Posts Tagged ‘1925’

Christmas Beef

December 6, 2011

IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS.

In the good old days, in the spacious days, when the Christmas feast began,
There was good clean air between house and house, good faith between man and man;
To the lonely houses the men came home, and the doors were strong and stout
To shut the man and his friend-folk in, and to shut the foemen out.

*     *     *     *     *
Now the snow is trampled by million feet; the world is lighted and loud,
And Christmas comes to a hurried host of neighborless men in a crowd;
And round are the mince pies sold in the shops, and the holly and yew tree bough;
And the beef and the beer and the Christmas cheer are brought by the tradesfolk now.

The wind no more between the house and house blows free and freezing and sweet;
The houses are numbered all in a row and squeezed in a narrow street;
We know not the breed of our Christmas beef, nor the brew of our Christmas beer.
Yet we sit round our table and call our toast, though it come but once a year.

— E. Nesbit in December Pall Mall Magazine.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Dec 3, 1898

The Daily Review (Decatur, Illinois) Dec 24, 1892

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Dec 23, 1925

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 6, 1921

Flapper Fanny’s Tickled with New Wardrobe

June 29, 2011

CLICK TO ENLARGE IMAGES

Now You Can Dress ‘Flapper Fanny’ in Her New Outfit

Right in keeping with the spirit of spring, “Flapper Fanny,” popular newspaper feature star, has a brand-new wardrobe. And what an outlay of wearing apparel it is. An evening gown, an afternoon dress, a spring suit, a warm weather coat, some lounging pajamas and a printed chiffon dress.

No wonder the young lady is tickled. And you should be tickled, too, for “Flapper Fanny” wants you to color her costumes. Hence we are going to give them to you in the form of “Flapper Fanny” paper dolls .  .  .  a trim little figure of “Flapper Fanny” and six costumes.

All you need do, is borrow mother’s scissors, and get out your colored crayons .  .  .  then cut out and color “Flapper Fanny” and all of her garments. First, paste the above figure on cardboard, and cut out carefully. Fold the standard on the dotted line and paste the smaller section to the back of the doll.

Next, color “Flapper Fanny’s” cheeks pink, and pick out the colors you like best for the garment she is wearing, and for her evening gown. Now, try the gown on the young lady. Then watch for another spring costume, tomorrow.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 9, 1936

‘Flapper Fanny’ Picks Out Striking Afternoon Gown

IN the spring a young girl’s fancy .  .  .  if she togs out in an afternoon dress such as this one, which “Flapper Fanny” picked as part of her spring outfit. It surely lends itself to color Nave blue skirt, red patent leather belt, red kerchief and yellow blouse for instance. But, use your own judgment. Just get out your crayons and color the dress as you see fit. Then try it on your “Flapper Fanny” paper doll. Tomorrow we will give you “Flapper Fanny’s” spring suit.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 10, 1936

This New Spring Suit Just Suits ‘Flapper Fanny’

NOTHING suits a girl in the spring better than a nice, new spring suit. “Flapper Fanny” is proud of this one .  .  .  and can you blame her? Very neatly tailored, we’d say, and very fitting as part of “Flapper Fanny’s” spring outfit. Imagine how nice it would look colored blue, with a yellow blouse. Or, maybe you can think of a better color scheme. Color the garment any way you wish .  .  .  then try it on your “Flapper Fanny” paper doll. And watch for “Flapper Fanny’s” spring coat. It will appear tomorrow.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 11, 1936

‘Flapper Fanny’s’ New Coat Is Last word in Style

CLASS will tell. This spring coat, for example. It’s classy, and it tells you that “Flapper Fanny” used rare judgment in picking it as part of her spring outfit. We can imagine the garment in several colors .  .  .  gray, for instance, with a splash of color on the flowers at the neck. Perhaps you prefer green, or blue. Crayon the coat to suit yourself. Then slip it on your “Flapper Fanny” paper doll. Oh-o-o! We just peeked into “Flapper Fanny’s” closet and found a beautiful afternoon dress. It will appear tomorrow.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 13, 1936

This Printed Chiffon Dress Becomes ‘Flapper Fanny’

ON a Sunday afternoon .  .  .  or any afternoon, for that matter .  .  .  who is the girl who doesn’t like to step out in a smart, bright new spring dress? Well  .  .  .  it isn’t “Flapper Fanny!” She loves even the thought of it. That’s why this dress was included in her spring outfit. It is printed chiffon, and what an opportunity for color. Dots of green, violet, blue and yellow are certain to be attractive. It should be real fun coloring this dress with your crayons. The final costume in “Flapper Fanny’s” spring outfit  .  .  .  lounging pajamas  .  .  .  will appear tomorrow.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 14, 1936

Lounging Pajama Complete ‘Flapper Fanny’s’ Outfit

“FLAPPER FANNY” is very proud of the lounging pajamas she picked to complete her spring outfit. And rightly so, we think. They look the last word in comfort .  .  .  and that’s a comforting thought. Imagine them in aquamarine crepe. Or, perhaps your imagination runs to some other color. Crayon them as you please. And then, with the five other garments, you have “Flapper Fanny’s” complete spring outfit. Try each one on the young lady and see in which one you think she looks best.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Apr 15, 1936

*  *  *  *  *

A New Feature

Flapper Fanny Says

Begins in The News today. It is a two column cartoon which will contain a trite saying each day.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Jan 26, 1925

*  *  *  *  *

Note the two column Flapper Fanny (Jan 1925) quickly downsized to a one column (Mar 1925.) Flapper Fanny.

A few (O.K., several) samples of the Flapper Fanny comic from various years:

Girls used to marry to get a husband. Now they marry to get a divorce.

The News (Frederick, Maryland)  – Jan 27, 1925


A kiss has a funny way of getting back to its originator.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Mar 2, 1925

When a wife mends a hole in her husband’s pocket, he’s usually appreciative enough to wonder how she knew it was there.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Nov 2, 1925

The first-year-of-married-life-biscuits are the hardest.

