Archive for the ‘Married Life’ Category

Shallow Water

December 19, 2012

1840s fashion men women

A HINT TO GIRLS.

An exchange paper says: “We have always considered it an unerring sign of innate vulgarity, when we hear ladies take particular pains to impress us with an idea of their ignorance of all domestic matters, save sewing lace, or weaving a net to enclose their delicate hands. — Ladies by some curious kind of hocus pocus, have got it into their heads that the best way to catch a husband is to show him how profoundly capable they are of doing nothing for his comfort. Frightening a piano into fits, or murdering the King’s French, may be good bait for some kinds of fish, but they must be of that kind usually found in shallow water. The surest way to secure a good husband, is to cultivate those accomplishments which make a good wife.

Wiskonsan Enquirer (Madison, Wisconsin) Oct 20, 1842

1840s couple

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Reasonable

August 8, 2012

REASONABLE

THE handsome, $30-a-week clerk faced the millionaire industrialist. He squared his shoulders.

“Sir,” he said, getting right to the point. “I’ve come here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

The captain of industry studied the young man.

“I see,” he murmured. “Well, let me ask you a question first. Financially speaking, what are your future prospects?”

The young man looked the millionaire right in the eye.

“That all depends,” he replied, “on whether or not I become your son-in-law!” . . .

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Mar 5, 1938

Step Lively

July 25, 2012

THE STREET CAR.

The car stopped comfortably filled,
Then four men got on.
At the next corner seven edged in,
And sixteen got on after that;
Afterward two boys swung on;
Soon a red-faced woman beckoned,
And she go on.
In the midst of the glad revelry
A party of serenaders trooped on.
By and by a colored gemmen,
Redolent of old-mown hay,
He got on.
Then five giggling school girls registered.
A hard-faced mother, with a squalling kid,
Mounted the platform.
Did she? She did?
Then a pompous police officer,
With girth for several.
Ripped in.
There little maids from school
Didn’t do anything but get on.
After a while a street sweeper pushed in,
Then a bricklayer
And a hod carrier.
Three tinsmiths, four stonemasons,
Also a printer,
Two Sunday school teachers,
And a prizefighter.
They got on.
But the “con” didn’t mind — he did his stunt,
And furiously bellowed: “Move up  to the front!”

— St. Paul Dispatch.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 8, 1902

Image from The Historical Museum at Fort Missoula

Dazed a Conductor.

A Western woman who is on a visit to New York was boarding a street car in that city the other day. She had just placed her foot upon the step and was preparing to take another step to the upper platform when, with a furious “Step lively,” the conductor pulled the strap. The car jerked forward and the Western woman swayed back for a minutes, then just caught herself in time to prevent a bad fall upon the cobbles.

She confronted the conductor with angry eyes — eyes that had looked undismayed into those of mighty horned monsters of the prairies.

“What do you mean by starting the car before I was on?” she asked.

“Can’t wait all day for you, lady,” the conductor snarled. “Just step inside there.”

In a moment the Western woman, with a backward golf sweep of the arm, lunged for the conductor’s head. He dodged. The blow sent his hat spinning back into the track. The woman entered the car and sat down. She was flushed, but dignified. While the other women passengers were rather startled, they all knew just how she felt. Then the car stopped while the conductor went back for his hat. The Western woman rode free that time.

The Anaconda Standard (Anaconda, Montana) Jul 23, 1900

Mrs. Stelling has Eloped with a Streetcar Conductor.

Fort Wayne News (Fort Wayne, Indiana) Oct 4, 1894

A PUBLIC EVIL.

You very often notice, as you’re riding in the car,
There’s one distressing feature all our peace of mind to mar,
It’s the fellow right in front of us who holds his paper so,
We’re forced to read the headlines, but the villain seems to know
Just when we get an inkling of a thrilling bit of news,
For he turns the paper over and thereafter he’ll refuse
To let us finish out the line, and so, with soul distressed,
We feel like smiting him because we cannot read the rest.

