Newspaper History

Category: Omaha Daily Bee

  • The Disappointed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 30, 1913.
 By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
 

 There are songs enough for the hero
     Who dwells on the heights of fame;
 I sing for the disappointed—
     For those who have missed their aim.
 
 I sing with a tearful cadence
     For one who stands in the dark,
 And knows that his last, best arrow
     Has bounded back from the mark.
 
 I sing for the breathless runner,
     The eager, anxious soul,
 Who falls with his strength exhausted
     Almost in sight of the goal.
 
 For the hearts that break in silence,
     With a sorrow all unknown,
 For those who need companions,
     Yet walk their ways alone.
 
 There are songs enough for the lovers
     Who share love’s tender pain;
 I sing for the one whose passion
     Is given all in vain.
 
 For those whose spirit comrades
     Have missed them on their way,
 I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,
     This minor strain today.
 
 And I know the Solar System
     Must somewhere keep in space
 A prize for that spent runner
     Who barely lost the race.
 
 For the plan would be imperfect
     Unless it held some sphere
 That paid for the toil and talent
     And love that are wasted here.

  • In Spite of Fate

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 28, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 A little boy sat on an old rail fence
     And gazed at a drooping limb;
 And a sinful yearning that was intense
     Kept steadily urging him.
 
 His little red features were covered with dirt
     And his little brown legs were scratched;
 There were numerous rents in his little checked shirt,
     And his little blue pants were patched.
 
 From one little toe the nail had been torn
     And one little heel was sore;
 A child apparently more forlorn
     I had never beheld before.
 
 At last he stood on the topmost rail
     And reached for that drooping limb;
 I almost uttered a hopeless wail—
     I felt so sorry for him.
 
 Hand over hand he pulled it down—
     The limb with the droop, I mean;
 His face was red and his legs were brown
     And the apples were small and green.
 
 He sat on the rail and he ate and ate;
     I counted them—there were four;
 Then, foolishly, recklessly challenging fate,
     He reached for a couple more.
 
 Sadly I turned to pursue my way
     And sadly I said, “Good-by.”
 Alas for what I have seen this day,
     ’Tis sad that the young must die.
 
 “You have had your way and you’ve had your will;
     Your bed will be dark and deep;
 A week from now upon yonder hill
     You will lie in a dreamless sleep.”
 
 A week had passed and again I chanced
     To pause ‘neath that fateful tree;
 With sad remembrance I turned and glanced—
     A thrill was in store for me.
 
 For there on the old rail fence he sat,
     Eating with calm delight,
 And, having finished he filled his hat
     And then sauntered out of sight.

  • Tale of the Jolly Mariner

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 17, 1913.
 

 He was a jolly mariner
     That sailed the seven seas;
 By skill and pluck and sheer good luck
     He had escaped disease,
 And death in strife by gun and knife
     And other things like these.
 
 Alas! This gallant sailor man
     Was knocked down by a car!
 “You’ll soon be dead,” the doctor said,
     “Perhaps there’s one afar
 To whom you’d send some word, my friend.”
     Up spake the gallant tar:
 
 “You take this message, mate,” he said,
     “Ere I my moorin’ slips.
 And find my bride and say I died
     With her name on my lips!
 Her name, you say? Well, one is May;
     But I’ve sailed several trips!
 
 “There’s Sally Brown, of Dover town,
     And Milly, Jane and Nell;
 If you will look in that there book
     You’ll find out where they dwell.
 There is a score, or maybe more—
     You won’t? Then I’ll get well!”
 
 He was a jolly mariner
     That rose up, strong and fit,
 And then, said he, “Well, hully gee!
     I’m bruised a little bit;
 But I’ve my life and nary a wife
     Is left a widow yit!”

  • Doc Bixby Spins Out Some Rhyme to Country Editors

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 3, 1913.

    Dr. A. L. Bixby of the Nebraska State Journal, Lincoln, delighted the Nebraska State Press association at the opening session yesterday at the Hotel Rome with his annual poem, in which he spun his homely philosophy thus:

    Dear brethren of the shears and quill,
 And sisters, who are dearer still;
 Perhaps I do not need to say,
 In my melancholy way,
 The words you doubtless recollect,
 Which all have heard, to this effect:
 These words, prophetic and profound,
 “Another year has rolled around.”
 