Reno Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Jul 2, 1928

It isn’t always a brilliant child who is considered too smart.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Jun 7, 1929

Girls who wear stripes attract attention all along the line.

Modesto Bee and Herald (Modesto, California) Jul 28, 1933

In the old days girls would have gotten a good dressing down for the way they dress up now.

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Jun 19, 1936

“No, you can’t read my diary! It wouldn’t interest you, anyway — it’s mostly about boys you don’t know.”

Ironwood Daily Globe (Ironwood, Michigan) Jul 6, 1939

“Wonder why we haven’t seen any robins yet?”

“Guess they know the early bird catches a cold.”

Cumberland Evening Times – Mar 14, 1940

Napoleon and Louisiana

May 5, 2011

Today in History: The Death of Napoleon Bonaparte

Napoleon Bonaparte spreading terror through Europe.

Napoleon desires colonial empire in America.

As America is hemmed in by hostile powers, President Jefferson says, “Draw the sword on France, and throw away the scabbard.”

To solve the problem, Jefferson want to buy some land — “The Louisiana Purchase.”

HIGH LIGHTS OF HISTORY
By J. Carroll Mansfield
Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Aug 4, 1925

Liberty or Death

March 23, 2011

Liberty or Death!

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Jun 6, 1925

Joseph Brady vs. the Cornplanter

January 31, 2011

Chief Cornplanter image is from the Salibury, PA webite.

[From the Attica Telegraph.]

A Reminiscence of Border Life.

In the dark days of our Revolutionary struggles, there lived many brave, noble and generous men, who did much toward achieving the independence of this now prosperous and happy nation, by acting singly, or with a chosen few upon whom they could place the utmost reliance. This mode of warfare, though carried on in a comparatively small way, was far more efficacious, in proportion to the numbers engaged in it, than the operations of the largest bodies of soldiers who fought in the fort and open field. It did not generally accomplish much n a single occasion, but was constantly at work either acting on the offensive, or furnishing information to the head-quarters of the American army. This, in fact, was the only way by which the hostile tribes of Indians could be effectively punished for their wanton and malicious depredations. Every reader is aware that they were instigated by the British to perpetrate deeds the most shocking and revolting to humanity. Tradition has handed down the names of numerous individuals, unrecorded in the history of our country, who were celebrated for many valorous deeds, the remembrance of which seems fast disappearing “through the dark vista of bygone years.” An incident in the eventful life of one of this class is the subject of our narrative. We will endeavor to give the substance of it, as it fell from the lips of one of the “[oldest inhabitants]” in our hearing.

Of Joseph Brady’s birth, parentage, &c., our “informant” does not enlighten us. Suffice it to say, he was a brave and magnanimous warrior, and the commande of a small band of men, of his own school who were employed against the indians in Western New York and Pennsylvania. Although destitute of an education, having grown up in the “backwoods,” our hero had learned much from the school experience, and was skilled in that knowledge which was most essential to him in the station he was called to occupy. It is said that he could converse fluently in at least twenty of the different languages or tongues spoken by the tribes of the Atlantic states. This, to him, was an invaluable acquisition, and the sequel will show the advantages which it gave him over the Indians.

Six Nations’ map is from the Access Genealogy website.

Cornplanter, whose name is celebrated as an Indian warrior, and the praise of whose greatness has been the theme of many a writer, was then the Chief of a small tribe whose village was situated on the western bank of the Allegany River, six miles below the boundary line between New York and Pennsylvania. The remnant of his tribe still remain there, possessing a fertile tract of alluvial land several miles in length, and extending from the river back to the Allegany Mountains, a distance varying from one to three miles. On the opposite side of the river, a high mountain rises abruptly from the water’s edge, and is covered with a thick growth of forest trees. The scenery about this place is wild, romantic and beautiful; although the “rapid march of civilization” is robbing nature of her former grandeur and beauty. What a contrast between that olden time and the present! The? those deep waters bore upon their broad bo?om naught but the light Indian canoe, and the white man dared not be seen, unguarded, anywhere in their vicinity.

Cornplanter and his “braves” had made an incursion into one of the nearest settlements of the whites, in which they had met with great success. Several of the unfortunate inhabitants fell beneath the murderous tomahawk, their buildings were consumed by fire, and a number carried into captivity. When the Indians arrived at their village with the prisoners it was determined that they should be burned at the stake. Accordingly, the time was appointed for this dreadful work, and the whole tribe were to be assembled to participate in it. The Indians were patiently waiting for the time when they were to glut their vengeance upon their “pale faced” prisoners, as they apprehended no fears that the whites were strong enough to attempt an immediate retaliation.

Brady heard of he sally made by Cornplanter upon the settlers, and determined to punish him severely for his cruelty. Accordingly, he and his men set out upon the expedition, and were soon in the vicinity of the Indian village, where they succeeded in capturing one of its inhabitants from whom they obtained all the information they wished, concerning the prisoners, and the time when it was intended to burn them.

Early in the evening on which was to terminate by the most dreadful death, the lives of a number of pioneers of his western region, Brady was occupying a secure position on the mountain, from whence he could perceive all that was taking place in the village below. Fires were kindled before all their dwellings until it was nearly as light as noonday. The woods to a great distance around resounded with the shouts of the savages, whose feelings were wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Brady waited until the captives were brought forth, and the Indians had commenced to bind them to the stakes. His heart beat high with the fear that he might be unsuccessful in his attempt to rescue them. But the long-wished for moment had arrived, and putting on the dress of the Indian he had captured, he boldly stepped forth into an open place where he could be distinctly seen from the other bank, and gave the shrill war-whoop peculiar to this tribe. He was immediately answered by the Indians, who supposed him to be one of their friends, just returning from an expedition similar to the one they were then rejoicing over. They inquired as to what success had attended him, to which he replied that he had taken a few prisoners but was unable to come over and join them that night on account of the wounds one of his men had received. He proposed that they should wait till the next day and then burn all the prisoners at one time. After some hesitation they complied with his request. The prisoners were taken back to their place of confinement, the fires extinguished, and soon a deathlike stillness succeeded the noise and confusion which had reigned during the former part of the evening.

