Posts Tagged ‘1913’

Why Catsup? It’s Ketchup

January 28, 2011

Image from Grow & Resist.

When I first ran across this article for Ohio Ketchup, I had no idea that “ketchup” was ever anything except the red stuff that comes in a bottle.

Seasonable Recipes.

OHIO KETCHUP. — The Buckeyes are in the habit of making a certain kind of ketchup which I have found no where else, and have, therefore, taken the liberty to call it “The Ohio Ketchup.” Is is an article that should be found in every household. You may pardon me for not attempting to give you an idea of its deliciousness, because my pen cannot do justice to the subject. The season will soon be here when this “happy combination of vegetables” can very easily be made. I will therefore transcribe the receipt for the benefit of your readers: Take about three dozen full grown cucumbers, and eight white onions. Peel the cucumbers and onions; then chop them as finely as possible; then sprinkle upon them three-quarters of a pint of fine table salt, then put the whole into a sieve and let it drain for eight hours; then take a tea cup-full of mustard seed, half a cup of ground black pepper, and mix these well with the cucumbers and onions; then put the whole into a stone jar and fill up with the strongest vinegar and close tightly. In three days it will be fit for use, and will keep for years.

Let all your readers give the Ohio Ketchup a fair trial, and you and I will receive sixty thousand thanks for letting them into the secret of making it.

TO PRESERVE TOMATOS. — The following has been handed to us as the receipt of a good housewife for preserving or “curing” tomatoes so effectually that they may be brought out at any time between the seasons “good as new,” with precisely the same flavor of the original article; Get sound tomatoes, peal them, and prepare just the same as for cooking, squeeze them as fine as possible, put them into a kettle, bring them to a boil, season with pepper and salt; then put them in stone jugs, taken directly from water in which they (the jugs) have been boiled. — Seal the jugs immediately, and keep them in a cool place.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Sep 4, 1850

NOTE: The Republic Compiler (Gettysburg, PA) Jul 29, 1850,  also carried this article and  included its author as E.B.R. Springfield, Clarke co., Ohio, 1850.

TOMATO KETCHUP. — The following, from long experience, we know to be the best receipt extant for making tomato ketchup.
Take one bushel of tomatoes, and boil them until they are soft. Squeeze them through a fine wire sive, and add —

Half a gallon of vinegar,
One pint and a half of salt,
Two ounces of cloves,
Quarter of a pound of allspice,
Three ounces of cayenne pepper,
Three table-spoonful of black pepper,
Five heads of garlic, skinned and seperated.

Mix together and boil about three hours, or until reduced to about one-half. Then bottle without straining.

Daily Commercial Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Sep 9, 1852

** Bushel: In dry measurements, equals 8 gallons or 32 quarts of a commodity. Associated Content from Yahoo

Tomato Catsup — Tomato Sauce.

As the season is drawing near for all good housekeepers to commence putting up different kinds of preserves, pickles, &c., we copy the following recipe from the August number of the [American Agriculturist] for making tomato catsup and sauce: “The basis of tomato catsup, or ketchup, is the pulp of ripe tomatoes. Many defer making catsup until late in the season, when the cool nights cause the fruit to ripen slowly, and it may be t is gathered hurriedly for fear of a frost. The late fruit does not yield so rich a pulp as that gathered in its prime.

The fruit should have all green portions cut out, and be stewed gently until thoroughly cooked. The pulp is then to be separated from the skins, by rubbing through a wire sieve so fine as to retain the seeds. The liquor thus obtained is to be evaporated to a thick pulp, over a slow fire, and should be stirred to prevent scorching. The degree of evaporation will depend upon how thick it is desired to have the catsup. We prefer to make it so that it will just poor freely from the bottle. We observe no regular rule in flavoring. Use sufficient salt. Season with cloves, allspice, and mace, bruised and tied in a cloth, and boiled in the pulp; add a small quantity of powdered cayenne.

Some add the spices ground fine, directly to the pulp. A clove of garlic, bruised and tied in a cloth, to be boiled with the spices, imparts a delicious flavor. Some evaporate the pulp to a greater thickness than is needed, and then thin with vinegar or with wine. An excellent and useful tomato sauce may be made by preparing the pulp, but adding no spices, and putting it in small bottles while hot, corking securely and sealing. If desired, the sauce may be salted before bottling, but this is not essential. To add to soups, stews, sauces and made dishes, a sauce thus prepared is an excellent substitute for the fresh fruit. It should be put in small bottles containing as much as will be wanted at once, as it will not keep long after opening.

The Heral and Torch Light (Hagerstown, Maryland) Aug 2, 1882

— Old Virginia Ketchup. — Take one peck of green tomatoes, half a peck of white onions, three ounces of white mustard seed, one ounce each of allspice and cloves, half a pint of mixed mustard, an ounce of black pepper and celery seed each, and one pound of brown sugar. Chop the tomatoes and onions, sprinkle with salt and let stand three hours; drain the water off; put in a preserve kettle with the other ingredients. Cover with vinegar, and set on the fire to boil slowly for one hour.

— Ladies’ Home Journal.

The Wellsboro Gazette (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania Sep 5, 1895

** Peck: Equivalent of 2 gallons of dry weight, or 10 to 14 pounds.  Associated Content from Yahoo

Image from the Local Food Local Farms Local Sustainability website.

Ketchup.

Why catsup? Nearly every bottle which comes from a public manufacturer is emblazened with that spelling. Wrong Ketchup is the word. It is a corruption of the Japanese word kitjap, which is a condiment somewhat similar to soy. It is a pick me up, a stirrer of the digestive organs, a katch me up, and hence its application to the mingling of tomatoes and spices, whose name it should bear.

— Philadelphia Times.

North Adams Transcript (North Adams, Massachusetts) Jan 15, 1896

NOTE: At the link for the mushroom ketchup (scroll down,) it says that Ketchup came from a Chinese word, rather than Japanese.

Image from the Simple Bites website – Real Food for the Family TableCanning 101 Home Canned Tomatoes

TO MAKE KETCHUP.

When you cut up the tomatoes remove that part of pulp which holds the seeds, as that produced only some of the watery fluid which afterward must be got rid of. Then cook the tomatoes until perfectly soft and strain like this: Take a pan sieve; place over a two gallon crock, the top of which is a little smaller than the sieve. Set the crock in a dishpan. When you pour the hot tomatoes in the sieve, the thinnest liquid will run through the edge which extends over the crock, into the pan, and you can throw all that liquid away, which otherwise would have to be boiled away. Then with a spoon, and afterward with your hands, rub the tomatoes through the sieve. In half the time the ketchup is better and thicker than ever. When it doesn’t cook too long, the ketchup also is lighter in color. This fact, and because I tie the spices in a bag, makes it as bright as that you buy.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Jul 1, 1907

Sauce for Chops.

Pound fine an ounce of black pepper and half an ounce of allspice, with an ounce of salt, and a half ounce of scraped horseradish and the same of shalots peeled and quartered; put these ingredients into a pint of mushroom ketchup or walnut pickle; let them steep for a fortnight and then strain it. A teaspoonful or two of this is generally an acceptable addition, mixed with the gravy usually sent up for chops and steaks; or added to thick melted butter.

Another delightful sauce for chops is made by taking two wineglasses of port and two of walnut pickle; four of mushroom ketchup; half a dozen anchovies pounded, and a like number of shalots sliced and pounded; a tablespoonful of soy and half a drachm of Cayenne pepper; let them simmer gently for ten minutes; then strain, and when cold put into bottles, well corked and sealed over. It will keep for a considerable time.

Suburbanite Economist (Chicago, Illinois) Jan 23, 1914

American Pickles for Queen Victoria.

Lusden & Gibson, grocers, of Aberdeen, Scotland, regularly supply Balmoral Castle, the Queen’s residence, with Heinz’s sweet pickles, tomato soup, pickled onions, ketchup and chutney. The goods are supplied through H.J. Heinz Company’s London Branch.

— New York Sun.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Mar 1, 1899

T.M. Shallenberger comes to the defense of labor as an institution. The subject is one that admits of endless discussion, without arriving anywhere. If a man like to work, it is entirely proper that he should be given the privilege; but it not fair that people who detest work are compelled to work if they would be considered respectable. It  would be just as reasonable to compel a man to play ball, although he abhors the game.

There is something wrong with the man who really enjoys working: he is not balanced right; the busy bee is a sample worker; it sweats around all day, going three or four miles to get raw material that could be obtained just as well a few yards from the hive.

Ketchup is another worker; when it is bottled, instead of taking things easy, it begins to work and gets sour and spoiled. That is the way with most people who work; they get sour and spoiled.

We are arranging to organize a new political party, composed of non-workers. The only toll permitted will be the working of candidates for cigars, which is a pleasing and profitable employment.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Aug 13, 1899

I wonder if this works:

Household Hints

WHEN cooking ketchup, etc., try putting a few marbles into the kettle to prevent burning. The heat will keep the marbles rolling and prevent the stuff from sticking to the kettle.

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Jun 9, 1922

When the slow eater calls for ketchup, he means business.

–[N.O. Picayune.

The Mountain Democrat (Placerville, California Jun 19, 1880

When Casey’s small son was asked by the teacher to give the plural of tomato, he promptly answered: “Ketchup, mem.”

Suburbanite Economist (Chicago, Illinois) Jul 4, 1913

The following poems aren’t  ABOUT ketchup, but the do mention it. I have bolded ketchup:

Image from the USDA National Agricultural Library

A Sunnit to the Big Ox

Composed while standin within 2 feet of Him, and a Tuchin’ of Him now and then.

All hale! thou mighty annimil–all hale!
You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel
Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!
I wonder how big you was wen you
Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now
That you’ve grone so long, and thick, and phat;
Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring
And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid!
I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big,
And if you grode it in a month or so.
I spose wen you wos young tha didn’t gin
You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff
Into your little stummick, jest to see
How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt
Fed you on otes and ha and sich like,
With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh!
In all probability yu don’t no yure enny
Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,

Yude brake down fences and switch your tail,
And rush around, and hook, and beller,
And run over fowkes, thou orful beast
O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik,
And sassengers, and your tale,
Whitch kan’t wa fur from phorty pounds,
Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop,
And cudn’t a heep of stakes be cut oph yu,
Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater
Ketchup, wouldn’t be bad to taik.
Thou grate and glorious inseckt!
But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile!
And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di,
I’le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes,
Pernouncin’ yu the largest of yure race;
And as I don’t expect to have a half a dollar
Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as
I ain’t a ded head, I will sa, farewell.

LeRoy Gazette (LeRoy, New York) Apr 20, 1859

CINTHY ANN’S NEW HOUSE.

I built a house for Cinty Ann — an made it red and rich,
An rigged it up with cuperlows an lightnin rods and sich,
An built a wide piazzer roun ware she could set and sew,
An take her knittin work an gab with ole Kerturah Snow.

An Cinthy Ann was happy fer about a week or so,
And then she foun the chimbley draft wus workin ruther slow;
For the smoke came in her kitchen an she couldn’t bake her pies,
An her pudd’n only sizzled, an her johnny cake wouldn’t rise.

An soon she foun her buttry wuz too small to hol her stuff,
For apple sass and blackb’ry jell it wasn’t large enough,
An all her things were scrooched right in ez tight ez she could cram,
Her pickles, an her ketchup, an her elderberry jam.

An then a dog day storm came on an drizzled for a week,
An the roof around the chimney had to go an spring a leak,
An mildewed four er my white shirts thet she hed made an biled,
An her winter muff was rooined and her weddin dress was spiled.

An then sez I to Cinthy, w’en she sut down to cry,
“Ther ain’t no home upon this side the mansions in the sky
But what has some leak in the roof, some trouble in the flue,
Some mis’ble cluttered buttry” — an poor Cinthy said “Boo hoo!”

We build our pooty houses that are ternal fine to see,
An we stick’em up with cuperlows and sich like filigree,
An in our dreams they’re fair ez heaven, but let us wait a week,
This pooty palace of our dreams is sure to spring a leak.

— S.W. Foss in Yankee Blade.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Sep 14, 1892

The White Man’s Burden

January 7, 2011

Click images for larger versions.

Here is a hodge-podge of the White Man’s Burden, including imperialism, alcohol, women, in-laws, war, clothing, taxes, education, politicians and even himself!

THE POET’S CALL

“We Ask American Manhood What Its First Duty in This Matter Is”

There was a ringing poem of Kipling’s printed in the News yesterday. Like much of his verse, it has the searching quality. It cannot be evaded. The same stern logic that speaks through his poem “An American” that speaks through his “Song of the English” and through his “Recessional,” speaks through this, “The White Man’s Burden:”

Take up the White Man’s Burden —
Ye dare not stoop to less —
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness.
By all ye will or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your God and you.

Through all this time of uncertainty, this time in which the American people apparently are halting in their course, there is one great characteristic element in the situation which cannot be explained away, and which, as the poet seems to reveal with prophetic insight, is not going to be dodged, unless to our everlasting degradation, and that is the responsibility which has been thrust upon us. It has the double quality. It is not something we sought. It is something that sought us. For years we had seen the suffering of a helpless people at our very doors until we could almost arraign ourselves for cruel indifference. Finally, with as pure a motive as ever a nation undertook anything, we attempted to relieve that suffering.

