Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • The Lazy Day

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 3, 1913. By W. D. Nesbit.

    Well, this has been a splendid and a very perfect day;
    I took my work and worries and I threw them all away—
    I took the work I ought to do and looked it in the eye
    And said, “You get a holiday, old task of mine, good bye,
    I hope you have a pleasant time wherever you may roam,
    Now, don’t get lost, but just the same you needn’t hurry home.”

    My work stood begging at my side, my elbow Duty nudged.
    But with a stern and haughty heart I never even budged.
    I stretched myself upon my back within the hammock here
    And swung and swung and let my soul get bubbling full of cheer.
    My work went galley west, I guess—I know it isn’t done—
    But, friend, to have a lazy day is certainly some fun.

    And all the things I worry for and of—the pesky things!
    I gave them all to understand they might as well take wings.
    I’d worried over them in a most faithful, earnest way,
    But worry hasn’t any place in any lazy day.
    Some little worries fretted up and sighed, “What can you do?”
    I blew them all to smithereens with one intense “Pooh! Pooh!”

    So here I am, with work undone, unworried worries, too,
    And still the grass is nice and green, the sky is nice and blue,
    The world is rolling right along, no doubt the stars will gleam—
    I guess I’ll linger here a while and muse and doze and dream.
    My friend, when Work is fighting you and Worry wants to stay,
    Just throw the whole thing to one side and have a Lazy Day.

  • The Losing Side

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 31, 1913. By Arthur Legge.

    Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield,
    Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field;
    And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air,
    With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair.
        Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sand
            In the track of a falling tide,
        On the ground where their cause has failed they stand,
            The last of the losing side.

    Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,
    Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth;
    And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed.
    The keenest blades are broken and the strongest arms have failed.
        But souls that know not the breath of shame,
            And tongues that have never lied,
        And the truest hearts and the fairest fame,
            Are here—on the losing side.

    The conqueror’s crown of glory is set with many a gem,
    But I join not in their triumph—there are plenty to shout for them;
    The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day,
    And the world’s best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.
        But dearer to me is the darkened plain,
            Where the noblest dreams have died,
        Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slain
            In the ranks of the losing side.

  • To an Old Sweetheart

    From the Omaha Bee, August 28, 1913.

    We’ve loved many a beautiful lady,   
        Golden blonde and the regal brunette,
    Sweetest Phyllis with lashes so shady,
        And Zoe, the distracting soubrette.
    Pretty schoolgirls, small town girls and widows—
        With the latter, lovemaking’s an art—
    But you ask for a toast and I give you
        A toast to your first sweetheart.

    There was Sadie, whose lips were saucy,
        And Marie, whom you met at the beach,
    And the parasol girl, dearest Flossie,
        And Irene, always just out of reach;
    There were some who liked moonlight and dancing—
        What a madness a kiss could impart!
    But, ah, for that peppermint-scented
        First kiss from your baby sweetheart.

    It was long, long ago that you met her
        In the blur of the pink cherry trees,
    Yet, somehow, you cannot forget her—
        Little queen of the bramble-scratched knees;
    Sometimes now in your dreams and your fancies
        She comes stealing with red lips apart
    Down the long lane—o’er memory’s byways—
        Your true love—that baby sweetheart.

  • Hide and Seek

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 20, 1913. By H. C. Bunner.

    It was an old, old, old, old lady,
        And a boy that was half-past three;
    And the way that they played together
        Was beautiful to see.

    She couldn’t go running and jumping,
        And the boy, no more could he,
    For he was a thin little fellow,
        With a thin little twisted knee.

    They sat in the yellow sunlight,
        Out under the maple tree,
    And the game that they played I’ll tell you,
        Just as it was told to me.

    It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,
        Though you’d never have known it to be—
    With an old, old, old, old lady
        And the boy with the twisted knee.

    The boy would bend his face down
        On his one little sound right knee,
    And he’d guess where she was hiding,
        In guesses One, Two, Three!

    “You are in the china closet!”
        He would cry and laugh with glee—
    It wasn’t the china closet,
        But still he had Two and Three.

    “You are in papa’s big bedroom,
        In the chest with the queer old key!”
    And she said, “You are warm and warmer,
        But you’re not quite right,” said she.

    “It can’t be the little cupboard
        Where mamma’s things used to be,
    So it must be the clothespress, gran’ma!”
        And he found her with his Three.

    Then she covered her face with her fingers,
        That were wrinkled and white and wee,
    And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
        With a One and a Two and a Three.

  • Two Voices

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 19, 1913. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, wanton one, oh, wicked one, how was it that you came
    Down from the paths of purity to walk the streets of shame?
    And wherefore was that precious wealth God gave to you in trust,
    Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

    VICE.
    Oh, prudent one, oh, spotless one, now listen well to me.
    The ways that lead to where I tread these paths of sin were three.
    And God, and good folks all combined to make them fair to see.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

    VICE.
    The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
    I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
    I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
    It was young passion in my veins, but how was I to know?

    The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell
    And hide from eager, curious minds the truth they ought to tell.
    That misnamed road, called “Innocence,” should bear the sign “To Hell.”
    With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road and fell.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go
    Back to the ways you left behind, and leave your sins below,
    Nor linger in this vale of sin, since now you see, and know?

    VICE.
    The third road was the fair highway, trod by the good and great.
    I cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate.
    They hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate;
    I beat it with my bleeding hands; they must have heard me knock;
    They must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.

    Oh, it is very desolate on Virtue’s path to stand,
    And see the good folks flocking by, withholding look, and hand.

    And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet,
    I left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.
    Oh, prudent one, oh, spotless one, when good folks speak of me,
    Go tell them of the roads I came; the roadways fair, and three.

