Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • Where Brains Are Needed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 20, 1914. By S. E. Kiser.

    “I claim it takes more brains to farm,” said Ebenezer Brown,
    “Than what it does to git ahead and make a splash in town;
    Why, I know six or seven chaps from this here neighborhood
    Who went away to cities, where they’re busy makin’ good.

    “You take Chicago and New York—size up the big men there—
    The lawyer, doctor, merchant and the multimillionaire—
    You’ll find they’ve all been farmer boys, or lived in towns, at least,
    Where they could have a chance to learn the ways of bird and beast.

    “Now, take these city chaps who come to cultivate the land—
    I don’t mean millionaires who farm for fun, you understand—
    But take the common city folks who try to farm, and say!
    It’s pitiful the way they try to make their farmin’ pay.

    “I’ve saw a dozen of ‘em fall; I never seen one yet
    Who managed to be prominent or not get into debt;
    And so I claim a man may make an awful splash in town
    And not have brains enough to farm,” said Ebenezer Brown.

  • My First Valentine

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 14, 1914. By K. L. Daniher.

    Now dawns the day of all the year when Cupid’s court holds sway,
    And pictured hearts in true love knots are sent upon their way
    To bear a tender message from the bashful, love-lorn swain
    Unto his chosen lady-love, her favor thus to gain;
    Then backward through the mists of years my thoughts are prone to stray,
    Though fifty mile-stones mark the path, it seems but yesterday—
    As dreamily I muse upon the ardor that was mine
    When I, with mingled hopes and fears, sent my first valentine.

    She was my favorite at school—a winsome little maid,
    With nut-brown hair all plaited in a smooth, beribboned braid.
    Still graven in my mem’ry are the colors that she wore,
    The checkered pink sunbonnet and the snowy pinafore;
    And when the shops resplendent shone with arrow-punctured hearts,
    And roguish, chubby Cupids making havoc with their darts,
    I fain would render homage to the little miss of nine,
    And breathe my admiration in a dainty valentine.

    Ah, me! What changes time has wrought since that bright winter day
    When in my charmer’s desk I placed my valentine so gay.
    Where once the little school house stood, a modern structure towers,
    And there my children’s children spent their busy schooltime hours.
    The little lass? Why bless your heart! She sits beside me now,
    The nut-brown hair is silver, banded low upon her brow;
    Fair sweetheart of my boyhood’s days, my heart is still her shrine—
    Though fifty years have flown since then, she’s still my Valentine.

  • The Fiddler’s Farewell

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 31, 1914. By Alfred Noyes.

    With my fiddle to my shoulder,
        And my hair turning gray,
    And my heart growing older
        I must shuffle on my way!
    Tho’ there’s not a hearth to greet me
        I must reap as I sowed,
    And the sunset shall meet me
        At the turn of the road.

    Oh, the whin’s a dusky yellow
        And the road a rosy white,
    And the blackbird’s call is mellow
        At the falling of the night;
    And there’s honey in the heather
        Where we’ll make our last abode,
    My tunes and me together
        At the turn of the road.

    I have fiddled for your city
        Thro’ market place and inn!
    I have poured forth my pity
        On your sorrow and your sin!
    But your riches are your burden,
        And your pleasure is your goad!
    I’ve the whin-gold for guerdon
        At the turn of the road.

    Your village lights’ll call me
        As the lights of home the dead;
    But a black night befall me
        Ere your pillows rest my head;
    God be praised, tho’ like a jewel
        Every cottage casement showed,
    There’s a star that’s not so cruel!
        At the turn of the road.

    Nay, beautifully and kindly
        Are the faces drawing nigh,
    But I gaze on them blindly
        And hasten, hasten by;
    For O, no face of wonder
        On earth has ever glowed
    Like the One that waits me yonder
        At the turn of the road.

    Her face is lit with splendor,
        She dwells beyond the skies;
    But deep, deep and tender
        Are the tears in her eyes;
    The angels see them glistening
        In pity for my load,
    And—she’s waiting there, she’s listening
        At the turn of the road.

  • Mistakes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    God sent us here to make mistakes—
        To strive, to fail, to begin;
        To taste the tempting fruit of sin
    And find what bitter food it makes.

    To miss the path, to go astray,
        To wander blindly in the night,
        But searching, praying for the light
    Until at last we find the way.

    And looking back upon the past,
        We know we needed all the strain
        Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
    To make us value peace at last.

    Who fails, finds later triumph sweet,
        Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
        And knows the place to cry “Beware!”
    To other unaccustomed feet.

    Through strife the slumbering soul awakes.
        We learn on error’s troubled route
        The truths we could not prize without
    The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

  • A Duo In Hades

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 24, 1914.

        Adam:
    Thousands of years, my dear, have ebbed away
    Since that forever memorable day
    When you discovered the Forbidden Fruit,
    And, knowing I should like it, led me to ’t.

        Eve:
    And willingly you went, as I recall.
    Altho’, of course, they blamed me for the Fall.
    Till that momentous day our life was X;
    We ate the apple, and discovered—Sex!

        Adam:
    And both, as I recall, were tickled pink,
    And talked of nothing else. I sometimes think
    We gabbed so much that God himself was bored,
    And sent an Angel with a flaming sword.