Brady kept his position until after the “noon of night,” when he descended the mountain, and crossing the river, was soon in the heart of the village. The Indians had retired without leaving a guard, and the first intimation they had of the presence of a foe, was the bursting out of the flames from their houses, which were soon on fire in every direction. They rushed to their doors to be shot or cut down by the whites. A large number were killed or burned with the habitations, while the remainder escaped under cover of the night. Cornplanter fled and his village was entirely destroyed.

The prisoners were overjoyed to find that they were once more with friends who could protect, and without waiting even for the morning, started on their journey back to the homes of those who had rescued them. Brady lost not a single man while out on this expedition, neither were any wounded, and although he fought after the Indian custom, falling upon his enemies in an unguarded moment he achieved a great victory.

Cornplanter’s name has found a place in the history of those times, while Joseph Brady’s only reward was the consciousness of having performed a duty incumbent upon every American citizen in those days, that of defending his country, and the joy he experienced in being able to restore those whose fate was supposed to be sealed, to their homes.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Jul 28, 1847

NOTE: I couldn’t find anything more about Joseph Brady, but Wikipedia has an article about Samuel Brady, of “Brady’s Leap” fame, who had an Uncle Joseph Brady, who might have been him. Either way, I would imagine the two are at least related, as they were from the same area and were Indian fighters etc.


Greenville Treaty image from the Touring Ohio website.

Pennsylvanians, Past and Present

Cornplanter, Great Seneca War Chief and Friend of United States, Died February 18, 1836.

By FREDERICK A. GODCHARLES
(Copyright, 1925, by the Author)

Cornplanter, the greatest warrior of the Seneca tribe, and a principal chief of the Six Nations from the period of the Revolutionary War to the time of his death, was born at Ganawagas, on the Genesee River, in New York, in 1722; he died at Cornplanter Town. just within the limits of Pennsylvania, Fedbruary 18, 1836.

Cornplanter was a half-breed, the son of a white man named John O’Bail, a trader from the Mohawk Valley. His mother was a full-blooded Seneca.

O’Bail is said by some to have been an Englishman, although Harris, Ruttenber, and others say he was a Dutchman Named Abeel.

All that is known of the early life of Cornplanter is contained in a letter to the governor of Pennsylvania, in which he says, “When I was a child I played with the butterfly; and as I grew up I began to pay some attention and play with the Indian boys in the neighborhood, and they took notice of my skin being a different color from theirs, and spoke about it. I inquired of my mother the cause, and she told me my father was a resident of Albany. I still ate my victuals out of a bark dish. I grew up to be a young man and married a wife, and I had no kettle or gun. I then knew where my father lived and went to see him, and found he was a white man and spoke the English language. He gave me vituals while I was at his house, but when I started to return home he gave me no provisions to eat on the way. He gave me neither kettle nor gun.

Historian Drake says Cornplanter was a warrior at Braddock’s defeat, July 9, 1755, and fought bravely as a French Ally.

During the Revolution he was a war chief of high rank in the full vigor of manhood, active, brave, sagacious and participated in many of the engagements in which the British  employed their Indian allies.

Cherry Valley Massacre image from the Son of the South website.

He is supposed to have been present at the massacres of Wyoming and Cherry Valley, in which the Seneca took such prominent part. He was certainly on the warpath with Chief Joseph Brant during General John Sullivan’s expedition against the Six Nations in the autumn of 1779, and in the following year, under Brant and Sir John Johnson, he led the Seneca to their incursion through the Schoharie and Mohawk Valleys in New York.

On this occasion he took his father a prisoner, but with such caution as to avoid immediate recognition. After marching the old man some ten or twelve miles, he stepped before him, faced about and addressed himself to his father. He gave him his choice of following his yellow son, in which he promised him food and raiment or return to his fields and his white children. O’Bail chose the latter and Cornplanter gave him safe conduct back to the trading post.

Cornplanter was one of the parties to the treaty made at Fort Stanwix, October 23, 1784, when the whole of the present Northwestern Pennsylvania was ceded by the Indians to the Commonwealth. He also took part in the Treaty at Fort Harmar in 1789.

His sagacious intellect comprehended the growing power of the United States, and that Great Britain had forsaken the Seneca. He threw his influence in favor of peace.

During all the Indian Wars from 1791 to 1794, which terminated with General Wayne’s treaty, Cornplanter pledged that the Seneca should remain friendly to the United States.

He was a signer of the treaties of September 15, 1797, and July 30, 1802. These acts rendered him so unpopular with his tribe that for a time his life was in danger.
On March 16, 1796, Pennsylvania granted Cornplanter a tract of 640 acres in the present Warren County, to which place the old warrior retired and devoted his energies to his own people.

It is said that in his old age he declared that the “Great Spirit” told him not to have anything more to do with the whites, nor even to preserve any mementos they had given him. Impressed with this idea, he burned the belt and broke and elegant sword that had been given to him.

A favorite son, who had been carefully educated, became a drunkard, thus adding to the troubles of Cornplanter’s last years.

He received for a time, a pension from the United States of $250 a year.

At the time of his death he was 105 years of age. A monument erected to his memory on his reservation by the State of Pennsylvania in 1866 bears the inscription “aged about 100 years.”

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Feb 18, 1925

*****

This bank advertisement ran in the newspaper for several days:

Indiana Evening Gazeete (Indiana, Pennsylvania) Oct 17, 1921

Tick-tock Goes the Clock

January 3, 2011

THE OLD CLOCK.

GUY CARLTON.

I.

The old clock croons on the sun-kissed wall —
Tick, tock! tick tock!
The merry seconds to minutes call:
Tick, tock! ‘Tis morn.

