NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}6{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER SIDNEY ASCHER

ADDRESS BROOKLYN NY

DATE November 14, 1938

SUBJECT MONEY -- AND A WIFE ... ABE ZEIKOWITZ

1. Date and time of interview

November 11, 1938. 2:30 pm

2. Place of interview

416 Rookaway Parkway, Brooklyn

3. Name and address of informant

Mr. Abe Zeikowitz 416 Rockaway Parkway Brooklyn NY

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Mr. Zeikowitz lives in a four room apartment of a modern building... the section, East Flatbush, is a section dominated by Jews. It is a "no man's land" between Brownsville and Flatbush. Living with Zeikowitz is his wife, daughter aged seventeen, a niece thirteen years of age, and his father-in-law. The apartment is modestly furnished.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER SIDNEY ASCHER

ADDRESS BROOKLYN NY

DATE November 14, 1938

SUBJECT MONEY -- AND A WIFE ... ABE ZEIKOWITZ

1. Ancestry

Russian-Jewish

2. Place and date of birth

Russia in 1898

3. Family

4. Places lived in, with dates

Russia. Came to the United States in 1912. Lived in New York for a year or two and has since resided in Brooklyn.

5. Education, with dates

Lived on a farm in Russia and was "too busy trying to makeing a living to get much schooling here."

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

Worked for his brother upon arrival in the U.S., owned dairy stores but lost his business in 1928. Is now a driver-salesman for a bakery.

7. Special skills and interests

Is a good automobile mechanic, and has a mechanical mind. Has invented an improvement for airplanes.

8. Community and religious activities

Does not partake in community or religious activities.

9. Description of informant

Bald, thin, about 5'6" in height. Is an earnest speaker and becomes very, serious when discussing present day conditions. Has a splendid sense of humor.

10. Other Points gained in interview

Although the informant is in sympathy with the work in Russia, he stated in no uncertain terms, "I am an American citizen, I brought up my kits (kids) in this country, and I make my living here. Yeh, I simpatize with Russia but America always comes first."

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (unedited)

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER SIDNEY ASCHER

ADDRESS BROOKLYN NY

DATE November 14, 1938

SUBJECT MONEY -- AND A WIFE: ABE ZEIKOWITZ

Interviewed Mr. Zeikowitz in the living room of his apartment. Also present were his wife, and daughter. After some discussion of business conditions, I led the talk around to card playing. I had been advised that my informant could tell me of *gambler's experiences". His wife is one of the hundreds of women in the section who play cards at least six hours a day and succeed in losing as much of their husbands' salary as possible -- and more. He has come in contact with a great many of these players and since his is a keen and observant mind, he has a large store of anecdotes concerning gamblers. I asked him if he would be good enough to relate some of these stories to me. "Tell him about Weitzman," said his daughter. "You'll die laughing," she continued. "Every time I hear about Weitzman it gets funnier all the time."

"Well," said Mr. Zeikowitz, "I wish Weitzman was here, then you could hear it right. You know Weitzman is a born gambler. If he has a dollar it burns in his pocket until he can get to a card game. It's nothing new for him to lose his pay on the way home from work.

One day when he got paid he felt a lucky streak so he stopped in at a game. By twelve o'clock he was cleaned out. He knew his wife would raise hell if she knew he lost his pay in cards, so he cut out his pants pocket. He came home about two o'clock and his wife was waiting in the kitchen for him. He started crying he was pickpocketed {Begin page no. 2}and the reason he came home so late was because he was afraid she would be mad." (Mr. Zeikowitz laughs, and is joined by his wife and daughter. He takes his pipe from the smoking stand, fills it and begins to puff contentedly.) "Tell him about when his wife went to the country," his daughter advises.

"Oh, yeah, that was a funny one," says Mr. Zeikovitz, "Lemme see, yeah, Weitzman used to make a pretty good salary and one summer his wife went to the country for a couple of weeks. He had a lucky run and in a few days made about two hundred dollars. He figured he'd surprise his wife with a new bedroom set. He gave the money to his landlady to hold so he wouldn't be tempted to play and he sent his wife a special delivery telling that when she comes home he's gonna have a big surprise for her, something she never suspects. After a day or two it began to "kitzel" (tickle) him and he took the money back from the landlady. So what happened? He lost it. She came home a few days later and said, "Nu, nu, where the surprise is?" (The family is laughing, and Mr. Zeikowitz begins another story):

One night Weitzman comes home from a game very late and thought his wife was fast asleep. He comes in very quiet. You see he had a winner and was trying to figure out a good place to hid the money. His wife wasn't sleeping, she was watching him with one eye. She saw he put the money, maybe thirty or forty dollars in his shoe. So, when he fell asleep she put a ten dollar bill in his shoe. Maybe you think she was a dope. Yeah, dumb like a fox his wife is. So, the next morning he ran in the toilet to get dressed. He hurry up counted the money and found $10 extra, he was very happy -- poor Weitzman, he didn't know a storm was coming. When he sat down to the table for breakfast his wife asked him if he had any money she wanted to get the Kit (kid) a pair of shoes.

He said, "Where should I get money from, you know I don't get paid for three {Begin page no. 3}days yet. I haven't even money for lunch." His wife got mad like a dog, "Oh", she said, "Momzer, (bastard), gonif (crook), give me at least back the ten dollars I put in your shoes."

He started to stutter and hicka (stammer) but finally he returned her the ten dollars and gave her an extra ten to quiet her up.

(There is much laughter at this story, and Mrs. Zeikowitz leaves us at this point. She's going to a card game.)

"Yeah, Weitzman sure had to think up places to hide his winners. He had a dining room table that pulls apart and had a hole it was shallow. That was a good bunk for a while {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} til his wife got wise. He even used to put the money in the sugar bowl and other dishes that was right in front of his wife's nose every day and she didn't even see the money. Yeah, he even hid the money under the carpet until one day his wife walked over the lump and nearly fell. She lifted up the carpet and found the money. But one of his biggest escapes was when he once put the money in the cellar.

One day he come back with a pretty good winner, fifty dollars, and he couldn't think of any more places to hide it. He thought and thought, and finally figured he would hide it in the cellar. He lived in a two family house and the landlady lived under him only with her father. She was a widow. So, he walked down the cellar and he seen on the shelf an old pot dusty that wasn't used for years. He was hiding the money until he'd see for himself an opening for a good game. About a week later he felt lucky so he went down -- plop! the money was gone. He almost went crazy. He finally figured maybe he should ask the landlady but he didn't know how to begin - she was sweeping the stairs in front of the house. He got up his Irish (laughs at quip) and went over to her. "Maybe you found some money I left in the cellar?" The landlady got all excited. "Weyzmer," (woe is me) was that YOUR money? I gave it to your wife. A fireman came around and inspectedthe cellar he said for prevention from fire week I must clean the cellar so I found the money when I was cleaning up the cellar.

{Begin page no. 4}(At this point, Mr. Zeikowitz becomes very excited and waves his arms around in the air.) Weitzman was in a pickle. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go to his wife and say that's my money because he swore to her that he didn't have a penny. So he says to her -- he says to the landlady: "Maybe you could do me a big favor. Maybe you go to my wife and get the money back." The landlady begins to plead with him: "Mister Weitzman, Mister Weitzman, I can't do that. I told her the money wasn't mine, not even my father's. I asked him." Weitzman, he has no conscience. He says to her, "Say to her it's your father's money, and he didn't want to tell you he had money; that's why he said 'no' when you asked him." "O, Mister Weitzman" she began to cry, "I can't lie, I never lie in my life. It's a sin." So Weitzman starts to plead with {Begin deleted text}him{End deleted text} her to save him with trouble from his wife. She finally gives in and goes to his wife. She tells Mrs. Weitzman the money belongs to her father but for the trouble she can keep $5 for herself. The wife kinda knows something is not kosher but what could she do? Weitzman took the $45 that was left, thanked the landlady very much, went to the game, and lost every cent -- didn't come home with a dime for carfare. (Informant laughs loud and long at this.)

One day Weitzman hid himself a nice little sum of money in the water tank of the toilet-- Well, that was just happened his misfortune that there was something wrong with the toilet pipe -- and they called the plumber and while fixing the pipe he happened to open the water tank box and found the money. I think about eleven dollars. The plumber handed the money over to Weitzman's wife (laughs at this). No matter how hard he tried, it always happened that she got the money in the end.

Weitzman once had a streak of bad luck for a long time, and after many losses and misfortunes with his wife because of his losing he heard about a guy who gives lessons in making a peckel (making a peckel means to stack the cards). (laughs) He paid fifty dollars for the lessons. After a dozen lessons he comes back a graduate pupil -- he knows how to make a peckel -- (laughs) he's a graduate professor.

{Begin page no. 5}He started to go to one game and another and started to break them all. (Laughs some more) After once playing in every house he was discovered and thrown out. Rumor came around that he was a peckel mocher (stacher of cards). Poor Weitzman he's got plenty trouble now. He can't make no money -- nobody will play with him. He lost his job and now he sells nightgowns and women's pants from door to door.

Yeah, card playing does funny things to people. Once it gets into your blood it's hard to get it out of your system. There's a women named Lesser. She's some character. There's no hope for her. She's got a wonderful husband, he makes a nice living and she loses every cant he makes and owes everybody in the neighborhood. She pulls off some funny tricks. She's got cards in her so much that one morning even she threw a coat on over her pajamas and told her husband she was going to the grocery to get some breakfast. Yeah, she went for breakfast. She went to the corner and grabbed a taxicab to a game. (Looks at clock). Well, I have to go to sleep now. It's almost six o'clock and I have to get up to go to work 12 o'clock. So Come around again and I'll try to think of some more card players."

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Sidney Ascher

ADDRESS Brooklyn, New York

DATE January 9, 1939

SUBJECT MINIATURE BOOKS

1. Date and time of interview

January 6, 1939 at 11:30 A.M.

2. Place of interview

National Broadcasting Company's studios.

3. Name and address of informant Robert L. Henderson Boston, Mass.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

The room is about 20 x 20. The walls are sound-proof. At one end the wall is a plate of glass through which the engineer may signal to the persons at the microphone. There is a piano in the room and two microphones. There are about twenty folding chairs. The informant and interviewer were the only ones in the room at the time of the interview.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Sidney Ascher

ADDRESS Brooklyn, N. Y.

DATE January 9, 1939

SUBJECT MINIATURE BOOKS

1. Ancestry

English-American

2. Place and date of birth

Boston, Mass. about 1912

3. Family

Father, Mother, Sister

4. Places lived in, with dates

Boston, Mass.

5. Education, with dates

University graduate (Harvard)

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

Is in the real estate business with father

7. Special skills and interests

Interested in collecting miniature books.

8. Community and religious activities

Is active in community organizations.

9. Description of informant

About 5'8", twenty-six years old, brown eyes and hair Clean cut well dressed. Possesses a great deal of charm.

10. Other Points gained in interview

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Sidney Ascher

ADDRESS Brooklyn, N. Y.

DATE January 9, 1939

SUBJECT MINIATURE BOOKS

Together, my Dad and myself, we've managed to accumulate what has been publicly called the largest smallest library in the world--the largest collection of the smallest books in the world. We have approximately 10,000 volumes, and every book in our collection is under three inches in size. As a matter of fact, I can put fifty of the smallest ones in an ordinary sewing thimble. To give you an idea of the size of my entire collection--the average public library contains less than 10,000 volumes and yet it takes up an entire building to house them. My entire collection takes up the wall space in a fair size room, and are just as real an any books you can but in a book store. I can duplicate in miniature any subjects covered by regular sized volumes since the beginning of the written work. My oldest book dates from 3900 BC. It's {Begin inserted text}a{End inserted text} stone tablet from the ancient Kingdom of Babylon. I have some old parchment manuscripts too. One was started in 1542, and required the life time of six different monks to complete it. The writing shows the nervous palsy of old age as the last reverend brother prepared to lay down his pen. I have a little book in my collection--only one inch high and yet that tiny publication helped to win the World War.

{Begin page no. 2}How? Well, I'll start at the beginning--The British Government was having trouble with its Mohammedan Allies who threatened to go over to the enemy. The British Government issued the Koran or Mohammedan Bible in minature to each Mohammedan soldier. And that little gesture kept the Mohammedans loyal to the British.

The most outstanding miniature volume in my collection is this ring I'm wearing. It contains the complete Rubaiyat of Omar Kayan, with a biography of Omar and an introduction by Fitzgerald. The book is completely illustrated and measures six sixteenth by seven sixteenths of an inch. It is the only privately owned copy in the world. The ring which contains this book is the size of an ordinary finger ring.

I have a two inch copy of the Bible that has an amazing history. It is written in shorthand by Jeremiah Rich about 1850. You see, Jeremiah Rich was a teacher, and one of his pupils was a boy named Samuel Pepys. When Samuel Pepys wrote his diary no one could decipher it because it was written in an unknown code. In 1815 (that's 165 years later) someone came across this very Bible written in shorthand, and saw a list of names in the back of the volume -- a list of Jeremiah Rich's pupils. In that list was the name of Samuel Pepys. The finder realized at once that the shorthand of Jeremiah Rich's testament -- and the code of Samuel Pepy's diary were the same. This little book cleared up one of the most important historical documents of the Seventeenth Century.

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Sidney Ascher

ADDRESS 434 E. 98 St. Brooklyn, N. Y.

DATE November 23, 1938

SUBJECT SUBWAY STUFF: FOLKTALK

1. Date and time of interview November 21

2. Place of interview I. R. T. Subway (New Lots Line)

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Sidney Ascher

ADDRESS 434 E. 98th St. Brooklyn, N. Y.

DATE November 23, 1938

SUBJECT SUBWAY STUFF: FOLKTALK

A trip in the city's subways may, if one is so inclined, prove to be more educational than a college course in psychology; more entertaining than a good motion picture and more dramatic than Uncle Tom's Cabin. It is reasonable to suppose that since New York City is a melting pot of all types and nationalities, an alert observer may {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} if he wishes, obtain an absorbing cross-section of the life, loves, happiness and sorrows of the New Yorker.

During the morning rush hour (from about seven to nine) one sees people rushing madly about to get on a train as if there will not be another for at least an hour! As a matter of fact, during rush hours, trains are run on a one minute schedule. The New Yorker is fully aware of this but he still insists on crowding into a train until he loses his individuality and becomes merely one of the "tightly packed sardines in a car that lacks only the oil to make the illusion complete."

After nine o'clock and until about two in the afternoon we find housewives going downtown to see if the stores have any "specials" or else to attend a "bargain matinee."

At three o'clock the trains become filled with homeward bound students. The noisy pupils are either straphanging, indulging in a {Begin page no. 2}bit of horseplay or heckling the conductor {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} but regardless of what they say it is at the top of their lungs. Infrequently some are to be found actually reading a text book.

After four o'clock the trains become jammed with workers who are going home. And just as much as they hurried to get to work, so do they shove madly into a train to get home. After six-thirty, the trains are occupied by recreation seekers. The same wild, crowding rushing New Yorker out to play but this time he proceeds at a slower pace. Some are bound for a movie, others to night school, a show, meeting, concert or lecture. And so until after midnight when the trains take on a new class of passengers. The night worker, that individual who lives an abnormal life, who works while the city sleeps. It may be noted that he does not rush to work. Men and women hurrying home so that they may get a few hours sleep before beginning their daily workout on the morning train. Toward dawn {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}there{End handwritten}{End inserted text} is a lull. The passengers are sleepy individuals, drunks, and homeless. And so on it goes, day after day.

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Two Jewish girls, (with little education as their conversation seemed to prove) about nineteen years of age were discussing their "dates" of the night before.

One was slender, with nice features, and a clean, clear complexion, that is, it might be clean were it not for the fact that her face was struggling under an over-generous coating of powder and rouge. Her eyebrows were tweezed to a thin tapering line, and for her beautiful eyelashes credit must go to some false eyelash manufacturer. Her thin lips were smattered with a thick layer of purple (Ye gods!) lipstick. Her beautiful black hair was dressed in "page boy" style,{Begin page no. 3}and she wore a black sport hat with a long feather, and a plain black box coat. The second girl was about the same height as her companion, five feet three inches. She was pleasingly (?) plump, around 150 lbs, and was also disguised with a poor paint job which she must have deemed so vital. In addition, she was also the possessor of a moustache which peeped through faintly in spite of an obvious application of peroxide or some other hair lightener.

Miss Moustache is speaking, "Yeh, I had some lousy time last night. I thing he's a fag. [Wheredoyuh?] think he took me? Yeh, we went to a Broadway show but was that lousy. What was it about? It was so stupid. I didn't even know what it was about myself. Some old man gets another man up in a tree and then he puts a fence around it so he couldn't get out. It was so dumb. All the time the man was in the tree nobody could die. If that wasn't dumb I don' know what is. I would rather want to see Tobacco Road. Sadie told me they talk right out plain in Tobacco Road. It's a wonder it wasn't raided Sadie said. (The show Miss Moustache described so brilliantly was "On Borrowed Time," one of the season's biggest hits.) You think my Mother raised crazy children? Sure we ate. He said he wanted to go to the Automatic to eat just for the fun of it. I gave him fun. I'm wise to that baloney. We went to Chin and Lees. After we ate, he took me home. Yeh, and he lives all the way in the Bronx. Yeh, I think he's faggy. Whatta think-- he didn't event try to kiss me good-night. So what if it's the foist time we went out--maybe I wouldn't of let him kiss me but he coulda tried. No, he didn't ask me for another date. I think he's a fag. Say whatta 'bout you {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}?{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Where didja go?

Miss Purple Lipstick replied, "Oh, we just went to the chinks, and to the movies. "We saw "If I was King." Gee, that Ronald Colman, can he kiss! He can put his shoes under my bed anytime. It was one {Begin page no. 4}of them custom pictures. No. Frances Dee was the girl in the picture. She looked so pretty. She has a long face. Didja ever notice? Gee, they way they push around in this train. I hadda use my hatpin yesterday. Some wiseguy had hand trouble. They oughta have special trains for women. Somebody slit my girl friend's coat last week with a razor blade or somethin'. She didn't even know it was cut until she got off the train. They oughta catch the louse who does them things. I'm changin' at Utica, Rosalind. Will I see you tonight? Come over to my house, I'll letcha do my nails. So Long.

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(Two girls-- First Miss--)

Gee whiz, it gets worst every morning. If I ever quit my job its gonna be because of the crush in the trains. By the time I get to work I'm knocked out. I'd work for a couple of dollars lest if I could get a Brooklyn job. You know, I'm sorry I couldn't meet you las' night. It was like this--when I got home I was so tired that I taught I'd take 25 winks--so I laid down on the couch and woke up it was ten o'clock-- so what did I do? I got undressed and went to bed, and like a dope I couldn't sleep all night. So maybe it wasn't so smart to take the 25 winks. Was it a good picture?

(Second Miss)

It's good you didn't go. I dun't like dese silly pichures. The Ritz Brothers are awful silly. I liked the oder pichure, "The Lady Objects," see det pichure learns yuh somethin'. It was refeened. It shows how you can't have your husband and a good job both at the same time. If I get a man with a decent job he should make his thirty-five dollars a week steady, I'd give up my job--no career for me.

{Begin page no. 5}(Girl to man who is reading her paper over her shoulder.)

If you want I should give you this paper, so so--I wouldn't want you to strain your eyes. You wouldn't think of taking my paper, so alright, don't be reading it with me. I'm not being sarcrastic but if you haven't two cents to buy a paper for yourself I'm sorry for you. Some nerve, you wouldn't buy the Mirror!

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Two men shabbily dressed, one, the speaker is in need of a shave, and haircut, they are about thirty years of age....

Just think, I'da had a couple hundred bucks this morning if it hadn't been for my lousy brother-in-law. Aw, he's an awful {Begin deleted text}louise{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}louse{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. Saturday in the shop I got a tip on a horse and nobody wanted to lend me money to place a bet. I went to my lousy brother-in-law and asked him to go partners with me. So what think, the skunk he asts for security. Whatta nut. Didja ever hear of getting security when you bet on a nag? So, he didn't wanna go partners and he wouldn't lend me the money. So I ate my heart out when the nag pulled in to win and paid $57. I coulda kilt my lousy brother-in-law. When I tole him the horse won--he said he was glad he didn't bet because if he woulda won he mighta been encouraged to bet again, and then before he knows he'd be losing a lotta money. Some louse.

**************************

Miss Purple Lipstick of a previous "subway stuff" tale is {Begin deleted text}taling{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}talking{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to a young man-----

Say, what happened to your friend Jack, did he drop dead? He hasn't come around to see my girl friend for a week. I heard she's in love with him. Anyway he's got a hell of a nerve. [Haveyuh gottapiece?] of gum. He makes a date with her. That's why we came down to the club.

{Begin page no. 6}She was all dressed up and there he is in a polo shirt. Is that the right thing to do? Where can you go in a polo shirt?

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A shabbily dressed middle aged man carrying a carton---

Laydees and Gentlemen--A very famous stationary manufacturer whose name is so big that if I were to mention it, you'd know immediately who I mean--has his warehouses overstocked and that's why I'm selling these mechanical pencils and notebook sets at less than the cost of manufacture. I have to clean out the warehouses. Yes, siree, this beautiful pencil and notebook is made in America by American union labor. I'm selling the set for one dime. The pencil expels, repels and mis-spells, hah, hah. Who else wants one of these beautiful sets? Bring one home for the kiddies. Have one in your office. Buy one, buy a dozen. Ten cents a set, and as an extra special for today only--ten sets for one dollar.

****

NEW YORK Forms to he Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., N.Y.C.

DATE May 10, 1939

SUBJECT "Bob White's Self-Skinnin' Skunks"

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

****

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., N.Y.C.

DATE MAY 10, 1939

SUBJECT "Bob White's Self-Skinnin' Skunks" "BOB WHITE'S SELF-SKINNIN' SKUNKS"

"MY Uncle Steve Robertson told me about Bob White's 'Self-skinnin' Skunks' one time when we were camped in a spot of great peace and beauty on the shore of Black Lake, up in the Seven Devils Mountains of Western Idaho.

"Black Lake was very high up. Indeed it was so high up that it was on top of a mountain, which, all will agree is an unusual place for a lake to be. But that is where one will find Black Lake, right on top of a mountain and, as my Uncle Steve Robertson would say "I-Gawd, if anybody don't believe it they can go up there for theirselves by gosh an' see it for there she is plumb on top of that doggone mountain!'

"We had finished our supper which consisted of a couple of blue-grouse broiled over the live coals of our fire, a frying pan full of potatoes and onions fried in bacon grease, a can of tomatoes, and coffee-- not 'drip' coffee, but honest-to-God coffee boiled in a tin pot on the open camp fire 'till she'd float a horse-shoe nail, I-Gawd' (quoting my Uncle Steve again.)

{Begin page no. 2}"On such fare we had dined and we were feeling well...

"I had heard that one might see a 'wolverine' in the Black Lake's country and that was one reason I had suggested to Uncle Steve that we take a little trip up into that rugged and picturesque region. But so far we had see no wolverine.

"So, I said, 'Uncle Steve do you reckon we'll get to see a 'wolverine' on this trip? I hope to gosh we do because I have heard that a wolverine in a mighty peculiar animal-- Some people say it is a kind of wolf and some say it is more like a cat critter. Do you suppose a wolverine is actually a 'cross' between the two? It doesn't seem possible for a cat critter to breed with a wolf animal and raise anything, does it?'

"Then my Uncle Steve told me about Bob White's 'Self-Skinnin' Skunks'--"

"Hell, yeah, we'll probably see a 'wolverine' up here in this Seven Devils country afore we go back down to Council Valley,' my Uncle Steve said, 'yeah, we'll prob'ly see one an' also, I-Gawd, that's prob'ly exactly what 'wolverines' is--part cat an' part wolf or somethin' like that. Hell, I've seen millions of 'em an' I ought to know!

"An' as far an a cat-animal an' a wolf-animal cross-breedin' an' one or the other of 'em have a litter of things that's half-kitten an' half-pup 'course its possible. I-Gawd, anybody'd ought to know that, even if he wasn't a Pioneer in th' Far West in a early day like Bob White an' Mam (she was Bob's wife) an' me was after [we'migrated?] out west from Arkansas like we done...

"'Course wolf animals an' cat animals can cross-breed!'

"In fact danged nigh anything can cross-breed with danged nigh anything else if they both agrees to th' experiment. But they's a limit to how far the damned 'xperiment goes! Bob White found that out when he got his idea of raisin' 'self-skinnin' skinks' but he damned nigh wore hisself an' also Mam an' me both out 'fore he found it out.

{Begin page no. 3}"Yeah, Bob was jest like lots of danged fool men is an' always has been--

"They ain't satisfied with all th' damned things they is in this world an' which Natchure herself has made, so they git th' idea they want to 'xperiment an' cross-breed somethin' with somethin' else and I-Gawd make somethin' new an' entirely different.

"Fact is, they think they's a danged sigh smarter'n Natchure herself is an' can do somethin' she can't do or else somethin' she forgot to do.

"Yeah, that's th' way they is, an' I-Gawd, Natchure let's 'em go jest about so far an' then she says: 'Hey, you damned fools, what'd think you're doin', tryin' to mix up what I've done made an' make somethin, new? You've gone far enough, I-Gawd!' An' she stops 'em shortern' hell...

"She sure does. Take mules for instance--

"Men wasn't satisfied with horses an, they wasn't satisfied with jack-asses. So what do they go an' do? They go an' put 'em together-- They take a horse-mare an' jackass an' breed 'em together an' git a damned mule! That's what they git... it ain't a horse an' it ain't a jackass. It's jest a danged mule an' anybody that's ever had any experience with a cussed mule knows what a mule is.

"But man was so damned smart-alecky they thought: 'I-Gawd, see what we've done! We've gone an' cross-breeded a jackass an' a horse-mare an' plumb created a new 'species' (I think that's what you call it) of animal! That's what we've done. Hell, we're a damned sight smarter'n Natcher herself is!' men thought.

"Then Natchure says: "Th' hell you're smarter'n me! Jest try to breed that damned bastard thing you got by marryin' a respectable horse-mare with a cussed jackass. Jest try to breed it--an' see what you'll git! I-Gawd you wont git nothin'! I let you do it ONCE jest to make you think you was smart as hell. But try to make your cussed mules a permanent institution. Jest try it-- I'll dare you to!'

{Begin page no. 4}"That's what Natchure told man regardin' mules, an' I-Gawd, Natchure knowed what she was talkin' about... As far as mules is concerned they's jest temporary. No dammed mule ever had a mule for a Par or a mule for a Ma. They jest ain't capable of it, I-Gawd.

"That's th' way it works ever' time men thinks they're goin' to breed somethin' new by cross-breedin' two things that already was. Natchure jest don't allow it, that's all they is to it.

"But men ain't go no sense an' they keep on tryin' to beat Natchure at her own game. I-Gawd they do. Even some of us Pioneers of th' Far West in th' early days, an' that had ought to knowed better was that way--

"Hell, I knowed a feller--'Jones' was his name I think--out in that Kiowa country where Bob an' me rode them cyclones I told you about onct an' Mam damn nigh wore out all her aprons shooin' 'em away from our camp so they wouldn't bust up that old speckled hen Man had set under th' wagon so she could hatch out a settin' of eggs an' 'un-ache' herself...

"Well, that feller, he was a Pioneer, but he got th' idea he'd raise a new kind of beef-animal--a new kind of cattle by crossin' a buffalo bulls with cattle-cows and vicey-versy. So, he goes an' rounds up some buffalos an' drives 'em to th' ranch an' cross-breeds 'em with his cattle, an' then sets back an' waits to see what happens. Well, I-Gawd he got calves that man a dammed mixture of 'em both!

"They was th' funniest lookin' damn calves anybody ever seen-- Hell, I-Gawd, I ought to know I seen 'em.

"They wasn't buffalo an' they wasn't cattle-critters.

"They was jest part an' part, so Jones (I'm pretty damn sure that was his name) called 'em' 'cattaloes.' Maybe that was as good a name as any for 'em, so that's what he called 'em...

"Well, I-Gawd, Jones thought he'd gone an' done a hell of a smart thing. He thought he'd gone an' invented a plumb new kind of a {Begin deleted text}-{End deleted text} animal--

{Begin page no. 5}"Then Natchure stepped in an' says: 'Hell, Jones, you ain't so damned smart. Maybe you think you are but you ain't! I let you mix them buffalo that I made up with them cattle that I made an' 'git one offspring. But that's as far as I'm goin' to let you go. Them bastard things you call 'cattaloes' ain't goin' to be permanent.' That's what Natchure told that feller Jones, who, bein' a Pioneer of th' Far West in a early day ought to a-knowed better'n to try to be a 'creator' on his own hook like Natchure is on her'n.

"Well, I-Gawd, Natchure was right. Them 'cattaloes' wasn't permanent. As far as 'perpetuatin'' theirselves they couldn't do a damned bit more about it than them mules could!' They was jest plumb helpless in that respect....

"Yeah, that's th' way Natchure in, she let's darn nigh anything cross-breed itself with danged nigh anything else; but jest once.

"She don't mind things playin' around an' bein' damn fools if they ain't got any better sense than to do it, but I-Gawd she draws th' line at lettin' 'em make any permanent self-perpetuatin' new kinds of bastard-animals by mixin' theirselves up that way.

"That's th' way Natchure is, she's awful patient an' ain't always naggin' but I-Gawd when she does put her foot down she sure as hell puts it down an' means business.

"So, that's the way it is about cross-breedin' things an' I figger it ain't unreasonable to s'pose that 'wolverines' is part cat-critters an' part wolf-critters. They's probably jest a sort of one-time experiment some cat-animal like a catamount or cougar or somethin, like that an' a wolf-animal has tried... That's prob'ly why they's so danged scarce. They're more'n likely plumb incapable of producin' more of their on kind of critters by breedin' among theirselves, so when one happens it's jest th' result of a cross-breedin' experiment like I said.

"Anyhow, scarce as they is, I-Gawd I've seen millions of 'em an' no doggone wolverine looks like any other cussed animal I ever seen so that's what I figger they are...jest a danged bastard thing that never had no right to be in th' first {Begin page no. 6}place an' is plumb helpless to keep on bein' on its own' hook, like mules an' cattaloes and et cetery which comes from cross-breedin' Natchure don't have any use for to begin with.

"That's th' way I figger it about wolverines, an' in some respects it was a danged sight worse in regard to Bob White's 'self-skinnin, skunks' which he tried to establish by cross-breedin' things Natchure never intended ought to cross-breed in th' first place, an' so raise himself somethin' brand-new in th' skunk line.

"Bob jest thought he could out-smart Natchure an' I-Gawd him an' Mam (Bob's wife) an' me also found out that any man that gits th' idea he can out-smart Natchure sure has got a hell of a surprise comin'!

"He must a-got his 'self-skinnin' skunk' idea that time when he was camped down there in th' Kiowa country an' we seen that feller Jones tryin' to cross-breed cattle an' buffaloes--

"But on second thought maybe Bob got his idea when we was in that Big Bend, Texas-Mexico section where th' wind blowed all th' hair off ever'thing like I told you about...

"Yeah, that's where Bob prob'ly got it 'cause there was a Mexican down there that was cross-breedin' doggone dogs, I-Gawd, that's what I said--- Dogs with dadgummed she-goats ah' raisin' 'pup-kids' that barked instead of bleatin' like ordinary goats does.

"They was th' damnedest things anybody ever seen, them 'pup-kids' that was half dog an' half goat was! I-Gawd, I'd ought to know, I've seen dozens of 'em.

"At first when you look at one of 'em you think its jest a funny lookin' sort of 'goat, then when you look at it again, I-Gawd it looks more like a dog than it does a goat and then when you look at it a little longer, hell, th' cussed thing don't look like anything that seems possible--it jest looks like somethin' that never was an' never ought to have been in th' first place. I-Gawd that's exactly what one of them 'pup-kids' looked like! Jest like somethin' that

{Begin page no. 7}"But they sure was. For 'bout th' time you'd git to thinkin' they ain't no sech a cussed critter, th' danged thing'd up an bark. I-Gawd that's what it'd do. Then I-gosh you'd think: 'Hell, it must be some kind of a 'dog-thing.' Then th' next thing you'd know damned if it would back off an' take a runnin' butt at somethin' an' you'd jest natcherally think: 'Goddlomighty, it must be a cussed goat-critter,' An' there you are, you're so darned mixed up an' confused about it you don't actually realize what th' hell it is.

"That's what them darned 'pup-goat' things that cussed Mexican, (his name was Pedro Garcia San Diego Gonzales-- No, I-Gawd to be plumb truthful an' accurate I made a mistake an' ought to said his first name was 'Miguel' 'cause that's what it was when I come to think of it) was raisin' by cross-breedin' dogs with she goats. Yeah, that's what th' damned things was like.

"I ain't sayin' his idea wasn't pretty good. His idea was that th' goat part of th' danged things would go out an' graze on cactus an' Spanish Dagger, scap weed an' loco like goats does an' he wouldn't have to go with 'em to herd 'em 'cause if a damned coyote or 'lobo' (wolf) or catamount or even a cussed wild-cat or anything come around th' dog---part of them 'pup-kids' would bark an' scare th' doggone varmits away!

"I-Gawd it worked. Th' 'dog-part' of them 'pup-kids' was better'n any danged whole dog they ever was to keep varmints from ketchin' th' goat-part of theirselves!

"An' in addition, when it come milkin' time th' dog-part of them 'pup-kids' would round up th' goat-part of theirselves an' drive theirselves back to th' corral an' all th' damned Mexican (yeah, I'm danged sure his first name was Miguel) had to do was go out an' milk 'em.

"It sure was a hell of a scheme an' nobody but a darned Mexican that's so cussed lazy he don't want to do any more walkin, or for that matter anything else that he has to would a-thought up...

{Begin page no. 8}"Yeah, so you see, I-Gawd, that's probably where Bob White got his inspiration about cross-breedin' somethin' with skunks that would raise something that'd be self-skinnin', 'cause if dogs'll cross-breed with she-goats an' vicey-versey they ain't much doubt but what any danged thing they is would cross-breed with any other danged thing they is if they jest tried it hard enough.

"So that's prob'ly where Bob White got his 'self-skinnin'' skunk idea...

"In a way nobody can blame Bob much for wantin' to 'sta lish 'self-skinnin'' skunks if he could scheme out some way to do it, 'cause skunk skins is valuable an' always was, even as far back as when Bob an' Mam (Bob's wife) an' me was Pioneers in th' Far West in the early days.

"Yeah, skunk skins was valuable as hell with th' difficulty was to skin th' damned things without gittin' all flavored up with th' smell of 'em. That was th' difficulty.

"An' I-Gawd anybody that's ever skun a couple of skunks ('specially skunks as powerful in regard to smellin' ability as skunks used to be in th' Far West in th' early days) knows how cussed persistent skunk-smell is about hangin' on' an' how danged nigh impossible it is to git sep'rated from it when anybody's all flavored up with it.

"It sure as hell does hang on an' it also sure as hell makes whoever it's hangin' on to damned miserable, an' in addition, I-Gawd it affects anybody they git close to or even in th' same neighborhood of doggone nigh as bad.

"But th' whole danged Far West was practically saturated with skunks in them early days when Bob White an' Mam an' me was Pioneers in it. Gawd, they was millions an' prob'ly, if anybody didn't want to be plump accurate an' [trut?] an' not 'xaggerate like some damned liars does, they was even billions of 'em.

{Begin page no. 9}"Natcherally, it was a hell of a temptation to kill a dozen or so, or I-Gawd maybe even a hundred of 'em an' skin 'em 'cause skunk skins was jest th' same as ready cash.

"It was a awful temptation an' I gotta admit, I-gosh, that Bob an' me would weaken once in awhile an' kill a mess of them damned skunks an' skin 'em jest to git some ready cash.

"'Course we knowed it wasn't right to yield to temptation that 'way, an' 'epecially that kind of a temptation. But like ever'body else Bob an' me was jest human an' when you figger it out ever' human they is or ever was or ever will be yields more or less to some sort of a cussed temptation sooner or later.

"So, maybe if Bob an' me did yield to that skunk-skinnin' temptation once in a while, an' like we did I-Gawd, p'rhaps we was jest bein' human after all an' damned if I can see why th' hell any other human that'd more'n likely done the same thing if they'd been tempted to skin them cussed skunks like Bob an' me was ought to blame us for doin' what they'd prob'ly done theirselves.

"No, sir, I-Gawd I can't.

"But, 'course to be plumb honest about it maybe Bob an' me'd ought to been stronger-willed an' resisted our temptation to skin them damn skunks 'cause when we'd git all flavored up with their cussed smell Mam she'd have to suffer as much as Bob an' me did. Natcherally, that wasn't fair to Mam 'cause as far as I know, I-Gawd she never skun a doggone skunk in her life an' prob'ly never would have even if her doggone life depended on it.

"Yes, air, I realize now that Bob an' me sure as hell done Mam wrong by gittin' ourselves flavored up with skunk-smell an' then poor Mam havin' to smell it with us...an' make her suffer too.

{Begin page no. 10}"No, sir, I-Gawd, we hadn't ought to done it! 'Cause no damn man' ain't got no damn right to yield to no damn temptation like skinnin' skunks--or any other damn thing-an' git all flavored up with skunk-smell an' make somebody smell it too.

"I-Gawd, that ain't right. People ought to think twice, or even oftener, 'fore yieldin' to their damn temptation to skin a few skunks or somethin' an' figger out if its goin' to result in somebody else that's plumb innocent havin' to smell th' doggone skunk-smell they git theirselves flavored with an' suffer also th' same as theirselves.

"But Bob an' me was so 'fatuated with th' idea of skinnin' them cussed skunks, 'cause their skins was th' same as ready cash, we never stopped to realize how much Mam might have to suffer also smellin' th' skunk flavor on us-- Which shows, I-Gawd, that people's all alike, when they git to thinkin' of theirselves, I-gosh they jest natcherally don't think of nobody or nothin' else but their damned selves an' nobody else.

"Even us Pioneers of th' Far West in th' early days, like Bob an' me, an' who'd a-died any damn day for Mam if she'd a-needed it, I-Gawd, wasn't always as thoughtful an' considerate of our wimmen-Pioneers as we'd ought to a-been.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, we wasn't, an 'cause we wasn't Mam, she had to smell Bob's an' my skunk flavor an' suffer also.

"It makes me plumb ashamed when I think about it, but I-Gawd that's th' way it was an' regrettin' it or bein' ashamed ain't goin' to do no good 'cause when a damned thing's done she's done an' that's all they is to it-- It ain't goin' to be un-did by no damned bein' ashamed or regrettin'. Th' only thing that does a cussed bit of good is not to do th' dadgummed thing in th' first {Begin page no. 11}place.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, that's th' way it is, an' Mam she suffered. She sure as hell did.

"But Mam was awful patient an' she didn't want to complain or do nothin' that would interfere with Bob's an' my schemes, or discourage us none or break our spirits or nothin', so she kept still jest as long I-Gawd as she could. That's th' way them wimmen-Pioneers was, they'd jest natcherally go through hell an' brimstone 'fore they'd discourage or break th' spirits of us men-Pioneers in the Far West in th' early days. They knowed damn well that if they whined an' belly-ached till they broke our doggone spirits we never would be worth a damn anymore-- We'd jest be like a poor darned broncho that's had his spirit broke [b?] bein' jerked an' abused an' kicked an' beat over th' head by some danged fool while he was breakin' him.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, them wimmen-Pioneers of th' Far West didn't want us men-Pioneers to be no damned...worms...

"They sure as hell didn't.

"So, Mam stood Bob's an' my skunk-smell 'till she jest couldn't stand it no longer. An' finally, I-Gawd, in self-defense she jest had to up an' resist an' speak her mind:

"'Bob White, an' you too Steve Robertson,' Mam said one evenin' at supper when Bob an' me had a little more skunk-flavor on us than usual, in fact so danged much it practically spoilt Mam's supper, 'Bob White,' Mam said, 'you an' Steve Robertson's jest gotta quit skinnin' them cussed skunks an' gittin' all flavored up with skunk-smell. I jest can't endure it another doggone day--or night either for that matter. My appetite's already practically ruin't by it an' I ain't had a decent night sleepin' for Gawd knows how long. If anybody thinks its any pleasure to sleep with a man that smells as 'skunky' as you do {Begin page no. 12}when you come to bed, Bob White, all I gotta say is that they's got a darned peciliar idea of what pleasure consists of-- If a woman's gotta sleep with a 'skunk-smellin' man she'd jest as well not sleep with any doggone man as far as it's bein' pleasant's concerned. For myself, I-Gawd, I jest wont do it anymore!' Mam says.

"'Goddlomighty, Mam, Bob says, awful regretful, 'I never dre'mt (dreamed) you felt that way about me an' Steve havin' skunk-flavor on us from skinnin' them damned skunks! Why, dammit, Mam, I wouldn't be un-agreeable for you to sleep with for all th' damned skunk-skins in th' whole danged world, an' I-Gawd you gotta admit that's a hell of a lot of skull-skins, Mam!. 'An' jest to prove it,' Bob says, 'I'll promise on my [?] word never to skin another doggone skunk as long as I live-- Hell, Mam, they ain't nothin' I wouldn't do 'fore I'd do anything to make it so's it wouldn't be a pleasure for you to sleep with me, Mam! Honest, t'Gawd they ain't!' Bob says plumb earnest.

"Well, if you want me to git my enjoyment out of sleepin' with you, Bob White, or with eatin' with you or with bein' around you in any shape whatever,' Mam says, grim-like, 'I-Gawd you'd better not skin no more skunks, that's all I got to say!'

"Mam, she was plumb in earnest an' so was Bob. An' as far as I know he never did skin another doggone skunk in his live.

"But that didn't keep him from wishin' for them skunk-skins 'cause every darned one of 'em was jest th' same as ready cash. An' seein' all them whole damn herds of skunks runnin' 'round like they was, was a awful temptation.

"Bob wanted them damn skunk-skins terrible but he'd promised Mam on his sacr'd word he wouldn't never skin another cussed skunk an' I-Gawd a Pioneer like Bob an' me was would rather die than break his doggone promise...

{Begin page no. 13}"So, that's th' way it was till one day Bob got his idea. It was a hell of a idea, I gotta admit. Bob was plump excited about it when he got it. But as far as I was concerned I had my doubts right from th' start.

"Bob's idea was to cross-breed [???] (which shed their skins ) with she-skunks or vicey-versey whichever was plausabler, an' raise what he called 'skunk-wallahs!'

"I-Gawd, it'll work!" Bob says, 'an' when them damn 'skunk-wallahs' unskin theirselves all we gotta do is go out an' gather up th' doggone skins an' ever' cussed one of 'em'll be jest th' same as ready cash like regl'ar skunk-skins is!'

"'Yeah,' I says, 'but how do you know th' damn things'll cross-breed to start with, an' also how th' hell you goin' to find out if a cussed chuck-wallah's a he-chuck-wallah or a she-chuck-wallah, I-Gawd, that's what I'd like to know! Also in addition, as far as I'm concerned,' I says, 'th' same applies to skunks. Personally, I ain't never yet been able to tell a he-skunk from a she-skunk jest by lookin' at 'em from a distance an' I-Gawd that's th' only way anybody in his right mind wants to or is goin' to look at 'em,' I says.'