“In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,” we were just where we find ourselves today. We had crushed the remnant of Spain’s authority in the Philippines, driven her from Cuba and Puerto Rico. Never, we believe, has history recorded an instance in which a nation was confronted with such responsibility so clearly without premeditation, or intention of its own, as in this instance. With no desire to say a word for expansion or against expansion, we ask American manhood, we ask the higher self of this land, what its full duty in the matter is. The poet asks it with searching inquiry:

Take up the White Man’s burden!
Have done with childish days —
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers.

Indianapolis News.

The Arizona Republican (Phoenix, Arizona) Feb 18, 1899

THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN.

(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

Take up the white man’s burden
Lift up the white man, too,
He has dallied with the booze can
And a small bottle or two.
He has fallen down by the wayside;
Far away from his own abode;
It seems that the white man’s burden
Is a very unwieldy load.

Take up the white man’s burden
And help the poor chap to stand,
Once  he possessed his senses
And had a pull in the land;
Once he was upright and sober,
Was able to talk and to think,
But the war with the Filipinos
Has driven the white man to drink.

Take up the white man’s burden
And bear it away to a cell,
‘Twill be better away from the rumsters
Who would aid it to trip and fall;
Who gloat o’er the bond i? that feller
The slaves of King Alcohol.

Take up the white man’s burden
When the maudlin night is o’er,
When the head of the suff’ring white man
With expansion’s swelled and sore;
Take the victim to his fireside
Where a broomstick’s lying in wait
And then if you know your business
You’ll escape ere it is too late.

— Bradford Era.

The Evening Democrat (Warren, Pennsylvania) Feb 14, 1899

***

***

Wow, Mr. Henderson, tell us how you really feel:

OUR “WHITE MAN’S BURDEN.”

[With no Apologies to R. Kipling.]

[By W.J. Henderson.]

“Take up the White Man’s Burden!”
What hollow words are these?
‘Tis the croak of the ink-pot raven
That flits on the seven seas.
“Take up the White Man’s Burden!”
Why, who are you to prate
To those who swept the desert
From Maine to the Golden Gate?

Who gnawed the crusts of famine
Beneath Virginia skies,
Till the white man’s blood ran water,
But never the white man’s eyes?
“Take up the White Man’s Burden!”
Who set their backs to the main,
And sent the sons of the forest
To skulk on the treeless plain?

Who harried the fiends of torture,
And gave their sons to fight
With the poisoned arrow by daytime,
The brank and the knife by night?
Who shackled the scalp-locked chieftains,
And bade them abide in peace,
And housed them and clothed them and taught them,
And gave them the land’s increase?

Who fondled their sons and daughters
and showed them the way of life,
While their fathers crept out of the mountains
To flood the valleys with strife?
Got look at the long, red roster
Of dead in our rank and file;
Yet we nurture and pray and are waiting
At Hampton and Carlisle.

Who struck the fetters of thralldom
From off the limbs of the limbs of the slave,
And thundered the anthem of freedom
Through cloister and choir and nave?
We gave the blood of our fathers —
We children who cast out Spain —
To pay white debt to the black man,
and we split our home in twain.

“Take up the White Man’s Burden!”
Gods! was a Lincoln’s death
The pause of a life of shadow,
The end of an empty breath?
An era of white men’s burdens
Ran out with that one life’s sand,
And the sweat of that day is yet heavy
On the brow of our southern land.

“Take up the White Man’s BUrden!”
Oh, well have we borne our share
Till our heart-strings cracked with the straining;
But we knew not how to despair.
And now if the load has grown greater,
Well, we have grown greater, too.
We’ll tread our measure in South and East,
And we’ll ask no help of you.

Fort Wayne News (Fort Wayne, Indiana) Feb 17, 1899

THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN.

“What is the White Man’s Burden?”
A man asked me today
“I hear so much about it,
What is it, anyway?
Is it debt, or money, or a jag,
That a burden makes of life,
Or — his voice dropped to a whisper —
“Does it mean his wife?”

“What is the White Man’s Burden?”
About the first is clothes,
He starts in life quite minus,
As everybody knows.
But soon begins a struggle
To get the latest style,
And when they’re bought and paid for
To wear them with a smile.

Another of his burdens,
And one that’s hard to bear,
Is getting proper food to eat,
Which requires greatest care.
To all the cook’s enticements,
To all the pastry’s lures,
He falls a willing victim —
Then takes dyspepsia cures.

“What is the White Man’s Burden?”
Go ask the plumber bold,
The iceman and the coal man
Who revel in the cold.
The funny man and the poet,
The politician shrewd,
The deadbeat and his mother-in-law,
The masher and the dude.

“What is the White Man’s Burden?”
The war inquiry boards,
The yowlers ‘gainst expansion,
The yellow journal hordes.
The only thing surprising
That cause for wonder gives,
Is how, ‘neath all his burdens,
The average white man lives.

— Topeka Capital.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 21, 1899

***

Here, let me relieve you of that turkey, I mean burden:

***

Someone isn’t very fond of his wife’s family:

ANOTHER VERSION.

Take up the white man’s burden,
And blow in your hard-earned tin
For codfish and canned tomatoes
To fatten your wife’s lean kin;
Her aunts and her wicked uncles
Are coming to drive you wild;
These half-starved, sullen people,
Half devil and half child.

Take up the white man’s burden,
And fill your house with bunks,
That kinfolks may sleep in comfort;
They’re coming with bags and trunks.
They’re coming to stay all summer,
To die in your yard next fall —
These half-shot, sullen people,
Half stomach and half gall.

Take up the white man’s burden,
And sit on the porch and swear,
For kinfolks will use the sofa,
And loaf in your easy chair.
They’ll cut all the pies and doughnuts,
And you must subsist on prunes —
These fine-haired, silken kinfolks,
Half pelicans and half loons.

Thrown down the white man’s burden,
And get a breech-loading dog,
And mangle the first relation
(Half crocodile and half hog)
Who comes with his ten valises
And seventeen tourist trunks
To eat up your canned provisions
And sleep in your ill-spared bunks.

— Atchison Globe.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 28, 1899

Below, the women’s libbers jump on the parody bandwagon:

THE LADY SPEAKS.

Take up the white man’s burden,
And put yoru own away;
‘Tis only right that woman
Should run affairs today;
We want to sit in congress,
We’re bound to be supreme
In everything that’s going,
And that’s no idle dream.

Take up the white man’s burden,
And drive him from the scene;
He’s growing pale and puny,
And “parts his hair between.”
Come on, O sturdy sisters,
Let’s show slow-going man
How we would run the nation
On the bargain-county plan.

— Exchange.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Mar 4, 1899

One of the TRUE White Man’s Burdens:

“THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN.”

(Bjorge Djenison.)

What is the “White Man’s Burden?”
It surely can’t be coons;
Though Kipling oft avers it is
In very rhythmic tunes.

What is the white man’s burden?
The preacher thinks it’s sin,
The poor man thinks it’s poverty,
The banker thinks it’s tin.

What is the white man’s burden?
The coward thinks it’s fear,
The brave man thinks it’s bravery,
The brewer thinks it’s beer.

What is the white man’s burden?
To the question will return,
Perchance, by often asking,
The truth we may yet learn.

What is the white man’s burden?
The fat man thinks it’s girth,
The lean man thinks it’s leanness,
The joker thinks it’s mirth.

What is the white man’s burden?
The mourner thinks it’s grief,
The soldier thinks it’s discipline,
But Alger thinks it’s beef.

What is the white man’s burden?
The aged think it’s years,
The youngster suffers for his youth,
The weeping with their tears.

What is the white man’s burden?
Ere he’s laid upon the shelf
Ere Father Time has cut him down,
He’ll know it is himself.

Trenton Evening Times (Trenton, New Jersey) Mar 15, 1899

***

Still a burden after all these years:

This one is kind of amusing:

GETS COLTISH AT ONE HUNDRED TEN

Indian Stumbles When Attempting to Take up the White Mans’ Burden

Captain Jones fell from grace yesterday at the age of 110 years. He assimilated too much liquid refreshment and was gently escorted to the city bastile although the police declare he felt younger than ever.

According to the declaration of Chief Hillhouse, this is the first time Captain Jones, a redman, native of Nevada, has ever been “pinched” or even known to take a drink. He is known about the city because of his appearance with his wife on the streets dispensing pictures to those who will buy.

At the age of 110 which he gave at headquarters, his qualities of absorption seem unimpaired although he was found slightly wanting when it came to carrying the white man’s burden.

Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Nov 10, 1913

I think it could be said that  we stepped up and took on that burden and then some:

“The White Man’s Burden.”

Rudyard Kipling recently told an American visitor in London that when he wrote “The White Man’s Burden” he had America in mind, not Great Britain. America’s isolation has now ceased. She is responsible with the other nations who helped whip Germany for the orderly and safe conduct of the world. She must take upon her own shoulders a large share of the burden. If this means additional privileges it means also vastly augmented responsibilities. Upon England and America together rests the chief duty of a decent place in which to live and work.

— Lothrop Stoddard in the World’s Work.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Jul 3, 1919

The most painful (and never ending) of the burdens:

THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN

Taxes
More taxes
And some more taxes.

The Times Recorder (Zanesville, Ohio) Sep 22, 1933

And golf!

Tick-tock Goes the Clock

January 3, 2011

THE OLD CLOCK.

GUY CARLTON.

I.

The old clock croons on the sun-kissed wall —
Tick, tock! tick tock!
The merry seconds to minutes call:
Tick, tock! ‘Tis morn.

A maiden sits at the mirror there,
And smiles as she combs her golden hair;
O, in the light but her face is fair!
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

Far over the sea the good ship brings
The lover of whom the maiden sings;
From the orange tree the first leaf springs:
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

II.

The old clock laughs on the flower-decked wall —
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
The rose-winged hours elude their thrall:
Tick, tock! ‘Tis noon!

The lover’s pride and his love are blest;
The maiden is folded to his breast;
On her brow the holy blossoms rest;
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

O thrice, thrice long may the sweet bells chime,
As echoing this thro’ future time!
Still to my heart beats that measured rhyme —
Tick tock! tick, tock!

III.

The old clock moans on the crumbling wall
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
The drear years into eternity fall;
Tick, tock! ‘Tis night!

The thread that yon spider draws with care
Across the gleam of the mirror there,
Seems like the ghost of a golden hair;
Tick, tock! tick, tock!

The sweet bells chime for those that may wed;
The neroll-snow crowns many a head —
But tree and maiden and lover are dead,
Tick, tock! tick, tock!
— Life.

The Oshkosh Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) May 16, 1883


THE KITCHEN CLOCK.

(John Vance Cheney in The Century.)

Knitting is the maid ‘o the kitchen, Milly,
Doing nothing, sits the chore-boy, Billy:
“Seconds reckoned,
Seconds reckoned;
Every minute,
Sixty in it.
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Nick-knock, knock-nick,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock: —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Closer to the fire is rosy Milly,
Every whit as close and cozy, Billy:
“Time’s a-flying,
Worth your trying!
Pretty Milly —
Kiss her, Billy!
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Tick-tock, tock-tick,
Now — now, quick — quick!
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Something’s happened; very red is Milly,
Billy boy is looking very silly:
“Pretty misses,
Plenty kisses;
Make it twenty,
Take a plenty.
Billy, Milly,
Milly, Billy,
Right-left, left-right,
That’s right, all right,
Skippety-nick, rippety-knock” —
Jumps the kitchen clock.

Night to night they’re sitting, Milly, Billy’
Oh, the winter winds are wondrous chilly!
“Winter weather,
Close together;
Wouldn’t tarry,
Better marry.
Milly, Billy,
Billy, Milly,
Two-one, one-two,
Don’t wait, ‘twont do,
Knockety-nick, nickety-knock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two have gone, and where is Milly?
Spring has come again, and where is Billy?
“Give me credit,
For I did it;
Treat me kindly,
Mind you wind me.
Mr. Billy,
Mistress Milly,
My — Oh, Oh — my,
By-by, by-by,
Nickety-knock, cradle rock” —
Goes the kitchen clock.

The Bismarck Tribune (Bismarck, North Dakota) Sep 19, 1884

My Little Bo-Peep

By S.B. M’Manus

MY Little Bo-Peep is fast asleep,
And her head on my heart is lying;
I gently rock, and the old hall clock
Strikes a knell of the day that’s dying.
But what care I how the hours go by,
Whether swiftly they go or creeping?
Not an hour could be but dear to me,
When my babe on my arm is sleeping.

Her little bare feet, with dimples sweet,
From the folds of her gown are peeping,
And each wee toe like a daisy in blow,
I caress as she lies a-sleeping;
Her golden hair falls over the chair,
Its treasures of beauty unfolding;
I press my lips to her finger tips

That my hands are so tightly holding.
Tick, tock, tick, tock! You may wait, old clock,
It was foolish what I was saying;
Let your seconds stay and your minutes play,
And bid your days go all a-Maying.
O, Time — stand still — let me drink my fill
Of content while my babe is sleeping;
As I smooth her hair m life looks fair,
And to-morrow — I may be weeping.

The Wellsboro Agitator (Weillsboro, Pennsylvania) Jun 28, 1887

CHILDREN’S COLUMN.

