Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • Man Who Didn’t Succeed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 3, 1915. By Peter Reed.

    They sing of the men who build the mills
    And girdle the earth with steel;
    Who fill the hour and wield the power
    That moulds the public weal.
    Honor to them that in honor do
    The work that the world must need,
    And yet in chief I hold a brief
    For the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    ’Tis not to excuse the indolent;
    Nor plea for the down and out;
    Nor specious rot condemning what
    The leaders are about.
    Merely to ask in a casual way
    Of those who chance to read,
    For fairer view, and kinder, too,
    Of the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    His house is small, his table light;
    His family must endure
    The snubs and sneers of the buccaneers
    Whose debts fall on the poor.
    Yet his is a home and no hotel,
    His wife is a wife, indeed.
    There’s nothing above his children’s love
    To the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    Admitting it’s true that he did not make
    The most of his talents ten,
    He won no pelf nor raised himself
    At the cost of his fellowmen.
    His hands are clean, his heart is white,
    His honor has been his creed—
    Now who are we to say that he
    Is the Man Who Didn’t Succeed?

  • Tests of Life

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 19, 1915. By Minedith Hurst.

    The severest tests of the elements
        Produce the old oak tree—
    King—with a forest’s reverence,
        Enwrapped in majesty.

    Nor yet supreme, for needs must he
        Maintain his monarchy.
    So let the storms rage wild and free,
        And winds blow wrathfully.

    Strong characters in life evolve
        Through constant stress and pain,
    And only by perpetual strife
        May they that height sustain.

  • Soliloquy of an Old Soldier

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 4, 1915. By O. C. A. Child.

    You need not watch for silver in your hair,
        Or try to smooth the wrinkles from your eyes,
    Or wonder if you’re getting quite too spare,
        Or if your mount can bear a man your size.

    You’ll never come to shirk the fastest flight,
        To query if she really cares to dance,
    To find your eye less keen upon the sight,
        Or lose your tennis wrist or golfing stance.

    For you the music ceased on highest note—
        Your charge had won, you’d scattered them like sand,
    And then a little whisper in your throat,
        And you asleep, your cheek upon your hand.

    Thrice happy fate, you met it in full cry,
        Young, eager, loved, your glitt’ring world all joy—
    You ebbed not out, you died when tide was high,
        An old campaigner envies you, my boy!

  • The Good Old Hymns

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1915. By Frank L. Stanton.

    There’s a lot of music in ‘em—the hymns of long ago,
    And when some gray-haired brother sings the ones I used to know,
    I sorter want to take a hand, I think of days gone by,
    “On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye!”

    There’s lots of music in ‘em—those dear, sweet hymns of old,
    With visions bright of lands of light and shining streets of gold;
    And I hear ‘em ringing—singing, where mem’ry, dreaming, stands,
    “From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands.”

    They seem to sing forever of holier, sweeter days,
    When the lilies of the love of God bloomed white in all the ways;
    And I want to hear their music from the old-time meetin’s rise
    Till “I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies.”

    We never needed singin’ books in them old days—we knew
    The words, the tunes of every one—the dear old hymn book through!
    We didn’t have no trumpets then, no organs built for show,
    We only sang to praise the Lord, “from whom all blessings flow.”

    An’ so I love the good old hymns, and when my time shall come—
    Before my light has left me and my singing lips are dumb—
    If I can hear ‘em sing them then, I’ll pass without a sigh
    To “Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie.”

  • Looking Ahead

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 1, 1915. By S. E. Kiser.

    A year is gone forever,
        But out beyond us lies
    A year for brave endeavor
        And splendid enterprise
    Where honors are awaiting
        The worthy and the wise.

    There shall be love and mating,
        And truth shall still be good;
    There shall be less of hating
        And more of Brotherhood,
    And right shall be more clearly
        And fairly understood.

    The new year shall not merely
        Bring added age to those
    Who value virtue dearly
        And strive as Vice’s foes,
    But Justice shall more nearly
        Yield honest men repose.

  • Arithmetic

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 26, 1914. By Grip Alexander.

    The ashman worked away with vim.
        His terms are far from small.
    Before a man can talk to him
        He’s got to hire a haul.

    Said I, “Well, here’s a great to-do!
        I’ve ashes fine to sell,
    And I must give them all to you
        And give you cash as well!”

    He showed me all his teeth and laughed
        A laugh to raise the roof,
    And flashed an answer free from craft,
        “Dat sholy am de truf!”

    “At fifteen cents a barrel flat,
        Ten barrels to the load,
    Each night ’tis mighty riches that
        You tote to your abode.”

    Said he, “Well, sah, it’s dish yere way!
        All business am a risk,
    Ah mos’ly makes one load a day—
        Excusin’ when trade’s brisk.