A maiden sits at the mirror there,
And smiles as she combs her golden hair;
O, in the light but her face is fair!
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

Far over the sea the good ship brings
The lover of whom the maiden sings;
From the orange tree the first leaf springs:
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

II.

The old clock laughs on the flower-decked wall —
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
The rose-winged hours elude their thrall:
Tick, tock! ‘Tis noon!

The lover’s pride and his love are blest;
The maiden is folded to his breast;
On her brow the holy blossoms rest;
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

O thrice, thrice long may the sweet bells chime,
As echoing this thro’ future time!
Still to my heart beats that measured rhyme —
Tick tock! tick, tock!

III.

The old clock moans on the crumbling wall
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
The drear years into eternity fall;
Tick, tock! ‘Tis night!

The thread that yon spider draws with care
Across the gleam of the mirror there,
Seems like the ghost of a golden hair;
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

The sweet bells chime for those that may wed;
The neroll-snow crowns many a head —
But tree and maiden and lover are dead,
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
— Life.

The Oshkosh Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) May 16, 1883


THE KITCHEN CLOCK.

(John Vance Cheney in The Century.)

Knitting is the maid ‘o the kitchen, Milly,
Doing nothing, sits the chore-boy, Billy:
“Seconds reckoned,
Seconds reckoned;
Every minute,
Sixty in it.
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Nick-knock, knock-nick,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock: —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Closer to the fire is rosy Milly,
Every whit as close and cozy, Billy:
“Time’s a-flying,
Worth your trying!
Pretty Milly —
Kiss her, Billy!
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Now — now, quick — quick!
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Something’s happened; very red is Milly,
Billy boy is looking very silly:
“Pretty misses,
Plenty kisses;
Make it twenty,
Take a plenty.
Billy, Milly,
Milly, Billy,
Right-left, left-right,
That’s right, all right,
Skippety-nick, rippety-knock” —
Jumps the kitchen clock.

Night to night they’re sitting, Milly, Billy’
Oh, the winter winds are wondrous chilly!
“Winter weather,
Close together;
Wouldn’t tarry,
Better marry.
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Two-one, one-two,
Don’t wait, ‘twont do,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two have gone, and where is Milly?
Spring has come again, and where is Billy?
“Give me credit,
For I did it;
Treat me kindly,
Mind you wind me.
Mr. Billy,
Mistress Milly,
My — Oh, Oh — my,
By-by, by-by,
Nickety-knock, cradle rock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

The Bismarck Tribune (Bismarck, North Dakota) Sep 19, 1884

My Little Bo-Peep

By S.B. M’Manus

MY Little Bo-Peep is fast asleep,
And her head on my heart is lying;
I gently rock, and the old hall clock
Strikes a knell of the day that’s dying.
But what care I how the hours go by,
Whether swiftly they go or creeping?
Not an hour could be but dear to me,
When my babe on my arm is sleeping.

Her little bare feet, with dimples sweet,
From the folds of her gown are peeping,
And each wee toe like a daisy in blow,
I caress as she lies a-sleeping;
Her golden hair falls over the chair,
Its treasures of beauty unfolding;
I press my lips to her finger tips

That my hands are so tightly holding.
Tick, tock, tick, tock! You may wait, old clock,
It was foolish what I was saying;
Let your seconds stay and your minutes play,
And bid your days go all a-Maying.
O, Time — stand still — let me drink my fill
Of content while my babe is sleeping;
As I smooth her hair m life looks fair,
And to-morrow — I may be weeping.

The Wellsboro Agitator (Weillsboro, Pennsylvania) Jun 28, 1887

CHILDREN’S COLUMN.

TIC-TOCK.

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
Such a busy, busy clock,
All the year you go just so
Never fast and never slow.

Tick-tock, pretty clock,
And this is what you say:
“Never till tomorrow leave
What should be done today.”

You are always in your place
With your hands before your face;
Run and run, and never stop —
Tick-tock, tick-tock.

–[New York World.

Indana Progress (Indiana, Pennsylvania) Dec 2, 1891

The White Brigade.

The old hall clock goes hurrying on:
Tick, tock. ‘Tis getting late!
Tick, tock, tick, tock, hark! one, two, three,
Four, five, six, seven, eight.

The white brigade is marching now,
In every town and street
You hear the patter, patter soft
Of little naked feet.

The girls and boys have left their toys,
And now with sleepy head
Each joins the throng (ten thousand strong,)
Going up stairs to bed.

Sandusky Regiser (Sandusky, Ohio) Feb 23, 1895

The Washington Post – Feb 21, 1913

MY CLOCK.

In the silence of the night,
If I waken with affright
From a dream that’s full of terror and annoy,
There’s a sound that fills my heart
With a melody of art
Fully of beauty, full of pleasure, full of joy.

‘Tis the steady “tick, tick, tock,”
Of my sturdy little clock,
As it sits across the room upon a shelf,
And it says: “Don’t be afraid,
For I’ve closely by you staid
While you were off in the land of dreams yourself.

“With a steady ‘tick, tick, tick,’
I am never tired or sick,
And I count the minutes ever as they fly.
I’m the truest friend you’ve got,
And share your ev’ry lot,
And I’m ready to stand by you till you die.”

It’s a common sort of clock,
But I like its lusty “tock,”
And it fills my soul with courage by its song.
In the storm or cold or rain
I hear its bright refrain
As it faithfully pursue its path along.

For it tells me to be true
To each thing I have to do,
And no matter if the world applaud or scorn;
That full soon must pass the night
And the sweet and precious light
Be unfolded with the coming of the morn.
— Hamilton Jay in Florida Times-Union.

Sandusky Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Jun 1, 1895

THE TALKING CLOCK.

Up in my room, when comes the dark,
My door with care I lock,
And sit down, all my company
My little talking clock.

With round, bright open face it stands
Upon my mantel shelf,
And “tick, tick, tick” — how sweet and low!
Keeps talking to itself;

While loud and clear, that I may hear
When I am out of sight,
It calls to me twelve times each day,
And twelve times every night.