TIC-TOCK.

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
Such a busy, busy clock,
All the year you go just so
Never fast and never slow.

Tick-tock, pretty clock,
And this is what you say:
“Never till tomorrow leave
What should be done today.”

You are always in your place
With your hands before your face;
Run and run, and never stop —
Tick-tock, tick-tock.

–[New York World.

Indana Progress (Indiana, Pennsylvania) Dec 2, 1891

The White Brigade.

The old hall clock goes hurrying on:
Tick, tock. ‘Tis getting late!
Tick, tock, tick, tock, hark! one, two, three,
Four, five, six, seven, eight.

The white brigade is marching now,
In every town and street
You hear the patter, patter soft
Of little naked feet.

The girls and boys have left their toys,
And now with sleepy head
Each joins the throng (ten thousand strong,)
Going up stairs to bed.

Sandusky Regiser (Sandusky, Ohio) Feb 23, 1895

The Washington Post – Feb 21, 1913

MY CLOCK.

In the silence of the night,
If I waken with affright
From a dream that’s full of terror and annoy,
There’s a sound that fills my heart
With a melody of art
Fully of beauty, full of pleasure, full of joy.

‘Tis the steady “tick, tick, tock,”
Of my sturdy little clock,
As it sits across the room upon a shelf,
And it says: “Don’t be afraid,
For I’ve closely by you staid
While you were off in the land of dreams yourself.

“With a steady ‘tick, tick, tick,’
I am never tired or sick,
And I count the minutes ever as they fly.
I’m the truest friend you’ve got,
And share your ev’ry lot,
And I’m ready to stand by you till you die.”

It’s a common sort of clock,
But I like its lusty “tock,”
And it fills my soul with courage by its song.
In the storm or cold or rain
I hear its bright refrain
As it faithfully pursue its path along.

For it tells me to be true
To each thing I have to do,
And no matter if the world applaud or scorn;
That full soon must pass the night
And the sweet and precious light
Be unfolded with the coming of the morn.
— Hamilton Jay in Florida Times-Union.

Sandusky Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Jun 1, 1895

THE TALKING CLOCK.

Up in my room, when comes the dark,
My door with care I lock,
And sit down, all my company
My little talking clock.

With round, bright open face it stands
Upon my mantel shelf,
And “tick, tick, tick” — how sweet and low!
Keeps talking to itself;

While loud and clear, that I may hear
When I am out of sight,
It calls to me twelve times each day,
And twelve times every night.

I always listen for its voice —
‘Tis like a silver bell —
And just the thing I need to know
It will be sure to tell:

“Wake up! wake up! ’tis morning light!”
“To bed! the hour is late!”
“The minutes fly! make haste! make haste!”
“Have patience; you must wait!”

My faithful little talking clock!
O If I only knew
Exactly when I ought to speak
And what to say to you,

And could, when I had said enough,
Just stop, without delay,
I might, almost as calm as you,
Be happy all the day!

— Marion Douglass in “Our Little Men and Women.”

The Daily Northwesterm (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Nov 20, 1897

THE FAMILY CLOCK.

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
What is it you say,
As you tick all day,
With your smiling face,
And your polished case?
Tell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m the family clock,
A hundred years old,
Of good old stock!
Tick, tock,
Good old stock,
A hundred years old,
The family clock!”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Have you memories faint
Of dear ladies quaint,
With high powdered hair,
Who tripped up this stair?
Tell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’ve seen many a frock,
And the witchery fair
Of a gleaming lock!
Tick, tock,
Many a frock,
And the witchery fair
Of a gleaming lock!”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Do you never feel affright
In the dead of the night
When the winds howl drear,
And strange noises you hear?
Or ell me, I pray,
Is this what you say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m a doughty old clock;
I know no fear;
Let them rage and knock;
Tick, tock,
Rage and knock;
I know no fear —
A doughty old clock.”

Old clock
So tall,
In your niche in the wall,
Will you still tick away,
A hundred years from today,
With your smiling face
And your polished case?
And then, I pray,
Is this what you’ll say?

“Tick, tock,
I’m the family clock,
Two hundred years old,
Of good old stock!
Tick, tock,
Good old stock,
Two hundred years old,
The family clock!”

— Jane D?msfield, in the St. Nicholas

San Antonio Light (San Antonio, Texas) Apr 8, 1900

The Clock.

He stands in a corner from morning till night,
A patient old thing with no feet
His face is as solemn and round as a moon
And oh so exceedingly neat
From breakfast to supper,
Bright on through the day,
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

His hands are quite tidy, they grow on his face
When I grow to be big I shall know
Why one is so long and the other so short
And one he moves fast, and one slow,
From breakfast to supper,
Right on through the day.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

At night when I’m sleeping he keeps wide awake
To see what the little mice do,
He watches the brownie creep in through the blind
His little red shoes wet with dew
From night-time to daytime,
Right on through the day
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

And when it comes morning I wish he would tell,
I ask him but never a trace
Of the wonderful things which he saw in the night
Does he show in his sober old face,
From breakfast to supper
Right on through the day
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, I am only the clock,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,” he’ll say.

Trenton Evening Times (Trenton, New Jersey) Mar 30, 1909

The Old Hall Clock.

What a store of information
You must have in stock,
Not a word of revelation
In your staid “tick-tock.”
You have watched the decades passing as the ships upon the sea,
Stores of knowledge e’er amassing as the generations flee.
Can’t you tell some of your secrets to a little boy like me
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Never changing the expression
Of your placid face.
Never making a confession
Any time or place.
Can’t you tell me of the courting you have seen upon the stairs?
Of he stately wedding marches, of the ministers and prayers?
Of he good old squires and damsels who have come and gone in pairs
But the old hall clock
Answered Just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

It’s for history I’m seeking
And you’ve got to tell.
It’s of father I am speaking
And you might as well.
When a youngster, was he always doing just exactly right?
Did he have to have a licking almost every single night?
Now, you needn’t fear to trust me, for I’ll keep it secret, quite,
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Bland recorder of the ages,
If you’ll be so kind,
Turn ahead among Life’s pages,
Tell us what you find.
When you look into the future, tell me what it is you see.
What in just another decade, is this old world going to be?
Tell me, what is going to come of just a little boy like me?
But the old hall clock
Answered just:
“Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.”

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Dec 19, 1912

Image from flickr – vera 1955

Jens Galtheen/Galthen was born about 1839 in Denmark, and immigrated to America about 1865. On June 24, 1879 he married Helen Lager. His was listed as a jeweler on the 1880 and 1900 census records and his shop was at 415 Water St. in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

THE SILENT CLOCKS.

(By Violet Leigh.)
(In memory of Jeweler Galthen of Water St.)

Silent they stand in a row on the shelf,
Not one moves a hand alone by itself.
Not long ago the ormelu clock
Was merrily saying, “tick-tock, tick-tock”;
And its dainty hands in a charming way
Pointed out the time of day.

The beautiful clock of porcelain
Was also ticking with might and main;
And all the other clocks in the row
Showed one another how to go.
But they’re silent now as death itself
Standing there in a row on the shelf.

Where is the one who made them go?
Jeweler Galthen is lying low.
The pale clock-faces are not more white
Than the face of that aged man tonight.
And the hands of the clocks are not more still
Than his nerveless hands in the grave on the hill.

— Eau Claire, Wis., Nov. 22, 1913.

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Nov 26, 1913

UPDATE: I found an obituary for Mr. Galthen:

OBITUARY

Aged Jeweler Summoned

Jens Galthen, an aged jeweler, who has been carrying on a small business at 415 Water St., died very suddenly yesterday morning, some time between 8:30 and 11 o’clock.

Death is said to have been due to a stroke of appoplexy, the aged man surffering a like stroke some time ago. Mr. Galthen was seen at 8:30 o’clock in the morning at which time he appeared to be in his usual health and spirits. At 11 o’clock, the store was entered by Sidney Robillard, who found the body of the victim of the stroke of appoplexy lying on the floor face down.

The deceased was about 70 years of age. He was a widower and lived alone in the store, a screen separating his living apartment from the store. No known relatives reside in this country. It is learned that relatives live in Copenhagen, Denmark, and County Coroner R.H. Stokes will endeavor to get in communication with them to ascertain what disposition they wish to make of the body.

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Nov 2, 1913

THE CORRUPTED CLOCK.

By EDMUND VANCE COOKE

Some one has made the clock go wrong,
Not in its time, but in its song.
At twelve at night!
Its face is bright
And the sound of its stroke is a soft delight; —

“Tick! tock!
Oh, what a flock!
Flock of long hours that are left in the clock!
Time is unending,
Life is for spending;
What though I strike,
Do as you like!
Tick! tock!
Oh, what a flock!
Do what you will, but don’t look at the clock.”
Oh, kindly clock! had you a robe, I’d surely kiss its him;
Let us be friends forever, clock; aye, even at six A.M.!

But oh! at morning when I yawn
And much desire to slumber on,
Its white face stares,
Its eye-hole glares
And its lean hands point me down the stairs; —

“Tick! tock!
Knickety Knock!
Oh, but such laziness gives me a shock!
Time is for working;
Why are you shirking?
Now, as I strike,
Get up and hike!
Tick! tock!
Oh, what a shock!
Look at me! Look at me! Look at the clock!”
Oh, cursed clock! such two-faced talk I must, and do condemn;
You are so suave at twelve at night, so harsh at six A.M.!

(Copyright, 1919, N.E.A.)

Decatur Review (Decatur, Illinois) Aug 17, 1919

Gettysburg Times (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jan 27, 1921

***

I sing of clocks that I have known,
In other years, now long since flown,
When I but just a little child,
For many hours was beguiled,
In listening to the tick, tick, tock,
Of one, to me, most wondrous clock.

My father bought that fine old clock
To quite complete our household stock,
When I was but one short year old,
It should be mine, I then was told;
When it wore out, its lovely case,
My little toys, in it to place.
The brilliant peacock on the door,
No bird like it since or before.
It’s good strong tick and ringing strike,
No other clock can sound the like.

Sometimes quaint old clock tinkers came,
To see if it was sick or lame;
They’d shine it up and set it back,
To tick and strike, as strong as ever,
Itinerant tinker were clever,
I would look on and sigh, alack,
“I’ll get my playhouse never, never.”

The years rolled on and strangely on,
Parents, brothers and sisters gone,
Still that old clock with calm, clear face,
Ticks for the remnant of our race;
Has struck the hours of death and birth,
For those dearest to me on earth.
Has through my four score years and one,
And still with undiminished strength,
Bids fair to wear me out at length.

Dear old home clock tick on and on
All my playhouses no ware gone;
I love to see your dear old face,
But no more now covet your case,
You’re worth to us, your weight in gold,
Tick on until your centurys old;
My playhouse I relinquish still,
So beat me to it, if you will.

One old clock with a friendly face,
Greeted me in my new home place;
Through many changing years it told,
Vicissitudes most lives unfold;
Reunions and each glad event,
That marked the way on which we went,
High hopes, and dreams that disappear,
And still that old bronze clock is here.

Another clock so plain and small,
It would not be valued at all;
Yet once it ticked the hours away,
For one who is no longer here,
It has been silent since that day,
A clock may hurt as well as cheer.

A welcome gift, a clock late come,
To wake it’s echoes in our home;
Welcome it is our home within,
It’s muffled strike to slumbers win.
Old clocks are like dear human friends,
They cheer life’s way until it ends.

The clock on old Northwesterns tower,
When chasing trains it marked the hour,
Warned us we would be all too late
Just as we reached the closing gate.
Old station clock of you I sing,
You were a kind and friendly thing.

Our bank clock, how we love its chimes,
Recalling other happy times;
And that one to so many dear,
Who made it possible to hear,
All over this old Arlington,
The echoes of its carrillion,
A treasure is that grand old clock,
May it abide firm as a rock.

There hangs a cheery little clock,
Here on the stairs, with quick tick tock;
It was a gift at Christmas time,
From one now gone to kinder clime
A bright, a cherry little thing
That through the passing hours will bring,
Sweet memories into the mind,
Of the dear giver, every kind.

There’s something odd and whimsical,
About old clocks that thrills us all
Yet no clock in our lives can come,
Like the clock in our childhood home.

— Elinore Crisler Haynes

The Daily Herald (Chicago, Illinois) Aug 10, 1928

A Football (player) Clock

The Times Recorder (Zanesville, Ohio) Nov 13, 1925

Good-Night Stories

By MAX  TRELL

Tick-tock,
Wind the clock.
Tick-tock,
Snap the lock.
Tick-tock,
Shut your eyes.
Tick-tock,
How time flies!

— Shadow Sayings.

The Athen Messenger (Athen, Ohio) Sep 19, 1930

Good-Night Stories

By MAX  TRELL

Tick-tock
Wind the clock
Knock-knock
Snap the lock,
Clack-clack
I won’t be back,
I’m taking the train
On the railroad track.

— Shadow Song.

Van Wert Daily Bulletin (Van Wert, Ohio) Aug 10, 1932

Robert V. Carr: The Cowboy Poet

July 23, 2010

From his book, "Black Hills Ballads"

Robert V. Carr (aka Bob Carr) was the official poet of Seth Bullock’s Cowboy Brigade. I got an email from Carl Steiger the other day, which prompted me to see what all I could find on Mr. Carr. Based on census records, as well as a mention by Cabot Yerxa in one of his articles, Robert Carr appears to have been born in Illinois, and not South Dakota, as mentioned in some sources.

