From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 19, 1912. Never heered him blame the world Fer the troubles that it brought Never heered him rail at life Or express a gloomy thought Seen it rainin’ pitchforks, when Outside labor he had planned All he said wuz: “After this Won’t the sun be simply grand?” Seen his shoulders high with care Didn’t know which way to turn Troubles, troubles everywhere Never, far as I can learn Wailed an’ whimpered at his fate Took ‘em smiling, one by one Telling folks: “When these are past What comes next’ll jes’ be fun.” Seen him to the hubs in mud Wagon stuck an’ hosses tired Never growled about the road Never kicked ‘coz he was mired Rested for a while an’ said To the hosses: “Never mind, Jes’ a rod or two ahead Easier goin’ we shall find.” Seems his woes appealed to him Jes’ as sugar does to boys Used ‘em too, in jes’ that way Made ‘em sweeten up his joys. Allus lookin’ jes’ beyond The edge of trouble to the day (Havin’ known the pangs o’ strife) He’d appreciate his pay.
Category: Omaha Daily Bee
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Optimism
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Grandpa and Me
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 5, 1912. My grandpa says that he was once A little boy like me. I s’pose he was, and yet it does Seem queer to think that he Could ever get my jacket on Or shoes, or like to play With games, and toys, and race with Duke, As I do every day. He’s come to visit us, you see, Nurse says I must be good And mind my manners, as a child With such a grandpa should. For grandpa’s very straight and tall, And very dignified. He knows most all there is to know, And other things beside. So, though my grandpa knows so much I thought that maybe boys Were things he hadn’t studied They make such an awful noise. But when at dinner I asked for Another piece of pie, I thought I saw a twinkle In the corner of his eye. So yesterday, when they went out, And left us two alone I was not quite so much surprised To find how nice he’d grown. You should have seen us romp and run; My, now I almost see That perhaps he was long, long ago A little boy like me.
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The Dog Under the Wagon
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 30, 1912. “Come, wife,” said good old farmer Gray, “Put on your things, ’tis market day; And we’ll be off to the nearest town, There and back ere the sun goes down. Spot? No, we’ll leave old Spot behind.” But Spot he barked and Spot he whined, And soon made up his doggish mind To follow under the wagon. Away they went at a good round pace, And joy came into the farmer’s face, “Poor Spot,” said he, “did want to come, But I’m awful glad he’s left at home. He’ll guard the barn, and guard the colt, And keep the cattle out of the lot.” “I’m not so sure of that,” thought Spot. The dog under the wagon. The farmer all his produce sold And got his pay in yellow gold; Home through the lonely forest. Hark! A robber springs from behind a tree: “Your money or else your life,” says he. The moon was up, but he didn’t see The dog under the wagon. Spot ne’er barked and Spot ne’er whined But quickly caught the thief behind; He dragged him down into the dirt And tore his coat and tore his shirt, Then held him fast on the miry ground; The robber uttered not a sound While his hands and feet the farmer bound And tumbled him into the wagon. So Spot he saved the farmer’s life, The farmer’s money, the farmer’s wife, And now a hero grand and gay, A silver collar he wears today. Among his friends, among his foes— And everywhere his master goes— He follows on his horny toes, The dog under the wagon.
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Home, Sweet Home
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 6, 1912. Home, sweet home! How many men Have sung that song the world around, And longed to find themselves again Upon that sweetly hallowed ground! The sailor on the distant sea, The hunter high upon the hill, Each of them dwelling tenderly Upon its sweet relations still! The love of kindred fills the place To keep it beautiful and sweet Through all the years that come apace, And whatsoever we may meet. Nor ever man so base but tears Have dimmed his eyes the way along For knowing through the long, long years The truth of that immortal song. Home, sweet home! The world grows old, But that sweet song is ever young, And will retain its tender hold. So long as ever songs are sung, There is no other place the same, Wherever human feet may wend. And in that song we shall acclaim Our great love for it to the end.
