Tin Soldiers, Toy Soldiers, Wartime Toys

He was only a little tine soldier then,
To be used as a battering ram;
Today he’s the pride of a nation wide —
He’s the nephew of Uncle Sam.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Dec 6, 1941

THE Toyville army, marching
Into billets ‘neath a chair,
Discovered two tin soldier spies
Beneath the carpet there.

The captain sternly marched them out,
Their case and fate to settle.
They stood at ease with steady knees,
For they were men of mettle!

I’m glad Ted chanced to pass just then
And took a hand. He thrust
The two spies in his pocket,
To the captain’s great disgust!

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) May 12, 1918

THE Toyville army bravely marched
Across high table land,
Upon the table edge, some one
Forgot the right command!

No welcome “Halt!” to bid them stay,
So like the gallant host of yore,
Theirs not to question, but obey,
They fell in companies to the floor.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) May 19, 1918

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Nov 16, 1942

LITTLE TIN SOLDIER.

Little Tin Soldier, how stiff you stand
With your sword buckled on and your gun in your hand.
Would you hear aright should your captain say,
“Fall out, dismissed, well done — let’s play!”

Or would the Something that comes with drill
O’ershadow you, follow you, hinder you still —
And you hear like the beat of a distant tattoo,
“Count off, front and rear, one two .  .  .  one two?”

Time was, I am sure, though you look so grim
There’s a gleam in your eye, though ’tis often dim,
When your memory quickens and troubles you
As you quick-step, march — one two, one two.

Little Tin Soldier, how stiff you stand
With your sword buckled on and your gun in your hand.
Would you hear aright if I said what is true,
“I love you, my darling — I do, I do?”

— Ann Drew.

Syracuse Herald (Syracuse, New York) Jul 4, 1926

Billigns Gazette (Billings, Montana) Jul 8, 1945

Don’t Shirk

Image from The Great Humanitarian

DON’T SHIRK.

War’s wanton waste
Needs be replaced
By work — unflagging work!
Now the hour of haste,
Don’t shirk!

The starved seek food,
Not platitude.
Help banish gloom and murk!
List the hymn of gratitude,
Don’t shirk!

Somewhere men freeze,
Would take thy ease
And with the idle lurk?
Help now! Each moment seize,
Don’t shirk!

Uplift this world of ours again,
Be one of God’s real noblemen!
Let dreamers rant and smirk,
Of grit and pluck they are no ken,
Don’t shirk!

Each motto be: “I’ll help too.
Help to see the right go through,”
Such the Master’s work.
Then shall all men say of you:
“No shirk!”

— J.B. Foster in N.Y. Sun.

Olean Evening Times (Olean, New York) Dec 15, 1919

A REMINDER FROM THE A.E.F.

Image from warchat.org

A REMINDER FROM THE A.E.F.

By Berton Braley

Once on a time we marched gaily away from you.
Sailed overseas to the fields that were red,
Fought in the trenches — and waited for pay from you;
Starved for you, froze for you, suffered and bled.
Some of us stayed there, under the clover now
Sleep after deeds that were brave and sublime,
Do not forget, though the slaughter is over now,
We went through hell for you, once on a time!

True, all we fought for has not yet been realized,
“Statesmen and diplomats” plotted and schemed,
Scoffing at hopes that they thought were “Idealized”
Fools who could not understand what we dreamed;
Still, though the “leaders of thought” proved perfidious,
Dragging our visions through muck and through slime,
We freed mankind from a menace more hideous,
We saved the world for you, once on a time!

Four years have gone since the cannon ceased hammering,
Four years have passed since the conflict was won,
Aye, and in spite of all cynical clamoring,
It was a task that was splendidly done;
Peace is about us, the peace that we bought for you,
Bought with the splendor of youth in its prime.
Let not your memory lose what we wrought for you,
We won a war for you — once on a time!