STORIES PICKED UP.

Th’ trees are whisperin’ a tale,
Of shade an’ lazy dreams;
Of loiterin’ and lingerin’,
Beside th’ singin’ streams —
‘Tis loafin’ time.

Th’ woods are makin’ love to you,
They’re callin’ you to jest
Come out from work an’ idle there,
Upon th’ lap of rest —
‘Tis loafin’ time.

— Robert V. Carr.

Des Moines Daily Leader (Des Moines, Iowa) May 17, 1902

SIMPLY TO LIVE.

(By Robert V. Carr in The Jaw Bone.)

To simply live, and drink of Sorrow’s cup
To know of Happiness, the blessings of Content;
To love, to hate, to rest, to strive and toil,
And know that all is for a purpose sent.
To simply live and gather by the way
Impressions which e’er mould and make the character of man.

Tri-City Star (Davenport, Iowa) Oct 18, 1904

Cowboy Lyrics.

“Cowboy Lyrics,” by Robert V. Carr, is a neat little volume of poems published by the W.B. Conkey company, Chicago.

If one is surfeited with the conventionalities of city and society, if one would have the open and unbroken prairie, if one would see the “bronco buster” in real leather breeches, if one would know the appetite before the call for dinner of the cow puncher, if one would see the roundup as it really is, he should get these “Cowboy Lyrics.” There are human tastes and human passions in the book, and they are related with much warmth and expression by the uncultured poet of the “Old Pactola Trail.” The spirit of the author is in “The Old Cowman.”

I’m not so young as I uster be,
I’m somewhat gray and wrinkley,
An’ I wear my hat — my old white hat —
On the back o’ my neck on a roll o’ fat
An’ I don’t ride much like I uster, tho’,
I’m not so dog-goned gumbo slow
When it comes to bronks, but yet I’ll say,
A buggy fer mine ‘most any day.

But my heart is young, oh, my heart is young,
An’ she sings the songs like she allers sung;
Dealin’ fair and dealin’ square,
An’ findin’ friendship everywhere;
An’ never a fear does she let slide,
Fer the day when I cross the Great Divide.

Old pards are gone — no use to care,
They’ve rode the trail to Overthere;
But I’ll see ’em again, I should shout!
To jes’ shake hands fer all get out!
I’ve no regrets an’ that’s no lie,
A white man’s never afeer’d to die;
Old age an’ death has got to be,
An’ by the bods, they don’t scare me!

Milford Mail (Milford, Iowa) Jun 25, 1908

ROBERT CARR, COWBOY POET, PAYS A VISIT TO BUTTE

Robert V. Carr of South Dakota has been visiting in Butte the past few days. Mr. Carr has gained fame as the author of a little volume of verse styled “Cowboy Lyrics.” The volume is in four divisions, “Ranch and Range,” “On the Trail of Love,” “Where the Chinook Blows” and “The Road to Yesterday.” In the verses are found faithful pictures of cowboy life, as it is, life on the range and through the great West. Mr. Carr is possessed of a genial humor, a practical philosophy and kindliness of heart which find voice in these poems and are bound to make them most popular.

The Anaconda Standard ( Anaconda, Montana) Oct 25, 1909


“How.”

I’d like to meet you anywhere,
Along the sunset trail
An’ roll with you a cigarette,
An hear a range-land tale.
I’d like to hear you drawlin’ speak
That word that rhymes with cow,
An’ tastes o’ sage an’ alkall —
That little old word “How.”

I’d like to sight you from a raise
Upon the Big Divide
I bet I’d know you from the way —
The reckless way you ride.
I bet I’d yell — Aw, blame the luck!
I’d give the world jes now,
To hear the pound o’ hoofbeats an’
that little old word “How.”

Fer charmed, I’m sure, an soft handshake
Of high society,
Somehow, don’t never git its rope
Upon the heart o’ me.
I want to beat you on the bark,
In joyous, friendly row,
An’ call you names — I want to hear
Taht little old word “How.”

— Robert V. Carr in the Popular Magazine.

Syracuse Herald (Syracuse, New York) Feb 25, 1911

From Literature of South Dakota - by Oscar William Coursey

NEW BOOKS

Robert V. Carr, the author of “Cowboy Lyrics,” of which a complete and revised edition will be issued by Small, Maynard & Co., of Boston, in October, did not write his lyrics of the western cattle range from the window of a Pullman, or in ease and comfort.

Mr. Carr, in a recent interview, tells of his first attempts to lariat the wild and untamed muse.

Said he, “You must not think that the way of the writer of western verse is strewn with posies. I believe I was about 14 years old when, in addition to an overpowering ambition to be a cowboy, I began to cherish fond hopes of becoming a writer. Possessing a couple of Indian ponies, I drifted from ranch to ranch, from cow outfit to cow outfit, and when I was not annoying the cooks, I was scribbling poetry. Some of those verses I sent to a country editor. He returned them with a note to the effect that they were not worth space. Years later that editor transgressed the law and was sent to jail. That served as an awful warning to me, and later, when I became a country newspaper editor, I always published the poetry sent in.

“Still, in the camp and on the trail in that trampled country north of the Black Hills of South Dakota. I wrote of the things I saw. Sometimes they were printed, but more frequently rejected.

“I left the western country for a bitter experience in teh army in the Philippines and returned to the Black Hills a physical wreck, but still writing. I then sought the cities, but managing editors had little space for western poetry and I drifted on. In that time I came in contact with the down-and-outs, the hungry men, the broken men. I need no books to tell me of despair. In many a dark hole in the city I longed for the clean prairies and a sniff of sage. But still I scribbled. And in time I returned west.

“Years later, when my old cowboy friends had coiled their ropes forever, a magazine editor wrote me, asking for some cowboy lyrics. I was the most surprised mortal in the United States. The editor got his lyrics and I received a check. I hated to cash that check. Naturally, one does not desire to part with something that has cost him 15 years of fighting.

“Yes, the way of the poet, like that of the transgressor, is hard; but yet, when I get a friendly letter from one of the boys in the west, or some chap whose authorship is confined to chalkmarks on water tanks, I do not regret the efforts. I am thankful that I was made to suffer, for it is only by suffering that we learn anything worth while.”

The Deseret News (Salt Lake City, Utah) Jan 4, 1913

TONOPAH.

Robert V. Carr, in The Popular

Slung his money like he knowed
He had staked the mother lode
Wine and song and all the rest —
Everything the very best
Said he wanted to get rid
Of his excess dust — he did!
Wildest splendor ever saw
Struck it rich, had Tonopah

Friend had he — fair-weather kind,
But he did not seem to mind
Said that he proposed to live
While he had a chance, and give
Every kind of sin a test,
So he’d know which was the best
Swiftest sport I ever saw,
That prospector, Tonopah

Throwed his coin across the bars,
Smoked them dollar-each cigars,
Buys of diamonds ’bout a peck,
This and that girl to bedeck
“Sparkler for a smile,” says he,
“Nothin’ cheap now goes with me.”
And the beat I never saw
Of that there young Tonopah

Then one day the cuss went broke,
Put his watch and chain in soak,
Friends began to drift away
And to dodge the sad-faced jay
See that poor bum over there
Beggin’ for two bits? I swear!
That’s the young sport I once saw
Down and out — old Tonopah!

The Washington Post (Washington, D.C.) Jan 26, 1913

Both Cabot Yerxa and Bob Carr homesteaded here in 1913. Five months of each year was spent in other localities, in pursuit of dollars to keep them going through the seven months they spent on their homesteads. Bob Carr finds a position as writer for Keystone Comedies under Mack Sennett, but is told most writers only last a week. All writers are in one large room and from their various yarns Sennett selects what he considers the best to make a picture. Mr. Yerxa continues:

Shortly after Bob Carr was installed, Mac Sennett came into the room, instructing the writers they must use what was on hand in the Studio to form their stories.

There are now on the pay roll one cross-eyed man, a jig dancer, one fat woman, an Irish comedian, one small elephant, two negroes, and six bathing beauty girls. Their bathing suits are all new and we don’t want them to get wet.

Now you fellows go home and come back here in the morning, each with his own story. You must use these characters, they are all paid for by the month. We can not afford to hire extra actors, just for one picture. Go out on the lot and look over the sets available for backgrounds here in the studio. Search in the costume room, we have comedy police uniforms and other things of use perhaps. You picture story can take people to the beaches and places near Hollywood. But no long trips or over night stops, they cost too much. Income is not all we wish it was, because the public seems hard to pull away from old fashioned theatres.”

Bob stayed up nearly all night working on his story construction. The waste basket was full of discarded copy, but he felt satisfied with his plot and action, as he entered the conference room next morning.

Mac Sennett walked in early and ceremoniously laid down some typed pages and announced that he, himself, had written a story and proceeded to read it forthwith. Then he asked each man in turn what he thought of it. The assembled men, all complimented the story very highly, because they hoped to stay on the payroll over Saturday night. Sennett was not above praise and he beamed under the barage of honeed words. Turning to Bob, the last man, he questioned, “And you, Carr, what do you think of my story?” Bob needed to be on the payroll very badly, but shrewdly felt that just to echo praise would get him nowhere.

He decided to be honest and replies quietly, “I think the story is rotton poor, and not worth building onto.” There was a hushed silence in the room!

(Continued next week)

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Oct 18, 1951

Mr. Yerxa continues:

The other writers knew that Bob was a goner Saturday night, unless Sennett fired him on the spot. They waited.

But Mac Sennett was no rich man’s son sitting in the easy chair of authority, prepared for him by some doting father. He had come up the long hard road, lifted by his own bootstraps. Not too long ago he had been carrying a spear in a crowd of extras hired for the night on a New York stage. His present position of success and rising prominence in a new industry had been won by showing foresight, originality, and much determination. Many things far more complicated than a story lay on his desk for solution. Therefore the writing of a script was not too important. Although take aback by the blunt criticism, he was inwardly pleased by the new man’s courage of conviction. So in an even voice, he asked Bob what was wrong with it, and Bob picked the story apart. Then Sennett questioned, “All right, Carr, now read your own story.” Bob did.

Sennett approved, and ordered it to be used for the first draft of the new senario.

Bob stayed on the payroll over the first Saturday night, and indeed was kept on the story writing staff until the time came for him to return to the desert….

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Oct 25, 1951

The most picturesque and attract[ive] cabin on the desert in homesteading days was that of Bob Carr. This was “B.A.”, before autos. There is something sacreligious about riding over the desert or up to a cabin in an automobile. The Desert is so quiet and clean, and wild life so retiring amidst the scant vegetation, that a mere man made machine roaring about is sadly out of place.

The Carr cabin was on a sandy shelf thirty feet above the desert floor, with a clear view to the south and of San Jacinto Mountain. On the west was a thick high bunch of mesquite which gave ample shade and furnished complete protection from the west wind.

It was built of up and down boards with cracks covered by batt strips. All knot holes covered carefully with tin can covers. The one living room was 10 x 14 feet. Cast iron stove at the east end and small sleeping porch at the west end. The only furniture was a plain pine unpainted table, with Bob’s typewriter, the only dictionary in the desert, and a few books of synonims. Three plain wooden chairs and a couple of boxes for extra seats and a pile of mesquite wood for fuel completed the cabin requirements.

Yet with this meager array, his quiet wife, Stella, was able by her ingenuity and feminine view point to make the cabin extrememly attractive. Little plants in dishes and cans, home made curtains at the windows, spotless dishes, magazine pictures, picked with care, fused with Congress. He made pinned here and there, and curtains and stiched covering shelves made the room very cheerful.

(Continued next week)

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Nov 1, 1951

Mr. Yerxa continues:

Stella was a very excellent cook and made wonderful bread. Whenever Bob was out at night she always had a lighted lamp set right against the window glass, and we could see this for many miles, as we trudged cabinward from the railroad post office through desert sand in darkness. Stella Carr was a cheerful companion to Bob and pioneered all through the homesteading days, and at his death, took up her home in Sierra Madre, California, where she now lives.

On that pine table, Bob wrote many a magazine story, novelette, and western poetry, which has amused and interested thousands of people all over the United States. He had a flare for using characters in western settings and stories to make readers laugh. Others were war stories from his experiences in the Spanish American war, or straight western style, cowboys, miner, and Indians.

Bob Carr was a delightful personality and a great comrade. We had wonderful days on the desert together. Just we two walking about, examining all the new things of the desert about us, and enjoying endless conversations, about philosophy, religion, history, poetry, books, Indians, explorers, and the strange complication that civilization has brought into human life. And always with us was that intelligent burro “Merry Xmas.”

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Nov 8, 1951

Bob Carr always viewed any situation from the dramatic angle because he was a born story teller. One day after the wood boxes were heaped high, and all the water pails full to the top in both cabins, he and I got to discussing what two men could do with their bare hands if lost in the desert without food or equipment. Or two Indians running away from marauding tribes. So we approached the problem this way. We hunted round for clay, carried some to Two Bunch water hole, formed a shallow wide dish, and hastily burned it. Although badly cracked it served our purpose to bring more clay to our pottery work spot.