There’s nothing suits him better than to tantalize our view
With some big headline till he’s sure we’ve caught a word or two,
But just before we’re quite aware of what it’s all about,
He flops the paper upside down or yanks it inside out
And every time we seek to get a fact within our grasp
He upsets all our purposes and leaves us with a gasp,
Until at last we swear it, in a law and rasping tone,
That if we had the price we’d buy a paper of our own.

— Nixon Waterman, in L.A.W. Bulletin.

Middletown Daily Argus (Middletown, New York) Mar 31, 1898

Street-Car Crushed by Train

Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Oct 6, 1883

When Seth Got Home

June 13, 2012

A Touching Ditty in Prose.

When Seth got home from mackereling, he sought his Sarah Ann, and found that she, the heartless one, had found another man. And then most awful tight he got, and so he went away, and bound himself to go and out live oak in Florida.

He pined upon the live oak lands; he murmured in the glades; his axe grew heavy in his hands, all in the wild-wood shades. Mosquitoes bit him everywhere, no comfort did he get; and oh! how terribly he’d swore, whenever he’d get bit.

At last, despairing of relief, and wishing himself dead, he went into the woods apiece, and chopped off his own head!

Thus died poor Seth. So said Bullfrog.

Allen County Democrat (Lima, Ohio) Jul 12, 1856

Nightfall on the Farm

June 9, 2012

Image from MoMA

NIGHTFALL ON THE FARM.

Upon the porch at even
We two together stood,
And listened to the tinkle
Of sheep-bells in the wood.
The locust trees bent o’er us,
White blossoms dropping down,
And, fringed with flowers, before us
The path lay bare and brown.

We heard the sheep-bells music
Far off and dreamy grow;
We saw the white flowers sprinkle
The lawn like flecks of snow;
The roses drew back shyly
Into the silent dark,
But though their haunts were shaded
Their perfume we could mark.

Up in a locust’s branches
A little bird said “cheep” —
‘Twas all that broke the silence
The whole world seemed asleep.
“Good night,” she said. “I love you!”
I said. She did not speak,
But swift she leaned toward me
With tears upon her cheek.

— Philip L. Barker, in Chicago Record.

Freeborn County Standard (Albert Lea, Minnesota) Jun 10, 1896

Change

June 9, 2012

CHANGE.

I.

Shady tree,
Babbling brook,
Girl in hammock,
Reading book,
Golden curls,
Tiny fee,
Girl in hammock
Looks so sweet.
Man rides past,
Big Moustache,
Girl in hammock
Makes a “Mash.”
Mash is mutual,
Day is set,
Man and maiden
Married get.

II.

Married now,
One year ago,
Keeping house
On Baxter Row.
Red hot stove,
Beefsteak frying,
Girl got married,
Cooking, trying,
Cheeks all burning,
Eyes look red;
Girl got married,
Nearly dead,
Biscuit burnt up,
Beefsteak charry;
Girl got married,
Awful sorry.
Man comes home,
Tears moustache,
Mad as blazes;
Got no hash.
Thinks of hammock
In the lane,
Wishes maiden
Back again.
Maiden also
Thinks of swing,
Wants to go back,
Too, poor thing!

III.

Hour of midnight,
Baby squawking,
Man in sock feet,
Bravely walking,
Baby yells on,
Now the other
Twin he strikes up,
Like his brother.
Paregoric
By the bottle,
Emptied into
Baby’s throttle.
Naughty tack
Points in air,
Waiting some one’s
Foot to tear,
Man in sock feet —
See him — there!
Holy Moses!
Hear him swear!
Raving crazy,
Gets his gun,
Blows his head off,
Dead and gone.

IV.

Pretty widow
With a book,
In the hammock
By the brook.

*   *   *   *

Man rides past,
Big moustache;
Keeps on riding,
Nary mash.