(Copyright, 1922, NEA Service)

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Nov 11, 1922

Let Us Play the Game to Win

LET US PLAY THE GAME TO WIN

BY LUCIUS WINCHESTER.

(This poem was written last spring when young Winchester was only fourteen years old. He is the son of Lucius W. Winchester, 170 Oakdale avenue.)

Dire war has come upon us, with its struggling and its strife,
And the weeping of the widows, and the loss of human life;
But above the roar of battle, o’er the tumult and the din
I can hear a voice entreating,
“Let us play the game to win!”

Yes, I know we did not want it, but now that it is here,
Let us welcome it with shouting, let us greet it with a cheer,
And through the heat of battle, ‘midst the suffering and the sin,
Let us fight for all we’re worth —
Let us play the game to win!

And in the awful struggle, with the slaughter at its height,
We will show the German kaiser that Americans can fight!
We will rush to help our country, and we’ll die ere we give in;
We’ll show them we’re not quitters —
For we play the game to win!

Yes, war is now upon us, with its suffering and its pain,
And the weeping of the loved ones o’er the bodies of the slain.
Though we know well that War is Hell, since now that we are in,
Let’s fight for right with all our might —
Let’s play the game to win!

And when the struggle’s over, and when the fight is won,
And with carnage, pain and strife, all the nations shall be done,
Let us say it with a fervor, let us say it with a grin,
“Why, we couldn’t help but win it —
For we played the game to win!”

The Daily Review (Decatur, Illinois) Aug 29, 1918

Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam

Image from Wind Turbine Syndrome

UNCLE SAM OUR LEADER.

(Tune, “Baby Mine.”) [also called “Crawdad Song“]

Hark! I hear our Chief a-coming,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam;
And the bells are all a-ringing,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Comes a shout from o’er the main,
Glorious Chief is the refrain,
And they shout it once again,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Uncle Sam.

We will lift a million praises,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Till the vault of heaven raises,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Till the world rings out the note
As if from a single throat,
“May your flag forever float,”
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
“May your flag forever float,”
Uncle Sam.

When we hear our country calling,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
From the ranks will none be falling,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Rich and poor, like soldiers true,
We will all be proud of you,
Chief who dares to think and do,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Chief who dares to think and do,
Uncle Sam.

You have writ a golden page,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
In this busy, bustling age,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
And the nation’s grand advance
You will mightily enhance,
Giving every man a chance,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Giving every man a chance,
Uncle Sam.

A good, solid working place,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Counting neither caste nor race,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Your bright flag we’ll ever see
Floating o’er this land so free,
Glorious home of liberty,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Glorious home of liberty,
Uncle Sam.

Foe to none on land or sea,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Save to foes of liberty,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Smite der kaiser’s warlike mien,
Smash his hellish submarine,
Give this world a brighter sheen,
Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam,
Give this world a brighter sheen,
Uncle Sam.

— B.J. Price, a Former Oshkosh Man.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Jul 18, 1917

Image from The Long and Short of it All

The Finger-Print Poet

NEWS!

A MURDER in the tenderloin,
An eminent statesman’s views,
A scandal breaks in the avenue,
It’s news, all news, big news!
A hurried dash for a subway train,
Some feverish pencil jots—
The public must have its morning thrill
Over its coffee pots.

A lone man battling Russian snows,
Another, the desert’s thirst—
Each fired by thoughts of a record “beat”
If he gets on the wire first,
With a story the harried cable clerk
Shall hurl on—dot by dash—
The public reads of the wide, wide world
Along with its breakfast hash.

Battle of typewriters, driven hard,
And crash of the linotypes,
Maddening click of the telegraph,
And the fog from the reeking pipes!
The grueling race by flesh and blood
‘Gainst Time’s unflagging legs—
The public must have its news served hot
And fresh as its breakfast eggs.

One last wild rush, and the presses start
Their rumble and roar overhead;
A stretch, a yawn and a heartfelt sigh—
The paper’s been “put to bed.”
Few of us know what each line has cost,
Nor ask how the price is paid—
We only know that the public wants
Its news with its marmalade.