I always listen for its voice —
‘Tis like a silver bell —
And just the thing I need to know
It will be sure to tell:

“Wake up! wake up! ’tis morning light!”
“To bed! the hour is late!”
“The minutes fly! make haste! make haste!”
“Have patience; you must wait!”

My faithful little talking clock!
O If I only knew
Exactly when I ought to speak
And what to say to you,

And could, when I had said enough,
Just stop, without delay,
I might, almost as calm as you,
Be happy all the day!

— Marion Douglass in “Our Little Men and Women.”

The Daily Northwesterm (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Nov 20, 1897

THE FAMILY CLOCK.

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
What is it you say,
As you tick all day,
With your smiling face,
And your polished case?
Tell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m the family clock,
A hundred years old,
Of good old stock!
Tick, tock,
Good old stock,
A hundred years old,
The family clock!”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Have you memories faint
Of dear ladies quaint,
With high powdered hair,
Who tripped up this stair?
Tell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’ve seen many a frock,
And the witchery fair
Of a gleaming lock!
Tick, tock,
Many a frock,
And the witchery fair
Of a gleaming lock!”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Do you never feel affright
In the dead of the night
When the winds howl drear,
And strange noises you hear?
Or ell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m a doughty old clock;
I know no fear;
Let them rage and knock;
Tick, tock,
Rage and knock;
I know no fear —
A doughty old clock.”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Will you still tick away,
A hundred years from today,
With your smiling face
And your polished case?
And then, I pray,
Is this what you’ll say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m the family clock,
Two hundred years old,
Of good old stock!
Tick, tock,
Good old stock,
Two hundred years old,
The family clock!”

— Jane D?msfield, in the St. Nicholas

San Antonio Light (San Antonio, Texas) Apr 8, 1900

The Clock.

He stands in a corner from morning till night,
A patient old thing with no feet
His face is as solemn and round as a moon
And oh so exceedingly neat
From breakfast to supper,
Bright on through the day,
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

His hands are quite tidy, they grow on his face
When I grow to be big I shall know
Why one is so long and the other so short
And one he moves fast, and one slow,
From breakfast to supper,
Right on through the day.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

At night when I’m sleeping he keeps wide awake
To see what the little mice do,
He watches the brownie creep in through the blind
His little red shoes wet with dew
From night-time to daytime,
Right on through the day
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

And when it comes morning I wish he would tell,
I ask him but never a trace
Of the wonderful things which he saw in the night
Does he show in his sober old face,
From breakfast to supper
Right on through the day
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

Trenton Evening Times (Trenton, New Jersey) Mar 30, 1909

The Old Hall Clock.

What a store of information
You must have in stock,
Not a word of revelation
In your staid “tick-tock.”
You have watched the decades passing as the ships upon the sea,
Stores of knowledge e’er amassing as the generations flee.
Can’t you tell some of your secrets to a little boy like me
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Never changing the expression
Of your placid face.
Never making a confession
Any time or place.
Can’t you tell me of the courting you have seen upon the stairs?
Of he stately wedding marches, of the ministers and prayers?
Of he good old squires and damsels who have come and gone in pairs
But the old hall clock
Answered Just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

It’s for history I’m seeking
And you’ve got to tell.
It’s of father I am speaking
And you might as well.
When a youngster, was he always doing just exactly right?
Did he have to have a licking almost every single night?
Now, you needn’t fear to trust me, for I’ll keep it secret, quite,
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Bland recorder of the ages,
If you’ll be so kind,
Turn ahead among Life’s pages,
Tell us what you find.
When you look into the future, tell me what it is you see.
What in just another decade, is this old world going to be?
Tell me, what is going to come of just a little boy like me?
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Dec 19, 1912

Image from flickr – vera 1955

Jens Galtheen/Galthen was born about 1839 in Denmark, and immigrated to America about 1865. On June 24, 1879 he married Helen Lager. His was listed as a jeweler on the 1880 and 1900 census records and his shop was at 415 Water St. in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

THE SILENT CLOCKS.

(By Violet Leigh.)
(In memory of Jeweler Galthen of Water St.)

Silent they stand in a row on the shelf,
Not one moves a hand alone by itself.
Not long ago the ormelu clock
Was merrily saying, “tick-tock, tick-tock”;
And its dainty hands in a charming way
Pointed out the time of day.

The beautiful clock of porcelain
Was also ticking with might and main;
And all the other clocks in the row
Showed one another how to go.
But they’re silent now as death itself
Standing there in a row on the shelf.

Where is the one who made them go?
Jeweler Galthen is lying low.
The pale clock-faces are not more white
Than the face of that aged man tonight.
And the hands of the clocks are not more still
Than his nerveless hands in the grave on the hill.

— Eau Claire, Wis., Nov. 22, 1913.

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Nov 26, 1913

UPDATE: I found an obituary for Mr. Galthen:

OBITUARY

Aged Jeweler Summoned

Jens Galthen, an aged jeweler, who has been carrying on a small business at 415 Water St., died very suddenly yesterday morning, some time between 8:30 and 11 o’clock.

Death is said to have been due to a stroke of appoplexy, the aged man surffering a like stroke some time ago. Mr. Galthen was seen at 8:30 o’clock in the morning at which time he appeared to be in his usual health and spirits. At 11 o’clock, the store was entered by Sidney Robillard, who found the body of the victim of the stroke of appoplexy lying on the floor face down.

The deceased was about 70 years of age. He was a widower and lived alone in the store, a screen separating his living apartment from the store. No known relatives reside in this country. It is learned that relatives live in Copenhagen, Denmark, and County Coroner R.H. Stokes will endeavor to get in communication with them to ascertain what disposition they wish to make of the body.

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Nov 2, 1913

THE CORRUPTED CLOCK.

