From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 14, 1912. Take it when a fellow’s naughty ‘long about this time of year When you count the days a comin’ ‘fore old Santa Claus is here There is some one to remind you to be careful and be good Or the old chap will forget you and jes’ pass the neighborhood. I’ve heard it every Christmas time, and once I used to think That everything they said was so, and scarcely dared to wink; But I’m a little wiser now and only smile today For Santa always seems to come no matter what they say. “Now, Willie,” says my mother, “If you’re not a better boy, And don’t stop doin’ all these things which trouble and annoy, I fear that Santa Claus will jes’ drive past on Christmas eve, And not a single present from his pack will stop to leave.” But, even as she says it, I can see a half-way smile And I know she’s only scarin’ me and foolin’ all the while. I don’t believe that Santa Claus could bear to stay away; At any rate he always comes no matter what they say.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Jes’ As Sure As Christmas
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Overzealousness
From The Detroit Times, December 13, 1912. While journeying along through life I often call to mind Zeb Wiggins, who was always in a fret; He really was at heart most conscientious of mankind, Assuming all the burdens he could get. Zeb took a steamboat once. He needed travel and repose. The doctor said, “Give all your cares the slip,” But he somehow got a notion, why or how nobody knows, That he ought to help the captain run the ship. He sat up all the night to watch for icebergs on the bow, Though sailing where the latitude was warm. He thought the porpoises were whales who meant to raise a row, And every cloud loomed up with threats of storm. He broke into the pilot house. They had to throw him out. A nervous wreck, he finished up the trip, And said the fact that all were safe was due beyond a doubt To the way he helped the captain run the ship.
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The Regular Fellow
From The Topeka State Journal, December 12, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton The Regular Feller is one who kin smile When everything goes dead wrong; Kin smile with a smile that’s free from all guile And tinker up some sort of song. The Regular Feller kin whistle a tune When things seem to be breaking bad, He tries to be happy with what he has got, Forgetting what he might have had. The Regular Feller don’t talk all the while, Like rattlebrained fellers all do, But when he says something, just make up your mind It’s something worth listenin’ to. The Regular Feller don’t tell what he’s done, Or big things he’s going to do soon. He just goes and does ‘em and keeps his mouth shut His secrets he tells to the moon. The Regular Feller has no time to stoop And dig into other folks’ ground. For small village scandal he cares not a whoop, He passes no gossip around. The Regular Feller speaks well of his kind, Or else he says nothing at all. There’s no room for rubbish or junk in his mind, No room for the thoughts that are small. The Regular Feller does not slap your back, And brag that he’s always your friend. But when you’re in trouble and others all quit, He’ll stand by you, right to the end.
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Ad Infinitum
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 11, 1912. Most everybody’s busy— I pity him that ain’t— There are millions and millions of dolls to dress, And millions of pictures to paint; There are millions of knots of ribbon to tie And millions of loops to crochet; And the days and hours are galloping on Right up to Christmas Day. There are infinite numbers of bundles to wrap And millions of greetings to write; If we should attempt to count them all The figures would climb out of sight. And think of the millions of parcels to tie And the millions of stickers to stick ‘em. And think of the millions and billions of stamps That are waiting for people to lick ‘em. There’ll be millions and millions of tapers bright All over this great U. S.; As many as there are twinkling stars In the frosty heavens, I guess. And there’ll be millions of stockings small Whose hungry tops will be yawning And millions of jobs for Santa Claus ‘Twixt now and Christmas morning.
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Symbolic Dancing
From The Detroit Times, December 10, 1912. By Berton Braley. Symbolic dances are the fad On many hundred stages; We see the dancers, thinly clad, All sorts and kinds and ages. With filmy draperies that cling And weird, uncanny motions, They symbolize such things as spring And passions and emotions. They dance a poem writ by Poe With great poetic frenzy. Their lack of garments goes to show They scorn the influenzy; They’ll dance a tragedy clear through With motions most symbolic Although they may appear to you As suffering from colic. In dances they’ll portray the past, The future and the present, And they’ll present, with detail vast, The poet and the peasant; They’ll dance a painting or a play, A novel, grim or merry, And in symbolic wise, some day, They’ll dance the dictionary!