(Copyright, 1919, by Bell Syndicate, Inc.)

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Nov 2, 1919

The Mysterious Poet

James Stuart Montgomery!! He is the poet of the finger-prints. He revealed his identity to New York publishers simultaneously with an effort to trace his finger-prints in the War Department at Washington.

The mysterious Finger-Print poet was born in Rome, Ga., in 1890. He was educated at the University of Georgia and the University of Pennsylvania, where he graduated in 1911. In 1917 he attended the first officers’ training camp at Fort Niagara, N.Y., and was commissioned a first lieutenant. After being assigned to the 316th Infantry, 79th Division, he was promoted to captain and appointed personnel officer and assistant to the regimental adjutant.

On September 30, 1918, he was wounded while serving with his regiment at Montafuson, where some of the fiercest fighting of the famous Meuse-Argonne offensive took place. After some time in a base hospital he was invalided home.

Before entering the army Captain Montgomery wrote verses occasonally merely for his own amusement. In France it helped to while away the time.

Some of his best verse, including “Je Ne Me Fiche” and Her Glove,” was written while he was in a military hospital in France. He is now living in Strafford, Pa.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Nov 2, 1919

Her Glove

It was a waltz — a wild Hungarian air,
A mad, uprushing storm of vivid tone,
That on its own exulting passion seemed to bear
Us up to Paradise — us two alone.
That waltz. ‘Twas one that cried aloud and throbbed
Of loves in their own fires purified,
And rose and fell and laughed and sighed and sobbed
It self to amorous dreaminess — and died.

Still through our veins that molten music rain,
Bathing each sense in rosy, leaping flame;
And I was man as Adam was a man,
She, woman, without reticence or shame.
The star sewn purple of the night above —
Her softness yet a presence on my arm —
With eager fingers stripped she off her glove,
That I might kiss the rose leaf of her palm.

For one eternal instant I have known
The heights and depths of all-consuming love.
She was his promised bride — and he, mine own
Familiar friend. And this — it is a glove.

(Copyright, 1919, by Bell Syndicate, Inc.)

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Oct 26, 1919

Je Ne Me Fiche (I Should Worry)

If you should raise the dander of
The highest high commander of
Your outfit by some petty little sin,
He may fret and cuss and shout,
As he bawls you inside out —
Just wait until he bawls you outside in —
Quite neatly and completely outside in.

When the Q.M. commissary,
In its waggish way and merry,
Announces that the grub has given out,
You are saved, beyond all question,
From the pangs of indigestion,
You never will be troubled with the gout —
The illfulness and pillfulness of gout.

If you lose an ear or arm, sir,
You’ve another. What’s the harm, sir?
And even if they amputate your pegs,
Why, they’re making ’em of cork, sir —
That can dance and walk, sir —
Oh, quite the very latest thing in legs —
The raciest and paciest of legs.

You may even lose your head, sir;
Yet, when all is don and said, sir,
There wasn’t so much in it, let us hope.
If a shell should come and spill you,
Or the gentle Fritzies kill you,
They can’t do more than make you into soap —
The jelliest and smelliest of soap.

(Copyright, 1919, by Bell Syndicate, Inc.)

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Oct 11, 1919

Armistice Day

On November 11th, 1918 when the Armistice was declared ending the first World War, America was once again the Victor. She proved to the world that the right way of life triumphs against evil. She proved that her sons were ready and able to stand up against those who believed in world domination and oppression.

Let us, then, on this Armistice Day pray that their deeds may always be remembered. Let us pray and give thanks for their God given courage that helped to make our great America the guardian of the world.

Bessemer Herald (Bessemer, Michigan) Nov 11, 1948

Image from LIFE magazine – Caption:

Shirtless American sailor relax on and around several torpedos on the deck of an unidentified ship during the Pacific Conflict, 1943. On one torpedo is written ‘Armistice Day – Hell!’

