From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 31, 1912. By Edmund C. Stedman. Where are the good things promised me By the Old Year that’s dying? And what care I how ill he be Who was so given to lying? A comely youth, he sought my door And tarried till his locks were hoar; A fair and foul, capricious guest Who swore to give me of his best; Who pledged himself a true year; But he was then—the New Year. Where are the silver and the gold Ere now should fill my wallet? What mean these scanty clothes and old, This attic room and pallet? The purse he dangled in my view Betwixt his juggling hands slipped through. He found me poor, he left me poorer, But now a richer friend, and surer, Awaits me—in the New Year. Where are the poet’s bays he said My dulcet song should gain me? The wreath that was to crown my head The applause that should sustain me? Alack! Round other brows than mine I see the fresh-won laurels twine! Still, for the music’s sake, I sing; The world may listen yet, and fling Its garlands—in the New Year. Where is the one dear face to love His golden months should bring me, Whose smile a recompense would prove For all the ills that sting me? My heart still beats in loneliness; There is no darling hand to press; But, oh, I dream we yet shall meet, And trust to find her kisses sweet, And win her—in the New Year! Where are the works in patience wrought; The grace to love my neighbor; The sins left off, the wisdom taught Of suffering and labor; The fuller life; the strength to wait; The equal heart for other fate? Well may I speed the parting guest And take this stranger to my breast! Be thou, indeed a true year, O fair and welcome New Year!
Month: December 2020
-
The Parting Guest
-
The Years
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 30, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit. Sunrise, and noon, and sunset, And day slips into day; Twilight, and dark, and daylight— A year has rolled away. Budding, and bloom, and fading, Green tree, and leafless bough; Seeding, and growth, and harvest— So dies an old year now. Singing, and sighs, and silence, The frownings and the smiles, Toiling, and stress, and resting, And grave or gayer whiles; Days that have brought their honors, And days that left their scars— Over it all the marvel Of each night with its stars. Dreamings, and hopes, and plannings, Tasks that begin and end; Hours that have brought the silence Alike to foe and friend. Words that were sad or merry, Draughts that were bittersweet; Greetings, and hail, and parting— The old and new year meet. Sunrise, and noon, and sunset, Day will slip into day; Twilight, and dark, and daylight, The year will roll away; Sunshine, and song, and gladness, Fair dreams that come in sleep, Birdsong, and nodding blossoms— These we are fain to keep. Darkness, and light, and shadows, Sorrow and golden cheer, Blend into God’s completeness, Into the finished year, Into a memory-fabric Woven of shade and shine— These are the years unfolding In lives like yours and mine.
-
The Daily Dangle
From the Evening Star, December 29, 1912. By Philander Johnson. They sing about the dear old farm, And of the leafy lane, And of the village school whose charm They cannot quite explain. And since they wander through the map While touching strains are sung, I’ll carol of the street car strap, Where I have often hung! How I swayed with courage stout, Like some banner tossed about! I almost learned to take a little nap. With a cultivated twist Of the muscles of my wrist, I have dangled daily from the street car strap! We strive to view the roof o’erhead With an expression sweet. We say “Beg pardon!” as we tread On one another’s feet. How proudly shines the polished place Round which our hands we wrap, As in suspension there we grace The dear old street car strap! How it helped to keep my nerve As we went around the curve And almost fell into somebody’s lap. I enjoy my only chance At a modern ragtime dance As I hang upon that dear old street car strap.
-
Hayin’ Time
From The Topeka State Journal, December 28, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. All the treetoads are a yellin’ And the bees are buzzin’ round. The grasshoppers are hoppin’ Here and there upon the ground. All the birds are sweetly singin’ And all nature seems in tune. Makes a feller feel like workin’ Workin’ morning, night, and noon. And a sweet and wholesome odor Is a-risin’ from the earth. And the old sun is a-shinin’, Shinin’ down for all it’s worth. All the country folks are hustlin’ Startin’ at the break of day. Mother, she is busy cannin’, Me and dad are makin’ hay. Tell you what, we got to go some For there ain’t no time to lose, Four o’clock most every mornin’ Finds a feller in his shoes. Then he’s got to feed the horses And the pigs and mind the sheep ’Til he gets ‘em to the pasture While you folks in town all sleep. When it comes along to breakfast, Feller’s got an appetite And the salt pork and the taters And the beans taste out of sight, Then we hustle for the meadow And we hit her up ’til noon. When the dinner bell starts ringin’ And she never rings too soon. Half an hour and then we’re at it Pitching hay our very best And we never stop for nothin’ Till the sun sinks in the west. Then we’ve got to feed the horses Milk the cows and get the sheep And about the hour of nine we’re All in bed and fast asleep. Then we all get up at daylight And we start right in once more, Tell you what, a city feller Never’d think of gettin’ sore On his job, if he’d just travel Out here on some hot day And just stand around and look at Me and dad a-makin’ hay.
