Archive for January, 2011

Franklin’s Famous Toast

January 24, 2011

Image from the Why Benjamin Franklin Was So Much Better Than You article on the Zen College Life website.

Franklin’s Famous Toast.

Franklin was dining with a small party of distinguished gentlemen, when one of them said, “Here are three nationalities represented — I am French, and my friend here is English and Mr. Franklin is an American. Let each one propose a toast.”

It was agreed to, and the Englishman’s turn came first.

He arose, and, in the tone of a Briton bold, said, “Here’s to Great Britain, the sun that gives light to all nations of the earth.”

The Frenchman was rather taken aback at this, but he proposed, “Here’s to France, the moon whose magic rays move the tides of the world.”

Franklin then arose, with an air of quaint modesty, and said, “Here’s to our beloved George Washington, the Joshua of America, who commanded the sun and moon to stand still — and they obeyed,”

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Feb 20, 1899

What are Bubbles?

January 23, 2011


“What are bubbles?” asked a child,
Gazing, with bewildered eyes,
On the spheres of fairy form,
Glittering with the rainbow dyes;
“They seem to sail so gaily on,
Yet when I grasp them they are gone.”

What are bubbles? — Careless boy,
Thou ask’st a question rife
With stern meaning deeply trac’d
On the varied page of life;
And a voice, with sadness fraught
Answers from the cells of thought:

Hopes are bubbles, born to burst
When their hues the brightest seem;
And the joy, that o’er our path
Scatter a delusive gleam,
Like bubbles sparkling in the sun,
Are only bright when shone upon.

Fame, ambition, the delights
We have longed for years to clasp,
Won at length, through toil and strife,
Perish in our eager grasp:
Grief and gladness — pleasure, troubles,
All alike are empty bubbles!

Life’s a bubble, bright and brief,
And its ever changing dyes
With a purer brilliance glow,
As it mounts towards the skies;
Till wafted on Time’s passing breath,
‘Tis shattered by the touch of death.

Newport Daily News (Newport, Rhode Island) Aug 28, 1846

Kate Moore and the “Fairweather” Lighthouse

January 21, 2011

Fairweather Lighthouse image from the Lighthouse Depot website. They have more information about the lighthouse and the keepers, including Kate Moore, as well as pictures. The Lighthouse Friends website has a few beautiful pictures of the Fayerweather lighthouse as well as a map showing its location.

The Brave Girl.

ANOTHER GRACE DARLING. — There has recently been a communication in a N.Y. paper, the Sunday Messenger, respecting a lady whom they denominate a second Grace Darling — a young, intelligent and interesting woman, within sixty miles of New York, who has, with the assistance of an aged and infirm father, saved twenty-one lives within the last fifteen years; and yet has never been known to the public, or in any way remembered or celebrated as a public benefactor, which the writer attributes to her being an American, asserting — “had she been English, all Europe would have rang with her achievements, and our public papers been filled with her praises.”

We have been at some pains to make inquiries respecting this lady, and within a few days have conversed with a person who is intimately acquainted with her, and her worthy family.

Kate Moore is the daughter of Captain Moore, who keeps the light-house on Fairweather island, situated midway between the harbors of Black Rock and Bridgeport, Conn. The island contains five acres of land, and is about half a mile from shore. Many disasters, it is known, have occurred to vessels driven round Montauk Point in a storm, and sometimes in the Sound homeward bound, and this lady’s ear is so accurate, it is said she can distinguish the shrikes of the drowning mariner, and direct her barque in the darkest night. She can trim a boat and manage it as well as any man, and seems to make up in tact what she lacks in strength, and never refuses to turn out in the darkest night to the relief of the sufferers. Our informant adds, that she is a highly accomplished and literary lady, perfectly feminine in her manners, and that, although she occasionally visits New York and other places in that vicinity, and has a large and most respectable acquaintance, many of whom know of these facts, they have never come to the knowledge of the public before.

The late lamented Major Noah, who was remarkable for collecting the most interesting facts, by some means became acquainted with them. We also understand that Capt. Moore and his worthy helpmate have resided upon the island over twenty years, and raised a family of five children, upon a salary of $300 a year, all of whom have excellent education, and that they entertain a great many person, who visit the island, with true old-fashioned hospitality.

[Providence Daily Post.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Jun 11, 1851

Kate Moore image from Bridgeport Public Library Historical Collections.

