Newspaper History

Tag: Arthur Chapman

  • The Tenderfeet

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 24, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.

    From old New York we journeyed westward—
        ’Twas something like two weeks ago—
    We both were armed with six-foot tickets
        Which read for Sheridan, Wyo.;
    When we arrived we bought sombreros
        And I donned cowboy boots, well greased,
    Yet people say, whene’er they meet us:
        “We see you folks are from the east.”

    We thought a few more things were needed
        To make us fit the western scene,
    So chaps and spurs I quickly purchased—
        Likewise a shirt of vivid green;
    My wife is dressed like Annie Oakley—
        She looks a movie queen at least—
    Yet people say, whene’er they greet us:
        “We see you’re just here from the east.”

    We’ve loaded up with deadly weapons,
        We’ve raised our boot heels one inch more;
    We’re wearing hatbands made of snakeskin,
        We’ve read up on wild western lore;
    We talk of trappers, scouts and cowboys;
        Each rides a livery stable beast;
    But still we hear that hated greeting:
        “We see you’re not long from the east.”

  • The Man the Desert Got

    From The Sun, March 7, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.

    He rests, half buried in the drift
        Of waterless and silent strands;
    His fingers clutch a mocking gift—
        The worthless, wind blown desert sands;
    He thought to close his hand upon
        A heavier and yellow prize
    But now his lusts for gold have gone,
        Shriveled beneath those blazing skies.

    The lizard flits about his form,
        The buzzards circle in the height;
    If there be mercy in yon storm
        May he be covered deep ere night;
    And may the rippling sands smooth o’er
        Upon the desert’s face the spot
    Where ends his quest forevermore,
        The quest of him the desert got.

    The trails to distant water holes
        His plodding feet shall ne’er retrace,
    For unto still more distant goals
        The prospector has turned his face;
    These shifting sand hills lose their glow,
        The breeze no more is furnace hot,
    And when the storm ends none shall know
        Where rests the man the desert got.

  • The Magic Mulligan

    From The Sun, December 13, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    A rider from the Two-Bar come with news from off the range:
    He said he’d seen a dust cloud that looked almighty strange,
    So he rode his bronco over, and there, as bold as brass,
    He seen a sheepman feedin’ his flock upon our grass.
    The rider turned home, pronto, and he got the boys aroused,
    And then they started, whoopin’, for where them woolies browsed.
    But I met ’em joggin’ homeward, and I heard the hull bunch groan
    When I said: “Now, turn back, fellers, I must play this hand alone.”

    I was mad clear to my gizzard when I started for the camp,
    And I thought of how I’d punish this vile, sheep-herdin’ scamp;
    I’d escort him to the deadline, where he’d run his sheep across,
    And in case I had to kill him, why, it wouldn’t be much loss;
    And with such thoughts churnin’ in me when I spied his wagon-top
    I rode up to the herder as he watched his wooly crop.
    But he simply grinned up at me, and he said: “Now, pardner, say,
    Let’s set down and have some dinner ‘fore we start to scrap to-day.”

    He had a stew jest ready and he dished a plateful out,
    And I set and et that plateful and I heard far angels shout;
    I could hear gold harps a-twangin’ and my rough thoughts seemed to melt
    As he dished another plateful and I loosened up my belt.
    Then I laid aside my six-guns while the herder dished more stew,
    And at last my foreman rode up, as I knowed that he would do,
    And he set cross-legged with me, and he et, and more hands come,
    And afore that sheepman’s cookin’ quite the loudest was struck dumb.

    It was mulligan he’d made there, all alone out on the hills,
    This here cook whose magic humbled all my fightin’ Toms and Bills;
    You kin talk of hotel dishes, made by chefs from furrin lands,
    But I’ll back this sheepman’s cookin’ ‘gainst all European brands.
    So I says, when we had finished: “You kin make yourself to home,
    You kin pick the choicest grazin’ and allow your sheep to roam;
    We will drive our cattle elsewhere—you kin have whate’er you seek—
    If you let us come to dinner, say about three times a week!”

  • Deception in Cactus Centre

    From The Sun, March 8, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    We are strong, down here in Cactus, for the majesty of law,
    But a heart throb’s sure to stop us ‘ere we make the halter draw;
    That is why we freed a hoss thief that was caught near Bridger’s Buttes,
    Though he rode Slim Johnson’s pinto and he trailed three stolen brutes;
    We was all prepared to send him where he’d join more of his kind
    When he says, “Gents, just one minute, in my shirt front youse’ll find
    A package that I’d gaze on, if it’s all the same to youse.”
    So our leader reached in, rough like, and drew out two baby shoes.

    Well, we stood around there awkward, and we sorter scuffed our feet;
    You could hear our spurs make music, and it sounded soft and sweet;
    We was due to start proceedin’s, it was gittin’ cold and late,
    But somehow we’d lost our ferver to enact the role of fate;
    We jest milled there in the moonlight, and nobody said a word;
    Some was lookin’ to their saddles, but at last Bear Hawkins stirred
    And he freed this hoss thief feller, and we rode away by twos,
    ‘Cause you can’t hang anybody who is packin’ baby shoes.

    Yes, of course the law was cheated, for we found the game was old;
    He had worked the same at Sage Crick, and at Range View, we was told;
    And he never had no children, and the shoes he’d simply found;
    Such we learned, with other details when the story got around;
    But in spite of all the laughter that we’ve drawed down by our act
    We would play the same cards over—that’s a cold, hard twisted fact;
    So we scorn the jeers of Piñon, and we don’t mind Lone Tree’s hoots,
    ‘Cause we know they’d do what we done when we found them baby boots.

  • 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!

  • Prairie Love

    From The Sun, August 27, 1913. By Arthur Chapman.

    The sailor loves the craft he sails—
        He loves each bolt and spar;
    The horseman loves the steed that bears
        Him o’er the plains afar;
    But there is love surpassing all
        Writ in the sailor’s log;
    It is the love that dwells betwixt
        The sheepman and his dog.

    The love is born of lonely nights
        And days upon the plain,
    Of storms upon the mountain tops,
        Of toil in cold and rain;
    At even, in the fire glow,
        What comradeship so strong
    As that ‘twixt dog and shepherd when
        The night wind sings its song?

    The ranch lights twinkle o’er the ways
        Where many comrades tramped;
    They light the uplands, once so drear,
        Where dog and herder camped;
    But still that friendship must abide
        In newer fields afar,
    For love that’s born of lonely life
        Is deathless as a star.

  • 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.

  • The Crusoing of Spifkins

    From The Topeka State Journal, March 24, 1913.
 By Arthur Chapman.
 

 Young Spifkins had a fortune that had come down from his dad—
     He had lived his life in luxury and style;
 The best the market offered was the thing young Spifkins had—
     Existence was a matter of his pile.
 
 But Spifkins had a shipwreck on a far-off Southern shore,
     And all his wood and grub he had to haul;
 He’d thought he couldn’t live without the comforts from his store,
     But soon he had forgot about ‘em all.
 
 He found he could be happy in his tattered pantaloons—
     He never missed his collar and his tie;
 And restaurants and taxis he forgot, ere many moons—
     And, forgetting such, he didn’t want to die.
 
 And so, when some one landed on the isle where Spifkins dwelt,
     He chased the rash intruders from his tent;
 “I’ll not go back,” cried Spifkins, as he whaled them with his belt—
     “I never knew before what living meant.”