-
The Day After
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 27, 1912. The stockings all are empty and brand new toys are broke, The Christmas tree’s a bit the worse for wear, Good Santa Claus has vanished for another year, at least, And his pocketbook is making papa swear. The doctors are quite busy making flying calls about, For Willie and poor Mamie have a pain, But had such fun that in despite of subsequent events, They’d like to have it over all again. The turkey stuffed and roasted and the toothsome big mince pie That made one feel serene and satisfied, When ‘round about the laden board the happy family sat, Till none could eat more good things if they tried, Have taken dire revenge, and since last night the folks look pale, And efforts to feel chipper are quite vain, But still the feeling of that dinner was so good a one, We all would eat it every bit again. That is the trouble with good times—you have to pay for them. But then they’re worth enjoying while they last; So it is wiser just to take the present when it comes, And not think what it will feel like when it’s past. Perhaps the wise and prudent will dispense with present joys, And shun bright nights with mornings cold and gray, But then they miss a lot of fun who always look ahead, Let good times go for fear of them next day.
-
The Wager
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, December 26, 1912. El Shamar was a builder Of fame long years ago; Ar Hamel was a poet Of whom we little know. But once, a legend has it, Shamar stood and smiled Before a palace golden Which he had reared and styled. “Ar Hamel, I’m a builder, And you a singer—say, You write a song; I’ll wager Your song first fades away!” Ar Hamel wrote a love song; A fragile thing it seemed Beside the palace golden That in the sunshine gleamed. But when the lofty palace Had crumbled into dust, And on the wind was dancing, The plaything of each gust; When Shamar long had vanished, Forgotten was his name, When Hamel, happy hearted, Was known no more to fame; Still in that land the love song Was sung by lovers true; The love song was immortal, Its theme forever new!
-
Good Will to Men
From The Tacoma Times, December 25, 1912. By Berton Braley. Diverse feasts upon his golden plate And Lazarus is at his gate, The same starved beggar whom we know From nineteen hundred years ago, In reeking slum and tenement, The children whimper, wan and spent, And hunger-sharpened tongues deride The mockery of Christmas-tide, And mothers weep in woe forlorn— Was it for this that Christ was born? In flaring light and glaring hall Vice holds her strident carnival, And mortals fight and steal and lie For gold to join this revel high; Men sell their truth, their souls, their fame, And women know the taint of shame By greed and passion downward whirled Along the Highway of the World; And true men cry, in wrath and scorn, “Was it for this that Christ was born?” And yet—though toilers taste distress While wasters roll in idleness, Though Mammon seems to hold in sway The people of this later day, It is but seeming—truth and right Are leading all the world to light, And old abuses fall to dust Before our new-born faith and trust. We are not heedless—Christmas chimes Ring the true spirit of the times, Of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men,” Brave words that thrill and thrill again, For in the deeps of every heart The little flames of fervor start, And grow and grow until we burn All bitter wrongs to overturn, Till all the world we’re children of Shall know the perfect rule of Love! Ah Gentle Savior, pierced and torn, It was for THIS that You were born!
-
The Real Fellow
From the Evening Star, December 24, 1912. By Philander Johnson. There’s a Santa Claus in pictures with a reindeer and a sleigh And a smile so bright and happy that it drives all care away; A man with a conveyance and a span of reindeer light And a store of treasure big enough for every child’s delight. There’s a man who boards a car with bundles six feet long by two And has his hat pushed off by people who are passing through, But he smiles, while in determined mood again he sets his jaws. The fellow with the bundle is the real life Santa Claus. There’s a man who climbs a ladder when the daily toil is done And hangs up toys and trimmings to help out the day of fun. His collar’s sadly wilted and his hair is all awry And he tears his brand-new trousers on a nail while passing by. He nails and saws and hammers and he doesn’t mind the work; The hours are swiftly flying and he doesn’t dare to shirk. He hums a little ditty while he hammers, nails, and saws— The fellow with the workshop is the real life Santa Claus.
-
Content
From The Seattle Star, December 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. It’s lots of fun to travel Around from place to place, To watch the road unravel, The country change its face; It’s fun to be a rover, A pilgrim, now and then, But when the journey’s over I’m glad I’m home again. To visit friends is pleasure Wherever they may be; Such joys I always treasure And hold in memory. And yet—somehow—why is it? No matter where I’ve been, When finished is my visit I’m glad I’m home again. Home, where I can be selfish And lazy-like as well, Withdraw like any shellfish Within my comfy shell To shun the wide world’s tourney And loaf around my den— I’ve had a pleasant journey. I’m glad I’m home again.
-
’Twas the Night Before Christmas
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 22, 1912. By Clement Clarke Moore. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a luster of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too— And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”