American Biographical Library
The Twentieth Century Biographical Dictionary of Notable Americans
Volume 3
Daughters of America; or Women of the Century
Chapter V: Philanthropic Women
Ida Lewis
page 136

England is proud of her Grace Darling, and her name and prowess in rescuing the drowning is familiar to all who cherish deeds of heroic philanthropy; but England is rivalled by America when Kate Moore and Ida Lewis are mentioned. KATE MOORE was the daughter of a light-house keeper, and her home was Fairweather Island, on the coast of Connecticut. In 1851 Mr. Clement wrote of her, “She has so thoroughly cultivated the sense of hearing, that she can distinguish amid the howling storm the shrieks of the drowning mariners, and thus direct a boat, which she has learned to manage most dexterously, in the darkest night, to the spot where a fellow-mortal is perishing. Though well educated and refined, she possesses none of the affected delicacy which characterizes too many town-bred misses; but, adapting herself to the peculiar exigencies of her [p.136] father’s humble yet honorable calling, she is ever ready to lend a helping hand, and shrinks from no danger, if duty points that way. In the gloom and terror of the stormy night, amid perils at all hours of the day and all seasons of the year, she has launched her bark on the threatening waves, and has assisted her aged and feeble father in saving the lives of twenty-one persons during the last fifteen years.”


How to Learn the Piano Keys in a Quarter of an Hour

January 21, 2011

Image from Zazzle

Somebody having been much troubled to learn the keys of the piano forte, proposed the following lines as an alleviation of the labor:


All the G and A keys
Are between the black threes.
And ‘tween the twos are all the D’s.
Then on the right side of the threes
Will be found the B’s and C’s;
But on the left side of the threes
Are all the F’s and all the G’s.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Apr 23, 1851

Song of the Decanter

January 21, 2011

Another temperance themed concrete poem.

Previous examples:  The Wine Glass and Shun the Bottle.

I  transcribed  this poem (without the shape)  because the copy is pretty poor and thought it might be easier to read:


There was an old Decanter,
and its mouth was gaping wide;
the rosy wine had ebbed away
and left its crystal side;
and the wind went humming;
humming, up and down the wind it blew,
and through the reed like hollow neck
the wildest notes it blew.
I placed it in the window,
where the blast was blowing free,
and fancied that its pale mouth sang
the queerest strains to me:
“They tell me — puny conquerors!
the Plague has slain his ten,
and War his hundred thousand
of the very best of men;
but I (’twas thus the bottle spoke,)
but I have conquered more
than all your famous conquerors,
so feared and famed of yore.
Then come we youths and maidens all;
come drink from out my cup,
the beverage that dulls the brains
and burns the spirits up;
that puts to shame your conquerors
that slay their scores below;
for this has deluged millions
with the la???t?de of wo. [I can’t make that word out]
Though in the path of battles
darkest streams of blood may roll;
yet while I kill the body,
I damn the very soul.
The cholera, the plague, the sword,
such ruin never wro’t, as I,
in mirth or malice,
on the innocent HAVE BROUGHT.”

Sheboygan Mercury (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) Nov 3, 1849

Things in California Observed by Lieut. Morrison Before Being Shot and Killed

January 20, 2011

Image from Bayard Taylor’s Eldorado at Dorothy Sloan – Books

Things in California.

[Extracts from the Journal of Lieut. Morrison, of the New York Regiment of Volunteers.]

Image by James Walker posted on CasCity forum with other images.


The dress of a Spaniard of tolerable means consists of a fine velvet or deer-skin jacket, generally of a green color, with numerous rows of gold or silver plated buttons upon it with a pair of pantaloons of velvet or deer-skin, open from the knee down, and with a row of silver buttons on each side of the opening, confined to the waist by a red silk sash. Over all is thrown the Serappo, a gaily colored blanket, all striped and figured, with a hole in the centre for the head. This, when placed on the shoulders, hangs to the ancle on either side; under the pantaloons are a pair of very wide and loose drawers, and over them, when riding, are wrapped the b?as, pieces of leather reaching to the knee, to protect the lower part of the legs from coating.

They ride very fast, spurring their horses to madness, to exhibit their horsemanship, and the ease with which they rest in their seats, when the horse is rearing, pitching and kicking, is really astonishing. The Mexican saddle, though awkward in appearance, is much superior to ours for riding. They have high peaks, before and behind; the one in front is arranged so that an end of the lasso can be attached to it, after the bullock is snared. The spurs are the most savage and uncivilized looking instruments that can well be imagined, about two inches long, with small bells or pieces of steel attached, which jingle at every step. The stirrups are made of wood, generally ?gnum vita, and weighing from two to three pounds.

