From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 29, 1913. They sit in the winter gloaming, And the fire burns bright between; One has passed seventy summers, And the other just seventeen. They rest in a happy silence As the shadows deepen fast; One lives in a coming future, And one in a long, long past. Each dreams of a rush of music, And a question whispered low; One will hear it this evening, One heard it long ago. Each dreams of a loving husband Whose brave heart is hers alone; For one the joy is coming, For one the joy has flown. Each dreams of a life of gladness Spent under the sunny skies; And both the hope and the memory Shine in the happy eyes. Who knows which dream is the brightest? And who knows which is the best? The sorrow and joy are mingled, But only the end is rest.
Category: Omaha Daily Bee
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Fifty Years Apart
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The Hurricane
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 26, 1913. By William Cullen Bryant. King of the winds! I feel thee nigh, Blow thy breath in the burning sky! But I wait, with a thrill in every vein For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! On the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— A glare that is neither night or day. A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! He is come! Do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! We bid thee hail! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thundercloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that? —’tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured in the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! Well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds! —ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all, And I, cut off from the world remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.
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The Old Home Folks
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 25, 1913. By Will Chamberlain. Not on the chance acquaintance, Nor yet on the new found friend, When the storms about us gather For comfort may we depend. If I should be permitted, Aside from all light jokes, To choose for you the truest, I would pick the old home folks. From them I would name a husband For the dimpled, would-be bride; A childhood mate or sweetheart, In whom she might confide. The old home folks are surest To notice if we succeed, And they are the first to sorrow With us when our hearts do bleed. So do not be quick in forsaking The faithfully tried for the new, Who may seem so apt and clever When the skies are soft and blue. For tho’ it is said the prophet Has honor except at home, Love blossoms there for the masses— The prophet afar may roam. And when in the fading twilight We put off life’s stern jokes, Those who will stand to us closest Will be the old home folks. While away on their sunny hilltops, By Elysian breezes fanned, God’s own home folks will greet us With a smile and outstretched hand.
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The Chauffeur’s Story
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 28, 1913. By Ted Robinson. “I shudder yet,” the driver said, “whene’er I tell the tale— I’ll think of it till I am dead! Its memory turns me pale. ’Twas when I drove old Brown’s imported high-power racing car— And I was young and reckless—courted all the thrills there are! “Upon the day this occurred, I’d fifty miles to go Ere lunch and you can take my word, I wasn’t driving slow. The road was good but narrow. A rail fence on either side And the car sped like an arrow in a swift and easy glide. “I took the curves at forty miles, then at our highest speed— I shot along those forest aisles with just the road to heed— When suddenly there stepped into our track a little child With golden hair and eyes of blue—just looked at us and smiled! “Not fifty feet ahead was she—and I, too scared to touch Or think of the emergency, or e’en throw out the clutch; And even when it was too late—no time to turn aside— No space, no field, no open gate—the road was ten feet wide! “All these I saw as in a dream—the lassie’s happy face One of those moments that will seem to hold a lifetime’s space— ’Twas just one smile of innocence—ah, would it be her last? And then—she climbed up on the fence and watched me thunder past!”
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Restraint of Trade
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 24, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. “Oh, what’s our country coming to?” The trade restrainer cried, “What may a man hereafter do to bring him wealth and pride? They’re sending millionaires to jail and fining them because They happen now and then to fail to keep within the laws. It’s awful, simply awful! Have the judges gone insane? Once a thing was always lawful If it brought sufficient gain; But they’re scolding men of millions for the methods they pursue And they’re sending them to prison—what’s the country coming to? “We keep attorneys who should know how far we may proceed— How far it may be safe to go in satisfying greed; They point the loopholes out, they find the technicalities And yet the courts are not inclined to listen to our pleas! It’s frightful, simply frightful! Have the judges lost their wits? Have they suddenly grown spiteful That they wish to give us fits? They are fining men of millions—that would bother very few— But they’re sending us to prison! What’s the country coming to? “We’ve got to have another deal. That’s getting very plain; Why, even now, when we appeal it sometimes is in vain; This can’t go on—the thing must cease! If courts are pitiless How can we rapidly increase the millions we possess? They pain us, deeply pain us! What has made the judges sore That they wish to thus restrain us? Never was the like before! Once they merely lightly fined us and we paid without ado; Now they threaten us with prison—what’s the country coming to?”