 No odds what we may do or say,
 The stubborn years roll on that way,
 And we who yesterday were seen,
 And known among the young and green,
 Now train with other gray-haired men,
 Grown old, but just as green as then.
 Life is so short, let me declare
 Before a man gets anywhere,
 Before he can half realize
 On that which ought to make him wise,
 The summons comes for him to dress
 In spotless white and go to press,
 To let life’s solemn problems go,
 To close his face and keep it so.
 I do not claim the man a sage
 Whose only virtue is his age,
 Because as many jog along
 Their prejudice becomes more strong,
 And they subsist on that alone,
 While reason totters on her throne.
 In my own case I call to mind
 A string of years I’ve left behind;
 Already far above the span
 Allotted to the average man;
 And I have written in that time
 A lot of bungling prose and rhyme;
 Enough, as I have often held,
 To keep my head from getting swelled;
 To make my self-importance wilt
 Beneath the weight of conscious guilt.
 With all my experience,
 If I have gained a lick of sense,
 It is along the simple way
 Of how to live and make it pay.
 It isn’t what we have and hold—
 You cannot measure it in gold—
 But what we are and what we do
 To make the bells of life ring true.
 These are the things that always bless,
 And really help us more or less.
 Who makes two beams of sunlight play
 Where one beam trembled yesterday,
 Who drops a frown and wears a smile,
 As surely makes his life worth while.
 As he takes the other tack
 Deserves to go and not come back.
 I’d rather have it truly said
 Of me at last when I am dead,
 That I was always true and kind
 To all the folks I left behind,
 And made the earth a brighter place
 In spite of my unsightly face,
 Than have it said that I was great,
 In gaining bonds and real estate,
 And “copped” to gratify my greed
 A d—d sight more than ten men need.
 This is my message - if a thought
 Can be evolved (I don’t know what)—
 Withhold, I pray, your heartless kicks,
 It’s short, and that should help some. Bix.

  • Mother’s Day Remembrance

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 11, 1913.
 By Will B. Tomlinson.
 

 Toward glories eternal, a vision appears
 Through the mists of the morning, the sunshine and tears.
 ’Tis the smile of my Mother, as sacred with joy
 As the greeting celestial she bends to her boy.
 
 And her love is as true and as precious to me
 As it was in the years when I knelt at her knee
 And her hand in caressing lay soft on my head
 As she prayed for a blessing, in days that are fled.
 
 Often wayward and thoughtless I know I have been.
 I have wounded the heart that appealed for me then.
 Still, I feel that in heaven I’m never forgot
 For if others forsake me, my Mother will not.
 
 When I look at myself, I’ve nothing to claim—
 Neither merit, nor wealth, nor plaudits of fame.
 But I grudge not to others such blessings as fall
 For the love of my Mother is better than all.
 
 Here’s a blossom, the fairest, as pure as the dew
 Else I never could wear it, dear Mother, for you.
 And I would that its fragrance were wafted afar
 Like the vapor of incense, or beam of a star
 
 Till it tells you in heaven, with breathings divine
 That I love you, dear Mother, sweet Mother of mine.

  • Gardening

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913.
 By Edgar A. Guest.
 

 I hold that gardening’s splendid fun.
     I am the chap that some think odd.
 I like to rise and greet the sun
     To turn and break the stubborn clod.
 It’s great to spend an hour or two
     Some care unto the back yard giving;
 But this I will admit to you:
     I’d hate to do it for a living.
 
 There is no toil that quite compares
     To delving daily with a spade
 And with a hoe cut down the tares
     Or bring a front lawn up to grade.
 With joy it makes the pulses throb
     And starts the heart beating gaily;
 ’Tis true I glory in the job
     But I would hate to do it daily.
 
 Take it from me, you sluggish men
     Whose arteries may someday harden
 For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen;
     You ought to labor in a garden.
 Go bend your backs above a spade
     And strain your muscles with a hoe;
 There is no more delightful trade
     Unless that way you earn your dough.
 
 I glory in the stubborn ground
     And conquer it with fertilizer
 Now every morning I am found
     A bright and smiling early riser.
 It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt
     And lug out chunks of solid clay;
 In confidence, though, I’ll assert:
     I’d hate to do it by the day.
 
 Think you I mind this aching back
     Or care because my muscles twinge
 Or that my bones, with each attack
     Remind me of a rusty hinge?
 No! Gardening is wholly joy
     A source of pleasure unalloyed;
 But, confidentially, my boy,
     I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.

  • Confidence

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 6, 1913.
 

