Archive for the ‘WWI’ Category

The Triumph of Freedom, The Fall of the Hun

March 14, 2010

Victory Parade 1919 (Image from

How the Great News Came to Miami.

(As Told By Miss Irene Bewley.)

The thrilling poem which follows, entitled, “How the Great News Came to Miami,” was written just after the greatest celebration the world has ever encountered, on the occasion of the signing of the armistice early on the morning of November 11. The enthusiastic lines were written by Will Allan Dromgoole, a Tennessean for the Nashville Banner and was published in that paper last week. The poem in that paper however was entitled, “How the Great News Came to Nashville” and was paraphrased by Miss Irene Bewley and read in Miss Bewley’s effective was at the Thanksgiving service under the auspices of the Neighborhood Bible Study classes. Miss Bewley’s version of the poem follows:

It crackled in flame down the aisles of the dark,
It flowed in a current of light.
It boomed in a trumpet-voice over the world,
It sang like a bird in the night.
The great, good news of the victory won,
The triumph of Freedom, the fall of the Hun,
And the heart of the tense world stood to hear,
And its great throat opened, to cheer and cheer.

Over the sea in a crackle of fire,
It leaped through the land like a flame;
It waved like a torch in the noon of the night,
It challenged in thunder to fame.
And the great North shouted the good news on,
The West caught the word in the fire-flash blown,
And down through the South, over river and brake,
It thrilled in a bugle, “Awake! Awake!”

The grey dawn broke on old Miami town,
Enrobed on her sturdy rock throne,
And the town that has mourned her own brave dead,
Made the great news all her own.
“Rejoice! Rejoice! We have settled the score,
The dead are avenged; the struggle is o’er.”

And the old church bell at the corner of Tenth,
Lifted its iron tongue,
And it rang, and rang, as only one bell,
Since God made the world, has rung;
“Won! WON!” pealed the old church bell,
“Great freedom has triumphed! All’s All’s Well! All’s well!”
Peace on the land. Peace on the sea.
A tyrant has fallen, the people are Free!

Over the seas where the ships keep watch,
The jubilant proud news sped;
In thundering joy from the living throat,
In the soundless voice of the dead.
And the old bell echoed the vibrant joy,
“We have settled the score for each absent boy.
Won! Won! From your far seas come;
America calls, Come home! Come home!”

On the grime-greyed walls of the dusty streets,
How the flags came rippling out —
Red, white and blue in a gladdened flow
To answer the glad-mad shout.
And the joy of a million souls was voiced,
For even the dead in their grave rejoiced.
“Rejoice! Rejoice!” O, the old bell knew
That the darling dead loved their country too.

The hurrying car and the scare-crow horse
Side by side in the mad ranks drew,
Bearing the flag of the country,
Helping the great news through.
And the great throngs jostled, and roared and sang,
And o’er the noise the church bell rang,
“WON! WON!” O, the mellow, sweet boom,
“Peace shall abound, the wilderness bloom.”

The startled children forsook their books,
The workmen his sturdy tools,
And nobody spoke of the task forgot,
Nor no thought of the broken rules;
While all through the town, tears, laughter and gun
All published the downfall of the Hun.
And ever the solemn old iron bell
Kept tolling and tolling — “God Lives! All’s well! All’s Well!”
And the shades of the great who had mustered there,
A phantom line, thronged the thoroughfare.
For each reveler swore as he marching along
The soul of Old Hickory fed the throng.

O, it flashed round the world in a circle of fire,
It swept in a river of song;
The voice of a God to a listening world —
How the Right had triumphed o’er Wrong.
Up from the half-tilled Southern fields,
The plowman came on the great news’ heels;
And the church bell boomed, a jubilant strain,
“Rejoice! The world shall blossom again.”

And I think that forever and ever will glow
In the heart of this Southern town
The glory of joy that was born that night
When Freedom proclaimed her own.
And that men will go with a softer tread,
Proud of their living, proud of their dead;
Nor forget the message — “God lives, all’s well,”
That the old bell sounded — “God’s bell, God’s bell.”

The Miami News – Dec 22, 1918

Atlanta Constitution - 1912


An interesting literary note comes from L.C. Page & Co., of Boston.

Will Allen Dromgoole, the brilliant Southern writer and poet, whose recent novel — “The Island of Beautiful Things” — is much in the public eye, has quite a time of it trying to keep her identity clear, for “people will insist upon thinking of me a ‘he’ you know,” Miss Dromgoole confides, “and it’s all on account of my name, of course.”

“You see William, a real man name, was the name bestowed on me. There had been several girls in our family and it was devoutly hoped that I should turn out a boy, but I came out a girl, and to relieve somewhat father’s disappointment a dear friend of the family’s suggested that I receive a boy’s name. and so I was called William Anne Dromgoole — William after the dear friend’s husband, and Anne after the dear friend herself. I did not much mind the name William so much in childhood days — in fact I rather liked it, for with a boy’s name to back me up, pranks which were, perhaps, ‘ungirlish’ seemed to be in the order of things. But that name Anne I did dislike!

“One day, coming from school — I was only a kiddie of seven or so — a beautiful gilt sign, bearing the name Allen above a shop door held me spellbound. What a beautiful name Allen is, I thought. Then, I concluded, I’ll have that for a name, too. I won’t have to change my initials and just think how pretty William Allen Dromgoole will sound! So boldly I wrote my new name in a brand new primer. Mother was not so pleased with the name as I had been, when she happened upon it in the book, and scolded me for my foolishness, but secretly I vowed that the name Allen should stay with me. Not long after, baptism took place at our church and without a word to anyone, I became baptized William Allen Dromgoole, and since that time the name has stuck. It was when I started my writing that I decided to cut William to Will, though popularly I am known as ‘Miss Willie.'”

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California)  Jan 12, 1913


One of Tennessee’s Fair Authors Who Is Winning Both Fame and Fortune.