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Easing a Grouch
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1912. A yard or two of stuff that’s called a skirt, A waist that’s made of some expensive lace, A pair of shoes that are so tight they hurt, Some padding out in just the proper place, A hat that costs nine times what it is worth; A peck or two of someone else’s hair; A complexion bought most anywhere on earth, A corset that is too tight everywhere, A bundle of artistic temperament, A flow of conversation that is light, A passing whiff of some delicious scent, A show of vanity from morn till night— And that’s a woman. A bag of wind inflated without cause; A blowhard and an ardent egotist Who knows more than the ones who made the laws; A set of teeth, a mustache and a fist; Some shoulders that are padded out of shape; A smell of burned tobacco that is stale; A blossom on the nose from festive grape; Some stories that make modest folk turn pale; A punk cigar that sizzles all day long; A thing whose chiefest aim is just to eat; A party who is right, all others wrong, Who’s always 99 per cent conceit— And that’s a man.
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The Question
From the Evening Star, December 8, 1912. My Uncle Jim has stood the test. He fought clear through the fray. He voted all his friends and kin upon election day. He knows the questions of the hour, with answers to them all, “Initiative,” “Referendum,” and likewise “Recall!” About the tariff question, too, he has a lot to say. He surely knows his alphabet both ways from schedule “K.” We’re waiting for the news. Suspense makes all our bosoms throb; We’re wondering if they’re going to give dear Uncle Jim a job. He knows exactly how to answer queries on finance. Some folks have tried to puzzle him. They never stood a chance. The questions of our foreign policy he takes in turn And answers them offhand to any one who wants to learn. He knows the way to set ‘em right when times get out of joint; This world to him is one sublime interrogation point. But the question now supreme—with all our nerves it’s playing hob— Is simply this: Is Uncle Jim in Line to Get a Job?
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The Traveler’s Bane
From The Seattle Star, December 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. The old Inns were pleasant In decades gone by, But just at the present There’s none of them nigh. When travel was rougher These Inns served full well, But NOW we must suffer The Small Town Hotel! When, wayworn and dusty We land at the door, The rooms are all musty, There’s mould on the floor. Ah, pity the drummer Who must stay a spell Both winter and summer At this shine hotel! Its beds are all bumpy (Infrequently clean), Its oatmeal is lumpy, Its lights kerosene; Its “linen” is spattered, Its dining rooms smell, It’s blowsy and battered— The Small Town Hotel. Whatever you eat there Is sure to be fried; The landlord you meet there Is weazened and dried; There’s no one to hop at The ring of your bell; It’s awful to stop at The Small Town Hotel.
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The Puritan Strain
From The Seattle Star, December 6, 1912. By Berton Braley. The artists and critics my rave as they will Of prudishness prim and precise, They claim that it hampers their art and their skill To have to be proper and nice. But for all of its squeamishness, all of its cant, It holds us to decency, plain, And I’m willing to lift up my voice in a chant, A hymn to the “Puritan Strain.” It may be a trifle too rigid and grim And hard on the spirit of Youth, But it keeps the commandments from growing too dim And it holds to the right and the truth. It’s harsh and unyielding in many a way That causes but worry and pain, But a man or a nation won’t go far astray If controlled by the “Puritan Strain.” It’s helped us to conquer the country we own Which stretches from sea unto sea, It’s sobered and tempered us while we have grown A nation united and free. It’s grappling undaunted with problems most vast, With power of hand and of brain; That grim, granite purpose will save us at last— Thank God for the “Puritan Strain!”
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Bohemia
From The Tacoma Times, December 5, 1912. By Berton Braley. They eat off a trunk and they sit on a box, The floor is all cluttered with fish-nets and socks, They live on spaghetti and red ink and cheese And talk about “Art” with some unction and ease. Their hair’s never trimmed, and it’s seldom they shave, At “puritan morals” they sneer and they rave; They care not to sweep or to scrub or to dust, They never pay bills till they find that they must, They go in for fads in their manner of dress, They revel in dirt and they’re fond of a mess. Of “base money grubbers” they frequently rant, Referring to artists who “sell”—which they can’t! Yet give them a chance where the cash is the test, They’re just as commercial as all of the rest. They strut and they swagger, they poise and they pose, And each has a horn which he constantly blows, Their minds and their rooms with disorder are rife— And they call this “Bohemian Life!”