By EDMUND VANCE COOKE

Some one has made the clock go wrong,
Not in its time, but in its song.
At twelve at night!
Its face is bright
And the sound of its stroke is a soft delight; —

“Tick! tock!
Oh, what a flock!
Flock of long hours that are left in the clock!
Time is unending,
Life is for spending;
What though I strike,
Do as you like!
Tick! tock!
Oh, what a flock!
Do what you will, but don’t look at the clock.”
Oh, kindly clock! had you a robe, I’d surely kiss its him;
Let us be friends forever, clock; aye, even at six A.M.!

But oh! at morning when I yawn
And much desire to slumber on,
Its white face stares,
Its eye-hole glares
And its lean hands point me down the stairs; —

“Tick! tock!
Knickety Knock!
Oh, but such laziness gives me a shock!
Time is for working;
Why are you shirking?
Now, as I strike,
Get up and hike!
Tick! tock!
Oh, what a shock!
Look at me! Look at me! Look at the clock!”
Oh, cursed clock! such two-faced talk I must, and do condemn;
You are so suave at twelve at night, so harsh at six A.M.!

(Copyright, 1919, N.E.A.)

Decatur Review (Decatur, Illinois) Aug 17, 1919

Gettysburg Times (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jan 27, 1921

***

I sing of clocks that I have known,
In other years, now long since flown,
When I but just a little child,
For many hours was beguiled,
In listening to the tick, tick, tock,
Of one, to me, most wondrous clock.

My father bought that fine old clock
To quite complete our household stock,
When I was but one short year old,
It should be mine, I then was told;
When it wore out, its lovely case,
My little toys, in it to place.
The brilliant peacock on the door,
No bird like it since or before.
It’s good strong tick and ringing strike,
No other clock can sound the like.

Sometimes quaint old clock tinkers came,
To see if it was sick or lame;
They’d shine it up and set it back,
To tick and strike, as strong as ever,
Itinerant tinker were clever,
I would look on and sigh, alack,
“I’ll get my playhouse never, never.”

The years rolled on and strangely on,
Parents, brothers and sisters gone,
Still that old clock with calm, clear face,
Ticks for the remnant of our race;
Has struck the hours of death and birth,
For those dearest to me on earth.
Has through my four score years and one,
And still with undiminished strength,
Bids fair to wear me out at length.

Dear old home clock tick on and on
All my playhouses no ware gone;
I love to see your dear old face,
But no more now covet your case,
You’re worth to us, your weight in gold,
Tick on until your centurys old;
My playhouse I relinquish still,
So beat me to it, if you will.

One old clock with a friendly face,
Greeted me in my new home place;
Through many changing years it told,
Vicissitudes most lives unfold;
Reunions and each glad event,
That marked the way on which we went,
High hopes, and dreams that disappear,
And still that old bronze clock is here.

Another clock so plain and small,
It would not be valued at all;
Yet once it ticked the hours away,
For one who is no longer here,
It has been silent since that day,
A clock may hurt as well as cheer.

A welcome gift, a clock late come,
To wake it’s echoes in our home;
Welcome it is our home within,
It’s muffled strike to slumbers win.
Old clocks are like dear human friends,
They cheer life’s way until it ends.

The clock on old Northwesterns tower,
When chasing trains it marked the hour,
Warned us we would be all too late
Just as we reached the closing gate.
Old station clock of you I sing,
You were a kind and friendly thing.

Our bank clock, how we love its chimes,
Recalling other happy times;
And that one to so many dear,
Who made it possible to hear,
All over this old Arlington,
The echoes of its carrillion,
A treasure is that grand old clock,
May it abide firm as a rock.

There hangs a cheery little clock,
Here on the stairs, with quick tick tock;
It was a gift at Christmas time,
From one now gone to kinder clime
A bright, a cherry little thing
That through the passing hours will bring,
Sweet memories into the mind,
Of the dear giver, every kind.

There’s something odd and whimsical,
About old clocks that thrills us all
Yet no clock in our lives can come,
Like the clock in our childhood home.

— Elinore Crisler Haynes

The Daily Herald (Chicago, Illinois) Aug 10, 1928

A Football (player) Clock

The Times Recorder (Zanesville, Ohio) Nov 13, 1925

Good-Night Stories

By MAX  TRELL

Tick-tock,
Wind the clock.
Tick-tock,
Snap the lock.
Tick-tock,
Shut your eyes.
Tick-tock,
How time flies!

— Shadow Sayings.

The Athen Messenger (Athen, Ohio) Sep 19, 1930

Good-Night Stories

By MAX  TRELL

Tick-tock
Wind the clock
Knock-knock
Snap the lock,
Clack-clack
I won’t be back,
I’m taking the train
On the railroad track.

— Shadow Song.

Van Wert Daily Bulletin (Van Wert, Ohio) Aug 10, 1932

The Unknown Blue and Gray

April 9, 2010

THE LITTLE GREEN TENTS

The little green tents where the soldiers sleep,
And the sunbeams play and the women weep,
Are now covered with flowers today;
And between the tents walk the weary few,
Who were young and stalwart in sixty-two,
When they went to war away.

The little green tents are built of soil,
And they are not long and they are not broad,
But the Soldiers have lots of room;
And the soil is part of the land they saved,
When the flag of the enemy lustily waved,
The symbol of dole and doom.

The little green tent is a thing divine;
The little green tent is a country’s shrine,
Where patriots kneel and pray;
And the brave men left, so old, so few,
Were young and stalwart in sixty two,
When they went to the war away!

Comrade Peck.

The Carroll Herald (Carroll, Iowa) Nov 25, 1925

THE UNKNOWN BLUE AND GRAY.

There are unknown graves in the valleys
That the troops of war possessed,
Where the bugles sounded for rallies,
But the bullets sang of rest;
And the mountains hold without number
Hidden graves from war’s made day
Where the unknown men have their slumber
In their shrouds of blue and gray.

And no drums will rumble and rattle
And no fifes blow sharp and shrill
In the valleys that knew the battle,
Nor atop the lone high hill;
But the silent stars know the story
And the broad sky of the day
Bends and whispers low of their glory
To these men of blue and gray.

