Month: November 2020

  • The Other Fellow’s Fault

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 30, 1912.
     
    
     The other fellow’s faults loom big
         There is no doubt of that
     We always see him at his worst
         And have his flaws down pat.
     We’re always quick to recognize
         The weaknesses he’s shown
     But, after all, they’re not so big
         When measured by our own.
     
     If we would take the other chap
         And size him up by us
     And think about the things we’ve done
         When he does so and thus,
     And note the selfish ways we have,
         We might not throw the stone;
     His flaws might not appear so great
         When measured by our own.
     
     It’s mighty easy to map out
         The other fellow’s way,
     To say what virtues he should have,
         What he should do today.
     But we should always bear in mind
         The pitfalls we have known,
     And judge his weaknesses by those
         Decidedly our own.
     
     When we are on life’s level path,
         The other chap may be
     Down on the rough and rugged road,
         And all those faults we see
     Are, no doubt, faults we too had
         When fighting on alone,
     And maybe, too, they’re very small
         When measured by our own.
  • Hitchin’ ‘Em Up

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 29, 1912.
    By Roy K. Moulton.
     
    
     The marriage microbe is a bird that’s hard to understand.
     The short man always asks the tall skyscraper for her hand.
     The man who’s six feet in his socks will wed for good and all
     Some maiden who is passing fair, but only four feet tall.
     The brilliant girl who takes the prize and outshines all the school
     Is more than apt to cast her fate in marriage with some fool.
     The learned man who knows his books and has a sober mind
     Most like weds the dizziest young damsel he can find.
     The prettiest of all the girls will wed some cross-eyed gink
     Who doesn’t look as though he knew enough to even think.
     The homely girl most likely hooks the handsome millionaire.
     The frivolous maid weds a man who’s loaded down with care.
     The pious girls is apt to draw some old night prowlin’ skate
     Who doesn’t think that 3 o’clock is anywhere near late.
     The pastor of the church may draw a social butterfly
     Who thinks more of her new fall hat than mansions up on high.
     The more you try to solve the thing, the less you really know.
     Philosophers all gave it up some centuries ago.
     The mystery is fathomless, as much now of yore.
     It’s only human nature, pure and simple, nothing more.
  • Thanksgiving

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 28, 1912.
    By W. D. Nesbit.
     
    
     A little road that winds its way
         Around the hill
     The old, old trees that swing and sway
         The crumbling mill
     The drowsing fields where drifts of snow
         The rambling lane
     The heart that thrills all quickly; so
         We’re home again!
     
     And old-time songs we had forgot—
         This is our shame
     Hushed speech of friends who now are not
         The ruddy flame
     Of great logs in the fireplace there
         And sparks that fly
     The creak of an old rocking chair
         A smile, a sigh.
     
     To gaze out through the frosted pane
         And trace the ways
     We rambled in the sun and rain
         In olden days
     To hear the old gate click, and all
         The olden sounds
     To sit and silently recall
         Life’s varied rounds.
     
     To see the twilight creeping down
         From out the sky
     To see the twinkling lights of town
         To start reply
     To see gray hairs where none were then
         And wrinkles, too—
     To think how has the world of men
         Held me and you!
     
     And to be glad for all of this
         For all the glow
     That lives to bless us from what is
         The long ago—
     To be glad that the wandering ways
         O’er land and foam
     Have led us through the circling days
         And brought us home!
  • Thanksgiving

    From The Detroit Times, November 27, 1912.
    By Margaret Florence McAuley.
     
    
     We thank Thee, God, for every gift
         Thou hast bestowed on man
     Through all the years, in every clime
         Since this strange world began.
     
     We thank thee for the prosperous year
         Now nearly at an end
     For all the comfort, peace, and joy
         Which Thou did’st freely send.
     
     We thank Thee, too, for each good deed
         Each helpful kind reform
     Which served to guide poor, struggling men
         To shelter ‘mid earth’s storm.
     
     We thank Thee that no earthly woe
         Can harm eternally
     But that the very pain we dread
         Binds us more close to Thee.
     
     Behind the cloud is light, behind
         The sorrow there is joy
     And all the foolish wrongs of earth
         Thy right hand can destroy.
     
     Thou Who hast guided in the past
         Wilt lead us to the end
     Power is Thine eternally
         To take, withhold, or send.
     
     And so our heart must still rejoice
         Since Thou art at the helm
     Guiding and lifting all mankind
         Up to a happier realm.
  • In the Maze

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 26, 1912.
    By Duncan M. Smith.
     
    
     What a crisscross maze is life
         Take it any way you choose
     In the never ending strife
         As you gain and as you lose!
     Luck is with you now and then
         As you hurry for your goal
     Twisting through the maze again
         You are pitched into a hole.
     
     Out of it you scramble up,
         Hoping to do mighty deeds
     Still of sorrow you must sup
         Ere your budding hope succeeds.
     How you struggle, how you groan,
         As you buckle to your task
     Just to make success your own,
         Just in fortune’s smile to bask!
     
