From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 11, 1913. By Will B. Tomlinson. Toward glories eternal, a vision appears Through the mists of the morning, the sunshine and tears. ’Tis the smile of my Mother, as sacred with joy As the greeting celestial she bends to her boy. And her love is as true and as precious to me As it was in the years when I knelt at her knee And her hand in caressing lay soft on my head As she prayed for a blessing, in days that are fled. Often wayward and thoughtless I know I have been. I have wounded the heart that appealed for me then. Still, I feel that in heaven I’m never forgot For if others forsake me, my Mother will not. When I look at myself, I’ve nothing to claim— Neither merit, nor wealth, nor plaudits of fame. But I grudge not to others such blessings as fall For the love of my Mother is better than all. Here’s a blossom, the fairest, as pure as the dew Else I never could wear it, dear Mother, for you. And I would that its fragrance were wafted afar Like the vapor of incense, or beam of a star Till it tells you in heaven, with breathings divine That I love you, dear Mother, sweet Mother of mine.
Month: May 2021
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Mother’s Day Remembrance
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The Bravest Battle
From the New York Tribune, May 10, 1913. By Joaquin Miller. The bravest battle that ever was fought Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; It was fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot With sword or nobler pen Nay, not with eloquent word or thought From mouths of wonderful men. But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart— Of woman that would not yield But patiently, silently bore her part— Lo! there in that battlefield No marshaling troop, no bivouac song No banner to gleam and wave; And oh these battles they last so long— From babyhood to the grave! Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars She fights in her walled-up town— Fights on and on in the endless wars Then silent, unseen—goes down.
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Gardening
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913. By Edgar A. Guest. I hold that gardening’s splendid fun. I am the chap that some think odd. I like to rise and greet the sun To turn and break the stubborn clod. It’s great to spend an hour or two Some care unto the back yard giving; But this I will admit to you: I’d hate to do it for a living. There is no toil that quite compares To delving daily with a spade And with a hoe cut down the tares Or bring a front lawn up to grade. With joy it makes the pulses throb And starts the heart beating gaily; ’Tis true I glory in the job But I would hate to do it daily. Take it from me, you sluggish men Whose arteries may someday harden For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen; You ought to labor in a garden. Go bend your backs above a spade And strain your muscles with a hoe; There is no more delightful trade Unless that way you earn your dough. I glory in the stubborn ground And conquer it with fertilizer Now every morning I am found A bright and smiling early riser. It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt And lug out chunks of solid clay; In confidence, though, I’ll assert: I’d hate to do it by the day. Think you I mind this aching back Or care because my muscles twinge Or that my bones, with each attack Remind me of a rusty hinge? No! Gardening is wholly joy A source of pleasure unalloyed; But, confidentially, my boy, I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.
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John Barleycorn
From The Seattle Star, May 8, 1913. (Acknowledgements to Jack London) He’s just around the corner He’s just across the street His voice is warm and comradely His words are soft and sweet. He poses as ADVENTURE All debonair and brave Though all the deeds of Barleycorn Lead only to the grave. He comes to you with laughter He comes to you with song With soothing lies to trick the weak And glamour for the strong. Along the road that you must tread Wherever you may fare At every turn or resting place John Barleycorn is there! He masquerades as valor He swaggers as romance And down the road of broken hopes He leads the merry dance. His eyes are red and gloating There’s poison on his breath For call him any name you will John Barleycorn is death.
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Sweet Sixteen
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 7, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. Tho’ starlight through the lattice vine Fell slanting on her brow The roses white, with dew a-shine Swayed on the wind-rocked bough And waved a perfume quaint and fine Like incense round her mouth Where dwelt mid curve and hue divine The glamor of the South. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her eyes are blue And her heart is true And she’s all the world to me. The rose tree hid the stars from me But I could watch her eyes; They shone like stars upon the sea Soft mirrored from the skies. Her little hands upon her knee In folded stillness lay And in the dusk gloamed winsomely Like lily buds astray. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her faith is sure And her soul is pure And she’s all the world to me. A silence fell. It seemed a spell Had fallen on my Sweet. I saw her quivering bosom swell I heard my heart a-beat. I spoke!—but what? I cannot tell I hardly know the rest; But as the timid tear-drops fell I clasped her to my breast. Just sixteen years of smiles and tears— Just sixteen years hath she But the wedding chimes Will ring betimes For my little bride to be.
