From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 15, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. There was a little woman flower Sweeter far than all The violets and the daffodils That come at Springtime’s call. All the blossoms loved her, Even the happy birds; They piped their little hearts to her Because they had no words. ’Tis spring again. The skies are blue; Blossoms and birds I see But the little flower maiden— Oh tell me where is she! The sorrowing Wind low-answered: “Flower, and bird, and fern, And in the year, the autumn leaf— They only may return.” “’Tis true, tis true, O Wind,” I sighed, “Tis bitter, too, alack: In life what we love most and lose Can nevermore come back.”
Category: Newspapers
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The Missing Flowers
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Blessed Damozels
From the Evening Star, May 14, 1913.
By Walt Mason.Full soon the sweet girl graduates in white attire will rise, and tell, in forty-seven states, where Italy now lies. The beauteous maidens of the land, the bold, aspiring youths, on platforms flower-bedecked will stand and hand us vital truths. Life seems to them an easy thing; a banner’s all they need; a motto in the air to fling, so he who runs may read. A watchword couched in ancient Greek will smooth the road to fame; ah, me, when roses tint the cheek, life seems an easy game! But mark these women old and worn, who, at commencement time, gaze on the festival and mourn—their presence seems a crime! They found this life a harder road than e’er they dreamed it was, with more of whip and spur and goad than of the world’s applause. There is a shadow on each brow, stilled is their buoyant song; their eyes are weak and faded now, for they have wept so long. They’re bent from bearing heavy weights, from toiling day and night; they once were sweet girl graduates, serene in snowy white. “Beyond the Alps,” we heard them say, high purpose in their eyes, upon a bygone happy day, “the land Italian lies!” Life leads through tangled wilderness, and not through bosky dells, but who’d discourage or distress the Blessed Damozels?
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Homely Recipe
From the Evening Star, May 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. When you’re feelin’ kind o’ lonely An’ you’re gettin’ sort o’ blue An’ you think that life is only A great blunder through an’ through Don’t rely on publications Full o’ philosophic dreams Or on novels or orations Built on socialistic schemes. If you’re threatened with “conniptions” Of a violence intense Just obtain a few prescriptions From old Doctor Commonsense. He’ll advise a little laughter, Just as much as life can spare To be followed quickly after With some sunshine and fresh air.
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The Lonely Little Boy
From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. The little boy whom you forget To play with when the days are fair The child whose hopes are sinless yet Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer Will soon leave off his childish ways And learn the things that men must learn; Why do you waste the precious days That never, never can return? You never lead him by the hand Nor make his little joys your own Ambition sends you her command And he is left to play alone; He never climbs upon your knee Delighted at the long day’s end To find that you have time to be His fond and sympathetic friend. You never can afford to waste A precious hour arousing him The prizes after which you haste Are always far away and dim; You must be ever pressing on Forgetting, while you strive and plan How soon his childhood will be gone How quickly he will be a man. You never pause with him to hear The breeze that sings among the reeds You have no time to give the dear Sweet sympathy for which he pleads; You never rush with him in wild Pursuit of fairies through the glen Yourself again a careless child Freed from the cares that worry men. Have you no treasured memories Of one who gladly played with you Before you had been robbed of ease And when your cares were small and few? Ah, will you rob him of the joy Of looking back along the years When he has ceased to be a boy And Duty’s call rings in his ears? The little boy whom you forget To play with when the days are fair The child whose thoughts are sinless yet Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer Will soon leave off his childish ways And you will sit somewhere alone Regretting precious wasted days And joys that might have been your own.
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Mother’s Day Remembrance
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 11, 1913. By Will B. Tomlinson. Toward glories eternal, a vision appears Through the mists of the morning, the sunshine and tears. ’Tis the smile of my Mother, as sacred with joy As the greeting celestial she bends to her boy. And her love is as true and as precious to me As it was in the years when I knelt at her knee And her hand in caressing lay soft on my head As she prayed for a blessing, in days that are fled. Often wayward and thoughtless I know I have been. I have wounded the heart that appealed for me then. Still, I feel that in heaven I’m never forgot For if others forsake me, my Mother will not. When I look at myself, I’ve nothing to claim— Neither merit, nor wealth, nor plaudits of fame. But I grudge not to others such blessings as fall For the love of my Mother is better than all. Here’s a blossom, the fairest, as pure as the dew Else I never could wear it, dear Mother, for you. And I would that its fragrance were wafted afar Like the vapor of incense, or beam of a star Till it tells you in heaven, with breathings divine That I love you, dear Mother, sweet Mother of mine.
