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.
Category: Omaha Daily Bee
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The Years
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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.
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’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!”
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Jes’ As Sure As Christmas
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 14, 1912. Take it when a fellow’s naughty ‘long about this time of year When you count the days a comin’ ‘fore old Santa Claus is here There is some one to remind you to be careful and be good Or the old chap will forget you and jes’ pass the neighborhood. I’ve heard it every Christmas time, and once I used to think That everything they said was so, and scarcely dared to wink; But I’m a little wiser now and only smile today For Santa always seems to come no matter what they say. “Now, Willie,” says my mother, “If you’re not a better boy, And don’t stop doin’ all these things which trouble and annoy, I fear that Santa Claus will jes’ drive past on Christmas eve, And not a single present from his pack will stop to leave.” But, even as she says it, I can see a half-way smile And I know she’s only scarin’ me and foolin’ all the while. I don’t believe that Santa Claus could bear to stay away; At any rate he always comes no matter what they say.
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Ad Infinitum
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 11, 1912. Most everybody’s busy— I pity him that ain’t— There are millions and millions of dolls to dress, And millions of pictures to paint; There are millions of knots of ribbon to tie And millions of loops to crochet; And the days and hours are galloping on Right up to Christmas Day. There are infinite numbers of bundles to wrap And millions of greetings to write; If we should attempt to count them all The figures would climb out of sight. And think of the millions of parcels to tie And the millions of stickers to stick ‘em. And think of the millions and billions of stamps That are waiting for people to lick ‘em. There’ll be millions and millions of tapers bright All over this great U. S.; As many as there are twinkling stars In the frosty heavens, I guess. And there’ll be millions of stockings small Whose hungry tops will be yawning And millions of jobs for Santa Claus ‘Twixt now and Christmas morning.
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Easing a Grouch
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1912. A yard or two of stuff that’s called a skirt, A waist that’s made of some expensive lace, A pair of shoes that are so tight they hurt, Some padding out in just the proper place, A hat that costs nine times what it is worth; A peck or two of someone else’s hair; A complexion bought most anywhere on earth, A corset that is too tight everywhere, A bundle of artistic temperament, A flow of conversation that is light, A passing whiff of some delicious scent, A show of vanity from morn till night— And that’s a woman. A bag of wind inflated without cause; A blowhard and an ardent egotist Who knows more than the ones who made the laws; A set of teeth, a mustache and a fist; Some shoulders that are padded out of shape; A smell of burned tobacco that is stale; A blossom on the nose from festive grape; Some stories that make modest folk turn pale; A punk cigar that sizzles all day long; A thing whose chiefest aim is just to eat; A party who is right, all others wrong, Who’s always 99 per cent conceit— And that’s a man.
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Old Bill Schipke’s Dream
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 1, 1912. By Girard Coburn Griswold. Old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, sat one day by the Smokehouse stove, A look of eagerness on his face, as his thoughts hied on to the coming race, And he sighed for the days on the diamond green, and he sighed for the spot that is fair and clean— For the long winter days, and the winter chill, had roused a feeling that naught could fill— But the touch of the ball as it hurtling spat, from the mighty swing of some warrior’s bat Into his glove, there, fast to cling, till propelled to Kane, from his arm’s sure swing. And he dreamed of the ninth, with the bases filled by the slashing hits of his comrades skilled— Of two men down, and naught to erase the opponents’ lead, but a hit, well placed. A hit from his bat, which, ‘twixt hands gripped tight, he cautiously swung from left to right, As with careful eye each pitch he scanned, for the one that was right for the scores to land. The first ball sped toward the plate, at which Bill swung at a terrific rate, Meeting the sphere with an awful crack— The chair gave way, and upon his back old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, ‘roused from his dream by the Smokehouse stove.
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The Other Fellow’s Fault
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.
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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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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.