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Confidence
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 6, 1913. Sister Kittie’s home from college with a host of modern kinks In the way of hygienics, sanitation, food and drinks. Proteins and carbohydrates she combines exactly right For the strictly balanced ration she identifies at sight. She knows all about digestion, what is best for us to eat What we need for body-building, growth and force, repair and heat; And the dinner table’s lovely when my sister has it set But we haven’t lost our confidence in Mother’s cooking yet.
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We’re All A-Fishin’
From The Detroit Times, May 5, 1913. By Frank R. Leet. Pop sez that this world we live in Is one big fishin’ pond An’ we’ve all been fishin’ fer somethin’ Since th’ time the first day dawned. He sez some are fishin’ fer trouble An’ others are fishin’ fer fame An’ the banks of life are alive with girls A-fishin’ to change their names. He sez the grafters are fishin’ fer suckers Newly weds are fishin’ fer bliss Ministers are fishin’ fer souls to save The lover to hook a kiss. He sez the vain ones are fishin’ fer compliments The bums are fishin’ fer booze The nabobs are fishin’ fer diamonds and things The poor fer food and shoes. He sez that we’re at it all of the time A-fishin’ fer what we wish So, when I’m not really a-fishin’ fer fish I’m fishin’ to fish fer fish.
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Let’s Go Fishing
From The San Francisco Call, May 4, 1913. By Hazen Conklin. All day long I sit a-dreaming Of a brook, its waters gleaming As it splashes, dances, races On its way ‘mongst woodsy places; Of a troutbrook, pooled and ready For the hand that’s quick and steady. Though my desk, in hopeless clutter Calls me back to bread and butter Work seems sordid, unromantic Its insistences pedantic And I sit a-dreaming, wishing: Come on, Tom, let’s go a-fishing! In my fancy I am wading Where the arching trees are shading Pools where fondly one surmises One can coax those lighting “rises” Overhung by rocks, moss-garnished Under which, with truth unvarnished One can swear the big trout darted Just before the trout line parted. Say! What is the call of duty When compared to speckled beauty! I can hear my line a-swishing: Come on, Dick, let’s go a-fishing! Oh! This beastly grind of working! Can’t you feel the fever jerking At your coat sleeve, coaxing, teasing Saying: “Come, we’ll find appeasing For the appetite within you,” All the while that you continue Adding figures, scribbling phrases Threading stupid business mazes? Rod and reel and flies and hamper Right across each page they scamper. Be a sport and stop your wishing: Come on, Harry, let’s go FISHING!
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The Face Immortal
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 3, 1913. By Frank L. Stanton. Time that has left me lonely still may the shadows chase It has not dimmed the beauty of one immortal face A sweet face of Life’s springtime—a face the violets know God knew, high in His heaven, why I loved it so! When Evening comes, to tell me: “Life’s friends have left you lone! There is no voice to answer the tremblings of your own,” I see dear lips of crimson—cheeks where the dimples race And Memory is with me, and in dreams I see her face. Is not Life all dreaming? Where scythes and sabers gleam The heroes of Life’s battles are the captains of a Dream! And so, when Darkness gives us the blessing of God’s grace I’m holding hands with Memory and dreaming of her face.
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Kissing Games
From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 2, 1913. By Edgar A. Guest. I watched them playing kissing games And chuckled to myself As I recalled the days before Time put me on the shelf. I watched that roguish lad of mine Salute each pretty miss With all the gusto that I showed When I was wont to kiss. But I am on the sidelines now And he is in the game And he is hugging pretty girls With eyes and cheeks aflame. And there’s no special one to pout Or raise a fuss when he Distributes his affections thus The way there is with me. What though he kiss a dozen maids And give them all a squeeze, Nobody sternly says to him: “What means this conduct, please?” Nobody stamps a pretty foot At him or starts to cry But this will come, when these glad years Of youth have wandered by. “Just like his dad,” I hear her say, And note her gentle smile; And I retort, “This freedom will But last a little while. Perhaps one of these lassies sweet Will some day rule his life And yet I hope, that like his dad He’ll choose as good a wife.”