We had used matches to start our fire as twirling a stick to get a flame we considered unnecessary time loss.

Having now abundant clay and water, we fashioned a crude olla to hold a gallon of water, and a rather deep dish with thick walls to cook with. Also we formed two small bowls to eat out of, and made two clumsy spoons. We placed these articles to dry slowly, and later in the day fired them in hot ashes. They held water. With carefully selected stones of the proper size we set out on the prowl for food. We succeeded in obtaining three small birds, and after a time one small cotton tail rabbit fell to our barage of stones. We could not in fairness use a knife, so we used sharp pointed sticks to aide in skinning and cleaning our game.

After searching we found a rock with an edge sharp enough to sever the heads and feet, and to cut up the birds and rabbit into small pieces. We filled the deep dish with water, threw in the pieces of meat and started them to cook over a fire. Some mesquite beans were gathered, cut up and added to the stew. Several sage leaves were added to give flavor. After considerable time the food was ready and served in the individual bowls and we had our clay spoons to use. Thus refreshed, we gathered branches, and palm leaves to build an Indian style “wick-i-up” and were well launched in the business of house-keeping.

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Mar 6, 1952

Cabot Yerxa

The Cabot Yerxa image can be found on Find-A-Grave,  (LINK) along with a biographical sketch, posted by Jane Pojawa.

Cabot Yerxa, homesteading here in 1913…. Mr Yerxa continues:…

Bob Carr and his wife homesteaded on land joining mine in 1913. They kept a dozen chickens, which were well locked up at night. But at one period a chicken was missing every few days during daylight hours. Large animal tracks were noted, a few feathers scattered about and some drops of blood in the sand. That was all.

Bob cleaned his rifle and kept it near the door. On one bright sunny morning, he and I were sitting in the shade of his cabin speculating as to whether it was a coyote or linx responsible for missing chickens. Just then we heard a chicken squawk near the edge of mesquite brush, and looked in time to see a big spotted linx retreating with a full grown chicken in its mouth. Bob grabbed the rifle and we took up the trail. In a few moments we saw the linx with its prey and it saw us too. Whereupon the linx promptly dropped the chicken and advanced slowly towards us, menacingly. Stopping now and then with teeth bared and snarling, its glinting eyes steadily in our direction. We three were very close together now, and just for an instant the linx crouched low and steadied itself for a spring upon us. But Bob was cool and had been holding a line on the animal with his rifle. His shot went true to the mark and the linx never completed the spring, but fell within a half dozen feet of us, screeching and clawing the small brush and sand. Had we been unarmed we would have been in for a very serious encounter, indeed. Such a large animal could kill a man, or at least make extremely serious injuries.

(Continued next week)

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Mar 19, 1953

Cabot Yerxa continues his report of animals and men of the desert back in the early teens of our century….

The Bob Carr single pine board cabin, with a one slope roof, was on a sandy shelf above the flat desert and half hidden in thick undergrowth of mesquite and grease wood. Bob and I, had cleared several pockets out of the sandy depression amid the sand hills near his cabin. These pockets were circular open spaces in which a camp fire was safe and out of any adverse wind condition which might be affecting the open desert.

To these secluded spots we often went for talks and long discussions of outside news which had trickled in to us by mail. Sometimes to wonder at the way nature had provided plants, birds and animals, and other desert things with qualities which made their survival possible in such a land as this. For variation we talked about books, famous people, historical events, and pages out of history which have changed the course of the world. Sometimes Bob would recount again parts of his past life which had been very eventful and on some days we went over the trials and experiences which had befallen me, which were many and varied. Anyway, we spent very interesting hours crouched by small campfires buried out in the desert without benefit of radio or television which people find so necessary today. We did not even have a newspaper. There we were, just two men by a fire, in the middle of many thousand acres of land, with no roads, and no strangers prowling about. After I found the black burro called “Merry Xmas,” it would follow us and lay down by the fire, and I am not at all sure that “Merry Xmas” didn’t understand much that was said. Because its intelligence was so much greater than any ordinary burro.

(Continued next week)

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Mar 26, 1953

Bob Carr and Cabot Yerxa, both writers, enjoyed each other’s company and the desert before it became inhabited. Mr. Yerxa continues.

In a large mesquite tree of venerable age lived a family of seven great spotted white owls …standing fully twenty inches high and the wing spread of these beautiful birds of the night was astonishing. During the darkened hours they would often fly slowly, and close overhead with a ghostly swish of wings.

Sometimes they would come quietly to rest on a convenient limb and call a very mournful “Who, who.” This was all very eerie in these primitive surroundings.

To our campfire hideouts Bob and I took the occasional city visitors who chanced to come to see the desert and us. We would start out at night, in the dark from Carr’s cabin, walking single file, with the city man in line. We walked in circles, and loops, thru thick brush, sometimes on hands and knees under low lying mesquite branches. Then over sand hills, through rocky washes, and patches of cactus, until the weary visitor was nearly exhausted and at last drop into one of our secluded camp spots. Here a small fire was built and stories told of wild cats, mountain lions, linx, rattlesnakes, etc. The visitor thot he was miles away from the Carr cabin, and with the background of night and location of the camp fire spot all the stories seemed very real. But in fact we were never more than a quarter mile from the cabin. Often coyotes would yap, desert rats scampered about in the brush and sometimes the firelight glinted back from animal eyes peering out at us from the darkness. So therefore, when the large white owls sailed overhead slowly with a very audible swish of wings, and called “Who, who” in the blackness of the night, — all visitors were ready to return to the cheerful lamp lighted cabin. We walked them the same long way on the return journey, up hill and down and round about, so they never suspected that it was all a game which Bob and I enjoyed very much. The stories these men told in Hollywood about visits to Carr’s desert cabin were very amusing.

Balzac, the French novelist, often wrote a whole book just to set forth the character of one person, so Bob and I got the idea of writing very short character sketches for newspaper readers. Bob wrote most of these, but I helped along. They were published in Los Angeles papers, one every day.

(Continued next week)

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Apr 2, 1953

Bob Carr and Cabot Yerxa worked and played together on the primitive desert years ago. Mr. Yerxa continues:

Bob Carr had been a cowboy, miner, newspaper reporter, soldier, and columnist. He was the pioneer type man, but primarily he was a writer. We had plans all made to start a desert magazine here in this location when he passed away in Sierra Madre, California. It was too much of a problem for me to undertake alone, therefore the project never got underway. But Randal Henderson started the “Desert Magazine” so the field is now well covered.

Bob and I each wrote about one hundred of these characters cameos:…

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Apr 9, 1953

Here are some examples of the character cameos mentioned by Cabot Yerxa which also ran in the Atlanta Constitution, the Anaconda Standard and the Indianapolis Star (Above heading and cropped cameos are from the Indianapolis Star) :

*****

*****

*****

*****

Cabot Yerxa builds a house back of Miracle Hill in 1925. He tells of animals interested in his progress….

Into the new ranch house went not only my own small buildings, but the Bob Carr cabin from its place in the mesquite hills, which I purchased and took down board by board and hauled home….

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Apr 1, 1954

Cabot continues his description of the house he built back of Miracle Hill, recently the home of General Alexander and 27 Wolf Hounds. A fire destroyed the house and the General moved into a tin store house in back which was destroyed a few weeks ago.

Desert Hot Springs Sentinel (Desert Hot Springs, California) Apr 8, 1954

Carr gravestone also posted on Find-A-Grave (LINK) by Jane Pojawa.

NOTE: Notice the gravestone has Mr. Carr’s death as being in 1930, but the obituaries are from 1931.

ROBERT W. [V.] CARR, COWBOY POET DIES SUNDAY

Sierra Madre, Calif., Jan. 12 — Robert V. Carr, 43, known as “the cowboy poet of the Black Hills” died here yesterday. He had been living in the desert near Palm Springs while in search of health.

Carr for many years was a writer for the Whitewood, S.D. Plain Dealer, where he first began to celebrate the bad lands of that state in poetry. He later worked on newspapers in Chicago, Denver, Spokane and Seattle and edited a livestock journal at Sioux City, Ia. He came here in 1912.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Jan 12, 1931

WESTERN AUTHOR CALLED BY DEATH

SIERRA MADRE, Jan. 13. — Death closed a life of adventure late Friday night when Robert Carr, 52, well known Sierra Madre author, died at his Canyon Park home following an extended illness. Carr, who lived in Deadwood, S.D., during pioneer days and edited a weekly paper there, came to Southern California 12 years ago. His adventurous life furnished material for his short stories which have appeared in many magazines. He as a veteran of the Spanish-American war. He is survived by his widow.

Arcadia Tribune (Arcadia, California) Jan 13, 1931

CARR — Estella R. Carr of Sierra Madre, passed away March 31, 1973. A native of Illinois, she had been a resident of Sierra Madre since 1912. She was a widow of the late Robert V. Carr, well writer and syndicated columnist. She is survived by a niece, Mrs. Genevieve C. Pedlar of North Hollywood; and other nieces in the East. Funeral Services, 11: a.m. today, at graveside, Sierra Madre Cemetery, Ripple Mortuary, Sierra Madre, directors.

Star News (Pasadena, California) Apr 3, 1973

*****

You can read Robert V. Carr’s poetry books online:

Title: Cowboy Lyrics
Author: Robert Van Carr
Publisher: Small, Maynard & company, 1912

Google book LINK

*****

Title: Black Hills Ballads
Western Americana, Frontier History of the Trans-Mississippi West, 1550-1900
Author: Robert Van Carr
Publisher: The Reed Publishing Company, 1902

Google book LINK

She Gets a Pension

July 9, 2010

After nearly forty years of continual service as a teacher in the employ of the public schools of Oakland, Miss Rebecca A. Bills of 961 Jackson street, of this city will have for her faithful work, the distinction of being the first woman in Alameda county to be pensioned from the teacher’s pension bill which goes into effect August 10 of this year.

During the lengthy period of service with the Oakland schools, Miss Bills has been most actively identified with activities of the primary grades, being especially devoted to the younger grammar school children. Miss Bill first became identified with the local educational branch in 1872 when she was appointed to one of the graded classes of the Lafayette Grammar school.

Later she was given a class in the old Irving school serving until 1875 under J.B. McChesney. In that year, she was transferred to Mills Seminary in East Oakland, where she taught for two years.

This was followed by a short six-month leave of absence and after a short term in the San Leandro school she was elected to a position in July, 1878, to the Lincoln Grammar school with which institution she has been connected until Friday, which concluded her career of teaching.

TAKES  TRIP ABROAD.

According to present plans, Miss Bill will leave for a trip through the various cities and places of interest in Europe, returning by way of the Panama Canal and arriving here on time to witness the Panama Pacific Exposition in 1915 in San Francisco. At the home of Mr. and Mrs. C. Cotton at 961 Jackson street, with whom she has resided for the past fifteen years, Miss Bills recalled several reminiscences of her career.

“I graduated from Mt. Holyoke University Mass. in 1867,” she said, “and after several weeks of traveling arrived in Oakland early in the year 1868. My first experience as a teacher was at the Pacific Young Ladies’ Seminary which was located where the Merritt hospital now stands. It was in this year that the great earthquake similar to that of 1906 occurred. I was the last to leave the building, taking two small Spanish girls with me. They were both badly frightened and cried out in terror. It was one of the most dreadful experiences I have ever gone through.”

Miss Bills also taught at the same institution for some time after its removal to Eddy and Taylor streets in San Francisco.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Jun 29, 1913

MRS. SYMONS ENDS 33 YEARS SERVICE AS SCHOOL TEACHER

Seated comfortably in her cozy home on Fifth street, Mrs. Eleanor Symons, Elyria’s veteran school teacher, entertainingly discussed her long service of thirty-three years in the public schools and let her mind run back over the years that she has been engaged in training the youth of this community.

“I hardly know how to express myself,” said Mrs. Symons, “but I feel as if I had earned a vacation and a needed rest. My years of teaching have been pleasant ones, and I presume I will be lost when I retire in June.”

Eleanor M. Baker Symons was born in Spring Creek, Pa., in 1851 and attended the district school summer and winter. At the age of fifteen she obtained her first county certificate, and that winter began her first school. She was then but sixteen and taught 66 days for $24 in cash with her board thrown in, boarding around in the old-fashioned way. This was not considered a hardship as it had many pleasant sides to it.

“Some of the most delightful and lasting friends came into recognition in this way,” said she. “The school ma’am had the best of everything and was always invited to all the festivities of the district. I taught six years in the county schools and then went into the Corry public schools and taught the spring term as assistant eighth grade teacher and principal. The following summer the president and secretary drove to my home to see if I would take the position of the principal, as she had resigned.

Reluctantly, and after much urging, I consented to try it, with the result that I taught there until the Christmas of 1876 when I resigned and was married. I came to Elyria in 1877 and for one year was home sick as I did not know a child on the street.

Mr. Symons was working in the Democrat office. George G. Washburn was the editor of this paper and in February of 1878 he invited me to visit the schools with him on a certain Tuesday. I gladly went, not knowing then that Superintendent Parker was anxious to find a teacher for his one A grammar school. This fact, however, was known to Mr. Washburn, who had been asked by the superintendent to bring about this visit so he could size me up. Mr. Parker walked home with me at noon and asked if I had certificates, recommendations etc., I had, and he took them with him, after explaining his desire to find a teacher so he could release Miss Josie Staub, who soon became Mrs. D.C. Baldwin.