Miss Dromgoole, writer, lecturer, and reader, is a very interesting personality. Small, frail, full of fire and spirit, she impresses one as being a woman of unusual mental vitality and force; one who in the space of nine or ten years has earned a high and unique position in the ranks of popular writers. She draws her power and inspiration from many streams. Irish, French, Danish and English blood flow in her veins, and the fine traits of all these strong people can be traced in her writings. Mr. Flower, editor of The Coming Age, says of her:

“It is not strange that we find in her nature as well as her writings strong contrasts and great versatility.” Her first writing was for Tennessee papers, general correspondence, graphic reports of strikes, descriptive and character sketches. She taught for a year in a college at Sweetwater, Tenn., and was regarded as a teacher of marked ability. Her newspaper work soon won for her a wide circle of admiring readers. She counts as her first decided success in literature the winning of a prize for a story, offered by The Youth’s Companion. This achievement surprised and encouraged her. For a time she filled the position of engrossing clerk for the Tennessee senate. when she desired reappointment there were other women in the field. In her canvass for the place she received the following note from one of the rural members in answer to her application by letter:

“Dear Bill — No, sir, I don’t vote for any d–d man against a lot of women.”

More chivalric than polished, her masculine-sounding name has been the cause of many amusing mistakes. A society of literary men in New York recently elected her to membership and the secretary sent her a badge of the association with the request that it be worn on the left lapel of his coat. she once received a very cordial invitation from Mr. Hesekiah Butterworth, of Boston, to visit him in his bohemian bachelor quarters. Miss Dromgoole’s successes are on many lines — novels, short stories, descriptive work, juvenile stories and verse, in addition to her spririted and delightful readings from her own works. Her principal books are: “The Valley Path,” “Cinch,” “Rare Old Chums,” “Hero Chums,” “The Farrier’s Dog and His Fellow,” “Adventures of the Fellow,” “Harum Scarum Joe,” “A Boy’s Battle,” “The Moonshiner’s Son,” “The Heart of Old Hickory,” “The Three Little Crackers from Down in Dixie;” and she has now in press “A Notch on the Stick” and “The Battle of Stone’s River.” She excels in negro dialect and in rendering the speech of the southern mountaineer; she has also done some very clever things in Irish dialect and that of the street gamin. In her conception of the mountaineer she is discerning and sympathetic. She says:

“The mountaineer, in the rough as I care chiefly to discuss him, is a jewel. He has some strong and splendid characteristics. He is honest, he is the soul of hospitality, he hates a lie, he will pay back an injury if it takes to the day of his death to do it. He takes every man at his word, grants every man honest, until he proves himself unworthy of trust; then he takes him at his true value and treats him accordingly.” She loves the mountains and makes one of her characters say: “A body can’t content his’ef to love the levels when he has once knowed the heights.” She has known the heights and their spell is over all she writes. Her pictures are framed in the blue and emerald of the Cumberland mountains, with their embroideries of shining streams and limitless reaches of the rhododendron or mountain laurel, that matchless flower that blooms in prodigal profusion in every tint from shell pink to gory wine color. Small wonder is it that her aims are high, her sympathies tender, her types noble. She has breathed “the repose that lies on every height;” her brain has been vitalized by the strength of the everlasting hills, and her imagination nourished by their supernal beauty. During the summer months she lives in her little cottage, the “Yellow Hammer’s Nest,” near the Elk river in Tennessee. In winter Boston, New York or Washington city is her abiding place. In these centers she is the recipient of many social honors and is the valued companion of the foremost men and women of letters. She frequently gives public readings from her books. Of these it has been written:

“She is one of the few modern writers who can interpret her creations in such a manner as to delight the most fastidious, possessing the rare power of throwing life into her renditions without at any time over reaching or straining after effect.” *** “Her voice, sweet, flexible and strong, sways her audience at will to laughter or tears.”

Miss Dromgoole has won a place beside “Charles Egbert Craddock,” (Miss Murfee) and Ruth McEnery Stuart. Like Miss Murfree, she is a native of Murfreesboro, Tenn. Had I more space I should like to touch upon the strength of “The Heart of Old Hickory,” the tragic pathos of “In the Heart of the Woods,” then tenderness of “Rare Old Chums,” and the wholesome humor of her negro sketches. To those unfamiliar with the work of this gifted young woman, I will say: Read her books and then you will understand why the south is so proud of her and the north delights to do her honor.

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Mar 25, 1900

Will Allen Dromgoole


A Girl of the Tennessee Mountains Who Writes Entertaining Fiction.

The pretty town of Murfreesboro, the ancient capital of Tennessee, pops up in history occasionally as if it would not be denied a claim to the remembrance of future generations, but it is doubtful if even the fact that it was near the scene of one of the great battles of the civil war will do so much to preserve its memory as the other fact that within a decade two of its daughters have made fame for themselves as writers under masculine names. Will Allen Dromgoole is the latest of these; but, unlike that of Charles Egbert Craddock, whose near neighbor and friend she is, the masculinity of her name is not a mere ruse of the pen, but was the deliberate choice of her parents at her birth.

Miss Dromgoole was the sixth daughter in her family. When she was born, her parents gave up the hope of ever having a son and listened to the half humorous suggestion of a neighbor that the baby should have a boy’s name. As she grew older she developed traits in keeping with her masculine appellation. Her father was  a persistent hunter and fisher, and she became his constant companion. She is an expert with the rod and gun and does not know what “fear” means. Her hunting costume is of gray corduroy, such as the mountaineers wear, and the short skirt reaches just to the top of the boy’s boots with which she covers her little feet.

Up in the Cumberland foothills Miss Dromgoole has a pleasant cottage where she and her father, as chummy as ever, spend their time from April to November every year. The father is now 88 years of age, but is still an expert angler, and many a day the pair of them walk 10 miles in pursuit of their outdoor pastime. Miss Dromgoole christened her cottage “The Den,” but her neighbors call it “The Yellow Hammer’s Nest.” Her study there is decorated with the skins of animals which she and her father have shot, and the floor is carpeted with similar spoils of the chase. The walls are decorated with pipes and walking sticks, gifts from admiring mountaineers. Each of the sticks commemorates a story, and some of them are handsomely carved, for carving is a natural gift of those strange shy people whom Miss Dromgoole has actually as well as artistically “made her own.”

Miss Dromgoole is a prolific writer and finds a ready market for the product of her pen. She studies her characters from the life and knows whereof she writes. Method she says she has none, but depends upon the inspiration of the moment. She recently made an extended visit to the north and was much petted by the literary people of New York and Boston.

Daily Advocate (Newark, Ohio) Mar 12,  1894

Will Allen Dromgoole

The watercolor of Will Allen Dromgoole was found on the blog, Amy’s Art. She has some other wonderful watercolors posted.