Another James Walker piece found on the CasCity forum linked above.


Imagine a drove of fifteen hundred or two thousand cattle roving the plain. The boccaria or lasso-thrower on a horse trained to the purpose, rides into the midst of them, selects a fine fat bullock, steers for him thro’ the crowd, driving the cattle right and left before him; the doomed animal may turn and turn as he may, but the boccaria when within twenty yards of him commences to swing his lasso (a long strip of hide with a noose at the end) around his head, and presently it whizzes through the air and the animal selected is noosed as certainly as the lasso is thrown. The moment the well trained horse of the boccaria hears the lasso whiz he stops perfectly still and bracing himself sideways, waits for the shock. The other end of the lasso being fastened to the front peak of the saddle the bullock is brot’ up suddenly and tumbles to the ground. — The horse being perfectly prepared, his equilibrium is not disturbed. The animal is either killed on the spot, (after two more lassos are attached to his feet to prevent his rising) or lead to the coral (enclosure for cattle surrounded with a high adobe wall.) Wild horses are caught in the same way. — The horses that are broken and kept for riding, being staked out in the plain and bro’t in when wanted.


The gathering of hair to make the riatas or hair ropes which are almost exclusively used here, (hemp being unknow,) it an amusing scene, at least to a Yankee boy. A party of Indians belonging to Gen. Vallejo applied one afternoon for the use of the coral of the Quartel, to drive the horses for this purpose. Permission being given, about a hundred horses were driven in, wild as the beast of the forest, not one of which had been disgraced by bridle or burden. It may be only a mere poetic fancy of mine, but it has appeared to me that there is something more graceful and noble in the movements of an untamed horse, that never “felt the halter draw” — an air of freedom seems to pervade his muscle and motion and frame, that the highest mettled of our domestic steeds never exhibited. To proceed; the Indians bounded into their saddles as with the agility of a mountain cat; by an easy and graceful effort. The nostrils of their horses expanded to the utmost tension, their long black manes and tails streaming in the wind, eretis auribus begun coursing at the top of their speed about the coral. Presently the principal boccaria dashes in among them, (fixes his eye upon one with a luxuriant mane and tail,) and launches the unerring lasso; it encircles the horse’s neck. Another boccaria rides up and throws a lasso low that catches him by the hind legs, and between the two, the poor victim is dragged to the ground. Two or three other Indians spring to him, armed with shears and (pardon the doggrel)

Take off all the hair,
They think he can spare;

and away they go to continue their wild sport. Three or four horses are generally sacrificed in the onslaught. This afternoon a very fine mare, with foal, was killed by the rude violence with which they handled her. But a wild horse is of small account to those who own over two thousand each, as Gen. V., and many others do. The prices of horses here range from ten to fifty dollars, according to their speed and the care with which they have been broken. Bottom is very little thought of, as the inhabitants always ride as fast as the horse can carry them, until he is exhausted, when they mount another, if on a long journey. Instead of slackening speed and dismounting in a civil and christian-like, manner, they keep their utmost speed, and when they reach the terminus suddenly rein back with all their might, throw the animal upon its haunched, and leap from the saddle.

The contrast between men and things here, and our own Estado Unidos, is striking enough. A fertile soil, under the soft influence of its sunny clime, enables the inert, unambitious Spaniard to live and “drag his slow length along” in indolent ease, without any effort of regular habitual industry so necessary to physical, moral and political health, and with no notions of substantial comfort, as understood by us at home. It is, indeed, a matter of surprise to see in this progressive Nineteenth Century Spanish gentlemen, not only of ample means but of great wealth, with costly Parisian furniture in houses of sun dried clay, (adobe) while materials for brick are around them, and without a chimney. We want the energies of the Yankee character to rouse the people to action, create a newness of life and spirit, and prompt them on to improvements. As it is here now, it is Old Spain in her mummyhood, in which the pulse of life is mute, no blood to circulate, no heart to beat, no soul to move with her. *  *


I hope that those who intend to emigrate by land here, will be careful that they are not overtaken by storms, and snows, or want of provisions, on their toilsome journey across the Rocky Mountains. I have seen those who started from the borders of Missouri, hale and stalwart men, hobble down into the plains of California crippled for life.

