Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • Every Mother’s Duty

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 30, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    When God had formed the Universe He thought
    Of all the marvels therein to be wrought,
    And to his aid then Motherhood was brought.

    “My lesser self, the feminine of Me,
    She will go forth throughout all time,” quoth He,
    “And make my world what I would have it be,

    “For I am weary, having labored so,
    And for a cycle of repose would go
    Into that silence which but God may know.

    “Therefore I leave the rounding of my plan
    To Motherhood, and that which I began
    Let woman finish in perfecting man.

    “She is the soil, the human Mother Earth;
    She is the sun that calls the seed to earth;
    She is the gardener who knows its worth.

    “From Me all seed of any kind must spring.
    Divine the growth such seed and soil will bring.
    For all is Me, and I am everything.”

    Thus having spoken to Himself aloud,
    His glorious face upon His breast He bowed,
    And sought repose behind a wall of cloud.

    Come forth, O God! Though great Thy thought and good
    In shaping woman for true Motherhood,
    Lord, speak again; she has not understood.

    The centuries pass; the cycles roll along—
    The earth is peopled with a mighty throng;
    Yet men are fighting and the world goes wrong.

    Lord, speak again, ere yet it be too late—
    Unloved, unwanted souls come through earth’s gate;
    The unborn child is given a dower of hate.

    Thy world progresses in all ways save one.
    In Motherhood, for which it was begun,
    Lord, Lord, behold how little has been done.

    True Motherhood is not alone to breed
    The human race; it Is to know and heed
    Its holiest purpose and its highest need.

    Lord, speak again, so woman shall be inspired
    With the full meaning of that mighty word—
    True Motherhood. She has not rightly heard.

  • Propinquity

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 29, 1915. By David.

    I’d love to be sweet sleep, were you a dream;
    I’d gladly be the milk, were you the cream;
    I’d wish to be an oak, were you a vine;
    Were you a lemon, I would be the rind;
    Dark sorrow would I be, were you a sigh;
    Were you the ointment, then me for the fly;
    I’d be a waiter if you were the tips;
    Were you a kiss, then mine should be the lips;
    Were you the ocean, I would be its roar;
    I’d be an apple, if you were the core;
    Were you a pen, I then would be the ink;
    I’d be a parching thirst, were you a drink;
    Were you a needle, I would be the thread;
    I’d be the butter if you were the bread;
    Me Simple Simon, if you were the pie;
    Were you a diamond, I would be the dye;
    Or I would be a muff, were you the fur;
    Were you a chestnut, I would be the burr;
    If you were Wall Street, I would be New York;
    I’d turn into a knife, were you a fork;
    Were you the sunshine, I would be a flower;
    H2O for mine, were you a shower;
    Were you a drummer, I would be the drum;
    And so it goes ad infinitum.
    So all through life we’d never need to part,
    But journey hand in hand, and heart to heart,
    Though of all varied forms we find in life,
    I’d rather be myself, were you my wife.

  • Altogether Different

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    They bid us laugh at trouble and to chase dull care away,
    For trouble will grow greater if you nurse it day by day.
    But I couldn’t laugh at trouble and I couldn’t banish care
    When fate turned out a grievance as my own especial share.
    I’ve smiled at the material for customary glee:
    The cook who burned the biscuit seemed a mirthful sprite to me.
    The small boy with a stomach ache—how he has made me grin;
    How I’ve chuckled at the teacher who sat down upon a pin.
    But when the biscuit that was burned at breakfast met my gaze,
    My feelings sought expression in a dozen different ways.
    The small boy with the pain, when once I met him face to face,
    Evoked my sympathy and left of laughter not a trace.
    Of joy the situation showed a most convincing lack
    When I sustained a puncture by a pin or by a tack.
    That smiles will banish sorrow all philosophy has shown;
    But it’s hard to laugh at trouble if the trouble is your own.

  • The Farmer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 10, 1915. By David.

