Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • Death of the Year

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1914. By Lilian Lauferty.

    When the snows grow bold and the stars are cold,
    And the Winter night-winds prey,
    When the ice holds fast and the world is cast
    In a mold of white and gray;

    Then the gloaming falls on the sky’s soft walls,
    And the lights of the dark are hung,
    While the hushed year lies under brooding skies
    Where the censer moon is hung,

    Then the silence speaks over plains and peaks,
    And the hush of life draws near,
    ’Til the screaming wail of the wind and hail
    Sounds the death song of the year.

  • A New Year Apostrophe

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 28, 1913. By Richard Linthicum.

    A baby smiles in its mother’s face,
    There at her breast in a soft embrace—
    A life beginning and all to learn;
    A mother’s heart that shall leap and yearn,
    Teaching the dimpled feet to walk,
    Teaching the honeyed mouth to talk!
    O Time, make haste for the baby dear
    And speed the coming of each New Year!

    A youth with the fire and blood of spring
    And hope that rises on eager wing,
    Thrills at the sight of a maiden’s blush,
    Stirring his heart with the first hot flush
    Of love requited, that finds its mate
    And yet but a little while must wait,
    Watches and listens thy step to hear;
    O speed thy coming, thou sweet New Year!

    In manhood’s prime there is standing one,
    And all but his greatest task is done;
    Beyond his reach but before his eyes
    Greatest of all is the final prize;
    Yet but a little he’ll hold it fast,
    A year and a day ’twill be his last,
    Conquering spirit that knows not fear,
    Bidding thee hasten, O brave New Year!

    Gray is the crown of a wholesome life
    And peace the benison sweet of strife;
    An aged man with his strength nigh spent,
    With nerves a-tremble, his slight form bent,
    Erect in spirit and white of soul,
    With steps that falter, is near the goal;
    With eyes bedimmed but a faith that’s clear,
    He craves but thy rest, O blest New Year!

  • The Real Santa Claus

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 24, 1913. By Wex Jones.

    We always picture Santa Claus as ruddy, plump and jolly,
    Snugly wrapped in fur-lined coat, gayly decked with holly;
    Whirling through the crisp night air, shot with bright star-twinkles,
    While beneath his reindeers’ feet the snowflake scarcely crinkles.
    The Santa Claus we always dream, bears upon his back
    A bully, bursting, bountiful, joy-creating pack;
    And if his Christmas largess should deplete his brimming store
    All he need do is turn his team and speed right back for more.

    But, alas, the real Santa Claus is often thin and weak,
    And no tingle of the wintry air brings color to her cheek;
    And often on the Christmas eve, the Christmas spirit mocking,
    She sees beside her empty hand the tattered, empty stocking.
    But childish hope is long-lived and childish faith is strong,
    And the stockings wait each Christmas lest Santa come along;
    So she skimps and starves and struggles to get the babes a toy,
    For what’s her cold and hunger to her children’s dream and joy?

    So when you think of Santa Claus, the one who’s plump and jolly,
    The one who’s snug in fur-lined coat and smiles through wreaths of holly,
    The one who, of his plenty, lavishes Christmas joys,
    Where joys abound already, on favored girls and boys—
    Oh, don’t forget the others, the weary ones and worn,
    Who render of their scanty store to brighten Christmas morn;
    And in the pleasant bustle of this happy season, pause
    To lend a hand of helpfulness to the real Santa Claus.

  • When Cupid Comes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 13, 1913. By Kate Masterson.

    Today, upon the avenue, I met him face to face.
    His gray eyes sought my own of blue, beneath their film of lace.
    I passed him, flushing, through the throng, the while he poised his hat.
    The air sang in my ears a song—Freddie is growing fat!

    Ten years ago—ten years ago! ’Twas summer when we met,
    And roses bloom and breezes blow about that Junetime yet.
    So fresh, so lovely and so sweet; a tender, old, dead day!
    Now in the afternoon we meet—he’s wearing a toupee!

    No straight-front model bound his waist, vested in English style.
    His keen glance swept my bodice laced, his gray eyes seemed to smile;
    And yet his look was reverent, dim, o’er full with memory.
    But as I slowly measured him, he seemed to size up me.

    Ah, love and summer and romance! If we could but delay
    When time leads us a merry dance and steals our joys away;
    If, like a rose, we fade in truth, in the chill grasp of fate!
    But Cupid grins when love and youth begin to take on weight!

  • The Best Letter

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1913. By William F. Kirk.

    You may write a thousand letters to the maiden you adore,
    And declare in every letter that you love her more and more.
    You may praise her grace and beauty in a thousand glowing lines,
    And compare her eyes of azure with the brightest star that shines.
    If you had the pen of Byron you would use it every day
    In composing written worship to your sweetheart far away;
    But the letter far more welcome to an older, gentler breast
    Is the letter to your mother from the boy she loves the best.

    Youthful blood is fierce and flaming, and when writing to your love
    You will rave about your passion, swearing by the stars above;
    Vowing by the moon’s white splendor that the girlie you adore
    Is the one you’ll ever cherish as no maid was loved before.
    You will pen full many a promise on those pages white and dumb
    That you never can live up to in the married years to come.
    But a much more precious letter, bringing more and deeper bliss,
    Is the letter to your mother from the boy she cannot kiss.