I have seen brothers who, in the madness of hunger, have fought for the last bit of their father’s dead body, having shared the rest at previous meals! — having been encompassed by snow on the tops of those dreadful mountains. Maidens who left their homes rejoicing in the pride of youth and beauty, in joyous anticipations from this far off land, by the horrors and suffering of that fearful journey, despoiled of their loveliness and bloom, withered into premature old age.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Feb 14, 1849


The New Zealander – Sep 8, 1849

Posted on a message board on

“A Long Road to Stony Creek,” by Rufus Burrows and Cyrus Hall, a California Gold Rush memoir published in 1971, refers to the “killing of Lt Roderick M Morrison of the New York Volunteers by Dr Erasmus French.”

This book only has a “preview” on Google books, so I could only see the following tidbits:



Anybody know the rest of the story?

Looks like a worthwhile read, if you can find the book.  Dorothy Sloan – Books has this description:

729.     BURROWS, Rufus & Cyrus Hull. A Long Road to Stony Creek, Being the Narratives…of Their Eventful Lives in the Wilderness West of 1848-1858. Introduction and Annotations by Richard Dillon. Ashland: Lewis Osborne, 1971. [1] 70 [2] pp., text illustrations, endpaper maps. 8vo, original beige buckram. Very fine in plain white d.j.

Limited edition (#66 of 650 copies). Kurutz, The California Gold Rush 102. Mattes, Platte River Road Narratives 294. Mintz, The Trail 67: “A nice printing of these two short, but dramatic, overland narratives.” Burrows hired on as a herder with Tanner at Sutter’s Fort in 1848 and in the 1850s tried his hand at stockraising in the Umpqua Valley; he gives much detail on these topics in his narrative. He went on to become a successful sheep rancher in Colusa County. His father-in-law Hull also raised sheep in Colusa County and gives some account of how he was faring in that regard in 1875.            $70.00

UPDATE: After receiving additional information from two very knowledgeable persons in the comments (Thanks, Donald and Nannette!) I was able to locate a couple more news clips:

New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian – Oct 10, 1849

The above, sent from “Stanislaus Diggings,” five miles. from the River, was signed by S.W., whose correspondence to the newspaper began with:

Gentlemen — Thinking that yourselves and your numerous readers will be gratified by any news of this remarkable and rich region, I devote a little leisure to give you the benefit of my mining knowledge and observation, and will do so from my daily “log.” I arrived at this place on the 7th April. It is named in honour of Mr. James, who is an Alcalde, and who dispenses food and justice to the satisfaction of all. Hundreds were busy in the ravines washing out the treasures of the gold-laden streams with various success. Sunday 8th. The day is delightful and the scene in the valley is worthy of a painter’s skill, or the pen of an enthusiast.

The next clip is in regards to the death of Dr. Fruend (Donald noted the name change in the comments) :

Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle –  Jun 23, 1858

The Poet Found It

January 19, 2011

1. Poet — “Now for a word to rhyme with ham.”

2. Poet — (As he disappears) “D —! !”

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Jan 30, 1901

Primitive Cooking: Early Days in California.

January 14, 2011

This image (from Corbis) is actually from the Yukon gold rush.


Some Reminiscences of Early Days in California.
[Special Correspondence.]
BOSTON, May 5.

Of the 150,000 males who in 1849-50 were avalanched on California from all parts of the world not one in 100 could boil a potato properly.

A good bread maker easily got his $400 a month. For the first two years, cooks, blacksmiths and carpenters could make far more than lawyers. People on a pinch could get along without lawyers. They couldn’t without cooks.

Many lawyers became good cooks, and stuck to their adopted calling at $300 per month until law practice began to pay. Law didn’t begin to pay until the miners’ juries stopped hanging men for stealing. Their hangings cost the county nothing. Sometimes, it is true, they hung the wrong man, as a warning to the right one. But when the lawyers stopped cooking and got in at their legitimate work, crime became safer.