"Hell, we'll jest have to take a chanc't on that,' Bob says, 'I'll fix up some cross-breedin' corrals an' then make some chuck-wallah traps to ketch my start of chuck-wallahs in an' also some skunk traps to ketch some skunks to cross-breed with, an' I-Gawd, we'll sort 'em out th' best we can, after which we'll put th' he-chuck-wallahs with th' she-skunks, an' th' she-chuck-wallahs with th' he-skunks an' sooner or later one or th' other's just bound to cross-breed. Hell, if that damn Mexican down in th' Big Bend, Texas-Mexico country could cross-breed he-dogs with she-goats an' raise them damn 'pup-kids' they ain't no reason on earth why we can't cross-breed he-skunks with she-chuck-wallahs or jest th' opposite as th' case might be! Bob says plumb enthusiastic.

{Begin page no. 14}"Well, I-Gawd, Mam an' me put in two miserable damned months helpin' Bob sort out his he-skunks from his she-skunks an' also she-chuck-wallahs from he-chuck-wallahs an' in addition, Mam she jest danged nigh wore herself out catchin' Mormon-crickets to feed th' darned things on...(It was down in th' southeast corner of Nevada where they's a hell of a lot of Mormon-crickets an' also th' cussed country is practically saturated with th' biggest chuck-wallahs you ever seen an' more damn skunks I-Gawd than anywhere else in th' world.)

"Bob, he figgered if we fed 'em on 'Mormon-crickets'--which is big an' fat an' awful juicy--they'd cross-breed quicker an' more effective.

"For two whole damn months Mam an' me stood it.

"Yeah, for [twowhole?] miserable months Mam an' me slaved an' worked tryin' to help Bob git them cussed chuck-wallahs to cross-breed with them doggone skunks an' raise 'skunk-wallahs' which would be practically 'self-skinnin'' skunks--

"Finally Mam, she couldn't stand it no longer so she said:

"'Bob White, an' you too, Steve Robertson, we're gittin' out of this cussed country an' goin' where they ain't so danged many skunks to tempt you with their skins! An' also, where I hope they ain't no doggone chunk-wallahs a-tall! I'm plumb sick of tryin' to tell a he-chuck-wallah from a she-chuck-wallah an' a set-skunk from a he-skunk... An' in addition, I'm also sick an' wore out from catchin' Mormon-crickets to feed th' damn things on while they're tryin' to make up their minds to cross-breed or not! So, I-Gawd, we're gittin' out of here-- That's all they is to it!

"Well, Bob knowed they wasn't no use arguin' with Mam whenever she did finally speak out her mind like that, so, I-Gawd that's what we done. We got out of there an' come on up here to Idaho-- {Begin page no. 15}"So that's th' way it was. An' I don't know yet, an' I don't give a damn, whether them cussed he-chuck-wallahs ever did cross-breed with them doggone she-skunks, or jest th' opposite an' raise them darned self-skinnin' skunk-wallahs Bob White hoped to hell they'd raise.

"Hell, they may still be tryin' it as far as I know, but one thing I do know goddam well an' that is that Bob White was awful disappointed---

"Which men...not only us Pioneers of th' Far West, but the whole damn works usually is when they try to be smarter'n Natcheure...

"Hell, we'd better git to bed!"

The End.

***

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., N.Y.C.

DATE 4/17/39

SUBJECT "METEOR' HELL, CICERO DONE IT!"

1. Date and time of interview

4/17/39

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

****

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., N.Y.C.

DATE 4/17/39

SUBJECT "METEOR' HELL, CICERO DONE IT!" "METEOR' HELL, CICERO DONE IT!"

(An Uncle Steve Robertson (Story.

"My Uncle Steve Robertson told me how the 'Great Hole' (which some people think was made by a meteor) happens to be out in the very middle of the vast, almost level Arizona desert. He told me about it one night when we were camped over in the Lost River country where we had gone with a pack outfit, aiming ultimately to get up into the Stanley Basin part of the Sawtooth Mountains and perhaps get ourselves a mountain sheep or, if our luck was good, maybe a mountain goat.

"MY Uncle Steve was such a great pioneer in the very Far West that there were few things indeed whether of natural, human or animal phenomenon of those early-settler days which he could not tell about and that too with the greatest of sincerity..........

"So, Uncle Steve told me about the 'Big Hole.'

"We had been out through the 'lavas' where there are many strange sink-holes, lava-pots, and other weird and ghostly formations in the volcanic desolation of that mighty interesting corner of Idaho. (I think that it {Begin page no. 2}has been made into a National Park by the Government and is now called "The Craters of The Moon). Anyhow, its fascinating and one kind of feels like he is...on the desolate Moon when he is wandering around in the silence that is always there.

"After supper, both of us entirely full of Little Lost River trout, we were lying by the camp fire listening to the coyotes and just sort of thinking...maybe about what we'd seen that day, so I mentioned to Uncle Steve that once down in Arizona I had come onto a Great Hole, several hundred feet deep and nearly a mile across from lip to lip, right out there in the flat desert and as far as I could see there wasn't the slightest excuse for it being there.

"But some people, I told my Uncle Steve, had the idea that a big meteor had fallen there one time and caved in the earth and that probably that was why the hole was there.

"My Uncle Steve then told me just how it happened..."

"'Yeah, I-Gawd, since you mention it, I remember that damned hole out there in Arizony," my Uncle Steve exclaimed. "In fact, by gosh, Bob White and me was right there and practically saw it made...But, 'Meteor, hell, Cicero done it. 'Twant no dammed meteor a-tall!

"But maybe, to be plumb reliable an' truthful an' not 'xaggerate an' stretch things like some danged liars does, Bob an' me wasn't on the 'xact spot where th' hole is when she was made, an' maybe we didn't 'xactly see th' cussed thing made, but I-Gawd we was as clost as anybody ought to be an' we sure as hell heard her when she was made. They ain't no doubtin' that!

"An' like I said, twasn't no cussed 'meteor' that made it..... 'Cicero' which was Bob's and my goat done it an' he done a hell of a good job when he done it.

{Begin page no. 3}"That was one thing I admired about 'Cicero.' He was one of th' thoroughest damned goats I ever seen an' when he done anything..whether it was eatin', or buttin' or, I*Gawd, even smellin' he done it right or he didn't do it a-tall...Fer instance, if Cicero started to eatin' anything he et it all 'fore he'd quit, if he started to buttin' anything he'd keep buttin' the danged thing till he busted it or butted it out of his way, that's all there was to it; an' when it come to smellin', well, hell there jest ain't no describin' how p'rsistent he was about that!

"But Cicero was a Papago Injun goat (to be plumb honest an' truthful, Bob an' me stole him from some Papago Injuns an' thats how we come to have him in the' first place) an' that's that way the Papago Injun goats is. They ain't nothin' they wont undertake an' when they undertake it, I*Gawd they finish it up.

"Bob an' me'd never possessed a goat back in Arkansas an' natcherally when him an' me an' Mam (she was Bob's wife) went out to Arizony an' we heard about th' buttin' power of them Papago Injun goats, Bob an' me thought that by rights we ought to git ourselves one jest to see if all we'd heard about 'em was th' truth, besides we figgered that probably we'd need one some time.....'Cause we'd heard how powerful they was in an emergency when it come to buttin'. Why, I-Gawd all th' freighters haulin' ore from Bisbee an' so forth always had a Papago Injun goat in their outfit so's when they'd git stuck in th' sand with a laod of ore an' their six or eight mule-team couldn't budge it they'd jest take their Papago Goat back a ways an' turn him loose an' tell him to butt th' hind end of their wagon an' I'Gawd he'd butt her a couple of butts an' away they'd go! What them six or eight mules couldn't do, that danged Papago Injun goat could accomplish with jest a few brief butts...

"So, when Bob an' me got a chance we stole Cicero an' took him home.

{Begin page no. 4}"Mam (Bob's wife) wasn't so hellish enthusiastic about Cicero when she first saw him.

"My Gawd," Mam says when she saw Bob an' me leadin' Cicero up to the' ranch, "what have you danged fools gone an' brang home now? Ain't there enough disagreeable features on this cussed desert out here in Arizony without you goin' an' gittin' a doggone Papago Injun goat for a body to be dodgin' an' also smellin' all th' time? Jest when I'm gittin' used to smellin' Arizony skunks an' Arizony vinagaroons an' Arizony carrion when a steer or cow dies an' the buzzards let it ripen too long before cleanin' it up, I-Gawd you go an' bring home a danged Papago Injun goat for me to also smell-When I married you, Bob White, I promised to 'love, honor an' obey' but darned if I promised to smell Papago Injun goats for you! So, you can take him right back where you got him or take him out behind th' corral an' shoot him, I don't give a dang which, before he butts th' britches off of you an' Steve Robertson an' smells me out of house an' home!'

"But Bob he always had a soothin' way with wimmen so he jest said, 'Why, Mam, Steve an' me thought Cicero would be a kind of surprise to you an' we stole him jest so you could have somethin' else to smell a while besides them other things an' he'd be a sort of change for you-- But now you go an' scold us for bringin' him home! You've plumb hurt our feelin's Mam 'cause we brung him home jest for you an' now you go an'...an'...resent him! I'Gawd, you see, Steve," Bob says, "that's the way it is-- A Mam goes an' does his damndest to do somethin' for a woman like stealin' a goat for her to smell or something an' then she gives him hell for it! That's th' way wimmen is, they never appreciate nothin' an' I'Gawd I don't blame you for shyin' off from 'em like you do Steve an' never gittin' married or nothin'...."

"Bob winked at me when he said it an' 'course I knowed he was jest 'soft-talkin' Mam but I*Gawd it worked an' Mam repented and said, 'Alright, dadgum you, Bob White-you know cussed well no woman can resist that, danged honey-tongue-of {Begin page no. 5}yourn-- If it hadn't been for it I'd still be down in Arkansas enjoyin' paw-paws an' persimmons in Mam an' Pap's peaceful home down on th' old Sac River! So, you an' Steve Robertson can keep your cussed Papago Injun goat but I'm promising you one thing and that is that if he ever butts me once I'll bust him twice! I'll smell Him...but I'll be danged if I'll be butted by him, that's all there is to it, Bob White!'"

"So, Bob an' me kept Cicero an' if we hadn't there probably wouldn't be that damned Big Hole out in th' middle of that Arizony desert you mentioned a while ago.....

"To start with, that danged hole wasn't a hole but was Injun Head Butts...one of them cussed mountains that sticks itself right up all alone as if it doesn't want any other mountain neighbors close to it...Sort of like Big Butte, over there th' other side of Lost River Sinks, where we was today [doez?].

"An' Injun Butte was practically solid rock to begin with...jest a great big bump of rock stickin' up out of the' desert...Then, I Gawd, Cicero turned that damned Butte into a hole in th' ground!

"Yeah, it wasn't no danged 'Meteor,' Cicero done it.

"I-Gawd, I ought to know. Bob [White?] an' Mam an' me an' Cicero was there when it happened...After it happened, well, Bob an' Mam an' me was still there but where th' hell Cicero was...that's a mystery nobody ain't ever solved yet an' I don't reckon they ever will!

"It happened th' year before th' big dry spell, th' one I told you about, maybe you remember it, when it got so dry an' hot that even th' damned buzzards wheelin' around up in th' sky an' practically everything else includin' th' cattle an' the trees out in th' forest jest up an' petrified from th' heat and th' dryness........

"Well, Bob an' Mam an' me decided to take a trip up to North Arizony an' see if maybe there wasn't better grazin' for our cattle up there than there was down along th' Santa Cruz river in south Arizony where we'd started {Begin page no. 6}our cow-outfit when we come out from Arkansaw, so we travelled up there.

"Natcherally, Cicero went along. Bob an' me had trained him to go along with us wherever we went with a wagon-outfit so if we got stuck in the sand he could butt us out like th' ore freighters had their Papago Injun goats do when they got stuck.

"So, we got up there to where there was a little spring...Arsenic Springs they called it 'cause th' water would physic anybody worse than hell but it was all there was an' they had to drink it anyhow...about two miles from old Injun Head Butte an' we camped there.

"Everything would a'been all right only there was a couple of prospectors already camped there who was figgerin' on doin' some prospectin' on Injun Head Butte 'cause a old [Hopi?] Injun Chief had told 'em there was a lost gold mine somewhere on th' Butte.

"Them damned prospectors had a whole burro load of dynamite with them an' had spread it out in th' shade of a Joshua tree to sort of cool off and...Well, to make a long story short, while Bob an' Mam an' me was gittin' our camp set an' not payin' much attention to Cicero th' damn fool found that dynamite an' 'fore he quit he'd et every last cussed stick of it! "Th' first thing Bob an' me knowed about what had ahppened was when one of th' prospectors...Dirty Shirt Smith was his name...caught Cicero jest swallerin' th' last damned stick of dynamite they had, an' he come runnin' over to our camp yellin'-'Hey, your cussed doggone goat has et up all our dynamite every damned drop of it! Now, how th' hell is Solemn Johnson (that was th' other prospector's name) an' me goin' to do any balstin' to find that damned lost gold mine that old Injun Chief told us was on Injun Head Butte? How th' hell are we goin' to-- You gotta pay us for that dynamite your goat et!'"

"I ain't worryin' about payin' for your damned dymaite,' Bob up an' told him. "'What I'm worryin' about is that cussed goat runnin' loose around [here with all that high explosive in him. If he ever gits th' idea that 'cause?]

{Begin page no. 7}our wagon's standin' still we're stuck an' need buttin' out, or if he starts in to practicin'g buttin' like Pago Injun goats does, well, Gawd help us all, that's all I can say!"

"Mam she got excited too an' says, 'Bob White, for Gawd's sakes, you an' Steve Robertson figger out some scheme to keep that goat from stirrin' around much till he either sweats all that dynamite out of his system or digests it or something. If he goes off anywheres clost to us there wont be nothin' but fragments of us left! For Gawd's sake tie him up or something but do it an far away from camp as possible-- Maybe you'd ought to give him a dose of castor oil, that might help!" Mam says.

"Yeah,' Bob says, 'an' who th' hell would straddle him an' hold him while I'm givin' it to him...an' take a chance of him goin' off while they're straddle of him?'

"Mam realized th' danger of it an' didn't insist on us givin' Cicero castor oil.

"So Bob an' took Cicero an' tied him to a Joshua tree about a hundred yards from camp an' everything seemed safe an' sound for th' time being.

"Mam, she quieted down an' after supper we all went to bed...lettin' the' white Arizony moonlight stream over th' desert calm an' serene like.

"'Fore I went to bed I looked out where Cicero was tied an' he was layin' there peaceful an' quiet as if eatin' sixty or seventy sticks of dynamite was jest a incident an' didn't have no significance a-tall.....

"'Bout three o'clock in th' mornin' I reckon it was I waked up all of a sudden with a sort of p'resentiment--I think that's what you call it when you think somethin' terrible's about to happen--pressin' down on me. Anyhow, I felt it i my marrow that Gawd only knowed what might take place any minute.....

"Natcherally, when I was a little a waker I remember about Cicero eatin' that dynamite an' the first thing I done was to peer out through th' {Begin page no. 8}moonlight an' see if he was still tied to th' Joshua tree an' still keepin' still till th' dynamite was absorbed out of his system--

'I-Gawd, that's when I got a shock. Cicero was gone.'

"He'd gnawed his rope in two an' escaped.

"Then I snuck over to where Bob was sleepin' an' shook him an' says, 'Bob, fer Gawd's sake wake up! Cicero's loose an' prowlin' around somewhere with all that dynamite in him an' Gawd only knows what's liable to happen!"

"Bob waked up and says, "My Gawd, Steve, don't wake Mam...she's tired an' needs her rest (Bob was always like that, awful considerate of Mam) an' besides if she wakes up an' realizes Cicero's loose she'll raise hell an' I'm too dammed worried to have any woman raisin' hell with me at this time of night! But where th' hell do you reckon Cicero's gone to, Steve?'

"Danged if I know,' I told Bob, "but th' chances is he's wanderin' around in th' moonlight huntin' something to practice buttin' on-- Only, I*Gawd,' I says, 'if he find it I hope to Gawd it's a good ways from camp!'

"I-Gawd, so do I,' Bob said. An' then it happened--

"Sounded jest exactly like th' world had come to a end.

"Th' long an' th' short of it was, th' next mornin' there wasn't no danged Injun Head Butte out there on th' Arizony desert. There was jest a hell of a big hole in th' ground where she had been.....Bob an' me knowed what had happened.

"Cicero had wandered around huntin' somethin' to practice butting on an' in that moonlight he'd saw Injun Head Butte....She looked danged good an' solid so he thought he'd practice on her. An', natcherally, when he hit here with all that dynamite in him he jest went off. That's all there was to it.

"An' when he went off he jest ripped old Injun Head Butte out by th' roots....an' there couldn't be nothin' left but jest a hole where she had been!

"So, that's the way it was--An' I don't give a dang what anybody says--even them cussed 'scientists' that thinks they know such a hell of a lot...an' that that Big Hole out in Arizony was made by a meteor..gits crazy ideas {Begin page no. 9}sometimes. They jost don't know th' inside story of them things like us Pioneers of th' Far West does, that's all.

"But th' next time anybody tells you that that hole was made by a 'meteor' jest tell them, 'Meteor hell, Cicero done it'.....

"An' I-Gawd, if they don't believe you, take 'em out there an' show them th' Hole, its still there ain't it? They can see for themselves th' damned thing's there--An' that ought to be proof enough for anybody......" END

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}8{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street, NYC

DATE December 27, 1938

SUBJECT "HOW SNIPE HUNTING WAS INVENTED" (An Uncle Steve Robertson story)

1. Date and time of interview December 23, 1938

2. Place of interview Harry Reece's Book Store, 63 Washington Square, South, NYC

3. Name and address of informant Harry Reece, 63 Washington Square, South, NYC

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

(See previous interviews--11/29; 12/15)

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street, NYC

DATE December 27, 1938

SUBJECT "HOW SNIPE HUNTING WAS INVENTED" (An Uncle Steve Robertson story)

My Uncle Steve Robertson who was a great pioneer of the very far west in his day, and which was a very early day indeed, told me how he invented "snipe hunting with sacks" one time when we were hunting deer in the mountains on the divide between Price Valley and Salmon Meadows, in the upper Weiser River country, in Idaho.

We had left our camp on Beaver Creek early in the morning and climbed up the divide to the summit and then hunted along the ridge but had seen nothing to shoot at larger than a pine squirrel and which, of course, did not interest us because we were carrying 30-30 rifles and had we shot a pine squirrel with a 30-30 rifle there would have been nothing left of the squirrel except possibly the spot where he had been sitting.

So we paid no attention to pine squirrels but kept on hunting for deer. Anyhow, Uncle Steve had said that if we hunted along the ridge we were on, we would 'more'n likely get at least a three-point {Begin page no. 2}buck an' I'Gawd, maybe a five-point one, nobody could tell!

Since I was the "tenderfoot" of the two-man expedition and Uncle Steve, who knew all about shooting bear, hunting deer and fighting Indians was the "old timer", I was willing to take his word for it.

But eventually, I got pretty tired and we sat down on a log to rest. It was my suggestion that we sit down. Uncle Steve, who was at that time probably about seventy years old, very lean and straight as an Indian, and whose gray eyes were still keen enough and quick enough to line an ivory bead-sight down a rifle barrel till it was squarely on the shoulder of a deer while it was in mid-air between one jump and the next jump, seemed to be rather disgusted with anyone who got tired enough to have to sit down and rest....

"I'Gawd, us settin' here on this log restin' and jest waitin' for a danged fool buck deer to come along to be shot, instead of keepin' on and jumpin' 'em up for ourselves, makes me feel like a cussed 'snipe hunter' holdin' a sack an' waitin' for somebody to drive the damned snipes into it for him," Uncle Steve said. "But, I {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} gosh, that's the way some people are... they want somebody else to do the 'scairin' up' for 'em, and all they want to do is the ketchin'... they jest want to set there and 'hold th' sack!'

[{Begin note}{Begin handwritten}/={End handwritten}{End note}?]

"That's the way a feller was that was with our outfit oncet when Bob White and Mam, 'Mam' was Bob's wife, and me were migratin' from Arkansas out west one time..,

{Begin page no. 3}"This feller's name was Slocum, Brad Slocum, and he was one of these tender-actin' persons that was always wantin' somebody else to do it, whatever it was, for him instead of doin' it for hisself. Well, it wasn't long till we'd changed his name from Brad to 'Babe' Slocum... 'cause that's jest the way he was, always wantin' somebody to hand him whatever he wanted instead of reachin' for it himself...

"Well, we let him come along 'cause he said he wanted to git out west, but th' further west we got th' tenderer he seemed to git and when we was quite a ways out on th' Platte River he jest got to be unbearable and so I invented 'huntin' snipes with a sack' to give him a chance to set and set and jest keep on settin' and wait as long as he damned please for somebody else to do it for him...

"The way it was, there was lots of snipes along the Platte where we was travelin' and every night when we'd camp you could hear them hollerin' jest as if they was invitin' somebody to come out and shoot a bunch of them and turn them into 'snipe pies'-- and I'Gawd, snipe pie's good if you ever tasted anything that was really good!

"This feller, 'Babe' Slocum had eat snipe pie and knowed how good it was and every night when we'd camp and hear them snipe down along the swamps beside th' Old Platte River, chirpin, and singin', he'd start in teasin' Bob or me to go down there and git a mess of them so Mam could make a snipe pie out of them...

"And when Bob or me would say, 'Why th' hell don't you go down there and git a mess of them yourself?' he'd sort of whine and {Begin page no. 4}say, 'To start with I don't know much about catchin' snipe and you and Bob know more about it than I do... and besides, I'm awful tired this evenin' and would rather set here in camp and rest!' I'Gawd it got to be plumb disgustin' so I figgered out: 'If he wants to 'set,' there ain't but one thing to do an' that is study up some scheme to let him set... and jest keep on settin... clean through Eternity if he wanted to; I-gosh, I wouldn't give a damn....

"So that's when I invented huntin' snipes with a sack.

"The next time he started whinin' for Bob or me to go git a mess of snipes, I jest up and said: 'Hell, you shore don't know much about huntin' snipes when you say for Bob or me, one or the other of us, to go down there and git a mess of snipes-- Any danged fool ought to know it takes three men to hunt snipes. One can't do it by himself nor two can't do it, it takes three to do it... snipes is damned smart and they've got to be handled jest right or nobody ever can ketch any!'

"'That's danged funny,' he said, 'one man can hunt quails or two men can hunt quails and I don't see why th' blue blazes it takes three men to hunt snipes... ain't they all birds?' he said.

"'Hell, yes, they're all birds but they're different kinds of birds and you got to hunt 'em different... The only way to hunt quails is to hunt 'em with a shot gun, but snipes is different, you got to drive 'em in a sack and any danged fool ought to know one man's got to set and hold th' sack while th' other two men drive 'em in it. So,{Begin page no. 5}I'Gawd,' I told him, 'if you want a mess of snipe pie you got to go with Bob and me and help us git 'em--'

"So, finally he said, 'Well, I'm pretty tired tonight but if you'll let me set and hold th' sack while you and Bob go and drive 'em in it, I'll go and help you ketch a mess...'

"That's what I knowed he'd say, so I winked at Bob-- we'd already talked it over and Bob knew the idea I had and the new way of huntin' snipe I had invented for Babe Slocum's 'special benefit. So, I told him, 'Well, Bob and me's pretty tired too, but I reckon' you're tireder an' so you can hold th' sack. Bob and me'll drive 'em in as fast as we can and when there's a sackful you can yell and Bob and me'll come and help you carry them to camp.'

"We waited till after supper and then we took him up a gully about a half a mile from camp and which was out of sight of camp and told him to be shore and keep the mouth of the sack open so th' snipe could come in it when we rounded up a bunch of them down by th' Old Platte River and drove them up th' gully...

"And I'Gawd, as far as I know he's still settin' up there in that gully waitin' for me and Bob to drive them damn snipe into his sack. Bob and me went back to camp, hitched up and drove about ten miles further and made another camp-- So, that's the way it was.

"Yeah, I'Gawd, he's probably still settin' there holdin' that cussed sack open, waitin' for somebody else to drive th' snipe into it for him... but some people is like that; all they want to do {Begin page no. 6}is set and hold th' sack while somebody else does all the damned walkin' and climbin' and so forth, so they just set... and set... and hold th' doggone sack...

"But that's th' way snipe huntin' with sacks was invented, I know danged well that's the way it was, 'cause I'Gawd I invented it myself-- Hell, if we're goin' to git a deer between now and next Christmas we got to go git it... nobody else ain't goin' to drive it up here on this cussed ridge for us to shoot at, while we're settin' on this darned log....'"

This must have been the way this ancient American "snipe hunting game was invented"- for my Uncle Steve Robertson told me that was how it came about, and Uncle Steve... "jest couldn't endure no danged liar or any cussed man that 'zaggerates!"

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street

DATE

SUBJECT "Bob White's Trained 'Dog-Salmon"

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C

TEXT OF INTERVIEW (UNEDITED)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street

DATE

SUBJECT "Bob White's Trained 'Dog-Salmon'"

It was while we were camped up on the Westfork of the Weiser River that my Uncle Steve Robertson told me about Bob White's trained 'dog-salmon'.

It was spring and the 'up-run' of the salmon...when that strange migration of the magnificent fish takes place and they fight their way hundreds of miles inland up the small streams to spawn at the place of their own birth.

During these 'runs' the settlers found great sport and incidentally acquired a splendid addition to their food supply by spearing the salmon an they flopped over the shallow riffles...

My Uncle Steve and I had hoped to get ourselves a salmon or two but on this day we had matched the riffles closely but never a salmon seen.

{Begin page no. 2}Out of our lack of success came my Uncle Steve's story of Bob White's trained 'dog-fish'...

"It doesn't look like we're going to get ourselves a salmon this year, does it, Uncle Steve,' I observed a bit pessimistically, 'maybe there aren't any doggone salmon coming up into Idaho this season...."

"Hell yes, they's plenty of 'em coming',' my Uncle Steve said, 'an' we'll also probably git one if we jest watch clost enough, but I-Gawd if we jest had a good trained 'dog-salmon' like 'Hector' was they wouldn't be nothin' to it... All we'd have to do would be jest let 'Hector' round 'em up an' drive 'em up to the bank an' that's all there'd be to it--Hell, we could pick 'em right out with our hands an' not have to do no wadin' or spearin' either for that matter!

"They ain't nothin' like a good trained 'dog-salmon' when it comes to huntin' salmon, or for that matter, I-Gawd any other kind of fish I reckon...

"'Hector' was Bob White's idea an' it come to him kind of sudden once when him an' Mam (she was Bob's wife) an' me was livin' down in Salubria Valley in th' early days of th' Far West an' practically everybody that was out here was Pioneers an' had to take advantage of everything they could or probably perish for its a hell-of-a-job I'm tellin' you to be a Pioneer in th' Far West in th' early days an' have to depend on jest yourselves for what you git to eat and so forth.

{Begin page no. 3}"Natcherally us Pioneers would git kind of tired of jest havin' venison an' bear steaks an' grouse an' pheasants an' wild geese an' ducks an' fresh trout and so forth fer a reg'lar diet an' sort of crave somethin' different for a change oncet in a while, so when th' spring run of salmon come along we'd spear up a lot of 'em an' smoke 'em into dried salmon or salt 'em down so we'd have somethin' different jest in a emergency...

"Well, I-Gawd, it was a hell of a lot of trouble watchin' th' riffles and wadin' out over th' slippery rocks jest to spear a danged twenty-five or thirty pound salmon an' then have to pack him a-shore an' pile him up with th' rest of 'em an' then go back an' get another one till we had as many as we figgered we'd need for that season.

"Bob, he got awful tired of it an' he used to cuss a lot ever' time th' salmon ketchin' season come around ag'in--'Hell,' he'd say, 'I reckon we got to git our spears out Steve an' go spear up a batch of salmon so Mam can smoke 'em or salt 'em down for future use an' we can have a change in our diet if we git to cravin' it like we always do," he'd say.

"I-Gawd, I don't mind it,' I'd say, 'an' as far as that's concerned personally, spearin' salmon is kind of interestin' an' I enjoy it damned nigh as much as I enjoy huntin' deer or bear either for that matter. Besides,' I said, 'its all in a days work an' so what th' hell's th' difference whether we're wadin' over th' cussed riffles in th' Weiser River, stabbin' {Begin page no. 4}salmon with a spear or a pitchfork, or climbin' th' doggone hills huntin' for a deer or a bear to shoot with a rifle? Damned if I can see why anybody should complain about gittin' their feet wet a little," I told Bob.

"Don't think for a minute that I give a damn about gittin' my feet wet,' Bob said, 'but what I object to is luggin' a cussed twenty-five or thirty pound salmon back to th' shore an' not have nothin' but slippery rocks to walk on while a body's doin' it! That's what I object to, I-Gawd, an' that's what I got a right to object to I figger when anybody considers how danged many times a man slips an' falls an' has th' cussed salmon smack him in th' face when it lights on him while he's chokin' on Weiser River water-- If they was jest some way to drive th' damn salmon up to th' shore so we wouldn't have to wade I wouldn't mind it,' Bob said.

"Well, I-Gawd, that's th' way Bob got to thinkin' about it an' when a man gits to thinkin' about how to git out of doin' somethin' he don't like to do he generally figgers out a way to git out of it! I've noticed that.

"So, damned if Bob didn't figger it out...

"I-Gawd th' next time we went spearin' for salmon instead of stabbin' a chinook or steelhead as they went floppin' by him Bob kept watchin' an' finally he throwed his spear down an' grabbed a damned big 'dog-salmon' right behind th' gills, an' started luggin' him to shore...

{Begin page no. 5}"Yeah, that's what the cussed idjit done; he jest lugged that darned 'dog-salmon', it snarlin' an' snappin' an' squirmin' an' bitin' at him at every step, plumb out of the River to the mouth of the little creek that run past our cabin and emptied into th' river clost to where we was fishin'.

"Well, I-Gawd, he didn't stop till he took that doggone 'dog fish' and got him to a old beaver pond that th' beavers had built sometime an' that was jest a little way from the house.

"Fact is we'd built our cabin where we did on account of that beaver pond. When we'd first arrived there an' Mam seen it she wanted Bob an' me to build our house clost to the pond 'cause she had a idea that maybe she'd want to raise some ducks sometime an' th' beaver pond would be a good place for 'em to swim in if she did raise any.

"When Bob got his cussed 'dog-salmon' up to th' beaver pond he got a long lariat rope an' tied it around the darned fish's neck an' tied th' other end to a cottonwood tree on th' bank then he throwed th' doggone 'dog-salmon' into th' beaver pond.

"Bob's idea was that if he had him staked out that way he could drag him in whenever he wanted to an' gentle him by degrees.

"Mam, she was kind of dubious about Bob puttin' that doggone wild, twenty-five or thirty pound 'dog-salmon' in th' little beaver pond 'cause she'd already got some ducks which she was tryin' to raise some more from and get a good start of 'em {Begin page no. 6}an' natcherally that cussed dog-fish was almost sure to ketch some of 'em or at least to chase 'em all over the darned pond.

"So when Mam seen Bob puttin' his dog-salmon in th' beaver pond she said: "Bob White,' an' you too Steve Robertson,' Mam said, "have you gone plumb crazy, bringin' that cussed live dog-salmon home an' turnin' him loose in my duck-pond? Ain't you got sense enough to know that he's damned nigh sure to chase my ducks till they won't have no chance to set or lay eggs or anything else? I got trouble enough watching them ducks and scarin' th' coyotes an' hawks an' things like that away so they won't ketch 'em without havin' to worry my doggone head off about havin' a cussed dog-salmon to worry about too. I can't see what th' heck you want with such a critter anyhow. Who ever heard of anybody wantin' a live dog-salmon barkin' an' yelpin' around th' place an' nippin' anybody ever' time they dip a bucket of water up out of the pond."

"Don't blame th' cussed thing on me,' I told Mam, 'It was Bob's idea in th' first place, an, I ain't any fonder of a damned dog-salmon than anybody else be, an' as far as that's concerned I can't see what th' heck anybody wants with one any more'n you can Mam, so don't blame th' damned thing on me!'

"Never you mind, Mam, nor you either Steve Robertson,' Bob said, "when I git 'Hector'--which is what my new dog-salmon's name is goin' to be-- when I git 'Hector' trained an' you see him herdin' them steel-head an' chinook an' sock-eye salmon up to th' river bank so we can ketch 'em without even gittin' our {Begin page no. 7}feet wet, you'll both bless th' day I got this dog-salmon. You sure as hell will, yes sir, I-Gawd;" Bob said enthusiastic and jubilant.

"Well, jest don't train him on none of my ducks,' Mam said, disgusted, 'cause if I ever ketch him chasin' my ducks I'll take a stick of wood an' knock his doggone teeth out, jest remember that!' Also, I don't think anybody's in their right mind that talks about trainin' a cussed dog-salmon--like anybody'd train a sheep dog or a possum-hound for instance!"

"If a sheep-dog herds sheep,' Bob said, 'I-Gawd a dog-salmon ought to have sense enough to herd salmon, an' as far as anybody bein' in their right mind," Bob said, 'jest leave th' trainin' of 'Hector' up to me an' I'll show you whether he can't be trained or not!"

"Well, I-Gawd, that was one time Bob White fooled Mam an' me both-- It wasn't like his idea of cross-breedin' he skunks with she-chuck-wallahs, or vice versey an' raisin' self-skinnin' skunks. No, sir, I-Gawd, he sure made a success of trainin' 'Hector' his dog-salmon!

"Danged if it wasn't only a few days till whenever Bob would go down to th' beaver pond an' whistle, or beller, 'Here, Hector! Here Hector!' damned if that fool dog-salmon would come a splashin' and playin' like a hound pup that thinks he's goin' to git a rabbit's head, or some chicken offals, or a chunk of corn bread or somethin'! Yes, sir, I-Gawd it wasn't no time till Hector knowed his name an' knowed enough to come when Bob called him. He sure as hell was a smart dog-salmon!

{Begin page no. 8}"Course Bob always give him a frog--there was lots of little bull-frogs around the edges of th' beaver pond--an' Bob usually had some in his pockets when he'd call Hector, an' Hector sure as hell was fond of them little half-grown bull-frogs.

"In spite of what Mam said about Hector chasin' her ducks, when she wasn't around Bob trained th' cussed dog-salmon to round 'em up an' drive 'em to shore, so it wasn't long till when Bob would call Hector an' give him a frog an' yell, 'Go 'way round 'em, Heck! Bring 'em in Heck-- Go git 'em, Old Boy!' I-Gawd Hector'd splash out after them damned ducks and 'fore they knowed it he have 'em all drove ashore!...

"But, Bob had to quit usin' Mam's ducks to train Hector on, 'cause he got to bitin' off a foot of any danged duck that didn't head straight in and I-Gawd that was awful-- He'd bite off a duck's foot an' natcherally it would scare hell out of th' duck an' it would start to swim toward th' shore but on account of only havin' one foot to paddle with, I-Gawd it would jest paddle itself around and around in a circle until all it would do would be to jest spin around and around an' never git anywhere! Yeah, Bob had to quit trainin' Hector on Mam's ducks.

"But, 'fore Hector had bit off many of Mam's ducks feet he'd got th' idea about roundin' things up when Bob would tell him to, so it didn't really matter much--he'd round up anything Bob would tell him too, so Bob got to takin' him down to th' river and have him round up salmon--

{Begin page no. 9}"Yes, sir, I-Gawd that's what he'd do! Bob would jest lead Hector down th' little creek to th' Weiser and when he got out in th' deep water he'd yell, 'Bring 'em in Heck! Go git 'em Heck-- Head 'em in! Head 'em in!' an' I-Gawd old Hector'd round up a bunch of steel-head and sock-eye and chinook salmon an' nip hell out of their tails till he'd have 'em all drove right up to th' bank where Bob an' me'd be waitin'--

"Bob was plumb tickled an' proud of his trained dog-salmon... An' he probably had a right to be 'cause as far as I know Rector was th' only damned trained dog-salmon anybody'd ever heard of. At least he was th' only damned one I'd ever heard of or seen either for that matter!

"Well, sir, Bob was jest gittin' Hector trained to jest bring in sock-eye or steel-head, or chinook salmon an' leave th' rest go, accordin' to whichever kind Bob an' me wanted to ketch that day an' then Hector got th' hydrophoby an' 'course that settled it...

"I-Gawd it was awful an' it was plumb foolish th' way Hector got it. It was on account of a German...least that's what he said he was....comin' into th' Crane Creek country an' startin' to raise wheat.

"In them days they wasn't no sech a thing as mad-dogs or mad coyotes or hydrophoby in Idaho or any of th' rest of th' northwest part of th' Far West. It jest hadn't developed or something.

{Begin page no. 10}"But there was a hell of a lot of them cussed little critters called 'go-downs'--- May be you never seen any of 'em and don't know jest what they was like? Well, they was a sort of ground squirrel, kind of like a prairie dog or a 'picket-pin' but not exactly like either one of them... Th' reason we called 'em 'go-downs' was 'cause they was never around but three months out of the year--from April till th' first, or about th' first of July-- Then they'd 'go-down' ag'in an' never be seen till th' next year in April. What th' hell they went 'down' (in their holes) for in July an' staid down for th' next nine months damned if I knowed nor I don't reckon nobody else did either.

"But that's th' way it was-- Th' trouble was that for th' three months they was out they could raise more hell with a wheat crop than anything else could in a whole year. Yeah, th' country was full of 'em an' it was danged nigh impossible to raise any kind of grain crop except corn an' then anybody had to watch it day an' night to keep them damned things from eatin' it.

"Well, that German, (Von Bauer or somethin' like that was his name) got so damned mad at them 'go-downs' eatin' his wheat that he sent back east somewhere an' got somebody to send him some hydrophoby germs an' then he caught some of them 'go-downs' an' vaccinated 'em with th' cussed hydrophoby germs an' turned 'em loose. Natcherally, his idea, was to give 'em a start of hydrophoby, an' natcherally also they'd pass it on {Begin page no. 11}from one 'go-down' to another till all of 'em would git it and die an' then he could riase his damned wheat in peace--

"Well, I-Gawd, it worked, too damned well!

"The go-downs he vaccinated with hydrophoby went mad an' bit other go-downs an' they went mad and bit others and they went mad an' bit others an' pretty soon th' whole damned country was full of mad 'go-downs' bitin' each other or any damned thing they could snap at-- So, natcherally they bit th' coyotes that would catch 'em an' then th' coyotes would go mad an' bite other coyotes an' they'd pass it on an' in addition to th' damned country bein' full of mad go-downs it was also full of mad coyotes--

"Yeah, that's what that goddamn fool 'Von what-ever-his name was,' started in th' Weiser river country...

"An' that also was how Bob White happened to lose Hector, th' only cussed trained dog-salmon anybody ever heard about I reckon.

"One of them mad coyotes come up to th' beaver pond one night an' hector tackled him-- They had a hell of a fight an' Hector finally killed th' damned coyote - we found him dead on th' edge of th' beaver pond th' next mornin' but fore Hector finally killed him th' cussed coyote must a-bit him. Yeah, I guess that's what he done 'cause in about ten days poor old Hector went mad as hell!

"I-Gawd it was awful to see that poor damned dog-salmon havin' fits an' frothin' at th' mouth and splashin' around in that beaver-pond in agony like anything does when its got {Begin page no. 12}hydrophoby. But that's th' way it was... He sure as hell had it.

"Well, it danged nigh busted Bob White's heart. 'Course Mam an' me wanted to kill Hector an' put him out of his misery but Bob wouldn't hear to it-- 'No, I-Gawd,' Bob said, 'Maybe Hector'll git over it...let's give him a chance anyhow...Jest everybody keep away from him so they won't git bit by him, I-Gawd, an' let him play out his hand to th' end!' Bob said.

"So, that's th' way we done an' probably it was a good thing, 'cause th' very next night Hector gnawed th' rope Bob had him staked out in the beaver pond with, in two an' swum over th' little beaver damn down into th' creek an' on down to th' Weiser River-- An' I-Gawd that's th' last we ever saw of Hector, an' as far as I know, if he didn't die he might of swum plumb out of th' damned country an' maybe is swimmin' yet!

"Yeah, I-Gawd, that's th' way it was, but if we jest had Hector, Bob White's trained dog-salmon, now he'd go out in that deep water an' round up a steel head, or a chinook or a sock-eye salmon an' drive 'em right up to th' shore an' all we'd have to do would be to ketch 'em-- Yeah, I-Gawd, Hector was a hell of a smart dog-salmon; he sure as hell was...."

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street

DATE July 20, 1939

SUBJECT "Hell, Bob An' Me Planted 'Em"

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C

TEXT OF INTERVIEW (UNEDITED)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street

DATE July 20, 1939

SUBJECT "Hell, Bob An' Me Planted 'Em"

"We were camped by a little trout steam that cut its way through the rich mountain soil just off the low divide between Price Valley and Salmon Meadows when my Uncle Steve Robertson told me the "true" story of the 'Big Trees' of California, and how they happened to be so big.

"All around us was a park-like forest of stately Idaho Yellow Pines, their three, four even five-foot trunks straight and smooth and limbless for thirty feet or more, their crowns towering into the sky a hundred or a hundred and fifty feet.

"Gee, Uncle Steve, there's sure some wonderful timber in this part of Idaho, isn't there?' I said. "Just look at those tree, why one of 'em must have lumber enough in it to almost build a house-- Gosh {Begin page no. 2}they're big. But beside some trees I saw in California once, these Idaho pines, big and grand as they are would only be "saplin's. 'Sequoias,' they call those big trees in California and some of them must be thirty-five or forty feet in diameter. They're supposed to be thousands of years old and they probably are because it would take a tree a hell of a long time to grow as big as those California 'Sequoias' are. They're 'whoppers,' no doubt about that...."

"Yeah, I-Gawd,' my Uncle Steve Robertson said, 'they probably are whoppers by this time, I ain't sayin' they ain't. In fact they couldn't be nothin' else but big, considerin' what they was fertilized with. Yeah, they sure as hell was fertilized an' to such a extent, I-Gawd, they jest couldn't help growin' as big as they be an' more'n likely they'll be a hell of a sight bigger 'fore they quit growin'.

"But when it comes to them California big trees bein' thousands of years old, like you said, or even bein' 'Sequoias,' I-Gawd that's jest some smart-aleck's idea.

"Probably some feller that didn't know nothin' about trees an' timber an' things like that wanted to show off an' told people they was 'Sesquoias' an' they was 'thousands of years old,' an' I-Gawd like damned fools people believe it. But that's th' way people is, most of 'em believe any danged thing they hear without takin' th' trouble to git at {Begin page no. 3}th' bottom of things and find out for theirselves whether its so or not.