— Author Unknown.

Freeborn County Standard (Albert Lea, Minnesota) Jun 1, 1882

Married the Man Who Killed Her Husband and Then…

June 4, 2012

A STALWART, booted mountaineer was kneeling at the feet of the prettiest widow in the West Virginia hills. As he knelt they looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Each seemed to be challenging the other.

The woman was the widow of Sid Hatfield, famous feudist and gun-fighter in the Mingo mine wars. And the man was Sylvester Petry, State trooper and member of the “Law and Order” clan that had slain Hatfield.

It was the man who broke the silence with a startling question.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Oh, how can you dare to think of such a thing?” the young widow gasped.

“I dare because you did it once before,” replied her suitor — and she lowered her eyes, for it was true.

Less than two years earlier, according to court testimony, which is of official record, she had “married the man who killed her husband.”

On this former occasion she had been the eighteen-year-old girl-bride of C.C. Testaman, Mayor of the little town of Matewan. Testaman was shot dead in the famous “Matewan massacrre” — a battle between strike sympathizers and detectives. And a State witness swore that the shot was fired by Hatfield, who was then acting as Mayor Testaman’s own chief of police.

Two weeks later, Hatfield married Mrs. Testaman.

And now that Sid Hatfield, in his turn, had been laid in the grave, making his wife a “gun widow” for the second time, Sylvester Petry was asking her hand in a third marriage.

He must have read surrender in her lowered eyes, for they were wedded within a week, and the lovely girl of the feud country found herself a bride  for the third time within the brief period of less than eighteen months.

Three times the matrimonial wheel has spun for her. Three times she has been lifted for a brief time into the sunlight of love on the apex of its upward swing, and twice she has been dropped suddenly into the shadows of widowhood when flashing guns set the wheel revolving again.

Though scarcely twenty years of age, she has already lived long, if life can bee measured by tragedy, romance and the mysterious play of fate. She was born in the mountains of West Virginia, and the grim setting of her life has never changed. She was herself of the “mountain people” — a daughter of the mysterious ragged hills whose richness in coal has brought about feuds, and massacres and strife and civil warfare.

Here, particularly during the past three years, intermittent guerrilla warfare has raged. Her first marriage occurred in the midst of one of these clashes. Her first husband, C.C. Testaman, was Mayor of the little mining town of Matewan, friend and sympathizer of the miners in their industrial struggles. Sid Hatfield, Testaman’s boy chief of police, was on the same side. Throughout that entire section, he was regarded as one of the most dangerous “killers” allied with the striking miners against the private detectives, the “Cossacks,” State troopers and strike breakers who were fighting the battles of the “coal barons.”

There was no known feud between Testaman and Hatfield, but prior to the street battle in which Testaman was slain, according to whispers which were repeated openly in court and became part of the official record, Hatfield, the chief of police, had noted the beauty of Testaman’s girl bride, by far the most attractive woman in the little mountain town.

Then came the fatal morning of the “Matewan massacre,” on May 19, 1920. A band of coal mine detectives, clothed with State authority, had entered Matewan and evicted a number of families of striking miners, whose houses were wanted for imported strike breakers.

Though the Mayor, the chief of police and practically the whole population of the town were their bitter enemies, the detectives were allowed to complete their work, while the residents watched in sullen silence.

The detectives, nearly a score of them, were assembled on the platform of the railroad station, in the sunshine, waiting for a train that was due within an hour. Mayor Testaman and a few citizens were standing near. Hatfield was nowhere in sight.

Suddenly a single shot rang out. Almost immediately a fusillade followed. The quiet scene was instantaneously changed to bloody confusion. Testaman lay writhing on the platform, mortally wounded. Several of the detectives were down, clutching at their breasts. And from doorways, from behind trees, from behind corners of houses, rifles and pistols were spitting fire.