    “Ah pays a quartah at de dump,
        An’ dat don’ make me holler;
    But when dem prices takes a jump
        It done cost half a dollar.

    “An’ dat ol’ ornery hoss o’ mine
        Is needin’ oats an’ hay.
    Ah guess his livin’ ain’ too fine
        At sixty cents a day.”

    “Dump charges, stabling, feed,” I said,
        “Will eat up cash like sin.
    And wear and tear! Say, uncle Ned,
        Just where do you come in?”

    The look he flashed was bright and quick,
        His voice was soft, caressin’,
    “Ah’s right smart at arithmetic,
        But dat sho has me guessin’!”

  • Conceit

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 10, 1914. By George Cohan.

    I’m the best pal that I ever had.
        I like to be with me;
    I like to sit and tell myself
        Things confidentially.

    I often sit and ask me
        If I shouldn’t or I should,
    And I find that my advice to me
        Is always pretty good.

    I never got acquainted with
        Myself till here of late;
    And I find myself a bully chum.
        I treat me simply great.

    I talk with me and walk with me
        And show me right and wrong;
    I never knew how well myself
        And I could get along.

    I never try to cheat me;
        I’m as truthful as can be,
    No matter what may come or go
        I’m on the square with me.

    It’s great to know yourself, and have
        A pal that’s all your own;
    To be such company for yourself
        You’re never left alone.

    You’ll try to dodge the masses,
        And you’ll find the crowds a joke
    If you only treat yourself as well
        As you treat other folk.

    I’ve made a study of myself,
        Compared with me the lot,
    And I’ve finally concluded
        I’m the best friend I’ve got.

    Just get together with yourself
        And trust yourself with you,
    And you’ll be surprised how well yourself
        Will like you if you do.

  • Prayer for Home Land

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 1, 1914. By E. A. Guest.

    God bless the old United States,
        God keep her people strong;
    God guard the peace within her gates
        And fill her land with song.
    Teach us who dwell beneath her flag
        To cherish peaceful ways;
    To cease of cannon’s strength to brag
        And uniforms to praise.

    God bless the old United States,
        Where Freedom’s banner flies,
    Where joyously the mother waits
        With bright and smiling eyes,
    The father, coming home at night,
        His day of toiling done,
    And where to meet him with delight
        His happy children run.

    Here all the tears are honest tears
        And pain is honest pain,
    And here, secure throughout the years
        The toilers’ homes remain.
    Here firesides are not desolate
        By needless shot and shell,
    But honor and reward await
        The men who labor well.

    God bless the old United States,
        God bless her people, too;
    God keep forever at her gates
        The old red, white and blue.
    And may its beauties never die,
        But every year increase;
    God grant that flag shall ever fly
        Above a land at peace.

  • The Twilight Witch

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 10, 1914. By Madison Cawein.

    The twilight witch comes with her stars
        And strews them through the blue;
    Then breathes below the sunset bars
        A breath of meadow rue;
    She trails her veil across the skies
        And mutters to the trees,
    And in the wood, with firefly eyes
        She wakes the mysteries.
    The twilight witch, with elf and fay,
    Is coming down the slumber way,
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch, with crescent moon,
        Stoops in the wooded hill;
    She answers to the owlet’s tune,
        And to the whippoorwill.
    She leans above the reedy pool
        And wakes the drowsy frog,
    And with the toadstool, dim and cool,
        Rims gray the old dead log.
    The twilight witch comes stealing down
    To take you off to slumber town.
        Sleep, my dearie, sleep.

    The twilight witch, with wind-like tread,
        Has entered in the room;
    She steals around your trundle bed
        And whispers in the gloom;
    She says, “I brought my steed along,
        My faery steed of gleams,
    To bear you, like a breath of song,
        Into the land of dreams.
    I am the witch who takes your hand
    And leads you off to faeryland,
        The far-off land of sleep.”

  • Retribution

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 26, 1914.

    When Peace her olive branch held out,
        And wooed the nations to her arms,
    They rudely drove her from their side,
        And turned their backs upon her charms.
    In vain she pleaded to be heard,
        In vain she tried the world to save
    From all the horrors of grim war,
        That opened up a nation’s grave.

    So, driven forth, she fled away
        No more to come with outstretched hand,
    But to remain across the seas
        Safe sheltered in a friendly land.
    And now they sigh and long for her,
        And strain their horror-stricken eyes
    To catch a glimpse of her white robe,
        Until the hope within them dies.

    But now ’tis they who must seek her,
        And toilsome is the dreadful way,
    Through carnage fields and burning homes,
        Past piles of dead and savage fray,
    Knee deep in bloody rivers’ flow,
        Through scenes whose terrors never cease,
    This is the way they now must go,
        The nations, when they seek for peace.