Indifferent wretches, who could stir flour and water together, fling in a handful of yeast powder and scorch this compound on a frying pan, set up for cooks and made their $200 per month. “Flapjacks” were universal. Within the first year of the raw cookery era of California hundreds of amateur cooks could flip a flapjack on a frying pan by an imperceptible turn of the wrist and flop every inch of the unbaked side squarely on the pan’s bottom. A meal of bull beefsteak, flapjacks and dried apples at the “Astor house” cost $1. The “Astor” was an old ship’s caboose moved on shore, with a brief addition in its rear. Levy, the landlord, used to hang out the sign “Potatoes to-day!” Potatoes were then a rarity. There were no eggs, nor hens to lay them. Mince pies were made of salt beef, soaked to a dead sort of freshness, dried apples and molasses. They sold at $1 each, and were not much thicker than a cake of hard bread. It was no great fete there to bite through four pies if a man could afford it. Beans were universal. In many circles they had them twenty-one times a week. Most American cooks would at first put the pork to boil at the same time as the beans and with the beans. Then they wondered why the beans were so hard. Salt hardens the bean’s heart. They found out at last that the pork should not go into the pot until about fifteen minutes before the beans come off the fire.

Beans were generally cooked out of doors in “Dutch ovens.” The beans cooked while the boys dug on their claims. This peaceful state of things lasted till the miners took to keeping hogs and developed an ambition to cover the Sierra foothills with countless herds of swine. The swine would nose around the cooking beans while the boys were away, and eventually upset the pot and devour the beans. Such depredations led to shootings, sometimes of hogs, sometimes of hog owners, or the hog owner shot the man who shot his hogs or whom he thought had shot his hogs.

Cows also were destructive. The cows would sometimes eat through our houses, of cotton drilling. I returned to my home on Swelts Bar after attending a county convention and found that a cow had eaten through one side of my house and gone out at the other, and on the way devoured all my flour and potatoes. It was indeed a wrecked ranch, for she had not been at all nice and particular while feeding at the expense of a Democratic delegate. The cattle were crazy after salt. Anything which had held salt or tasted of salt would attract legions of cows. An empty mackerel keg, which once unwisely I threw out of doors, brought down from the hills that night, I should think, about forty cows and bulls, who tramped and bellowed and gored each other all night for a lick at that keg. On another occasion they chewed up two flannel shirts and two pairs of drawers — my week’s washing left to dry on the line — for the sake of the salt in the cloth. Of course I got the clothes back, but they had been too thoroughly digested to be wearable. I met a cow one day running off with my best coat. She had chewed and partly swallowed the coat the right sleeve. I chased her and pulled the coat out of her. All this was for the sake of the salt in the coat.

Thousands of miners tried to cook a quart of dry rice at once. The power of rice to swell — and swell when it once fairly gets en rapport with hot water, is something miraculous. It would fill everything fillable in the cabin and keep up a never ceasing overflow over the pot’s rim. I found Jack Ward once in his cabin at 9 o’clock in the evening, so ladling rice from off his pot. He said he had been thus engaged since 7 o’clock, and the end was not yet. Everything hollow in the house was full of half boiled rice. Jack had bought a whole sack. He carried it back next day to the Indian Bar store and exchanged it for other provision, remarking that he thought a pound would last him for the remainder of his days.

The first eggs we had were from the Farallon islands, situated in the ocean about fifty miles from San Francisco. They were laid by sea gulls and “murs,” a black bird with a red bill about the size of a half grown hen. These eggs are about twice the size of a hen’s product. The gulls color their eggs brown. The “murs” put on a mottle of blue, white and black. They are in taste fishy. We did not taste much fish in the first eggs because we were hungry for eggs. But the second panned out piscatorially as much as was agreeable, and by the time you reached the third you could hardly tell whether it was a porpoise or eggs you were eating.

Most miners at first had crude ideas as to the amount of provisions they should buy for times and seasons. Mike Barton came one day in October to the Hawkins Bar store and said he wanted to lay in a stock of grub for the winter. Mike had struck a rich “pot hole” on Gawley’s point. A “pot hole” may be two or three feet deep and as round and even as a stove pipe. Some loose stone lving on the bed rock, and turned for countless ages by a whirlpool, bores it. Then it fills up with gravel and gold dust. Mike had pickle jars full of gold dust buried about his cabin. He kept a keg of brandy on free tap for his friends. Mike was rich for the first time in his life, and life for him without plenty of whisky hadn’t much in it.

Said the storekeeper to Mike: “Give us your list of provision for the winter.” Mike hesitated, “I guess, said he at last, “I’ll have a sack of flour, a sack of potatoes, then pounds of pork, five pounds of coffee, three of sugar, a pound of tea — and — and — a barrel of whisky.”