  • The Measure of Efficiency

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 17, 1913. By Bayoll ne Trele.

    Perfection is not found in man—
        Then make the best of what men are;
    The stunted daisy do not ban;
        Its face doth not the landscape mar;
    When eager hands have robbed the fields
        Of what shows fairest to the eye
    The stunted flowers remain to bless
        The vision of some passerby.

    Perfection is the aim of all,
        But since we’re made of mortal clay
    Before we reach it, down we fall
        Yet let not this our hearts dismay;
    Some trees tower tall ‘twixt earth and sky
        And proudly guard the great highway,
    But more blest is the scraggly oak,
        Beneath whose boughs the children play.

    And while ‘mongst humans some attain
        To dizzy heights above their fellows,
    Some humbler laborers still remain
        In vales which radiant sunlight mellows;
    And while successes crown them not
        Tho’ in men’s eyes they seem deficient
    Their work may better stand the test
        When God shall judge with love omniscient.

  • The Seer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 9, 1913. By Alan Sullivan.

    Fill me with fire and solace,
        Gird me with speech divine,
    That the word of my mouth be music
        And the chord of my song be wine!
    For the soul that quivers within me
        Would mystical things unfold
    Though the world is weary of singing
        And the eyes of the world are cold.
    I am the deathless Vision,
        The voice of memorial years,
    The prince of the world’s rejoicing,
        The prophet and priest of tears;
    Have I not tasted rapture,
        Have I not loved and died,
    Mounted the peaks of passion,
        With you been crucified?
    Come! I will lead you softly
        Through floods that are smooth and deep
    And trailed with the shimmering curtain
        Of dream-embroidered sleep,
    To the dim mysterious portal
        Where the spirit of man may see
    The folds of the veil dividing
        Himself from eternity.
    Would you I bring my music?
        I’ll pipe where the toilers go,
    And through your sweat and labor
        The strain of my song shall flow
    Dulcet clear for your comfort,
        Winged with a delicate fire,
    The shout of a strong heart chanting
        In the lift of soul’s desire.
    And whether you stay to hearken
        And drink of my healing spring,
    Or turn from the plaint of my tender
        Articulate whispering,
    Ere ever ye came I was ancient,
        And after ye pass, I come,
    The voice that shall lift in rapture
        When the moan of the earth is dumb.

  • The Germ Covered Bucket

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 6, 1913.

    How they sadden this heart, the scenes of my childhood,
        When dread recollection presents them to view—
    Malarious meadows and dangerous wildwood,
        The place where the mushrooms, so poisonous grew;
    The pond was a cesspool; the stable stood by it,
        Draining into the stream where the cataract fell;
    The poultry yard sat with the dairy house nigh it;
        And that terrible bucket that hung in the well!
    The fungus-grown bucket, the germ-laden bucket,
        The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

    Poor dad was addicted to quinine and bitters,
        Poor mother was shaken with fever and chill—
    And we buried ‘em both, the innocent critters,
        In the populous graveyard that bloomed on the hill—
    The graveyard that gobbled the whole generation,
        That drained toward the house when the summer rain fell—
    Sometimes I dream of my father’s plantation
        And wake with a scream when I think of that well!
    And that terrible bucket, that death-dealing bucket,
        That germ-covered bucket that hung in the well.

  • Summer Fiction

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 28, 1913. By Arthur Chapman.

    Ere Jones went on his prized vacation
        He said, “I’ll need some books to read;
    ’Twill add unto my recreation
        If I can scan a fiction screed.”
    So to the phone soon Jones was turning,
        And to the book store sent a call;
    “For fiction,” quoth Jones, “I am yearning,
        So send the new books—send them all.”

    And so, next morn, ere Jones was leaving,
        Two moving vans stopped at his door;
    The driver asked, “Shall we be heaving
        These books upon the lawn or floor?
    There’s seven more loads on the way, sir—
        Three motorcycle loads beside;
    The fiction crop this year they say, sir,
        Is heavy—that can’t be denied.”

    And Jones rushed out and saw them carting
        Love tales and “crook” yarns by the ton;
    “Oh, what,” he cried with optics starting,
        “Is this mad thing that I have done?”
    And straightaway in a heap he tumbled—
        The ambulance took him away—
    But still the fiction order rumbled
        Up to the Jones front door all day.

  • Tired Mothers

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 21, 1913. By Mary Riley Smith.

    A little elbow leans upon your knee,
        Your tired knee that has so much to bear.
    A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly
        From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
    Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
        Of warm moist fingers holding yours so tight;
    You do not prize this blessing over much,
        You are almost too tired to pray tonight.

    But it is blessedness! A year ago
        I did not see it as I do today—
    We are so dull and thankless, and so slow
        To catch the sunshine till it slips away;
    And now it seems surpassing strange to me
        That while I wore the badge of motherhood,
    I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
        The little child that brought me only good.

    And if some night, when you sit down to rest,
        You miss this elbow from your tired knee,
    This restless curly head from off your breast,
        This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
    If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped,
        And ne’er would nestle in your palm again;
    If the white feet into the grave had tripped,
        I could not blame you for your heartache then.

    I wonder so that mothers even fret
        At little children clinging to their gown,
    Or that footprints, when the days are wet,
        Are ever black enough to make them frown.
    If I could find a little muddy boot,
        Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor—
    If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
        And hear it patter in my home once more.

    If I could mend a broken cart today,
        Tomorrow make a kite to reach the sky—
    There is no woman in God’s world could say
        She was more blissfully content than I.
    But, ah, the dainty pillow next my own
        Is never rumpled by a shining head;
    My singing birdling from its nest has flown—
        The little boy I used to kiss is dead!