"An' that's th' way it is with them big trees in Californy! They ain't no thousands of years old an' they ain't no cussed 'Sequoias'-- They're jest plain damned Arkansas cedar trees, an' they like a hell of a lot of bein' any older probably than these Idaho yaller pines is, an' also they was jest as much 'saplin's oncet as any other doggone trees ever was.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, I ought to know, 'cause-- Hell, Bob White an' me planted 'em!

"Course me didn't realize what we was startin' when we planted th' damned things or we never would a-done it in th' first place.

"But us Pioneers of th' Far West in th' early days probably made mistakes oncet in a while like ever'body else does, but one thing about it, when we did make any damned mistake an' found out we'd made one, I-Gawd we didn't keep on makin' it jest for pure contrariness like lots of people does now-a-days.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, Bob an' me made a hell of a mistake when we planted them big Californy trees in th' first place. But, our mistake wasn't in jest planted 'em so much probably as in where we planted th' damned things.

"If we'd had any idea what th' damned things was goin' to be fertilized with, we'd never a-planted 'em to start with...I-Gawd we sure as hell wouldn't have.

{Begin page no. 4}"But we planted 'em an' after th' damned things got started to growin' they wasn't no chance on earth to do nothin' about it but jest let'em grow--an' I-Gawd you see what happened! What we thought was goin' to be jest a nice, comfortable Arkansas cedar grove turned into a regular cussed wilderness of 'big trees' that nobody can do a doggone thing with only jest let'em grow an' grow until Gawd known how damned big they'll be 'fore they quit growin'--

"Yeah, that's the way it is, an' that's th' way it usually is, people start some damned thing an' then I-Gawd they find out they've made a hell of a mistake but they can't stop it!

"...Bob an' me planted them big Californy trees th' time we was gittin' out of th' Arizony country after th' hot spell that petrified all them damned buzzards, et ceterry.

"When we got up in th' Californy country-- After we'd stopped that time out in the Mojave desert where we staked down that damn floatin' lake, I told you about oncet, well, we come to that valley where them big trees is an'it looked like it might be a hell of a good place to start a ranch. It was smooth an' nice lookin' land but there wasn't a damned thing growin' on it-- Jest smooth, rich lookin' soil.

"So, Mam, (she was Bob's wife) said: 'Bob White, an' you too, Steve Robertson, if I know anything about th' looks of land, this would be a hell of a good place to stake out a ranch an' settle down. I Know,' Mam says, 'they's a {Begin page no. 5}heck of a lot of Piute Injuns in this section, 'cause we've seen 'em, but in spite of that land looks like things would grow on it an' I'm tired of movin' 'round. So, I'm in favor of stoppin' right here an' startin' a ranch. If I'm any judge of rich land, this land is th' richest danged land I ever seen in my life, even if it is kind of funny lookin',' Mam said.

"Well, Bob an' me'd sort of set our minds on gittin' up into this Idaho country, but Bob always was considerate of Mam an' tried to do whatever she wanted him to do, 'cause he wanted her to be as happy as she could, knowin' like he did that it was hard enough life them women-Pioneers like Mam was, had to live anyhow without contraryin' them any more'n was necessary.

"So, Bob said: 'Far's I'm concerned Mam, I'd jest as soon stop here an' start a ranch as not if you think you'd be contented here, Mam. 'Cause I sure as hell want you to be contented, Mam. But, I-Gawd, they ain't no trees an' you know damned well you was always a great hand for trees-- An' what th' hell will we do about that? An' also, th' surroundin' country's full of them cussed Piute Injuns-we know it is 'cause we've seen 'em almost steady ever since we got up into this section, an' Piute Injuns ain't very damned nice neighbors. What'd you think about it, Steve? Bob said.

{Begin page no. 6}"Personally, it don't make no difference to me,' I said, 'As far as Piute Injuns being plentyful in concernced, I'd jest as soon have Piutes as any other cussed kind of Injuns for neighbors and regardin' startin' a ranch here, I'd jest as soon start it here as anyplace else, so I don't give a damn either direction,' I said.

"That's perfectly alright, Bob White, an' you too, Steve Robertson,' Mam said, "I've thought about all that. An' as far as Piute Injuns is concerned, you notice that even if the general country does seem like it's full of 'em, you notice they ain't none of 'em hangin' around this imedjiate neighborhood. So, I calculate they won't bother much. An' regardin' they not bein' no trees growin', that can be fixed danged easy 'cause I got a whole sack full of Arkansas red cedar tree seed I picked offen that cedar tree in our front yard in Arkansas 'fore we started migratin' to th' Far West. All we got to do is plant them Arkansas cedar tree seed an' if that soil's as rich as it 'pears to be we'll soon have a nice grove of cedar trees, which will be a good place for th' chickens I'm aimin' to raise to waller under in th' dust. Th' smell of th' cedar trees will also help keep th' mites an' lice from worryin' th' chickens to death,' Mam said.

"Well, I-Gawd that's th' way it started.

"Jest to please Mam an' keep her contented, Bob an' me took that sack full of Arkansas red cedar tree seed an' planted th' whole cussed works, figgerin' that maybe some {Begin page no. 7}of 'em wouldn't grow, but we planted 'em all so Mam would be sure to have a cedar grove for her chickens to waller under in th' dust...

"Yeah, Bob an' me planted ever' cussed cedar tree seed Mam had brought from Arkansas, never realizin' I-Gawd how rich an' fertilized that damned land was, an' th' whole works come up! Ever! damned seed... Hell yes, we hadn't hardly got th' last of 'em planted when th' one we planted first was already up an' growln' to beat hell!

"Yes, sir, I-Gawd, you never saw nothing' come up as prompt as them damned Arkansas red cedar tree seed done. It seemed like that soil jest squirted 'em right up...

"Gawd-a-mighty," Bob said, 'I never seen nothing' like it in my life. This whole district must a-been a old sheep corral or somethin' oncet for th' soil to be as fertilized as it is!' Bob said.

"No damned sheep manure ever made things grow like them cedar tree seed's growin',' I said. "I-Gawd, no. Sheep manure's a powerful fertilizer but it ain't powerful enough to make things grow that a-way. Whatever this lands fertilized with is a hell of a sight powefuler than any cussed sheep manure.' I said.

"Mam, she was tickled as hell. 'I told you, Bob White, an' you too Steve Robertson, that this was th' richest dang land anybody ever seen, an' now I reckon you'll believe me. It won't be no time now till we'll have a nice cedar tree grove for me to watch th' chickens waller in th' {Begin page no. 8}dust under an' to hang my washin' on when wash days comes.' Mam said.

"Well, I-Gawd, Mam was plumb right...

"Yeah, she was right as hell. Bob an' me finished plantin' them damned Arkansas cedar tree seeds on Friday- no, I'Gawd, it was on a Thursday, yeah, Thursday about a hour before sundown, I don't want to stretch things none cause I sure hate a damned liar or 'xaggerater-- an' by th' next Monday them cussed cedar trees was up an' jest about tall enough for Mam to spread her washin' on (Monday was always Mam's washday.)

"Its a pleasure to have cedar trees to spread my washin' out on,' Mam said, 'it makes me think of how I used to spread things out on our cedar trees back in Arkansas...'

"Well, Mam didn't git her washin' out till late, plumb near sundown, so they wasn't dry enough to take in that night an' she had to leave 'em out till th' next day. An' I-Gawd, that's where Mam got a surprise: Th' next mornin' them damned cedar tress had growed so fast that Bob's an' my shirts an' drawers an' Mam's 'Mother Hubbards' an' aprons an' night-gowns an' et cetery was up so cussed high she couldn't reach 'em.

"Bob an' me had a hell of a time climbin' them danged trees fast enough to ketch up with 'em an' git 'em down for her. An' we never did git one of Bob's sox which Mam had hung plumb on top of one of 'em--

{Begin page no. 9}I-Gawd, we never did git it an' far as I know th' damned thing's still up there flutterin' from a limb on top of one of then doggone trees. (Yeah, it probably is') Bob cussed awful on account of th' blisters he got on his foot that didn't have no sock on it when he had to go around wearin' jest one sock while Mam had his other pair in th' wash.

"Hell, I don't reckon there ever was anything growed faster'n them cussed cedar trees that people that don't know anything about it calls them 'Sequoias,' like you said...

"Yes, sir, I-Gawd, some of Mam's chickens managed to climb up in one of 'em one night to roost in it an' th' next mornin' them damned chickens was up so high that when they tried to jump down out of it practically ever' one of 'em busted a leg when they hit th' ground-- It was pityful as hell to see them poor doggone chickens tryin' to stand on th' only good leg they had an' scratch with it at th' same time!

"It was plumb unnatcheral how fast an' how cussed big them trees growed.

"I'd like to know what th' hell this soil's fertilized with,' Bob said. I-Gawd, I never seen nothin' like it-- For two cents I'd plant some watermelon seeds an' see jest how damned big watermelons this ground would raise anyhow!'

{Begin page no. 10}"You'll do no sech a cussed thing,' Mam said, an' put her foot right down on it, 'if this ground works on watermelons like it does on them cedar trees, I-Gawd, an' th' watermelons growed in proportion, by th' time they was ripe they'd be so cussed big that if th' lightin' struck one an' busted it an' knocked th' water out of it it would flood th' whole danged country! No, sir, Bob White an' you too Steve Robertson, jest keep them watermelon seeds out of this doggone soil, we ain't goin' to take no chances like that,' Mam said.

"Probably you're right, Mam,'Bob said, 'that's jest about what would happen, but I-Gawd, I'd sure as hell like to know what this damned section of Californy's fertilized with, anyhow,' Bob said.

"Well, sir, I-Gawd th' very next day I found out what was makin' them doggone Arkansas red cedar trees Bob an' me had started growin' in that Californy soil act th' way they did...

"A old Piute Injun chief I knowed come along an' when he saw all them damned trees growin' where they was he started howlin' an' wailin' like his heart was plumb broke. Natcherally, I asked him what th' hell was th' matter ('cause while I ain't never mentioned it, I can talk Piute jest like a native.) An' besides I'd give th' old chief a sack of smokin' tobacco oncet an' we was good friends, so he told me...

{Begin page no. 11}"For millions of years th' damned Piutes had been comin' for miles around an' bringin' any doggone Piute that was dead to bury him in that special part of Californy; from what th' old chief said it was th' only damned spot in Californy that was easy diggin', th' rest of it bein' hard ant gravelly, so for millions an' millions of years they'd been plantin' dead Piutes on that same doggone spot! I-Gawd, th' whole damned country was under-laid with dead Piutes an' anybody that knows anything about dead Piutes knows that a dead Pluto is th' strongest cussed fertilizer they is!

"Hell, yes, dead Piutes Is richer fertilizer than any damned sheep manure or any other kind of doggone manure they is... Things planted where th' soil is fertilized with dead Piutes jest can't keep from growin' an' I-Gawd when it oncet starts to growin' they ain't nothin' nobody can do about it only jest let it keep on growin'... So that's th' way it was.

"Natcherally, when Mam found out they wasn't no doggone way to keep then damned Arkansas cedar trees from growin' till they'd exhausted all th' Piute Injun fertilizer they was planted in, or till they finally died from old age, or got so big, they covered th' whole danged country, I-Gawd, she saw how foolish it would be to try to start a ranch there, so she said:

"Bob White, an' you too, Steve Robertson,' we'd jest as well hitch th' mules up an' git out of this {Begin page no. 12}cussed neighborhood... I can stand 'most ever'thing but I8m drawin' th' line at livin' where th' whole country's saturated with dead Piute Injuns. But they sure as heck are strong fertilizer, ain't they?' Mam said.

"Well, Bob an' me hitched up th' mules an' we headed an up to this Idaho country where th' soil's good an' rich but not too damned rich...an' things grow natcheral an' normal an' like Natchure aimed for 'em to grow in th' first place.

"But, I-Gawd that's th' way them 'big trees' (Sequoias) (some damned fools call 'em) happened to be there in th' first place an' how they happen to be so cussed big-- They can't help growin' an' can't help bein' big ... fertilized like they be with dead Piute Injuns... An' I-Gawd if anybody don't believe it all they got to do is dig one of ' em up an' see for theirselves if th' cussed thing ain't bein' fertilized with dead Piute Injuns...

"Hell, I ought to know, Bob an' me planted 'em!

END

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}[10?]{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12 St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 12, 1939

SUBJECT "THEM 'TOXICATED WILD GEESE"...An Uncle Steve Robertson Story

1. Date and time of interview January 6, 1939

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Harry Reece (Daca) 63 Washington Square South New York City

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. See previous interviews 11/29/38'-- "Harry Reece: His Story"

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 11, 1939

SUBJECT "THEM 'TOXICATED WILD GEESE"...An Uncle Steve Robertson Story (Narrated by Harry Reece)

My Uncle Steve Robertson, who was a very famous Pioneer of the Far West in an early day indeed, not only declared many times (generally as a prelude to one of his remarkable tales) that he ... "jest natcherally despised any cussed individual that 'xeggerates and stretches th' truth till she snaps and flies back and hits him in his doggone face..." but also often remarked that he was quite fond of what he called "corn licker" - and "'specially home-made corn licker."

Uncle Steve always hastened to qualify his confession of fondness for "corn licker" by adding: "Howsomever, being a human, like I am - and a Pioneer - I ain't in favor of bein' so damned fond of corn licker they is -- that I believe a man is justified in drinkin' so cussed much of it at one time that he turns hisself into a darned wild goose, like some damn fool wild geese I knowed oncet, an' gits plumb 'soused' and 'toxicated and non compus. Yeah, I-Gawd, a man-and 'specially a pioneer like me's got to have some self-control and not be a darn wild goose when it comes to bein' fond of corn licker..."

{Begin page no. 2}Up to that time, [having] had very little experience as a Pioneer in the Far West, and even less with wild geese and "corn licker," I was not aware that wild geese had any degree of fondness whatever for corn licker, home-made or otherwise, or indulged in alcholic stimulation to any extent, let alone to the extend of becomming "soused" and "non compus."

It was while we were in camp at [Malheur?] Lake, over in eastern Oregon where Uncle Steve and I had gone to shoot a wild duck or two, and when I suggested to Uncle Steve that it was a new one on me... he told me the story....

"Hell, yes, wild geese is th' most intemperate things for 'corn licker' you ever seen!" Uncle Steve said, as if surprised at my ignorance. "Yeah, wild geese jest can't resist corn licker - and 'specially home-made corn licker like Bob White an' me used to make when we first settled in Salubria Valley up in the Weiser River country, in Idaho.

"That was one thing us pioneers didn't dare run short of ... we jest natcherally had to always have a good supply of 'corn' on hand, 'cause we never could tell when we might git snakebit or something. So, Bob an' me, bein' from Missouri or Arkansas, as a matter of course always carried a 'coil' we'd brung out from Missouri when we migrated out to the Far West, and would keep a good supply made up.

"That's how we happened to find out that wild geese is plumb fond of, and doggone fools about, corn licker..."

"And it's a good thing we found it out too, 'cause it helped us bear th' hardships of bein' Pioneers in the Far West in {Begin page no. 3}the [absodamneduletly?] Early Days indeed.

"People now-a-days don't realize what hardships us Pioneers went through in them early days in the Far West... I-Gawd, how we ever endured it, I don't know!

"Take-like when Bob White an' me and 'Man' --- she was bob's wife -- first migrated into Salubria Valley. There we was jest practically in a raw country with nothing much but ourselves to depend on. We didn't have no money, and if we had a-had there wasn't no stores closer than a week's travel to spend it at if we'd a-had it...

"Natcherally us Pioneers got along the best we could.

"We jest went and cut down trees an' built a house an' plowed up some land and planted some corn and potatoes and other stuff and had to eat what we raised ourselves or got from the hills or the rivers ...

"I-Gawd, there was weeks at a time when we didn't have no meat except venison and bear and grouse and pheasants and things like that. Of course we always had plenty of trout by jest goin' and ketchin' 'em out of th' Weiser River, and when the spring run of salmon come up th' river we'd spear a few hundred pounds and salt 'em down an' [somke?] 'em so we'd have 'em jest in a emergency... Once in a while Bob an' me would cut a wild bee tree and git three or four hundred pounds of honey, and in summers, Man, Bob's wife, would can up a lot of huckleberries... Yeah, I-Gawd, people now-days don't realize what us Pioneers in the Far West had to go through in th' early days when we was jest developin' th' country.

"Bob an' me stood it pretty well, but it was shore hell on Man; and it was worse after Bob an' me had gathered our corn off th' fifteen or twenty acres we'd planted and had made {Begin page no. 4}up probably thirty or forty gallons of licker jest in case we might need it.

"It was when th' corn was all gathered, them damn wild geese started comin' in and lightin' on the corn field to pick up what corn Bob an' me had maybe overlooked while we was pickin' the crop...

"I-Gawd, hundreds of 'em would come honkin' down th' river, circle around a few times and settle down out there in that corn field. At first Mam didn't pay much attention to 'em then finally she got such a cravin' for wild goose she couldn't hardly stand it. Go, she said: "Bob, you or [steve?] one or the other's got to go out there and shoot a wild goose or two -- I ain't had a taste of wild goose for so long I'm jest dyin' for a mess of goose. Besides, she said, "anybody'll starve to death if they don't have nothing but venison and bear and pheasant and grouse and trout, without ever gittin' a change... It ain't [healthy?] to eat th' same things all the time, so, one or the other of you has jest got to go out there th' next time them wild geese come in on that corn field and git a mess of 'em for me..." That's what Mam told Bob and me an' I-Gawd it worried us a lot, 'cause we was runnin' awful short of amunition - in fact we was plumb out of shot for our shot-guns and didn't dare use our rifle ammunition for shootin' wild geese 'cause we might have to use it to shoot a deer or a bear or something like that, or maybe a couple of Indians or so if they come around and got to botherin' like they sometimes done.

"But Man kept frettin' about wantin' some wild geese till Bob an' me figured somethin' had to be done about it, so Bob said, "Steve, I-Gawd, we gotta do somethin' about this an' {Begin page no. 5}git some of them wild geese for Man or else she's goin' to drive me crazy harpin' about wantin' 'em, and I'll be damned, Steve, Bob said, 'if I know how th' hell we can git 'em unless we shoot 'em an' you know cussed well we can't spare no amunition jest at this time to shoot no doggone wild geese, - so what in [hell-an'-blazes?] are we goin' to do about it?"

"So, I told Bob jest to leave it to me and I'd figger it out someway, 'cause, I told him, if there's more'n one way to skin a cat, I-Gawd, there must be more'n one way to git some wild geese without ever shootin' 'em. Somehow or other I'd figger it out, I told Bob.

"But Bob didn't think we could git any of them wild geese for Mam unless we shot 'em and wasted some of our ammunition, which neither one of us thought we ought to do on account of how the Indians was beginnin' to act. Maybe we could make a trap like a rabbit-trap and bait it with a nubbin of corn, Bob said, but who th' hell ever heard of a wild goose bein' caught in a tray? Wild geese is too cussed smart to be caught in any damn trap, Bob said, even if it was baited with a half dozen nubbins of corn...

"Bob was jest about discoraged over th' whole thing and he honestly felt awful bad 'cause Mam didn't have nothing much to eat but venison and bear steaks and trout and smoked salmon and grouse and pheasants and sich course eatin' like that and craved wild goose so damned bad...

"But I wasn't discouraged, an' told Bob so 'cause a Pioneer like I was in the Far West in the early days jest could not afford to git discouraged. He was takin' too many {Begin deleted text}chanches{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}chances{End handwritten}{End inserted text} if he did, and no matter what kind of a problem rared up in front of him he jest nacherally had to figger it out. So I-Gawid, I {Begin page no. 6}knowed I'd have to figger out how to git same of them wild geese without shootin' 'em. And, I-Gawd, I figgered her out...

"When Bob mentioned settin' a trap and baitin' it with a nubbin or two of corn, I got an idea I knowed darned well ought to work...

"And she did.

"So, I said, I got it figgered out, Bob. Go git one of Man's wash tubs and bring it down to the corn crib. Hell, Bob said, you ain't goin' to try to use one of Mam's wash tubs for a trap to ketch them wild geese in, are you? Bob told me.

"Hell, no, I told Bob. I ain't so danged ign'rant as to try anything like that... But I am goin' to mix my damned bait in the wash tub, I told him.

"Well, Bob and me took Man's tub down to th' corn crib and shelled it about two thirds full of corn, then we carried it up to th' house and filled it plumb full of corn licker Bob and me'd made not long before...

"There, I told Bob, now we'll jest cover her up and let it set there all night and let th' corn soak in th' corn licker, then we'll take it down to th' corn field in th' morning before th' wild geese begin to arrive and spread the corn out and see what happens.

"Well, I-Gawd, th' next mornin' all that corn licker had soaked in that corn Bob an' me'd shelled in th' tub and the grains of corn was swelled up 'bout twice as big as natural, and every cussed grain was loaded with a hell-of-a-jolt of about th' strongest corn licker anybody ever scorched their throats with, 'cause Bob and me believed in makin' it strong when we did make it.

{Begin page no. 7}"So, we took it down to the corn field and spread it out like we said, then we hid in the brush by the side of the corn field and watched...

"Pretty soon them wild geese commenced comin' in, and when they lit they made a bee-line for that corn-licker-soaked corn we'd spread out... I reckon, probably they smelled it.

"I-Gawd, I never seen anybody or anything git drunk as quick an' as drunk as them dam fool wild geese did. It was kind of funny but plumb pathetic to see how cussed intemperate them wild geese was when they started in on that corn-licker-soaked corn...

"Some of 'em would gobbled down a few grains of corn, then a sort of surprised look would come in their eyes if they didn't jest know for certain what was happenin' to 'em. Others of 'em would stretch their cussed necks up an' try to honk and then change their minds and try to crow like a rooster pheasant... And, I-Gawd, one bit old gander jest up an' tried his damnedest to howl like a wolf. It was plumb pitiful to watch, but it didn't last long...

"In danged nigh no time a-tall all them wild geese was 'toxicated and soused to beat hell, and had jest tumbled over on the ground to sleep it off, totally unconscious. So that's th' way it was...

"Bob and me went and got the mules hitched up to th' wagon, and drove down and corded all them 'toxicated wild geese in the wagon, and hauled 'em up to th' house and put 'em in a pen. There was a hundred an' seventeen of 'em -- Well, not exactly a hundred an' seventeen, maybe, 'cause one of 'em jolted out of th' wagon as Bob and me was haulin' 'em to th' {Begin page no. 8}house and we didn't notice it to be plumb truthful an' accurate, mebbe there was only a hundred an' sixteen...

"But anyhow, there was enough for us to have a wild goose to mix in with th' venison and bear steaks and trout and things like that for quite a while - and Man quit sufferin' so much for a change of things to eat.

"Yeah, I-Gawd, us Pioneers in th' Far West in the early days shore-as-hell had to do lots of things people now-a-days don't have to do... But, I-Gawd, when he had to, we shore as hell done 'em....."

("My Uncle Steve Robertson had no respect whatever for anybody who 'xeggerates or who drinks corn licker an' ain't got no more self control than a danged wild goose an' gits 'toxicated an 'soused.") END

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}[9?]{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street, NYC

DATE January 3, 1939

SUBJECT "HOW SALTON SEA WAS CAUGHT" (An Uncle Steve Robertson story)

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Narrated by Harry Reece, 63 Washington Sq., So., NYC

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. See previous interviews

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St., NYC

DATE January 3, 1939

SUBJECT HOW SALTON SEA WAS CAUGHT

"My Uncle Steve Robertson, who was a great pioneer in the Far West in the very early days indeed, and who had many strange experiences and performed some remarkable deeds in his time, told me how 'Salton Sea' happens to be where it is and why it...stays there...

"It would be scandalous for me to doubt any of the beautiful stories that my Uncle Steve Robertson told me when we used to go on hunting and fishing trips together, for Uncle Steve was a pioneer of great integrity and often said that...'there was...one danged human critter he couldn't endure and that was a cussed 'xaggerater that stretches th' truth till she snaps an' flies back an' hits him in his doggone face...'.

"So, Uncle Steve's yarn about how the Salton Sea happens to be where she is and why she stays there is no doubt quite authentic; at least, who am I, a mere 'tenderfoot' with very little experience as a 'pioneer' in the early days of the Far West, to doubt it?

{Begin page no. 2}"It was one early September in--- I think about 1909--- when we had journeyed over to Malheur Lake, in [Eastern Oregon?], to shoot a couple of ducks, that Uncle Steve told me about Salton Sea.

"In camp after supper one evening I had mentioned to Uncle Steve that I once shot a duck or two down in the Mojave Desert, and that it was very hot shooting indeed, and that I had shot them on a very unusual Lake which some people called the 'Salton Sea'....

"'Well, I - gosh, now ain't that a cuincident,' Uncle Steve exclaimed. 'I - Gawd, so that's what they call it now, 'th' Salton Sea'. Jest think ny own nephew's shot ducks on that lake that I made - yeah, well, that is Bob White an' me made it, or mebbe to be plumb accurate an' truthful I shouldn't ought say we made it, but by gosh we staked th' damn thing down, there ain't no cussed doubt about that!

"'It was that time that Bob and me and 'Mam', that was Bob's wife, was migratin' from Arizona, that time it got so danged hot and dry all them forests and even th' doggone buzzards petrified...

"'Yeah, we was gettin' out of that district and headin' up towards Idaho but when we got out in the middle of that doggone Mojave Desert one of our mules was bit by a gila monster and we had to camp till he got able to travel again...an' that was quite a while for them damned gila monster bites, even on mules, is painful as hell an' it takes them a long time to heal up an' git normal again.

"'So, we picked out a grove of Joshua trees an' camped in it...of course we had a pretty good supply of water with us in our {Begin page no. 3}kegs and then there was quite a lot of them barrel-cactus an' we'd cut them open to get the water that was in them for the mules while we was campin' there in the desert. We didn't actually suffer for water but it shore was hell to see all them 'floatin' lakes' jest sparklin' out there on the desert an' never able to go swimmin' in them! It shore was a torment...

"'Mebbe I didn't mention it before, but that part of the old Mojave Desert where we was campin' was noted for 'floatin' lakes'.... yeah, some people call 'em 'mirridges'...

"'You jest look out across the sand under th' blazin' blisterin' dadgummned sun and I - gawd there they are. Purtiest cussed lakes you ever see...You can see trees along their banks an' I-gosh you can even see th' water ripplin' like the wind was stirrin' it-- like Malheur Lake was this afternoon when then green-heads come down an' we shot them three. That's the way they looked.

"'They jest teased you to go swimmin' in 'em-- But they was them damned 'floatin' lakes' like I said, an' I-Gawd when anybody'd start toward 'em they'd jest float away, and keep backin' up an' backin' up and back up clean across the desert into th' mountains...

"'Bob and me used to try to catch one so we could go swimmin' in it and we'd walk ourselves darned nigh to death but still couldn't catch it an' finally we'd jest stop an' stand there an' cuss an' cuss an' cuss...

"'Till finally I jest says to bob, 'I-Gawd, Bob, they ain't no damn use us wastin' our breath cussin' an' cussin' them damn lakes.

{Begin page no. 4}Nobody ever gits nothin' by jest cussin', what anybody's gotta do is figger th' double-damned thing out and scheme to git ahead of it an' do somethin' about it-- 'Besides', I told Bob, 'we ought to be ashamed of ourselves cussin' so damned much, you know damned well that 'Mam' don't like for us to cuss all th' damned time, I-gawd.'

"'That's what I told Bob we'd have to do about them 'floatin' lakes' if we ever was goin' to catch one and go swimmin' in it an' git a bath which all of us even th' cussed mules, includin' the one that was bit by the gila monster (he was Old Yaller...th' one with a black stripe down his back) needed damn bad...

"'Well, Bob, he couldn't figger out how to ketch that cussed 'floatin' lake' but I always could figger anything out, if I jest set my head to it an' figgered long enough and hard enough-- An' that's the way I figger a man's got to be, especially the way us pioneers of the Far West in th' early days, if a man gits anywhere.

"'Nobody else ain't goin' to figger nothin' out for a man, he's gotta figger it out for hisself. So, I-Gawd, that night after supper I jest set there in that grove of Joshua Trees where we was camped an' figgered 'how in hell, now, can anybody git a damned 'floatin' lake' to hold still long enough for a man to go swimmin' in it? I-Gawd, how can it be done?' I figgered to myself, jest settin' there in that grove of Joshua Trees while th' moon was shinin' out there on th' desert and ever' once in a while a coyote would howl out there somehwere and once in a while that poor cussed mule that had been bit by th' damned gila monster would kind of groan--although th' bite on his leg was [gradually?] gittin' better by then...

{Begin page no. 5}"'But I figgered an' figgered an' finally, settin' there after supper that night I got a 'insp'ration! I'd got her!

"'There was a hell of a lot of nice straight, young Joshua Tree poles in that grove we camped in and them damned poles was my insp'ration...

"'So, I called Bob an' said: 'Bob, I'gosh, git your axe--we're goin' to do some choppin'-- Th' moon's light enough for us to see by, an' I-Gawd, I want to get a lot of these damned young Joshua tree poles cut down an' sharpened an' have 'em ready for tomorrow!'

"'Bob says, 'What th' hell do you want to do that for? Anyhow, it's th' first time I've been cool today-- after chasin' that damned 'floatin' lake' like we did, an' if we do a lot of choppin' we'll git hot as hell again...'

"'But I told Bob to never mind what we was choppin' th' Joshua Tree poles down and sharpenin' 'em for, I jest told him to wait till th' next day an' he'd find out 'cause I'd figgered somethin' out and when I figgered anything out, I-Gawd, I had her figgered out.

"'So, we chopped down and sharpened about twentyfive of them damned Joshua Tree poles, then we carried 'em out an' strung 'em along about twenty feet apart, about a hundred yards from camp...

"'Then we went to bed.

"'Next day when we looked out an' saw that damn 'floatin' lake' flickerin' out there in the sun, I says to Bob--

"'Now Bob, we're goin' to fool that damn thing...You sneak around on th' other side of that damn floatin' lake-- be shore an' {Begin page no. 6}don't let her see you comin' till you're plumb around her, then when you're right square on th' other side of her, start creepin' up on her like you was goin' to go swimmin' in her-- An' 'course when she sees you comin' she'll start to slippin' an' floatin' back this way towards camp.

"'I'Gawd, I'll be waitin' an' when she gits up to where we got them damn Joshua Tree poles strung along I'll grab 'em an' drive 'em down in her an' stake her down...

"'I'gosh it worked! When Bob had driv' th' damn lake right up to th' poles I grabbed one an' socked it down in her an' drove it down before she realized what I was doin' an' there she was? Then I yelled at Bob an' he come around an' we drove th' rest of th' poles down in her and staked her down good-- So, that's the way it was.

"'We all went swimmin' in her...even 'Mam', that was Bob's wife, an' th' mules went swimmin' in that 'floatin' lake' we'd staked down out there on th' old Mojave Desert!

"'After we'd all had a good bath in her we felt so darned good we hitched up and migrated on up here to th' Snake River country, where lakes don't have to be staked down...Yeah, that's th' way it was, an' as far as I know that's the only lake anybody ever staked down...'specially in th' Mojave Desert, an' as far as I know also, she's still staked there an' always will be be...'"

{Begin page no. 7}("There have been other legends as to how 'Salton Sea' came into being down there in the extremely warm Mojave Desert, but my Uncle Steve Robertson seemed to be quite certain his version of the strange body of water that so intrigues duck hunters during some seasons of the year is the real explanation...and my Uncle Steve Robertson 'despised anybody who would stretch the truth till she'd snap an' fly back an' hit him in his cussed face!")

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled Out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York City

DATE Nov. 29, 1938

SUBJECT HARRY REECE {Begin deleted text}(DAGA){End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}(DACA){End handwritten}{End inserted text}...HIS STORY

1. Date and time of interview [Nov.?] 28, 1938; interview at subject, Harry Reece's Book Store, 63 Washington Square, South, New York City

2. Place of interview

Harry Reece, 63 Washington Sq. So.

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, [who put you in?] touch with informant. None; located him myself I have known informant personally for more than ten years.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

Informant's own place of business; an old book store, in the basement of 63 Washington Sq. So. N.Y.C.

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

A perfectly typical second hand book place with the intimate, friendly, air of thousands of old volumes cluttering shelves and walls and counters.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York City

DATE Nov. 29, 1938

SUBJECT HARRY REECE {Begin deleted text}(DAGA){End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}(DACA){End handwritten}{End inserted text} HIS STORY

1. Ancestry Native born American; born Illinois; on paternal side English descent, of American ancestry back to the Revolutionary War Other racial stocks Dutch, French, and possibly a bit of Indian.

2. Place and date of birth

Born in Illinois; declined to give exact date but his age somewhere in the range between fifty and fifty five.

3. Family

No family connections save a living mother; past eighty; who resides in Illinois.

4. Places lived in, with dates

He has lived in so darned many places that I'm afraid this old typewriter ribbon wouldn't last long {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}enough{End inserted text} to tall about them..all over the world.

5. Education, with dates

Academic education not given; but he is highly cultured in every way.

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

At present his occupation in operating a book store; accomplishments musician and singer also composer.

7. Special skills and interests

I'd say his special skill is in music; his interest a lively a lively consideration and understanding of life in general.

8. Community and religious activities

No definite religious affiliation that I have been able to learn about.

9. Description of informant

"Daca" --Harry Reece is about fifty years of age; dark, eyes and contour of face very pleasant, almost benevolent; height about 5 ft 7 inches weight about 150. Athletic in build; strong; hair abundant; dark graying just a little. he is a darned good looking and generally well dressed person. And he is always affable; good natured and kindly disposed toward his fellow man.

10. Other Points gained in interview

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York

DATE NOV. 29, 1938

SUBJECT HARRY REECE {Begin deleted text}(DAGA){End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}(DACA){End handwritten}{End inserted text}...HIS STORY HARRY REECE'S STORY

"I was born in the middle west. Out in the state of Illinois...and it was quite a while before the Chicago World's Fair of 1893. Measured by the things that have happened since then it seems like a long, long time indeed.

We lived on a farm, and even telephones were curiosities to myself and the country boys of my age. Electric lights were something to marvel at...the old Edison phonograph with its wax cylinder records and earphones was positively ghostly...and trolley cars, well they too were past understanding!

"Speaking of trolley oars reminds me of a trip to the 'city' once when I was about a dozen years old. My father and a neighbor, Old Uncle Bill Brandon, had to go up to the Big Town, which was Chicago, on some sort of business...and I suppose I'd been extra diligent at doing chores, weeding potatoes, killing worms on the tomato plants, or something...and Father rewarded me by taking me along.

"A country boy in a large city for the first time isn't any more curious to the city than the city is to the country boy! They {Begin page no. 2}are both something to look at...and marvel about.

"You can imagine what a time I had seeing things I'd never seen before, in fact had only dreamed about or heard about. Curiosity wasn't the name for it. Speechless incredulty came nearer describing my emotions. (After twenty years down here in New York...and all the intervening years in the cities of the world, American and European, my reactions are different. Nothing surprises or excites me any more.)

"But when I saw my first trolley car slipping along Cottage Grove Avenue in Chicago...slipping along without horses or engine or apparent motive power...well it was just too darned much for me. I didn't know what to think.

"Uncle Bill Brandon was almost as much in doubt about the reality of the darned thing as I was myself--and Uncle Bill Brandon was, locally, that is out on the farm, considered a very, very wise and sophisticated person. And he was wise, too. He had seen a lot of life...Too much, he sometimes said--especially during the four years of the 1860's when he was fighting in the Union Army.

"Uncle Bill could understand horses, hogs and cattle, steam engines, army mules and row boats, and such thing--but that trolley car, with the little spinning wheel at the end of the pole, spinning along against the electric wire above it; was too much for him. Still, he didn't want to confess 'that there was any doggone thing on earth that he couldn't figure out!' And he didn't want to show his 'ignorance' and especially to my Father or to myself, a twelve year old edition of young Americana, species rusticana.

"I wasn't so anxious to conceal my own ignorance, so with legitimate curiosity asked my Father and Uncle Bill what made the thing go.

{Begin page no. 3}"My Father was a thoughful man, and before answering studied for a moment. Uncle Bill was more spontaneous.

"'Gosh a'mighty, can't you see what makes her go?' he exclaimed, 'It's that danged rod stickin' up out of the top of her. People's gettin' so cussed smart these days all they need to do to run a street car is to got a fish-pole and stick it up out of the roof of her!"

"Father let Uncle Bill's explanation ride. And I've never forgotten it, but since then, when I've heard variations of the same theme, I've wondered if Uncle Bill's rather [Doubting?] Thomas definition of the motive power of trolley cars was entirely original.

"Sometimes I wonder (although I still chuckle at it) if Uncle Bill hadn't been present when the alleged Chinaman, seeing an American trolley car for the first time, exclaimed excitedly: "No pushee--no pullee--but all same--ee go like hell-ee! I rather think Uncle Bill must have heard the Chinaman's comment, taken his wisdom from the Celestial and added the 'fish-pole' as a delicate touch of completeness!

"Anyhow, I've remembered the incident.

"From the farm home in Illinois, while yet in my teens, I listened to Horace Greeley's advice and like human beings have been doing in masses and individually ever since time began, obeyed the call to...'Go West'! Followed the 'trail of the setting sun!

"It was out there, in the cow-country, yes, and the sheep country, that I began to sing; perhaps it was because there is something about the open plains and the lonely life of cowboys and sheep-herders [?] although it is unpardonable to couple the words 'cowboy and sheepherder' in the same sentence, except in mortal combat!) that makes the sound of the human voice--even if only one's own--sometimes a welcome sound.

{Begin page no. 4}"Before 'ambition' led me again toward the East I had learned all the old range songs, from "The Dirty Little Coward Who Shot Mister Howard,' to and including 'The Dying Cowboy!' I still sing them and I still thing they are great songs...

"But I have learned other songs since then and other things...to much and too many to tell all at once..."

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}10{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York City

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT "OLD HAYSTACK WAS A GRIZZLY"... AN UNCLE STEVE ROBERTSON STORY

1. Date and time of interview 1/14/39

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Harry Reece (Daca) 63 Washington Sq. So. N. Y. C.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

(See previous interviews)

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York City

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT "OLD HAYSTACK WAS A GRIZZLY"

My Uncle Steve Robertson who was a {Begin deleted text}Pioneer{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}pioneer{End inserted text} with a great deal of experience in the Far West in the very early days indeed, often remarked that "...any danged man who tells a bear story, or I-Gawd, for-that matter a fish story, is danged nigh sure to be a cussed 'xeggerater that stretches th' truth till she snaps and flies back and hits him in his darned face, and I-gosh, that's something that jest ain't fit to be endured-- I mean a damned 'xeggerater!"

But on one occasion my Uncle Steve yielded to temptation and told about "Old Haystack' and "Old Haystack" was a bear.

We were hunting deer in the Black Lake country up in the Seven Devils mountains of Western [Idaho?], and one evening after supper I suggested to Uncle Steve that it would give me a lot of pleasure to shoot a bear or two while we were up there in the high hills.

Uncle Steve looked at me with the sort of pitying expression that Pioneers of the Far West of the early days often look at young men who have not had very much experience as "pioneers" and told me about "Old Haystack"....

I-Gawd, I figger it depends a hell of a lot on what kind of bear you shoot--and what you shoot him with-whether or not there's any "pleasure" in shootin' him," Uncle Steve said.

{Begin page no. 2}Probably it wouldn't be so damned much pleasure to shoot a bear like, well, hell, like "Old Haystack" was, for instance. Old Haystack was a grizzly and Bob and me called him "Old Haystack" 'cause he was as big as a darned haystack--although mebbe, to be plumb truthful an' accurate, they might be some haystacks bigger'n he was, but damned if us pioneers had any haystacks that was any bigger. Actually it wusn't Bob or me that named him "Old Haystack", but it was Mam--she was Bob's wife--that named him that.

Mam looked out of the winder one day jest as Bob and me was sittin' down to dinner when we was livin' down in Salubria Valley and she yelled to Bob and me: "Bob, you and Steve come here quick an' look over yonder across th' river... a cussed grizzly bear as big as a doggone haystack is carryin' off that two-year old heifer of "Old Blossom's" that we was figgerin' on havin' for a new cow-- Fer God's sake, Steve--Bob--git yer guns an' do somethin!"

I-Gaud, Mam was right. There was th' biggest grizzly that ever lived, I reckon, draggin' off that six-or-seven-hundred pound heifer jest like a hound dog would pack a rabbit it's caught.

"Gawd-a-might!" Bob, yelled, "they ain't no gun big enough to kill a bear that size--leastwise, no gun littler than a damned cannon an' we ain't got no cannons around here, so I reckon we'll jest have to let him go!"

So that's what we done. We jest let him go that time.

But that was jest th' start. "Old Haystack" had found out where to git meat cheap an' easy and in three or four days he showed up again and that time he got a mule--it was "Old Yaller", th' same one that was hit by the gila monster oncet and was still a little stiff in his leg that was bit...but a damned grizzly that's big enough to drag off a mule, even one that's been bit by a gila monster, has got to be a hell of a big grizzly as anybody that knows {Begin page no. 3}anything about mules and grizzies ought to know without bein' told.

Then, I-Gawd, before long he showed up again and got another two-year old, but it was a steer that time and not a heifer.

By that time Mam was gittin' pretty darned impatient and wouldn't hardly let Bob or me neither have a minute's peace but kept naggin' us to "fer God's sake do somethin' before that cussed grizzly got tire of mule and beef meat and carried her or Bob or some of us off!"

Well, Bob and me finally talked it over 'n' Bob said: "Steve, I'll be damned if I know what to do about Old Haystack. You know cussed well that even my old Sharp's 45-120 wouldn't even make a impression on him-- Hell, no, it wouldn't make any more impression on him that it would on a cussed elephant, and your Springfield wouldn't neither--so what th' hell we goin' to do about it? You'll have to figger out something, Steve, that's all they is to it," Bob said.

That's th' way us Pioneers always had to do, some one or other of us always had to jest figger things like Old Haystack an' how to git rid of him out, and me bein' the best figgerer I always had to do it for Bob and Mam and me. But I went to work on it and I figgered an' figgered until I didn't hardly sleep at nights, jest tryin' to figger out what to do about Old Haystack 'cause I knowed if he kept on comin' he'd finally git tired of mules and calves and so forth and was jest as apt {Begin deleted text}x{End deleted text} as not to git Bob or Mam or me some night-- for by then he was gittin' so he'd come around at night as well as in the day time.

I knowed damned well that jest shootin' him wouldn't do much good-- probably jest make him mad for a little while but it couldn't possibly kill him. So, I didn't know what th' hell to do. But I finally realized that if I could jest figger out some scheme to make it damned uncomfortable when he come around that neighborhood maybe he'd git disguested and quit comin' around there.

So that's what I was doin' one night after Bob an' Mam had gone to bed and I was settin' there by th' fireplace, danged near gittin' th' headache worryin' {Begin page no. 4}about how th' hell I could make that damned grizzly so uncomfortable th' next time he come around that he wouldn't want to come around any more. All of a sudden I happened to glance up at the mantle over the fireplace and saw a half-gallon fruit jar danged near full of carpet tacks Mam had brung out from Arkansas when we'd migrated out west--thinkin' that some day maybe she could make a rag carpet, an' if she did, she'd have the tacks handy to tack it down with...