Her Hobby Is Tramping.

The Tennessee authoress, Will Allen Dromgoole, has a hobby. It is walking — “tramping,” she calls it. Nine or ten miles of mountain walking is her daily constitutional when at her country home. A short, ordinary skirt, a blouse waist and a soft, gray felt hat with a history form her walking costume. The history part comes in with the only ornament of the hat — a bullet hole of goodly size. Miss Drumgoole has made a study of the coal mines of the Tennessee mountains. When the war with the miners began on Coal creek, she hurried up there to see all she could of it. “Every one of the state authorities was very nice to me,” she adds in telling the story, “but if I wanted to see things for myself I could not be sheltered any more than they were. I messed with them, and one evening at supper a bullet went through the hat on my head.”

Daily Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) May 1, 1894

Tampering With a Bill.

NASHVILLE, Tenn., March 30. — Both houses of the general assembly of the legislature adjourned sine die yesterday at noon. Considerable of a stir was created in the senate in the morning when Miss Will Allen Dromgoole, engrossing clerk, stated that the bill known as the natural gas bill “giving cities the right to convey exclusive privileges,” had been tampered with by someone who had erased the word “natural.” It was evidently in the interest of the companines manufacturing gas. She discovered the erasure in time to replace it. Numerous attempts had been made from time to time to secure ths bill by gentlemen of standing, as is charged, for fraudulent purposes.

Newark Daily Advocate (Newark, Ohio) Mar 31, 1887


(Will Allen Dromgoole in the Nashville Banner.)

Hush-abye baby, de winter winds croon.
Hush-a-bye, summer will come along soon,
De wind’s in de meader, the rain’s in de brake,
But mammy gwine sing a li’l song for yo’ sake,
Hush-a-bye, baby, to slumber and sleep,
Under de snow-sheet de violets creep.

Hush-a-bye, baby, de change in de moon
Tell ’bout de roses dat comin’ wid June;
De wind will lay low, de rain gwine ter stop,
De sun wahm de furrer for daddy’s cawn crop;
Den hush-a-bye, baby, to sleep till de mawn,
Dar’s hawg an’ dar’s hominy bofe in dat cawn.

Hush-a-bye, baby, de fire on de h’a’th
Paints on de floor ob de cabin a path,
Down through de orchard, out to de sheep fol’,
Draws it, and paints it in shimmery gol’;
Den hush-a-bye, baby, no use fer ter fret,
Mammy gwine make you a fine lady yet.

Mammy gwine dress you in wahm rabbit skin,
Down fum yo’ foots ter de tip ob yo’ chin,
Daddy gwine git out de plow, by and by,
So hush-a-bye, baby, ’tain’t no use ter cry,
De wind at de winder will crackle an’ croon,
But I hear de Night laffin’ an’ talkin’ of June!

Fitchburg Daily Sentinel (Fitchburg, Massachusetts) Apr 26,  1913

The Heart of Old Hickory and Other Stories of Tennessee – by Will Allen Dromgoole (google book LINK)

The Politics of War: “The Roundabout Committee and the Circumlocution Board”

March 13, 2010


(The following poem is a good piece of work by Wallace Irwin, well known writer. It is entitled “The Roundabout Committee and the Circumlocution Board”):


A national went to war against a rather ruthless foe;
It hadn’t any army, so it wondered who would go
To do the deeds of valor which the crisis did require,
To help the French to take the trench and do it under fire.

So congress got together and the senate did the same
To raise a million soldiers who would put the foe to shame,
And they quickly passed the matter up, with one complete accord,
To the Roundabout Committee and the Circumlocution Board.

Now the Roundabout Committee sat and talked for weeks and weeks
On methods of preparedness among the Ancient Greeks
While the Circumlocution Board it scratched its thoughtful double chin,
And lingered late in wise debate on “Where Shall We Begin?”

A patriot rushed in and cried, “The foe is at our gate!”
But the Circumlocution Board replied, “Just tell him, please, to wait.
We’re listening to an army plan devised by Senator Droop
To raise nine million soldiers through his correspondence school.”

Then the patriot, who was hasty, raged and stamped upon his hat,
“You’re really doing nothing and you’re taking years at that.”
Whereat the wise committee bobbed its head and answered, “True.
Take note of that, stenographer. That’s what we’re here to do.”

A military training bill the president did advise
They set upon with pencils and reviewed with hostile eyes.
“It is much too plain and simple. Let’s revise it so and thus;
We can jumble any issue, if you’ll leave the job to us.”

So at last the land grew weary and implored with shrieks and sobs.
“Let our warfare be conducted by some men who know their jobs.
Are our railroads run by poets? Or do cobblers harvest hay?
Then in military matters why should windmills rule the day?”

But the question was so pointed and its moral so direct
That it could not thread the labyrinthine hallways, we suspect,
Leading to the inner sanctum of the crooked wooden sword,
Of the Roundabout Committee and the Circumlocution Board.

The Evening News – San Jose, CA – Apr 30, 1917

Kaiser Bill Gets Kicked Out of Hell

March 12, 2010

General Pershing (Image from



Birdsboro, May 4. — Miss Bertha Squibb, of the freshman class of the local high school is certainly not pro-German, and is intensely full of the hope that the allies will vanquish the kaiser and his fellow fighters. In her spare time she has composed some poems that give her ideas of the German emperor and tell in a rhythmic way what she thinks of him. In the same poetic strain, she pays tribute to Gen. Pershing, and her efforts are certainly praiseworthy, considering her years and opportunities. Two of her rhymes follow:

A Salute to Gen. Pershing.
Hurrah for General Pershing
And our noble boys in France,
When they see the Germans coming
They will make them squeal and dance.

Oh, brave boys, be like Washington,
And fight so bold and true,
To save our country’s colors
Our own red, white and blue.

Then we will sing “America,”
With all our heart and voice,
And all our allied countries
Will help us to rejoice.

Old Kaiser Bill.

Ah, when our boys meet Kaiser Bill
They’ll take him by the ear
And gently lead him to a hill
To hang him without fear.

Methinks that Bill, with trembling lips,
Will stretch out his big hand,
And shout, “Hurrah, America,”
God save your glorious land.