On Thursday evening of this same week, Mr. Parker called and said I had been hired by the board to teach and was to begin the following Monday. He advised me to visit Miss Staub and get somewhat acquainted with this work for the next week, which I did. I taught this grade for seven years and resigned, never intending to teach again, and I did not teach a day for six years. Then Mr. Parker sent for me to help out for a day, a week or maybe a fortnight.

The fall of 1894, he came for me to take the A grammar school taught by Miss Whitbeck, who was obliged to stop on account of illness. He put aside all my excuses for not taking up the work and I went into the school again on the following Monday. On the following Friday Miss Whitbeck passed away and of course, I remained until the end of the school year, and as you know I have been there ever since. I want to thank everybody connected in any way with the Elyria public schools, the different board members, superintendents, teachers, children and parents, for making my long years of teaching such years of joy and happiness.”

Well does the writer remember Mrs. Symons’ first year in school for he was a member of her class. It was a tough school to take charge of and was full of smart Aleck boys and a few frivolous girls, who did not have much idea of what they went to school for. However, the majority of the school were good students, and being a strict disciplinarian, Mrs. Symons soon brought order out of chaos. All will agree that Mrs. Symons has been able to discipline her schools in the right way. She knows when to be lenient, and when to be stern, with absolute justice at all times to her pupils. Some of her pupils with whom she had to be severe, have since written and thanked her for the advice she had given them, and these letters from all over the world are among her prized possessions. Little did the boy back in ’78 dream that in 1921 he would be telling the story of Mrs. Symons’ long years of service in the public print. But it is a genuine pleasure to give tribute to this splendid character whose life has been devoted to the youth of Elyria.

When she retires in June, she will be one of the first to receive the benefit of the teacher’s pension fund that a thoughtful legislature has provided for that splendid body of men and women, who mould the minds of men and women of tomorrow to become useful, orderly, patriotic, educated citizens.

The Chronicle Telegram (Elyria, Ohio) Jun 5, 1921

Miss Kate Stanton, teacher in Wayne township school No. 9, who has taught school for 43 years, retired under the teacher’s pension law at the close of her school term last Friday. She will receive $700 a year the remainder of her life. Miss Stanton is the first teacher in Wayne county to receive a pension.

Cambridge City Tribune (Cambridge City, Indiana) Apr 5, 1917

TEACHER 53 YEARS

SACRAMENTO, July 9. — Fifty-three years of teaching is the record submitted by Mrs. Fannie L. Walsh, of Salinas, who has applied to the California State Board of Education for a teacher’s pension. This is the longest term of teaching ever submitted by any applicant.

Trenton Evening Times ( Trenton, New Jersey) Jul 9, 1915

“It Pays to Economize”

April 15, 2010

NOTIFIES MEMBERS IN RHYME

County Clerk Charles Fischer has received the following verses from Monroe, Wis., where the poet, J.W. Stewart, is the clerk of Green county. The unique invitation is both good reading and timely. Few officials combine a love of statistics with the poetic gift.

NOTICE TO COUNTY BOARD MEMBERS.

You are hereby notified,
And this you must remember;
Go to your County Court House,
On the eleventh day of November.

‘Tis a meeting of the County Board
And that is the opening day;
So be there promptly on time,
And hear what there is to say.

No doubt you’ll enjoy your work,
while at your county seat;
May you have a harmonious session,
And have plenty of things to eat.

In this notice that I give you,
I’ll try to give you the facts;
It may aid you in your work,
As well as guide you in your acts.

Much State Aid Road has been built,
State expenses are also very high;
and when you pay your taxes,
It will almost make you cry.

You may call this state progressive,
Or the land of milk and honey;
But to pay the running expenses,
You bet, that takes some money.

We have a grand University,
Every state does look this way;
The property owners pay the taxes,
And the politicians make the hay.

Over a million, from the tax payers
For this institution, it does take;
In the ways of using money,
It does surely take the cake.

There are commissioners of all kinds,
And many systems, which are to come;
But the system for increasing taxes,
Has them all “going some.”

All these things are expensive,
Still, it was voted, don’t you know;
But the payment of high taxes,
May teach us to go slow.

This state is considered prosperous,
Will you tell me, what made it so?
Was it the State Highway Law?
Most emphatically, I say no!

It’s the industry of our people,
Who toil from morn till night;
With the aid of the dairy cow,
That’s made them win the fight.

‘Tis such men as, Moore and Babcock,
And the tillers of the land;
That’s made Wisconsin prosperous,
And not, our tax figuring band.

We may be prosperous now,
But we’er liable to lose our head;
As we may be taxed to death,
And be numbered with the dead.

Unless we make some changes,
I can see the handwriting on the wall;
That a new party, will take our place
About a year from this fall.

Then come prepared for business,
At this session of the County Board;
And help reduce the taxes,
From the point, to which they’ve soared.

Instruct the next Legislature,
Either by Resolution or otherwise;
To stop being so extravagant,
And to learn to economize.

Elect good men to represent you,
From the district, in which you live;
Then let “economy” be their motto
Or any other, that you choose to give.

I trust these lines will be read,
By people of every size;
Who should remember my motto,
“That it pays to economize.”

Here’s to the State of Wisconsin,
Here’s to the County of Green;
Which is the greatest dairy County,
That the world has ever seen.

Now remember my instructions,
And be there on the opening day;
I will now, bid you Good-bye,
As I have nothing else to say.

— J.W. STEWART,
County Clerk.

Sheboygan Press (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) Nov 8, 1913

MEASURES NOT MEN

By Douglas Malloch

Let’s vote for men not measures, truth not laws,
Concern ourselves not with effect but cause.
The leader is the army, judge the court,
And matter more than rules of every sort.
Platforms and precepts and ideals and creeds,
What are they all unless expressed in deeds?
The greatest nation or the smallest clan,
The thing that really matters is the man.

In men the land much always put its trust;
No law is just unless the judge is just.
I’d rather trust my fortunes to the wise
Than written wisdom that some knave applies.
A golden scepter is a tawdry thing,
However wise the law, if fool the king,
Men matter most, and so I say again,
Let’s vote for measures less, and more for the men.

Sheboygan Press (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) Dec 17, 1907

The Triumph of Freedom, The Fall of the Hun

March 14, 2010

Victory Parade 1919 (Image from http://www.shorpy.com)

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

LITERARY NOTES.

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

SKETCH OF WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE

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

BY MELL R. COLQUITT.

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

SHE BEARS A MASCULINE NAME.

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

OLE MAMMY’S SLUMBER SONG.

(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)

Out West: Justice – Old and New

March 3, 2010

Image from Wiki

Out West.

Firm in our belief in justice in the wild and woolly west,
Though opinions sometimes differ as to what plan serves it best,
Bill Green stole a horse in times past; then some fellows took a rope
And rode off in Bill’s direction at a rather rapid lope.
Later, the recording angel took a pen and, writing, read:
“Bill Green stole a horse this morning.”
Ten p.m. “Bill Green is dead.”

Times have changed. Out here last summer a chap known as “Half-breed Dan”
Was seen leading a black broncho from the barn of William Van.
He was tried by judge and jury — there were lawyers, half a score —
From sixteen to eighteen people took the stand and thusly swore:
“That beyond all doubting, truly, their friend Daniel was insane;
“That his father had an uncle who was ‘Dippy,’ back in Maine.”

Then to make the case more solid, someone took another tack;
Swore his mother’s second cousin was a kleptomaniac.
Then they proved by half a dozen that friend Dan was nowhere nigh,
They’d established in ten minutes a strong, first-class alibi.
Then, that of Dan’s perfect virture no one could have any doubt,
Proved the horse was never stolen; that the beast somehow “got out.”
While the tired recording angel — writing swiftly, with a frown
Tried to give the proper credit for the lies he jotted down,
Sneered some at our so-called justice, “All this trouble and expense
To adjust what once was settled with a rope that cost then cents.”
For the most distressing feature is that this new-fangled plan
Settles absolutely nothing — we still have the same old Dan.

— Minnie C.D. Smith, in the National Magazine.

The Carroll Herald – Sep 10, 1913

Murderess Laura D. Fair

July 13, 2009
Tahoe House - Virginia City, Nevada

Tahoe House - Virginia City, Nevada

The jury in the case of Laura D. Fair, murderer of A.P. Crittenden, remained out forty minutes, when a verdict of murder in the first degree was rendered. The prisoner appeared somewhat paler than usual when taken from the court room, otherwise she was unmoved. It may not be improper to say now of this verdict that until within last week no one generally believed it possible, as nearly everybody was expecting the trial to prove a perfect farce, ending in the acquittal of the prisoner, or a disagreement of the jury. Nine-tenths of the community regard the verdict as a just and proper vindication of the law, and a rebuke of the doctrines put forth in the defense.

Titusville Morning Herald (Titusville, Pennsylvania) Apr 27, 1871

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The testimony of Mrs. Crittenden in the trial of Laura Fair deserves to be particularly pondered by the advocates of easy divorces. Mrs. Crittenden appears in it, as she does throughout all the testimony which refers to her in the case, as a noble and self-sacrificing woman, whose whole desire was to do her duty by her husband and her children. The natural impulse of a scorned woman for revenge she had gained a complete and admirable victory over. It was not, as she testifies, and as the whole history of the case shows, for herself, but for her children, that she pleaded with the woman Fair; and she declared that even if her husband abandoned her she would not put upon them the stigma of a divorce. IF she had chosen to take the course which the law in all States opened to her, or if Crittenden had been able to avail himself of the “incompatibility” which the law in some States allows as a cause for divorce, there is no doubt that he would have foresaken his wife for a woman in every way immeasurably inferior to her. The contrast between the modest and broken hearted lady and the brazen adventuress who succeeded in supplanting her was pointed upon the trial by the insolent interruption with which a prostitute and a murderess marked her hatred of a true and virtuous woman. In the state of things which easy divorce would bring about, the infatuation of Crittenden was so great that the woman who is the refuse of the earth would have won a complete and legal triumph over one of the women who are the salt of it. The woman who is now a widow would have been worse than a widow, and the children who are now fatherless would have been worse than orphans. It is in behalf of women like Mrs. Crittenden, and in despite of women like Mrs. Fair, that the divorce laws are kept stringent. Choose ye. — N.Y. World.

We have but little in common with those journalistic ghouls who have made the debasing details of this trial the daily dessert of their literary meal.

The facts are that Mr. Crittenden was a gentleman, high-toned, honorable and noble; wise in the great affairs of life; foolish as a child in all that concerned a woman. The world has many such men, who are among its greatest and best. They live, die, and are followed to the grave by weeping multitudes, because Providence preserves them from the wiles of wicked and fascinating women. That Mr. Crittenden was such a man, his long life of honorable usefulness, his many years of faithful fidelity to the love of his youth, abundantly proves. That Mrs. Fair was and is an incarnate fiend, all-powerful for evil, and constantly accomplishing it, her life of untiring mischief plainly demonstrates. She ruined Mr. Crittenden just as she would have ruined the judge and the jury that tried and convicted her, and just as she will probably ruin the counsel that defended her should she escape the gallows she so richly deserves. In the hands of a beautiful and wicked woman, men are children, and foolish in proportion as they are noble and generous.

Had Mr. Crittenden been a stolid, money loving, unintellectual, gross debauchee he would have laughed at her charms and thrown off her fascinations with the wine that he quaffed. The white wings of a dove are easily soiled, while smut does no harm on the black plumes of a foul raven.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Apr 30, 1871

Noose

Mrs. LAURA D. FAIR, for murdering Mr. Crittenden, will be hanged at San Francisco, on the 28th of July.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Jun 10, 1871

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Laura D. Fair.

The fate of this beautiful murderess is yet in the balance, and if the Supreme Court of California does not grant her a new trial, she will as certainly be hung as that her hair is blonde, and her voice winning and musical. It is a sad thing at all times to hang a beautiful woman. Beauty is nature’s protest against the rigorous letter of the law, and the executioner who destroys it, or the judge ________ such destruction obligatory, violates that which is too rare to be banished from the midst of men. In Mexico there grows a tree, called the mara mujere? or bad Woman. It is always in the tropics and bears one crimson blossom., symbolizing a drop of human blood. It is hot overhead, the undergrowth is a wilderness, birds of beautiful plumage dart in and out among the vines, created by the ____, the traveler in one _____ moment lays hand on the Red Woman. [A thousand ______ _____ than ??????? unreadable sentence.]the hand is poisoned, dreadful pain follows, and afterward paralysis and death. If he had not touched the tree, however, the songs of the birds would still be sweet for

Daily Democrat (Sedalia, Missouri) Dec 20, 1871

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The report of the death in prison at San Francisco of Mrs. Laura D. Fair, which was said to have occurred on the 30th ult, was a mistake. A San Francisco dispatch of the 5th says, “Mrs. Laura D. Fair is in excellent health and confident that she will never be hanged. Elisha Cook, her principal counsel, died the last hour of the year.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Jan 18, 1872

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Some Gallows Humor:

Laura D. Fair, who was put in prison at San Francisco, California, under sentence of death, for the murder of Crittenden, is dead. She was a remarkable woman. — Brenham Times.

