Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • Song of the Submarine

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 31, 1915.

    I nose along with decks awash—
        All hid by flying spray;
    And carefully I search the sea
        For ships on which to prey.
    For none may know just when I come,
        And none know when I go;
    As quick as breath, as sure as death,
        I send them all below.
    Into her side my missile goes
        To wound her sore, and then
    Like frightened sheep, into the deep,
        Drop cursing, praying men.

    Sing ho! for ships I’ve met and sunk;
        Sing ho! my hearties, ho!
    A great machine quick turned to junk,
        Gone to a grave below
    Where silent things weave in and out
        And ragged sea weeds grow.

    I nose along beneath the fog
        That curtains all the sea;
    A slimy eel, all made of steel,
        A thing of mystery.
    For none may see and none may hear,
        Nor learn my deadly hate
    Until they know the crashing blow
        That shivers every plate.
    As through her side my missile goes
        To wound her sore and deep,
    And from her deck, a twisted wreck,
        Her white-faced seamen leap.

    Sing ho! for ships I’ve yet to meet;
        Sing ho! my hearties, ho!
    Pick and pride of some mighty fleet,
        Gone at a single blow,
    Down where the slimy sea-snakes creep,
        Their evil eyes aglow.

  • The Tenderfeet

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 24, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.

    From old New York we journeyed westward—
        ’Twas something like two weeks ago—
    We both were armed with six-foot tickets
        Which read for Sheridan, Wyo.;
    When we arrived we bought sombreros
        And I donned cowboy boots, well greased,
    Yet people say, whene’er they meet us:
        “We see you folks are from the east.”

    We thought a few more things were needed
        To make us fit the western scene,
    So chaps and spurs I quickly purchased—
        Likewise a shirt of vivid green;
    My wife is dressed like Annie Oakley—
        She looks a movie queen at least—
    Yet people say, whene’er they greet us:
        “We see you’re just here from the east.”

    We’ve loaded up with deadly weapons,
        We’ve raised our boot heels one inch more;
    We’re wearing hatbands made of snakeskin,
        We’ve read up on wild western lore;
    We talk of trappers, scouts and cowboys;
        Each rides a livery stable beast;
    But still we hear that hated greeting:
        “We see you’re not long from the east.”

  • The Home Team

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 21, 1915.

    I hate to see the home team lose;
    A contest dropped gives me blues;
    But when they win—they sometimes do!
    I go home happy, same as you.

    Yet, after all, why should I care
    Because nine men from everywhere—
    Except the town in which I live—
    Have acted as a human sieve
    Through which the red-hot ones have poured
    Like water through a leaky gourd?

    And why should I bemoan the fact
    That nine strong men have whacked and whacked
    The summer air in vain desire
    To make a showing for their hire?
    Nine men I scarcely know by sight
    And might not recognize tonight.

    Why mourn because some other town
    Has scoured the earth and found one Brown
    Who throws a zigzag ball that jolts
    Like lubricated thunderbolts,
    While our man’s curves drift o’er the plate
    In manner tempting unto fate?

    Yea, verily, why should I fret?
    ’Tis naught to me, and yet—and yet
    If you’d but seen the awful way
    In which our team behaved today!

  • Moving Pictures

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 3, 1915. By David.

    On Farnam Street, where Sixteenth joins, one day
    I idly watched the masses on their way,
    And as one waking, slowly comprehends,
    I knew these for my life-long, well-tried friends,
    Who, from the world of fiction strayed away,
    Escaping from the printed page, that they
    Might taunt me with resemblances unique
    Of face and form. I did not dare to speak,
    And scarce believed so many years had flown,
    For Dickens, Scott and Hawthorne must have known
    These self-same folk. They were all here, and more:
    Mark Tapleys, yes, and Pickwicks by the score;
    Good Don Quixote, without lance or shield.
    Rough Robert Burns and gentle Eugene Field
    With all their characters. Then Tiny Tim
    And Jenny Wren came by with Sunny Jim;
    Then Scrooge and David Harum with a Priest;
    Then Mr. Opp and Beauty and the Beast;
    Perlmutter and Abe Potash, come to life;
    And then poor Mr. Caudle with his wife;
    And Jean Val Jean with Cossette by his side;
    Then Edwin dear, and Angeline, his bride;
    And Sary Gamp and Betsy Prigg in tears;
    And Marys, Marthas, Clara Vere de Veres;
    Shy Minnehaha, too, and Susan Clegg,
    And surely that was Amy, Joe and Meg;
    Gay Wallingford and Blackie Daw, his pard;
    And Eloise without her Abelard.
    Here were they all, our friends, the saints and crooks,
    To make the characters of future books.
    From every walk of life they came to meet
    On equalizing plane, the public street,
    Where each, engrossed in his own selfish lot,
    To jostling stranger gave no second thought,
    Though ‘twould bring smiles and tears if they had seen
    These self-same pictures on a movie screen.