They scarce will heed his pentinence,
Nor listen to his plea,
But will him well, as he goes hence,
Suspended from a tree.

Reading Eagle – May 4, 1918

Kaiser Wilhelm II (Image from


There’s a story now current, though strange it may seem,
Of the great Kaiser Bill and his wonderful dream.
Being tired of the Allies, he lay down to bed,
And among other things, he dreamed he was dead.
On leaving the earth, to heaven he went straight;
Arriving up there, he knocked at the gate.
But Saint Peter looked out, and in a voice loud and clear
Said, “Begone, Kaiser Bill, we don’t want you here.”
“Well,” said the Kaiser, “that’s very uncivil;
I supposed, after that, I must go to the devil.”
So he turned on his heel, and off he did go
At the top of his speed, to the regions below.
And when he got there, he was filled with dismay,
For while waiting outside he heard Old Nick say
To his imps, “Now, look here, boys, I give you all warning;
I’m expecting the Kaiser down here in the morning;
But don’t let him in, for to me it’s quite clear
He’s a very bad man, and we don’t want him here.
If he ever gets in; we’ll have no end of quarrels;
In fact, I’m afraid he’ll corrupt our good morals.”
“Oh, Satan, my dear friend,” the Kaiser then cried;
“Excuse me for listening while waiting outside;
If you don’t admit me, then where can I go?
Oh, do let me in, for I’m feeling quite cold.
And if you want money, I’ve plenty of gold!
Let me sit in a corner no matter how hot.”
“No, no,” said Old Nick, “I certainly will not;
We do not admit folks for riches or wealth;
Here are sulphur and matches, make a hell for yourself.”
Then he kicked William out, and vanished in smoke.
And just at that moment the Kaiser awoke
and jumped out of bed in a very bad sweat.
and said, “Well, that dream I shall never forget.
That I won’t go to heaven I know very well
But it’s really too bad to be kicked out of hell.”

–W.A. Daly, 521 Pike Street.

Reading Eagle – Aug 5, 1917


Tune: “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” [scroll down for music ]

Everybody get together,
Sing and should with all your might,
For our boys have helped the allies
Beat the Germans in a fight.
And the way our kids are plugging
Fills our hearts with glorious pride —
For they met the German murderers
And “took it out their hide.”


When you hear the news from ‘cross the sea,
How our boys have won a victory.
You want to sing and shout our praise most gloriously
And have a hot time in the old tonight.
My baby.

Cheer our boys for all that they have done;
They have got the Germans on the run —
And when we hear that they have captured Bill, the Hun,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.

When we know the battle’s over
And our boys are homeward bound,
Then, oh then, we’ll bust the welkin
With a never-ending sound.
We will show the world
America — stand for Democracy
And we lick the Huns to give our sons
The same old Liberty.


Reading Eagle – Jul 20, 1918

WWI: No One Need Be Hungry

March 12, 2010


Set Aside Week to Encourage Use of More Potatoes in Place of Flour.

This is Something New.

Use of more potatoes and less flour is the aim of national potato week, set aside by the government as October 22 to 27. The home economics department at Iowa State college suggests the substitution of potatoes for part of the flour in various cake recipes, such as the following, will help:

Chocolate Potato Cake.

1-3 c butter [I am not sure if they mean 1/3 c or ?]
1 c sugar
2 eggs
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 c flour
2 tsp baking powder
2 squares chocolate (melted)
1/2 c mashed potatoes
1/4 c milk
1 tsp vanilla

Cream butter, add sugar and mix well. Add egg yolks well beaten and continue mixing till creamy. Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, flour and baking powder which have been mixed and sifted together. Add the melted chocolate, hot mashed potato, milk and vanilla. Beat well. Add the stiffly beaten egg white. Pour into two layer cake pans which have been lined with waxed paper. Bake in a moderate oven for 30 minutes.

The Carroll Herald – Oct 24, 1917

A Wheatless Recipe

Try this for the next wheatless day. They call it spider corn bread:

1-1/2 cups corn meal
2 cups sour milk
1 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
2 tablespoons butter

Mix the dry ingredients. Add the eggs well beaten and the milk. Place the butter in a frying pan, melt it, and grease the pan well. Heat the pan and turn in the mixture. Place in a hot oven and cook 20 minutes.

This serves six people.

This recipe is one out of 61 recipes contained in “The Cornmeal Book,” which The Milwaukee Sentinel Information Bureau will send you FREE.*

Enclose a 2-cent stamp for return postage on the book, and send the coupon to THE MILWAUKEE SENTINEL INFORMATION BUREAU, FREDERIC J. HASKIN, DIRECTOR, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The Milwaukee Sentinel – Dec 18, 1917

*Probably no longer available.

Washington. Sept. 8. — Have you tried “fifty-fifty biscuits” — Uncle Sam’s latest idea for saving wheat flour in hot bread? You use two cups of corn meal, soy beans which can be home ground, finely crushed peanuts, or rice flour to two cups of white flour. Or you can use one cup of corn meal and one cup of ground soy beans or crushed peanuts with the wheat product.

You can make “fifty-fifty” muffins with 1 1/2 cups of cooked and mashed sweet potatoes or Irish potatoes or cooked cereal or ground soy beans, to an equal amount of flour.

Then there are “fifty-fifty” recipes for wafers and for corn-meal cookies.

Milwaukee Journal - Dec 23, 1917

How to make all these “fifty-fifties” as well as home methods for entire corn-meal gems and yeast breads and rolls made in part of finely crushed peanuts, sweet or Irish potatoes, soy-bean meal which can be made at home by grinding soy beans in a handmill, rice, corn meal or cooked cereals, are described in detail in United States department of agriculture circular No. A 91. “Partial Substitutes for Wheat in Bread Making.” Here is a sample recipe — the one for “fifty-fifty” biscuits as worked out by Hannah L. Wessling, specialist, in home demonstration work:

“Fifty-Fifty Biscuits.”

Two cups corn meal, ground soy beans or finely ground peanuts, rice flour or other substitute.
Two cups white flour
Four teaspoons baking powder.
Two teaspoons salt.
Four tablespoons shortening.
Liquid sufficient to mix to proper consistency (1 to 1 1/2 cups).