Remarkable, indeed, since at present she is alive and well, and snugly immured in San Francisco jail.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Feb 7, 1872

*****

It is insinuated by San Francisco journals that Mrs. Laura D. Fair cannot, in accordance with law, be hung for several months to come because of an impending event.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Jan 31, 1872

Gavel

THE WOMAN IN BLACK.
The Second Trial of Laura D. Fair — How She Looks in Court.

After months of delay, the second trial of Laura D. Fair, for the murder of A.P. Crittenden, began yesterday in the Fifteenth district court, Judge T.B. Reardon presiding. As is usual whenever this case is called, an immense crowd was gathered in the court-room, which shows that public interest in the result is in no wise abated.

Mrs. Fair entered the court-room at 10 o’clock, under escort of a deputy sheriff, and took a seat by her counsel N. Greene Curtis and Judge Quaint, by both of whom she was cordially greeted. As she came in, the crowd made a passage way through which she walked with a firm step.

She was dressed, as usual, in deep black — black silk dress, black hat and veil, and black gloves. Everything was black except her face, which was as white as Parian marble. Her golden curls trailed down through the folds of her sombre veil, and seemed like rays of sunlight streaming through a blackened cloud. She seated herself at the lawyer’s table, and resting her head on her hand, seemed lost in sad, sad reverie. In the opening proceedings she took no interest whatever. She sat with her eyes on the floor, and only lifted them when her counsel turned to her to make some remark. Her veil was kept down closely over her face, and her features were almost entirely hidden from the eager, curious gaze of the crowd. Later in the day, when the names of the jurors were called, she manifested a slight degree of interest, but when, one after another, they entertained opinions, she seemed to gather from the circumstance a knowledge of how little sympathy there was in the cold, hard faces about her. For a while she listened, but soon sank back in her chair, evidently disheartened and depressed. Once she smiled, when listening to the questioning of an idiot who was on the stand under examination as to his qualifications to sit on the jury, but it was a sickly mournful smile and passed away as quickly as it came.

Sitting apart from the prominent actress in the scene was another older lady. She too, was attired in black and looked sad and sorrowful. This was the mother of Mrs. Fair. She had come into the court before Mrs. Fair, but when the latter entered she did not notice her. Neither spoke to the other, and both sat apart and alone. In the afternoon Mrs. Lane again entered the court, but Judge Quint went up to her and whispered something, after which she left and was seen no more. After this Mrs. Fair was left entirely alone with her counsel. — San Francisco Chronicle.

Daily Democrat (Sedalia, Missouri) Sep 23, 1872

scales of justice

ACQUITTAL OF LAURA FAIR.

The acquittal of Mrs. Laura D. Fair makes good the boast that in California no woman had been or ever would be executed for murder. The killing of Crittenden was not a disputed fact. It was not brought home to her on the strength of circumstantial evidence. IT was admitted. Infuriated by the sight of the wife of her paramour and the kiss with which the unfaithful husband welcomed her return to the Pacific Coast, Mrs. Fair drew a pistol, which apparently she had deliberately provided for the purpose, and shot him dead. The verdict of the jury which first found her guilty of murder was approved by every intelligent reader of the testimony. If murder ever stained the annals of human history, then Mrs. Fair was guilty of it. Her acquittal rests, if it has any basis beyond the sympathy of the jurors for a woman upon the plea of temporary insanity — a plea which may be resorted to in almost any case of killing, and in California with manifest success.

Mrs. Fair goes unhung for her crime, but she will not go unpunished. In all civilized society where she may appear hereafter, she will be avoided as one whose hand is stained with the same stain which reddened the hand of Lady Macbeth. If the legal penalty of her crime is not exacted, the moral law will be avenged upon her in such a way that she will be likely to regret her release from the walls of a friendly prison, and wish for death as a release from the scorn and contempt of mankind. — Cincinnati COMMERCIAL.

The Coshocton Democrat (Coshocton, Ohio) Oct 8, 1872

More “Humor” From the Press:

Laura Fair, just acquitted of the murder of Colonel Crittenden in California is called the “pretty bully in bombazine” by a Western paper. The “pretty bullet” would come nearer the mark.

Bangor Daily Whig and Courier (Bangor, Maine) Oct 9, 1872

*****

The St. Louis Democrat says that Laura D. Fair, who shot Mr. Crittenden, has made “a quarter of a million in Yellow Jacket,” and thinks that now “she had better kill somebody else — say a brutal witness who inhumanly witnessed the shooting.”

Titusville Morning Herald (Titusville, Pennsylvania) Oct 18, 1872

*****

HAVING escaped the gallows, Miss Laura D. Fair is now making a determined effort to save her money, and has repudiated Judge Quint’s little bill of $8,075 for legal services.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Nov 9, 1872

The following telegram tells why the notorious Laura D. Fair failed to fulfill her first lecture appointment in the Golden City:

“At the hour that Mrs. Fair was t o appear and lecture upon ‘Wolves in the Fold,’ about 2,000 people congregated in front of Platt’s Hall, on Montgomery street, and as many before her residence on Kearney street. The crowds at both places were boisterous and threatening.

At 8 o’clock Mrs. Fair demanded of the Chief of Police an escort of officers to the lecture hall. The Chief advised her that it was dangerous for her to appear on the street or at the hall, and would not furnish an escort, but sent men to keep the streets clear and preserve the peace.

The carriage came for Mrs. Fair, but she kept close in her room with a dozen friends. The crowd hooted and yelled, and men tried to force their way up the stairs, but were driven back. In about tow hours but few remained and all was quiet.”

The question of calling a convention to form a State Constitution for Washington Territory has been voted down ….. A tremendous sensation has been caused in San Francisco by the publication of the particulars of an alleged plot by Laura D. Fair and a restaurant waiter named Frank to poison Judge Dwinelle and the counsel for the people, Alex. Campbell. The plot was formed before the second trial, and was revealed by Frank. He said that Mrs. Fair tried to induce him to put poison in a decanter at Dwinelle’s house or a milk can at the door. A plan of Judge Dwinelle’s house was found in the possession of Frank.

The Dixon Telegraph (Dixon, Illinois) Dec 4, 1872

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Laura Fair cocktails, recently sold in San Francisco saloons, have been discontinued since the rumored attempt of that lady to poison Judge Dwinelle.

New York Herald (New York, New York) Dec 4, 1872

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THE notorious Laura D. Fair has had J. Thistleton arrested in San Francisco for caricaturing her during her late trial for murder.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Jan 11, 1873

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Laura D. Fair lectured, on Wednesday night at Hamilton Hall, Sacramento, Cal., upon “Wolves in the Fold.” She was exceedingly bitter upon the San Francisco Press, clergy, attorneys, and the jury which first tried her.

The New York Times (New York, New York) Jan 31, 1873

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The shot with which Laura Fair killed Crittenden almost as suddenly turned white the hair of a daughter of the deceased, it is said. The young lady, who is but twenty years old is described as beautiful and intelligent, but overcast with a cloud of melancholy that will embitter her future life. Being asked recently by an intrepid interviewer how came her hair so white and she so young, she answered “sorrow,” and immediately left the room.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Apr 2, 1873

wedding-bells

It is reported that Laura D. Fair has married a lawyer in San Francisco.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Dec 28, 1873

More Gallows Humor From the Press:

AN exchange says that Laura Fair is said to make a model housekeeper, and her husband is one of the happiest men in California. This is the best argument we have yet seen against hanging. A reprieved murderess and so on makes the best wife. Still, it looks as though Laura’s fortieth husband may be a man not hard to please.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Apr 9, 1874

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Laura Fair visited Cincinnati in cog. last week. She was detected by a hotel clerk, who observed a name on a pistol which she was examining to see if the charges were all right. The hotel charges?

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Apr 29, 1874

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Laura Fair has gone to Japan to shoot the Mikado.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Jul 14, 1874

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Laura D. Fair, San Francisco murderess, was spared the gallows that she might appear in a police court as the victimized purchaser of 6,666 shares of a silver mine which couldn’t boast a bonansa.

Bismarck Daily Tribune (Bismarck, North Dakota) Feb 24, 1875

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Laura Fair, in a card, denies that she advised Mrs. Loomis, another terrible woman of San Francisco, to shoot Col. Barnes.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Jun 18, 1875

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Laura D. Fair was before the Probate Court at San Francisco, the other day, to get an order authorizing the sale of some real estate standing in the name of her little daughter. She got it.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Aug 5, 1875

The Press Just Isn’t Going To Let it Die:

“Laura Fair,” says The Detroit Free Press,” has settled down into a quiet, peaceful body, who wouldn’t step on a cat’s tail if she could just as well not. She says she wouldn’t shoot another man for thirty dollars.”

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Mar 11, 1876

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Laura D. Fair has invented a baby carriage and sold the patent to an eastern firm for $14,000.

Reno Weekly Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Jun 26, 1879

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Laura D. Fair has written a lecture entitled “Chips from California,” the initial delivery of which will be at Chickering Hall New York to-night. The lecture is understood to contain much that is dramatic of the unmasked and practical side of life as seen in the Golden State. It is said to also treat of public men, politics, notable women, of the requisites to the inner circles of the California elite, at the operators on “the street,” of Henry Ward Beecher’s visit to California, and something about the Chinese, the Bonanza Kings, and the domestic virtues of California hospitality.

Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Sep 23, 1879

Lorraine Hollis advert 1900 copy

Miss Hollis at Auditorium.

The Lorraine Hollis company produced Dumas’ great masterpiece, “La Dame aux Camellias” at the Auditorium Saturday evening to a large and critical audience. It is enough to say that no one in the house was in the least dissatisfied with the work of Miss Hollis in the leading role and of Orme Caldara as Armand Duval, they having to respond to a curtain call.

Miss Hollis’ work is equal t that of Lillian Lewis in her palmiest days in the role of Camille. The scene between Camille and Armand’s father, in which the latter besecaes? her to abandon Armand for his honor’s sake, is especially well done, and not a criticism could be offered on Miss Hollis’ work in this exceedingly difficult part. The end of Camille’s life of sacrifice, her reconcilation with Armand, and her death in his arms, surrounded by a few friends who have remained true to her, is exquisitely pathetic, and the fine touches of art which Miss Hollis bestows on her work in this scene may well be mistaken for reality. Miss Hollis is a clever actress, a charming woman, and undoubtedly has a great future before her.

Newark Daily Advocate (Newark, Ohio) Jan 15, 1900

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FAMOUS BEAUTY FOUND DEAD IN ROOM
Death of Actress Recalls Old Crittenden Murder of Years Ago.

NEW YORK, Feb. 7. — Many actors and actresses stood with bowed heads on the sidewalk in front of an Eighth avenue undertaking establishment yesterday as the coffin containing the body of Lillian Lorraine Hollis, known as “the child of tragedy,” was borne out to the hearse which conveyed it to a crematory.

“Here ends the career of a girl whom California proclaimed twenty-two years ago as its most beautiful product,” soliloquized Albert Curtis, an old-time stock company actor. “In a voting contest conducted by several California newspapers in 1892 Miss Hollis was proclaimed the prettiest woman on the Pacific coast.”

When her body was found in a little furnished room at 223 West Forty-ninth street it seemed drawn and sallow. The beauty of twenty years ago had faded. A score of cats were slinking about the room. Among them was Charley, known to every theater almost throughout the United States, because Miss Hollis always insisted on this big, ugly cat accompanying her.

How long Miss Hollis had been dead is not known. She was ill last Friday, the last time a friend had called upon her. The physician said it was inanimation and lack of nourishment. Others used the plain word starvation.

The mother of Lillian Lorraine Hollis was Laura D. Fair, and she was known forty years ago as one of the most beautiful women in San Francisco. On November 3, 1870, soon after the birth of the woman who was cremated yesterday, Laura Fair followed Judge A.P. Crittenden on board a ferry boat going from San Francisco to Oakland, where he was to meet his wife, returning from the East, and shot and killed him.

Laura Fair, famed for her beauty, had left a baby in her rooms, and just as Judge Crittenden was stepping from the boat to meet his wife she demanded that he abandon his wife and live with her and acknowledge the parentage of the girl who died alone in privation here a few days ago. He spurned her, and, in proof that “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” she killed him.

After a sensational trial, in which many of hte early families of California were involved, Laura Fair was convicted of murder and sentenced to be hanged. She was the first woman to be so sentenced. Popular sentiment was aroused and Laura Fair had another trial and was acquitted.

Returning to her baby, she established a little home and supported herself by singing in the mining camp dance halls. Growing up in this environment, the daughter became an actress at an early age, and for the last twenty-five years she has been with many companies. Her greatest affluence was attained when she owned a company of her own, but this soon failed. Her last marriage is said to have been to a man named Andrew Hines.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Feb 7, 1913

*****

Suicide Prompted by Death
Woman Seeks to End Life
Old Tragedy Now Recalled

SAN FRANCISCO, Feb. 8 — Mrs. Laura D. Snyder, mother of Lillian Lorraine Hollis, who recently died in poverty in New York, attempted to kill herself by cutting her throat at her home in Richmond today. Physicians said tonight she probably would recover.

Grieved over the death of her daughter, friends say, has affected Mrs. Snyder’s mind.