And no banners o’er them are waving
No marches come and pause
With cheers for the land of their saving
Or tears for their lost cause;
Yet the twilight stars intermingle
With the hues when ends the day,
And the striving flags now are single
O’er the men of blue and gray.

There are unknown graves in the thickets,
On the hillside and the plain,
Of the missing scouts and the pickets
Yet they did not fall in vain.
Though their names may not be engraven
And their places in the fray,
In our hearts now each finds a haven,
They who wore the blue and gray.

For the God of battles is kindly
With none of mankind’s hate
That is cherished even so blindly —
And these pawns of warfare’s fate
Have their tombs of nature’s splendor
Each set forth in proud array
Through an impulse holy and tender,
Though they wore the blue and gray.

Where once were the guns that wrangled
Sounds the peace song of the thrush,
And the roses and vines are tangled
In the solemn, sacred hush;
Where the cannon one day would hurdle
Their missiles in the fray
Grows the rue and the creeping myrtle
O’er the graves of the blue and gray.

They are nature’s hands that are strewing
The flowers on each mound;
It is God’s own beautiful doing,
That each unknown grave is found
Where the cypress leaves are ‘aquiver
Where peaks lift through the day,
Where the forest sighs to the river
Of the unknown blue and gray.

— Wilbur D. Nesbit.

The Carroll Herald (Carroll, Iowa) May 27, 1914

Wilbur Dick Nesbit wrote quite a bit of  poetry etc., much of it geared toward children.  The above image is one of his books. (Google book LINK.)

THE CAVALRY VETERAN

(By Joseph Mills Hanson.)

This sabre-cut on my forehead scored?
I picked it up at Beverly Ford
The day we turned “Jeb” Stuart’s flank
And hurled him back from the river bank.
It was parry and thrust with a hearty will
As they fought for the guns of Fleetwood Hill,
While over the fields and through the pines
Backward and forward surged the lines;
Twelve thousand men in a frenzied fray,
Charge and rally and made melee, —
Oh, the crash and roar as the squadrons met,
The cheers and yells, — I can hear them yet!
But we’d forced the fords, so our work was done,
And we galloped away ere set the sun.

This welt of a bullet across my arm?
It’s a scratch I caught at McPherson’s farm
That morning our outposts chanced to strike
Hill’s solid corps on the Cashtown Pike.
Hour by hour our thin ranks stood
Stubbornly holding each fence and wood,
Till, down the road where the wheat fields grew
And the spires of Gettysburg pierced the blue,
We saw a column of dust arise,
A welcome sight to our anxious eyes,
And into the hell of the battle’s roar
Reynolds marched with the old First Corps;
But the field where the rebel flood was stayed
Was held by the stand that Buford made.

This limp I got as my horse when down
When Fitz Lee ran us through Buckland town.
Out of the woods with a spurt of flame,
Driving backward our van, he came.
Custer struggled to turn the thrust
But they whirled him off like a fleck of dust;
Davies, shattered in front and flanks,
And off we scampered, like boys at play,
Over the hills and far away.
Crack! A shot through my good steed’s knee,
Down he tumbled on top of me,
And I crawled to a thicket, right glad to lie
Till the jubilant rebels had thundered by.

This scar on my neck was a bayonet blow
From a stalwart Johnnie at Waynesboro,
Where we routed Early from hill to hill
And tossed him over to Charlottesville,
Clearing the valley, all seamed and scored
By waste and pillage and fire and sword,
Down we galloped, like Attila’s Huns,
Capturing trenches and flags and guns,
Bagging the foe ere the fight began
(That was a habit with Sheridan!)
I seized a flag, but the color-guard
Passed my party and thrust me hard, —
Though we made it up and were friends for aye
When I shared my rations with him next day!

The Carroll Herald (Carroll, Iowa) May 29, 1912

Literature of South Dakota, by Oscar William Coursey (Google book link above) has a few pages that talk about about  his writing. Google  also has some of his work available online, for example:

Pilot Knob: the Thermopylae of the West
By Cyrus Asbury Peterson, Joseph Mills Hanson (LINK)

Frontier ballads
By Joseph Mills Hanson, Maynard Dixon (LINK)

Vintage Poetry for the Fourth of July

July 2, 2009

liberty_bell

1776
HOW THE GLAD TIDINGS WERE SPREAD

While the vote on the adoption of the Declaration of Independence was being taken in the State House at Philadelphia, crowds surged about the streets. The suspense was terrible. Would Congress dare declare the colonies free? Would they dare defy the power of England?

The old State House bell was to ring out the news if Congress acted. Already, in the belfry the old bell-ringer waited for the signal. At last it came, and as his grandson bounded up the stairs shouting “Ring! Ring! Ring!” the peals of the bell broke forth spreading the good news far and near. And the shouts from the crowds below told that the joyous sound found echo in the hearts of the people of the new and independent nation.

INDEPENDENCE BELL

There was tumult in the city,
In the quaint old Quaker town,
And the streets were rife with people
Pacing restless up and down, —
People gathering at corners,
Where they whispered each to each
And the sweat stood on their temples
With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents
Lash the wild Newfoundland shore,
So they beat against the State-House,
So they surged against the door;
And the mingling of their voices
Made a harmony profound,
Till the quiet street of Chestnut
Was all turbulent with sound.
**
“Will the do it?” “Dare they do it?”
“Who is speaking? “What’s the news?”
“What of Adams?” “What of Sherman?”
“Oh, God grant they won’t refuse?”
“Make some way there!” “Let me nearer!”
“I am stifling!” “Stifle, then!
When a nation’s life’s a hazard,
We’ve no time to think of men!”

