Tag: David

From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 29, 1915. By David.

I’d love to be sweet sleep, were you a dream;
I’d gladly be the milk, were you the cream;
I’d wish to be an oak, were you a vine;
Were you a lemon, I would be the rind;
Dark sorrow would I be, were you a sigh;
Were you the ointment, then me for the fly;
I’d be a waiter if you were the tips;
Were you a kiss, then mine should be the lips;
Were you the ocean, I would be its roar;
I’d be an apple, if you were the core;
Were you a pen, I then would be the ink;
I’d be a parching thirst, were you a drink;
Were you a needle, I would be the thread;
I’d be the butter if you were the bread;
Me Simple Simon, if you were the pie;
Were you a diamond, I would be the dye;
Or I would be a muff, were you the fur;
Were you a chestnut, I would be the burr;
If you were Wall Street, I would be New York;
I’d turn into a knife, were you a fork;
Were you the sunshine, I would be a flower;
H2O for mine, were you a shower;
Were you a drummer, I would be the drum;
And so it goes ad infinitum.
So all through life we’d never need to part,
But journey hand in hand, and heart to heart,
Though of all varied forms we find in life,
I’d rather be myself, were you my wife.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 10, 1915. By David.

When the farmer from his window views his fields that lie below
And sees the earth in great brown spots beneath the melting snow,
And perhaps a flock of geese a-flying north against the sky;
Then he knows that Spring is coming with its duties, by and by.
And he thinks of all the plowing, and the planting, and the chores,
That Spring brings to the farmer, and he saunters out of doors
Where the sun is shining cheerful, and the south wind croons about,
Sort o’ calling and a-coaxing to the green things to come out—
And they’re sure to be a-listening, and will soon come pushing through—
For though springtime brings its duties, it brings its beauties, too.
Then he feels a sort ‘o hankering for the sorrel team and plow
And to feel the sweat of labor pearling out upon his brow,
And to hear the crow a-cawing in the woods, so shrill and loud
And to see new life a-teeming in every furrow plowed,
And a-looking in the future he can see the waving corn
And the oats and wheat a-bowing in the breezes of the morn
With their tops a-hanging heavy with the dewdrops of the night,
All sparkling in the sunlight with a sort of heavenly light.
Then he forgets his gnarled hands all hardened with the toil,
Forgets his boots warped yellow from contact with the soil,
And remembers but the healthy tan upon his cheek and brow,
Remembers that his once cramped soul is free, untrammeled, now,
And he’s glad he is a farmer, with the whole world at his hands
A-living close to nature with the things he understands.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 3, 1915. By David.

On Farnam Street, where Sixteenth joins, one day
I idly watched the masses on their way,
And as one waking, slowly comprehends,
I knew these for my life-long, well-tried friends,
Who, from the world of fiction strayed away,
Escaping from the printed page, that they
Might taunt me with resemblances unique
Of face and form. I did not dare to speak,
And scarce believed so many years had flown,
For Dickens, Scott and Hawthorne must have known
These self-same folk. They were all here, and more:
Mark Tapleys, yes, and Pickwicks by the score;
Good Don Quixote, without lance or shield.
Rough Robert Burns and gentle Eugene Field
With all their characters. Then Tiny Tim
And Jenny Wren came by with Sunny Jim;
Then Scrooge and David Harum with a Priest;
Then Mr. Opp and Beauty and the Beast;
Perlmutter and Abe Potash, come to life;
And then poor Mr. Caudle with his wife;
And Jean Val Jean with Cossette by his side;
Then Edwin dear, and Angeline, his bride;
And Sary Gamp and Betsy Prigg in tears;
And Marys, Marthas, Clara Vere de Veres;
Shy Minnehaha, too, and Susan Clegg,
And surely that was Amy, Joe and Meg;
Gay Wallingford and Blackie Daw, his pard;
And Eloise without her Abelard.
Here were they all, our friends, the saints and crooks,
To make the characters of future books.
From every walk of life they came to meet
On equalizing plane, the public street,
Where each, engrossed in his own selfish lot,
To jostling stranger gave no second thought,
Though ‘twould bring smiles and tears if they had seen
These self-same pictures on a movie screen.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 29, 1915. By David.

Poor, tired little shoes! Uncomplaining
    They give their life to fulfill
The orders and calls and commandments
    Of feet that never are still.