I-Gawd, them tacks was my inspiration!

I figgered that no damned bear had ever been shot with carpet tacks-- and if one was shot with them he'd be so surprised and so cussed uncomfortable that it would probably distust him with the neighborhood where he was shot with 'em, and more'n likely he'd stay away from that neighborhood after that...

So, that's what I done, I-Gawd. I jest pouredabout a pound and a half of powder into my old muzzle-loadin' shot gun and then dumped danged nigh that whole half gallon jar of carpet tacks in on top of it...tamped them down an' set there waitin'. I figgered it wasn't any use wakin' Mam and Bob up to tell 'em what I was plannin' on doin', an' if I done it they'd wake up anyhow when th' old gun went off.

Well, I set there for about a hour--mebbe to be plumb accurate it was a hour an' a half--but anyhow about that long, an' I-Gawd, th' first thing I knowed I heard Old Haystack trompin' around out there by the corral where th' cows was kept....he was figgerin' on beef that night, I reckon.

So I slipped out an' it was a moonlight night and shore enough there he was about twenty yards from th' house, jest startin' to yank a couple of poles off th' corral so he could go in an' git a heifer or maybe even a cow... That was all I wanted to see. I jest poked that old muzzle-loadin' shot gun that was about half full of carpet tacks in his direction an' pulled th' trigger...

{Begin page no. 5}That was the worst surprised damned grizzly bear anybody ever saw! Them tacks jest tacked his cussed hide right down on his belly before he knowed what hit him--an' they must have been uncomfortable as hell for he let out a roar that waked Bob and Mam and scared hell out of the mules and cows, and then he started on a gallop for some place else--runnin' his damndest, and that's the last we ever saw of Old Haystack... So that's the way it was. And as far as I know, I-Gawd, he's still runnin' and never will stop...

Yeah, us Pioneers in the Far West in the early days shore as hell had lots of things to figger out--but somehow or other we always managed to dot it....

My Uncle Steve Robertson was very careful to be accurate in his yarns and 'despised anybody that 'xeggerated -- which anybody was almost certain to do if they told bear stories--so perhaps that's why "Old Haystack" wasthe only bear story he ever told to me."

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 124th St. New York City

DATE November 21, 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "UNCLE ZED'S INSIDE FROG

1. Date and time of interview Nov. 18, 1938

2. Place of interview INTERVIEWED IN MY QUARTERS, 86 W. 12th St.

3. Name and address of informant William D. Naylor See "Medicine Show" 9/19/ 10/5, 11/9) for information on William D. Naylor.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th St, New York City

DATE November 21, 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "UNCLE ZEB'S INSIDE FROG {Begin handwritten}II - UNCLE ZEB'S INSIDE FROG{End handwritten} {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} One of the tricks that Doc Porter used to work on the old Medicine Show to stimulate sales of his {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Kickapoo Indian remedies {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} when I was with him, was the psychology of suggestion. Doc had it down fine. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} He would always wind up his lecture by a detailed description of the {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of all the diseases the Kickapoo Indian medicines were supposed to cure. And the way he'd describe those diseases, how anybody would feel when they were getting them, or had them or were about to have them was enough to make anybody shiver. His method was something like the old-fashioned {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} hell and brimstone preacher {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} bearing down on {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} future punishment {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} till the most of his audience could feel themselves already sizzling. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} By the time Doc got through describing {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} practically everybody in the neighborhood would be imagining they felt some of the {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} at least and would be convinced that they {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} had it,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} whatever it was. Why, I used to sit and listen to Doc's {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} horror stories {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of diseases till I'd get to {Begin deleted text}felling{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}feeling{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} myself! {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Doc was a foxy old bird and I guess he wasn't far off his base when he'd say, {Begin deleted text}most{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}["most?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}diesases{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}diseases{End handwritten}{End inserted text} people get are just imagination, anyhow! {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text}{Begin page no. 2}{Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} At any rate, Doc's system of describing {Begin deleted text}symptons{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} helped stimulate sales of his {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Indian Remedies {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} wonderfully. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} I've seen the same idea worked in old-time newspaper advertisements of {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} patent medicines. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} And there are lots of people who may be fooling perfectly well when they start to read {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} described in patent medicine advertisements but by the time they're through reading the darn thing they have the {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} bad enough that they rush right out and buy the {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} cure {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Even otherwise educated people and who are supposed to be intelligent are like that; let them hear enough about {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and they will get those {Begin deleted text}"symptons"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}symptoms{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, or let them have a queer {Begin deleted text}felling{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}feeling{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and they'll imagine they've got some sort of a {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} queer {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} disease. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} We ran across one queer, get-whatever-they-imageine disease cases down in the back-woods hill country of Virginia when I was with Doc Porter's Kickapoo Show. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} The people in that section were pretty poor and on most of the farms they used water from shallow open wells, natural springs, or creeks. Naturally the springs and creeks and even the open wells were often infested with frogs, water skimmers, beetles and things like that. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Well, one night at one of our shows a young fellow asked Doc if his Indian Medicines would cure an {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} inside frog. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} It sort of stumped Doc Porter for a minute and he said: "Cure a inside-what? {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

"Cure a 'inside frog,' I said,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the young backwoods native repeated kind of worried. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} My Uncle Zeb Hurst, out on Deerlick Creek, has got a inside frog. He took a drink of water down at our spring in the dark one night a couple of weeks ago and he swallered a frog by mistake, at least he says he did. {Begin deleted text}An'{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}And{End handwritten}{End inserted text} he also says it's still in him {Begin page no. 3}and still alive and he can feel it kickin' and twitchin' around in his stomach. He's gettin' {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} mighty peaked {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and thin from worryin' about it. He's afraid it will grow and get so big it will kill him." {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} The idea of a man having an {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} inside frog {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} was so novel it intrigued Doc Porter and he told the young fellow he'd go out and see his {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Uncle Zeb {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} personally, then he'd be able to tell for certain just which Indian Medicine would be the right one to give him to get the frog out of him. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} The young fellow took Doc and me out to see {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Uncle Zeb {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and we found the old fellow in pretty bad shape, just barely able to hobble around, and he'd {Begin deleted text}heep{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}keep{End handwritten}{End inserted text} holding his hands over his stomach and swearing that every once in a while he could feel the cussed frog he'd swallowed kicking and jerking inside of him! {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Doc put his hand on the old fellow's stomach and kind of pressed down on it for a minute... {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} There, he kicked! {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the old man said, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Didn't you feel him? {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Doc looked solemn and said: {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Yeah, I sure as hell felt something jerkin' inside of you, but are you sure it's a frog you swallowed? {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Doc said. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Course I am shore,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the old man replied. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} I went down to the spring to tote a pail of water up to the cabin and thought I'd take me a fresh drink while I was down there. It was sort of dark and I didn't notice much, {Begin deleted text}an{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}and{End handwritten}{End inserted text} well before I knowed it I'd sucked the danged frog in my mouth and felt him slip down my throat. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Doc said he'd go down to the spring and look around a bit, it might be something else Uncle Zeb had swallowed; anyhow, he'd want to see what sort of frogs there were in the spring so he could tell better which variety of Indian Medicine would be best to use to make the frog come out... {Begin page no. 4}{Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} When Doc came back from the spring he was grinnin' with that wise grin he used to have when he'd get a big idea and felt confident of what he was about to do; and he told Uncle Zeb he'd found out the kind of frog he'd probably swallowed and that he had to work on to get him out of Uncle Zeb's stomach. He said it wouldn't be any trick at all to make the frog come out and for Uncle Zeb to not worry, but he had to work a certain way to get the frog out. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} He had Uncle Zeb lie down on the ground under a tree out in the yard, close his eyes, and open his moth, then Doc squatted down by him, put his silk hat over Uncle Zeb's face and told the rest of us to stand back, he had to have plenty of room. Then he said: 'Now, Uncle Zeb, keep your eyes shut tight and I'll stick this medicine under the hat, slush a little of it in your moth and when the frog smells it he'll come out of your stomach in a hurry. He'll come up so damn quick you won't hardly feel him until he hits your mouth, then I'll grab him and pull him on ou--Now hold still, I'm goin' to do it.' {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Doc run his hand under the hat...Uncle ZEb sort grunted and gagged; Doc jerked his hand out-and damned if he didn't pull out a little green-back bull frog about an inch and a half or two inches long!

"Now you can open your eyes,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Doc told Uncle Zeb, 'here's your cussed frog-- I knowed my Kickapoo Medicine would bring him up! {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Uncle Zeb opened his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief: 'I Gawd, you shore got him, Doc, didn't you-- I feel relieved already! An' I'll never take another drink of water out of that damn spring, in the dark, you can depend on that!... {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} I don't know whether he ever did or not; but if he did and swallowed another frog...it probably wasn't serious. He bought three bottles of Doc's Kickapoo Rhemuatism Rubbing Oil--which smelled {Begin page no. 5}like hell--so he'd have it on hand just in case he did accidentally get another 'inside frog.' {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text} Yeah...Doc Porter was versatile alright, and nothing ever seemed to stump him. {Begin deleted text}"{End deleted text}

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th St. New York City

DATE November 9, 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "THE ARKANSAS 'SHAKES'."

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

Interviewed in my quarters, 86 W. 12th [ST.?] New York

3. Name and address of informant William D. Naylor See "Medicine Show" (Sept 19-Oct. 5th) for information on Wm. D. Naylor.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 West 12th Street, New York

DATE November 9, 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "THE ARKANSAS SHAKES"

1. Ancestry William D. Naylor American; probably Irish descent

2. Place and date of birth

New York - 72 years old

3. Family

Apparently has none

4. Places lived in, with dates

Could not learn

5. Education, with dates

Seems to be principally in the "school of hard knocks"

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

Carnival, medicine Show and "pitch-[man?]"

7. Special skills and interests

None that I know

8. Community and religious activities

Unknown

9. Description of informant

Mr. Naylor is a man well preserved. 72 years of age, smooth-shaven, weight about 145 pounds (5'7"). Quite gray but not bald. [Has a pleasant though a?] bit cynical facial expression. Rather serious but an evidence of humor and somewhat repressed. His eyes are a light brown. In personal appearance as to dress is neat although it is obvious his suit has done service for a long time. See report of October 20th for further details.

10. Other Points [gained in interview?]

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th St. New York City

DATE November 9, 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "THE ARKANSAS 'SHAKES'."

"One of Doc. Porter's most powerful and popular Kickapoo Indian medicines, that we used to sell when I was with his medicine show, was his 'Chill and Ague Eliminator.' It was put up in a square pint bottle and Doc guaranteed that two bottles would drive out the worst case of chills on the market. Whether it would or not I don' know. But I do know it was mighty potent and....bitter.

"I think it was probably a straight "emulsion" of quinine and whiskey and the directions told the 'patient' to take enough of it before his chill started to make him go to sleep.

"Doc's theory was, no doubt, that if a person about to have a chill could be gotten drunk enough to go to sleep he'd sleep through his chill period and if he did have one in his sleep, he'd never know he had it when he waked up and naturally think he had missed it entirely and was cured!

"Doc's medicine was strong but it wouldn't have worked on the kind of chills people got down in the Ozark country of Arkansas, South Missouri and over in the Indian Territory where I spent a lot of time {Begin page no. 2}in the carnival business and exhibiting 'dancing turkeys' and other things at country fairs.

"Down in that country people didn't call chills and ague, 'chills and ague'; they called it the 'shakes.' And that was the right name. For when a man {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}with{End inserted text} the 'shakes' started to shake, he shook! He couldn't stop shaking till the chill was over.

"There were two kinds, the 'every-other-day shakes," and the 'every-day shakes.' I had both kinds. They started on me as the every-other-day kind and after a week or two turned into the every-day kind, then switched back and forth that way, first one sort and then the other till I finally got rid of them.

"The 'shakes' Were so common in the Ozark country along back in the 1890's, about the time the Star [Gang?] was being busted up in the Indian Territory and Al [Jennings?] was holding up the M. K. & T trains, that practically everybody would have them some time or other.

"And people would talk about their 'shakes' with a sort of pride, something like a lot of people like to talk in these later days of their 'operations' after they've been to the hospital and had something cut out. The harder a man shook when he had the 'shakes' the prouder he seemed to be!

"That 'vanity of affliction," you might say, brought about one of the queerest contests that was ever pulled off, I suppose. To me, and I saw it, it had frog-umping matches, horn toad races, cock-roach fights, and all that stuff beaten a mile.

"It was out in the Arkansas River bottom-lands country not far from Van Buren, during the fall of 1897 or 1896, If I remember right. Anyhow, I know it was in the fall for two reasons, first {Begin page no. 3}because the fall was when people had most of their 'shakes,' and the pecans were ripe. Pecans, you know grow naturally on the river bottom lands down in that country and the harvest of nuts adds quite a bit to the incomes of the natives who shake them down out of the trees and sell them.

"There were a couple of brothers-in-law, had married sisters, who lived on adjoining farms and like is sometimes the case among country people they suffered from a sort of mutual jealousy. Their names were Toliver Green and Hank Breckenridge. Each thought his hound dogs were better than the other's hound dogs; that his hogs grew faster and fatter, his cow gave more milk, his mule could kick harder, or he could shoot a squirrel out of a taller tree with a single ball rifle, or excell in some other way--and the result was a continual boasting when together.

"They both happened to got the 'shakes' at the same time and it happened too, that their chills ran on the same hourly schedule and would hit them at about the same time each day.

"Toliver Green vowed that the chills he had were the hardest chills any man in Arkansas ever had or ever could have; Breckenridge had the same opinion and made the same boast about his own 'shakes.'

"The result was that they agreed to match 'shakes' and Green challenged Breckenridge to 'shake' it out in a pecan tree!

Each was to climb a pecan tree just as his chill was about due to start and see which shook the tree cleanest of pecans before it was over...

"The 'shaking match' took place in Tolivar Green's pasture in the Arkansas River bottoms. It was well advertised and a big crowd of natives came to see it. An old Justice of the Peache (I don't recall his name) was to judge the contest.

{Begin page no. 4}"Although it was my 'chill day' too, I went out to see it and it was one of the queerest contents I ever witnessed.

"Green and Breckenridge picked out a couple of good tall pecan trees; each climbed his tree, straddled a limb, wrapped his legs around the trunk of the tree and started to shake...and after each started he couldn't stop till his chill had run its course.

"Well, at first those darned pecans began to sort of dribble down out of the trees, like slow rain or hail, then as the chills got to work in earnest and speeded up Green and Breckenridge's 'shakes' the pecans were coming down in a regular machine-gun {Begin deleted text}tatto{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}tattoo{End handwritten}{End inserted text} as they hit the ground.

"It lasted for an hour and then each climbed down...and there wasn't a pecan left an either tree! So, the old Justice of the Peace declared it a draw...and that's they way it ended. It was kind of funny seeing those two leather-[cheeked?] farmers up in those pecan trees with the 'shakes', the pecans raining down on the ground...I was sort of glad Doc. Porter's 'Eliminator' wasn't too all-fired potent-- in Arkansas."

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th. Street, NYC

DATE October 20th. and 31st., 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "Chief Joe-Bull's Joke" and "The Dancing Turkeys"

1. Date and time of interview

October 18th. and 27th. 1938

2. Place of interview

My quarters, 86 W. 12th. St. NYC

3. Name and address of informant William D. Naylor (address not given me.) As I reported in previous interview--Sept. 19: "Medicine Show" story, --my impression is that he lives in some of the municipal lodging houses. He would not allow me to visit him, claiming his room was not the sort in which to have guests.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in/ touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th. Street, NYC

DATE Oct. 20th and 31st. 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "Chief Joe-Bull's Joke" and "The Dancing Turkeys"

1. Ancestry American--probably Irish descent.

2. Place and date of birth New York City--72 years old.

3. Family Apparently has none.

4. Places lived in, with dates This I could not learn.

5. Education, with dates Seems to be principally in "School of Hard /Knocks"

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates Carnival, medicine show, and /"pitch-man".

7. Special skills and interests None that I know.

8. Community and religious activities Unknown to me.

9. Description of informant Mr. Naylor is a well-preserved man of 72 years of age--about five-feet-seven in height, 145 pounds, I should judge. Quite gray but not bald. Smooth-shaven. Has a pleasant thought a bit cynical facial expression. Rather serious, but an evident sense of humor, and somewhat repressed frown. In personal appearance, as to dress, he is neat--although it is obvious his suit has done service for a long time. In conversation he sometimes shows a definite tendency to break away from the subject and become rather excited over some political or social thought that comes to his mind. While he enjoys a bottle or two of beer, do not think he is a serious drinker. [Smokes?]

10. Other Points gained in interview

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th. Street, NYC

DATE Oct. 20th. and 31st. 1938

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW TALES: "Chief Joe-Bull's Joke" and "The Dancing Turkeys" CHIEF JOE-BULL'S JOKE

Doc Porter used to say: "It ain't what anybody knows for certain, but what they think they know for certain that counts, and if people buy [Kickapoo?] Indian Medicine and think it'll cure 'em, it's darn near sure to cure them. And so they haven't been cheated[!?]"

Which shows that Doc was sincere in believing that the stuff he mixed up out of wild cherry bark (boiled); senna leaves; slippery elm bark; sassafrass roots and other "Indian herbs" and all of which he fortified with about sixty-per-cent of good raw corn whiskey, were genuinely beneficial medicines and that he was a human benefactor.

So when people paid fifty cents for a four once bottle of "Wild Cherry Elixer"; a dollar for an eight {Begin deleted text}once{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}ounce{End handwritten}{End inserted text} bottle of "Spring Rejuvenator" (which was practically a sassafras high-ball); or twenty-five cents for a couple dozen "Liver Regulator Pills". Doc honestly thought they were getting their money's worth.

Anyhow, Doc took his own medicinal concoctions--especially the "Spring Rejuvenator", and it wasn't a bad drink at that. I've [tasted?] {Begin page no. 2}a lot of cocktails that cost a quarter a piece that weren't half as good, and didn't have any more kick to them. But maybe the whiskey we got in those days was better than it is now!

In fact we all, whenever we'd get to feeling under the weather, have a little cold or a touch of malaria--and there was plenty of malaria, chills and fever in the backwoods districts we'd show at, Doc would give us a bottle of medicine or a box of pills, and believe me those pills were-potent....

And speaking of Doc Porter's pills reminds me of a joke, same might call it a dirty trick; but at the time it seemed like a mighty funny joke to me, in which Doc's pills played an important part....

Doc Porter's Medicine Show Company consisted of Doc himself, myself, a negro banjo player and roustabout named "George Watson", and an "educated" Indian who claimed to be a full-blooded Osage and whom Doc had picked up somewhere.

The Indian went by the name of "Chief Joe-Bull", and his part of the show was to pose on the stage or platform while the show was going on, as a sample of what a healthy Indian ought to look like. And in his head-dress, blanket, beaded pants and so on, he was a handsome looking savage.

Doc would talk to him in what was supposed to be Indian, while Doc was lecturing, then translate to the audience.

Chief Joe-Bull--offstage--could talk a darned sight better than most white men; I think he had been a {Begin deleted text}Carlysle{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Carlisle{End handwritten}{End inserted text} foot-ball player! But he didn't do much talking, and I never saw more than {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[barley?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} a grin, which would indicate that he didn't have much of a sense of humor.

But I guess he did enjoy a joke as well as anybody....

Anyhow, Chief Joe-Bull played a trick on George, the negro, that must have caused him to chuckle inside of himself even if he {Begin page no. 3}didn't crack a smile on the outside.

George required a lot of sleep to be contented and happy, and every chance he got he'd take a nap or two. Usually every afternoon he would sprawl out on the ground in the shade of the wagon, --or if there was a tree handy, under it--and sleep until something happened to wake him up.

He slept on his back and with his mouth opening and shutting as he breathed, like one of those big Mississippi River catfish opens and shuts his mouth when he's been pulled out of the water.

When George slept he was dead to the world; flies, ants, grasshoppers, bugs and all their relations didn't bother him, and I used to sit and watch him--just to see how close he'd come to catching a fly or a bug in his mouth without doing it!

One afternoon, I was watching George sleep when Chief Joe-Bull came along and stood for a moment looking down at the happily unconscious negro; then without cracking a smile, Joe-Bull squatted down by George, took out a box of Liver Pills Doc Porter had given him and began dropping them, one by one, into George's mouth every time it would open.

Whenever a pill hit the back of his tongue, George would smack his mouth shut, gulp, swallow, and down it would go. In a minute his mouth would open again--and Chief Joe-Bull would feed him another pill!

It was George's mouth and Joe-Bull's pills--and so I didn't interfere.... Anyhow, I just wanted to see how far Joe-Bull would go. He went far enough. I counted nine pills he dropped into George's mouth, and nine times he swallowed one. When you consider that Doc Porter's pills were powerful, and one was a big dose for an ordinary man--while two would almost tear the insides out of a bear,--well, George had pills enough to last him quite a while!

{Begin page no. 4}After he fed George the pills Joe-Bull came over, sat down by me and didn't say a word. Just sat there, wondering, I suppose, what would happen....

Well, it happened. In a couple of hours George waked up with "pains in his stomach". And for the next several days he had the most "Gawd-a'mighty awful attack of crampin' cholera morbus" (as he called it) "Anybody ever did have!"

The funny part of it--or you might say tragic--was that when George told Doc Porter he was having "agonizin' misery in his stomach, an' crampin' terrible", Doc said he needed a good {Begin deleted text}claning{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}cleaning{End handwritten}{End inserted text} out--and made him take three more Liver Pills! If that wasn't adding "insult to injury" it was certainly carrying "Coals to Newcastle", or something of the sort!....

But George finally got to be normal again, although he lost most of the "shine" on his face and got awful weak before he did, and I don't reckon he ever knew that Chief Joe-Bull had pulled an Indian joke on him!

***** THE DANCING TURKEYS

When a man's in the carnival business, it's a good deal like when he's playing the races; he's either in the mazuma big, or he's on his heels and Washing his own shirts. There doesn't seem to be any half-and-half spot he can land in. He's either broke or flush; he either makes it fast or don't make it at all.

But that don't mean that a real carnival man is ever on the town. He keeps a front and eats--not because it is handed to him from a back door or in a bread-line, but because he figures out some way to make it on his own.

{Begin page no. 5}You don't see any genuine old-time carnival bird working the street for a dime, or picking up crumbs from a kitchen back {Begin deleted text}dood{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}door{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. They're independent, and even if they're down to the last two-bits you'd never know it by looking at them, or hear it from their own lips. They might do a lot of cussing in private, to themselves, but never a hard-luck story to the outsiders....

They've always got some kind of an idea tucked back in their head that they can pull out and turn into ham-and-egg money somehow.

Even if the show goes flat, they'll raise tickets to the next burg someway, and that without passing the public collection plate.

And they'll raise it on the square--according to the "ethics" of the profession which is: "Give the 'suckers' nothing...for their money, but when you-give-them nothing...you give them something!" Just like Barnum with his {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} horse with its tail where its head ought to be" (with its head at the back of the stall and its tail in the manger) {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} gave the suckers nothing and still he gave them a dime's worth of "experience", for looking at the bronco in reverse!

That's the way a carnival man is; he don't give them any thing, yet he gives them "something"--entertainment, experience, or amusement for the chicken feed he takes away from them at his rack, or wheel or ring-board. And if he has a run of "mud-luck" he always finds a way to get out somehow, raise a stake and climb back into the game.

That's the way it was when I invented the "Dancing turkeys" when I got into the carnival racket after quitting Doc Porter's Medicine Show.

It was down in the Ozark Hill country of Arkansas at a county fair, and it was one of those "dry hauls". None of us were dragging in enough to even pay ground rent.

I was running a rack but none of the yokels in that neighborhood {Begin page no. 6}seemed to have ambitions to be big league baseball pitchers and they'd just stand around and look at my babies, grin and never spend a dime for a handful of balls. Even when I'd spiel "free throws" they'd back off, look suspicious and hang onto their dimes....

It got under my skin and I figured there must be something they'd go for if I could only frame it up.

Well, I finally got my inspiration.

The town was one of those backwoods places like there used to be along in the late 1890's, where there wasn't any "stock laws" and {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} cows, horses, chickens and turkeys...and hound dogs...ran around without restraint.

The turkeys wandering around the street, gawky and dumb looking, gave me my big idea....I'd invent "dancing turkeys!" The natives ought to go for that sort of a show....They did.

I got a big dry goods box, about four feet square, fixed it up with a wire cage on top; the back of the box open; bought a couple turkeys--a Tom and a hen; put 'em in the cage and was ready to exhibit my "dancing turkeys".

Those natives fell for it in droves--at a dime a piece. And it was a good show!

I'd spiel a crowd in--had 'em roped off so they couldn't get too close to the cage, then start the performance. The turks would be standing or {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}squatted{End inserted text} there as sleepy and stupid as "common" turkeys are, then I'd start playing on a tin flute, something like an Indian snake charmer, sort of slow and soft at first. The turks would perk up, as if listening to the music, then they'd start to step around, jerking up first one foot then the other just as if they were keeping time to the tune. I'd watch 'em and as they stopped faster I'd play faster, and pretty soon those darned birds would be doing a regular tap dance or...maybe 'you ought to call it a "turkey trot"...

{Begin page no. 7}around that cage! Then I'd ease down on the music, shoo the crowd out, and fill the tent with a new bunch of suckers....

Pretty {Begin deleted text}soo{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}soon{End handwritten}{End inserted text} I had plenty of dough. And my dancing turkeys was a sensation!

How'd I train 'em so quick?

Simple: I just had a tin bottom in the cage and a big coal-oil lamp under it; a negro kid inside of the box to turn the lamp up when I'd start to play, and turn it down when I'd kick the side of the box after the turks had danced long enough....

It was worth the money and the natives got all they paid for... You know a turkey can lift his feet awful quick when he's standing on something hot--and he looks so darned funny when he's doing it....

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St

DATE September 19, 1938 (and Oct. 5)

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW AND CARNIVAL--Wm. D. Naylor's Story

1. Date and time of interview Sept, 19, 1938; Sept. 27, 1938; Oct. 1 and 3, 1938.

2. Place of interview 486 Sixt Ave., (Sept. 19); 86 West 12th St,(Sept.27) Daca's Book Store, (Oct. 1); Washington Sq. (Oct 3.)

3. Name and address of informant Wm. D. Naylor. Met him at 486 Sixth Ave. He would not allow me to visit him, claiming that his room was not the sort in which to have guests; my impression is that he lives in some of the municipal lodging houses, from night to night.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Mr. Naylor retains something of the "theatrical pride' and since he would not allow me to call on him at his room, I cannot describe the surroundings in which he lives. Personal appearance is: A very well preserved man, smooth sbaven, scant gray hair, brown eyes, in age in the seventies. He does not show dissipation and is neat and clean though his clothing shows long service. So far as I know he is not a hard drinker but I will say that he enjoyed quite a lot a couple of cans of beer on the date (Sept. 27) when I had him come to my place (86 West 12th Street) for an eneving's visit/

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER EARL BOWMAN

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St. New York City

DATE Sept 19, 1939

SUBJECT MEDICINE SHOW - {Begin deleted text}WM. D. NAYLOR'S STORY:{End deleted text}

I was born in New York City ... on the West Side, but when I was just a baby my people moved up to what is now the Bronx. You can tell by looking at me that that was a good while ago. Still ...seventy-two years ain't so much.

Anyhow, it was long before electric street cars or automobiles. And naturally I've seen lots of changes in New York City. Whether they're better or worse, I don't know.

One thing I do know though is that we kids had lots of fun back in the old days when the fire-wagons were drawn by horses that seemed like they were just as anxious to go to a fire as we kids were when we'd chase after them when there was an alarm and those beautiful animals would come charging along the street...

Our chief diversions on Sundays was to go to Coney Island. We used to ride our bicycles out there. I suppose I always had a flare for the kind of entertainment Coney Island offered. There wa a kind of fascination to me, even when I was a kid in the excitemen and glamour of the "Carnival spirit" I suppose you would call it.

{Begin page no. 2}Eventually, when I was about 19 years old, I joined "DOC" PORTER'S KICKAPOO INDIAN MEDICINE HOW. The show was then "playing" in The Bronx and every night I'd go over and listen... envying the performers who entertained the crowd before "Doc". Porter came out to give his lecture and sell his medicines.

I stayed with Doc Porter for six years, singing " Poor MOURNER, YOU SHALL BE FREE. " " KANSAS" , and other songs like that of course with some of the popular (then) songs like "Two Little Girls in blue," "Down Went M'Ginty'" "After The Ball," etc.

All my work was black-face, and I imagined I was just as good as most vaudeville performers on stages in theatres.

One thing I'm sure of and that is that our old "Medicine show" gave a lot of people who otherwise didn't have very much entertainment a chance to see and hear something different and be amused.

We traveled all over the small town circuits of upper Now York, part of Pennyslvania, New Jersey and as far south as Virginia.

There are so many "stream lined" entertainments now-a-days that I don't suppose the old simple entertainment we offered would interest people these days...but...sometimes I think maybe an old fashioned medicine show would draw crowds just like it used to do.

Of course we traveled in covered hacks or spring wagons and all our shows were given out of doors. Our lights were gasoline flares on each side of the stage which was a platform that we'd set up at the back end of the wagon.

In the days of the "medicine show" there were not so many {Begin page no. 3}laws regulating the practice of medicine or the sale of drugs and not so many licenses and restrictions as now. This was especially true in the backwoods towns such as we'd usually show in. Towns often without railroads and where other shows didn't come.

So Doc Porter didn't have anything to do but drive into a town, pick out a vacant spot somewhere and set up our pitch there.

Everybody would know as soon as we got into a town.

But Doc usually hunted up the newspaper office if there was a paper and gave the editor an ad telling where our show was located. That got him on the good side of the editor, and the editor in those backwoods places was an important person.

He would also call on the marshall and if there was a mayor he would visit him too.

With his 'dignity,' Prince Albert coat, silk hat, double-breasted watch chain with a buck-eye set in gold bands ([He?] believed the buck-eye kept him from having rheumatism!) he looked and [could?] act like a combination Bishop, Senator, Supreme Court Judge, all rolled into one. The natives in those small backwoods towns never had a chance with him!

Doc Porter's medicines were all made up by himself and he was jealous of the "ancient Kickapoo formulas" he used. They were all made...'from roots and barks and the tender succulant foliage of healing, life-giving herbs the Great Manitou of Nature planted in the forests, on the hills and in the valleys so that his children, the noble tribe of Kickapoos these priceless secrets of Life and Health and Happiness; they were handed down from father to son and from generation to generation--cherished and guarded with the very lives of their possessors! Then, then my great-great Grandfather saved the life of the Chief Medicine Man of the Kickapoo Tribe, 'Clack-Wah-Eelah,' {Begin page no. 4}the 'Bounding Cougar,' that great Chief showed his gratitude by giving my noble pioneer ancestor these marvelous formulas and he bade him go forth and give to his White Brethen the blessings the Great Manitou had bestowed upon his Red Children of the forest...' "(Mr. Naylor laughed with a little homesick note in his chuckle as he remembered and recited the bombastic quotation.)"

Doc Porter sure had a great string of palaver and though I heard it a thousand times I never got tired of listening to his 'lecture,'

In addition to his Kickapoo Remedies, Doc Porter also had a 'madstone.' It was a bluish-gray, porous lump about the size of a pullet's egg. It was supposed to cure mad-dog or snake bites by sucking the venom out. When pressed against the would if it stuck there was poison in the injury. It would stick till it had sucked itself full of venom and then fall off. It would then be boiled in milk till it was clean again and then re-applied. That was kept up till the 'madstone' wouldn't stick anymore. The patient was then supposed to be safe...

The legend was that 'madstones' were found only in the stomachs of some deer. And that the deer had picked them up from some salt-lick where they had fallen from the sky.

I never saw Doc Porter use his madstone but once and that was on a girl who had been bitten on the calf of her leg by a copperhead snake while picking blackberries. It was in Virginia at a little cross-roads place called 'Smoky Run', I think. The madstone stuck all right. And Doc applied it three times, boiling it in milk after each application when it would fall off and wouldn't stick anymore.

{Begin page no. 5}The girl didn't die but she was almight sick.

That was just one of the queer experiences we had with the old medicine show. Once we hit a place where a feud was being settled.. That was down in Virginia too..."

It was back in the hill country of Virginia and the place was called 'Rocky Comfort.' It really wasn't a town. There was a water-power grist mill, a store, a blacksmith shop and about a quarter of a mile up the little valley there was a 'meeting house,' where traveling preachers would sometimes hold revivals which were called 'camp meetings.'

Doc. Porter stopped there to have the horses shod and it happened there was a camp-meeting going on. It looked like a pretty busy place; the natives from miles around had come, brought their familes, their hound dogs and their rifles and were camped out in the grove around the meeting house. It was a big event and they at those camp meetings they went on a sort of 'emotional pinic.'

Doc got the idea that our Medicine Show would add to the general entertainment and we could give shows between religious services. It worked. Doc was diplomatic and didn't try to compete with the preaching but sort of helped it out and never gave a show wile preaching was going on. Instead we'd all attend the services. That put us in solid with the 'brethren' and we sold a lot of medicine.

The feud was between the 'Buxton' -- or 'Bruxton' and another bunch of natives named 'Greenberry,'--I think that was the name.

{Begin page no. 6}Old Uncile Jed Buxton, a tall, sharp-eyed old fellow with a yellowish-gray, hang-down, moustache was boss of the "Buxton' bunch and 'Grandpap' Lindsay Greenberry was head of the 'enemy' tribe.

I never heard what the feud started over, probably some 'Buxton' stole a 'Greenberry' pig, or some 'Greenberry' shot a 'Buxton' cow. But whatever it was that started it there'd been killing on both sides and from what I heard about it they were always gunning or ganging up on each other, or cutting each other up with 'Bowie knives.' The cause of the feud wasn't important, though; it was the way it ended that seemed funny to me.

And a queer thing was that both tribes were religious and when they'd go to the 'camp-meetings' they've have a temporary truce while the meeting was going on.

It was at the camp-meeting the feud ended. The preacher was a big raw-boned 'Hard-shell Baptist,' and he certainly believed in hell-fire and damnation; and when he'd get up and start to preach he'd always pull out a twist of long-green tobacco and pull off a big chew--then he was ready to go at it. And he went. He was almost as good as Doc Porter when it came to oratory. He talked hell-fire and brimstone..'sizzlin' and bilin' and smokin'' until he'd have the whole audience sweating and groaning. Finally he got under the hides of the 'Buxtons' and 'Greenberrys' and had them all 'tremblin' on the brink' as he called it...'jest hangin' over eternal damnation by a 'brickle' thread!'

The payoff was that old Uncle Jed Buxton and Grandpappy Greenberry both got more religion than they'd ever got before and decided to 'make peace' and stop their tribes from carving and {Begin page no. 7}shooting and beating each other up.

The preacher got them together at the 'mourner's bench' and got them to agree to 'make friends' and be brethren. But they had to do something to prove the 'treaty' would last and they could 'trust' each other... And that's where the funny part of it came in.

Old Uncle Jed Buxton and Grandpap Greenberry acted for the whole bunch of each of their tribes. The 'peace ceremony' was performed at the camp-meeting in the presence of the whole audience, the Hard-shell Baptist preacher acted as master of ceremonies. You'd never guess how {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} they 'pledged' themselves and proved that they 'trusted' each other. Those two old mountain codgers who had been 'killin'' enemies shaved each other! And not with safety razors either!

They did it right on the preacher's platform while the whole congregation looked on and muttered a lot of 'Amens' and "Praise the Lords"'

They drew straws for to see who should shave who first, and Uncle Jed Buxton got 'the chair' first. Grandpappy Greenberry lathered Uncle Jed up, took that wicked had long-bladed razor (the preacher supplied the outfit) and whittled the whiskers off of Uncle Jed's face and neck...but when he Got down around Uncle Jed's wind-pips I noticed the 'Buxton clan' got mighty tense and silent. But Uncle Jed didn't bat an eye while his old enemy was fooling around his neck with that darned sharp razor!

When Uncle Jed was well shaved, Grandpappy Greenberry sat d down in the chair, which was a common hickory split-bottom kitchen chair, and Uncle Jed took the razor and went over him!

{Begin page no. 8}That settled the feuds. Each had trusted his neck to the other when the other had a sharp razor in his hand...and as far as I know they never 'feuded' again. But I'll say those two tough old mountain hill-billies had a lot of nerve.

That was just one of the funny incidents that happened while I was with Doc Porter's Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show. But it was one that I'll never forget.

Finally, along in the early 1890's I quit Doc. Porter, or rather he quit me for his show busted up and I went into the carnival grift. It was while I was doing carnival stuff at country fairs that I invented--or maybe you'd say 'discovered''dancing Turkeys.' It was down in Arkansas at a little County fair and I made a lot of money with my 'waltzin' turkey's...but that's another story...

********

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM D Extra Comment

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12th St

DATE September 19, 1938 (and Oct. 5)

SUBJECT Wm. D. Naylor, 72 year old Medicine Show and Carnival man, Mr. Naylor's description is set down in Form A. Mr. Naylor has a rich background of experiences with the Medicine Show and Carnival period during the late 1880's and the 1890's and I am getting some further stories from him, especially of his activities and expreiences with Carnivals, Country Fairs, etc. in the southern and middle west. He is rather difficult in an interview as he frequently digresses to current topics...political both domestic and foreign and I have to ease him through {Begin deleted text}su{End deleted text} such discussions and get him back to his own personal experiences which I take it are the things we desire in this effort to gather "Folktalk" and "Folk-Tales." I have still further visits scheduled with Mr. Naylor.

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}11{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12 Street, New York City

DATE January 26, 1939

SUBJECT "TOM NOLAN AND "JERRY', A HORSE"

1. Date and time of interview January 22, 1939

2. Place of interview 63 Washington Sq. So., New York City

3. Name and address of informant Tom Nolan (ho, eless)

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. Harry Reece (Daca) 63 Washington Sq. So., New York City

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12 Street, New York City

DATE January 26, 1939

SUBJECT "TOM NOLAN AND 'JERRY', A HORSE"

1. Ancestry Irish - American

2. Place and date of birth Unknown (73 years of age)

3. Family None

4. Places lived in, with dates New York City

5. Education, with dates Apparently very little

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates Horse-truck driver for years. At present, no occupation.

7. Special skills and interests Apparently none

8. Community and religious activities Not active

9. Description of informant About 6 feet tall -- gray blues -- ruddy -- robust -- weight about 180 lbs. Rough, outdoor type.

10. Other Points gained in interview

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12 Street New York City

DATE January 26, 1939

SUBJECT "TOM NOLAN AND 'JERRY', A HORSE"

"Daca", (Harry Reece) introduced me to Tom Nolan. It was at Daca's bookstore, 63 Washington Square So., one evening a while before dusk. We were standing on the steps that led down into the store, watching the straggling stream of humanity drifting by...and tossing cigarettes a fourth or a fifth smoked out on the walk for the 'mootchers' who frequent that neighborhood to 'shoot'. Daca said: 'The poor devils get a thrill as if they'd suddenly had a bit of good luck when they find a 'long-snipe'....

"While Daca was reaching for another cigarette to make 'second-handed' for some poor devil to whom a less than half burned smoke was a treat, Tom Nolan came along.

Daca had known 'Old Tom' for years and no doubt had frequently supplied this husky, homeless old Irish-American with the price of a 'flop' or the two-bits for a plate of kidney stew, or set up of liver and onions at one of the cheap restaurants on some of the side streets below the Square.

{Begin page no. 2}Old Tom paused; Daca drew his tobacco pouch from his pocket and held it out to Tom...

"Fill up your pipe Tom and fog up a little. Here's an old typewriter pounder Pal of mine, I think would like to chew up some 'horse talk, with you...He's a busted up old Texas cow-puncher and you're quite a horseman yourself, Tom, so between you you ought to cook up some good 'palaver' -- Kid, meet Tom Nolan who knows more about New York City truck-horses than any man out of a museum, and Tom, meet 'Th' Kid' who has in his day taught a lot of mean bronchos how to be good!..."

That was my introduction to Tom Nolan.

Later, sitting on a bench in Washington Square, Tom Nolan told me this story of himself and of 'Jerry', a horse:

"So, ye've been somthing of a 'horseman' in your day, have ye," Old Tom began. "Well, I've had me share of experience with horses, meself... Meaning, of course not them wild and wicked 'man-eatin'' bronchos like I've heard they have in Texas and other places out West. The horses I've had experience with were horses like, well, like 'Jerry', for instance. The big, strong, quiet steady-goin' fellows that used to do the haulin' for the City of New York.

"Ah. yes, Lad, Jerry was a great horse! A 'he-man' horse if ye know what I mean. He was a city horse but not a society' horse; he had no 'docked' tail and he would have taken no prizes at a 'horse show' beauty contest.

{Begin page no. 3}"But he was proud, I'll say that for the old devil; proud of his strength and proud to use it when I called on him to get down an' dig with an extra heavy load on the truck behind him... That was the kind of horse that 'Jerry' was. He wanted to earn his oats and hay and by God he did!

"For twelve years I drove Jerry, workin' all the time for the same company, and right down there below the Square, just off of Macdougal Street was the upstairs stable where Jerry roomed and boarded.

"Jerry was what you call a 'fle-bitten' gray, better than seventeen hands high with weight accordin' which was more than eighteen hundred pounds which is quite a lot of 'horse', me Boy, ye must agree...

"But Jerry needed to be a lot of horse. My truck was built for a load of better than two tons and Jerry alone not only started it from a dead stop when full loaded but the old Boy kept it movin' after he started it and took it wherever it had to be taken, askin' no help from anyone!

"No matter what the season, when Jerry and me started with a load we got there with it, 'twas the same in the winter when the streets was glassy with ice, or in the summer when it was hotter than hell under th' 'El' and everywhere else in New York City.

"But ye can be sure that in winter when 'twas slippery I was careful to see that he had ice-chains on his shoes to keep him from slippin' and breakin' a leg, or maybe his neck; and in summer when it was so hot that other horses and men too were often droppin' no matter where we was, I saw that Jerry had water and plenty of it, at least every hour. I have no use for a man that neglects his horse -- there is something wrong with such a man.

{Begin page no. 4}"Never did I put Jerry to bed in his stable down there just off of Macdougal Street without givin' him a good rub down, massagin' his tough old hide with curry comb and brush till all the sweat was back and his belly and his legs and his hair was layin' smooth and soft; it took the kinks out of his muscles and relaxed him for a good night's rest. And never also did I tell him good night without givin' him the bit of tobaccy for which he was always beggin' -- Maybe he knew that tobbaccy was good for his stomach and kept him from gettin' 'bots' and other worms that horses get sometimes and that makes life miserable for them.