Sift together the flour, meal, salt and baking powder twice. Have the shortening as cold as possible and cut it into the mixture with a knife, finally rubbing it in with the hands. Mix quickly with the cold liquid (milk, skim milk or water) forming a fairly soft dough which can be rolled on the board. Turn onto a floured board; roll into a sheet not over one-half inch thick; cut into rounds; place these in lightly floured biscuit tins (or shallow pans), and bake 10 to 12 minutes in a rather hot oven. If peanuts are used, the roasted and shelled nuts should be finely crushed with a rolling pin.

In making the flour and peanut biscuits the flour and other dry ingredients should be sifted together twice and then mixed thoroughly with the crushed peanuts.

The Evening Independent (St. Petersburg, Florida) – Sep 8, 1917

Pumpkin Pone (Image from

These next two recipes actually sound pretty good. In regards to the Pumpkin Pone, I ran across a couple of  recipes online, and they include coconut and spices etc., so a bit more fancy than this war-time version.

Milwaukee Journal - Dec 23, 1917

Let’s Eat More Cornmeal

Following is a third series of cornmeal recipes suggested by the home economics department of Iowa State college, which is advocating the use of more cornmeal to conserve the flour supply of the country:

Rice and Cornmeal Gem.

1 c cornmeal,
1 tsp salt,
1 tbsp flour,
6 tbsp raw rice (1 1/2 c cooked),
1 egg,
1 tbsp fat,
4 tbsp baking powder,
Milk to make batter.

[No instructions for what to do with the ingredients, so I guess they assume everyone can figure it out? Back in the day, I suppose that might have been the case.]

Cornmeal and Pumpkin Pone.

1 qt well cooked pumpkin,
1 c cornmeal,
2 c sweet milk,
1 tbsp salt,
1 c sugar,
1 tsp soda.

Stir the cornmeal into the hot pumpkin; then add milk, salt and sugar. Add enough more cornmeal to make the mixture stiff enough that it will hold its shape when dropped from the spoon. Then stir in soda (dissolved in boiling water). Bake an hour and a half or longer. The longer it bakes the sweeter it seems.

The Carroll Herald – Jun 6, 1917

Don’t forget the children!

Every child can help. No one need be hungry.

WWI: The School Garden Army

March 12, 2010

The government using propaganda to target children?  The use of the “Pied Piper” as the Government luring the children away seems rather creepy to me.


(United Press Staff Correspondent)

WASHINGTON, Aug 29. — Uncle Sam has just recruited and trained an army of 800,000 American boys and girls, who will be on duty at state and county fairs everywhere this fall.

Their work now consists of helping their fathers and mothers preserve, pickle, dry and can the enormous surplus of America’s war gardens. Their work at the fairs will consist of practical demonstration of methods.

It is estimated that this juvenile army will exhibit its prowess and products to about 20,000,000 Americans.

They will be the principal attraction at the series of Food Training Camps the Department of Agriculture is organizing for every section of the country for late August, September and October.

The boys and girls in this great food drive are members of the thousands of Boys’ and Girls’ clubs organized by and working under the direction of the United States Department of Agriculture.

The national headquarters is at Washington with a specialist of the juvenile extension department in charge.

Each day at the Food Training camps the children will can and dry food product in different ways, giving the public a correct idea as to how it should be done.

The particular boys and girls who will demonstrate for the state colleges of agriculture and for the government, are now being chosen through a series of competitive tests in practically every community in the country. These contests are being held in the schools, at community fairs and picnics and at other public gatherings. Only the winners in the larger local contests, who have shown by their work that they are capable of discharging the tasks the government will give them, will be permitted to demonstrate at the Food Training Camps.

The Evening News – San Jose, CA – Aug 29, 1917





There are 7,089 gardens at the various school centers under cultivation, according to a bulletin issued by Dr. D.S. Foos, school superintendent. The report of the Reading school gardens for the spring of 1918 has been presented by the Supervisor G.W. Kreider, in charge of this feature of educational work.
A synopsis of the report follows:

“During February and March every school was visited and talks given as to how food can and will help win the war. The subject of equipment, the choosing of a desirable plot of ground, the conditions to be noted in good soil and location, and the possibilities in apparently inferior soil were topics taken up for discussion. Suggestions were offered on the development of a plan for their gardens so that all available space may be used to the best advantage. Emphasis was placed upon the subject of fertilization, the choosing of good seeds, planting and cultivation.

“Through the kindness of the officials at Washington we were able to get quite a quantity and a variety of good seeds, which were distributed among those who promised to use them. Many pupils purchased others in addition, realizing an opportunity of taking part in a project of educative advantage as well as performing a patriotic duty.

Over 7,000 Gardens.

“As a proof of the interest manifested by teachers and pupils in this project, there are reported at this time, 7,089 gardens under cultivation. Many of the teachers have 100 per cent. enrollment, and as high as 75 per cent. efficient gardens.

“The pupils this year have changed the name of ‘war gardens’ to ‘victory gardens,’ thus seeming to realize the meaning of their labor. They call the weeds ‘Huns’ and their slogan is ‘I will not be a slacker; I will kill the Huns.’

“Each teacher has been asked to supervise the gardens of her school, which plan last year proved very satisfactory.

“It is the intention of the committee of teachers to visit every garden a few times during the year, for the purpose of giving encouragement. At the same time the environment of the pupil may be studied and adverse conditions noted. Such cooperation with parents and the community will tend to make better citizens.

Tent Space at Fair.

“The Berks County Fair Association has consented to give us tent space this fall, where we may exhibit the products to advantage. To encourage the pupils in their garden work the association will offer a number of premiums. Through the kindness of the business people of the city of Reading we will be able to offer other useful premiums.

“It is the intention of the committee to have a list printed to be given to each pupil, stating the premium offered for the varieties of vegetables in proper quantities, feeling sure that through this incentive quite a number of new gardens will be cultivated.”

Reading Eagle – May 12, 1918

Mary Miles Minter: Waving the Tomahawk and Dancing the War Dance

March 11, 2010


As Told By


To Send Bullets to Huns.

I guess I’m a bit emotional or temperamental on this subject of Liberty Bonds and my reasons for buying them, and generally get worked up mightily over it. When it comes to any subject touching upon the protection of American or American ideals or dealing with the atrocities of the Germans I just can’t help waving the tomahawk and dancing the war dance a few measures.