The detectives who had not been hit darted for shelter, returning the fire as they ran. More than a hundred shots were discharged.

Ten men lay dead or dying in the streets of Matewan. Seven were detectives, two were miners and the tenth was Mayor Testaman.

It occurred to no one at the time that Sid Hatfield could have had anything to do with the slaying of Testaman, for they were friends and were both on the same side in the mining feud. Or if it did occur to any one, he kept silent.

When the news of the battle was flashed to Charleston, a force of State police rushed to the scene. Nineteen persons were arrested and put on trial at Williamson, the county seat of “Bloody Mingo.”

The principal defendant was the rugged, youthful smiling Sid Hatfield — now a bride-groom. But he wasn’t on trial for killing Testaman. He and the others were on trial for the battle with the detectives, and “Smiling Sid” surrounded by his friends in the heart of Mingo County, was confident of a general acquittal.His confidence was in a way justified. Though still a young man he was a feared and famous character. He was a cousin of the noted “Devil Anse” Hatfield, and a member of the noted Hatfield clan, known throughout all America in connection with the Hatfield-McCoy feud that raged for many years along the West Virginia-Kentucky border.

Witness after witness was examined, and “Smiling Sid” still smiled. Beside him sat his bride, the “gun-widow” of a few weeks.Suddenly the name of Testaman was heard from the witness stand — and just as suddenly Sid Hatfield ceased to smile.

“_____ the shot that killed C.C. Testaman was fired from inside the door of a hardware store,” the witness was saying, “and the shot was fired by his own chief of police, Sid Hatfield.”

A silence like death filled the courthouse. A hundred pairs of eyes stared at Hatfield, whose jaw was set in grim defiance, and at the woman who was flushing crimson by his side.

Captain S.B. Avis, attorney associated with the prosecution, lifted an accusing arm and pointed dramatically to the pair.

“And the fact remains,” he said slowly, “that within ten days the widow of Testaman became the bride of Sid Hatfield.”

For a tense moment anything might have happened. What actually did happen, however, was that Sid Hatfield and the other defendants were acquitted, and

“Smiling Sid” and his bride resumed their honeymoon at Matewan.

A jewelry store which Mayor Testaman had owned was converted by Hatfield into a hardware store, which sold among other things, arms and ammunition.

This store, it was said, became a popular meeting place for the striking miners, who recognized in his a leader. His sympathies were all on the side of the miners as opposed to the coal operators and the “Cossacks,” who were now in complete control of the district and were keeping a watchful eye on “Smiling Sid” and his companions. Sid was known as a dangerous character and a “two-gun” man.

One night the little town of Mohawk, where old miners had gone on strike and outsiders had been brought in to take their places, was “shot up.”

Hatfield, his boon companion, Ed Chambers, and several others later were arrested charged with participation in the shooting.

On the day of the trial Mrs. Hatfield and Mrs. Chambers decided to accompany their husbands to Welch.

*   *   *   *   *

It has never been proven in court exactly how Hatfield was slain. Just as he and Chambers, with their wives on their arms, approached the court house a shot rang out, followed by a fusillade. Hatfield and Chambers both fell dead, riddled with bullets. A group of “Cossacks” — detectives, the “law and order” men — stood on the staircase, holding smoking pistols.

According to their story, they fired when they saw Sid reach toward his pocket. A pistol was picked up from beside the body of the slain “Two-gun man.” Reports were conflicting. Mrs. Hatfield declared that her husband was unarmed.

Hatfield’s body was carried back to Matewan by his widow. The largest crowd of mountaineers ever seen in that section gathered for the funeral. Mrs. Hatfield clad in deep mourning, stood at the head of the coffin as the long line of mountain folk filed by for a last look at the face of their dead friend and hero. As the coffin was being closed the black-garbed widow fell across it and sobbed:

“I’ll never forget you, my sweetheart.”

But fate stood at her side.