"It was a pleasant life Jerry and me led for them twelve years, we worked hard and we were willing to work hard, but we were livin' and we were contented. Maybe too damned contented and satisfied-- Him imaginin' that he'd always have a stall to go to at night and hay and oats to eat; me deludin' myself with th' idea that I'd always be drawin, wages enough to pay for me room over on Barrow Street, me meals, and enough left over to buy a shirt or pair of gloves or shoes once in a while, tobaccy to keep me pipe loaded and feed Jerry sometimes, and even a few schooners of beer if I became too damned thirsty.

"'Twas a pleasant life and Jerry and me was so well contented we got to be regular damned 'conservatives' -- thinkin' things would never change-- Then, by God they changed!

"We waked up one morning and the boss told us we were 'obsolete!' Motor trucks had made us 'obsolete'. I'll always remember that damned word... That's what he said: "Tom, this will be the last {Begin page no. 5}day for you and Jerry. Motor trucks have made horse trucks obsolete in New York City. They are too slow, it takes too long for them to get around and so we've got to substitute motor trucks that can move faster and haul more, so, today is the last day for you and Jerry, Tom -- Like I say, horse trucks are 'obsolete!'"

"'Obsolete!' 'Tis a hell of a word, Lad -- I've had lots of time since th' boss sprung it on me to find out what it means. It means you're like a damned 'dodo' bird-- Ye're out of date-- Ye are needed no more-- 'Tis indeed a hell of a word!

"When I put Jerry to bed that night I felt lonesome-- I gave him an extra tin of oats and a double-sized chew of tobbaccy...

"Then, I went to me room and wondered what the hell I would do...the boss had told me I was too old for a job on the new motor trucks; and then I got to thinkin' what the hell they would do with Jerry. Would they, I wondered, send him over to Barren Island to be made into fertilizer -- or maybe to the soap factory or the glue works over in Jersey. It made the cold sweat break out on me to think of such a thing happenin' to Jerry and damned little did I sleep that night.

"So, the next mornin' I went to the office and I said to the Boss, "Say, Boss, what the hell you goin, to do with Jerry-- Ye ain't goin' to send him to no fertilizer plant or to no soap or glue factory are ye?"

"The Boss laughed and said: 'Hell,no, Tom! Jerry has been a faithful servant of the Company for twelve years and he is entitled to a better reward than that-- We are sending Jerry out to our Jersey farm where he will have a warm stable, plenty of hay and oats, and can live in comfort and peace th' rest of his life! It is his due, Tom, and he shall have it...'"

{Begin page no. 6}"That eased my mind a lot and I didn't feel so bad, knowin' that Jerry would be taken care of...I would have hated to think old Jerry being turned into fertilizer or soap or glue... Or being without a place to sleep or hay or oats to eat in his old age..."

"So, that's what they did, Lad. They sent Jerry out to a nice farm in Jersey, with plenty to eat and a good place to sleep --

"As for meself ... well...here I am on this damned bench in Washington Square-- And I've decided, Lad, that Jerry was a lucky old bastard! He ought to thank God that he's a 'horse' and not a man... For 'tis a hell of a sight better to be an 'obsolete' horse than to be an 'obsolete' man, these days, me Lad!

"'Obsolete' -- Jesus, 'tis a hell of a word, ain't it?" ......

That is the story Tom Nolan told as we sat on the bench in Washington Square and watched 'mootchers' slinking along past us....their eyes cast down, alert for a 'snipe' someone had tossed away.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}8{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th Street, NYC

DATE December 15, 1938

SUBJECT "THEM PETRIFIED BUZZARDS" -- Uncle Steve Robertson Story

1. Date and time of interview December 12, 1938

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Harry Reece (Daca) 63 Washington South, NYC

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. See previous interview 11/29/38: "Harry Reece (Daca) -- His Story"

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 W. 12th Street, NYC

DATE December 15, 1938

SUBJECT "THEM PETRIFIED BUZZARDS" -- Uncle Steve Robertson Story

"My Uncle Steve Robertson was a native of the State of Missouri or Arkansas; he was not certain which, because he said he was born so close to the line that sometimes he thought it was on one side and sometimes on the other.

"He also said that one reason he didn't remember which State it was, was because he started "Out West" when he was so young that it really didn't matter whether he was born in Missouri or Arkansas; he was satisfied just to be born, and was willing to let it go at that.

"Anyway, my Uncle Steve Robertson was a great pioneer in his day, before any government irrigation projects were built in the West, and he knew all about shooting bear and deer and fighting Indians, and settling in out-of-the-way places where people had to depend mostly {Begin page no. 2}on themselves and each other and there were not any electric lights or telephones or radios or WPA's or PWA's or AAA's or things like that to distract their attentions, and postoffices were quite far apart indeed. So, people depended to a large extent upon themselves and not to any great extent to or on anything else.

"My Uncle Steve's idea of 'Out West' was anywhere west of the east line of the Indian Territory (Uncle Steve never did get around to calling it '[Oklahoma?]' because he said that that did not seem natural!) - he also thought that 'Out West' was bounded on the south by the Big Bend country of the Rio Grande and on the north by the last peak of the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho and which leaned over into Canada. So, Uncle Steve had quite a large idea of what 'Out West' really was, and he also had quite a lot of experience with it...

"Naturally, also, my Uncle Steve Robertson accumulated a vast knowledge of and quite a few strange experiences during the many years he was a great 'pioneer of the far 'out west' and which, I am sorry to say, quite a lot of people in New York, and especially around the Washington Square district, do not yet realize ever existed - or for that matter may still exist to some extent.

"Also, my Uncle Steve used to say that the one damned thing he could not endure was... 'a danged double talkin' liar... one of them 'rubber-tongued' persons who could stretch the truth till she would crack, and keep on stretchin' it, and still expect people to believe it..'

{Begin page no. 3}"My Uncle Steve always began his 'tall tales,' (for I am afraid that they were 'tall' tales, and some of them very tall indeed!) with the preliminary statement that he 'just couldn't stand any damn person that 'zagerates!'

"When we were on a fishing trip one time he told me about how the petrified forests of Arizona happened to be petrified -- and also about 'the petrified buzzards'... It was a hot and dry season and I had mentioned it because the water in the creek where we were fishing was almost all dried up, and that was Uncle Steve's excuse to tell me about a really hot and dry season he once experienced in Arizona...

"'It was back in... now danged if I remember jest which year it was back in,' Uncle Steve said, 'but anyhow it was the year that old Geronimo was loaded on the train at Bowie, Arizona, when the government sent him to Florida to keep him from butchering people in Arizona. Well, that was the year that it was in, and it shore-as-hell was a hot and dry year in Arizona....

"'Bob White an' me had a little cow outfit in partnership down close to the Mexican line, and we was gettin' along pretty well. We'd took up some land... about two sections... and dug some wells and built some ditches so we could irrigate a little ground around the place. We had windmills to pump water out of the wells into a pond and the dtiches, and our nine or ten hundred head of cattle had pretty good feed on the range. And outside of havin' to shoot a few {Begin page no. 4}Apaches now and then, before the government got rid of them, we was doin' fairly well and was contented enough, I reckon...

"'At first, 'Mam' White, that was Bob's wife, was a little lonesome because there wasn't no frogs to croak down by th' pond or along th' ditches at night. She said she plumb missed frogs a-croakin' an' if there was jest some frogs she could hear croak of a' evenin' she'd be about as happy as she used to be back in Slippery Elm County, Arkansas, where she was born, and her pa and ma still lived. Well, Bob was always sentimental and he fixed it for Mam. He sent back to Arkansas and had a few settin's of frog eggs sent out to her. So, Mam set 'em an' they hatched out jest fine, and before long, when the sun went down behind old Apache Peak of an' evenin', frogs was croakin' all over th' place and Mam was plumb happy.

"'Like I said, everything was goin' smooth an' pleasant and we was prosperous till it began to get hot and dry one summer... hotter an' dryer, I-Gawd, than anybody'd ever knowed it to be in that part of Arizona before, an' the first thing me realized them damn pumps wasn't suckin' nothing out of them wells but hot air, and th' alfalfa was withered and Mam's marigolds she'd planted by the side of the house was all dead and dried up, too.

"'And in addition to that, them nine or ten hundred head of cattle Bob an' me had out there on th' range was staggerin' around, so cussed thirsty an' dried out, that when they'd walk their livers and hearts and lungs or whatever was loose inside of them would rattle {Begin page no. 5}against their hides like seeds shakin' around in a ripe gourd. Yeah, that's jest th' way they'd sound! And when one of them got tired walkin' around, hearin' hisself or herself as the case might be, rattlin' like a gourd that ain't got nothin' in it but some seeds, and finally laid down, well, danged if he or she or it didn't jest naturally [petrify?]... plumb solid...

"'That's when them poor buzzards got a awful shock.

"'They'd be wheelin' around, jest wheelin' around watchin' for a cow or a steer brute to topple over, and as soon as they'd see one topple, down they'd swoop thinkin' they'd make a meal on it, and when they'd try to take a bite out of that petrified carcass they'd bust their poor bills off, and there they was... plumb helpless, so they'd topple over, too - and in a minute they'd be petrified themselves!

"'Well, the rest of them damn buzzards that hadn't come down and was still wheelin' 'round up there in the hell-blisterin' heat and dryness, would wonder what th' hell had happened to their brother buzzards, layin' down there all petrified beside them petrifield cattle; they'd be scairt to come down, and jest keep on wheelin' and wheelin' and gettin' more and more bewildered till damned if they wouldn't petrify themselves up there in the sky without ever knowin' it - and that's the way it was... Thousands and thousands, hell, millions of buzzards jest wheelin' and wheelin' around 'way up in that hot, sizzlin' Arizona atmosphere -- and all so damned petrified they couldn't do nothin' but keep on wheelin' and wheelin' without ever {Begin page no. 6}makin' a sound or flappin' a doggone wing-- Gawd, it was a gruesome sight!

"'Yeah, them damned buzzards -- all petrified and everything jest wheelin' and wheelin' around up there in th' sky, was a terrible thing to look at, but, I-Gawd, bad off as they was they didn't suffer as much as them poor wild hydrophobia cats that got so dry that they couldn't even foam at th' mouth when they'd have hydrophobia fits... That was one of the pitifullest sights I ever seen. A poor hydrophobia-cat tryin' to foam at th' mouth when he's havin' a fit, and not be able to do nothin' only spit out a little stream of dry, kind of chalky dust, instead of good rich foam like he'd naturally do! It sure as hell was pitiful to look at...

"'But them hydrophobia-cats wasn't no worse off than all them poor ants jest crawlin' around on the sand under th' blazin' sun, without a drop to drink, jest swelterin' and dryin' up till eventually they'd be in such agony they'd double over an' bite themselves on their own belly-band, an' commit suicide an' perish in misery... Gawd, I'll bet ten billion ants... damn nice big red Arizona ants committed suicide on our ranch alone! It's a awful thing to see a poor damn ant so thirsty an' hot an' dried out that it doubles over an' gnaws its own belly-band in two... It sure is.

"'Still, I reckon th' worst sufferin' was done by them miserable danged frogs; all them frogs Mam had hatched out from them {Begin page no. 7}settin's of frog eggs Bob had had sent out from Arkansas... They got so dry, they jest kind of shriveled up and all wrinkled sort-of-like, well, like a prune that has been layin' out in th' sun too long. That's jest th' way their hides looked -- jest shriveled up an' wrinkled like a prune, or worse. But th' worst of it was when they didn't have no water to waller in any more, and sort of soak 'em up; I-Gawd, when the sun would go down behind old Apache Peak an' them poor frogs would open their mouths and try to croak, like Mam loved to hear 'em do of an evenin', all th' poor damn things could do was jest sort of whistle.... It was terrible, th' most agonizin' and heart-wrenchin' thing anybody can imagine. Yes, sir, I-Gawd, if you ever saw a poor shriveled frog tryin' to croak, and not be able to get anything out but jest a measly little damn whistle, it's th, saddest thing you ever saw!

"'It sure was distressin'.... Them poor frogs gaspin' out little dinky whistles instead of good solid croaks, was what settled it. When it got that dry, Mam, Bob's wife, couldn't stand it no longer. She'd listen to them frogs tryin' to croak -- and jest break down with grief. She jest couldn't stand it. So, finally, after all then buzzards was petrified and most of them ants had committed suicide and them hydrophobia cats 'most plumb forgot how to foam at the mouth, and at last them helpless cussed frogs was whistlin' 'stead of croakin', Mam said to me an' Bob one day: - 'We're goin' to move out of this cussed place, Bob White and Steve Robertson. When it gets so danged dry that even a buzzard petrifies and even {Begin page no. 8}a frog can't croak, I-Gawd, it's time to go somewhere else....' That's what Mam said. And Bob an' me always did believe in lettin' the women folks have their way, so, I-Gawd, we moved. An' damned if I know whether it ever did rain an' bust th' dry spell, or not. Maybe it did an' maybe it didn't. But while we was present it was one hell of a dry spell - and I imagine if anybody went down there to that part of Arizona they could still see some of them petrified trees layin' around on the ground ('cause - while I didn't mention it before - even most of th' damn trees got to be petrified, too, before things was done with) - an' I also imagine that anybody would probably see some of them poor petrified buzzards still wheelin' an' wheelin' and wheelin' around and around, 'way up there in the air... never makin' a sound an' never flappin' a wing... Jest petrified as hell, an' unable to do anything about it!.....'" "My Uncle Steve Robertson was a very great pioneer in his day, and no doubt had many wonderful and thrilling experiences in the very far "Out West, and - as I said before - he was one of those sturdy old ex-Rebel soldiers who could not 'endure a danged liar an' depised any ornery man that 'xagerates.' Perhaps that is why I loved him; he was my favorite Uncle... the one with whom I liked best to go fishing, or on camping-out trips..."

AMERICAN FOLKSTUFF

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}1250 words{End handwritten}

FORM C

STATE: NEW YORK

WORKER: Earl Bowman

86 West 12th St

New York City

DATE: February 6, 1939

SUBJECT: "OLD JERRY' HAD 'HORSE SENSE'"

Narrator, Tom Nolan' (Homeless)

Age 73 years

Interview at Daca's Bookstore

63 Washington Square, So.,

New York City "OLD JERRY HAD HORSE SENSE"

(Told my Tom Nolan, homeless,

(jobless, Irish American

(horse truck driver, displaced by

(old age and the change from

(horse to, motor trucks in

(New York City)

(Unedited)

It was a typically 'wet' New York winter night misty, drizzling, rain; the skeleton like branches of the trees in the Square dripped steadily {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}on{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the deserted benches along the lonely and silent walks; a steady rhythm of warning whistles came monotonously from the fog-shrouded harbor and river. A good night to be off the streets.

On such a night Daca's Bookstore, 63 Washington Square, So., with its ceiling-high shelves crowded with old books -- dusty, smelly and intimate was a good place to be; a friendly place for men to sit and talk...

It was there, in the thick clouds of smoke from Daca {Begin page no. 2}and Tom Nolan's pipes and my own 'hand-rolled' cigarettes, that Old Tom, for many years a New York City horse track driver but now jobless, homeless and living by his wits because there was no place for him in the trucking or any other industrial field since 'age' and the coming of motor tracks made him 'obsolete,' discussed horse-sense versus man-sense and wondered which was most worth while; this is his story:

"Sure and it is true, Lad, that horses have 'horse sense' and men have 'man sense,' and I'll be damned if I know yet which is the better. Horses are wise, like ye say; like the cow-horses ye have been tellin' about that out-smarted the cattle and knew after very little experience all of the tricks of their 'profession' of ropin' and brandin' or whatever it was they were required to do out there in Texas or whichever place it was.

"The same was true of 'Old Jerry.' He had 'horse sense' and plenty of it, and I observed it many times in the twelve years that the old gray devil and me were engaged in haulin' things about New York before the damn motor trucks made us 'obsolete' and he was retired to the Company's farm over in Jersey to enjoy his hay and oats in peace for the rest of his days while I was 'retired' to -- well, ye can see what I was 'retired' to merely by looking at me.

"Indeed, Jerry had horse sense and lots of it. And the {Begin page no. 3}important thing was that he used it. He knew all the traffic rules and unlike a lot of people drivin' automobiles -- and motor trucks these days, he never broke any of them. Nor did he ever 'run down' some bit of a kid that got so excited playing that he chased a ball out into the street.

"More than once I've seen Jerry set back in his shafts and hold the weight of a loaded truck, stoppin' it dead still when some kid, not lookin' what he was doin ran in front of the truck and in another instant would have been under Jerry's feet.

"Indeed, Old Jerry wanted the blood of no little child on his conscience, he was that careful of children...

"But on the other hand, I've seen him, when we were standing by the curb, reach down and nip hell out of some damned dog that was mussin' up the walk closer to him than he cared to have such things happen.

"Yes, me, Lads (a bit more of your tobaccy Daca, if ye please) Jerry had horse sense and applied it to his daily life. He learned of his own experience that the thing to do when he heard the shriek of a fire-siren was -- if there was a chance -- to pull to the side and stand still, or if there was no place in which to pull out of the traffic, then to stop where he was until the fire wagons had passed or the noise of the siren had disappeared an some other street.

"That kind of 'horse sense' is the sort that comes from experience. Some horses have a good deal of it and some don't have so much. But Jerry had his share with a bit {Begin page no. 4}more, I'm thinkin' than most horses. And I used to admire him a great deal for it in them years that Jerry and me were 'fellow employees' on the truck.

"But he had another sort of 'horse sense' I that I admired even more, and that, since I have had nothing to do but think about things...and wonder at 'em...I'm afraid I have decided is a damned sight better than 'man sense'...

"What I mean is that no horse, and Old Jerry least of all, ever wasted his time worryin' about the 'future and frettin' about what would happen to him in the future like 'man sense' makes men do.

"For instance, ye can go around this block...or ye can sit out in the Square on a sunny day...or ye can go down to the Bowery, or to th' 'flop joints' or to the beer hang-outs and what do ye see?

"Ye see hundreds of men like meself -- and many of them unlike meself who have been 'big money shots' in their time and thought they were on top of the world, and who have spent the best part of their lives 'worryin' about th' future' -- schemin' and plannin', skimpin and savin' and often starvin' themselves, or even cheatin' their fellowmen' to get enough ahead so they would be sure not to starve -- or practically starve in the 'future.' And what the hell happened?

"The 'future' sneaked-up on them in spite of all their worryin' and schemin and so forth and smacked them in the eye for a row of garbage cans the same as it did me...and all their damned worryin' and frettin' had been for naught!

{Begin page no. 5}"Many times I have worried about me 'future' which is now me 'present' and got scared for fear I would not have a place to sleep or something to eat when the damn 'future' came...So, I would skimp meself, cut down on me tobaccy, wash me own shirts instead of lettin th' {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}Chinaman{End inserted text} do it -- even do without me beer... Once I saved up $19.00 and tucked it in me shoe, thinkin' I was on the way to bein' a 'capitalist' with me future well provided for... What happened? 'Twas then that them teeth that had been botherin' me bothered me a damned sight worse and, well, hell the dentist got the $19.00 and five dollars more out of me next two week's wages!

"'Twas always the same. But still, with me 'man sense' instead of me 'horse sense' I spent a good deal of time worryin' about the 'future.' Indeed, sometimes to such an extent that it all but spoiled me enjoyment of the 'present'. Often, remorse would overtake me if I drank an extra mug or two of beer and I would find meself thinkin' -- 'Tom Nolan, ye damned old fool, ye had better be savin' this money ye are squanderin' on beer and tuck it away so ye'll be havin' it in the 'future' when no doubt ye'll be needin' it worse than hell!'

"Yes, I would find meself thinkin' to meself like that and 'twould spoil the enjoyment of me beer... That was me 'man sense' workin'.

"But Jerry, now, with his 'horse sense' instead of 'man sense' like we have got -- Did he ever worry about th' {Begin page no. 6}'future? He did not. When I put him in his stall at night, he knew he had earned what was comin' to him, and he knew also that he would get it and had no anxiety at all in his mind.

"He would go at his oats and his hay with a clear conscience and a good appetite -- with never a thought of losin' his job or his income or of anything else to upset his digestion and cause him remorsful dreams about what might happen to him in the 'future'...

"And when the 'future' came what happened to Jerry? He -- well, he, was a damned sight better off with never a minute lost in his life worrin' about the 'future' and which showed that he had good 'horse sense', that I was with all me damned worryin' about the 'future' of meself with me 'man sense' -- I'll be damned lads, if I understand it, or know which is better 'horse sense' or man sense, and so far I've found no one else who does understand it or know what its all about..."

(Daca and I had to admit that, like Old Tom Nolan, {Begin deleted text}neitherd{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}neither{End handwritten}{End inserted text} did we understand it, or know what 'twas all about. And Old Tom went out in the drizzly night, shuffled along the wet street...through the mist and the fog...to a 'flop house' to sleep and perhaps still wonder what it was all about.)

END

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}720{End handwritten}

STATE: New York

WORKER: EARL BOWMAN

86 West 12th St

New York City

DATE: AUG. 31, 1938

SUBJECT: MRS. MILLIE LARSON

988 Boston Road

The Bronx

New York City MRS. LARSON'S STORY

"My birthplace was in the old Harlem and then we moved when I was a young girl to The Bronx where I've lived ever since.

"In those days the cars were all horse-drawn and so were all the fire companies apparatus. One of the most thrilling sites it seems to me was when the big fire engines drawn by the fine handsome horses came dashing along the street.

"I remember too when bicycles were the popular means of going on outings. Every Sunday during the summer groups of young people would stream out to the "country" {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} with the picnic lunches tied to the handle bars of their bicycles.

"Of course there no paved roads like we have now and it was real work sometimes to peddle the machine over some of the rough dirt roads.

"When the bicycles first began to be common they would often scare the horses like the automobile did later until {Begin page no. 2}they got used to them.

"I guess the most exciting experience I ever had was because a horse got scared at a bicycle one time when I was a young girl living in Harlem.

"Some children were playing in a vacant lot and one of the very small {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}ones{End handwritten}{End inserted text} was allowed to wonder unnoticed by the others out into the street.

"Just as I cam out onto the street a horse farther up became frightened at a bicycle and threw its rider off, then it dashed wildly straight toward the little girl. {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text}

"I was near the baby but didn't have time to get out of the horses' way as I reached it, so the only thing I could think of was to fall on top of the baby and try to protect it with my body when the horses hoofs should strike which I was sure they would do... But the horse jumped right over {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} us, just as if he was taking a hurdle! Neither the baby or myself had even a bruise.

"I don't {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} remember who the horse belonged to, even if I knew at the time, but I've often wondered if the horse hadn't been trained as a hurdler-jumper. But whether he was or not, I was glad he jumped when he came to the child and myself piled up there in the middle of the road....

"It has been interesting to watch the changes that have taken place in New York during my life-time and we have many more conveniences than we used to have but I don't know whether we are any {Begin deleted text}happiers{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}happier{End handwritten}{End inserted text} than we were in the early days.

"I've always taken an interest in politics and government {Begin page no. 3}and still do.

"During the last Presidential campagin I wrote a poem about President Roosevelt, think I sent to him and he sent me his personally autographed picture, which I prize very highly. I have written some other poems but the one about the President I think is perhaps the most interesting, for after all, I don't consider myself a real "poet!"

"I will give you the verse about the President. It is short. "The President:

"By the fireside sits a man,
"Studying and figuring the best he can.
"Through the radio he reaches our heart,
"Memories of his will never depart.
"On Nov. Third don't forget this Friend,
"Who worked and slaved for us without end.
"Roosevelt is the man of my inspiration,
"Long may he be head of the Nation.

--Mrs. Millie Larson

988 Boston Road

The Bronx.

"We will always keep President Roosevelt's picture as one of our cherished possessions."

...

WORKER' S COMMENT:

Mrs. Larson did not seam to be very specific in her places and dates, and did not wish to reveal her age. The incident of the run-away horse and her bravery in saving the child in the horses path seemed the most outstanding incident in her life. I tried to get other samples of her...poetry....in addition to like one given but she claimed she had no copies of them and could not remember. So, I am afraid that with this one sample of the work of a "local poet" we will have to be content. But there is a distinct bit of "humanism" revealed in her pride that because {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}of{End handwritten}{End inserted text} her effort at writing, so distinguished {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}a{End handwritten}{End inserted text} person as The President honored her with his photograph.

--Bowman

These details about the Bronx a generation ago are interesting, but I doubt that they have sufficient merit to stand by themselves. L. Wood

{Begin page}Earl Bowman: "Louisa G. Dawe's Story"

Reminiscences recorded too sketchy for use. But references in copy indicate possible {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} fund of German {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} American material as well as material on horse-drawn trolley cars and the medicine show which remained in the neighborhood for three years. {Begin handwritten}[D - Silver?]{End handwritten}{Begin page}{Begin handwritten}[Beliefs and CUSTOMS?] - Folk Stuff{End handwritten}

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}NY 1938 540 [9/9?]{End handwritten}

FORM C

WORKER: EARL BOWMAN

86 West 12th St

New York City

DATE: August 29, 1938

SUBJECT: LOUISA G DAWE

[981?] Tinton Ave

The Bronx, New York LOUISA G. DAWE'S STORY!

"Yes, I was born in New York, on the lower East Side. When I was very young I went to Fletcher's School which was a very good training place and I received there a good education in German. Hours were from 4 to 6 in the afternoon and from 9 to 12 on Saturday mornings, so as not to conflict with public school hours.

"We always had our Christmas festival at Geib's Hall, on 170th Street and Third Avenue, studying hard to give a good performance. One one occasion one of the girls bowed backwards at the end of her recitation and made the audience laugh. She burst into tears when she realized her error.

"We moved from the Lower East Side to take charge of the hall and saloon owned by Mrs. Zeltner, and all the German Societies came "up to the country" on a Sunday to enjoy the "pot cheese" and sweet butter, fresh from the farms.

"Opposite us was an old-fashioned dry goods store owned and operated by Mrs. Dunn, the mother-in-law of Al Smith. Her daughter and I were playmates for a good many years. Many a good time we had playing with the Kerrigan boys, whose father {Begin page no. 2}was manager of the Third Avenue surface car line. The car barns were only a block away, where they changed horses for the rest of the trip to Fordham.

"There was a skating pond at the rear of Zeltner's Brewery on Fulton Avenue. It {Begin deleted text}wass{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}was{End handwritten}{End inserted text} a lovely place, and crowds would come there every evening.

"Ruser's blacksmith shop stood at the northwest corner of 170th Street and Third Avenue. He was a robust man and was liked by all. He used to shoe lots of horses.

"At Jefferson Street and Boston Road, was Genez's Schnetzen Park where the German societies went for picnics and practise at shooting. The park had a rifle range about 200 feet long.

"From Zeltner's we used to go down to Grove Hill Park at 161st Street and St. Ann's Avenue. It was a beautiful park built on terraces and with immense shade trees. On Sunday's the different societies would each occupy a terrace of their own and sometimes there were as many as four clubs on a single day.

"Then there was the Merry Circle {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Bowling Club, all of whose members were prominent men and what pranks they were up to on their meeting nights!

"I remember when 161st Street was cut through. Prospect Avenue was beautiful with its large shade trees on each side of the street. Among the beautiful residences was Ebling's on the southwest corner of 163rd Street., with its sightly flower garden. On the northeast corner was their vegetable {Begin page no. 3}garden which extended to Stebbins Avenue.

"Wakeling's Nursery was located an the east side of Tinton Avenue between 163rd and 165th Streets. He certainly had beautiful plants for sale.

"After he sold the place the empty lot was taken over by an Indian Show for three weeks...but it remained for two {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} years! It was popular and sold lots of medicine.

"Right opposite was an evangelical tent to which we would often go after having had a good laugh at the Indian Show!

"Things have changed in The Bronx since then, but we enjoyed ourselves and I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a happier place now if it was still like it used to be...."

****

WORKERS COMMENT:

Louisa G, Dawe is American born of German descent. She has lived at the house 981 Tinton Avenue for thirty-five years. A rather difficult person to interview. Her first reaction when told that I would like to hear some of memories of early New York days, was: "How much will I get paid for it?" A bit of explaining, however, induced her to forego the idea that it was a paid interview."

The most interesting bit in her interview seemed to me to be the referrence to the Indian Shows (Medicine) and the nearness of the shows to the evangelical tent...giving the young people of that day rare opportunity to enjoy "worldly" amusement and "spiritual" exhiliration quite freely and inexpensively!

She could recall any of the songs sung either in the religious meetings, or the Indian show. This was rather disappointing to me, as that might have been a bit of real folklore.

However, she did the best she could.

--Bowman

MR. PAUL'S STORY

(Bowman )

(Introduction):- *AM

On Tinton Avenue in the lower East Bronx, there is an old, three-story frame house. Thirty years ago, Tinton Avenue was a tree-lined, suburban street. Now it is bleak and stony. Apartment houses, old and new, blot out the sun. The little, private house is ever in shadow, gripped in the vise of two dirty, brick tenements.

Mr. P., a well-preserved, reticent man, 81 years of age, has lived in this old-fashioned house for the past 35 years. In his backyard he has a small garden, in which he cultivated flowers. This patch of earth, over which clotheslines, fire-escapes, aerial wires and tenement dust break the light, is Mr. P's last tangible relation with the old Bronx.

Suspicious at first, Mr. P. later warmed up a bit and gave a kaleidoscopic impression of the Bronx as it was years ago: names, places, habits and customs.

There is an organization in the Bronx called the Old Timers' Society. Mr. P. is one of its members. A rare individual. A real Bronx Old Timer.

(Washington comment:- "Good deal of value as social history.... Reminiscenses recorded, too sketchy for use. But references in copy indicate possible fund of (early) American material, as well as material on horse-drawn trolley cars..."

(*LW comment:- "These reminiscences of the Bronx of years ago have considerable interest, but are rather too fragmentary for our uses, in my opinion."

(*DS comment:- "Material as it is, not particularly useful. But mention of Blizzard and Blizzard {Begin deleted text}anecdotes{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}anecdote{End inserted text} indicates possible fund of such stories. "Tin-panning" reference gives reason to believe that Mr. Paul may recall other local customs and related incidents, if properly cultivated. Bronx Old Timers' Society, probably an excellent source of both contacts and material. Does the Society have a publication? Does it keep minutes of its meetings?"

{Begin page}Introduction to MR. PAUL'S STORY

On Tinton Avenue in the lower East Bronx, there is an old, three story, frame house. Thirty years ago, Tinton Ave. was a tree lined, suburban, street. Now it is bleak and stony. Apartment houses old and new, blot out the sun. The little, private house is ever in shadow, gripped in the vise of two dirty, brick tenements.

Mr. P., a well-preserved, reticent man, 81 years of age, has lived in this old-fashioned house for the past 35 years. In his backyard he has a small garden, in which he cultivates flowers. This patch of earth, over which, clothes lines, fire escapes, aerial wires and tenement dust, break the light, is Mr. P,'s last tangible relation with the old Bronx.

Suspicious at first, Mr. P. later warmed up a bit and {Begin deleted text}told{End deleted text} gave a kaleidoscopic impression of the Bronx as it was years ago: names, places, habits and customs.

There is an organization in the Bronx, called the Old Timers' Society. Mr. P. is one of its members. A rare individual. A real Bronx Old Timer.

{Begin page}Earl Bowman: "Mr. Paul's Story"

Material as it is, not particularly useful. But mention of Blizzard and Blizzard anecdote indicates possible fund of such stories. "Tin-panning reference gives reason to believe that Mr. Paul may recall other local customs and related incidents if properly cultivated. Bronx Old Timers Society probably an excellent source of both contacts and material. Does the Society hove a publication? Does it keep minutes of its meetings? {Begin handwritten}D. Silver{End handwritten}

{Begin page}These reminiscences of the Bronx of years ago have considerable interest, but are rather too fragmentary for our uses, in my opinion. lw {Begin page}GROUPS, GATHERINGS & ACTIVITIES

REMINISCENSES - BRONX - Early

(Blizzard)

(Localisms)

WASHINGTON COMMENT:

Good deal of value as social history. See Comment on Louisa G. Dawe story.

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}1000{End handwritten}

FORM C

State: New York

Name of Worker: Earl Bowman

Address: 86 West 12th St., New York City

Date: Aug, 22, 1938

Subject: GEORGE PAUL, Age. 81

953 Tinton Ave.

The Bronx, New York City

MR. PAUL'S STORY:

"In 1863 my father opened a grocery and feed store at Elton Ave., and 157th Street, then known as Washington Ave., and [Prospect?] Street.

"In 1878 he opened a branch store at Washington Avenue and 169th Street under the name of John Paul & Son. Our next door neighbor was J. G. Daum, the baker, who was known throughout the Bronx for his rye bread and for his kindness to those in need. His son still carries on the business at the same spot.

"On the northwest corner was Ferdon's Market, next came Sherwood's Lamp and Oil Store, and then Haupman's Paint Store. Dr. Henwood lived an the [southwest?] corner and on the southeast corner was Houchin's home and factory.

"At Third Avenue was Jake Schappert's Market and John [Sauer's?] Shoe store. On the northwest corner was Wetzel's Saloon. Then came John [Danm's?] Cigar Store, and farther up the block Pfluger's Barber Shop, Conrad [Danm?], the tailor and Richard [Danm?], the baker.

"At the northeast corner was Reinhart's Grocery and Feed Store.

{Begin page no. 2}Subject: GEORGE PAUL

WORKER: EARL BOWMAN

"In 1886 I moved to Third Avenue, when the elevated was being built. A station was located at our corner.

"Then came the blizzard. Dreste's bakery wagon got stuck in the drifts at our corner and could not be moved for three days. All the bread in the wagon was carried into my store and we sold every loaf. The horses were placed in my barn and had a good rest.

"Though I have lived in the Bronx seventy-four years, I feel like a stranger here now. I can walk for an hour and not meet a person I know. To meet old friends and schoolmates I attend meetings of the "Old Timer's of The Bronx," as I am fortunate enough to be a member.

"There we talk about old times, and it is: 'Mr. Paul, do you remember when the boys used to hang around outside your store and you put up a sign in your store window, 'Twelve loafers wanted to stand on this corner?' We did better than that; there were thirteen of us. And on my way home from school I used to upset your barrels!''

"'Remember old 'Dutch Five' Engine Company, how they used to celebrate after every fire? And how your father doctored some bologna with pepper to cure them of their 'taking ways?'

"As I walk down 163rd Street to Washington Avenue, memory brings back the Melrose and Morrisania of seventy years ago. The building which was 'Pickle' Snider's pickle factory is still standing and looks pretty good too. But Bruckner's Brewery, {Begin page no. 3}"Stocker's Slaughter House, Knapp's Lumber Yard and Charlie White's coal yard vanished long ago. Nearby was Mr. Short's fine garden in which were several cherry trees. My father used to buy the cherries to sell in our store and my brother Henry and I had the fun of picking them.

"Conover's had a fine rose garden which we used to pass when on our way to the baseball games at Union Ball Grounds. Bob Nicholson too, the real estate man, whose house was left high up on the rocks when Elton Avenue was cut down.

"I remember the night somebody set fire to a carload of hay belonging to Alonzo Carr. It was a big fire, and the engines pumped water out of Mill Creek, the brook for which Brook Avenue is named. I remember 'Old Pokey' crossing the railroad trestle over the brook back of Old Melrose School. Sometimes the boys jumped on the cowcatcher of the engine while in motion. One day Tom Condon tried to jump on but missed and was killed.

"We used to go bobbing for eels in the brook and caught some too, but they were not very big.

"Jonathan Hyatt was principal of Melrose School at that time. I don't think there was ever a better principal in The Bronx, but no school has ever been named after him. Our Board of Education ought to do him this honor.

"One day about seventy-three years ago, while going through Peggy Woods I found a nice baseball bat, which I have kept all {Begin page no. 4}"these years.

"I remember the 'tin-pannings' at weddings. The boys with their pans would make a great racket until someone came out and gave them money for a treat, or else invited them into the house for refreshments. One man was not so good natured and sent for Judge Hauptmann who arrested {Begin deleted text}to{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}two{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of the biggest boys."

*** {Begin deleted text}[WORKER'S?]{End deleted text} COMMENT:

The foregoing is given in Mr. Paul's own words, without editing or change; and I was careful to preserve his exact expression.

Mr, Paul is 81 years of age and it required three visits before I could secure the story from him. He is quite well preserved; lives in the same house he has owned for more than 35 years, an old fashioned three story frame structure. He has a beautiful garden in the rear and no doubt has been preserved in health by his interest in the cultivation of flowers, etc.

Personally, he is rather reticent and suspicious, so it was necessary to "cultivate' him a bit.

It might be that he could later be induced to talk of many things that would be of interest.

It will be noted that he used the words "Tin-panning" for what in some parts of the country is the old-fashioned charivari. No doubt editorial scrutiny will reveal other 'localisms' in his expressions.

"Old Tobey"...evidently was the name they applied to the railroad engine mentioned. The terse sentence: 'One day Tom Condon tried to jump on it but missed and was killed.' Seems to me a classic in simplicity and tremendous tragedy. {Begin deleted text}Respectfully,{End deleted text}

--Earl Bowman

Wm. D. Naylor Page 14

-- Earl Bowman

Mr. Naylor's Story of "The Dancing Turkeys"

(Unedited)

"When a man's in the carnival business its a good deal like when he's playing the races; he's either in the mazuma big or he's on his heels and washing his own shirts. There doesn't seem to be any half-and-half spot he can land in. He's either broke or flush; he either makes it fast or don't make it at all.

"But that don't mean that a real carnival man is ever on the town. He keeps a front and eats...not because it is handed to him from a back door or in a bread-line, but because he figures out some way to make it on his own.

"You don't see any genuine old-time carnival bird working the street for a dime, or picking up crumbs from a kitchen back door. They're independent and even if they're down to the last two-bits you'd never know it by looking at them, or hear it from their own lips. They might do a lot of cussing in private; to themselves, but never a hard-luck story to the outsiders....

"They've always got some kind of an idea tucked back in their head that they can pull out and turn into ham-and-egg {Begin page no. 15}money somehow.

"Even if the show goes flat, they'll raise tickets to the next burg someway and that without passing the public collection plate.

"And they'll raise it on the square...according to the 'ethics' of the profession which is: "[?] give the 'suckers' nothing... {Begin deleted text}[??????]{End deleted text} for their money, but when you give them nothing...you give them something!" Just like Barnum with his {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} 'horse with its {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}tail{End inserted text} where its {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}head{End inserted text} ought to be' (with its head at the back of the stall and its tail in the manger!) gave the suckers nothing and still he gave them a dime's worth of 'experience' for looking at the broncho in reverse!

"That's the way a carnival man is; he don t give them any thing, yet he gives them 'something'... {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} entertainment, experience, or amusement for the chicken feed he takes away from them at his rack, or wheel or ring-board. And if he has a run of 'mud-luck' he always finds a way to get out somehow, raise a stake and climb back into the game.

"That's the way it was when I invented the 'dancing turkeys' when I got into the carnival racket after quitting Doc Porter's {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Medicine Show.

"It was down in the Ozark Hill country of Arkansas at a country fair and it was one of those 'dry hauls {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}.'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} None of us were dragging in enough to even pay ground rent.

"I was running a rack but none of the yokels {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} in that {Begin page no. 16}neighborhood seemed to have ambitions to be big league baseball pitchers and they'd just stand around and look at my babies, grin and never spend a dime for a handful of balls. Even when I'd {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} spiel 'free throws' they'd back off, look suspicious and hang onto their dimes....

"It got under my skin and I figured there must be {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} something they'd go for if I could only frame it up.

"Well, I finally got my inspiration.

"The town was one of those backwoods places like there used to be along in {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} late {Begin deleted text}1990's{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}1890's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} where there wasn't any 'stock laws' {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and cows, hogs, horses, chickens and turkeys...and hound dogs...ran around without restraint.

"The turkeys wandering around the street, gawky and dumb looking, gave me my big idea... I'd invent 'dancing turkeys!' The natives ought to go for {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} that sort of a show... They did.

"I got a big dry goods box, about four feet square, fixed it up with a wire cage on top; the back of the box open; bought a couple {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} turkeys, a Tom and a hen; put 'em in the cage and was ready {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} to exhibit my 'dancing turkeys.'

"Those natives fell for it in droves...at a dime a piece. And it was a good show!

"I'd spiel a crowd in -- had 'em roped off so they couldn't get too close to the cage, then start the performance. The turks would be standing or squatted there as sleep and stupid as 'common' turkeys are, then I'd start playing on a tin flute, something like an Indian snake charmer, sort of slow and soft {Begin page no. 17}at first. The turks would perk up, as if listening to the music, then they's {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} start to step around, jerking {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}up{End inserted text} first one {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}foot{End handwritten}{End inserted text} then the other just as if they were keeping time to the tune. I'd watch 'em and as they stepped faster I'd play faster and pretty soon those darned birds would be doing a regular tap dance or...maybe you ought call it a 'turkey trot' around that cage[?] Then I'd ease down on the music, shoo the crowd out, and fill the tent with a new bunch of suckers...

"Pretty soon I had plenty of dough. And my dancing turkeys was a senstation!

"How'd I train 'em so quick?'

"Simple: I just had a tin bottom in the cage and a big coal oil lamp under it; {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} a negro kid inside of the the box to turn the lamp up when I'd start to play, and turn it down when I'd kick the side of the box after the turks had danced long enough...

"It was worth the money and the natives got all they paid for... You know a turkey can lift his feet awful quick when he's standing on something hot; and {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} he looks darned funny while he's doing it...."

(more Naylor to come)

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12 Street

DATE February 23, 1939

SUBJECT A Dirty Trick on the Little Horse

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

Daca's Bookstore 63 Washington Square New York City

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Earl Bowman

ADDRESS 86 West 12 Street

DATE February 14, 1939

SUBJECT "A DIRTY TRICK ON THE LITTLE HORSE"

Narrator, Tom Nolan (Homeless)

Age 73 years

Interview at Daca's Bookstore

63 Washington Square, So.,

New York City "A DIRTY TRICK ON THE LITTLE HORSE"

(Told by Tom Nolan, an old-time

(horse truck driver, jobless

(by reason of old age and the

(substitution of motor trucks for

(horse trucks in New York City)

(Unedited) Part 1

It was in the cave-like corner (the-'office') in the rear of Daca's Bookstore, while the thick haze from Daca and Tom Nolan's pipes steadily reduced the visibility, that Tom, the still husky old ex-horse truck driver, told of the most terrible "accident" in the history of trucking in New York City.

Old Tom, in no wise discounting his sympathy for the human victims of the disaster, indignantly called it, "also, a damned dirty trick on the little horse", that had without any choice on its part been made an actor in the tragedy and because of it perished with the others.

{Begin page no. 2}We were back in Daca's place after the three of us had been around to the cheap restaurant a block away, where twenty-five cents bought a "truck-driver" order of liver and onions. So, for the time at least there was an "armstice" between us and Man's most cruel and relentless enemy-Hunger; the enemy that attacks every human creature daily and without mercy, regardless of age, sex or race, creed or color...

Our individual stomachs were full; our smokes were going; we were congenial souls, and as men at peace and who neither regret "yesterday" nor fear "tomorrow," we were in the mood for talk.