    When the farmer from his window views his fields that lie below
    And sees the earth in great brown spots beneath the melting snow,
    And perhaps a flock of geese a-flying north against the sky;
    Then he knows that Spring is coming with its duties, by and by.
    And he thinks of all the plowing, and the planting, and the chores,
    That Spring brings to the farmer, and he saunters out of doors
    Where the sun is shining cheerful, and the south wind croons about,
    Sort o’ calling and a-coaxing to the green things to come out—
    And they’re sure to be a-listening, and will soon come pushing through—
    For though springtime brings its duties, it brings its beauties, too.
    Then he feels a sort ‘o hankering for the sorrel team and plow
    And to feel the sweat of labor pearling out upon his brow,
    And to hear the crow a-cawing in the woods, so shrill and loud
    And to see new life a-teeming in every furrow plowed,
    And a-looking in the future he can see the waving corn
    And the oats and wheat a-bowing in the breezes of the morn
    With their tops a-hanging heavy with the dewdrops of the night,
    All sparkling in the sunlight with a sort of heavenly light.
    Then he forgets his gnarled hands all hardened with the toil,
    Forgets his boots warped yellow from contact with the soil,
    And remembers but the healthy tan upon his cheek and brow,
    Remembers that his once cramped soul is free, untrammeled, now,
    And he’s glad he is a farmer, with the whole world at his hands
    A-living close to nature with the things he understands.

  • Transformation Scenes

    Transformation Scenes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 8, 1915. By Dolores.

    What makes my sky so grey, so grey?
    What makes the day so drear?
    What makes the robin’s ‘customed notes
    Sound plaintive in my ear?
    What makes each flower its beauty hide
    And stare forth in dismay?
    Just this, the postman has gone by—
    No word from you today.

    What makes the sky so blue, so blue?
    What makes the sun so bright?
    What makes each bird song thrill me through
    With such supreme delight?
    What makes each blade of grass, each flower
    Thrill me with rapture through?
    Just this, the postman came just now
    And brought me word from you.

  • Independence Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1915. By Minna Irving.

    From the shores of old Penobscot
        Where the ocean’s roar is heard,
    To the home of sweet magnolias
        And the clear-voiced mocking bird,
    From the pines, that whisper secrets
        To the pale moon overhead,
    To the live oaks in their mosses
        There’s a gleam of white and red.

    From the gray New England homesteads
        Framed in pear and apple trees,
    To the valleys and the vineyards
        By the blue Pacific seas;
    From the rosy glow of morning
        To the sunset’s golden bars,
    Over all the land of freedom
        Is a flash of silver stars.

    North and South alike they glimmer
        East and West the same they shine,
    In the palace and the cabin,
        By the palm and by the pine;
    Where the crowded city clamors,
        Where the sylvan waters call,
    Flies the same immortal banner
        Waving glorious for all.

    ’Twas for this the Continentals
        Starved and suffered long ago,
    Leaving footprints marked in crimson
        On the crust of frozen snow.
    ’Twas for this the infant nation,
        From the arms of Liberty,
    Made its ringing declaration
        To be fetterless and free.

    Just one silken, starry standard
        Broad and bright enough, behold!
    For both white and black together
        To be sheltered in its fold.
    Just one flag above a people
        That, united, lead the way
    To the world’s emancipation
        And its Independence day.

  • Coming Back

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1915. By Henry Van Dyke.

    Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
    Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
    I traveled fast for this—to take thee by the hand.

    A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
    A mariner without a dream of what his port will be,
    So faced I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

    O cooler than a grove of palm, in some heat-weary place,
    O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
    The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face.

    Then furl the sail, let the oar, forget the paths of foam!
    The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
    To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.

  • Homesickness

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 24, 1915.