On Fourth of July Bob Gardiner gave a dinner at his store on Swelt’s Bar. The “boys” smelt that dinner for three miles along the river. Bob waxed patriotic at the close of the feast, which terminated with a plum pudding and “hard sauce.” Bob mounted the table and straddled what was left of the pudding. Next him sat old Turley. Turley’s head was bald. It had gone to sleep and laid on the table beside his plate. Next is was the bowl of hard sauce. Bob emphasized every telling sentence by dipping from the bowl a ladle full of sauce and bringing it down on old Turley’s cranium. This brought down the house every time. When the oration was over you could have taken a cast of Turley’s head in “hard sauce.”

Those were indeed happy, hopeful, flush times. Wages then were still $4 a day, and hen’s eggs were $1.50 per dozen. The hens had then arrived and commenced laying. There’s some fun in laying eggs at $1.50 per dozen.


The News (Frederick, Maryland) May 14, 1887

This advertisement is not  related to the article, but was on the same newspaper page.

The Old Pennsylvania Farmer

January 11, 2011

Bayard Taylor home – Cedarcroft, in Chester County,  Pennsylvania

The Old Pennsylvania Farmer.


I don’t half live, penned up in-doors; a stove’s not like the sun,
When I can’t see how things go on, I fear they’re badly done;
I might have farmed till now, I think — one’s family is so queer —
As if a man can’t oversee who’s in his eightieth year.

Father, I mind, was was eighty-five before he gave up his,
But he wasn’t dim of sight and crippled with the rheumatiz.
I followed in his old, steady way, so he was satisfied,
But Reuben likes new-fangled things and ways I can’t abide.

I’m glad I built this southern porch, my chair seems easier here;
I haven’t seen as fine a spring this vie and twenty year!
And how the time goes round so quick — a week I would have sworn,
Since they were husking on the flat, and now they’re hoeing corn.

When I was young, time had for me a lazy ox’s pace,
But now it’s like a blooded horse, that means to win the race,
And yet I can’t fill out my days, I tire myself with naught;
I’d rather use my legs and hands than plague my head with thought.

If father lived, I’d like to know what he would say to these
New notions of the young men, who farm with chemistries;
There’s different stock and other grass, there’s patent plow and cart —
Five hundred dollars for a bull! It would have broke his heart.

They think I have an easy time, no need to worry now,
Sit in the porch all day and watch them mow, and sow and plow;
Sleep in the summer in the shade, in winter in the sun,
I’d rather do the thing myself, and know just how it’s done.

Well — I suppose I’m old, and yet, ’tis not so long ago
When Reuben spread the swath to dry, and Jesse learned to mow,
And William raked, and Israel hoed, and Joseph pitched with me;
But such a man as I was then, my boys will never be!

I don’t mind William’s hankering for lectures and for books;
He never had a farming knack — you’d see it in his looks;
But handsome is that handsome does, and he is well to do;
‘Twould ease my mind if I could say the same of Jesse too!

There’s one black sheep in every flock, so there must be in mine,
But I was wrong the second time his bond to undersign;
It’s less than what his shares will be — but there’s the interest!
In two years more I might have had two thousand to invest.

There’s no use thinking of it now, and yet it makes me sore;
The way I’ve saved and saved, I ought to count a little more.
I never lost a foot of land, and that’s a comfort sure,
And if they do not call me rich, they cannot call me poor.

Well, well, then thousand times I’ve thought the things I’m thinking now;
I’ve thought them in the harvest-field and in the clover mow.
And sometimes I get tired of them, and wish I’d something new —
But this is all I’ve seen and known, so what’s a man to do?

‘Tis like my time is nearly out, of that I’m not afraid —
I’ve never cheated any man, and all my debts are paid.
They call it rest that we shall have, but work would do no harm;
There can’t be rivers there and fields, without some kind of farm!

Morning Oregonian (Portland, Oregon) Jul 5, 1871

A longer version of the poem can be found in the following book:

Title: Home Ballads
Author: Bayard Taylor
Publisher: Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1882
[Original copyright – 1875]
Pages 55-61

More Paper Dolls from “Aunt Elsie”

January 9, 2011

Oakland Tribune – Oct 20, 1929

Lois was drawn by Edythe Kleebauer, age 12.

Oakland Tribune – Nov 17, 1929

Donna Lou was drawn by Dorthea Baker, age 13 or 15.

Oakland Tribune – Dec 15, 1929

Jackie was drawn by Violet Seara, age 15.

Oakland Tribune – Jan 12, 1929

Mary Jean was drawn by Mercedes Moniz, age 12.


Click to enlarge images.