Daca spoke of a dreadful accident of which he had read in the paper that day; an accident in which a giant motor truck had crashed into a private car...the gas tanks exploded, there was a fire, five people were burned to death....

"Those big trucks sure are bad actors when one of them does break loose and go wild," Daca commented tersely and let it go at that. The picture was plain enough for all of us. Tom Nolan took it up from there, and this is the story he told;

"Ye are right, Daca, me boy," Old Tom who had guided horse trucks through the streets of New York for many years, began, "'Tis true, and I have observed it; when one of them big "mankillers' such as knocked Jerry and me out of our jobs an' made us both 'obsolete' as hell, takes a notion to misbehave, it can and often does do a vast amount of damage to human life and limb and other things.

"Ten-ton trucks are not things for little boys and girls to play with, for at times they are bad actors indeed.

{Begin page no. 3}"No taxi cab, private car or any other sort of light-weight conveyance has the slightest business disputin' the right-of-way, or who shall go first with one of them damn 'mogul motor' trucks-- That is the name I call them, and 'tis a good name for them, for they can be as dangerous as one of them big 'mogul' railroad locomotives would be if it decided to run on the street or highway instead of on the steel rails where it properly belongs...

"For a little car to go up against one of them in a collision is like it would be for a feather-weight amateur to get in the way of Joe Louis or Tony Gallento; one good smack and it is all over except gatherin' up the human and other fragments and clearin' the street of the wreckage.

"But distasteful and bad as they are they are necessary. People have become so numerous in New York that trucks with strength enough to carry four or five tons of potatoes or flour or beer or what have ye, and with power enough to do it fast were just as unavoidable as it was to keep little buildings from being torn down and big ones built on the spot where the little ones had been.

"They are here and there is nothing that can be done about it, and I am not complainin' even if I do get homesick sometimes for Jerry and the old horse-truck.

"Since 'tis necessary to have big trucks to move big loads and do it in a damn big hurry, accidents will happen in spite of hell.

"Some of the trucks are bound to go haywire once in a while; or their drivers will go to sleep, or get drunk, or get to payin' attention to some girl on the sidewalk instead of keepin' their eyes and their minds on the job for which they are hired--which

{Begin page no. 4}is to drive th' damn truck and then hell is to pay. An accident happens and somebody, maybe four or five people at once, usually innocent bystanders who've had nothing at all to do with it in the first place, get killed or busted up in the destruction that follows.

"'Tis hell, but that is the way of it..

"But what I was reminded of, Daca, when ye mentioned them five unfortunate victims gettin' smashed up by an 'accident' with one of them big motor trucks--then roasted in the fire that followed the tragedy ye read about in the paper, was of th' most terrible slaughter of human beings that any truck, in th' whole history of th' truckin' industry, was ever mixed up in the City of New York.

"It was no 'motor truck' as big an a box car, travelin' along th' street at thirty or forty miles an hour, that was responsible for it, or mixed in it.

"It was a damn little one-horse 'horse truck' and it was standin' still when th' disaster happened. Indeed, th' damn thing was not even big enough to be properly called a 'truck' at all, if a man sticks to th' absolute truth which of course he should always do. It was nothin' but a rickety, wobbly-wheeled (which probably needed greasin') spring wagon. The kind of rig ye can sometimes see, even these days. Some flower peddler or junk-collector will be drivin' it around the streets...and th' horse pullin' it will be bony and need curryin' and evidently doesn't get as much oats and hay as he ought to.

{Begin page no. 5}"That was the sort of outfit; just an old spring wagon to which was hitched a horse scarcely larger than a polo pony in size, yet 'twas mixed up in the most horrible and wickedest 'truck tragedy' in the history of New York...

"What happened? The whole damned works blowed up--exploded--distributed dreadful and bloody death all around th' vicinity in which it happened. 'Twas like--or must have been very much like when them 'insurgent' airplanes (that's what ye call th' bastards ain't it?) drops bombs in the streets of one of them towns in Spain, or like the Japs are droppin', so they say, in China.

"It was in the summer of 1920...I'm pretty sure that is the year, though I'm not always positive about dates, but never forget places or things I have seen.

"The time of day was noon and the little truck, if ye can call it a truck, certainly picked one hell of a bad place in which to blow up like it did--

"Wall Street, in front of the Subtreasury Building, straight across the street from Morgan's.

"'Twould take a hell of a lot of huntin' to find a worse spot in the entire City of New York--or a worse time, for a lot of dynamite to go off.

"Imagine it if ye can, Lads-- Hundreds of stenographers, clerks, messengers full of life, laughin', kiddin' each other, crowdin' the walks, hurryin' to the drug store or lunch counter for their slice of apple pie and glass of milk, or chocolate malted, or double-deck sandwich an' cup of coffee, or whatever they were aimin' to eat for lunch...

{Begin page no. 6}"Nobody payin' a damned bit of attention to the little horse-wagon standin' there at the curb in front of the Subtreasury Building; there was no red flags or "Danger" signs on it as the Law requires to warn people if it was loaded with dangerous explosives, and there was no reason for anybody to pay attention to it.

"Innocent as hell it looked, standin' there, headed West toward Broad Street a few hundred feet away and on the southwest corner of which they were then startin' to put up the big building that is now there...just well started on it and still excavatin'... workin' in the rock on which 'tis built...

"Then, without an instant's warning that damned little horse-truck or, to be accurate what was in it went off;

"In th' wink of an eye more than a score...thirty-one I think it was, or maybe 'twas thirty-three of them stenographers, clerks and messengers who a breath before were alive, laughin' and happy...never dreamin' of death...were lyin' mangled and blowed to pieces...dead or dyin' there in one of the busyest and probably th' richest damned street in th' world...

"'Twas nothin' but slaughter, wholesale and hellish slaughter, Lads, that come from that little horse-wagon that day in Wall Street.

{Begin page no. 7}Part 2

"Now ye understand what I meant, Lads, when I said that no big ten-ton motor truck, deadly as they can be at times, has ever in the history of th' truckin' industry in New York City been responsible for the amount of destruction and ruin that that one little horse-wagon brought about that day in Wall Street.

"Of course th' first idea that most people had was that it 'twas a plot to blow th' Subtreasury Building and take a crack at Morgan's while they were at it. And from what th' police found it sure as hell looked like it might be just that, horrible as such a thing would be.

"Th' Subtreasury Building and Morgan's and even down th' street toward th' West on th' corner across from where they were startin' to put up th' big building that is now there, there were scars on th' stone walls where slugs of iron had been flung against them by th' explosion.

"Those slugs, th' police decided were pieces of window weights...chunks of iron like 'shrapnel' I think they call it that is used in warfare.

"So th' newspapers and most everybody else decided that it could have been nothing but a dastardly plot of th' 'reds' or th' 'communists' or th' 'socialists' or some other unpopular and supposed to be wicked bunch to spread death and ruin in the center of New York City's financial district...

"Perhaps 'twas a natural conclusion on account of those slugs of window weights that had bombarded th' buildings in th' {Begin page no. 8}neighborhood. But when one stopped to think about it...it did seem a little curious that anybody could be such dammed fools as to think they could knock down and wreck a building like th' Subtreasury Building by exploding a bunch of small chunks of iron against th' walls of ... I thought of that when, later, I went down and looked the scene of th' carnage over, which I did th' next day.

"But anyhow, that's the way they figured it out. They figured that some fiends in human form had made a big bomb, fillin' th' center of it with dynamite, then packin' th' outside of it with cut up pieces of window weights to make it as deadly as possible; they had loaded it in th' little one horse truck behind th' innocent and unsuspicious little horse, drove it up to th' curb in front of th' Subtreasury Building and then ducked out, leaving the little horse to be blowed up along with whatever unfortunate human beings who might also be blowed to pieces when it went off!

"The driver of th' rig, so it was said, left th' outfit at th' curb, went down to th' new building they were working on... asked for th' boss and while waitin' for th' boss to be found, went into a telephone booth to make a call to somebody... He was in the booth when the explosion took place...

"After that, nobody saw him any more. I presume that he was well aware that what was left of the wagon and th' poor little horse that had been pullin' it would not be worth trying to gather up. Besides, I imagine that he thought that was a hell of a good place to get away from and do it quick. That's what he did. And so far as I've ever been able to learn nobody knows yet who he was or where {Begin page no. 9}he went to...or if they do know they've kept mighty still about it for all these years!

"Well, everybody thinkin' it was a bomb plot' everybody... including meself was properly horrified and indignant...

"For I tell ye, Lads, like all good citizens I have no damned use for people who blow other people up, whether they do it intentionally and with wicked motives or whether they do it through, well, I'll say carelessness and perhaps an improper disregard for th' safety of others...not only blow up human beings but also blow to pieces a poor damned little horse who was simply earnin' his oats and hay while he pulled th' rig in which the dynamite or whatever it was was being hauled... And I still say, 'twas a dirty trick on th' little on the horse

"The more I thought of it th' dirtier I thought it was.

"Suppose, I thought to meself, it had been Jerry they left standin' there to be blowed to hell when th' explosion took place. Even to think of it made me mad as hell...

"I felt, as I suppose most everyone felt, that I' like to get me hands on the devil or devils that could be guilty of buildin' a bomb and 'perpertratin' such an outrage. So, Lads, though I'm no detective and I don't claim to be smarter than most other men, even truck drivers, I did a bit of investigatin' on me own hook.

"I wanted to see what was left of that little horse that was murdered along with th' rest of th' victims. It was possible I thought that I would recognize it, for I've always been observant of horses and everyone I've noticed is a little different from every other one, and has some mark or peculiarty that makes a body {Begin page no. 10}remember it.

"If I did recognize him I might know th' stable he came from and then 'twould look to be an easy matter to find out who th' hell took him out that day...and didn't bring him back.

"So I looked for him, but I never saw him... They took the body away immediately and sent it to Barren Island to be turned into fertilizer like I was afraid they would do Old Jerry when the damned motor trucks made him and me 'obsolete' and we lost our jobs.

"But I did see some other things, Lads. I noticed that the scars on the buildings from the window weight slugs that were supposed to be packed around th' bomb had only been fired in three directions... to each side and forward toward where they were building the new building on the corner. Then, hell, I realized it was all a mistake.

"The whole thing was an 'accident' but a damned wicked and cruel one--

"What happened was this Lads:

"Somebody wanted some dynamite that day and were in too big a hurry for it to wait for the proper time to haul it through the streets...and which certainly was not in the middle of the day when the streets were crowded.

"At the same time the same people or somebody else wanted some window-weights delivered to them too, so th' lad who was handlin' that little wagon-truck was instructed to take the stuff to where it was ordered.

"He loaded the stuff in his wagon, cordin' the window weights up in the front end of it against the back of the seat; behind the window weights he pushed in his boxes of dynamite...probably not realizin' how damned dangerous the stuff was.

{Begin page no. 11}"Then he drove across town with it... In drivin' the window weights juggled down in each side of the dynamite boxes, and no doubt there was some fulminatin' caps in the outfit too...and I can tell ye, Lads, that fulminatin' caps and dynamite and window weights are damned poor neighbors to have close together in a wagon that is liable to be jolted or shaken a bit...

"Then he got up to the Subtreasury Building and 'twas the only place where there was a spot for him to pull into the curb, which he did. There he left the deadly load and while he was gone something happened--maybe the little horse, being hot and sweaty shook himself... which would cause the wagon to shake...a window weight might have dropped down on a spot of nitro-gycerine that had "sweat" out of the dynamite, or on a fulminatin' cap that had spilled out...

"And the 'accident happened!' All, Lads, because somebody was in too damned big a hurry to do a little blastin' in rock...and wanted their dynamite delivered at once...regardless of the Law... or the safety of human lives...

"But it was 'murder' Lads, just the same...and it also should be a lesson to all of us, drivers of these damned big motor trucks as well as other people, to never be in too big a hurry...either to deliver dynamite...or jump at conclusions as to just how anything happened!

"There ye have th' story of th' worst 'truck accident' that ever happened in New York and-- Hell, Lads, 'tis time I was driftin' down to me flop house!"

That was Old Tom Nolan's story of the Great Wall Street explosion...and neither Daca or myself could doubt Old Tom's sincerity in believing that it was the TRUE STORY.

END

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM C TEXT OF INTERVIEW (UNEDITED)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS

DATE

SUBJECT Living folklore gambling conversations pullman porters. "HOUSEMAN'S MONOLOGUE"

You can't win if you don't bet, so down it and get from round it. There're seven big numbers in the field. Think you're lucky? Fifteen to one on eleven; four to one you don't. You get even money on Big Six or Eight. The house bets you win or lose. You make it, we pay it.

Thirty to one you can't name your crap and throw it. So take some and leave some and, remember, the best throw on the dice is when you throw them away. Git down gentlemen. In other words, low it and you won't owe it. This is your one chance to make fast money faster. You can't do it on tips and when your old lady asks you for them new shoes or that fur coat, what you gonna say? You can't say no 'cause if you don't some other "square" will.

'All right, the gentleman shoots five dollars and a nickel". {Begin page no. 2}CONVERSATION SNATCHES

"That dinge's blowing his top."

"Hell, he's already blowed it."

"Why don't you spades with no money get up from the table?"

"Where we gonna sit?"

"Sit on th' floor. What duh hell do I care?"

"Shut up, ol' simple-ass darky."

"I was a fool for bettin' that hand."

"Didn't take that han' to make you no fool."

"Come on, you chamber maids, let's gamble."

"Ten spot! I'm gone to the cleaners."

"Come on you rail-birds. Don't bother the players."

"Dear Brother, are you going any fu'ther?"

The 133 Street block between Lenox and Seventh Avenues is one of the most thickly populated in Harlem. Of a late Summer afternoon the place is a squalidly-picturesque sight with housewives leaning out of the windows, ragged, unkempt little dusky skinned urchins playing carelessly in the street, vegetable men hawking their wares, "corn (liquor) salesmen walking up and down the block with their kitchen manufactured intoxicating beverages weighting down their persons, all day party goers whooping it up in the upstairs buffet flats and the music machines going full blast far into the night.

"Homey", the vegetable man comes through the block every afternoon about one or two o'clock. Seldom does he vary from this schedule, and his daily visit is eagerly looked forward to by the buxom, colorful housewives. Homey's song is vaguely reminiscent of one known as the "I Got Um Man", previously turned in by this worker. The tune is a little different, however, and even Homey, himself, is not certain what theme the lyrics will follow from day to day. But the following is typical of his long drawn-out sing-song wail:

"Ah got green peas for duh baby,
Got cabbage for duh ol' lady-ee
Got string beans for duh ol' man..nn.nn.n!

The next day his song will probably take this turn:

Got blackberries today fo'ks! Blackberries for duh baby
Blackberries for duh ol' lady, Blackberries for duh ol' man!

Then he'll pause and say:

"If you ain't got no ol' man, take me."

{Begin page no. 2}The women, their vanity tickled by this little amorous sally, will giggle and buy an extra pound of potatoes or cabbage. Homey is a born salesman when it comes to the ladies. He can always think of something to catch or stimulate their interest.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th. St. NYC

DATE September 22, 1938

SUBJECT HARLEM HOUSE-RENT PARTIES

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview The [Symphony?] Club -- a meeting place of musicians, actors, dancers and other vaudeville performers -- 131st. St. and 7th. Ave

3. Name and address of informant Related to the reporter by "Slick" Reynolds, Black Jack dealer at the Symphony Club, located at 131st. St. and Seventh Ave. (Harlem)

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Reynolds freely admits, like many others, of having made a regular business of giving rent parties and maintaining a "buffet-flat" (pleasure house)

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th. St. NYC

DATE September 22, 1938

SUBJECT HARLEM HOUSE-RENT PARTIES

Sure, I used to give rent-parties all the time. And I made pretty good at it till repeal came along. Then I {Begin deleted text}hade{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}had{End inserted text} to give it up. Too much risk. A cop on the beat could be paid off, but them A.B.C. boys (State Beverage Control Board) can't be reached even by the big shots.

There was plenty of dough in the party racket and it used to be the mainstay of a lot of the boys who needed to make a little extra dough. But the only trouble with staging rent-parties as an out-an-out hustle was the lousy crowd you had to cater to. You put out your cards, hire a piano-player, open your door an' just wait for all sorts of studs and chicks to wander in. If you were lucky, you might get through the night without any major accidents -- but I never seemed to have that kinda luck. Some punchdrunk [spade or dizzy?] broad was always breaking up my shindigs. First they'd get loaded to the gills with King Kong, start getting rambuncktuous an' wanting to pick a fight at the drop of a hat. Some guy'd get accidently shoved or just naturally get evil cause his ol' lady would dance more than once...same guy. The next minute, he'd be whooping like a wild Indian, waving his blade and threatening to cut anybody who came near him. Well, that'd most likely be the end of my party. Folks would start running in every direction -- out {Begin page no. 2}into the hallway, on the fire-escape, anywhere. One Saturday night I even found a chick bracing herself inside the dumb-waiter shaft, after some Mose went haywire and shot out the lights.

It all started when his girl got stuck on a big black boy dressed in longshoreman's dungarees, who came stalking in about twelve o'clock with a pocket full of money and a mind to spend it all. He gunned this chick, liked her style and set about making a play for her. The broad was willing and showed her teeth from then on. Her feller kept watching out of the corner of his eye, and by the time he'd been back to the kitchen five or six times for a slug {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of my liquid, I knew that it wouldn't be long before he'd explode. Well, I was right. Pretty soon he walks up to the big boy an' says:

["Listen, ol' son -- can't you find anybody else to dance wit' 'ceptin' my ol' lady?"

Ain't no sign on her says she's yo' ol' lady, is dere?"

"Well, sign or no sign, better not catch you dancing wid her no more."

"'Spose I do. What den?"?]

"Well, I'll either have some of you or you'll have some of me!"

"Well, don't give a damn if I do," says the big feller; an' from then on, it was on. Glasses started flying, chairs overturned, women screaming, and God knows what else. I usually ducks into a closet an' waits for 'em to finish it up before I comes out to look things over an' see how much damage is done.

Well, that's how most of my parties ended. An' then, to top it off, when the cops would come, they'd stalk through the house straight back to the kitchen and throw down a half dozen or more slugs of my likker and stuff their cost pockets with fried chicken.

{Begin page no. 3}I was lucky to make a profit at all. But what the hell, sometimes I had a good night and my books showed a pretty fair profit. Guess that's why I stayed in the racket until it finally petered out.

FOLKLORE

***

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 28, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters' & Dining Car Workers' Stories

1. Date and time of interview March 27, 11:30 A.M.

2. Place of interview 46 West 136th Street, N.Y.C.

3. Name and address of informant Marvin Leonard 46 West 136th Street New York City

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

Robert Ball 46 West 135th Street, N.Y.C.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

None

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Apartment House

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Bryd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 28, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters' & Dining Car Workers' Stories {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}II -{End handwritten}{End inserted text} CHEF {Begin deleted text}SAMPSON{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}SAMPSON'S ICE BOX{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

When we were running on the Pennsy, there was an old chef on our run who was the {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[{End handwritten}{End inserted text} meanest,{Begin inserted text}]{Begin handwritten}{End handwritten}{End inserted text} most onery old cuss you ever heard of. His name was Sampson and he could out-cuss a blue streak. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[{End handwritten}{End inserted text} He was short, squatty and black... and as evil as he was black. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} He was a dictator in his kitchen and there was hell to pay any time the dining car waiters and cooks assistants did not hue the line as far as chef's kitchen-rules were concerned.

There was one thing he was particularly mean about. He didn't allow anybody, not even the steward or second cook, to go into his ice box. The steward had the right to, of course, but even he used to humor the old man because he was so efficient in his work. And any time the second or third cooks wanted anything, they had to say:

"Going in, Chef!"

Meaning, of course, the ice {Begin deleted text}bos{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}box{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. Well, if he felt in the mood, he'd say:

"Go 'head in!"

{Begin page no. 2}If he didn't, the answer would be:

"Wait a minute. I'll git it for you. I got my box 'ranged jus' lak I want it an' I don't want it mixed up."

We also had an inspector named Mister Trout. He was a tall, rangy, mean-looking cracker from down in Georgia. He used to pop up unexpectedly in all sort of little out of the way stations, board the train and start gum-shooing around, seeing what he sees. Well, this day he climbs aboard at Altoona and just when we're speeding through the mountains to Pittsburgh, [old?] [man?] Trout eases back into the kitchen and starts rummaging through [chef's?] ice {Begin deleted text}bos{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}box{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. Chef had his back turned and was busy chopping some onions on a board near the window. He heard the commotion, however, and, without turning around, said:

"Git the hell outa dat ice {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}box{End handwritten}{End inserted text}."

Old [man?] Trout said nothing, but continued his inspection.

"Git outa dat ice box, I say!" [chef?] repeated, still without turning around.

Old [man?] Trout straightened up to his full six, rawbony feet, took one contemptuous look at Chef Sampson and said;

"Who in hell do you think you're talkin' to? My name is TROUT!"

Chef Sampson stared back as cool as you please. Finally he {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} drawled:

"I wouldn't give a damn if it's CATFISH. You git duh hell outa my ice box!"

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 110 King Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 6, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters & Dining Car Workers Stories.

1. Date and time of interview March 6th, 1 P.M.

2. Place of interview 200 West 135th Street

3. Name and address of informant Leroy Spriggs, 200 West 135th Street New York City

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. Met him in pool room.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

No one.

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc. Office building with branch office of P.P. union, cabaret in basement, bar and pool-room on street floor.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 110 King Street

DATE March 6, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters & Dining Car Workers Stories {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}I -{End handwritten}{End inserted text} CHEF WATKINS' ALIBI

Chef Watkins was a short, fat squatty little Negro with the meanest {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[{End handwritten}{End inserted text} most onery {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} disposition of any cook I've ever known; and I've known some mean ones in my time. He had a jet black skin, full pork-chop lips and a belly on him that shook like tapioca when he was working the lunch-hour rush. He could {Begin deleted text}curse{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}cuss{End handwritten}{End inserted text} like a top-sergeant and seemed to take a fiendish delight in giving the boys hell.

When we had taken about as much of his crap as we could stand, the boys got together and hatched up a plot to get rid of him. The trouble was, he stood in too well with the big bosses. He was one of those kow-towing, old-fashioned, handkerchief-headed- {Begin deleted text}darkeys{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}darkies{End handwritten}{End inserted text} who would grin and yes a white tan to death and give his Negro subordinates hell from morning till night.

We all knew that Chef Watkins was killing the Company for everything he could steal. He had bought a huge, rambling old country house down in Maryland and a large breeding farm for jumping horses and prize stock {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[/?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}... and you can't do that on what the Pullman Company pays you even if you have worked for them twenty years and have full seniority rating.

{Begin page no. 2}Nothing was too big or too small for him to steal. He had worked out a system with the commissary steward and between them they did an awful lot of bill padding. In addition to that, he used to throw hams, chickens, legs of lamb and anything else off to his wife or children whenever he passed his place near Bowie. You know, that junction where the Pennsy crosses the Seaboard?

Well, the boys got together and decided that old Cheffie had to go. So what we did was to drop a little hint here and there to Mr. Palmer, our chief steward, that if he'd just happen around the kitchen when we were nearing that Seaboard crossing, he might find out what was happening to all our missing supplies that he was catching hell about back in the New York commissary.

To make it short and sweet, when we neared the junction this day, Chef Watkins was busy, as usual, getting his hams and {Begin deleted text}chickets{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}chickens{End handwritten}{End inserted text} together to toss out the window to his wife who was armed, as was customary, {Begin deleted text}wit{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}with {End handwritten}{End inserted text} her old potato sack in which she carried home the bacon; not to mention eggs {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} (well-packed of course {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} ){Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}.{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

Just as the train slowed down and the chef leaned back, ham poised like a football about to take flight, [old?] [man?] Palmer drawled in that deep Southern accent, as only [old?] [man?] Palmer could: What in hell do you think you're doin' there {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Watkins?"

Well, you could have knocked the chef over with a feather. He stumbled, coughed and did everything but turn pale. It's the only time I've ever seen him stuck for words.

"Know one thing, Mr. Palmer?" he finally spluttered {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}.{End handwritten}{End inserted text} "{Begin deleted text}dere's{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Dere's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} a ol' black, nappy-headed woman who stands out dere by duh crossin' and cusses me an' calls me all sorta names ever time I pass hyeah, an' it makes me so mad I jus' grabs up duh fus thing I gits mah han's on an th'ows it at {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} 'er." {Begin page no. 3}{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Old [man?] Palmer just looked at him with a cold stare and a wise smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

That was the last we saw of Chef Watkins. But, back in the yards, we heard that he was not only transferred to a lousy run but also lost his twenty years seniority that he was always crowing about ..... the old bastard. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

New York {Begin handwritten}New York Sleeping Car Porter{End handwritten}

ON THE PENNSY

I - CHEF WATKINS' ALIBI

Chef Watkins was a short, fat squatty little Negro with the meanest disposition of any cook I've ever known; and I've known some mean ones in my time. He had a jet black skin, full pork-chop lips and a belly on him that shook like tapioca when he was working the lunch-hour rush. He could cuss like a top-sergeant and seemed to take a fiendish delight in giving the boys hell.

When we had taken about as much of his crap as we could stand, the boys got together and hatched up a plot to get rid of him. The trouble was, he stood in too well with the big bosses. He was one of those {Begin deleted text}know{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}kow{End handwritten}{End inserted text} -towing, old-fashioned, handkerchief-headed darkies who would grin and yes a white man to death and give his Negro subordinates hell from morning till night.

We all knew that Chef Watkins was killing the Company for everything he could steal. He had bought a huge, rambling old country house down in Maryland and a large breeding farm for jumping horses and prize stock .... and you can't do that on what the Pullman Company pays you even if you have worked for them twenty years and have full seniority rating.

Nothing was too big or too small for him to steal. He had worked out a system with the commissary steward and between them they did an awful lot of bill padding. In addition to that, he used to throw hams, chickens, legs of lamb and anything else off to his wife or children whenever he passed his place near Bowie. You know, that junction where the Pennsy crosses the Seaboard?

{Begin page no. 2}Well, the boys got together and decided that Old Cheffie had to go. So what we did was to drop a little hint here and there to Mr. Palmer, our chief steward, that if he'd just happen around the kitchen when we were nearing that Seaboard crossing, he might find out what was happening to all our missing supplies that he was catching hell about back in the Now York commissary.

To make it short and sweet, when we neared the junction this day, Chef Watkins was busy, as usual, getting his hams and chickens together to toss out the window to his wife who was armed, as was customary, with her old potato sack in which she carried home the bacon; not to mention eggs (well-packed of course).

Just as the train slowed down and the chef leaned back, ham poised like a football about to take flight, Old Man Palmer drawled in that deep Southern accent, as only Old Man Plamer could: "What in hell do you think you're doin' there, Watkins?"

Well, you could have knocked the chef over with a feather. He stumbled, coughed and did everything but turn pale. It's the only time I've ever seen him stuck for words.

"Know one thing, Mr. Palmer?" he finally spluttered. "Dere's a ol' black, nappy-headed woman who stands out dere by duh crossin' and cusses me an' calls me all sorta names ever time I pass hyeah, an' it makes me so mad I {Begin deleted text}Jus'{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}jus'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} grabs up duh fus thing I gits mah han's on an th'ows it at 'er."

II - CHEF SAMPSON'S ICE BOX

When we were running on the Pennsy, there was an old chef on our run who was the most onery old cuss you ever heard of. His name was Sampson and he could out-cuss a blue streak. He was a dictator in his kitchen and there was hell to pay any time the dining car waiters and cooks assistants did not hew the line as far as chef's kitchen-rules were concerned.

{Begin page no. 3}There was one thing he was particularly mean about. He didn't allow anybody, not even the steward or second cook, to go into his ice box. The steward had the right to, of course, but even he used to humor the old man because he was so efficient in his work. And any time the second or third cooks wanted anything, they had to say:

"Going in, Chef!"

Meaning, of course, the ice box. Well, if he felt in the mood, he'd say:

"Go 'head in!"

If he didn't, the answer would be:

"Wait a minute. I'll git it for you. I got my box 'ranged jus' lak I want it an' I don't want it mixed up."

We also had an inspector named Mister Trout. He was a tall, rangy, mean-looking cracker from down in Georgia. He used to pop up unexpectedly in all sort of little out of the way stations, board the train and start gum-shoeing around, seeing what he sees. Well, this day he climbs aboard at Altoona and just when we're speeding through the mountains to Pittsburgh, Old Man Trout eases back into the kitchen and starts rummaging through Chef's ice box. Chef had his back turned and was busy chopping some onions on a board near the window. He heard the commotion, however, and, without turning around said:

"Git the hell outa dat ice box."

Old Man Trout said nothing, but continued his inspection.

"Git outa dat ice box, I say!" Chef repeated, still without turning around.

Old Man Trout straightened up to his full six, rawbony feet, took one contemptuous look at Chef Sampson and said:

{Begin page no. 4}"Who in hell do you think you're talkin' to? My name is TROUT!"

Chef Sampson stared back as cool as you please. Finally he drawled:

"I wouldn't give a damn if it's CATFISH. You git duh hell outa my ice box!"

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}14{End handwritten}

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 110 King Street

DATE March 9, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters and Dining Car Folklore

FATSO, THE SLICKSTER

Some guys are too smart for their own good. But you couldn't tell Fatso that. He believed that a sucker was not only born every minute, but that he was born to be taken by Fatso, himself, in person. He also figured the world owed him a living...a soft living. No other kind would do. And so, with only these simple rules to go by, Fatso constantly kept his eyes peeled for a "square"; a soft-touch on the loose.

Repeal hadn't come in yet and the porters in our crew were running between New York and Chicago. One week-end we laid over in Chi, the next we spent in New York. Fatso let no grass grow under his feet in either place. He got himself a beat-up apartment in both towns and opened up a corn joint; one of those places where porters, taxicab drivers, occasional strays and local lushes hang out during their spare time. In short, a clip joint.

{Begin page no. 2}He did a good business in both places, too. What with corn selling at fifty cents a pint and him being able to make five or six gallons in one of his home-made stills for less than a buck a batch. He also carted a good supply along with him on the trains and was able to clean up when we ran into a bunch of traveling salesmen or good-time-Charlies who used to need a quick one to wake up with. Once in awhile he would make a pretty good sale to a group of chorus girls, jittery from a long trek on the road and in need of a little something to celebrate their homecoming. Yes sir, it was fatso's theory to catch every living human.

"I misses nobody!" he was fond of saying. "When dem quartahs start jingling in mah jeans, I don' know duh diff'ence. Dey all makes de same kinda sof', sweet music tuh mah yeahs."

But what I started to tell you about was Fatso's joint up in Harlem. Be had a cute little coffee-colored chick in there who had his chops to the right turn and waiting for him on the back of the stove whenever he hit town, and who had the week's receipts totalled down to the last sheckle. She was hip too. Whenever any of the plainclothes boys came gum-shoeing around, the kid knew what to do. She could look as innocent as a M.G.M. starlet an' they never got to first base with her. No sir, nary a drink could they get from that baby.

One Sunday night some of us went up to Fatso's, got to fooling around playing tonk and pinnochle and it was seven o'clock in the morning before we knew it. Well, we were due at the yards by ten, so we decided to make a night of it. Some guy dressed in overalls and looking pretty down in the mouth came in. He was a stranger to us but he wanted to take a hand in the game, so we let him. Especially since {Begin page no. 3}Emma, Fatso's old lady, didn't seem to mind. We decided he must be one of the boys from the block.

Not long afterwards, Big Tom, the collector, for the music company, (you know, those nickel machines they have in the back of gin-mills) came in. He fumbled around for awhile taking the back off the box and collecting his change from the box. Then he played us a few free records.

Pretty soon, the guy in overalls said: "Hows about a drink, boys?"

"Don't care if I do." Blue-Jay answers him.

"O.K. with me too," I says. "We may as well go in right this morning."

So the guy calls Emma.

"Knock us a little drink of King Kong, Babe." he tells her.

Emma don't make a move. She just stands there looking at him with a queer sort of expression on her face. Then I figures something must be wrong. Maybe the guy's a flatfoot.

"I'm sorry, Mister." Emma opines. "I ain't got no King Kong."

"Sure you have, girlie." the guy insists. "I'm all right. Don't you remember me? I was up here th' other night with Steve an' Eddie an' some uh th' boys."

"Naw suh. " Emma says, backing away. "You all mus' be thinkin' 'bout some otha place. 'Twont hyeah."

Fatso is laying in bed in the other room with tie door open and hears the conversation. He raises up on one elbow and we hears the bed groan under the weight of his 265 pounds.

"Emma!" he calls out, "What you mean sayin' we ain't got nuthin' tuh drink? Hyeah 'tis Monday mo'nin' an' I ain' broke duh ice yet, an' you sayin' we ain' got nuthin'? Gi'e dat man a drink!"

{Begin page no. 4}Emma always did what Fatso told her without question but this was once when she stood her ground.

"Ef'n you all wants him tuh have one, Fatso, you be'er come an' gi'e it to 'im yo'se'f."

The next minute Fatso came paddling out of the bed room with his pajama shirt flapping over his big belly and looking for all the world like a flannel horse-blanket, shuffled over to the ice box and pulled out a jug of corn. He set it on the table, gave each of us a glass, and said:

"Go fo yo' se'f, boys."

To the man in overalls he said: "Ten cents a drink, brother."

The guy filled all our glasses, tasted the stuff, spat it out on the floor and stood up.

"All right, Big Boy" he drawled, "Git your pants on. We're gonna take a little walk."

"Well, you should a seen Fatso's face. I'll never forget it. It was a sight to remember.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 1, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters' Holiday

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Pullman Porters' recreation room. Billiard tables, lunch counter, bulletin boards, card tables and small lending library.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 1, 1939

SUBJECT A Pullman Porter's Holiday

The boys are sitting around recounting incidents of travel, swapping slightly exaggerated stories of their successes in Denver, Chicago or East St. Louis with various bevy of teasing browns or sleek, well-grommed high yallers. When time hangs too heavy, they play a hand or two of poker, black-jack or tonk. The following is an example of typical conversation.

"I heard they got a pretty good game down at the Straightaway Club."

"Yeah, the Rhythm and Symphony too."

"Thinkin about sittin in?"

"How you fixed for beader?" (money)

"Not so hot. I got a V - note." ($5)

"Chickenfeed."

"Maybe chicken feed you, but damn if it taint beans and greens to me and my ole lady."

"Well let's take a gander at a couple of these joints and see whats poppin."

---------------

"Mit this lousy hand wid a six spot. Never had such a run of tough luck in my life."

{Begin page no. 2}"Dot's you' funeral, ol man."

"Stop beefin so much. You oughta hear my story. Make you cry lak whore at her old mans hanging."

"Cut the gum-beatin ol Lane and bet-up or shut up. You niggers is worse than a lot of ol womens."

"You talk too much outa yo' mouth."

"Yeah if you had as much money as you got mouth, you wouldn't need to play no damn cards."

"Take that card, ol nigger. It was off the deck. I seen it."

"You're a black lie, you didn't."

"To hell you say! It was a six of spades."

"Houseman, you heard what he said. All right, I got a hard fifteen to bit. That makes me a pat 21. So take 'em all in. Every living human."

"All right, git down boys. This ain't no funeral. The house man works on time. My ol lady got to eat too."

"Well house, give me a blind." (free bet)

"Dis is a five dollar game. You ain't bought no five bucks worth of chips."

"Gimme a blind anyhow. I done bought enough chips in dis damn game to take twenty niggers off relief. Somebody better gim'me some 'n' or I'll break dis joint up."

"Like hell you will. They'll be takin you outa here in pieces if you come startin any stuff in here. Go on home and ask your old lady for some 'n'."

"Leave my ol lady out of it. I'll [cuta?] couple of stripes on you ass."

"You better git your self a scythe then. Ain't no swithblade in the world sharp enough to cut this hide."

{Begin page no. 3}"Dats what you say. I'll cut yo' ass so fas' you'll think I'm a damn chopping machine."

"That's a lie an' you know it. An duh Lawd don't love ugly."

"Well boys, thanks for the little collection. The Lawd'll bless you for dis. Now I guess my ol lady kin git dat fur coat she's been pestering me about."

"Geez, ol man, now dat you won all the money, how about sendin me to my dinner?"

"Hell, I wouldn't give a crip a crutch nor a bitch a bone."

"I give you some money in Mephis once."

"That just goes to show what a foll you is. Who but a fool would give me any money. Everbody knows I'm out on a strict hustle. So let that be a lesson to you. Never hip a square or feed a fool. Let him learn it the hard way."

"Well lend me a red (25¢) then."

"I'll die first."

"Den I guess I'll have to take it."

"Dats' de only way you'll git it. An den it'll be over my dead body."

"Huh! You don' know me. Hungry as I is, I'd take some 'n' offa [Dewey?]."

"Ol son, you a black lie and you don't love yo' Jesus."

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 22, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters' Stories

1. Date and time of interview March 20, 1939 - 2:30 P.M.

2. Place of interview Smalls Paradise 135th Street & 7th Avenue New York City

3. Name and address of informant Leroy Spriggs 200 W. 135th Street New York City

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant

Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Bar

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th Street, N.Y.C.

DATE March 22, 1939

SUBJECT Pullman Porters' Stories FATSO'S MISTAKE

"Set up another one, Mike, then I've got to go." Leroy said. "I'm late,"

Mike came down from the other end of the bar, refilled the two glasses and went on with his crossword puzzle. Leroy began where he left off.

"I walked into this guy Fatso's place to collect the nickels from the machine. That was while I was working for the Gabel Music people, the year before I got this porter's job. There sat Fatso playing Tonk with Pretty Boy Matthews. You know Matthews, the plain clothes cop who works out of the [thirty?] {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} second precinct? Well, I been knowing him long before he ever thought of being a cop; we were kids together back in the old days in [thirty?] {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} fourth street. Matthews had done me a lot of favors too. So, in a way, it ain't up to me to tell Fatso that he's playing Tonk with a cop who's dressed up like one of the truck drivers or longshoremen who hang out in his place. 'Cause if I hip him, Matthews will know I'm responsible and it won't help me none in my racket, see? Still, Fatso is a good customer of mine and I often take twenty-five or thirty dollars out of his machine in a week. So, I'm in the middle. 'Course I hates to see this guy Fatso go to jail seeing {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}cap/={End handwritten}{End note}

{Begin page no. 2}as how he's just getting started in his new joint; I figures it would be a shame to see him fold up without giving the place a chance.

"Well, I fumble around with the machine for awhile, count my change and start over to Fatso with the reciept. Then I get the idea of writing a note on the back of the reciept which Fatso has to {Begin deleted text}sing{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}sign{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. So I quickly scribbles; {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End note}

"I think the guy you're Tonking with is a cop. Don't sell him no drink."

Then I hands to Fatso to sign. He sees my note and says kinda salty-like:

"Don't you think I know how to run {Begin deleted text}by{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}my{End handwritten}{End inserted text} business, ol' man?"

"That's all I need to hear. I grabs up the reciept, hustles back to the machine and gets ready to get outs there as fast as I can when Matthews says:

"Well, Big Boy, I'm broke. Gue'ss I'll be going."

"Aw don't go man," Fatso pleads. "Stick around and get even. I'll give you a deuce on that fine watch you're wearin. We can play one hand for that an' if you wins, that'll put you even."

"O.K." Matthews agrees, taking off his watch. They he plays the hand and Fatso beats him again.

"Looks like I can't have any luck." Matthews observes. Give me a drink and I'll go get a new bankroll. How much is it, a quarter?"

"Yeah, if you want a double." Fatso tells him.

"All right, lemme have it. I got just a quarter left."

Fatso brings out the drink but it's easy to see that he don't believe Matthews story about having more dough.

"Well, pal," he says, "I always collects in front. You don't mind, do you?"

{Begin page no. 3}"No, I don't mind." Matthews says, reaching into his pocket. "Will it be all right if I pay you with this?"

He pulls out his police badge and throws it on the table. Fatso takes one look at it, measures the distance from where he stands to the window but just as he's about to try for it, Matthews reaches over and slaps the cuffs on him. Not until then does Fatso realize his mistake.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited) {Begin handwritten}Harlem Rent Parties.{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE August 23, 1938

SUBJECT HARLEM RENT PARTIES

The history of the Harlem house-rent party dates back as far as the World War. To understand what gave such an impetus and community wide significance to this institution, it is necessary to get a picture of living conditions as they were in Harlem at that time.

During the early nineteen twenties it is estimated that more than 200,000 Negroes migrated to Harlem: West Indians, Africans and American Negroes from the cotton fields and cane brakes of the Deep South. They were all segregated in a small section of Manhattan about fifty blocks long and seven or eight blocks wide; an area teeming with life and activity. Housing experts have estimated that, sometimes, as many as five to seven thousand people have been known to live in a single block.

Needless to say, living conditions under such circumstances were anything but wholesome and pleasant. It was a typical slum and tenement area little different from many others in New York except for the fact that in Harlem rents were higher; always have been, in {Begin page no. 2}fact, since the great war-time migratory influx of colored labor. Despite these exhorbitant rents, apartments and furnished rooms, however dingy; were in great demand. Harlem property owners, for the most part Jews, began to live in comparative ease on the fantastic profits yielded by their antiquated dwellings. Before Negroes inhabited them, they could be let for virtually a song. Afterwards, however, they brought handsome incomes. The tenants, by hook or crook, managed to barely scrape together the rents. In turn they stuck their roomers for enough profit to yield themselves a meagre living.

A four or five room apartment was (and still is) often crowded to capacity with roomers. In many instances, two entire families occupy space intended for only one. When bedtime comes, there is the feverish activity of moving furniture about, making down cots or preparing floor-space as sleeping quarters. The same practice of overcrowding is followed by owners or lesees of private houses. Large rooms are converted into two or three small ones by the simple process of stragetically placing beaverboard partitions. These same cubby holes are rented at the price of full sized rooms. In many houses, dining and living rooms are transformed into bed rooms soon after, if not before, midnight. Even "shift-sleeping" is not unknown in many places. During the night, a day-worker uses the room and soon after dawn a night-worker moves in. Seldom does the bed have an opportunity to get cold.

In lower Harlem, sometimes referred to as the Latin Quarter and populated mostly by Cubans, Puerto Ricans and West Indians,{Begin page no. 3}accommodations are worse. The Spanish seen to require even less privacy than their American cousins. A three or four room apartment often houses ten or twelve people. Parents invariably have the two or three youngest children bedded down in the same room with themselves. The dining room, kitchen and hallway are utilized as sleeping quarters by relatives or friends.

Negroes constitute the bulk of the Harlem population, however, and have (as was aforementioned) since the War. At that time, there was a great demand for cheap industrial labor. Strongbacked, physically capable Negroes from the South were the answer to this demand. They came North in droves, beginning what turned out to be the greatest migration of Negroes in the history of the United States. The good news about jobs spread like wildfire throughout the Southlands. There was money, good money, to be made in the North, especially New York. New York; the wonder, the magic city. The name alone implied glamour and adventure. It was a picture to definitely catch the fancy of restless, over-worked sharecroppers and farmhands. And so, it was on to New York, the mecca of the New Negro, the modern Promised Land.