    She will read it very often when the lights are soft and low,
    Sitting in the same old corner where she held you years ago,
    And regardless of its diction or its spelling or its style,
    And although its composition would provoke a critic’s smile,
    In her old and trembling fingers it becomes a work of art,
    Stained by tears of joy and sadness as she hugs it to her heart.
    Yes, the letter of all letters, look wherever you may roam,
    Is the letter to your mother from her boy away from home.

  • Father

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 3, 1913. By Edmund Vance Cooke.

    He was not the kind of a father that you read about in books,
    He wasn’t long on language and he wasn’t strong on looks.
    He was not the sort of father that you hear about in plays.
    He was just a human father with a human father’s ways.

    No, he never balked at working, but when he was through it once,
    Right down to the grass was father, with the children doing stunts.
    All of us would pile up on him and he’d welcome all the pack,
    But I’m wondering after play time, did we stay there—on his back?

    Wasn’t strong on dissipation, said his “gambol on the green”
    Was to fill the platter faster than the kids could lick it clean.
    And the next best game he knew of was an equal one to beat;
    It was keeping leather covers up to the supply of feet.

    Always on the job was father, plugging steady like and strong,
    Never making any noise, but helping all his little world along.
    And to think! Lord! ain’t it funny you can see things years and years
    And yet never know you’ve seen them, till your eyes are blind with tears.

    Quit his job one day and left us, smiling as he went away;
    Eulogy seems all so foolish. What can anybody say?
    Seemed like even in his leaving he was saving someone bother,
    For the one word on the granite which lies over him is “Father.”

  • Thanksgiving Thoughts

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 27, 1913. By Edmund Vance Cooke.

    Come! Let us take our prated prayers, review them and examine;
    Are they because our feast is full while others share a famine?
    Are they because we ride the road which others pick and shovel?
    Are they because our walls are wide while others crowd a hovel?
    Are they because our limbs are swathed, while some are rawed by weather?
    Or are they only for the gifts we all may share together?

    Thanks are not thanks which only make another’s want our measure,
    Or only by another’s pain to gauge a selfish pleasure.
    Thanks are not thanks whose words are stones to pelt a lesser brother,
    Or that we make our blessedness the burden of another.
    Thanks are not thanks for tender palms that others be as leather;
    Thanks are but thanks for such good gifts as all hands hold together.

    Give us to know the larger day which deprecates Thanksgiving,
    Save for the universal feast which spreads for all the living.
    Give us to pray the larger prayer whereby our senses quicken
    And sees no gain in any good whereby another’s stricken.
    Give us to scorn the captured spoil which asks no why or whether.
    Give us to toil toward that gain which all may share together.

  • His Simple Creed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 23, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

    He didn’t have much of a creed,
        And his doctrine was not very deep;
    His faith wasn’t one he could read
        In volumes expensive or cheap.
    He helped all who asked when he could,
        He comforted all when they grieved,
    He believed in the right and the good,
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    He didn’t have much of a creed,
        His doctrine was simple and plain,
    But he seemed to have all that we need
        To balance life’s pleasure and pain.
    He wasn’t a fellow to shirk
        With burdens that could be relieved
    He believed ’twas his duty to work,
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    He put out his hand here and there
        To succor the weak and distressed,
    And when he had burdens to bear
        He bore them by doing his best.
    He refused to take profit or gain
        That was won by another deceived.
    He believed in a life without stain
        And he lived up to what he believed.

    I reckon when toiling is o’er,
        And all our struggles are through,
    When no one needs help anymore,
        And there are no good deeds to do,
    When the last of life’s dangers is braved,
        And the judgement of all is begun,
    Not by what we believed we’ll be saved,
        But by what, through believing, we’ve done.

  • Unrest

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 18, 1913. By William F. Kirk.

    There is no rest save sleep and death
        For us whom Destiny is driving;
    Until the last and feeblest breath
        Some part of every man is striving.
    The tireless muscles of the strong,
        The mental workings of the clever,
    Unite, as we are swept along,
        In one grand purpose of endeavor.

    The idle day and idle dream
        Are for the dotard and the fool;
    The salmon flashes up the stream;
        The coarse carp fattens in the pool.
    Striving we live, and striving, shun
        The dull content that would enslave us;
    And glory, ere the day is done,
        Is that unrest the Master gave us.

  • The Spice of Life

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 11, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.

    I do not envy him who never
        Has borne the bruises of defeat.
    Whose pathways have been smooth and fair,
        Whom Chance has never learned to cheat;
        For he has never claimed the sweet
    Reward that comes to those who dare
        To be triumphant, to possess
        The splendid solace of success
    Won after failure and despair.

    I do not envy lovers who
        Have never found their love betrayed,
    Who love but once and journey through
        Life by one little passion swayed;
        For they have never gladly laid
    Aside the false love for the true,
        And they have missed the splendid thrill
        Who, having loved in vain, can still
    Forget the ache and love anew.

    I do not envy him whose days
        Have all been peaceful days and bright,
    Who has not looked with envious gaze
        On luckier men who scorned his plight;
        For he has never won the right
    To proudly listen to the praise
        Which is reserved for those who gain
        Their honors after bitter pain
    And many storms and long delays.