They tramp o’er the hills and the meadows,
    And mud is their chief delight;
They were trim and shining this morning,
    Now they are a woeful sight.

They are scuffed and muddy and dingy,
    Their tongues hang panting for breath;
For the little feet that wear them
    Have run them almost to death.

And while they are busy destroying,
    I’m busy finding a way
To buy new shoes on the morrow,
    To replace the ones of today.

For new shoes, prized as a treasure
    Today, tomorrow are old.
But at sight of innocent faces,
    I have not the heart to scold.

Though each year they’re a bit larger,
    A cost just a trifle more;
And each year they wear a bit faster
    Than they did the year before;

For the little feet in the future
    Will lose their desire for play,
And soberly walk in the highways
    With no longing or wish to stray.

So I turn to my work with new purpose,
    And new courage for the fight;
And through blinding tears, as I view them,
    Those shoes are a beautiful sight.

Then I gather them up with rapture,
    And thank the Lord with a will,
For the rough little shoes, worn and shabby,
    And the feet that never are still.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 25, 1915. By David.

God’s Temple is the forest, silent, true;
It’s done the arching heavens, gray or blue;
Each rock and tree an altar in the air;
Each leaf a sermon and each flower a prayer.
Here feathered choristers their praises sing,
And sun and rain their benedictions bring;
And here the human soul is often stirred
By unseen forces of an unseen world.
It comes to all of us, the low and high,
Still none can tell from whence it comes, or why.
A little newsboy once, to aught unknown
Excepting city streets of brick and stone,
Was taken from the city man had laid,
And carried to the country God had made.
And in his simple, childlike way expressed
What our minds, more mature, had only guessed.
He stood with hat in hand, and gazed around,
From the cloud-flecked sky to the mossy ground;
The look of cunning faded from his face,
And left a look of wonder in its place.
“Say, boys, it’s a queer feelin’ I have got,
I just want to stand in this one spot,
And look and think and think and look again,”
He whispered low, as though afraid, and then
The trees, the leaves, the grass, with reverent hand
He touched, but still he did not understand.
“It is not here,” he said, “It’s in the air;
It seems to come to me from everywhere,
And touch me here,” and with a sudden start,
He laid his hand upon his beating heart.
With swift glance in the branches overhead,
“Say, it’s like a church,” was all he said.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 3, 1915. By David.

I had a friend when I was down
    And everything seemed rotten,
And all the blessings I had known
    Had long since been forgotten,
When crops were bad and eggs were scarce
    And pigs got in the clover,
Who came and leaned against my fence
    And cheerfully looked over,
And with a smug smile full of glee
    And whistle aggravating
Regaled me with the maxim terse,
    In tone exasperating:
“Remember that behind the clouds
    The sun is always shining,
And clouds of life as well as sky
    Have each their silver lining.”

Oh, then I had a fierce desire
    To seize upon a missile
And end his exhortation
    With the stopping of his whistle.
But with a sickly smile I said,
    All platitudes eschewing,
“That all depends upon the point
    From which you do your viewing.
And also it depends upon
    The way the cloud’s inclining.
’Tis doubtless true, my clouds to you
    May have a silver lining,
But silver linings do not show
    To those directly under.
They may be there; I do not know.
    To me they look like thunder.”

From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 4, 1914. By David.

When you’re roused from your sleep by a terrible noise
At four in the morning, you know that the boys
    Are up for the day, and sigh.
When in through the window a firecracker flies
And bursts on the floor, driving sleep from your eyes,
    You know it’s the Fourth of July.

When the cat in wild fear climbs a tree in the gale
With a bunch of firecrackers attached to her tail,
    Which happens just once a year;
When Towner seeks a hole under the house
And keeps just as still as a poor frightened mouse,
    The Glorious Fourth is here.

When all the world leaves for the woods and the farms,
From the grey-headed sire to the infant in arms,
    We never wonder why;
And when, unawares, drenching all in its train,
Out flashes the lightning and down pours the rain,
    You know it’s the Fourth of July.

When skyrockets burst and cannons explode,
Causing horses to run and upset their load,
    And a general panic is nigh;
When the fire engine comes and commences to play,
And the ambulance carries the victims away,
    ’Tis the Glorious Fourth of July.

When the wounds are all dressed and plasters applied
To scratches and burns, which are shown with great pride
    By little Peter and John;
When each in sweet sleep has forgotten his grief,
You retire for the night with a sigh of relief.
    The Glorious Fourth is gone.