Not only Southern, but thousands of West Indian Negroes heeded the call. That was the beginning of housing conditions that have been a headache to a succession of political administrations and a thorn in the side of community and civic organizations that have struggled valiantly, but vainly, to improve them.

With the sudden influx of so many Negroes, who apparently instinctively headed for Harlem, property that had been a white {Begin page no. 4}elephant on the hands of many landlors immediately took an upward swing. The majority of landlords were delighted but those white property owners who made their homes in Harlem were panic-stricken. At first, there were only rumblings of protest against this unwanted dark invasion but as the tide of color continued to rise, threatening to completely envelop the caucasion brethen, they quickly abandoned their fight and fled to more remote parts; Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Westchester. As soon as one or two Negro families moved into a block, the whites began moving out. Then the rents were raised. In spite of this, Negroes continued to pour in until there was a solid mass of color in every direction.

Harlemites soon discovered that meeting these doubled, and sometimes tripled, rents was not so easy. They began to think of someway to meet their ever increasing deficits. Someone evidently got the idea of having a few friends in as paying party guests a few days before the landlord's scheduled monthly visit. It was a happy; timely thought. The guests had a good time and entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the party. Besides, it cost each individual very little, probably much less than he would have spent in some public amusement place. Besides, it was a cheap way to help a friend in need. It was such a good, easy way out of one's difficulties that others decided to make use of it. Thus was the Harlem rent-party born.

Like the Charleston and Black Botton, it became an overnight rage. Here at last, was a partial solution to the problem of excessive rents and dreadfully subnormal incomes. Family after {Begin page no. 5}family and hundreds of apartment tenants opened wide their doors, went the originators of the idea one better, in fact, by having a party every Saturday night instead of once a month prior to the landlord's call. The accepted addmission price became twenty five cents. It was also expected that the guests would partake freely of the fried chicken, pork chops, pigs feet and potato salad (not to mention homemade "cawn") that was for sale in the kitchen or at a makeshift bar in the hallway.

Saturday night became the gala night in Harlem. Some partied even ran well into Sunday morning, calling a halt only after seven or eight o'clock. Parties were eventually held on other nights also. Thursday particularly became a favorite in view of the fact that "sleep in" domestic workers had a day off and were free to kick up their heels without restraint. Not that any other week-day offered Saturday any serious competition. It always retained its popularity because of its all round convenience as a party day. To begin with, the majority of working class Negroes, maids, porters, elevator operators and the like, were paid on Saturday and, more important than that, were not required to report to work on Sunday. Saturday, therefore, became the logical night to "pitch" and "carry on", which these pleasure-hungry children did with abandon.

The Saturday night party, like any other universally popular diversion, soon fell into the hands of the racketeers. Many small-time pimps and madames who, up to that time, had operated under-cover buffet flats, came out into the open and staged nightly so-called Rent Parties. This, of course, was merely a "blind" for {Begin page no. 6}more illegitimate activities that catered primarily to the desire of travelling salesmen, pullman porters, inter-state truck drivers other transients, for some place to stop and amuse themselves. Additional business could always be promoted from that large army of single or unattatched males and females who prowled the streets at night in search of adventure in preference to remaining in their small, dingy rooms in some ill-ventilated flat. There were hundreds of young men and women, fresh from the hinterlands, unknown in New York and eager for the opportunity of meeting people. And so, they would stroll the Avenue until they saw some flat with a red, pink or blue light in the window, the plunk of a tin-panny piano and sounds of half-tipsy merry making fleeting out into the night air; then they would venture in, be greeted volubly by the hostess, introduced around and eventually steered to the kitchen where refreshments were for sale. Afterwards, there was probably a night full with continuous drinking, wild, grotesque dancing and crude love-making. But it was, at least, a temporary escape from hundrum loneliness and boredom.

The party givers were fully aware of the conditions under which the majority of these boys and girls lived and decided to commercialize on it as much as possible. They began advertising their get-togethers on little business cards that were naive attempts at poetic jingles. The following is a typical sample:

There'll be brown skin mammas
High yallers too
And if you ain't got nothin to do
Come on up to {Begin page no. 7}ROY and SADIE'S
228 West 126 St. Sat. Night, May 12th.
There'll be plenty of pig feet
An lots of gin
Jus ring the bell
An come on in.

They were careful, however, to give these cards to only the "right" people. Prohibition was still in effect and the police were more diligent about raiding questionable apartments than they were about known "gin"mills" that flourished on almost every corner.

Despite this fact, the number of personal Saturday night responses, in answer to the undercover advertising, was amazing. The party hostess, eager and glowing with freshly straightened hair, would roll back the living room carpets, dim the lights, seat the musicians, (usually drummer, piano and saxophone player) and, with the appearance of the first cash customer, give the signal that would officially get the "rug-cutting" under way. Soon afterwards she would disappear into the kitchen in order to give a final, last minute inspection to the refreshment counter: a table piled high with pig-feet, fried chicken, fish and potato salad.

The musicians, fortified with a drink or two of King Kong (home made corn whiskey) begin "beating out the rhythm" on their battered instruments while the dancers keep time with gleeful whoops, fantastic body-gyrations and convulsions that appear to be a cross between the itch and a primitive mating-dance.

After some John buys a couple of rounds of drinks, things begin to hum in earnest. The musicians instinctively improvise as {Begin page no. 8}they go along, finding it difficult, perhaps, to express the full intensity of their emotions through a mere arrangement, no matter how well written.

But the thing that makes the house-rent party (even now) so colorful and fascinating is the unequalled picture created by the dancers themselves. When the band gets hot, the dancers get hotter. They stir, throw or bounce themselves about with complete abandon; their wild, grotesque movements silhouetted in the semi-darkness like flashes from some ancient tribal ceremony. They apparently work themselves up into a frenzy but never lose time with the music despite their frantic acrobatics. Theirs' is a coordination absolutely unexcelled. It is simple, primitive, inspired. As far as dancing is concerned, there are no conventions. You do what you like, express what you feel, take the lid off if you happen to be in the mood. In short, anything goes.

About one o'clock in the morning; hilarity reaches its peak. "The Boys", most of whom are hard-working# hard-drinking truck drivers, long-shoremen, moving men, porters or laborers, settle down to the serious business of enjoying themselves. They spin, tug, and fling their buxom, amiable partners in all directions. When the music finally stops, they are soaked and steaming with perspiration. "The Girls", the majority of whom are cooks, laundresses, maids or hair-dressers, set their hats at a jaunty angle and kick up their heels with glee. Their tantalizing grins and the uniformly wicked gleam in their eyes dare the full blooded young bucks to do their darndest. They may have been utter strangers during the early {Begin page no. 9}part of the evening but before the night is over, they are all happily sweating and laughing together in the beat of spirits.

Everything they do is free and easy; typical of that group of hard-working Negroes who have little or no inhibitions and the fertility of imagination so necessary to the invention and unrestrained expression of new dance-steps and rhythms.

The dancers organize little impromptu contests among themselves and this competition is often responsible for the birth of many new and original dance-steps. The house-rent party takes credit for the innovation of the Lindy-Hop that was subsequently improved upon at the Savoy Ballroom. For years, it has been a great favorite with the regular rug-cutting crowd. Nothing has been able to supplant it, not ever the Boogie-Woogie that has recently enjoyed a great wave of popularity in Uptown New York.

Such unexpected delights as these made the house-rent party, during its infancy, a success with more than one social set. Once in awhile a stray ofay or a small party of pseudo-artistic young Negroes, the upper-crust, the creme-de-la-creme of Black Manhattan society, would wander into one of these parties and gasp or titter (with cultured restraint, of course) at the primitive, untutored Negroes who apparently had so much fun wriggling their bodies about to the accompaniment of such mad, riotously abandoned music. Seldom, however, did these outsiders seem to catch the real spirit of the party, and as far as the rug-cutters were concerned, they simply did not belong.

With the advent of Repeal, the rent-party went out,{Begin page no. 10}became definitely a thing of the past. It was too dangerous to try to sell whiskey after it became legal. With its passing went one of the most colorful eras that Harlem has ever known.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER FRANK BYRD

ADDRESS 224 West 135th. St. NYC

DATE October 4, 1938

SUBJECT HARLEM HOUSE-RENT PARTIES: (#3)BERNICE

1. Date and time of interview October 2, 1938

2. Place of interview Informant lives in an apartment on 141st St. near Lenox Avenue (Harlem)

3. Name and address of informant Bernice . . . . . Informant gave the interview on condition that her present address and last name be omitted from story

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

NOTE: The following is a statement made to the writer by informant--a West Indian Negress who came to this country when she was a girl of high-school age. Her story tells of her marriage to an American Negro who deserted her two years after their marriage in 1928. From that time on she earned her living, first as a part-time domestic worker, later as a promoter of "rent parties" and owner of a "buffet flat" (pleasure house).

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER FRANK BYRD

ADDRESS 224 West 135th. St. NYC

DATE October 4, 1938

SUBJECT HARLEM HOUSE-RENT PARTIES: (#3)BERNICE

Informant: Bernice -----. 141st. St. near Lenox Ave.

When I first came to New York from Bermuda, I thought rent-parties were disgraceful. I couldn't understand how any self-respecting person could bear them, but when my husband, who was a Pullman porter, ran off and left me with a sixty-dollar-a-month apartment on my hands and no job, I soon learned, like everyone else, to rent my rooms out an' throw thses Saturday get-togethers.

I had two roomers, a colored boy and white girl named Leroy and Hazel, who first gave me the idea. They offered to run the parties for me if we'd split fifty-fifty. I had nothing to lose, so that's how we started.

We bought corn liquor by the gallon and sold it for fifty cents a small (cream) pitcher. Leroy also ran a poker and black-jack game in the little bedroom off the kitchen. An' on these two games alone, I've seen him take in as much as twenty-eight dollars in one night. Well, you can see why I didn't want to give it up, once we had started. Especially since I could only make six or seven dollars at the most as weekly part-time worker (domestic).

The games paid us both so well, in fact, that we soon made gambling our specialty. Everybody liked it, and our profit was more {Begin page no. 2}that way so our place soon became the hangout of all those party-goers who liked to mix a little gambling with their drinking and dancing.

An' with all these young studs out to find a little mischief, with plenty of cash in their {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} pockets, we soon learned not to leave things to chance. Instead, Hazel and I would go out an' get acquainted with good-looking young fellows that we'd see sitting alone in the back of gin-mills looking as if they had nobody to take them out, but that they also would like a good time. We'd give them our cards and tell them to drop around to the house. Well, wherever there are pretty women you'll soon have a pack of men.

And so, we taught the girls how to wheedle free drinks and food out of the men--and if they got them to spend more than usual, we'd give them a little percentage or a nice little present like a pair of stockings or vanity case or something. Most of the time, though, we didn't have to give them a thing. They were all out looking for a little fun, and when they came to our house they could have it for nothing instead of going to the gin-mills where they'd have to pay for their own drinks.

And we rented rooms, sometimes overnight and sometimes for just a little while during the party. I have to admit that, at first, I was a little shocked at the utter boldness of it, but Leroy and Hazel seemed to think nothing of it, so I let it go. Besides, it meant extra money--and extra money was what I needed.

I soon took another hint from Hazel and made even more. I used to notice that Leroy would bring some of his friends home with him and, after they'd have a few drinks, leave them alone tn the room with Hazel. I wasn't quite sure that what I was thinking was so until Hazel told me herself. I t happened one day when an extra man came along there was no one to take care of him. Hazel buzzed to me and asked me if I would {Begin page no. 3}do it. I thought about it for awhile, then made up my mind to do it.

Well, that was the last of days-work (domestic work) for me. I figured that I was a fool to go out and break my back scrubbing floors, washing, ironing, and cooking, when I could earn three day's pay, or more, in fifteen minutes. Then I began to understand how Hazel got all those fine dresses and good-looking furs.

From then on, it was strictly a business with me. I decided that if it was as easy as that, it was the life for me.

The landlord's agent had been making sweet speeches to me for a long time and I began to figure out how I could get around paying the rent. Well, I got around it, but that didn't stop me from giving rent parties. Everything I made then was gravy; clean, clear profit for little Bernice. I even broke off with Leroy and Hazel. She began to get jealous and catty, and I think he was holding out on profits from the game. Anyway, we split up and {Begin deleted text}[]{End deleted text} I got an "old man" (sweetheart) of my own to help me run the house. An' when he took things over he even stopped the girls from going into the rooms with the men, unless they were working for us. That is, unless we were getting half of what they made. Still, the men had to pay for the rooms. And I've seen some of those girls who made enough on Saturday night to buy themselves an entirely new outfit for Sunday, including fur coat. They'd catch some sucker, like a Pullman porter or longshoreman who had been lucky in a game, and have him jim-clean (completely broke) before the night was over. Naturally, I got my cut.

It was a good racket while it lasted, but it's shot to pieces now.

as told to Frank Byrd

by Al Thayer

"Well, almost anybody will tell you that the gayest thing about Harlem in the old days (during the Prohibition Era) was its hectic parties. Everybody had them and they were thrown on the slightest provocation. Anybody's homecoming, dispossess notice, marriage or divorce was a more than reasonable excuse for a party.

Harlemites socialites and their conduct, in short, were much on the order of lower Manhattan's gay "400". Both thought and acted alike: jittery, sophisticated and inevitably bored. I had my fun along with the rest of them. Life was soft for any unattached young male with a passable wardrobe, a smooth line of chatter and a flair for the latest dances. It was a cinch to got invited from one week-end party to another, where all expenses were footed by a fat, half-amorous hostess. It was also quite easy to put the bite on ones dull host for a ten or a twenty (never to be repaid, of course) whenever these affairs rolled around. I have even wangled myself a berth as a house-guest for as long an three or four months at a time. It was a soft living for all young writers, artists, struggling musicians and pseudo intellectuals. They were the fad in Harlem. Sponsoring them was {Begin page no. 2}definitely the smart, fashionable thing, a real diversion for the social upper-crust.

I remember one child whose parties I always loved to attend. They were so screwy and inconsistent that they were a never failing source of amusement--just like the person who gave them--little Dixie Lee, whom I am sure, all the Harlem old-timers remember with a deep, sincere affection.

It was the last party she ever gave, and typical of all the rest. Robert Van Doren came and, to the surprise of every one, brought his wife, Sonia, instead of the chorus boy that was his current weakness; Mamie Jones, Harlem's perrenial two-hundred pound play girl, had called while in the midst of a shower and when she learned that the party was already underway, took just time enough to slip on a bathrobe and mules, grab two bottles of scotch and hop into her roadster; Jay Clayton, the Customs inspector, who like everyone else, had forgotten when he was last sober, came breathless, hatless, and coatless, his bald head shiny with perspiration--somewhere enroute, he had fastened on to Pearl Black, currently popular for her Pulitzer prize novel that had been dramatized, and presented by the Theatre Guild; Muriel Payne, author and lecturer, resplendent in blood-red transparent velvet and sporting a long ivory cigarette holder, tripped in escorted by her jet-black grinning gigolo; Lady Nancy [Aintree?], garbed in bright red baret, flat-heeled shoes and a noisy hued gingham dress sauntered in on the arm of big Bill Johnson, the Negro sculptor just back in Harlem after three years in the gay haunts of Montmarte--he had apparently neither shaved nor had a hair cut in all that time.

{Begin page no. 3}Martha Lomax, uptown Now York's buxom, good-time night-life czarina, closed shop, bundled her girls into a fleet of taxis and put in her appearance to help celebrate Dixie's triumphant home coming from the country. A dress house customer, his curiosity aroused, bribed her to bring him along; Rusty Freeman, who had just completed a work-out at the gymnasium, came in a high-necked purple sweater and boasted a beautiful eye to match; after the Broadway opening of a new Black and Tan musical, Ethel Rainey, the blues singer, came locked in arms with the leading lady's understudy; Paul White, ex-prizefighter and singer, brought the ex-mayor's girl friend; Cherry McAlpin, who headed the uptown list of socially elite matrons sent the party into an uproar when she put in her appearance with her dapper physician husband in tow, thereby shattering a local precedent of ten years standing; young Reverend Milton Mallory, whose pugistically inclined wife kept him constantly indisposed, nursing black-eyes, fractured ribs and other minor injuries, restored things to normal by finally showing up with the person everyone expected him to bring--his chauffer's wife. There was a shortage of men, so Ace Glassman, the party wit, went down into the street and hailed two taxi drivers who willingly came in but soon admitted that the pace was too much for them.

It was a motley crowd, but they did not seem to mind each other. By midnight, the party was officially declared a success. Jeff, Dixie's boyfriend, insisted on making a round of the night clubs, however; so they piled into all the cars that were available, commandeered passing taxicabs for the leftovers,{Begin page no. 4}and ten minutes later, all were comfortably seated at and noisily pounding on the tops of ring-side tables at the Cotton Pickers Club. (Several hours later, those who did not go home and all who were able to, did the same thing in another club. What club it was, nobody knew nor apparently seemed to care.)

On the floor at the Cotton Pickers Club, however, a chocolate-brown girl with full breasts, a strong voice and swinging hips was singing. When she reached the high notes, large veins stood out on her throat and her voice became huskier than ever. After a series of slow sensual choruses, the band doubled its tempo and the girl began to tap dance--flinging herself wildly and indiscrimnately in every direction. Her breasts juggled up and down, all out of time with the rythm of her feet.

My mind was in a whirl and I found it increasingly difficult to hold my head up, yet I was vaguely aware of the thumping music, the prancing waiters and Dixie's boisterous friends. Suddenly I wanted to get away from all of this but could not seem to get up. 'Damn this crowd, anyhow!' I thought. 'Just a lot of damn smirking, highbrows doing back-flips trying to be funny.' What the hell did they get our of it? Oh, to hell with them, anyway--they didn't mean anything to me, I thought. I'd probably never see half of them again.

Somebody poured me another drink. Automatically I drank it.

'You look sleepy, Jeff. Are you?' I heard Dixie ask Jeff.

'Well, I could stand a wink or two. Couldn't [you?]'

'Don't tell me you're ready to leave so soon?'

{Begin page no. 5}'Sure, why not?'

'Listen gang.' Jay Allen chirped, 'little Jeffie wants to go home.'

'Dear! Dear!' cooed Van Doren mockingly, 'Does he want his mama to tuck him in'?

'Naw.' Ace said menacingly, 'He's had experience with them kinda mama's.'

No one answered, or seemed to hear this. Then Lady Nancy piped up brightly--'That's it, lets all tuck the dear boy in!'

'Aw be your age, Aintree.' Ace said, turning away.

Lady Nancy was properly shocked but she would not give Ace the satisfaction of knowing it.

There was more entertainment, but it was entirely wasted on Dixie's party. They had a little show all their own that was beginning to provide serious competition for the house entertainers. Finally, they trailed/ {Begin inserted text}out{End inserted text} into the street. It was dawn. Jay, making a little desperate effort for the spot-light, climbed into a waiting milk wagon and drove down Lenox Avenue flourishing one of the women's evening wraps in his best charioteer fashion and announcing his wares to all sundry in a gin-hoarsened tenor. The others, between bursts of laughter and handclaps of approval, climbed into their cars or waiting taxicabs and drove away.

You probably remember "Young" Johnny Morano. He had made quite a name for himself "in the racket" and addmitted it. It was a name to be reckoned with too--even in Chicago where he had finally set up headquarters. His few visits to New York marked the occasion for high revelry behind certain closed doors. Whenever he condescended {Begin page no. 5}to make a public appearance, it was the signal in Harlem night life circles, for a welcome of splendor befitting the arrival of a local big shot.

Well, Johnny accepted it all with a silent dignity--a dignity that he thought becoming to the successor of "Tough" Tony Morano, his brother. He felt better than he had felt in many moons and his feelings were reflected in his face this night. He entered the Cotton Pickers Club to a burst of cheers and applause. He went from table to table greeting those of his old friends whom he recognized, but he never drank with them. He always drank alone. That was one of his hard and fast rules. He never was entirely alone, however, no matter how much he appeared to be. If you looked closely enough, you noticed a group of three or four silent but unusually alert young men hovering somewhere in the immediate background.

I'll never forget it even though I was pretty high. Until Johnny saw Dixie and Jeff, his face was a flushed picture of happiness; then it suddenly changed into a colorless mask with a thin white line for lips. He stopped, wheeled about and walked through a door near the orchestra platform. The silent, hardfaced young men followed him. Well, I suppose you know that Dixie Lee was once "Tough" Tony's girl and that during a fight in her apartment with Jeff Davis, Tony had been shot and killed while scuffling for possession of a gun. It was in all the papers.

Johnny spoke a few crisp words to his attentive young men. They did not answer him but two of them lighted cigarettes and sat down. The other two adjusted their hats, buttoned their tight-fitting spring coats and walked out into the street.

{Begin page no. 6}When Jeff and Dixie and I got into a cab, the two young men slouched in a long, blue sedan with soft felt hats tilted over their eyes. I saw them but thought nothing of it.

At the entrance to Dixie's apartment house, we stepped out of the cab; Jeff paid the driver and the three of us started in. This same blue sedan, rolling down the wet street, paused momentarily and sped away. During that few seconds hesitation, several shots rang out. At the first shot, Jeff dropped quickly to the ground and the next minute Dixie slumped down into his arms. The doorman who had gone inside the building came running out. A cop came also. Jeff told him what had happened. He called an ambulance.

While they were waiting for the ambulance, they carried Dixie inside and Jeff did what he could to make her comfortable. When the ambulance came, we climbed in with her. Jeff's face was a picture of agony and despair. Dixie smiled up at him and tried to put her arms around his neck but she couldn't. She sank back into the pillows.

'Don't worry about me, darling', she said. 'Ill be all right.'

The ambulance swerved into the courtyard of Harlem Hospital. Two attendants took Dixie in on a stretcher. The doctor told us to wait in the hall and we sat down on a bench. Finally the doctor came out and motioned us into the room where Dixie lay. Jeff looked {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}at{End handwritten}{End inserted text} her and held her in his arms.

She looked all right but in back of her, the doctor was shaking his head. The next minute we know what he was trying to say.

Outside Jeff said: 'It just don't seem possible. Only last night she was so alive and happy. I had never seen her so happy.'"

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}10{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT Negro Folk Arts - Mae Berkeley

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant By staff writer, Frank Byrd.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT Negro Folk Arts - Mae Berkeley MAE BERKELEY

Mae Berkeley is probably the most unique merchant in the Park Avenue Market. She is not a licensed peddler and, unlike many of those who are, she does not work at her stand everyday. On the contrary, she puts in her appearance only on those days when she feels particularly good or when the weather is bright and inviting. She is a vendor of native African curios done in clay, brass, wood, straw, ivory and other materials available to the primitive tribes of the African jungles.

How Mae, who lives at 222 West 121 Street, began selling these pieces of native handiwork in the market-place is a surprising story; for Mae herself is not African. She is a product of Trinidad in the British West Indies. She has {Begin deleted text}laways{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}always{End handwritten}{End inserted text} been tremendously interested, however, in Negro folklore and art, and as a consequence of this, she has sought in almost every direction for additional information concerning every branch of Negro art. Feeling that she could attain a wider and more authentic knowledge by studying the most primitive forms, she naturally turned to the African.

{Begin page no. 2}Her first step was to widen her acquaintance among Africans in New York. Her search for them led to the discovery of the Native African Union at 254 West 135 Street. Here she met all or practically all of those who make their homes in Harlem. She also learned that a troupe of native African Ballet Dancers were staging periodic dance recitals at Town Hall, Roerich Hall and, occasionally, in Harlem. Through some of her newly found friends, she was able to study and dance with this group, having already achieved a fair reputation as a dancer in Harlem and Greenwich Village Night Clubs. Her dancing led to more friendly relations and she soon began to inquire as to the possibility of importing native handicraft from the various tribes represented by the group. The idea met with approval and it was not long before she was receiving regular shipments of curios, war-implements etc. from both the South and West Coasts of Africa.

When Mae received her first shipment of goods, she was dancing in a little night club in the Village called the {Begin deleted text}Rubyait{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[Rubyaait?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. She received permission from the management to sell her things there. Her sales were far more numerous than she expected. It was not long before she had placed parts of her shipment in curio-shops in West fourth and eighth streets. They attracted much attention. Mae decided to branch out to Harlem. She began with free exhibits in the public library and in the homes of various club-women. This gave her the necessary publicity. She let it become known that {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}they{End handwritten}{End inserted text} could be found either in the Eighth or Park Avenue markets or at the Native African Union.

Mae's sales have increased greatly in the past two years.

{Begin page no. 3}If it were not for her dancing which takes so much of her time, she would probably make a regular, paying business of this hobby. Instead, she devotes only a comparatively small part of her spare time to it. She [does?], however, exhibit her own private collection at all dance recitals of the Group. When asked why she does not open a regular shop or place a helper on each of her stands in both Harlem Markets, she replies:

"Some day, perhaps, I will. Now, I am much too busy with my dancing. Besides, I don't just want to sell them. I want my people (Negroes) to learn of the value of their native art."

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}10{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT Harlem Personalities - Cliff Webb and Billie Day

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant By staff writer, Frank Byrd.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St., N.Y.C.

DATE January 19, 1939

SUBJECT Harlem Personalities - Cliff Webb and Billie Day HARLEM PERSONALITIES

In the Charles Dillingham production of "New Faces" last season, that played to admiring, capacity audiences for many months, were two faces that were once well known in the vicinity of the Park Avenue Market in Harlem. They were the faces of Cliff Webb and Billie Day who at one time provided almost all the after-dark entertainment for the peddlers in the Latin Quarter.

In a little basement cabaret in East 111th Street, they gathered nightly to hear these two croon their plaintive Negro, West Indian and Spanish songs to the accompaniment of an out-of-tune piano and a battered but tuneful guitar. Cliff played the piano and Billie accompanied her own singing with the guitar obligatos. Occasionally there was dancing. Then these two vivacious kids acted as chorus and orchestra for the pleasure-seeking peddlers. The fact that they were able to earn a living solely on the tips they received was a tribute to their popularity. They never {Begin page no. 2}received a definite salary. In fact, it was very peculiar how they even happened to get the job.

The two kids had a habit of wandering from one little restaurant or cabaret to another, singing their songs, dancing (if asked) and passing the hat (if the proprietor had no objections) and filing out as quietly as they had appeared. One night they went to the Casa Diablo, the small basement place in 111th Street, and were such a huge success with the peddlers and other transient guests that the owner of the place, a Puerto Rican whom everyone called El Gato, asked them to come in every night and sing for tips. The only incentive offered them was all they wanted to eat and drink. They stayed.

Not long afterwards, the place became quite popular and one night some friends of Leonard Stillman, the director, stumbled accidentally into the place. They listened to the two rollicking youngsters and tipped Stillman off to their whereabouts. He engaged them for his show and they were an immediate success. The very first night they "stopped" the show; were forced to take curtain after curtain call. The blase first nighters were simply mad about them. They were so new, so fresh and unspoiled.

El Gato's place remained the favorite retreat for the market peddlers but the atmosphere was never the same after Cliff and Billie left. Night after night, the peddlers used to sit around talking about the good times they had when these two kids were about and how different it was without them.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}10{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE November 11, 1938

SUBJECT THE PRIVATE LIFE OF BIG BESS

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Social-Ethnic Studies: Life in Harlem Presented by staff-writer Frank Byrd.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

NOTE: Present address of "Big Bess" (also known as "Scrappy") unknown. However, she can be contacted for further interviews at one of the following places -- a basement place in W. 126th. St. near 7th. Avenue; at Joe's Place, 136th. Street and Seventh Avenue; or at Harlem Haufbrau, Lenox Avenue between 119th and 120th Streets...

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE November 11, 1938

SUBJECT THE PRIVATE LIFE OF BIG BESS.

To most people, Harlem {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} wild orgies {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and prostitution are synonymous. There is some actual {Begin deleted text}oundation{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}foundation{End handwritten}{End inserted text} for this fact. Many of the newspaper stories about so called goings-on in Harlem, however, are greatly exaggerated. It is true that Harlem probably has the greatest percentage of prostitution of all the five boroughs but the community itself is essentially a quiet, peace-loving, law-abiding place. Prostitution, to a great extent, is segregated to lower Lenox Avenue and that section of Harlem sometimes referred to as the Latin Quarter that extends from 110th street and Central Park North to 116th street, and from Fifth Avenue on the East side to Morningside Avenue on the West.

Evidences of the "oldest profession" crop up in the most unexpected places, however, and almost every uptown street has known it at one time or another.

Women of minority races and economically bankrupt groups have always been exploited by materially stronger groups. Negro women are no exception to this rule. Many of them are forced to semi {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} or full {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} time prostitution in {Begin page no. 2}order to have a place to sleep. This is nothing new to them. Many of their mothers before them were in the same predicament. This fact alone, makes the subject not only living but almost legendary folk study material. For that reason, I have undertaken the recording and reporting of some of the impartial facts regarding the activity in the "profession" in Harlem today.

The following is the first of what hope will be a series of personally related experiences of Negro girls in the racket.

********************************

This is the story of Big Bess --- Lenox Avenue Bess, the cops call her- the gal from St. Louis with a "blues" all her own. Of courses you don't know her and it probably won't mean anything to you, but it makes all the difference in the world to me because I've been trying to figure her out ever since she hit this town.

Bess came to Harlem about sight years ago: just appeared out of nowhere, and her life, when she leaves the Avenue at dawn, has always been a puzzle to everyone. That is, it was until last night. What happened to make her break that long silence is more than I can understand. She was drunk, it's true, but that's nothing new to Bess. She's always drunk, more {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} or less. Drinking, with her, is like eating or sleeping. It's the most natural thing in the world. At any rate, it never seemed to make any difference before. Usually, when she's out on a bat, she sits at the corner table in the back of Red's place and stares mournfully off into space.

Last night, however, she broke a precedent of long standing. She invited me to sit down and have a drink with her. It was a peculiar thing. For a minute, I couldn't believe that it had actually happened. It seemed more like a dream than a reality, yet there was no getting around the fact that the {Begin page no. 3}place was Red's Joint and that it was Bess, the hardboiled, (who walks her beat rain or shine) inviting me, a man, to share her table and, what's more, have a drink at her expense.

Now Bess has never been known to give away anything in her life. At least, that part of her life that has been spent in uptown New York. She's especially tight on men. They are, it appears, her pet hate. Yet, she makes her living by being nice to them. In fact, hardly a day passes when she doesn't sleep with at least a dozen.

But that's getting ahead of my story. This baby that's supposed to have a heart {Begin inserted text}that{End inserted text} would make Hard Hearted Hannah look like an angel of mercy, breaks down and confesses to me that she's lonely. Lonely! Can you beat it? Well, you could have floored me with a feather. I sat there too dumbfounded to utter a word: hanging on the ropes, you might say, waiting to see what would happen next. Then she began to talk --- about herself, and if you think you've been through the mill boy, just get a load of this baby's memo's. Here's some of it straight, just as she told it to me:

"You know, kid," she said after the first couple of drinks, "I'm lonely tonight. Damn lonely! This business of mine makes you like that sooner or later. It's a tough racket and it's got so a girl can hardly make a decent living anymore. Too many girls. There ain't enough business to go around. In fact, it's lousy. There was a time when a girl could go out there and pick up a coupla hundred a week. But that was a long time ago. You gotta do some tall hustling to even get by nowadays. In the first place, the cops are getting so they want almost half you make for protection. Well, I don't mind kicking in with a few dollars now and then but this business of hustling for somebody else is a different story. Of course, there are a lot of cops who will let you off easy if you are willing to do them a little favor when they're off duty, but most of them can't be trusted. I know a kid who was run-in by a cop only {Begin page no. 4}last week and he's one of the very guys she's been paying off to for the past coupla years. Anyhow, the last time she went out with him, he turned around and pinched her for soliciting. Now she's cooling her hips in jail. The trouble with that guy was that he was sore because he thought she was giving too much money to her pimp instead of to him.

Speaking of pimps, they're just as bad as the cops. I've never seen a lousier lot of bums in my life. I never got an even break from one since the first day {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}I{End handwritten}{End inserted text} went into the racket. They're all alike. They put you in some cheap, two dollar joint or send you out to pound the pavements, then take every dime of your money and think you oughta like it. Once in a while, they go out and buy up a lot of hot clothes and act like they're doing you a favor by buying you some beat-up stuff with your own money.

I'll never forget the first pimp I had. His name was Charlie and I met him one night at the restaurant where my aunt had got me a job. That was in St. Louis. I was eighteen then and I lived with my aunt. My old man and old lady had died when I was just a kid. Anyhow, this guy Charlie looked like a good guy. He was a big black boy with a wide smile and a lot of gold teeth that flashed at you every time he opened his mouth. He was a swell dresser too, and free with his money. He gave me fifty cent tip the first night he came in there. After that, he used to come by every night for about two weeks. One night he asked me to go out with him. I went, and it wasn't long before I found out what a swell lover he could be. After that, I was a set-up for him. So when it finally dawned on me what his game was, I had reached the place where it didn't make any difference to me. I was willing to do anything he said. So I left home and went to live with him.

Not long afterwards, he put me in a two {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} dollar joint. I didn't like it there and told him so, but he always kissed me or petted me and said that {Begin page no. 5}after awhile I wouldn't mind it at all. When he was nice and madelove to me like that, I forgot all about everything else and the only word I knew was 'yes! He could have made me do anything.

I worked there for about seven months and one day one of the girls got drunk and told me to wake up and get wise to myself: that I was only being a sucker for Charlie and that he had four girls working for him in different houses about town. When I asked him about it, he told me to go to hell and mind my own business. Then, when I tried to leave him, he beat me up and gave me a couple of black eyes. After that when I came in at night, he took all my money and told me he'd cut my throat if I tried to hold out on him. He even used to come to see the woman that ran the house so he could find out how much I was making. This way, he was able to cheek up on me. Sometimes, though, I got a good customer who slipped me an extra five or ten. I kept this money and hid it until I had enough to go away. Then one day while Charlie was at the club gambling, I got on the train and went to Chicago.

I had never been there before and, at first, it was tough learning the ropes. But one night I went down to one of those black-and-tan joints on the South Side and got to talking with a girl who was one of the entertainers there and who, finally, broke me in right. She offered to introduce me to some of the boys but I told her I was through with pimps and wanted to be on my own. This good resolution didn't last long though and after three or four months, I wanted someone of my own in the worst way. It's awfully tough going home to an empty room night after night like that. If Charlie had come along then, I think I would have even gone back to him.

That's when I started drinking. It was the only way I had of passing the time. Night after night, I wandered from one cabaret to another, just drinking or sitting and watching the dancers. It was while I was out on one of these bats that I met Johnny. He was an awfully nice feller but it didn't take {Begin page no. 6}me long to find out that he was in the racket, too. He wore alot of flashy clothes and spent money like it was water. I was too wise to fall for that gag, though. They all do that at first. Making a flash, they call it. That's just a bait to make a girl fall for them. So, when Johnny pulled this stuff on me, I told him to nix out. I wasn't interested. I liked my new freedom too well. But he must have seen something in my eyes that told him how lonely I was.

Every day, after that, he used to send me flowers, candy and presents. He treated me like I was a lady. Once he sent me a ring and when I had it appraised, the man told me that it was worth two hundred dollars.

The next time he came to see me, it happened. I just couldn't hold out on him any longer. He was so nice to me. He was that way for along time --- But I knew it couldn't last. His way of doing things was just a little different, that's all. So, when he began hinting that he needed money, I told him he could have every cent I made. There wasn't any need for him to kid me. I knew what he wanted and was willing to give it to him. It didn't matter to me any longer, anyhow. Having money didn't matter, I mean. All I wanted was him, but I soon found out that that wasn't as easy as it sounded. There was too much competition for him. Everywhere we went, the girls I knew, and some I didn't know were making a play for him, right and left: especially some of those who made more money than I did.

Johnny was a good-looking brown-skinned boy with dark, wavy hair and eyes that did something to you. He was a nice boy, too. He had been to college and knew how to talk in that smooth easy way, so different from the rest of those roughnecks around Chicago.

It wasn't long before I knew he had another girl. Johnny was like that --- ambitious --- always wanting more than anybody else, and the best of everything at that. I was jealous and started playing around with some of his friends just to {Begin page no. 7}make him sore. One day he came home mad found one of them there with me. That night, he left. There wasn't any quarrel and he didn't beat me. Johnny was like that; always the gentleman. He was the only man I ever had who didn't beat me. He didn't believe in leaving enemies behind him. It was always his policy, he said, to part friends. When he left, he gave me a beautiful ring: a lovely diamond. I've still got it. It's the only thing I've got that's never been in the pawn-shop.

Bess held up a finger and Red came out from behind the bar and filled them up again. It was about the tenth time he had done that. When she sipped a little of her drink, she went on in the same low, confidential voice.

Being without Johnny was worse than I thought it could be. It finally got so bad that I went to him and begged him to come back to me bit it wasn't any use. He had moved in with a little Spanish chick by the name of Consuelo. She worked in a ritzy joint and made a lot of money. If it had been anybody else, maybe I wouldn't have felt so bad about it but I never did like that little dame, even before I knew she was after him. She used to hang around the cabarets once in awhile, acting snooty and showing off her clothes.

When I thought of her with Johnny, I was almost crazy with jealousy. Once I went on a wild spree and didn't go to work for more than a week. When I finally showed up, another girl had taken my job. After that, I didn't try to find work. Instead, I just lay around drinking with a lot of bum friends who came around and sponged on me. When I got broke, none of them would lend me a dime.

One night when I couldn't stand it any longer, I went to the club where Johnny gambled and asked him to give me some money. He told me that taking money was his business, not giving it. I was so mad I went crazy I guess. That same night I got lousy drunk and waited in Lulu-Mae's place where I was sure he would meet Consuelo after she got off from work. When he showed up, I asked {Begin page no. 8}him once more if he would come back to me. He only laughed at me and I was so mad that I went half crazy. I opened my pocket-book and pulled out a little gun that I had been carrying around with me. When Johnny saw it, he dived after me and I pulled the trigger. The next minute, he grabbed his stomach and fell forward on his face. That's all I remember except that the cops came and took me away with them. I didn't care. If I couldn't have Johnny, I wanted to die, anyhow.

I told them that I didn't want a lawyer but they gave me one just the same, and he told me a lot of things to say but I wouldn't say anything. He was smart, though, and got the charge reduced from murder to manslaughter. When it was all over, they sent me up for ten years. But after doing five of them, I was paroled. Not long afterwards, I came to New York. That was eight years ago.

Well, New York's just about the same as Chicago as far as the racket's concerned, only it's harder to fix the cops here and especially the Health Department M. D's. who examine you when you're picked up on the streets. I've spent a lot of time on welfare Island 'taking the cure'. Even when I'm able to beat a soliciting rap, these doctors slap a positive-label opposite my name and the Health Department won't let me go until I'm O. K. Sometimes, it takes three, four, or even six months. In Chicago, it was different. All you had to do was get a smart lawyer who knew the ropes or a fixer who could put a few dollars in the right places for you. That way, you could get a negative label whenever you needed it.

I'm getting sick and tired of this life, but what can I do? I don't know any other kind of work and even if I did, where would I find it? Besides, once you get accustomed to seventy-five or a hundred dollars a week, it's pretty hard trying to get by on fifteen or eighteen.

Christ! I never did anything to deserve a life like this. God knows,{Begin page no. 9}all I did was to fall in love with a man! There is a God, ain't there? I'm not sure that there's anything anymore except cheap women and cheating men and hell on earth. Or maybe there's a heaven and I'll go there someday.

God! I'd give anything to know what'll become of me!"

Well, boy, when I saw the pitiful look on that babe's face as she sat there trying to figure things out, I almost felt like bawling, myself. Instead, I put on the proper New York face and nodded to Red who was leaning on the bar.

"Bring the next one on me, Red." I told him.

[As Told To The Writer By The?]

[CHIEF OF POLICE SAYVILLE,

LONG ISLAND.?]

Major T. (Father) Divine has become almost a legendary figure in lower Long Island where he first set up his cult headquarters. Many stories about his peculiar religious doings and subsequent tiffs with the law are told by native inhabitants. The following is only one of many. The writer has taken the liberty of changing names of persons and {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} places.

The changes as they appear in the story: {Begin deleted text}[??????????????]{End deleted text}

Major T. (Father) Divine to Rev. Andrew Elijah Jones.

Police Chief Tucker to Chief Becker.

Macon Street to Pudding Hill Road.

Sayville to Hopeville.

Mineola to Salt Point.

Judge Smith to Judge Walker. {Begin handwritten}x x x check on New Yorker June 13, 20, 27, 1936{End handwritten}{Begin page}{Begin deleted text}"PEACE IN THE KINGDOM."{End deleted text}

When they first came to town nobody paid much attention to them. They were {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} just another group of {Begin deleted text}[Negroes]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Niggers{End handwritten}{End inserted text} who had moved in. They were a little different from the others though. Instead of gallivanting all [?] the country-side at night, drinking [?] made [?] and doing [?] [?]-[?] until almost dawn, they worked hard in the white folks' kitchens all day and, as seen as night came, hurriedly finished up with their pots and pans and made a bee-line for Andrew Elijah Jones' little meeting house in the back of Joe Korsak's grocery store. {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text} Andrew Jones, a squat, {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}wooly{End handwritten}{End inserted text} -headed, middle aged {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}, little black man{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}Negro{End deleted text} with a {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}sly, {Begin deleted text}rougish{End deleted text} roguish{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}wicked little{End deleted text} gleam in his eye, was their leader. In the daytime he ran the Hopeville employment agency for "colored domestics" but at night, he was a man of God. In fact, many of his followers insisted that he was "God His self--in person"; and nobody could {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}dispute{End handwritten}{End inserted text} them {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}{Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[???]{End deleted text}. Their bodies belonged to the white folks during the day but their souls, both day and night, were the exclusive property of their {Begin deleted text}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},foxy,{End handwritten}{End inserted text} pint-sized [?]. They even slept with him in a big [?] old {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} house planted among a groves of elm trees at the end of {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Plum Hill{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Road. They called themselves his disciples; his children. And they called him "Father---Father {Begin deleted text}Jones{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Andrew - Elijah."{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

Well, the townspeople didn't mind this so much but that business of sightly worship in the back of {Begin deleted text}Korsak{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Korsak's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} s store began to get them down. {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}When{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the sisters and brothers began to feel the spirit in earnest,{Begin page no. 2}they whooped and hollered something awful. And their shouts, in a quiet, suburban place like Hopeville where everyone went to bed early, could be {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} heard for miles around.

The townsfolk rose up in arms and got together to see what could be done about it. They finally decided that {Begin deleted text}Andrew,{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Jones,{End handwritten}{End inserted text} that is, Father Andrew {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Elijah{End handwritten}{End inserted text} had to go. A {Begin deleted text}representive{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}representative{End handwritten}{End inserted text} committee waited on him at his place [?] business bright and early one morning and did what they could to persuade the good reverend to move on to greener pastures.

"Nothing doing!" or words to that effect, answered the right reverend.