Six months later, almost to a day, she became Mrs. Sylvester Petry, wife of a member of the law-and-order armed force that embraced the man or men who had slain her second husband.

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Mar 5, 1922

The Married State

April 25, 2012

Image from The Cabinet Card Gallery

The Married State

[Troy Press.]

He tried to kiss Miss Ouri,
But she wouldn’t let him do it,
And she hinted very broadly,
If he tried again he’d rue it.

Then he went for Mrs. Sippi,
A sweetly blushing widah,
But she said, “Utah-dy fellah,
Your suit I can’t considah,

“For I’m just engaged to Georgia,
And never can Nevada
Man so dreadfully persistent,
He’s an awful woman-raidah!

“Idaho’d a field of cotton
Rather n leave this healthy section,
And I never liked a fellah
With a Florida complexion.

“I wouldn’t ‘a gone off with him,
Oregon with any other,
But Iowa lot of money
To a cruel hearted brother.

“I wish you’d asked me soonah,
As it is, I must decline, ah,
So just call on Louisa Anna,
Or visit Carolina.”

But he went to Minnie Sota,
Dressed in a suit of Kersey,
And he told her if she’d have him
He would buy her a New Jersey

And now they’re wed and happy,
And they live in Indiana,
And they’re seriously thinking
Of naming her Montana.

The Atchison Globe (Atchison, Kansas) Apr 23, 1885

Such as…

April 18, 2012

QUITS.

Said a young and tactless husband
To his inexperienced wife,
“If you would but give up leading
Such a fashionable life,
And devote more time to cooking —
How to mix and when to bake —
Then perhaps you might make pastry
Such as mother used to make.”

And the wife, resenting, answered
(For the worm will turn, you know),
“If you would but give up horses
And a score of clubs or so
To devote more time to business —
When to buy and what to stake —
Then perhaps you might make money
Such as father used to make.”

Portsmouth Herald (Portsmouth, New Hampshire) Apr 25, 1899

Woman Prospector Nurses Husband

March 27, 2012

Image from PopArtMachine

WOMAN PROSPECTOR NURSES HUSBAND

Mrs. Patrick O’Hara arrived in town yesterday from Witherspoon canyon in the Tule Canyon district, with the news that her husband, Pat O’Hara, a mining man well known in Southern Nevada, had on July 23 accidentally shot himself in the thigh. He was hunting rabbits and on stopping to adjust the hobbles on a horse his revolver was discharged, the bullet entering a point high up in the thigh. The nearest habitation to the O’Hara camp is at Lida, eight or nine miles distant and owing to the excessive heat on the desert his wife was afraid to risk the long drive over the desert to Goldfield for medical aid and has herself been treating the injured man, assisted only by the few Indians in the section.

Image from University of Texas LibrariesNevada Historical Topographical Maps

There is no doctor nearer than Goldfield and Mrs. O’Hara was unable to leave the wounded man until yesterday, when she drove over the scorching Ralston desert for supplies. She says that the patient is now getting on very well and there are no signs of blood poisoning. O’Hara is a member of the Knights of Pythias and has been in the section for some time engaged in mining. His wife says that they have a good prospect with some excellent ore exposed in a large vein. She was formerly Mrs. Casey, and was known as the “woman prospector,” having traveled far and wide over the desert and prospected alone in many parts of the southern part of the state.

— Goldfield Tribune.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Aug 8, 1910

CENSUS RECORDS showing Patrick O’Hara and wife, Syliva:

***

In 1920, they were listed as living in Lida, Patrick’s occupation listed as miner (gold and silver.) In 1910, they show up in the town of Goldfield, Patrick also listed as a (gold) miner, second marriage for both, Sylvia having had 2 children, but none living.

***

According to the 1930 census, Patrick was no longer working, but Sylvia was a tailoress, in her own shop.

By 1938, old Sylvia was back to propecting!

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Dec 17, 1938

History of the Nivloc Mine – The Beginning