        Eve:
    I spoke today with one but newly come.
    He tells me that the world is all a-hum
    With the self-same discovery that we
    In Eden made, beneath the Knowledge Tree.

        Adam:
    And nought, I hear, their childish prattle checks;
    They gab of Sex, and Sex, and Sex, and Sex.
    In books, and plays, and art this subject rules;
    I’m told they even teach it in the schools.

        Eve:
    The shade but newly-come to Hades saith
    That men of sense are being bored to death;
    And tho’ he’s damned he counts himself as blest
    To ‘scape from Sex, and have eternal rest.

  • A Planet With Speed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 22, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    When Shakespeare made the statement that this world is all a stage
    He pictured what we must regard as quite a different age;
    An age when men gave study to the roles they undertook
    And forms and courtesies prevailed which none might overlook.
    The merry villagers came forth in song upon the green;
    The aristocracy with easy grace observed the scene.
    There was in truth a deal of superficial show,
    And the action of the drama, though intense, was often slow.

    At present we are going at a swiftly modern pace;
    There’s real ginger in the troop they call the Human Race.
    The trolley cars are buzzing and the lights are all ablaze,
    And we do in twenty minutes work that formerly took days.
    We take our pleasures swiftly and our griefs are soon forgot;
    No permanent emotion animates our earthly lot,
    And we’re forced to the conclusion that the days of long ago
    Have vanished and the world is now a moving picture show.

  • The Goal of Life

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 18, 1914. By Grace Sorenson.

    I call it not success
    To gain a fortune or
    To win renown, unless
    In climbing upward thou
    Hast left a trail behind
    Of happiness for those
    Along the way. If greed
    Has been thy only aim,
    Then thou hast missed the goal
    Of life, while he who treads
    The lowly paths and helps
    His fellowmen receives
    A greater joy than thou
    Canst find in wealth or fame.

  • A Plea for the Teacher

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 9, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    If I were a youngster and were going back to school,
    I don’t believe that I’d annoy the teacher, as a rule;
    For teachers have a serious time. They’re busy day by day
    Discovering the shorter cuts that lead to Wisdom’s way.
    And sometimes when you hold tomorrow’s lesson in great dread,
    Your teacher’s working hard upon the lesson just ahead.
    She’s always striving earnestly her duty to fulfill
    And hoping you’ll all like her—which I’m confident you will.

    Remember that her feelings may be very much like yours
    Regarding the restraints which every studious mind endures.
    She’d very much prefer a vastly longer holiday,
    No doubt she’s fond of skating or of riding in a sleigh.
    Don’t picture her a tyrant with a hard and haughty heart.
    She’ll try to help you like her if you’ll only make a start.
    Don’t bother her with mischief and with foolish little jokes.
    A teacher values kindness just the same as other folks.

  • Capture of Cactus Center

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 7, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    Down here in Cactus Center our hull citadel’s been took
    By a movin’ picture outfit that is fillin’ every nook;
    We’ve been crowded out by actors till there ain’t a bed in town;
    We sleep in traps and blankets, out on the prairie brown;
    They’re doin’ light housekeepin’ on the Blue Front’s upper floor,
    And the booze joint closes early, so’s to let the actors snore;
    There’s a bunch of leadin’ ladies roped and hog tied the hotel,
    And there’s actors first at table when throbs out the dinner bell.

    They are stagin’ wondrous dramas on the ranches hereabouts,
    And the cattle go plumb loco when they hear the actors’ shouts;
    There are juveniles and “heavies” prancin’ round the lonely hills;
    There are guns forever poppin’, but they ain’t the sort that kills;
    There’s a sound like canvas rippin’ when a bunch shoots off some blanks,
    While the sweatin’ operators turn them movin’ kodak cranks;
    Roll my bed, give me a grubstake—I must mush out in the sand
    Where there’s rattlesnakes and gilas, but there ain’t no movie band.

    Lo the Injun dreams of goin’ to a huntin’ ground of peace,
    Where there’s no objection follers when he lifts a white man’s fleece;
    It is a land of runnin’ water, where the grass is always good,
    Where there’s buffalo and fodder, and the squaws can gather wood;
    But the cowboy now is dreamin’ of a place that’s like poor Lo’s,
    Where there’s signs up, in addition, barrin’ movin’ picter shows;
    For there ain’t no joy in Cow Land, and sighs fill the native’s breast,
    Since the shutter’s took to clickin’ in the movie-haunted west!

  • Opportunity

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 6, 1914. By Walter Malone.

    They do me wrong who say I come no more
        When once I knock and fail to find you in;
    For every day I stand outside your door,
        And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

    Wail not for precious chances passed away,
        Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
    Each night I burn the records of the day;
        At sunrise every soul is born again.

    Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;
        To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb;
    My judgements seal the dead past with its dead,
        But never blind a moment yet to come.

    Tho’ deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep;
        I lend my arm to all who say “I can!”
    No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep
        But yet might rise and be again a man.

    Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
        Dost reel from righteous retribution’s blow?
    Then turn from blotted archives of the past
        And find the future pages white as snow.

    Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell;
        Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven;
    Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell;
        Each night a start to guide thy feet to heaven.