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The Bravest Battle
From the New York Tribune, May 10, 1913. By Joaquin Miller. The bravest battle that ever was fought Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; It was fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot With sword or nobler pen Nay, not with eloquent word or thought From mouths of wonderful men. But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart— Of woman that would not yield But patiently, silently bore her part— Lo! there in that battlefield No marshaling troop, no bivouac song No banner to gleam and wave; And oh these battles they last so long— From babyhood to the grave! Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars She fights in her walled-up town— Fights on and on in the endless wars Then silent, unseen—goes down.
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Gardening
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913. By Edgar A. Guest. I hold that gardening’s splendid fun. I am the chap that some think odd. I like to rise and greet the sun To turn and break the stubborn clod. It’s great to spend an hour or two Some care unto the back yard giving; But this I will admit to you: I’d hate to do it for a living. There is no toil that quite compares To delving daily with a spade And with a hoe cut down the tares Or bring a front lawn up to grade. With joy it makes the pulses throb And starts the heart beating gaily; ’Tis true I glory in the job But I would hate to do it daily. Take it from me, you sluggish men Whose arteries may someday harden For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen; You ought to labor in a garden. Go bend your backs above a spade And strain your muscles with a hoe; There is no more delightful trade Unless that way you earn your dough. I glory in the stubborn ground And conquer it with fertilizer Now every morning I am found A bright and smiling early riser. It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt And lug out chunks of solid clay; In confidence, though, I’ll assert: I’d hate to do it by the day. Think you I mind this aching back Or care because my muscles twinge Or that my bones, with each attack Remind me of a rusty hinge? No! Gardening is wholly joy A source of pleasure unalloyed; But, confidentially, my boy, I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.
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John Barleycorn
From The Seattle Star, May 8, 1913. (Acknowledgements to Jack London) He’s just around the corner He’s just across the street His voice is warm and comradely His words are soft and sweet. He poses as ADVENTURE All debonair and brave Though all the deeds of Barleycorn Lead only to the grave. He comes to you with laughter He comes to you with song With soothing lies to trick the weak And glamour for the strong. Along the road that you must tread Wherever you may fare At every turn or resting place John Barleycorn is there! He masquerades as valor He swaggers as romance And down the road of broken hopes He leads the merry dance. His eyes are red and gloating There’s poison on his breath For call him any name you will John Barleycorn is death.
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Sweet Sixteen
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 7, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. Tho’ starlight through the lattice vine Fell slanting on her brow The roses white, with dew a-shine Swayed on the wind-rocked bough And waved a perfume quaint and fine Like incense round her mouth Where dwelt mid curve and hue divine The glamor of the South. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her eyes are blue And her heart is true And she’s all the world to me. The rose tree hid the stars from me But I could watch her eyes; They shone like stars upon the sea Soft mirrored from the skies. Her little hands upon her knee In folded stillness lay And in the dusk gloamed winsomely Like lily buds astray. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her faith is sure And her soul is pure And she’s all the world to me. A silence fell. It seemed a spell Had fallen on my Sweet. I saw her quivering bosom swell I heard my heart a-beat. I spoke!—but what? I cannot tell I hardly know the rest; But as the timid tear-drops fell I clasped her to my breast. Just sixteen years of smiles and tears— Just sixteen years hath she But the wedding chimes Will ring betimes For my little bride to be.
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Confidence
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 6, 1913. Sister Kittie’s home from college with a host of modern kinks In the way of hygienics, sanitation, food and drinks. Proteins and carbohydrates she combines exactly right For the strictly balanced ration she identifies at sight. She knows all about digestion, what is best for us to eat What we need for body-building, growth and force, repair and heat; And the dinner table’s lovely when my sister has it set But we haven’t lost our confidence in Mother’s cooking yet.