*****

ARMISTICE DAY

To save from the ash can a burning Old World
And keep flying sparks from the roof of the New,
Our brave Uncle Sam with his colors unfurled
Just smothered it out with live red, white and blue.

Warm RED flowed the blood of his sturdy young sons,
Whose WHITE bled-out faces were lost in the grime,
While tested BLUE steel in projectiles and guns
Completed the job in new world-record time!

In rev’rence we bow on this ARMISTICE DAY,
Before the same altar their sacrifice blessed,
With a priceless return of Hope’s peaceful array
In which the whole earth joins their own hallowed rest.

Sheboygan Press (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) Nov 11, 1927

Bayard News (Bayard, Iowa) Nov 12, 1942

Letters Home: The 332nd Infantry

Camp Sherman (Image from http://www.ohiohistorycentral.org)

More Young Men Go To Camp Today

Nineteen Of Registered Men Leave For Training At Chillicothe.

LESLIE S. MOORE IN CHARGE OF MEN

Capt. A. Martin Graham Goes Part Way With Group On Trip.

New Castle’s latest contribution to Camp Sherman left this morning as scheduled. The nineteen young men accepted for service were on hand promptly this morning at the city building. They left that building shortly after 8:15 a.m. escorted by the Croton school drum corps directed by Prof. Hoffmuster, members of the G.A.R., the Lawerence Rifles, Mayor Newell and Councilmen Burns and Whaley and other citizens of the community.

They were taken to the P.& L.E. station, where a good sized crowd was on hand to bid them farewell. Their train left at 8:48 p.m.

The men were in charged of Leslie S. Moore, who had as his aides Edgar Thompson and John McNulty. Attorney A.M. Graham accompanied the boys a part of the way to see that they got the proper start.

The Croton drum corps had fifteen members out, the younger boys having been ordered to stay at home by the leader, owing to the expectation that the extreme cold weather of yesterday would still continue this morning.

The boys leaving this morning were:

Edward Anderson
Harold S. Johnston
Andrew J. Quinn
John Schrader
Howard Kirkwood
Leslie S. Moore
John P.G. Hirschinger
Pietro Scalero
J. Allen McNulty
Joseph Dawson
Harry Penrose
George Slack
Edgar Thompson
Wm. Joseph Heinrich
Joseph Embleton
Bernard Rosenblum
Russell W. Hiles
Walter Gunter
Simeon Cumberledge.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Feb 6, 1918

Soldiers Send Notes Of Thanks
Comfort Packet Committee Receives Responses From the Various Recipients Daily
[Excerpt]

Dear Madam:

Through your kindness I received a Comfort Packet before leaving home, and not until I arrived in camp did I realize what a valuable gift I had received.
Every article is of use to a soldier, and is certainly appreciated by all. Conditions here are very good (in my opinion) and the training received here will be of great benefit both at present and in the future.

Thanking you and your co-workers for your kindness, I remain,

Yours truly,
Walter Gunter,
Med. Detachment,
332nd Infantry,
Camp Sherman.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Mar 8, 1918

From Enoch Gunter.
Enoch Gunter of Mill street, received this from his son, Walter:
Italy, July 30, 1918.

Dear Dad:

In the land of song! And it is really the most beautiful place one could imagine. Had a fine trip through the Alps and saw some of the most famous resorts in the world. The scenery is so wonderful that one would have to see it to really know how beautiful it is. At the base of the mountains they farm and raise fine garden products and fruit and farther up the mountainside wheat is the principal crop; then there is space where there is no vegetation, till finally the mountain peaks disappear into the clouds.

The railroad through the mountains runs through more than thirty tunnels, one of them seven miles long. We saw two of the largest cities of Italy and the reception the Italians gave up was fine.

Sunday night I slept in an old palace and it is surely a fine place. Last night I spent in a school house; it is a fine building and we are quartered here for the time being.