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When the Tide is Out
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 23, 1913. By Alexander Blackburn. I stood by the shore at the ebb of the tide When the beach grew each moment more ugly and wide— There were moss-covered rocks, slimy weeds and black mud All the beauty was gone from the place where I stood; With the salt-laden breeze came the stench of decay And I said, “The sea’s charm has been taken away.” Then there came for my cheer this truth which all know: As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow. On the shores of the ocean of life there are days When the tide is at ebb and heart has no praise. When the flotsam and jetsam are strewn on the strand And our hopes are but wrecks on the sin-blackened sand; When the fragrance of joy has a sickening taint And we turn from the scenes with eyes wet and heart faint; Till there comes from above the blest truth we all know: As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow.
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A Parable for Reformers
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1913. ’Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; But over its terrible edge there had slipped A duke, and full many a peasant. So the people said something would have to be done But their projects did not at all tally. Some said, “Put a fence around the edge of the cliff”; Some, “An ambulance down in the valley.” But the cry for the ambulance carried the day And it spread through the neighboring city. A fence may be useful or not, it is true But each heart became brimful of pity For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff And the dwellers in highways and valley Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, But an ambulance down in the valley. “For the cliff is all right if you’re careful,” they said, “And if folks ever slip and are dropping, It isn’t the slipping that hurts them so much As the shock down below when they’re stopping.” So day after day as those mishaps occurred, Quick forth would these rescuers sally To pick up the victims who fell off the cliff With their ambulance down in the valley. Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, For the voice of true wisdom is calling: “To rescue the fallen is good, but it’s best To prevent other people from falling.” Better close up the source of temptation and crime Than deliver from dungeon or galley; Better put a strong fence around the top of the cliff Than an ambulance down in the valley.
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Out of the Race [with Biden substituted for Wilson]
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 22, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Each morning I am wakened by a smiling little tot, And while I do my best all day he fills my gladdest thought. I plan for him and strive for him and have no time to fret About the way that Biden may construct his cabinet. Because of him my task is light and gladly all day long Above the roar of traffic, I can hear his baby song. And when I’ve hurried home at night he meets me on the stairs To cause me to forget about the world and its affairs. Obedient to his eager pleas, nor craving what I lack I gallop on my hands and knees, while he bestrides my back. And, while he rides through Babyland and bravely shouts his glee No thought of public office comes to haunt or trouble me. At last, before I seek my couch, I stand and gladly gaze Down at the smile that, while he sleeps, around his features plays. I plan for him and dream for him, and have no time to fret Because I shall not get a seat in Biden’s cabinet.
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Reuben Buys a Farm
From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 21, 1913. By Minna Irving. The day was bright and sunny, And business going well. But Reuben in his office A prey to dreaming fell. He thought of woods and meadows With all their sylvan charm. “Good bye, old town,” he murmured, “For Reuben buys a farm.” He found a roomy dwelling With roses round the door. A covered well behind it, A picket fence before. And ancient apple-orchards Where sang, secure from harm, An orchestra of robins, So Reuben bought the farm. But getting up so early To milk by lantern-light, And feed the pigs and chickens, Was not unmixed delight. A pain was in his shoulder, A cramp was in his arm, And life was full of trouble For Reuben on the farm. He loved his growing garden And pleasant pasture lands; But not his aching muscles And badly blistered hands. The household gathered round him And viewed him with alarm. “We all,” they said, “should hustle When Reuben buys a farm.” Now Paul attends the horses, The cows are Mary’s care, The pigs and geese and chickens Jeannette’s attention share. And George in ducks discovers A never-failing charm. So everybody’s happy While Reuben runs the farm.
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The Parting Guest
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!