Newspaper History

Tag: Wilbur D. Nesbit

  • 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.

  • Thanksgiving

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 28, 1912.
By W. D. Nesbit.
 

 A little road that winds its way
     Around the hill
 The old, old trees that swing and sway
     The crumbling mill
 The drowsing fields where drifts of snow
     The rambling lane
 The heart that thrills all quickly; so
     We’re home again!
 
 And old-time songs we had forgot—
     This is our shame
 Hushed speech of friends who now are not
     The ruddy flame
 Of great logs in the fireplace there
     And sparks that fly
 The creak of an old rocking chair
     A smile, a sigh.
 
 To gaze out through the frosted pane
     And trace the ways
 We rambled in the sun and rain
     In olden days
 To hear the old gate click, and all
     The olden sounds
 To sit and silently recall
     Life’s varied rounds.
 
 To see the twilight creeping down
     From out the sky
 To see the twinkling lights of town
     To start reply
 To see gray hairs where none were then
     And wrinkles, too—
 To think how has the world of men
     Held me and you!
 
 And to be glad for all of this
     For all the glow
 That lives to bless us from what is
     The long ago—
 To be glad that the wandering ways
     O’er land and foam
 Have led us through the circling days
     And brought us home!

  • The Angel

    From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1912. 
By Wilbur D. Nesbit.
 

 Carve me an angel, sculptor, and let your stone be white
 So white that it will shimmer, reflecting back the light—
 Give it semblance, sculptor—a form and shape like this:
 A lassie wee and drowsy, who gives a good-night kiss.
 Too weary from all her playing to open her lips to speak—
 And carve the chubby fingers that touch her mother’s cheek.
 Ah, she needs no halo—simply a wayward curl.
 That is an angel, sculptor—somebody’s little girl.
 
 What for an angel, sculptor? Get you marble fine
 Carve it with patient purpose, coax it to curve and line
 Drape it with flowing garments, give it the simple charms—
 Carve us a mother holding her baby in her arms.
 Wonderful, tender, hopeful, sweet she must be and wise
 And with the light of heaven glimmering in her eyes.
 That is an angel, sculptor—see that you carve it sure
 Showing the love that surges out from a soul all pure.
 
 Carve me an angel, sculptor. Carve us a woman, old
 And grave in all the wrinkles her withered cheek must hold—
 Wrinkles that tell of sorrow, lines that the laughs have left
 Give her the knotted fingers no longer quick and deft
 Bend her with years of toiling, bow her with weight of years
 Show us the golden beauty wrought of her smiles and tears.
 Tell in the stone the story, how she is wan and worn
 Through all her self-denial for the ones that she has borne.
 
 That is an angel, sculptor. Grave it, and carve it so
 And all the world will see it—see it, and bow down low.

  • The Upstream Pull

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 3, 1912.
By W. D. Nesbit.
 

 It’s easy when you’re drifting with the current down the stream,
 When the oars are shipped beside you and the laughing waters gleam;
 When there’s naught to do but idle in the cushioned seat and bask
 In the happy, glowing sunshine while the water does the task.
 But there comes a sudden waking from the fancy and the dream
 When the time arrives that someone has to pull against the stream.
 
 The fellow who’s contented while the current bears him on
 Finds that every mile he travels shows a wished-for haven gone;
 Finds the water bears him softly where the waiting chances lie,
 But unless he does some rowing it will swiftly bear him by;
 Finds that down the stream the niches that he looks for are all full,
 And that if he’d seek the right one he must turn about and pull.
 
 But it’s easy—very easy—just to float along and dream,
 Yet the man some time discovers that he cannot float upstream,
 And he learns, too, that the world is full of folks that like to drift,
 But the farther down the river there the current grows more swift;
 And he also learns in sorrow that successful ones would seem
 To have no use for the fellow who will never pull upstream.

  • The Distant Hymn

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1912.
By Wilbur D. Nesbit.
 

 In a throbbing cadence,
   Through the twilight dim,
 In a crooning murmur,
   Comes an olden hymn.
 Ringing, rising, falling,
   Soft and low and sweet,
 While the mellow echoes
   Whispering, repeat.
 
 Organ-tones and voices—
   Perfectly they blend,
 Till we fall to hoping
   That they will not end—
 That the lulling measures
   May drift on and on,
 Till they greet the rapture
   Of the glowing dawn.
 
 Rich and low and tender,
   On the air of night,
 Wafting with it incense,
   Bringing us delight,
 Comes the wordless music
   From the far away,
 Lending newer glory
   To the dying day.
 
 Thus may all the singing
   Echo to the throne,
 Like this hymn at twilight,
   Into beauty grown—
 Like this mellow music,
   Perfect and complete,
 Ringing, rising, falling,
   Soft and low and sweet.

  • Trouble Enough

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 23, 1912.
By Wilbur D. Nesbit.
 

   We do not need to borrow
   Our trouble from tomorrow;
 We’ll find enough to worry us before we’re through today;
   We waste our time in fretting
   O’er what’s to come, forgetting
 The goodness and the gladness that are rich along the way.
 
   We do not need to ponder
   On what we left back yonder—
 Back yonder on the blotted page that tells of yesterday;
   We should recall the gladness,
   And not bring up the sadness,
 But let the gloom go to the dark and let the sunshine stay.
 
   This casting up of trouble
   Will only make it double—
 Will only wilt the flowers that are sweet along the road.
   This thing of being tearful
   Instead of waxing cheerful
 Because of what has gone, will only add unto our load.
 
   So, what’s the use to borrow
   Our trouble from tomorrow,
 Or clutch the sorrows that we thought were ours on yesterday?
   Today will have its fretting,
   But let us go, forgetting
 And joy will overtake us while we walk along the way.