From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 30, 1912. There’s an idiotic fellow, whom I meet where’er I go; He’s the crazy kind of fellow all the little children know. You wouldn’t think him silly from his manner nor his style; Still, it seems, he must be foolish, for he always wears a smile. When the way is long and weary and load is hard to bear; When you’re weighted down with trouble and there’s no one seems to care, That’s the time this foolish fellow comes a-singing up the road, With a word and smile to cheer you and to help you with your load. With his smiling “Buck up, partner, ‘cause we’re bound to pull it through; Though your load’s too big for one man, it’s a little load for two.” And you feel yourself uplifted with the strength to play your part, With his arm to aid your body and his smile to brace your heart. No, he hasn’t got ambition, but his life-work never ends; He knows a million people, and he’s got a million friends. He doesn’t strive for fame and wealth, he hasn’t got a goal; He’s just a simple fellow, with God’s sunshine in his soul. Yes, he’s just a foolish fellow, with the eyes that cannot see All the misery and sadness that are plain to you and me, But he knows the joy of living, all that makes the world worth while; And I’d like to be as foolish as the man behind the smile.
Month: September 2020
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The Smiler
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The Distant Hymn
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. In a throbbing cadence, Through the twilight dim, In a crooning murmur, Comes an olden hymn. Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet, While the mellow echoes Whispering, repeat. Organ-tones and voices— Perfectly they blend, Till we fall to hoping That they will not end— That the lulling measures May drift on and on, Till they greet the rapture Of the glowing dawn. Rich and low and tender, On the air of night, Wafting with it incense, Bringing us delight, Comes the wordless music From the far away, Lending newer glory To the dying day. Thus may all the singing Echo to the throne, Like this hymn at twilight, Into beauty grown— Like this mellow music, Perfect and complete, Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet.
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Look Who’s Here!
From The Tacoma Times, September 28, 1912. By Berton Braley. Now we are back to the months with the “r” in ‘em; Now are the bivalves again to the fore; Restaurant cooks on the menus are starrin’ ‘em; Oysters are back to their glory once more, Raw on the halfshell or stewed most deliciously, Skewered with bacon or temptingly fried, Ah, how we welcome them! How expeditiously Food such as this is invited inside! Doubtless there’s plenty of germs to avoid in ‘em, Microbes of everything under the sun, Cholera, ptomaine and double typhoid in ‘em; Still, now the season again has begun, We will take chances on what we may meet in ‘em, Spite of the warnings of doctor and sage. Oysters are bully, and folks who have eaten’ ‘em Frequently live to a noble old age
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Convinced
From the Evening Star, September 27, 1912. By Philander Johnson. We had another speaker down to Pohick on the Crick. We all put on our Sunday clothes an’ had ‘em neat an’ slick. We waited for his eloquence to thrill us through an’ through Deliverin’ instructions on what nations ought to do. But he never stood before us on that platform strong and high! Before he struck the steps the Miggins baby caught his eye. He grabbed it from its mother an’ he held it up to view An’ shook his finger at it while he hollered “Coochy-coo!” You should have heard the cheerin’! We set up a mighty shout! You should have seen the way fond parents trotted babies out. An’ he never turned an eyelash. To the finish he was game. He took the little fellers an’ he treated all the same. We’ll vote for him for certain. Every mother in the town Will see that every father gets the proper ballot down; Though I must confess in private, I don’t understand—do you?— Why we’d send a man to office jes’ for sayin’ “Coochy-coo!”
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Hospitality
From The Seattle Star, September 26, 1912. By Berton Braley. Jenkins spent his money, Took me to a show, Took me out to dinner Where the big guns go, Bought me smokes in plenty, Blew his money free; Still I didn’t like his Hospitality. Barney gave me greeting Free of “froth and foam,” Smiled and beamed upon me, Took me to his home; Made me feel at ease there With his family; That’s the true and honest Hospitality. ‘Tisn’t in the splendor, ‘Tisn’t in the style, But in thoughtful kindness And the welcome smile. Money cannot buy it, Not for any fee; It’s a gift of nature— Hospitality.
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Burglars
From The Seattle Star, September 25, 1912. By Berton Braley. The burglar in the story book Is really quite a noble crook. He’s sure to be a gentleman Upon whose high-bred face you scan A goodliness that seems to shine With every motive pure and fine. His clothes are always very smart And, my! He has a tender heart. A baby always makes him quit His burgling in the midst of it, And if a lady, young and slim, Should meet him in the hallway dim, He tells her all about his life— A bitter struggle, full of strife— And leaves the house, his bosom warm With brave endeavor to reform. Ah, yes, he is a pleasing crook, The burglar in the story book. Alas, for story-book repute, The real-life burglar is a brute. He is not cultured, swell or smart; He has a hard and ruthless heart. For sentiment he has no time. There is no glamour to his crime, And if he meets you in the hall He’ll doubtless murder you, that’s all. He’s pretty tough and bad and low, The burglar that policemen know.
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A Wise Nonadvertiser
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 24, 1912. By W. J. Lampton. There was a man in our town And he was wondrous wise; He opened many places, yet He wouldn’t advertise. He thought it foolish to announce His business as some think They ought to do, and said he had No need of printer’s ink. Promotion of publicity He said, was something which The more he had of, that much less His chance of getting rich. He said he’d studied it and knew That advertising would Beyond the shadow of a doubt Do more harm than good. Indeed, this man in our town Was truly wondrous wise; He was a burglar, which is why He didn’t advertise.
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Trouble Enough
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 23, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. We do not need to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow; We’ll find enough to worry us before we’re through today; We waste our time in fretting O’er what’s to come, forgetting The goodness and the gladness that are rich along the way. We do not need to ponder On what we left back yonder— Back yonder on the blotted page that tells of yesterday; We should recall the gladness, And not bring up the sadness, But let the gloom go to the dark and let the sunshine stay. This casting up of trouble Will only make it double— Will only wilt the flowers that are sweet along the road. This thing of being tearful Instead of waxing cheerful Because of what has gone, will only add unto our load. So, what’s the use to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow, Or clutch the sorrows that we thought were ours on yesterday? Today will have its fretting, But let us go, forgetting And joy will overtake us while we walk along the way.
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Building of the Temple
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 22, 1912. By A. W. Peach. With hammers ringing on the lofty frame The unknown millions toil within the din, And seek no end of leisure or of fame, But simple happiness they hope to win. The great dome mounts to meet the watching stars Wide as the spinning earth from zone to zone And far upon the upper beams and bars The dreamers and truth seekers work alone. They toil with faith in One who yet above Has planned the structure’s ever rising height With wisdom more than man’s and deeper love, With hope that they are mounting to His sight. Through centuries the ceaseless hammers ring; Though once they paused when stilled by hate and strife, Now evermore the workmen toil and sing, And stroke by stroke is wrought the temple life.
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Happy Days
From the Evening Star, September 21, 1912. By Philander Johnson. Oh, happy was the childhood hour When Father paid the bills And left us free to grasp the flower That blossomed on the hills! Those were the days in which we took No thought of taxes high, Nor feared the grafter or the crook Who might be drawing nigh. Three meals per day were always there; So was the dwelling place. We thought that Father’s greatest care Was simply to say grace. And so we wandered light and free, Without a trace of woe, Each had no thoughts save those of glee, Unless he stubbed his toe. Now greater wisdom bids us pause And grateful memory thrills. We were so happy then because Dear Father paid the bills.