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The Upstream Pull
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 3, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit. It’s easy when you’re drifting with the current down the stream, When the oars are shipped beside you and the laughing waters gleam; When there’s naught to do but idle in the cushioned seat and bask In the happy, glowing sunshine while the water does the task. But there comes a sudden waking from the fancy and the dream When the time arrives that someone has to pull against the stream. The fellow who’s contented while the current bears him on Finds that every mile he travels shows a wished-for haven gone; Finds the water bears him softly where the waiting chances lie, But unless he does some rowing it will swiftly bear him by; Finds that down the stream the niches that he looks for are all full, And that if he’d seek the right one he must turn about and pull. But it’s easy—very easy—just to float along and dream, Yet the man some time discovers that he cannot float upstream, And he learns, too, that the world is full of folks that like to drift, But the farther down the river there the current grows more swift; And he also learns in sorrow that successful ones would seem To have no use for the fellow who will never pull upstream.
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The Smiler
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 30, 1912. There’s an idiotic fellow, whom I meet where’er I go; He’s the crazy kind of fellow all the little children know. You wouldn’t think him silly from his manner nor his style; Still, it seems, he must be foolish, for he always wears a smile. When the way is long and weary and load is hard to bear; When you’re weighted down with trouble and there’s no one seems to care, That’s the time this foolish fellow comes a-singing up the road, With a word and smile to cheer you and to help you with your load. With his smiling “Buck up, partner, ‘cause we’re bound to pull it through; Though your load’s too big for one man, it’s a little load for two.” And you feel yourself uplifted with the strength to play your part, With his arm to aid your body and his smile to brace your heart. No, he hasn’t got ambition, but his life-work never ends; He knows a million people, and he’s got a million friends. He doesn’t strive for fame and wealth, he hasn’t got a goal; He’s just a simple fellow, with God’s sunshine in his soul. Yes, he’s just a foolish fellow, with the eyes that cannot see All the misery and sadness that are plain to you and me, But he knows the joy of living, all that makes the world worth while; And I’d like to be as foolish as the man behind the smile.
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The Distant Hymn
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. In a throbbing cadence, Through the twilight dim, In a crooning murmur, Comes an olden hymn. Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet, While the mellow echoes Whispering, repeat. Organ-tones and voices— Perfectly they blend, Till we fall to hoping That they will not end— That the lulling measures May drift on and on, Till they greet the rapture Of the glowing dawn. Rich and low and tender, On the air of night, Wafting with it incense, Bringing us delight, Comes the wordless music From the far away, Lending newer glory To the dying day. Thus may all the singing Echo to the throne, Like this hymn at twilight, Into beauty grown— Like this mellow music, Perfect and complete, Ringing, rising, falling, Soft and low and sweet.
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A Wise Nonadvertiser
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 24, 1912. By W. J. Lampton. There was a man in our town And he was wondrous wise; He opened many places, yet He wouldn’t advertise. He thought it foolish to announce His business as some think They ought to do, and said he had No need of printer’s ink. Promotion of publicity He said, was something which The more he had of, that much less His chance of getting rich. He said he’d studied it and knew That advertising would Beyond the shadow of a doubt Do more harm than good. Indeed, this man in our town Was truly wondrous wise; He was a burglar, which is why He didn’t advertise.
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Trouble Enough
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 23, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. We do not need to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow; We’ll find enough to worry us before we’re through today; We waste our time in fretting O’er what’s to come, forgetting The goodness and the gladness that are rich along the way. We do not need to ponder On what we left back yonder— Back yonder on the blotted page that tells of yesterday; We should recall the gladness, And not bring up the sadness, But let the gloom go to the dark and let the sunshine stay. This casting up of trouble Will only make it double— Will only wilt the flowers that are sweet along the road. This thing of being tearful Instead of waxing cheerful Because of what has gone, will only add unto our load. So, what’s the use to borrow Our trouble from tomorrow, Or clutch the sorrows that we thought were ours on yesterday? Today will have its fretting, But let us go, forgetting And joy will overtake us while we walk along the way.
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Building of the Temple
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 22, 1912. By A. W. Peach. With hammers ringing on the lofty frame The unknown millions toil within the din, And seek no end of leisure or of fame, But simple happiness they hope to win. The great dome mounts to meet the watching stars Wide as the spinning earth from zone to zone And far upon the upper beams and bars The dreamers and truth seekers work alone. They toil with faith in One who yet above Has planned the structure’s ever rising height With wisdom more than man’s and deeper love, With hope that they are mounting to His sight. Through centuries the ceaseless hammers ring; Though once they paused when stilled by hate and strife, Now evermore the workmen toil and sing, And stroke by stroke is wrought the temple life.