Mrs. Snyder, whose maiden name was Fair, figured more than 40 years ago in a famous criminal case. On a ferry boat en route from San Francisco to Oakland, she shot and killed Judge A.P. Crittenden, who the woman claimed was the father of her child, Lillian.

Laura Fair was sentenced to be hanged for the murder, but a new trial was granted her and she was acquitted. Afterwards she went into mining camps and made a living for herself and child.

The daughter became noted for her beauty and in 1892 won a newspaper voting contest as the most beautiful woman on the Pacific coast. She became an actress and went east.

The news of her death in destitute circumstances at New York was the first word Mrs. Snyder had received of her daughter in many years.

Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Feb 9,  1913

LorraineHollis pic

Killed Judge Crittenden on Ferryboat in 1870 Because of Unwelcome Attentions

RICHMOND, Feb. 11. — Believing herself to be nearing the grave, but wishing first to clear the name of her dead daughter, Lillian Lorraine Hollis, the once famous actress, Lillian Fair, Mrs. L.D. Snyder of this city, who, in 1870 shot and killed Judge A.P. Crittenden on the ferryboat El Capitan, yesterday told the story of her own tragic career since the birth of her daughter, Lillian, in Siskiyou county in 1860.

Mrs. Snyder refutes the stories that have been current to the effect that her daughter, once known as one of the most beautiful women in the United States, died in a tenement house alone and in poverty.

HUSBAND FOUND DEAD.

Mrs. Snyder, who is 75 years old, was formerly Mrs. Laura D. Fair, wife of Colonel William D. Fair, a famous attorney of the early days of California and Nevada. Fair was found dead with a bullet in his brain in the offices of Dr. Murphy in San Francisco. The autopsy showed that two shots had been fired, one of which had killed Fair. The mystery as to whether or not Fair had committed suicide or was the victim of a pistol duel was never cleared.

In later years Mrs. Fair became engaged to Crittenden, but on learning that he was a married man, she married Snyder, and since 1906 has lived in Richmond.

The tragic events in her life have broken her heart and her health. When the news of her daughter’s death reached her she tried to kill herslef.

TIRED OF STRUGGLE.

“It is no use keeping up the struggle longer,” she said. “I am so weary of it all and there is nothing else now for me to live for. Lillian is gone, my Babie Fair. I am 75 and I can’t last very much longer anyhow.

“Who says she was alone, and poverty stricken? Who dares attack her legitimacy of birth? She was the daughter of my husband, Colonel William D. Fair, and was born in Yreka, Siskiyou county, in August, 1860.

STORY UNTRUE.

“She did not die alone, but was under the care of kind friends and the treatment of Dr. Thomas R. English, 65 Central Park West, New York. For a long time she had been ill with a complication of lung troubles and a weak heart, but despite that she has earned her own living by teaching music. She left the stage some years ago.”

Mrs. Leonora S. Smith, landlady of the flat occupied by Mrs. Hollis at 133 East Ninty-fourth street, writes to Mrs. Snyder under date of February 3, telling her of the affairs of her daughter. “And this letter from my Lillian herself will prove that those sensational reports sent out from the East are false,” said Mrs. Snyder, referring to the following letter from Miss Hollis:

SENDS LETTER.

New York, Jan. 26. ’13.
Dear Mamma: It may be possible for me to get pupils again soon, only I must first get more strength. You letter has caused me to make a renewed honest fight. I write in haste to keep my work and send love to Mamma mine. The children I have been teaching music will come to see me again before Easter.
Write soon please.
Mary Mother guard you.
Lovingly, BABIE FAIR.

“I presume the only thing left for me to do is to review the whole terrible story,” said Mrs. Snyder. “My husband, Colonel Fair, died a year and half after Lillian was born, leaving me in excellent financial circumstances. I went to Virginia City, Nevada, where I bought a large rooming house and it was there when my daughter was four years old that I first met Crittenden.

TELLS OWN STORY.

“At that time Crittenden represented himself as a single man and when I left Virginia City he still paid me attentions, saying that his wife had died a number of years before. I believed him, but later I found out that it was not so.

“I married Snyder and Crittenden again pestered me with attentions. I had told Snyder before my marriage of the Crittenden incident and he said that if he should bother me after my marriage he would shoot him.

“Crittenden kept up his attentions and was even so bold as to enter my house. I feared that if my husband should see him there would be murder. Shortly afterward Crittenden sent me a note saying my husband was paying attention to another woman and offered to hire detectives to shadow my husband. He asked if I had any objection and I said no. One night the detective, McDougal, came to my house and told me that he was ready with evidence. Accompanied by two witnesses and the detective, I found my husband with another woman.

SUED FOR DIVORCE.

“I sued for divorce and was granted a decree in three weeks. After it was all over I learned that Snyder had been paid by Crittenden to aid in furnishing evidence by which I would be persuaded to sue for divorce. After the trial I accused Crittenden to his face of having been responsible and he neither denied nor admitted that my accusation was just.

“I told him then that if I ever met him again I would shoot him and I did. I was acquitted and many of my closest friends told me that I should have shot him a lot sooner. Immediately after the trial I took a flat at the corner of Gough and Hayes streets in San Francisco, where I lived until my daughter was 13 years of age.

DAUGHTER MARRIED.

“Between the ages of 18 and 19 she married Andrew W. Haynes.
“She had $10,000 at the time of her marriage in her own name. Her marriage was not a happy one, and after living with Haynes for about six years she secured a divorce. She was never married again.

“Afterward she went on the stage, playing at the old Alcazar Theater, and never going on the vaudeville stage. She later showed great ability in dramatic work, and went East, where she continued her dramatic work until 1902. Since then she had devoted her time to writing. She was the author of a number of plays, some of which she staged with success.

LOVED THE WEST.

“She enjoyed great success until the past few years, when she had been in ill heath. I have heard from her from time to time, and a year or so ago wrote to her that I would try to join her in New York. She replied that she would try to come to California, as she would rather live in the bricks and ashes of San Francisco than in a palace in New York.”

” I realize now that it will not be long before I will join her. I am a woman 75 years of age, and have not a great many years before me. It is for this reason that I desire to set the facts in the case aright.”

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Feb 11, 1913

gravecross

DEATH RECALLS FERRY TRAGEDY

With the filing in San Francisco yesterday of a report of the public administrator, there was disclosed the fact that Laura A. Snyder, formerly Laura Fair, who figured in one of the historic sensations of California is dead. Also there was written probably the last chapter of a story, of an angered woman and the shooting at her hands of the man she contended had wronged her, Alexander Crittenden. The shooting took place in 1870, when Crittenden and his wife who had come from the east to join him, were crossing from Oakland to San Francisco on a ferry boat. Laura Fair also was on the boat for a purpose and that was to seek the life of Crittenden.

On her first trial she was convicted, but subsequently obtained a verdict in acquittal. Now it seems that for years she had been living in a little place at 2143 Market street, San Francisco, where on Monday she died of heart failure. She was 82 years old. Public Administrator Hynes found that she had left $1100 in the Bank of Italy, and that there are two heirs in Salt Lake.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Oct 15, 1919

*****

THEY ARE FORGOTTEN

THE TRIAL of Public Defender Frank Egan in San Francisco and his associate, one Tinnin, a former penitentiary inmate, in which both were convicted of murder, is being spoken of in the bay cities as “historic,” but as an Oakland paper editorially remarks, “In a few days it will be forgotten.” This is quite likely, as other trials that attracted great attention at the time have long since passed from public memory.

One of the most famous criminal cases in the history of the coast was the killing of Alexander Crittenden, noted lawyer of Nevada and California and a graduate of West Point, by Laura D. Fair, widow of Sheriff Fair of Shasta county, California. In 1862 she conducted the Tahoe House in Virginia City. In November, 1870, when Crittenden was with his wife and children on board a ferry steamer, Mrs. Fair stepped up to him and suddenly shot him. He died two days later. She was convicted on her first trial but acquitted on her second on the ground of insanity. Owing to the prominence of the woman and Crittenden, it was literally years before the killing ceased to be a theme of conversation. Now few recall it.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Sep 9, 1932

*****

The Gentle Tamers on Google Books has a good summary of Laura D. Fair and the murder of Alexander Crittenden.

Another summary in History of California By Theodore Henry Hittell, also on Google Books.

Animal Suicides

March 27, 2009
Image from picturebook.com

Image from picturebook.com

When a horse commits suicide by hanging itself in its stall, that’s noose.

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 19, 1928

Posted by Mugira Fredrick at blogspot.com

Posted by Mugira Fredrick at blogspot.com

AN IOWA cow committed suicide the other day, out of grief for the loss of her calf. After following the butcher’s wagon to the slaughter house and giving vent to a series of agonizing moans, she deliberately made her way to the river, waded in beyond her depth and was drowned.

Gettysburg Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jul 26, 1872

squiggle59

A Virginia horse committed suicide in the James River at Petersburg last week. He walked out to the pierhead of a wharf, and looked around as if choosing a spot, jumped into the river at a point where the water was deepest. Persons on the wharf, seeing that he was drowning, got a rope around him and drew him into shallow water, but as soon as he touched bottom he got loose again, and wading out some yards further in the stream, put his head beneath the surface, and kept it there until he drowned.

The Bucks County Gazette (Bristol, Pennsylvania) Aug 26, 1875

squiggle60

A Mad Cow Commits Suicide.
From the Columbus, Ga., Daily Times.

Yesterday, about noon, upper Broad and Oglethorpe streets were thrown inot a state of excitement by the strange antics of a cow, which gave every indication of madness. It was a fine young animal, belonging to Mrs. Purcell. She was very vicious, fighting other cows, etc; she ran into a wagon, and, with rolling eyes, kicked up her heels and snorted around generally. Efforts were made to catch her, but they were in vain, and she finally ran into the river, near Mott’s Green, and was drowned. The body was caught near the upper bridge.

Her conduct is inexplicable. Some have advanced the idea that perhaps she was drunk, from eating the seed and strainings after wine making from blackberries, thrown into the street. How about this we cannot say, but her death entails a heavy loss on Mrs. Purcell.

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Jul 6, 1882

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Horse Commits Suicide.

The Wabash Railway, in a damage suit instituted by J.M. Sauvinette to recover the value of a horse which met his death on the Wabash tracks, sets up the novel defense that the horse committed suicide. Perhaps the animal had been reading advertisements of the Wabash, and got it into his head that it was the direct route to heaven. –Globe-Democrat, Feb. 27, 1903.

Decatur Herald (Decatur, Illinois) Mar 3, 1903

squiggle62

HORSE COMMITS SUICIDE.

Deliberately Butts Head Against Wall Until it Falls Dead.
Cincinnati, Sept 30. A horse owned by Joseph Kamphouse, of this city, deliberately committed suicide by butting its head against a stone wall. The animal was hitched to a buggy left standing in the street while the owner went into a place of business for a few minutes. It walked slowly toward the wall a square away and fell over dead after striking its head against the wall ten or twelve times. A score of persons witnessed the suicide.

Kamphouse declares he knows of no reason why the horse should destroy itself and will inform the President of the circumstances, although he will run the rist of being called a nature faker.

Trenton Evening Times (Trenton, New Jersey) Sep 30, 1907

Image from seahorsekisses on wunderground.com

Image from seahorsekisses on wunderground.com

Found Drowned, and Its Owner Declares Animal’s Act was Deliberate.
Special to the Washington Post.

Glennville, N.Y., July 6. — It was so hot on Wednesday that a horse owned by J. M. Cook, went to a brook and drowned itself, and William Beekman, the constable of the town of Greenburgh, was prostrated with heat after carrying his big badge around for five hours doing duty on the warm roads.

Cook’s horse was found by Beekman, with its head under water. He declared that the horse had not drowned itself, just drunk itself to deat. Cook said it was purely a case of suicide.

Washington Post, The (Washington, D.C.) Jul 7, 1911

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HORSE COMMITTED SUICIDE.
[New York Sun.]

According to the Humane Society of Spokane a horse deliberately committed suicide there the other day. The animal was decrepit and has been deserted. Too weak to eat solid food he was tethered in front of a patch of clover. He sampled the clover, and then, according to the report, deliberately plunged headlong off a bluff overlooking the river a few feet away and was later found dead.

tigress-and-cubs

Naturalist have frequently related the suicide of animals through grief. Probably the oddest one of all is tht told by Dr. Ezekiel Henderson, the traveller, of a tigress whose cubs had been taken from her by the agents of one of the large circus menageries of the United States. The party came upon the tiger’s den while hunting in Asia for exhibits. They took four cubs and crossed a near-by river with them, destroying the primitive tree trunk bridge after they reached the other side.

The tigress returning and finding her cubs gone bounded by scent down to where the party had crossed the stream. She knew of the tree trunk, having made used of it herself before. When she saw it was gone she uttered the most piercing and lamentable howls and cries. The party with her cubs came back to the river bank, attracted by the noise. The tigress when she was her cubs gave vent to an unearthly shriek. Then crouching, rising and recrouching again several times, she deliberately sprang from the river bank. The river was five times wider than she could have been expected to leap, and leaping animals are close calculators. She fell 25 feet into the stream. She came up once, turned toward the distant shore, threw her head back and sank for good. A clear case of suicide the doctor called it.

Washington Post, The (Washington, D.C.) Jul 13, 1913