Yesterday I visited a monument where there are three thousand skulls and bones of all the men killed in the last battle of 1876. The battle was fought within a mile of this place and these bones were placed in this monument and it is interesting to see them. There are many old castles around here and if possible I intend to visit them. Will write again soon.

Your loving son, WALTER.

Walter Gunter,
Med. Dept. 332nd Inf.,
American E.F. in Italy.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Aug 29, 1918

FROM JAY McNULTY.

Mr. and Mrs. J.W. McNulty of Volant have received the following letter from their son, Jay A. McNulty:

Back in Austria,
Jan. 26, 1919.

Dear Father and Mother:

I am out of Montenegro again, but most of the fellows are still there. I was taken sick on an outpost and laid around for a week or more, then I was taken down where the climate is more mild.

The lack of food and exposure finally got to me, although it was a long time coming. We have been getting all we can eat for a week or more. I am beginning to feel a lot better, or else I would not be writing to you that I have not been well. Will be O.K. soon, especially if I continue to eat good. We are getting more and better food now than we have had for seven months. In one of your letters you asked me what we had for our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. Well, for Thanksgiving breakfast I had colored water and one-half slice of black bread with brown bugs in it, and for dinner about four tablespoonsful of macaroni cooked in water, and a little piece of black bread, and no supper at all. Christmas was just a repetition of Thanksgiving, only we had three meals instead of two. But I just want to tell you what we had for dinner today: Potatoes and gravy, brown bread without any bugs, bacon, coffee, and all of it that we could eat. Now, isn’t that fine? My, how we did enjoy it.

I received your letters of December 20 and 26. Am sorry that you are not getting my letters. I write to you quite often. Hope you are getting my letters by now. I will be glad to get back to the good old States again. Since coming across seas I have seen soldiers of every creed and color. Men from every part of the world. This was has certainly been a ponderous affair. Well, by-by for this time.

Your loving son,

JAY.
Jay A. McNulty, 332nd Inf., A.E.F.,
Italy, 901 C.A.P.O.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Mar 8, 1919

Make Exceptionally Fine Record In Austrian Defeat And In Diplomatic Campaign.
Losses Small In Battle — Best Trained Regiment In War — What Colonel Says.

The 332nd Infantry of which so many New Castle boys, who trained at Camp Sherman, O., are members, accomplished everything that it was called upon to do in the Italian offensive that put Austria out of the world war, as may be seen by the laudatory letter addressed to the members of its regiment by its colonel William Wallace.

A copy of this letter of commendation, which tells the history of the work of the regiment, the only Americans in Italy was received by Mrs. Ben McCann, whose husband, a well known employee of the New Castle post office, is a member of the regiment. The letter of commendation follows:

Colonel William Wallace - Italy

Above picture and others can be found at this Italian website.

Headquarters 332nd Infantry,
Treviso, Italy,
Dec. 6, 1918.

From Col. William Wallace, 332nd Infantry.
To the officers and enlisted men of the 332nd Infantry:
Subject: The 332nd Infantry, U.S.A. in Italy.

The Italian campaign of the 332nd Infantry has been exceedingly creditable. The government, state and friends of the regiment have reason to be greatly pleased and the soldiers composing it to be rather proud of themselves and of each other for the rather excellent manner in which they have adjusted themselves to unaccustomed conditions and borne themselves through many trying experiences.

The regiment had two missions. One of fight if occasion arose. The other, to act as a propagandist or diplomatic agent.

As to the fighting. Some regretted not being thrown into battle immediately on arrival. This could not be. There was no fighting taking place, the activity on the Italian front consisting solely in the exchange of occasional artillery compliments. Moreover, we were not sufficiently trained. So the time that might have been wasted in boresome guard duty in unhealthy trenches was spent in better fitting us to fight. The result was that no other regiment ever underwent so thorough a course of battle tactics as did this under the tutelage of Major Allegretti’s 23rd Assault Battalion of Ardittles. It was as near the real thing as training can be made. And for those who still cherish regret for lost time, it may be said that there seemed to be more warlike activity around the training camps of the 332nd Infantry than at any other place on the Italian front. The instruction was ideal and marred only by the deplorable accident which killed six and injured 50.

