never can I quite forget The joy that would elate, As when we stole to schoolmaster’s And carried off his gate! What traps for the unwary laid; We plotted and connived, And in the twilight’s misty gloom Our evil deeds would thrive. And then the jolly games we played! Again I hear the glee That rang throughout the crowded hall When ghostly sights we’d see. And then the fun of roasting nuts— If I never had enough— Upon that night I’d have my fill Of apples and sweet stuff! Then in a circle round the hearth, We’d in the future peer. Forebodings evil made us quake, And “good luck” signs would cheer. I oft, amid life’s strife and care, From memory’s storehouse gleam That night most dear to all boys’ hearts— The night of Halloween!
Category: Newspapers
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Halloween
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Everyday Art
From the Rock Island Argus, October 26, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Art may paint a picture, Art may carve a stone, Art may write a poem That is long on tone. Art may put on canvas Earth and sky and sea; Art that cooks a chicken Is the art for me. In the world artistic, Where the artists fare, There are many castles, Mostly in the air. But for building houses You would rather pick On the one artistic Who can lay a brick. Art that’s for the artists Who are sad of eye And have flowing neckties Is in big supply. But of art more homely That can mend a chair For its fat old uncle There is none to spare. Schools of art are turning Out the graduates In alarming number, Light and heavy weights. But for daily plugging We would rather meet With a line of artists Who can mend a street.
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Evolution
From the Evening Star, October 25, 1912. By Philander Johnson. Men used to laugh at telephones, And called them idle toys. They railed in rude sarcastic tones At things the world employs To meet its constant needs today Yet nature does not change. We still salute with laughter gay Each proposition strange. They laughed to hear the world was round; They laughed at talk of steam; The airship once the public found A vastly humorous dream. So as we glance about the earth, Where marvels rise anew, We find the things of greatest worth Are jokes that have come true.
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Pixy Wood
From The Topeka State Journal, October 24, 1912. By Madison Cawein. The vat-like cups of the fungus, filled With the rain that fell last night, Are tuns of wine that the elves distilled For revels that the moon did light. The owlet there with her “Who-oh-who,” And the frog with his “All is right,” Could tell a tale if they wanted to Of what took place last night. In that hollow beech, where the wood decays, Their toadstool houses stand, A little village of drabs and grays, Cone-roofed, of fairy-land. That moth, which gleams like a lichen there, Is one of an elfin band That whisks away if you merely dare To try to understand. The snail, which slides on that mushroom’s top, And the slug on its sleepy trail, Wax fat on the things the elves let drop At feast in the moonlight pale. The whippoorwill, which grieves and grieves, If it would, could tell a tale Of what took place here under the leaves Last night on the Dreamland Trail. The trillium there and the May-apple, With their white eyes opened wide, Of many a secret sight could tell If speech were not denied: Of many a pixy revelry And rout on which they’ve spied, With the hollow tree, which there, you see, Opens its eye-knots wide.
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Lest We Forget
From The Tacoma Times, October 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. While the contest rumbles all about, While the leaders hurry to and fro, While the speakers agitate and shout, While the streams of oratory flow, ‘Mid the talk that no one understands, ‘Mid the noise that all the country fills, Don’t forget the weary hearts and hands, Don’t forget the children in the mills! While we talk of tariff and of trust, Dream of referendum and recall, Down amid the clamor and the dust Childish toilers labor till they fall. While the war for ballots rages on, While the keen excitement ever thrills, Don’t forget the faces pale and wan, Don’t forget the children in the mills! These, who never know the joy of play, These, whose youth is filched away by greed, Turn to us their faces pinched and gray Asking us for comfort in their need. So, amidst the tumult and the press, Don’t forget the cruel toil that kills; Hear them moan in utter weariness, “Don’t forget the children in the mills!”
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His Greatness
From the New York Tribune, October 22, 1912. He didn’t climb the hills of fame, But kept the middle ground; On history’s pages ne’er his name By any will be found. But he was brave and he was good, And always did his best; And through his life he always stood Face front to every test. Go ask his wife if you would know The record that he made; And to his little children go, Ask them how daddy played. And then go ask his neighbors, too, And hear them sing his praise; They’ll tell you he was kind and true, That honor marked his ways. Greatness is not by numbers told, Nor always written down On history’s pages; all that’s gold Goes not into a crown. But men are great who day by day Are cheerful, kind and true, And give their best along life’s way Of service to the few.
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The Plea of the Ordinary Reader
From The Seattle Star, October 21, 1912. By Berton Braley. I feel I am needing a change in my reading; I weary of tales which describe The poor east side tailor who lives in his squalor Amid all the rest of his tribe; I also am weary of stories more cheery Which chiefly—yes, wholly—concern The beautiful heiress with gowns made in Paris And the youth who has money to burn. I long for narrations of people whose stations Are not so extreme either way. The people I meet in the office and street in The course of my business and play; I don’t care for stories of wealth and its glories Nor tales of acute misery; I long in my fiction to find the depiction Of commonplace people—like me!
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The Tiger
From the New York Tribune, October 20, 1912. By William Blake. Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forest of the night! What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form’d thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile on his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
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Contradiction
From the Evening Star, October 19, 1912. By Philander Johnson. As orators with words so fair And promises so fine With eloquence filled all the air And thrilled your heart and mine, We’d listen for a little while Before we turned away And murmured with a cynic smile, “They don’t mean all they say.” The eagerness of good intent That kept their hearts so warm Led them to promise as they went More than they could perform. In hope’s glad sunshine they came out To make ambition’s hay. They never heard our word of doubt, “They can’t mean all they say!” Now darker banners they unfurl, Their words bring strange regret. Instead of promises they hurl An angry epithet. But to our comment old we cling, And vow with hearts all gay That time its usual change will bring, They don’t mean all they say.
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The Hired Girl’s Way
From The Topeka State Journal, October 18, 1912. The nights our hired girl stays home, An’ don’t expect her beau t’ call, She’s jes’ as nice as she can be, An’ doesn’t hustle round at all. Sometimes she takes me on her knee And tells me tales of pirates bold That used t’ sail upon the sea In search of silver and of gold. An’ she don’t pack me off t’ bed As soon as supper time is through. Or tell me that I’m in her way Becoz she’s got her work t’ do. But in the kitchen I can stay An’ she jes’ tells the finest things Of soldiers fightin’ every day An’ princes bold, an’ evil kings. But when her beau is comin’ up T’ take her out t’ see a show, She makes us hustle through our tea So’s she can get dressed up to go. An’ you jes’ orter see her frown If Paw sits talking very long, An’ you should hear her bang around T’ let him know he’s doin’ wrong. An’ Maw don’t dast t’ say a word, An’ Paw jes’ swallers down his tea, An’ then she grabs the dishes up, An’ says she ain’t got time fer me. You orter hear her rattle plates An’ see her grab each dish and cup, An’ wash ‘em clean as quick as that The nights her beau is comin’ up. She don’t have time for stories then, Or nothin’ else I want t’ do. Paw says there is no stoppin’ her When she is eager t’ git through. An’ I git hustled off t’ bed, An’ I don’t like it, not at all, I can’t see why she acts that way Jes’ coz her beau is goin’ t’ call.