I buy Liberty Bonds because the government won’t sell me a cannon and let me take it across to Germany and use it myself on those nasty baby-killers. If they’d let me do that, I wouldn’t buy a Liberty Bond because a Liberty Bond means that I’ll get my money back some day with interest on it and the way I fell about it, I don’t want anything back that I can send to the Germans! They’re welcome to all I’ve got in the shape of shells and bullets, but since a girl is not allowed to do this then I must do the next best thing and make it possible for someone else to take the cannon and the bullets over there.

Honestly, my reason for buying every bond I can stagger under is not because they are the best investments in the world, because they have all the safety of hte greatest security behind them or because they pay good interest and are free from most forms of taxation (which is reason enough, goodness knows, for the fellow who squeezes the dollar) but I buy them because I have a mother and a sister and a grandmother; I buy them because I know a little year-old baby that lives next door; I buy them because I have a sw–(but that’s nobody’s business) and everytime I look at them I say, “Just because your’re mine and I love you doesn’t make you  any different before God from the mothers and sister and grandmothers and babies and –” you know, everything that lived in Belgium and France when the war started, and every time I look into their eyes, I can imagine that it wasn’t Belgium at all that was raided, but America, and I can see those blood-soaked Germans doing to my people what they did to others and I — but there, there, I’m getting excited. All the same, I feel that if it hadn’t been for those poor people who were sacrificed it might have been my own people — that even yet if the Germans aren’t wiped off the face of the earth there is still a chance of its being my people — my people — the people I know and love and live with, and I see red!

I’m a baseball fan. Aren’t you? Ever since I was knee high to a duck and ran away from home and played with the boys on the vacant lots I have loved baseball. We used to buy bats for a quarter each — not very good bats — but good enough. I remember I had a sweetheart then who was the best batter inthe lot. I bought him a bat — he hit the ball with it so hard that it broke my nice shiny red club and I cried but he knocked the ball so far we made four home-runs in a row and I was so happy I kissed him even while I cried over the bat. I often wish I could buy baseball bats instead of bonds and hit the Germans with them so hard I’d break every bat over their heads and drive them clear off the lot. Somebody told me that every quarter now-a-days paid for five bullets. That’s the real reason I buy bonds.

The Pittsburgh Press – Oct 3, 1918

City of Orange, CA (Image from

From the City of Orange website:

At the time of World War I, Orange residents supported the war effort with many Liberty Bond rallies. One of the bond parades at the Plaza was filmed and featured the movie star Mary Miles Minter, the war tank “Victory” and Company 76. A Peace Parade and Program for returning soldiers and sailors was held on Christmas Day 1918 in the Plaza.

Taylor and Minter (Image from

Cold Case Crimes Los Angeles has an interesting piece regarding the murder of William Desmond Taylor.  Evidently, Mary Miles Minter had  a relationship with him at one time. You can read  the theories of “who done it”  at this LINK.

WWI: Snapshots and Snippets

March 11, 2010

New York, Dec. 7. — There is no happier woman in the metropolis today than Mrs. Margaret O’Brien, mother of Lieutenant Patrick O’Brien, American member of the British Royal Flying corps. She is expecting her son any day to tell her with his own lips the story of his miraculous escapes, first from death when his airplane dropped 8,000 feet to a point behind the German lines and then from the train which was bearing him to a German prison camp after he got out of a German hospital.

Mrs. O’Brien has had a short telegram saying the airman was safe in England and was coming home to join the American air forces.

O’Brien, flying over the German lines August 17, engaged four enemy flyers. He dropped one of them before he received a bullet in the hip and his plane was disabled. When he became conscious after his fall he was in a German hospital. His fellow flyers had posted him as missing and given him up for dead.

He was put aboard a train with other prisoners to be transported to a prison camp, but leaped off the train while it was going 30 miles an hour.

By walking at night, swimming rivers and eating such foods as he could find in the fields he reached the Dutch frontier to find himself barred in by wide entanglements of charged wire. He went back into a forest, built himself a bridge of branches and at night threw his bridge over the entanglements. As he was crossing, the bridge gave way and O’Brien received a shock he will never forget. He dug his way under the entanglements with his hands and walked through Holland to a boat for England.

Seventy-two days elapsed from the day he was dropped by the bosche airmen until he set foot in England.

St. Petersburg Daily Times – Dec 8, 1917

It is Col. Gardner now. He was representative from Massachusetts and fought for preparedness. Soon after declaration of war, he resigned his seat in congress and enlisted as colonel in the officer’s reserve corps.

The Pittsburgh Press – May 31, 1917

Sadly, Major Augustus Peabody Gardner (he was promoted) died of pneumonia before making it to the front lines. NYT obituary: PDF LINK

A 2009 article about the sad shape of the Gardner Auditorium in Massachusetts can be found at BOSTON.COM

“Captain” Stark as Mrs. Stark is called by the band of fearless Florida girls she heads, is a sister of Hoffman Philip, new U.S. minister to Columbia. The girls, armed with rifles and automatics patrol the east coast of Florida in the vicinity of Mayport in search of pro-German activities.

The Evening Independent – Apr 22, 1918

The Red Cross

The Crimson Cross.

Outside the ancient city’s gate
Upon Golgotha’s crest
Three crosses stretched their empty arms,
Etched dark against the west.
Blood from nail-pierced hands and feet
And tortured thorn-crowned head
And thrust of hatred’s savage spear
Had stained one dark cross red.
Emblem of shame and pain and death
It stood beside the way,
But sign of love and hope and life
We lift it high today.

Where horror grips the stoutest heart,
Where bursting shells shriek high,
Where human bodies shrapnel scourged
By thousands suffering lie;
Threading the shambles of despair,
Mid agony and strife,
Come fleeting messengers who wear
The crimson cross of life.
To friend and foe alike they give
Their strength and healing skill,
For those who wear the crimson cross
Must “do the Master’s will.”

Can we so safely sheltered here,
Refuse to do our part?
When some who wear the crimson cross
Are giving life and heart
To succor those who bear our flag,
Who die that we might live —
Shall we accept their sacrifice
And then refuse to give?
Ah, no! Our debt to God and man
We can, we will fulfill,
We, who wear the crimson cross,
Must “do the Master’s will.”

— By Elizabeth Brown Due Bridge, in Sault Ste Marie (Mich.) Daily News.