So they beat against the portal,
Man and woman, maid and child;
And the July sun is heaven
On the scene looked down and smiled’
The same sun that saw the Spartan
Shed his patriot blood in vain,
Now beheld the soul of freedom
All unconquer’d rise again.
**
See! See! The dense crowd quivers,
Thru all its lengthy line,
As the boy beside the portal
Looks forth to give the sign!
With his little hand uplifted,
Breezes dallying with his hair.
Hark! with deep, clear intonation,
Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hushed the people’s swelling murmur,
List the boy’s exultant cry!
“Ring!” he shouts, “Ring! grandpa,
Ring! oh, ring for Liberty!”
Quickly at the given signal
The old bell-man lifts his hand,
Forth he sends the good news, making
Iron music thru the land.

How they shouted! What rejoicing!
How the old bell shook the air.
Till the clang of freedom ruffled
The calmly gliding Delaware!
How the bonfires and the torches
Lighted up the night’s repose,
And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix,
Our glorious Liberty arose!

That old State-House bell is silent,
Hushed is now its clamorous tongue;
But the spirit it awakened
Still is living — ever young;
And when we greet the smiling sunlight
On the Fourth of each July,
We will ne’er forget the bell-man
Who, betwixt the earth and sky,
Rung out, loudly, “Independence”
Which, please God, shall never die.

–Author Unknown

** The two stanzas between the double asterisks are from the version of the poem printed in the Bayard Advocate, 1916. The rest of the poem is for the most part, the same as the Davenport Democrat, 1925 version.

The Davenport Democrat and Leader (Davenport, Iowa) Jul 3, 1925
Bayard Advocate (Bayard, Iowa) Jun 29, 1916

The First State Print (Image from www.jordanmarketing.com)

The First State Print (Image from http://www.jordanmarketing.com)

RODNEY’S RIDE.

On the Third day of July, 1776, Caesar Rodney rode on horseback from St. James’ Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
The North and South on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,
Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English State,
Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,
And his kinfolk knew from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that brought him there,
To the counties three upon the Delaware.

“Money and men we must have,” he said,
“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead.
Give us both and the King shall not work his will.
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;
“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,
For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
And your vote alone may decide its fate.”

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;
It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”
“When stands it?” “Tonight.” “Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away —
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George’s face.”

He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,
It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move arear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldboro’s dust with a clang and a cling,
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The road winds down to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
From his panting steed he gets him down —
“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”
And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;
Six; and the dust of Chester street
Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.

It is seven; the horse-beat broad of beam,
At the Schuyikill ferry crawls over the stream —
And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
He flings his reins to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun.
And Liberty lags for the vote of one —
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride;
For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke
O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung
“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,
And the sons of the free may recall with pride,
The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

Bayard Advocate (Bayard, Iowa) Jun 29, 1916

Vintage Flag

STAND BY THE FLAG.

Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;
By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;
Living, defended; lying, from their pillow,
With their last blessing, passed it on to you.
The lines that divide us are written in water.
The love that unites us is cut deep as rock.

Thus by friendship’s ties united,
We will change the bloody past
Into golden links of union,
Blending all in love at last.

Thus beneath the one broad banner,
Flag of the true, the brave and free,
We will build anew the Union,
Fortress of our Liberty.

Bayard Advocate (Bayard, Iowa) Jun 29, 1916

squiggle

FREEDOM’S STANDARD.

God bless our star-gemmed banner;
Shake its folds out to the breeze;
From church, from fort, from housetop,
Over the city, on the seas;

The die is cast, the storm at last
Has broken in its might;
Unfurl the starry banner,
And may God defend the right.

Then bless our banner, God of hosts!
Watch o’er each starry fold;
Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and proved
On many a field of old;

And Then, who long has blessed us,
Now bless us yet again,
And crown our cause with victory,
And keep our flag from stain.

Bayard Advocate (Bayard, Iowa) Jun 29, 1916

vintage4th

Independence Day.

Columbia fair,
With glory rare.
Sitting as queen in thy western sea,
The peoples pause
To give applause,
To celebrate thine ascendancy.

From eastern surge
To western verge
They sons, in glad activity,
Hail loud and long
With shout and song
They day of thy nativity.

Though dark they morn
Of oppression born,
And bloody thine earliest history,
Splendidly bright
Is they noonday light;
Grand be thy future of mystery.

The portal gleams
With the radiant beams
From the lifted hand of Liberty,
A sign of rest
For those opprest
And promise of peace and prosperity.

God save our land,
Where, hand in hand,
Justice and mercy habitate.
For her be strong
Whene’er the wrong,
Or dangers ‘gainst her militate.

Free as the breeze
That fans her leas,
Bright as the stars of her summer night,
Pure as the ore
In her treasured store,
Lord, may she ever by thy delight.

— E.B. Van Arsdale.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Jun 30, 1893

squiggle

Our Glorious Fourth — 1899.

Our flag on high
Kissing the sky,
Red, white and blue,
In gallant array.
O hear the drum
Of those who come
With fife and drum
On this natal day.

Patriots cheering,
Rockets glaring,
As the royal
And the brave come forth,
A united life,
Where once was rife
The earthly strife
Betwixt South and North.

Ye Yankee sons,
Shoot off the guns!
O Columbia,
Your proud spirit wake!
Let cannons roar
And huzzahs pour
From shore to shore
Until hillsides quake.

Urchin and man,
Those of our clan,
To the spirit
Of patriotism yield.
This mighty throng
Sings loud the song
Which makes us strong
Our valor to wield.

Our soldier boys
Will fire their toys
Upon the Philippines.
Steam whistles toot
And guns’ salute
Will crack and shoot
From marshalled lines.

Phalanx and file
In Cuba’s isle
For our Yankee
Liberty will root.
The Spaniards brave
And those that clave
Their land to save
Will join in and hoot.

Bells sway and ring
And patriots sing
But it is not
Our requiem song.
Our Nation’s creed
And daring deed
The world will heed,
If not now, ere long.

Freemen by birth
All join in mirth
Upon this day,
“Our Glorious Fourth.”
No alien’s hand
Shall spoil our land,
Firmly we stand
Now no South no North.

— J. EDWARD LUTZ, Harmony, Md.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Jul 1, 1899