 Sister Kittie’s home from college with a host of modern kinks
 In the way of hygienics, sanitation, food and drinks.
 Proteins and carbohydrates she combines exactly right
 For the strictly balanced ration she identifies at sight.
 She knows all about digestion, what is best for us to eat
 What we need for body-building, growth and force, repair and heat;
 And the dinner table’s lovely when my sister has it set
 But we haven’t lost our confidence in Mother’s cooking yet.

  • Kissing Games

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 2, 1913.
 By Edgar A. Guest.
 

 I watched them playing kissing games
     And chuckled to myself
 As I recalled the days before
     Time put me on the shelf.
 I watched that roguish lad of mine
     Salute each pretty miss
 With all the gusto that I showed
     When I was wont to kiss.
 
 But I am on the sidelines now
     And he is in the game
 And he is hugging pretty girls
     With eyes and cheeks aflame.
 And there’s no special one to pout
     Or raise a fuss when he
 Distributes his affections thus
     The way there is with me.
 
 What though he kiss a dozen maids
     And give them all a squeeze,
 Nobody sternly says to him:
     “What means this conduct, please?”
 Nobody stamps a pretty foot
     At him or starts to cry
 But this will come, when these glad years
     Of youth have wandered by.
 
 “Just like his dad,” I hear her say,
     And note her gentle smile;
 And I retort, “This freedom will
     But last a little while.
 Perhaps one of these lassies sweet
     Will some day rule his life
 And yet I hope, that like his dad
     He’ll choose as good a wife.”

  • Cry of the Dreamer

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 27, 1913.
 By John Boyle O’Reilly.
 

 I am tired of planning and toiling
     In the crowded hives of men;
 Heartweary of building and spoiling,
     And spoiling and building again.
 And I long for the dear old river,
     Where I dreamed my youth away,
 For a dreamer lives forever
     And a toiler dies in a day.
 
 I am sick of the showy seeming,
     Of a life that is half a lie;
 Of the faces lined with scheming
     In the throng that hurries by,
 From the sleepless thoughts of endeavor
     I would go where the children play;
 For a dreamer lives forever,
     And a thinker dies in a day.
 
 I can feel no pride but pity,
     For the burdens the rich endure;
 There is nothing sweet in the city
     But the patient lives of the poor.
 Oh, the little hands too skillful
     And the child mind choked with weeds!
 The daughter’s heart grown willful,
     And the father’s heart that bleeds!
 
 No, no! From the street’s rude bustle
     From trophies of mart and stage,
 I would fly to the wood’s low rustle
     And the meadow’s kindly page.
 Let me dream as of yore by the river
     And be loved for the dream alway;
 For a dreamer lives forever,
     And a thinker dies in a day.

  • Three Souls

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 14, 1913.
 By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
 

 Three souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate,
 And gained permission of the guard to wait.
 Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin,
 They did not ask, or hope, to enter in.
 “We loved one woman,” (thus their story ran);
 “We lost her, for she chose another man.
 So great our love, it brought us to this door;
 We only ask to see her face once more.
 Then will we go to realms where we belong,
 And pay our penalty for doing wrong.”
 “And were thou friends on earth?” (The Guard spake thus),
 “Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us.
 The dominating thought within each Soul
 Brought us together, comrades, to this goal,
 To see her face, and in its radiance bask
 For one great moment—that is all we ask.
 And, having seen her, we must journey back
 The path we came—a hard and dangerous track.”
 “Wait, then,” the Angel said, “beside me here,
 But do not strive within God’s gate to peer
 Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light
 Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.”
 They waited year on year. Then, like a flame,
 News of the woman’s death from earth-land came.
 The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes
 Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise.
 The well-beloved face in vain they sought,
 Until one day, the Guardian Angel brought
 A message to them. “She has gone,” he said,
 “Down to the lower regions of the dead;
 Her chosen mate went first; so great her love
 She has resigned the joys that wait above
 To dwell with him, until perchance some day,
 Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.”
 Silent, the lovers turned. The pitying Guard
 Said: “Stay” (the while his hand the door unbarred),
 “There waits for thee no darker grief or woe;
 Enter the Gates, and all God’s glories know,
 But to be ready for so great a bliss,
 Pause for a moment and take heed of this:
 The dearest treasure by each mortal lost
 Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed,
 And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place
 The shining wonder of her worshipped face.
 All that is past is but a troubled dream;
 Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.”
 Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate,
 Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.