Owing to the time, the place and the occasion, these comrades of ours are, and should be, held as reverently in our memories as though their death and wounding had occurred in combat with the enemy.

In order to hold a place for the regiment when the advance should take place and actual fighting begin, one battalion was sent to take over a section of the Piave trenches. It received high praise from all superiors for its conduct there. Three weeks later the rest of the regiment was moved to Treviso, to be put in readiness for the expected offensive. Ten days’ hard marching followed. No doubt it hurt, but if it had not been exacted, the regiment, despite its previous training, would never have reached the Tagliamento with any integrity left. As it was, when the order to move against the Austrians came, and crossing the Piave, the hard marches that ensued were accomplished in a manner that would have been creditable to veterans. We were honored by being made, during the advance, the advance guard of the 31st Italian division (Major Gen. DeAngells) of the Tenth Italian army (Gen. Cav??). This is, we were an American regiment in the Italian division of a British army, and in a position showing utmost confidence by both our allies. That the regiment did not fail this confidence, the attached letters of approval by our generals fully show.

During the advance, Austrian rear guard action by means of machine gun patrols and nests were momentarily expected, and in all probability, heavier and more determined stands at river crossings. But the Austrians seemed bent only on getting away and paused only to break all bridges to delay our march. Not until the Tagliamento was reached, on November 3, was it possible to catch up. Here (at Ponte della Delizia) the enemy made a slight opposition to our crossing. The second battalion was ordered to clear the way. During the night it fled across a single plank foot bridge and deployed in position to the gravel bed of the river. About four platoons of other battalions had forded the river during the day and were in position farther to the right. Sixteen machine guns were in place in the line. The third battalion awaited on the bank up the river and the first battalion stood in readiness as reserve, both to be called upon to re-enforce the attack if by any chance it should be checked. At 5 a.m. the attacking line advanced. The Austrian machine guns and riflemen fired upon our advancing line. The line, however, moved steadily forward and in about 20 minutes charged, going over the top in a line as perfect as at drill, and with a cheer that could have been heard a mile, took the position and started the pursuit.

Only one man was killed and six wounded. The Austrain fire had swept the ground only a short distance to the rear of the advancing single line. The second battalion was halted at Codroipo, four miles to the front, and the only engagement of the campaign was completed. Small as it was it showed your metal and it proved pure gold.

Corp. Charles A. Kell, the American killed, was probably the last man of any allied nation to lay down his life for our just cause on the Italian front.

At 11:19 a.m. the armistice was signed and the war, one of whose great purposes was the restoration of Italy’s integrity, was won. Italy’s ancient foe was humbled beyond possibility of recovery, her lost provinces reconquered, and, let up hope, her people again cemented together in bonds of lasting loyalty to her good king and government.

To have had your part in all this and played that part well is great credit to yourselves and a good heritage of honor for your children.

As for the diplomatic part of the mission. That was of deepest concern. In a land where the language was unspoken by us, where many ideas, customs and manners differed radically from our own, where the people were sensitive and likely to be jarred by our American brusqueness, for 4,000 of us to live and march among them for four months without a note of friction, is simply marvelous. What praise you may get for having “the fighting spirit” is as nothing in comparison to the credit due all for the self-restraint that imposed upon yourselves a more tempered conduct than we are likely to employ even at home.

In the reorganization of the regiment back in France when it was ordered to Italy, it was asked that it might be made up not only of soldiers but gentlemen, without any of the latter’s bad habits, such as late rising and certain prejudices against work. This was a joke — a dream — then, but a realty now.

You have more than fulfilled expectations.

Thank you,

WILLIAM WALLACE,
Colonel 332nd Infantry,
Commanding.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Jan 27, 1919

Plans For Demonstration Are About Complete — Big Dinner At Armory — Decorations To Be Presented To Regiment By Italian Government —

Harry Penrose Is Last To Arrive Of Local Contingent — News Of Local Boys Who Arrived On Canopic

BY ORVILLE J. BROWN,
News Correspondent.