  • The Little Worn Shoes

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

    Poor, tired little shoes! Uncomplaining
        They give their life to fulfill
    The orders and calls and commandments
        Of feet that never are still.

    They tramp o’er the hills and the meadows,
        And mud is their chief delight;
    They were trim and shining this morning,
        Now they are a woeful sight.

    They are scuffed and muddy and dingy,
        Their tongues hang panting for breath;
    For the little feet that wear them
        Have run them almost to death.

    And while they are busy destroying,
        I’m busy finding a way
    To buy new shoes on the morrow,
        To replace the ones of today.

    For new shoes, prized as a treasure
        Today, tomorrow are old.
    But at sight of innocent faces,
        I have not the heart to scold.

    Though each year they’re a bit larger,
        A cost just a trifle more;
    And each year they wear a bit faster
        Than they did the year before;

    For the little feet in the future
        Will lose their desire for play,
    And soberly walk in the highways
        With no longing or wish to stray.

    So I turn to my work with new purpose,
        And new courage for the fight;
    And through blinding tears, as I view them,
        Those shoes are a beautiful sight.

    Then I gather them up with rapture,
        And thank the Lord with a will,
    For the rough little shoes, worn and shabby,
        And the feet that never are still.

  • The Forest

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 25, 1915. By David.

    God’s Temple is the forest, silent, true;
    It’s done the arching heavens, gray or blue;
    Each rock and tree an altar in the air;
    Each leaf a sermon and each flower a prayer.
    Here feathered choristers their praises sing,
    And sun and rain their benedictions bring;
    And here the human soul is often stirred
    By unseen forces of an unseen world.
    It comes to all of us, the low and high,
    Still none can tell from whence it comes, or why.
    A little newsboy once, to aught unknown
    Excepting city streets of brick and stone,
    Was taken from the city man had laid,
    And carried to the country God had made.
    And in his simple, childlike way expressed
    What our minds, more mature, had only guessed.
    He stood with hat in hand, and gazed around,
    From the cloud-flecked sky to the mossy ground;
    The look of cunning faded from his face,
    And left a look of wonder in its place.
    “Say, boys, it’s a queer feelin’ I have got,
    I just want to stand in this one spot,
    And look and think and think and look again,”
    He whispered low, as though afraid, and then
    The trees, the leaves, the grass, with reverent hand
    He touched, but still he did not understand.
    “It is not here,” he said, “It’s in the air;
    It seems to come to me from everywhere,
    And touch me here,” and with a sudden start,
    He laid his hand upon his beating heart.
    With swift glance in the branches overhead,
    “Say, it’s like a church,” was all he said.

  • Time’s Revenge

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 14, 1915.

    I used to call you Carrots, dear,
        When we were girl and boy;
    I called you Ginger, too—I fear,
        With purpose to annoy.
    I held my hands above your head
        To warm my fingers cold,
    And it made you cry in the days gone by—
        But now your hair is gold!

    I used to call you Sorrel, dear,
        When you were small in frocks;
    But now you reign without a peer,
        My darling Goldilocks!
    For time’s revenge has come to you,
        And I am all forlorn
    In the silken snare of your glorious hair,
        With its aureole of morn.

    I used to call you Candy Drop
        When you were just a girl,
    And Mustard Seed and Sandy Top
        And Dandelion Curl;
    But now your head has won a light
        Like fields of summer wheat;
    I long to hold each lock of gold
        That binds me to your feet.

    I used to pull the tangled knots—
        Oh memory of shame!
    I called aloud for water pots
        To quench the ruddy flame.
    But now it is my heart that burns
        While you are cold and coy,
    And my life I’d dare for the golden hair
        That I laughed at when a boy.

  • The Illusion of War

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 3, 1915. By Richard Le Gallienne.

