[Welland Tribune July 11, 1905]
There comes to my mind a legend, a thing I had half forgot,
And whether I read it or dreamed it –ah, well it matters not!
It is said that in heaven at twilight a great bell softly swings,
And man may listen and harken to the wondrous music that rings
If he puts from his heart’s inner chamber all the passion, pain and strife,
Heartache and weary longing, that throb in the pulses of life,
If he thrust from his soul all hatred, all thoughts of wicked things,
He can hear in the holy twilight how the bell of the angels rings;
And I think there lies in this legend, if we open our eyes to see,
Somewhat of an inner meaning, my friend, to you and me.
Let us look in our hearts and question: Can pure thoughts enter in
To a soul if it be already the dwelling of thoughts of sin?
So, then, let us ponder a little—let us look in our hearts and see
If the twilight bell of the angels could ring for us—you and me.
–From Word and Work.
[Welland Tribune September 8, 1905]
I never bought a block of stock,
Supposing it was low,
That didn’t stay upon bedrock
Until I let it go.
If diamonds. Some day from the sky,
Came zipping down like hail,
I know that it would be when I
Was out without a pail
If I should run to catch a train
I’d find as sure as fate,
When I the station steps should gain.
That it-the train-was late.
If I could read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bet you that the taxes there
Would soon be on the rise.
–Chicago Record.
[Welland Tribune July 11, 1905]
Drink less, breathe more,
Talk less, think more.
Ride less, walk more.
Clothe less, bathe more.
Worry less, work more.
Waste less. Give more.
Preach less. Practice more.
–Maryland Baptist
[Welland Tribune September 8, 1905]
Nice men tell no tales.
Flirting is its own reward.
Faint heart never won four ladies
It’s a long head that has no turning.
There is no fool like a summer fool.
The proof of the picnic is the eating.
The summer girl makes cowards of us all
It’s a sea breeze that blows nobody good.
A hand in the hand is worth two in the gloves.
One touch of sunburn makes the whole world skin.
In a multitude of summer girls there is safety.
–Puck.
[Welland Tribune September 1905]
A fair young maiden chose to wed
A man both bent and old;
She did not love his silver hairs,
But loved his yellow gold.
But soon of silks and jewels tired,
And pining to be free,
She wept in silence all day long
Above her ‘broidery.
She left her necklace and rings
Beside her bridal gown,
But took a bag of heavy coin
To weigh her body down.
The moon was shining on the lake,
All black and still it spread–
With scarce a ripple in the reeds
It closed above her head.
But when the summer came again,
From oozy depths below,
Upon a cold and coiling stem
Arose a bud of snow.
Like waxen fingers reaching up
It opened and behold!
Revealed the lily’s creamy heart
Half full of gleaming gold.
–Minna Irving in September Lippincott’s
[Welland Tribune September 8, 1905]
In ancient days we paid our cash
For anything that we might need,
That anyone was rather rash
To buy on credit was agreed.
Who got what he required “on tick.”
The cautious held him under ban,
But now at that we never stick–
It’s all on the instalment plan.
Suburban residences neat
And modern, anyone can get
And have them fitted out complete
From kitchenware to parlor set,
A small deposit’s all required
From any well-conducted man,
So go and pick the home desired–
It’s yours, on the instalment plan.
A diamond engagement ring,
Or knives and forks of triple plate,
A suit of clothes—or anything,
You’ll own them—at some future date,
All that the heart of man can crave
Within his life’s allotted span.
A cradle or a cosy grave,
We buy on the instalment plan.
–Chicago News
[Welland Tribune July 7, 1905]
What wonder that the poets of this prosy age regret
That themes for making posey are now so hard to get.
Those pleasant rural pictures which for years employed the pen
Of poets have been crowded out to never come again.
The weary plowman never ore shall plod his weary way.
He rides a sulky-like affair-a jockey trim and gay.
The sower scattering the seeds afield no more is seen,
For that, like all other work, is done by a machine.
The Scythe the mower used to swing is rusting in the shed.
A hired man now whacks the mules that do the work instead,,
The merry cradlers in the wheat we can no more discern,
The job they had they yielded to a patent right concern.
The joly thrasher, with his flail, upon the old barn floor-
He, too has left the country, for his usefulness is o’er.
With others he was pushed aside and forced to clear the way
For mechanism, dull and dry, that rules the land today.
Since nearly every task is done by steam or horse,
Toil, as a poet’s these, has grown too practical of course.
Wherever we may turn there’s nought but mechanism seen.
And even poetry like this is made by a machine.
-Chicago Mail.
Mrs J.B. Shrigley
[Riverside, Dorset, Muskoka - Sept, 18th, 1905]
Fifty years since we were wedded,
Fifty changeful, checkered years;
Years of sunshine and of shadows,
Years of gladness and of tears.
Years that oft seemed full of promise–
Bright as rainbow-tinted skies,–
But, too oft. The mists would gather
And along our pathway rise.
Well, indeed, do I remember
How my young heart thrilled with pain,
When, awakened by the patt’ring
Of a chill September rain.
When my bridal morn was clouded,
Of all mornings of the year,
Filling me with dark forebodings,
Filling me with nameless fear.
And I wondered, sadly wondered,
If it could a forecast be,
If the years would thus be clouded,
Filled with cares for you and me.
But my fears were all forgotten
E’er the closing of the day,
For the rain had ceased its falling
And the clouds had rolled away
Still, it seemed a fitting emblem,
Of the years that were to come,
Of the shadows that have fallen
Dark’ning oft our hearts and home.
But today we’ve reached the milestone
On life’s broad, uneven way,
Reached the goal so few attain to,
Reached our golden wedding day.
And new friends, and grownup children,
Loving words and gifts bestow,
Still we miss the oldtime faces,
Miss the friends of long ago.
Miss the fair, young smiling faces,
With their wishes, kind and gay,
As they fondly pressed about us
Fifty years ago today.
Harry Van Dyke [Welland Tribune October 13, 1905]
Not to the swift. The race;
Not to the strong, the fight;
Not to the righteous, perfect grace;
Nor to the wise, the light.
But often faltering feet
Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in the darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.
A thousand times by night
The Syrian souls hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished righteous
Hath risen glorified.
The truth the wise men sought
Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands defiled.
Not from my torch, the gleam,
But from my stars above;
Not from my heart life’s crystal stream,
But from the depths of love.
Wainfleet News
[Welland Tribune, 8 August 1905]
There passed away early yesterday morning one of the oldest residents of Wainfleet township; in the person of Margaret, beloved wife of Andrew Reeb, in the 75th year of her age. Deceased had been ill about a week, stroke of paralysis being the cause of death. She was born in Wainfleet township and lived there all her life. She was a consistent member of the Episcopal church, and esteemed and loved by all who knew her. Mr. and Mrs. Reeb had been married for 55 years. Besides her husband, who is in a feeble condition, deceased is survived by….Microfilm blurred.
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