NEW YORK, April 16. — Plans for the parade of the 332nd regiment in this city are about completed. The parade will move at 10 o’clock on Monday morning, from Washington Square, proceeding up Fifth avenue to 102nd street, a distance of about 94 blocks or nearly five miles.

At this point the regiment will swing into Central Park, where General Emilio Guglielmotti, respresenting the Italian government will carry out the program of decorating the regiment. The program here will be quite formal.

From Central Park the 332nd boys will go to the Sixty-ninth regiment armory on Lexington avenue, as guests of the mayor’s committee at dinner. Governors of Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York, along with Mayor Hylan of New York, the Italian ambassador, Italian and other foreign consuls and notables will review the parade.

The Italian societies will occupy a reviewing grandstand at 92nd street, and will fall in line at this point, going to Central Park to take part in the ceremonies.

The parade and ceremonies are being arranged by the members of the mayor’s welcoming committee. Italian organizations of New York are taking great interest in the program.

New Castle and Lawrence County boys are rather eager to have the New York parade over with, as they are anxious to get back to Pennsylvania and New Castle.

The third ship which sailed from Italy, which carries some of the regiment, the Dante Alighieri, is expected to arrive in port Thursday. No message had been received until 11 o’clock this morning as to its time of making port.

Penrose Comes on Third Ship.

Among those who arrived on the Canopic and who were very evident among the returned vets were Bernard Rosenblum, Joe Dawson, John Hershinger, Walter Gunter, Jerry McNulty, William Robison, former New Castle boy, Joh Hares, Pvt. Hanselman and Arthur Flack.

Harry Penrose, prominent New Castle boy did not get in on either of the first two ships. He is due to arrive on the Dante Alighieri which docks today or tomorrow. His father, H.S. Penrose will be at the pier in time to greet him.

Rosenblum is still up to his old tricks. While waiting in the messline on the pier, he tossed a roll of tinfoil at the News man and hit his commanding officer in the eye.

“We’ll shoot you at sunrise for that, Rosenblum” said his C.O. “Bunny” is the pep of his company and carried his mandolin all through the campaign. Besides that he bought another in Genoa which he brought back with him. He says the local boys had it easy compared to what the boys in France went through, but it was pretty rough in spots.

“Bunny” is tired of parading and want to get home as soon as possible.

Hares Had Tonsillitis.

Job Hares had a slight touch of the tonsillitis on the trip home but is alright now. He says he is coming straight home to New Castle.

William Robison is a former New Castle boy who says he has a warm spot in his heart for New Castle and would like to come back and see the old town again.

Walter Gunter, who was with the medical detachment of his regiment saw about all of Italy there was to see. He was detached from the regiment and stationed at Dalmatia for three months. Besides, he was on a trip for supplies which took 44[?] days.

Arthur Flack says he is anxious to get back to the quietness of Volant again. He is one of a family of 5 sons serving in the army. One gave his life for his country.

Joe Dawson is very popular with his outfit. He says is glad he is on his last lap home now. He claims that the boys never saw white bread while they were in Italy and although the food was coarse, the boys got fat on it.

McNulty and Hershinger are two others who are glad to be back in their native heath again, and aren’t crying about hard luck.

The officers of the 332nd claim that the men received good food while they were in Italy with the exception of the time they were at the front, and then they were after the Austrians so hard that the field kitchens did not have time to catch up to them.

Hard Trip Home.

The Canopic had a hard time weathering the trip back. She was forced to spend five days at Gibralter for coaling and were unable to get attention at first, as there was a strike on. The ship listed [?] all the way over and it was with difficulty that she was tied up to the deck.

Major Gen. Emilioy[?], Guglielmotti, Italian military attache at Washington and Lieut. Camillo de Carlo, were the first to board the Canopic and greet Lieut. Col. Elverson, who was in command of the detachment.

