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.
Month: November 2020
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The Other Fellow’s Fault
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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’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.
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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.