St. Petersburg Daily Times – Dec 7, 1917

Posts about  WWI canteen workers:

Diary of a WWI Canteen Worker

Canteen Worker Goes the Extra Mile for a Wounded Yank

The Average New Yorker Becomes a Canteen Worker

From Soldier’s Mother to Canteen Worker

The Boy Enlists.

His mother’s eyes are saddened, and her cheeks are stained with tears,
and I’m facing now the struggle that I’ve dreaded thru the years;
For the boy that was our baby has been changed into a man.
He’s enlisted in the army as a true American.

He held her a moment in his arms before he spoke,
And I watched him as he kissed her, and it seemed to me I’d choke,
For I knew just what was coming, and I knew just what he’d done!
Another little mother had a soldier for a son.

When we’d pulled ourselves together, and the first quick tears had dried,
We could see his eyes were blazing with the fire of manly pride;
we could see his head was higher then it ever was before,
For we had a man to cherish, and our baby was no more.

Oh, I don’t know how to say it! With the sorrow comes the joy
That there isn’t any coward in the make-up of our boy.
And with pride our hearts are swelling tho with grief they’re also hit,
For the boy that was our baby has stepped forth to do his bit.

The Carroll Herald – May 30, 1917

The “Tea Party” and the Kaiser

March 11, 2010

For the freedom of the world. Subscribe to the National Loan at the Banque Nationale de Credit. Signed: SEM 1917



My grandsire painted red his hide
In ancient Mohawk style,
And crept down to the Mystic side
To wait a little while.

Then other Yanks in redskin guise
Collected at the bay
And took the tea ship by surprise
And threw the tea away.

Old George the Third was much adverse
To freedom for the Yanks
His taxes were a deadly curse —
He taxed and gave no thanks.

But when the Mohawk Boston men
Dumped all the tea to port
Kind George began to think again
And arm for warlike “sport.”

He sent his Hessians over here
To kill Cap. Barker’s boys.
To burn the school and meeting house
and other such annoys;

But when they came to Bunker Hill
That jolly day in June
And Warren met ’em with a will
They piped another tune.

The Yanks have got a job today
That’s worthy of the race;
The kaiser treads a rocky way
And spars to save his face.

But all the Yanks have gone to France
En route for old Berlin;
If we buy Bonds at every chance
You bet the Yanks will win!

Our grandsires dishes King George’s will
And salted all his tea.
Our boys will do the same for Bill,
Kaiser of Germany!
The only way to push the work
And make Berlin our own,
Is this: Get busy, do not shirk

The Carroll Herald – Sep 25, 1918

The allied flags bearing down on Kaiser Wilhelm II. The Liberation Loan. By Abel Faivre 1918.

The two images in this post can be found HERE, along with several other French Posters from WWI.


By Robert Adger Bowen,
of The Vigilantes.

Somewhere in France! ‘Tis all that I may know
Of him, my hero, with the first to go
where Duty to his country’s high emprise
Called to the answering manhood in his eyes,
As calleth Deep unto the depths below.

For him there was no waiting for the slow
Uncertain summons. In his ear the blow
Of clarion sounded, ringing to the skies,
Somewhere in France.

His soul aflame with service seemed to glow
He smiled at Death, nor shrank from that grim woe
He knew full well was oft the soldier’s prize;
Nor may I grieve if so my hero dies
To sleep in fields where blood red poppies grow,
Somewhere in France.

The Nevada Daily Mail – Nov 24, 1917


Tom Robinson, the plumber, bought a hundred-dollar bond,
Though he truly loved his country, of his cash he sure was fond.
“I’ve bought because it’s duty,” said he to Doctor Jones,
“I’ve got to do my little bit to help the Allied loans.”

The Doctor said: “I bought some bonds, then with them bought a car.
You owe me just a hundred.” Said the plumber: “There you are.”
And handed Jones his new-bought bond; then Jones paid off a debt
Of a hundred to the furrier — before he could forget.

The furrier had bought some clothes — an honest man was he —
“Let’s pay with Uncle Sam’s good bond that helps to set men free.”
And so he paid. The clothier squared up an old account
With his jobber — so the bond went on, intact in its amount.

The jobber owed the grocer for the things his family ate.
Said he: “I’ll pay in Libertys — you need no longer wait.”
Then the grocer paid the butcher, who owed the carpet store.
And he in turn reduced his debt and helped along the war.

“I’d like to buy a dress now,” said the carpet merchant’s wife,
“A hundred-dollar one will do — with bargains stores are rife.”
The modiste got the bond. Said she: “I know what I will do.
I’ll have the bath room fixed up fine and made to look like new.”

And so, ere long, Tom Robinson, the plumber, had his bond,
And no one in the country will be quicker to respond,
when Uncle Sam’s next loan appears. The moral of this tale
Is Buy a Bond and Pass It On — our country cannot fail.

— By Richard A. Foley, of Philadelphia

Reading Eagle – Dec 9, 1917


(At the outbreak of the civil war in 1861, the government offered a loan to the public to provide funds for carrying on the war. This poem was written at that time by one of our great authors and it is equally appropriate now when the government loan in  the form of Liberty bonds is offered to the public. It is well also to remember that the bonds afterwards rose to command a premium.)
Come, freemen of the land,
Come, meet the great demand.
True heart and open hand,
Take the loan!
For the hopes the prophets saw,
For the swords your brothers draw,
For liberty and law,
Take the loan!

Ye ladies of the land,
As ye love the gallant band,
Who have drawn a soldier’s brand,
Take the loan!
Who would bring them what she could,
Who would give the soldier food.
Who would staunch her brother’s blood.
Take the loan!

All who saw her hosts pass by,
All who joined the parting cry,
When we bade them do or die,
Take the loan!
As ye wished their triumph then,
As ye hope to meet again,
And to meet their gaze as men,
Take the loan!

Who could press the great appeal
Of our ranks of serried steel,
Put your shoulders to the wheel,
Take the loan!
That our prayers in truth may rise,
Which we press with streaming eyes
On the Lord of earth and skies,
Take the loan!