Col. Elverson denied the stories that had circulated about the boys receiving poor food and complimented the men of the regiment for their splendid morale in teh face of the hardships which they had to face.

Major Gen. Guglielmotti will go to Camp Sherman when the regiment is mustered out to do them the honors for the Italian Government.

Lieut. Floyd Miller of Springfield, O., who is in command of F. company in which most of the New Castle boys who arrived yesterday belong, complimented the local boys in his outfit and said they were there at all times.

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Apr 16, 1919

*****

Read more about the 332nd Infantry:

Title: In Italy with the 332nd Infantry
Author: Joseph L. Lettau
Publisher: J.L. Lettau, 1921 (Google book LINK)

Corn: Better Use It For Fuel Than Make Booze of It

Image from http://science.howstuffworks.com

ADEL FACTORY BURNING CORN

Manager Declare Over Supply Should Be Utilized.

CORN IS IDEAL FUEL

Better Use It For Fuel Than Make Booze of It.

The Adel Clay Products company is burning corn in its kilns in making tile and sewer pipes.

H.R. Straight of the company defends it warmly. “No one ever protested on economics grounds against the consumption of millions of bushels of corn annually in the distilleries,” he said today.

Image from http://wesclark.com

“Industrial alcohol is still made from corn and a great deal of this alcohol is burned for various purposes. If industrial alcohol made from corn was burned in a tractor instead of gasoline, surely no one would say it was wrong.”

The government having encouraged the farmer to increase production during the war, the only way to sell the oversupply at a price that it cost to produce it is to encourage the use of corn in other ways than customary, but Mr. Straight is strongly opposed to using it to make alcohol.

“When the farmers,” says Mr. Straight, “can save handling and hauling to market and the hauling of coal home, keep his money in his own community and help to relieve his bankrupting situation, it surely seems to me that it is right to do so. Since everyone in Iowa is indirectly dependent on the farmer, it seems quite evident that anything that any of us can do to decrease the excessive supply will mean money in all of our pockets in the long run.

Image from http://www.life.com

Other Wastes.

“No one ever severely criticized the farmer for wasting a good percentage of corn fed to hogs on the bare ground instead of on a masonry platform, where it is all saved. Who ever heard of telling the farmer that he was doing an economic wrong by feeding his stock in a cold barn or without adequate shelter and thereby wasting a good part of his feed? If the writers against burning of corn think it is such a sin, why don’t they go after the rats, which eat enough corn, which if burned, would heat hundreds of homes.

“The results were equivalent to that secured from the highest grade of eastern coal and the cost was but very little more. Since it is necessary to use eastern coal, low in sulphur content, to secure thorough vitrification and a uniform color, can any one say that it was economically wrong to use the corn instead?

“The war caused an over production of warships and war materials for peace time needs. No one would criticize the nations for making an agreement to junk a part of hte warships at heavy losses.

A War Condition.

“Along the same general lines, corn was a war material and the over supply is a direct result of the war. Let us use it up to the best advantage so that the new crop, which will shortly be coming on, can be in demand at a price that will help raise us out of the present financial chaos.

“Hard times in the east or in the extreme west had no great effect on Iowa during the depression of 1907 and 1914 because we didn’t have more food products than the balance of the world needed. If we were now short, even 30 per cent of what we have on hand, it is my opinion that we would be getting a living return for the balance.

“I would say don’t encourage the feeding of corn to hogs or we shall shortly have an over production of hogs selling at perhaps 3 cents. As it is now, they are the last straw of hope for the farmer.

“Let us use up the corn in such a way as to save as much as possible of the freight, which is too high, on the corn, and also save the freight on and the cost of coal, both of which are far out of line with the value of farm product.”

The Carroll Herald – Jan 25, 1922

The Triumph of Freedom, The Fall of the Hun

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

Image from http://www.coverbrowser.com

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)