     But it isn’t all a frost.
         There are seasons to be gay.
     Hope is never wholly lost
         Joys are blooming on your way.
     There’s a path to your success
         You will find it after while
     If you seek with cheerfulness
         And you don’t forget to smile.
  • Possibilities

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 25, 1912.
    By Duncan M. Smith.
     
    
     If you cannot win a fortune
         That will feather well your nest
     You at least can earn a living
         If you work your level best.
     If you cannot make a million
         Where the highest stakes are played
     You can knock out several dollars
         Working daily at your trade.
     
     What’s the use of having money
         That you never hope to spend?
     It will only bring you trouble
         It is not your truest friend.
     If you settle with the grocer
         And can pay the butcher’s score
     With a little left for pleasure
         What can any one do more?
     
     For the man who has a million
         Only has one pair of eyes
     To behold the wondrous picture
         As old earth before him lies.
     He can only eat one breakfast
         Only occupy one bed
     Only wear one pair of slippers
         Have but one hat upon his head.
     
     If you cannot own an auto
         That will travel double quick
     You can stroll along the highway
         Where the autumn leaves are thick
     And whatever your situation
         In whatever niche you fit
     You can have a lot of pleasure
         If you make the best of it.
  • Forgetting the Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 24, 1912.
    By S. E. Kiser.
     
    
     Your cheeks have lost their youthful glow
         Your hair is getting gray
     We, side by side, in weal and woe
         Have come a long, long way.
     ’Tis far to where you learned to care
         And where I taught you how
     Your girlish glee is gone and there
         Are lines across your brow.
     
     ’Tis long since I have gladly bent
         To whisper love to you
     ’Tis long that we have been content
         To prosper with the few.
     I’ve done no wrong to bring regret
         Or cause you to repine
     But it is long since you have let
         Your hand steal into mine.
     
     Come, let us stray back o’er the way
         To where enchantment lies
     And there, in fancy, all the day
         Be youthful and unwise.
     With lavish praise I’ll make you glad
         And whisper love again—
     Come, let us be a lass and lad
         Alone in Lovers’ Lane.
     
     Dear, let us steal from jealous Time
         A precious hour of bliss
     And you, still girlish and sublime
         Shall claim a lover’s kiss—
     ’Tis far to where we learned to care
         But we will find the way
     Come, sweetheart, let us journey there
         Forgetting for a day.
  • Just Gladness

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 23, 1912.
    By Duncan M. Smith.
     
    
     Oh, gladness is a splendid thing
         For bards to write about
     When they are very sorely pressed
         And subjects have run out!
     Their souls may not be soaked in joy
         To match the gentle strain
     And they may have a grouch so large
         That it would block a train.
     
     But still they write of cheerfulness
         As though it were a part
     Of their existence and it gushed
         In torrents from their heart.
     They put aside their aching tooth,
         The bill they cannot pay,
     The rent that’s always overdue,
         And then they work away.
     
     Great gobs of gladness is their theme,
         The first that comes to hand.
     They tell the people they should use
         This one and only brand.
     But do they use a bit themselves—
         I mean outside their rime—
     With which to make a brighter world?
         I fear they haven’t time.
     
     O gladsome gladness, you’re the goods
         For use in daily life
     Far better than the grim old grouch
         Which leads to care and strife!
     And if the poet does not feel
         The impulse of his song
     You’ll find that the advice is good
         Enough to take along.
  • ’Twill Come When Due

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 22, 1912.
    By Rev. G. W. Laufer.
     
    
     Despair no more, O troubled heart
         But hold this lesson true:
     The noble ship for which you wait
         Will enter port when due.
     
     Though long delayed, she cannot drift
         Beyond her path of blue;
     God’s hand is on the pilot wheel
         And guides her home to you.
     
     Console your heart with balm of hope
         And what is given, do;
     When time is full, some “sail ahoy”
         Announces her to you.
     
     When she is anchored safe at length
         Beside her pier and you,
     The bill of lading will declare
         That you have more than due.
  • Scattered

    From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912.
    By Duncan M. Smith.
     
    
     I have cousins in Missouri
         I have uncles in New York
     I have sisters in Chicago
         And an aunt who lives in Cork
     Second cousins in Australia
         And in any other place
     That offhand you might mention.
         My, but we’re a scattered race!
     
     When my father was a youngster
         In a little Scottish town
     He was blessed with several brothers—
         Eight it was; I marked it down—
     And about as many sisters—
         Ten I think I heard him say—
     And when they had grown and married
         Each one went a different way.
     
     And they had—how many children?
         Goodness knows, for I do not
     As I never took a census
         But it must have been a lot.
     And the children, grown to manhood
         As myself, for time has flown
     And we all are growing ancient,
         Must have children of their own.
     
     So the stock is widely scattered
         From the palm tree to the pine
     Nearly every state and country
         Has some relative of mine.
     And with almost every family
         It’s the same old tale again,
     For the world is getting ready
         For a common race of men.