-Edward Everett Hale.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) May 30,  1917

Ef You Don’t Watch Out

March 10, 2010

Image from



Herbert C. Hoover’s come to our land to stay
An’ fill the cups an’ saucers, an’ keep the wolf away,
An’ shoo the prices off their perch, an’ loosen up the hoard
Of them that harbors foodstuffs so we can’t pay our board.
An’ all housewives in the land, when the supper things is done,
They set around the kitchen fire, an’ don’t have any fun.
A-listening to the waste tales ‘at Hoover tells about,
An’ the H.C.L. ‘at gits you
Ef you

Onct they was some people wouldn’t save a scrap,
An’ when they went to bed at night ‘thought a hil o’ pap.
They all began to holler an’ they all began to bawl,
An’ then they turned the kivvers down an’ went out in the hall;
An’ they seeked food in the pantry, the cupboard an’ the press,
They seeked food on the shelves an’ everywheres, I guess,
But all they ever found was this, tater skin scooped out,
Er the H.C.L.’ll git you
Ef you

An’ one time they was some people ‘ud allus laugh an’ say
What’d they care for H.C.L., so as they had good pay.
An’ onct when they had company, an’ folks what knows was there,
They mocked ’em an’ they shocked ’em, an’ they said they didn’t care!
An’ while they was a-eatin’ all the food in sight,
They came to two Great Big Giants, which they was ‘bleeged to fight.
One was named Starvation, an’ t’other Famine-Drought,
An’ the H.C.L.’ll git you
Ef you

An’ Herbert C. Hoover says ‘at when the soil is rich,
An’ ready for the plowin’ an’ harrowin’ and sich,
An’ you know the country needs you to go an’ “do your bit.”
An’ show that you are “on the job” an ain’t a-goin’ to quit.
You’d better mind your president an leader true an’ dear,
An’ help the po’ an’ needy ones ‘at cluster all about,
Er the H.C.L.’ll git you,
Ef you

— Exchange.

The Daily Times – Dec 11, 1917

Image from wikipedia


Food conservation
Is the cry all day;
Mother’s eating iron bolts
And father’s chewing hay.

Henry’s ate the tablecloth,
The carpet on the stairs;
There’s nothing left for Mary Ann
Except to say her prayers.

Georgie’s stewing up the broom
To make a saving soup;
Willie’s out before the door
Gnawing off the stoop.

Reginald has made a hit
By cooking all his boots;
Door-knobs take the place of eggs,
And chandeliers of fruits.

Helen’s eating shredded wheat;
You’d hardly call it food.
I would call it — what’s the use?
I mustn’t be too rude.

The remedy is plain to see,
Although ’twill be a bore —
We’ll have to cut out eating food
Until we’ve won the war.

— Springfield Union.

Reading Eagle – Dec 15, 1917


How did they entertain you last evening?”


“I don’t understand you.”

“They didn’t serve a thing to eat.”

— Philadelphia Bulletin.

The Pittsburgh Press – Oct 24, 1917

You Aren’t Really Gonna Throw That Slice of Bread in the Trash, Are You?

March 10, 2010

The Pittsburg Press (Sep. 2, 1917) has a whole “cookbook” section in the paper, along with recipes,  nutritional charts and tons of articles about not wasting food etc.

It also includes the following letter from Herbert Hoover:

Here are two articles lecturing the reader about wasting milk and bread:


Half a cup of milk — whole, skimmed, or sour — a seemingly trifling matter — hardly worth the trouble to keep or use.

In many households quite a little milk is wasted — left uncovered in glasses — regarded as useless because the cream has been skimmed off — allowed to sour — poured down the sink or thrown out.

Now, if every home — there are 20,000,000 of them — should waste one the average one-half cup daily, it would mean a waste of 2,500,000 quarts daily — 912,500,000 quarts a year — the total product of more than 400,000 cows.

It takes a lot of grass and grain to make that much mild and an army of people to produce and deliver it.

But, every household doesn’t waste a half cup of milk a day? Well, say that one-half cup is wasted in only one out of a hundred homes. Still intolerable — when milk is so nutritious — when skim milk can be used in making nutritious soups and cereal dishes — when sour milk can be used in bread making or for cottage cheese.


A single slice of bread seems an unimportant thing. In many households one or more slices of bread daily are thrown away and not used for human food. Sometimes stale quarter, or half, loaves are thrown out.

Yet one good-sized slice of bread — such as a child likes to cut — weighs an ounce. It contains almost three-fourths of an ounce of flour.

If every one of the country’s 20,000,000 homes wastes on average only one such slice of bread a day, the country is throwing away daily over 14,000,000 ounces of flour — over 875,000 pounds, or enough flour for over a million one-pound loaves a day. For a full year at this rate there would be a wasted of over 319,000,000 loaves.

As it takes 4 1/2 bushels of wheat to make a barrel of ordinary flour this waste would represent the flour from over 7,000,000 bushels of wheat.

Fourteen and nine-tenths bushels of wheat on the average are raised per year. It would take the fruit of some 470,000 acres just to provide a single slice of bread to be wasted daily in every home.

To produce this much flour calls for an army of farmers, railway men, flour-mill people. To get the flour to the consumer calls for many freight cars and the use of many tons of coal.

But some one says, a full slice of bread is not wasted in every home. Very well — make it a daily slice for every four or every 10 or every 30 homes — make it a weekly or monthly slice in every home — or make the wanted slice thinner. The waste of flour involved is still appalling — altogether too great to be tolerated when wheat is scarce.

Any waste of bread is inexcusable when there are so many ways of using stale bread to cook delicious dishes.

Since you now feel too guilty to waste any milk or bread, here are a couple of the recipes from same “cookbook” section of the paper:


Three large tablespoonfuls of butter; melt; stir in a large tablespoonful of flour and one-half teaspoonful of dry mustard; 1 cup of milk; stir until a thick gravy; then stir into this 1 cup of flaked salmon; season well with salt, pepper and paprika; one-fourth teaspoonful of tabasco sauce, and, the last thing, pour into this one-half cup of catsup; serve on hot toast or on toasted crackers.

Nut and Cheese Loaf (Image from


1 cupful grated cheese.
1 cupful chopped English walnuts.
1 cupful bread crumbs.
2 tablespoonfuls chopped onion.
1 tablespoon butter.
Juice of half a lemon.
Salt and pepper.

Cook the onion in the butter and a little water until it is tender. Mix the other ingredients and moisten with water, using the water in which the onion has been cooked. Pour into a shallow baking dish and brown in the oven.

The Pittsburgh Press – Sep 2, 1917