    “I’ve wandered through the city,” murmured Hezekiah Bings.
    “I’ve seen an’ heard a lot of mighty interestin’ things.
    I’ve seen the motor cars that went all screamin’ on their way
    An’ sprained an eyelid winkin’ at a motion picture play.
    I’ve heard the trolley buzzin’ down below or up above
    An’ got into the crowds where nervous people shout and shove;
    I am full of strange impressions that I gained by night an’ day—
    Oh, take me to some quiet spot where they kin fade away.
    Jes’ let me sit upon the fence an’ contemplate the scenery;
    Some place where everything is not conducted by machinery.

    “I’ve listened to the whistle an’ the rattle an’ the roar
    An’ joined the eager throng that stood around and cheered the score.
    I’ve chased a car for blocks an’ then I’ve swung upon a strap
    Until I felt that I was scattered all around the map.
    I dearly love the city with its music an’ its lights,
    But I’ve improved my mind enough a-lookin’ at the sights.
    The dearest place I know of, an’ its there I long to roam,
    Is where you buy a ticket that’ll carry you back home.
    So start me for the country, with its sunlight and its greenery,
    Where you kin live an’ die without assistance from machinery.

  • A Reformer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

    Bill Jenkins used to toil an’ think fur all that he was worth,
    His purpose bein’ to get out an’ to elevate the earth.
    He wanted reformation an’ he wanted it fur fair,
    An’ he made his fellow-man the object of his special care.
    If his fellow-man was hungry Bill could show him how the fact
    Was due to some bad habit or some ill-considered act;
    He was shocked beyond expression at the faults that he could find,
    But willin’ to be shocked some more, he sought to uplift human kind.

    He drew comparisons ‘twixt folks that didn’t get along
    An’ those who like himself seemed rather confident an’ strong.
    He felt a bit superior an’ the feelin’ kind o’ grew
    That he hadn’t no bad habits—leastways only one or two.
    Yet his schemes for reformation on a strictly wholesale plan,
    They didn’t seem of value to his sufferin’ fellow-man.
    He sometimes gave expressions to opinions almost rude
    To what he would refer to as “the world’s ingratitude.”

    He took the failure to accept his good advice to heart.
    The folks admitted that his talk was mighty fine an’ smart.
    He didn’t understand the ways of honest, kindly care.
    Great wisdom ain’t uncommon, but true sympathy is rare.
    He stopped an’ thought it over an’ his pulse beat fast an’ warm
    As he said, “I wouldn’t wonder if it’s me that needs reform!
    This world would surely hit a pace that’s generous an’ good
    If every one reformed hisself an’ done the best he could.”

  • What Pa Doesn’t Know

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 6, 1915. By Edgar A. Guest.

    Sometimes when folks come in to call on Ma an’ Pa’s away,
    An’ I’m supposed to be where I can’t hear a word they say,
    Ma starts to tell ‘em all about Pa’s fine an’ splendid ways,
    An’ just how good an’ kind he is, an’ all the jokes he plays;
    An’ how he never gives her any reason for complaint,
    Until she has the women folks believin’ Pa’s a saint.

    Pa’s just an ordinary man—he tells us so himself.
    He has to work all day to get his little bit of pelf.
    He isn’t one that’s known to fame, he can’t do clever things,
    He isn’t one that makes a speech, or out in public sings.
    But Ma just makes him out to be a man the world would cheer
    If it could know the worth of him—when he’s not there to hear.

    When Pa’s away Ma tells her friends how much of him she thinks,
    An’ just how good it is to have a man that never drinks.
    She dwells upon his thoughtful ways, his patience an’ his worth,
    An’ boasts that she is married to the finest man on earth.
    But if Pa isn’t home on time, an’ supper has to wait,
    She gives it to him, good an’ strong, for gettin’ in so late.

    Sometimes when Ma is scolding Pa, an’ he don’t say a word,
    I feel like tellin’ him the things that Ma don’t know I’ve heard.
    I feel like crawlin’ in his lap, an’ whisperin’, “Never mind,
    Deep in her heart Ma really thinks you’re all that’s good an’ kind.
    She thinks that you’re the finest man there is on earth, I know
    Because most every afternoon she tells the neighbors so.”