    War
    I abhor.
    And yet, how sweet
    The sound along the marching street
    Of drum and fife, and I forget
    Wet eyes of widows, and forget
    Broken old mothers, and the whole
    Dark butchery without a soul.

    Without a soul, save this bright drink
    Of heady music, sweet as hell;
    And even my peace-abiding feet
    Go marching with the marching street,
    For yonder, yonder comes the fife,
    And what care I for human life?

    And tears fill my astonished eyes,
    And my full heart is like to break;
    And yet, ’tis all embannered lies,
    A dream those little drummers make.
    Oh, it is wickedness to clothe
    Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks,
    Hidden in music like a queen,
    That in a garden of glory walks
    Till good men love the thing they loathe.
    Art, thou hast many infamies,
    But not an infamy like this.
    Oh, stop the fife and still the drum,
    And show the monster as she is.

  • Clouds

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 3, 1915. By David.

    I had a friend when I was down
        And everything seemed rotten,
    And all the blessings I had known
        Had long since been forgotten,
    When crops were bad and eggs were scarce
        And pigs got in the clover,
    Who came and leaned against my fence
        And cheerfully looked over,
    And with a smug smile full of glee
        And whistle aggravating
    Regaled me with the maxim terse,
        In tone exasperating:
    “Remember that behind the clouds
        The sun is always shining,
    And clouds of life as well as sky
        Have each their silver lining.”

    Oh, then I had a fierce desire
        To seize upon a missile
    And end his exhortation
        With the stopping of his whistle.
    But with a sickly smile I said,
        All platitudes eschewing,
    “That all depends upon the point
        From which you do your viewing.
    And also it depends upon
        The way the cloud’s inclining.
    ’Tis doubtless true, my clouds to you
        May have a silver lining,
    But silver linings do not show
        To those directly under.
    They may be there; I do not know.
        To me they look like thunder.”

  • Cellar Sobs

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 15, 1915.

    Listen, friends, and you shall hear
    Of a story sad and drear,
    And you’ll shed a briny tear,
        That I know;
    For it maketh strong men weep,
    Gives them spooks and loss of sleep,
    Makes the nerves go creepy creep
        With its woe.

    Once there lived a maiden fair,
    Blue of eye and brown of hair,
    Tall she was, a height most rare,
        Monstrous big;
    For the state she went to work,
    Not to dawdle or to shirk,
    Nor to gossip or to smirk,
        But to dig.

    Faithfully she worked and well
    Did this long and lanky belle,
    That is why I hate to tell
        How she fared.
    For they chucked her in the cellar,
    Where she daily grew more yeller.
    Did she weep and wail and beller?
        No one cared!

    So she went from day to day
    Down the smelly hall and gray
    And met spectres on her way
        Black and grim;
    Odors, spider-webs and bats,
    Dust and damp, and weird black cats,
    Lizards, bugs and sewer rats,
        Lean and slim.

    Germs she swallowed by the peck,
    Big, fat, juicy germs, by heck!
    And became a nervous wreck
        Pale with fear.
    She who used to be a winner
    Thinner grew, ye gods, still thinner,
    Till you’d swear she had no dinner
        For a year.

    Well, at last the family’s pride
    Lay her down upon her side
    And one dreary night she died
        All alone.
    Came the state house rats in flocks
    And they chewed her dark brown locks,
    Ate her clothes e’en to her socks,
        Gnawed her bones.

    When the janitors appeared
    In the morn, a thing more weird
    Then they’d ever seen or heered
        Struck their sight;
    For the girl who once was Belle
    Sure enough had gone to hell,
    Bones alone were left to tell,
        Stark and white.

    So they gathered up the mess
    That once sported a blue dress
    And with fitting solemness
        Laid her low.
    They took out a few big stones
    From the floor and put her bones
    There, and with some sighs and moans
        Let her go.

    Now they say that it is true
    That at night time dressed in blue
    Does she walk the long hall through
        And she shrieks;
    And calls curses on the head
    Of the ones that made her dead,
    Gives them nightmares in their bed,
        Weeks and weeks.

    And so every wretched feller
    Who helped send her to the cellar
    Where that gruesome fate befell her
        Pays his due.
    For she’s taking out her spite
    And they’re seein’ things at night
    Long and hairy things that bite
        And that chew.