He was doing all right in Hopeville and the idea of giving it up was the last thing that ever occurred to him. His disciples were all employed as cooks, maids, gardeners and chauffeurs in the homes of the countryside {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} s wealthiest people and they brought all their earnings home to him. Why should he move? The very idea was preposterous.

The natives retreated for another war-council and Father Andrew's disciples {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} continued happily, almost ecstatically, about their work. Whether they were in the midst of shopping for their employers, or baking a deep-dish apple pie, they unexpectedly used to burst [?] with little exclamations of delight like "Peace" {Begin deleted text}"It{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"It's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} truly wonderful!" Thank you Father!" and so on. Even when they stumbled and fell or accidentally upset a glass of water in their masters' or mistresses' laps, they said: "Thank you, Father. I'm sorry."

Well even then, the employers couldn't find it in themselves {Begin page no. 3}{Begin note}[?]{End note}

to be mad.

"They're just great, big children," they'd say, {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} and smile indulgently.

The fact is, the religious satellites, who called them selves {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}by{End handwritten}{End inserted text} /{Begin inserted text}such{End inserted text} funny names as "Happy Boy Job", "Patience Delight", "Eternal Faith" etc. were honest as the day is long and were excellent servants in every other respect. In addition to that, they could be hired for half the price of the lazy, sullen, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} shiftless {Begin deleted text}Negroes{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"Niggers"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} who were {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}natives{End inserted text} of the town.

And so, Father Andrew {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-Elijah{End handwritten}{End inserted text} remained. And {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} when the white housewives greeted their {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} cooks and maids with an amused, [?]:

"Good morning, Charity Light {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}. How are you today?"

Charity Light would answer in all earnestness:

"Peace {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}ain't{End handwritten}{End inserted text} it wonderful? Father Andrew {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}-Elijah's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [is god! Do?] {Begin deleted text}you{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Y'all{End handwritten}{End inserted text} want bacon {Begin deleted text}and{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'n'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} eggs {Begin deleted text}for{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}fo{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}breakfast{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}breakfas' dis mo'nin!" {End handwritten}{End inserted text}

Even on Main Street it was {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}not{End handwritten}{End inserted text} unusual to hear one of Father Andrew's angels, in a none too melodious voices and with the [?] of the [?] in his eyes, singing: "Father Andrew {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Elijah's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}is{End deleted text} the Light Of the World."

The {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten} "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Jonesites,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} as the {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} were called, soon saved enough to buy the two houses adjoining their property on {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Plum Hill Road. {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}One{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of the houses was converted into a sort of temple where the nightly meetings were held and Sunday dinners served. Free dinners, they were, and sumptuous. Feast to rival those of Biblical times. Not only the {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} angels {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} participated. Everyone was invited {Begin handwritten}∥{End handwritten} Not many outsiders came {Begin page no. 4}at first. They were a {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} still a little wary. A few of the bolder townspeople ventured in, however, and came away with wild stories of the huge banquet tables and savory cooked meals. More and more people appeared as the Sundays passed. Some came all the way from the city or the end of the island. And they {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} were {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}not{End handwritten}{End inserted text} disappointed. The banquets were as colorful and extravagant as they had been pictured. But most amazing as all was the fact that, of all the hundreds of people {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}who ate their fill,{End handwritten}{End inserted text} nobody paid. Everything was free. The treat was on Father Andrew- {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Elijah.{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

"God provides everything for his people," some of the angels were heard to say, as the free chicken, pork chops, roast brown duck and {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}suckling{End handwritten}{End inserted text} pig, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}smothered{End handwritten}{End inserted text} spare ribs and an assortment of vegetables, fruits and nuts were passed around in abundance.

Judging from the size of some of their eyes, {Begin deleted text}the{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[darkies?]the visitors{End handwritten}{End inserted text} still did not {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} believe it was true, even after they had sat down at the tables.

With hundreds of {Begin deleted text}Negroes{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}disables [?]darkies{End handwritten}{End inserted text} storming the quiet, [beurgeous?] community in dusty, broken down cars every Sunday afternoon, running over the carefully tended lawns and trampling the municipal shrubbery, the ire of the townspeople was once more aroused. They trooped down in {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}a body{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to demand that the police do something about it. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Chief Becker,{Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the spokesman {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}for the group{End handwritten}{End inserted text} began, "You've got to do something about those niggers. They're not [?] nuisance but they're running property values down to nothing, they've got most of us crazy, whooping and hollering {Begin deleted text}unil{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}until{End handwritten}{End inserted text} all hours of the night and putting on their [?] on the lawn."

{Begin page no. 5}Well, election [?] coming up. Chief becker got busy. "No - Parking" signs began to appear everywhere in the vicinity of the Kingdom, although {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} no one could remember having {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} ever seen one {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} in the history of the town. Many of the poor whites [?] [?] problems for the Kingdom by letting visitors park their cars at twenty five cents {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}each{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. Chief Becker, not to be outdone, began stopping all cars, looking at registration certificates, and being generally annoying to all niggers seen driving a car in the neighborhood. This did not stop the crowds. In fact, they got bigger. Chief Becker cussed a blue streak. He pulled his hair out. But no matter {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}what he did or{End handwritten}{End inserted text} how much he raved and ranted {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}, the influx could not be stopped.{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}he knew that he was licked.{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}The Chief was licked - and he knew it.{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

"Boys," he said to the citizens' committee," {Begin deleted text}[?] [???]{End deleted text} "Iv'e tried everything I could think of but the niggers keep comin'. I'm {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}sorry.{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}there's{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}There's {End handwritten}{End inserted text} nothing else I can do."

The town-fathers, more alarmed than ever, got together and petitioned "God's" arrest on the grounds of not only maintaining {Begin deleted text}[?] [???]{End deleted text} but being a public nuisance {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}. The fact that the populace was becoming more and more jittery through lack of sleep caused by the {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Kingdom's {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} nightly goings-on was specifically sighted in the petition and Father Andrew {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}- Elijah{End handwritten}{End inserted text} was {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}hustled{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}hauled{End deleted text} unceremoniously into court. The atmosphere there was so hostile, however, that the defense moved for a change of venue and the proceedings were resumed in the little neighboring town of Salt [?].

{Begin page no. 6}Judge Walker, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten} who presided at the hearing and{End handwritten}{End inserted text} who didn't like niggers anyhow, literally jumped on the good reverend with both feet. He not only sentenced him to a year in jail but fined him five hundred dollars to boot.

Four days later, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}much to the surprise of everyone,{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Judge Walker dropped {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}dead.{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

The Doctor said: "Heart trouble."

Father Andrew-Elijah, grinning with a sly, [?] look and acting for all the world like the cat that swallowed the canary, {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}proclaimed{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?] [???]{End deleted text}

"The [?] force of nature work with me."

The townspeople back in Hopeville shook {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} their heads and {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} began to wonder if there wasn't something to the story of old Jones {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} black-magic after all.

The "angels" went hop-skipping through the streets shouting: "We told you so! Father Andrew- {Begin deleted text}Elijah{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Elijah's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} God! Peace! {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Ain't it wonderful?"

Old {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Andrew's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} slick city lawyers {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} appealed the case and the [?] [?] {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}immediately reversed{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the late Judge Walker's fateful {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}decision. Then the "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [niggers?] {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}" really{End handwritten}{End inserted text} got {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}beside{End handwritten}{End inserted text} themselves. That night they hang [?] {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text} in the trees, danced wildly around a [?] banquet table {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} flung their arms skyward, babbled in unknown tongues and sang, more lustily than ever: "Father Andrew- {Begin deleted text}Elijah{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Elijah's the{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?] of the world!"{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[?] Of The World!"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}Once again. [?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Once again there was peace in the kingdom.{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}{Begin handwritten}xxx{End handwritten}{End deleted text}{Begin note}132 11 132 132 [1454?]{End note}

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}10{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, New York City

DATE November 29, 1938

SUBJECT "Betty" --[Social Ethnic?] Human Interest Story

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Submitted by staff-writer

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Bryd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, New York City

DATE November 29, 1938

SUBJECT "Betty" Social Ethnic Human Interest Story

Luigi's speakeasy did an all night business but you had to know what to say before they'd let you in. Whenever the bell rang, Jimmy got up and peeped through a little hole in the door. Well, he did the same thing the night Betty walked in. It was the first time I had seen her, I won't forget it. She was the kind of girl men fight for ... and like it; but on a Harlem police blotter, they had "prostitute" scribbled opposite her name. Not that she looked like one. Her eyes were a pale, lovely blue; her hair, soft and brown; and she had the sauciest two lips in the world. Another odd thing about her was the fact that she never carried a watch. I suppose it was because time meant nothing to her. She was in love. The boy's name was Bill.

When Jimmy opened the door, Betty, eyes sad, pocket book under arm and looking tired, hesitated in the doorway before walking to the far end of the room. No one looked up apparently but several pairs of eyes followed every movement of her graceful body. Movements emphasizing primitive appeal and simple loveliness.

"Ofay in a Harlem hot spot peddling her youth away for a nigger man", a party of white and colored people whispered.

{Begin page no. 2}"How's things, Joe?" Betty greets the bartender.

"Hie ya, Betty," Joe says without looking up. "Note for you".

She lights a cigarette and casually unfolds the piece of paper. Her features light up. Business...more money for Bill who understands her and needs her.

Drawing her coat a little more closely near the waistline, Betty walks briskly toward the door. Her walk now is alive with rhythm and vitality. Sam, the taxi-driver, follows. He has that something closely akin to a sixth sense. It tells him whenever Betty wants him to drive her places and, if necessary, collect for her. Both of them disappear into the dark street. Jimmy closes the door behind them.

Girls like Betty, they say, are all alike. Perhaps they are. I don't know. But I do know she was a Wellesley graduate.. and all girls are not Wellesley graduates.

Betty came to Greenwich Village to write. They brought her to Harlem to get "local color". Well, she got it.

Bill was working in a night club, one of those dingy, smoky little basement places. You remember them. Betty liked him and he saw in her all the things he had missed in other women. He sang for her. Afterwards she went home to the Village with her friends. The next time she came to Harlem, she came alone. The place had "got" her, as they say. There'was something about it she liked.

Cigarette smoke, fast living and basement gin put an end to Bill's love songs. He left for Arizona. Betty hoped he might get over it but she knew that wasted lungs are not cured overnight.

{Begin page no. 3}It cost her $200 a month to keep him in a sanitarium there.

For a long time she was able to sell enough stories and piece out her income with a little ghost-writing here and there, but when she finally had to look for a job, she found they were scarce.

That, of course, was before she began coming to Luigi's. After that, she didn't have to worry about bills and money. She always had more than enough.

Men loved Betty. When she smiled at them, they did anything she wanted. Many of them wanted to marry her but she only looked at them with a little amused smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

A hijacker once gave her two truckloads for a kiss. A boy from Park Avenue lost a $1000 bet on her. He thought she'd say "yes" when he asked her to marry him.. and she knew his family was one of the oldest in the Social Register. On a week-end party once, she fought a man. He insulted her. He thought she'd be flattered instead.

Betty had to have money..for Bill. So she got it. Nothing else mattered to her. Men brought it to her and were happy because it made her smile. Even though it was a long time ago, I can still see her smile.

But the reason I tell you this is because she came to Luigi's new place on the Avenue last night and it was the first time I had seen her since the old days. She certainly was not the same carefree Betty I once knew.

Bill, of course, did not come back.

"He was too far gone", the doctors said.

{Begin page no. 4}The kid is still very good to look at and while she was perched on the stool at the bar, one of the men who used to know her walked over and said something. She shook her head, meaning "no". Then he pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and showed them to her.

I could see her reflection in the {Begin deleted text}mirrir{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}mirror{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and what her lips said was: "I don't need it."

The man went away puzzled. He couldn't understand such a complete change. He couldn't, of course. He never knew about Bill.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE December 7, 1938

SUBJECT AFTERNOON IN A PUSHCART PEDDLERS' COLONY

1. Date and time of interview Reported by staff-writer -- based on personal contacts and observations, Harlem River waterfront, West Bank.

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Evans Drake and "Oliver" (mechanics helper) (see text)

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, NYC

DATE December 7, 1938

SUBJECT AFTERNOON IN A PUSHCART PEDDLERS' COLONY

It was snowing and, shortly after noontime, the snow changed to sleet and beat a tattoo against the rocks and board shacks that had been carelessly thrown together on the west bank of the Harlem. It was windy too and the cold blasts that came in from the river sent the men shivering for cover behind their shacks where some of them had built huge bonfires to-ward off the icy chills that swept down from the hills above.

Some of them, unable to stand it any longer, went below into the crudely furnished cabins that were located in the holds of some old abandoned barges that lay half in, half out of the water. But the men did not seem to mind. Even the rotting barges afforded them some kind of shelter. It was certainly better than nothing, not to mention the fact that it was their home; address, the foot of 133rd Street at Park Avenue on the west bank of the Harlem River; depression residence of a little band of part-time pushcart peddlers whose cooperative colony is one of the most unique in the history of New York City.

{Begin page no. 2}These men earn their living by cruising the streets long before daylight, collecting old automobile parts, pasteboard, paper, rags, rubber, magazines, brass, iron, steal, old clothes or anything they can find that is saleable as junk. They wheel their little pushcarts around exploring cellars, garbage cans and refuse heaps. When they have a load, they turn their footsteps in the direction of the American Junk Dealers, Inc., whose site of wholesale and retail operations is located directly opposite the pushcart colony at 134th Street and Park Avenue. Of the fifty odd colonists, many are ex-carpenters, painters, brick-masons, auto-mechanics, upholsterers, plumbers and even an artist or two.

Most of the things the men collect they sell, but once in awhile they run across something useful to themselves, like auto parts, pieces of wire, or any electrical equipment, especially in view of the fact that there are two or three electrical engineers in the group.

Joe Elder, a tall, serious minded Negro, was the founder of the group that is officially known as the National Negro Civil Association. Under his supervision, electrically inclined members of the group set up a complete power plant that supplied all the barges and shacks with electric light. It was constructed with an old automobile engine and an electrical generator bought from the City of New York.

For a long time it worked perfectly. After awhile, when a city inspector came around, he condemned it and the shacks were temporarily without light. It was just as well, perhaps, since part of {Begin page no. 3}the colony was forced to vacate the site in order to make room for a mooring spot for a coal company that rented a section of the waterfront.

A rather modern and up-to-date community hall remains on the site, however. One section of it is known as the gymnasium and many pieces of apparatus are to be found there. There are also original oil paintings in the other sections known as the library and recreation room. Here, one is amazed (to say the least) by the comfortable divans, lounges, bookshelves and, of all things, a drinking fountain. The water is purchased from the City and pumped directly to the hall and barges by a homemade, electrically motored pump. In the recreation room there are also three pianos. On cold nights when the men want companionship and relaxation, they bring the women there and dance to the accompaniment of typical Harlem jazz... jazz that is also supplied by fellow colonists. (For what Negro is there who is not able to extract a tune of some sort from every known instrument?)

After being introduced to some of the boys, we went down into Oliver's barge. It was {Begin deleted text}a{End deleted text} shaky, weather-beaten and sprawling, like the other half-dozen that surrounded it. Inside, he had set up an old iron range and attached a pipe to it that carried the smoke out and above the upper deck. On top of the iron grating that had been laid across the open hole on the back of the stove were some spare-ribs that had been generously seasoned with salt, pepper, sage and hot-sauce. Later I discovered a faint flavor of mace in them. The small and pungency of spices filled the low ceilinged room with an appetizing aroma. The faces of the men were alight and hopeful with anticipation.

{Begin page no. 4}There was no real cause for worry, however, since Oliver had more than enough for everybody. Soon he began passing out tin plates for everyone. It makes my mouth water just to think of it. When we had gobbled up everything in sight, all of us sat back in restful contemplation puffing on our freshly lighted cigarettes. Afterwards there was conversation, things the men elected to talk about of their own accord.

"You know one thing," Oliver began, "ain't nothin' like a man being his own boss. Now take today, here we is wit' plenty to eat, ha'f a jug of co'n between us and nairy a woman to fuss aroun' wantin' to wash up dishes or mess aroun' befo' duh grub gits a chance to settle good."

"Dat sho is right," Evans Drake agreed. He was Oliver's helper when there were trucks to be repaired. "A 'oman ain't good fuh nuthin' but one thing."

The conversation drifted along until I was finally able to ease in a query or two.

"Boys," I ventured, "how is it that none of you ever got on Home Relief? You can get a little grub out of it, at least, and that would take a little of the load off you, wouldn't it?"

At this they all rose up in unanimous protest.

"Lis'en," one of them said, "befo' I'd take Home Relief I'd go out in duh street an' hit same bastard oveh de haid an' take myse'f some'n'. I know one uv duh boys who tried to git it an' one of dem {Begin page no. 5}uppity little college boys ovah dere talked tuh him lak he was some damn jailbird or some'n'. If it had been me, I'd a bust hell outn' him an' walked outa duh place. What duh hell do we wants wid relief anyhow? We is all able-bodied mens an' can take it. We can make our own livin's."

This, apparently, was the attitude of every man there. They seemed to take fierce pride in the fact that every member of Joe Elder's National Negro Civil Association (it used to be called the National Negro Boat Terminal) was entirely self-supporting. They even had their own unemployment insurance fund that provided an income for any member of the group who was ill and unable to work. Each week the men give a small part of their earnings toward this common fund and automatically agree to allow a certain amount to any temporarily incapacitated member. In addition to that, they divide among themselves their ill brother's work and provide a day and night attendant near his shack if his illness is at all serious.

After chatting awhile longer with them, I finally decided to leave.

"Well boys," I said, getting up, "I guess I'll have to be shoving off. Thanks, a lot, for the ribs. See you again sometime."

Before leaving, however, I gave them a couple of packs of cigarettes I had on me in part payment for my dinner.

"O. K." they said. "Come ovah ag'in some time. Some Sat'd'y. Maybe we'll have a few broads (women) and a little co'n."

"Thanks."

{Begin page no. 6}Outside the snow and sleet had turned to rain and the snow that had been feathery and white was running down the river bank in brown rivulets of slush and mud. It was a little warmer but the damp air still had a penetrating sharpness to it. I shuddered, wrapped my muffler a little tighter and turned my coat collar up about my ears.

There was wind in the rain, and behind me lay the jagged outline of the ramshackle dwellings. I hated to think of what it would be like, living in them when there was a scarcity of wood or when the fires went out.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, NYC

DATE December 28, 1938

SUBJECT LIFE IN THE HARLEM MARKETS

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 West 135th Street, NYC

DATE December 28, 1938

SUBJECT LIFE IN THE HARLEM MARKETS

The Harlem Market at three A. M. is a kaleidoscopic canvas of bright lights, scurrying figures and the dim outlined silhouettes of trucks; baskets of fruit and many-sized crates of fresh vegetables. It is a part of New York little known and seldom seen by any persons other than those who make their living there; yet, it is vitally important to the daily welfare of more than half the population in all the surrounding community.

Walking through the dark streets in the early morning one notices the main roadway that is filled on both sides with trucks, wagons and merchandise piled {Begin deleted text}harem-scarem{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}helter-skelter{End handwritten}{End inserted text} on the sidewalk awaiting delivery to the many retail stores and pushcart markets of Harlem. Around these trucks and in the warehouses surrounding them, a veritable army of workers sort and load the produce that must be delivered not later than nine o'clock in the morning.

All of this activity is the result of the commission-merchant business. This business came into existence when the peddlers found it increasingly difficult to put in their appearances at the markets {Begin page no. 2}daily and carry on the bargaining with farmers who came there to dispose of their wares. Besides that, many of their stands were located so far away from the wholesale market that it was quite impossible for them to deliver their own merchandise. They were forced to hire independent truckmen who charged them exhorbitant rates and made it virtually impossible for them to make a descent profit from the sale of their goods. The commission-merchants who owned their own trucks were able to offer them at a reduced rate providing the peddlers bought their produce from the "middle-men". They were also able to save the peddler from two or three hours each day by relieving him of the responsibility of coming to the market, shopping around for his merchandise and usually going back to his stand so tired that he was unable to work. The peddlers, realizing this, eventually gave up going to the markets themselves or sending their truckmen. They found it very convenient to let the commission-merchants do their shopping for them. When this became customary, the commission-merchants immediately increased their prices to a rate that yielded them more net profits than the farmer who originally produced the foodstuffs or the peddler who sold it to the customer.

Being the "middle-man", they discovered, was far more profitable than being either the producer or retailer. The commission-merchant, for instance, buys a complete wagon-load of fruits and vegetables from the farmer and sells it at a considerable profit to the peddlers and storekeepers. Sometimes they are able to make especially good bargains with the farmers by purchasing huge lots outright and {Begin page no. 3}selling them at the regular price to the retailers. On these days, they make what is coloquially known as a "killing." They, to a great extent, corner the market on certain rare fruits or vegetables that are then in demand and sell them at such high rates that it is almost impossible for the peddler to buy. Yet he cannot refuse to buy because customers demand the article. Therefore he is forced to carry it as a part of his stock.

Many peddlers have corroborated this fact, and Louis Feldstein, a pushcart peddler of the Eighth Avenue market who has been in business for thirteen years, ably explained and offered proof for this fact. He explained that when he is able to go to the market (where the farmers congregate) he is very often able to buy merchandise at almost one-half the price he ordinarily pays for it. This is especially true when the farmer has been in the market all night and is anxious to go home. He might be willing to let a large lot of produce go for only a small part of what the wholesale price for that day would be. The commission merchants are also alert for these bargains. It is then that they are able to make their best profits for, even though they are able to buy cheaply, they always sell at the current market price. For instance, they might buy five or ten thousand carrots at a half-cent each and sell them for one and one-half cents a piece. The peddler, in turn, will sell these same carrots at the rate of ten cents a bunch (five in a bunch), or two cents each, which means that he only makes a profit of one-half cent on them while the commission merchant realizes a clear {Begin page no. 4}profit of one cent on each carrot. These figures, of course, are only comparative but they are accurate enough to give the reader a fair idea of how these transactions are carried out.

The farmers and the pushcart peddlers spend long hours of hard work producing and passing this merchandise on to the consumers, but the middle-man are really the ones in the tri-cornered deal who benefit most by the transaction. There are times, of course, when the peddler is ambitious enough to save the middle-man's fee on his purchases. At such times, he rises early (about three o'clock in the morning) goes to the market, bargains with the farmers and hires an independent truckman to deliver his goods. The tariff on trucking, incidentally, is greatly reduced in comparison to what it used to be. For this reason, it is to the peddler's advantage to do his own buying and later hire an independent truckman to make deliveries for him. The current price on deliveries runs from eight to ten cents per crate or basket.

The commission-marchants, in order to meet the competition of these new, low prices, have (in the cases of many old customers) resorted to free or half-price delivery. Only the larger firms are able to afford this, however, because of the high cost of gasoline and oil, not to mention the wear and tear on their trucks. The independent truckmen seem to feel, however, that this is only a temporary measure and are confident that the commission merchants, if they continue this policy, will only increase the price of merchandise.

{Begin page no. 5}At 102nd Street near the East River, the farmers congregate in a separate market of their own where the buyers from the wholesale houses as well as the itinerant pushcart peddlers come to bargain with them. Many of the farmers come there (in summer) as early as eight or nine o'clock at night and remain there as late as seven or eight o'clock the next morning. It is at this time that the individual peddlers have an opportunity to shop for themselves. In winter, it is different. The farmers come at about three or four o'clock in the morning, dispose of their produce and leave immediately. At this season of the year, the peddlers make less profit than usual because they are forced to buy at standard market prices. The only thing that keeps prices down is the fact that practically all of the commission merchants, with the possible exception of a very few, are individual dealers.

- - - - - - - - MARKET PERSONALITIES PATSY, THE ADAPTABLE : Patsy Randolph is undoubtedly one of the most unusual and certainly the most unique pushcart peddler in the Eighth Avenue Market.

Unlike the average peddler there, she has no specialty, such as fruits and vegetables, but sells any and every kind of product that she feels is seasonally the most valuable and desirable. There are times when she peddles cooking utensils, cosmetic products, odd and {Begin page no. 6}damaged lots of men's and women's furnishings or thoroughly blackened canned goods bought wholesale or at fire-sales. Her current product, however, is the most unusual of all. She is selling pickles, pepper-sauces, spices and relishes exclusively. The pickles she makes and packs herself.

The biggest seller of this entire lot, incidentally, happens to be pickled watermelon rind. Her profits on this Southern delicacy amount to something well over 95% because the rinds cost her absolutely nothing. She has obtained the permission of store owners who sell individual five and ten cent slices at their street stands, to collect all the rinds she wants from their baskets. At the height of the summer season, she takes these rinds home, prepares and packs them in fruit jars and sells them to a highly appreciative buying public that has long since been accustomed to this fine "down-home" dish that adds a tasty flavor to meats, especially roast pork or the more widely favored pork chops.

The secret of her sales success for this particular product, she says, depends entirely upon the way it in prepared, and as further proof of her versatility, she offers the following recipe as permanent proof of her claim to the title: "Best-maker-of-pickled-watermelon-rinds-in-Harlem."

"This pickle is very easy to prepare," she declared. "First you scoop out all the remaining red meat from the inside of the rind. Now peel the thin green rind from the outside. Cut the white rind into small cubes and cover with water that has been salted, two teaspoons of salt to the pint. Leave the rind in the water for an hour or two, while you prepare this syrup:

{Begin page no. 7}"Add a quart of cider vinegar to two pounds of brown sugar. Add two tablespoons of whole cloves and a few small sticks of cinamon. You can also add a few raisins as an additional flavoring and dressing. You don't have to, of course, but they help to round out the flavor. Bring this liquid to a slow boil. Afterwards, drain the brine from the melon rind and rinse them with fresh, cold water. Add the melon rind to the syrup and let it cook until tender. Guard against letting it get too soft, though. You can find this out by sticking it with a fork.

"When the rind is tender, put it in fruit jars and pack them tightly. Now re-heat the syrup and pour it boiling into the jars over the rind. Add a few cloves to each jar. Be sure and seal the jars tightly. This keeps them from spoiling and protects the good, home-made flavor."

- - - - - - POPULAR SOUTHERN FOODS YAMS : Located at frequent intervals in the heart of the Eighth Avenue market, there are more than a dozen stoves on wheels that indicate to the neighborhood shopper another stand dedicated to the preparation of good old Southern yams. The number of these street stoves is also sufficient proof of the fact that yams (baked, candied {Begin page no. 8}or fried) rate exceptionally high with housewives of the neighborhood who, because of long hours on their jobs, find it difficult to do their own baking of this ever-popular delicacy of the old South.

A recent interview with operators of these stands revealed the fact that baked yams are purchased in great numbers not only by the potato-loving Negroes from Dixie, but also by the many buxom black women hailing from one of the several West Indian Islands. Even in those remote corners of the globe the popularity of the lowly sweet potato has achieved a new market-high. The vendors were almost unanimous in their explanation of the reason why so many people prefer buying their yams in the market in preference to preparing them at home. It was pointed out that in order to keep their gas bills down to normal, many of these women who might enjoy cooking their own yams refrain from doing so for reasons of economy. Besides that, it is usually late in the afternoons when the majority of these housewives leave their service jobs in various sections of the city. When they arrive at home, it is too late to do much cooking, even if they would like to. Another reason offered for street purchases was explained as follows:

"Well, you see, a lot of these single men and women who are roomers in other people's apartments have little chance for cooking and even if they did, the landlady wouldn't want them to cook any food (especially anything that had to be baked) that used up so much gas. Besides that, it's too much trouble to the average man or woman to be bothered with cooking things like that when they can be bought so cheap. That's the may we keep in business. We sell our yams so {Begin page no. 9}cheap that it don't pay for the people to cook them at home. The extra trouble is worth the few extra cents they'd have to pay for enough for a good meal."

Inquiries about the production of the potato crops yielded the following information: That North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia are the biggest producers of the more or less famous yellow yams. Virginia, however, has championship claims on the production of giant white yams that are so popular in that section of the country prior to and during the Christmas holiday season. And speaking of the holiday season brings to mind "potato-pone" (pronounced, "p'teter peon" in Georgia). This unique dish is a holiday delicacy that is enjoyed in the home of the poorest person at Christmas time. This does not mean, however, that it is monopolized entirely by the poor. In the homes of the old gentry, it is served and eaten with gusto. The final product is somewhat similar in taste to well seasoned potato-custard pie but it contains so much nutmeg and other spices that it emerges from the oven with a dark, muddy color faintly reminiscent of overdone bread pudding. This unappetizing color in no way detracts from the fine flavor and palatability of this down-home concoction, however, and the dish, within the past few years has achieved surprising popularity in Harlem. It was first introduced, locally, by natives of Georgia who migrated to New York during the sudden post-war migration of Negroes from all parts of the South to various cities in the East and Mid-West. New Yorkers ate it first with much misgiving but ended up by pleasantly surprising their hostesses by asking for second helpings. The recipe was {Begin page no. 10}passed around from one person to another until today this dish alone is second in Harlem to hogshead or pigtails-peas-and-rice as a Christmas holiday dish. In the markets, the yam vendors who are enterprising enough to make their own potato-pons at home, bring it to their stands and keep it warm on top of their ovens, find a ready sale for all they can supply. In fact, the demand is far greater than the available supply.

The popularity of the potato is further attested to by the fact that the sweet potato was one of the first of the market products to inspire a popular market song exclusive to Harlem. It was included in a previous report. The name of it is: "Th' Sweet Pertater Man." The lyric, composed by Heaven knows whom, extolls the hugeness and the delicious flavor of the potatoes sold on his, "John Peddler's," stand. It is typically expressive of the merits and popularity of this vegetable that, in Uptown New York, is not just another dish for the table but a glorified delicacy of the first order.

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}[7?]{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE November 14, 1938

SUBJECT THE "KINGDOM" BANQUETS --FATHER DIVINE CULT.

1. Date and time of interview November 8, 1938

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant Reported by Frank Byrd (staff writer)

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE November 14, 1938

SUBJECT THE "KINGDOM" BANQUETS --FATHER DIVINE CULT

Father Divine's banquets are famous. They have been for many years now, ever since the inauguration of the religious cult at Sayville, Long Island. Not until recently, however, has this writer availed himself of the opportunity to sit through the numerous courses of one of these colorful, gargantuan feasts. It was, to say the least, an unusual experience.

About nine o'clock in the evening the official feasting begins. Gathered about the Father are his legal satellites, staff members, personal attendants, followerw and sympathizers. The table is modeled somewhat after the accepted seating arrangement of Christ and his disciples at the Last Supper, with the exception of the fact that where Christ seated twelve Father Divine seats hundreds. Interested outsiders are segregrated to side tables. They may eat at the huge winding banquet table only when they become members of the movement or come as invited guests of the Father or his followers.

The table is heavily loaded with fresh fruits of every description, whole hams, chickens, suckling pigs, legs of lamb, pig's knuckles, pork chops, baked breast of lamb, beef-stew, corn, cabbage, kale, spinach, potatoes, rice, celery, sliced tomatoes, large bowls {Begin page no. 2}of chopped lettuce and green peppers, cakes, pies, pitchers of coffee and milk. It is a gourmands dream, a hobo's heaven.

When the meal is well under way, Father Divine rises, beams (as only Father Divine can beam) and says in that crips, energetic way: "Peace, everyone! Righteousness, Justice and Truth, Good Health, with Good Manners and Good Behavior for you! By so doing and so being, we will have a righteous government in which to live. Is everybody happy?"

Judging by the almost uniformly beatic expressions on the faces of the angels, everybody was more than happy. And if there was any further doubt of it, the tremendous volume of answers in the affirmative was enough to dispel any possible lingering doubt. Not that there seemed to be any doubt in Father Divine's mind. He seemed quite sure of what the answer would be. In fact, while the "Thank you Fathers", "We're so happy's "Yes Father, you're so sweet" and so on were still filling the air, the good Father appeared impatient and not a little annoyed at not being able to go on with his piece. After all is quiet and serene again and the angels have resumed such mundane activities as polishing off an unfinished pork chop bone, or sopping up some fine, brown spare rib gravy, Father takes up where he left off and, apparently inspired by his own voice, warms up to his Message with all the fire and enthusiasm of a seasoned politician. Scribbling frantically at his elbow are a battery of alert stenographers who are busy recording, verbatim, every word of their leader for the subsequent edification of followers who were unable to be present, and, of course, for posterity.

Well, this goes on for one, two and well into three hours. I ask if this is the usual proceedure. The answer is yes. "Maybe longer" I am informed of course the speaking does not go on uninterrupted for all this time. Speeches, as most speeches should be, were {Begin page no. 3}occasionally interrupted with sudden outbursts of song. Two of the most popular were: "Father Divine is The Light Of The World" and "Fathers Got Me In The Palm Of His Hand."

Many of the faithful even bring their musical instruments along with which they make additional extollations of the virtues of their diminutive leader. In between times, new converts imbued with the spirit or full of gratitude, get up and make open confessions of their great sins before they were taken under the protective influence of the Divine wing. Some of these stories are hair-raisers, others genuinely pathetic. One apparently well educated white woman, a Californian and member of the Divine movement for over three years, she said, sang Father Divine's praises to the highest. She said that a perpetual craving for alchol had almost robbed her of her reasoning and not until she had quit her job and come to join Father Divine could she find and release from it and any continuous peace of mind.

''You appear to be quite normal." I ventured. "How do you find this business of sexual abstinence?"

"It doesn't worry me at all any more." she declared. "Of course, I'll admit that when I first came here, it bothered me a little, but with the help of Father, I've mastered it completely. Now, all men seem like brothers to me. I don't think of them in a physical way at all."

She seemed quite earnest and sincere and continued to explain to me how happy she was in the work of the Kingdom and in being a servant of "God".

"All I want in life," she said, "is to continue doing his will."

During these spasmodic testimonials, the angels, whenever they feel the spirit, break into song, speak in unknown tongues, shout

{Begin page no. 4}"Thank You, Father.", declare "It's wonderful" extoll the sweetness of life and each other and vow undying love for and servitude to Father Divine. Even when they feel the urge to express themselves, they offer further proof of being only" His" children. They raise their hands, like children in a school-room, wave them frantically and, if they are recognized, rise and speak. If not, they remain dutifully quiet and polietely yield preference to some other brother or sister. They may all sing at once but only one at a time attempts to talk.

Sometimes, when one is given the floor and feels too full of the spirit to adequately express it in words, he simply begins to sing. The tune is recognized and taken up by the others and the hall is soon and full and throbbing with music. Those with instruments improvise on the straight melody or often "come in" with only a soft, studied obligato. This may happen twenty or thirty times before the meal officially comes to a close.

Father Divine modestly accepts credit as composer of some of the Kingdom songs but in other cases, lyrics are made up by different angels to suit well-known Negro spirituals, operatic arias, or just plain Tin-Pan Alley tunes. In all of them, however, Father Divine is the lyric theme. They apparently never tire of singing their lord and master's praises.

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview {Begin handwritten}19{End handwritten}

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

JUN 19 [?]

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St.

DATE 5/25/39

SUBJECT Folklore

1. Date and time of interview

5/21/22/23

2. Place of interview

Father Divines Extension Kingdom, 123rd St. and Lenox Ave.

3. Name and address of informant

Jewish Conciliation Court of America. John Lamb 123rd St. and Lenox Ave.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Large apt. -office bldg. housing meeting and living rooms of Father Divine's

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

****

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St.

DATE 5/25/39

SUBJECT Folklore

FATHER DIVINE AND HIS FOLLOWERS

Father Divine once said: "Emancipation is now open to those called Jews, by their accepting my message with the spirit of sincerity, forgetting their Adamic lineage and recognizing the Christ consciousness as the Redeemer and Savior. The persecuted and downtrodden Jews in this, as in the old era, are crying out in anguish for their Savior. I am the answer to that cry and prayer, offering them complete emancipation, if they will but hear my voice and obey."

Not long after this public invitation, many persons of Jewish faith joined the Divine Movement. "Truly Wonderful", the following treatise, is a story of one of these religious converts.

"Truly Wonderful"

No one would have objected, apparently, had she only attended one of Father Divine's meetings or even-[used?]

{Begin page no. 3}her highest intuition", as the squat, diminutive little Negro evangelist and spiritual cult leader advised her to do. Publicly forsaking and denying the Jewish faith, however, was a horse of another color; at least, that was the opinion of certain leaders of the Hebrew Benevolent Society of which plump, {Begin deleted text}readheaded{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}redheaded{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Mrs. Sadie Bergenfeld (afterwards known as Thankful Purity) was a full fledged member. The society, in fact, felt so strongly about this matter that they called a meeting before the Jewish Conciliation Court of America for the sole purpose of giving the good lady the legal boot. In other words, they wanted to dispel her from their strictly orthodox society and deprive her of her rightful financial benefits that were due her after twenty years of monthly dues-paying. But Thankful Purity (nee' Bergenfeld) was not the type to give up without a fight, so she took the witness stand to testify [veheminantly?] in her own behalf; her amber-green eyes flashing an indignant fire.

"Peace!" she began, with a decided Bronx accent. "It's wonderful!"

The three presiding judges were a little nonpulssed by this strange proceedure but bravely tried to carry on.

"Is it true that you belong to Father Divine's heaven?" one of them asked.

"Belong?" Thankful Purity asked, puzzled. "What means belong?"

"Are you one of Father Divine's followers?" the judge amended.

{Begin page no. 4}"I follow the best." was the answer he got. "Father Diane is wonderful. I like him. Peace!"

"How did you become an 'angel'?" another judge wanted to know.

"It happened two years ago," the witness explained eagerly. "I was feeling very, very bad. I saw hundreds of doctors and they all told me I must have an operation, but they refused to guarantee that I would get well. So one day I was sick in bed when a colored girl came in to clean my house. I told her I was sick and she said I should go to see Father {Begin deleted text}cDivine{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}Divine{End inserted text}.

"I got up and went right away to one of his meeting rooms, and then I heard him speak. He was wonderful. He spoke of things I never heard of before; things I couldn't understand. I asked one of the women how I could speak to Father Divine and she told me to walk right up to him and say 'Peace!"

"When the meeting was over, I rushed up to the platform, grabbed Father Divine's hand and cried: 'Peace'! I asked him what I must do to cure myself."

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'use your highest intuition!"

"Did you?"

"I don't know. All I remember is that I went home and fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning, I was feeling fine. Since that day I have never been sick. Now I am sure Father Divine is God."

{Begin page no. 5}"But," one of the judges protested, "This organization has a legal right to expel you. Their constitution says they can expel any member who leaves the Jewish faith. That is what you have done."

"I have not left the Jewish faith!"

Thankful Purity was very indignant in her denial

"I am now more of a Jew than the rest of you. I can shake hands with the whole world. I am not prejudiced. I love everyone. That is peace...heaven on earth. Don't you believe in peace[?]"

"Don't you think it would cause peace", judge number two inquired, "if you resigned from the society?"

"I want peace. The lodge doesn't want peace. Why should they take away all my benefits for which my husband paid for?"

"But you have violated the constitution by worshipping a different God."

"I am not worshipping a different God!" Thankful Purity shouted. "There is only one God, Father Divine. You don't know who God is. You don't know Father Divine."

"Well, what do you suggest that we do?" the Court finally asked.

After thinking it over for awhile Thankful Purity said: "I want peace. I'll give up everything. I don't want anything they were supposed to give me. They can have it. I don't [need?] anything. I've got heaven right here."

Without handing down any formal decision, the Court assured the society that Thankful Purity (that is, Mrs. Bergenfeld)

{Begin page no. 6}would resign from the organization.

Thankful Purity, rising and walking from the room with aloof spiritual dignity and wearing an expression of glowing beatitude, stopped at the door and shouted a last-minute invitation in the direction of the judges, bench.

"Gentlemen," she said, "I wish you would come to our meetings. You would learn something. Peace! It's truly wonderful!"

"PEACE IN THE KINGDOM'

(Religious Cult of Father Devine)

by Frank Byrd

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. NYC

DATE September 5, 1938

SUBJECT RELIGIOUS CULT OF "FATHER DIVINE"

1. Date and time of interview August, 1937

2. Place of interview Sayville, Long Island

3. Name and address of informant Chief Tucker, Police Headquarters (Chief of Police, Sayville, L. I.)

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

New York Daily News

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

Reporters from other N. Y. Newspapers

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Usual precinct room

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE NEW YORK

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. New York City

DATE September 12, 1938

SUBJECT POLICE CHIEF TUCKER'S STORY "PEACE IN THE KINGDOM" PEACE IN THE KINGDOM AS TOLD TO THE WRITER BY THE CHIEF OF POLICE; SAYVILLE, L.I.

Major T. (Father) Divine has become almost a legendary figure in lower Long Island where he first set up his cult headquarters. Many stories about his peculiar religious doings and subsequent tiffs with the law are told by native inhabitants. The following is only one of many. The writer has taken the liberty of changing names of persons and places.

The changes as they appear in the story:

Major T. (Father Divine {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}){End handwritten}{End inserted text} to Rev. Andrew Elijah Jones.

Police Chief Tucker to Chief Becker.

Macon Street to Pudding Hill Road

Sayville to Hopeville

Mineola to Salt Point

Judge Smith to Judge Walker

* * * * * * * *

{Begin page}When they first came to town nobody paid much attention to them. They were just another group of Niggers who had moved in. They were a little different from the others though. Instead of gallivanting all over the country-side at nights, drinking home made hootch and doing the Belly-Roll until almost dawn, they worked hard in the white folks' kitchens all day and, as soon as night came, hurriedly finished up with their pots and pans and made a bee-line for Andrew Elijah Jones' little meeting house in the back of Joe Kersak's grocery store.

Andrew Jones, a squat, wooly headed, middle aged, little black man with a sly, rougish gleam in his eye, was their leader. In the daytime he ran the Hopeville employment agency for "colored domestics" but, at night, he was a man of God. In fact, many of his followers insisted that he was "God his self--in person"; and nobody could dispute them. Their bodies belonged to the white folks during the day but their souls, both day and night, were the exclusive property of their foxy, pint-sized patriach. They even slept with him in a big, rambling old house planted among a grove of elm trees at the end of Plum Hill Road. They called themselves his disciples; his children. And they called him "Father--Father Andrew-Elijah".

Well, the townspeople didn't mind this so much but that business of nightly worship in the back of Kersak's store began to get them down. When the sisters and brothers began to fell the spirit in earnest, they whooped and hollered something awful. And {Begin page no. 2}their shouts, in a quiet, suburban place like Hopeville where everyone went to bed early could be heard for miles around.

The townsfolk rose up in arms and got together to see what could be done about it. They finally decided that Jones, that is Father Andrew-Elijah had to go. A representative committee waited on him at his place of business bright and early one morning and did what they could to persuade the good reverend to move on to greener pastures.

"Nothing doing!" or words to that effect, answered the the right reverend.

He was doing all right in Hopeville and the idea of giving it up was the last thing that ever occured to him. His disciples were all employed as cooks, maids, gardeners and chauffers in the homes of the countryside's wealthiest people and they brought all their earnings home to him. Why should he move? The very idea was preposterous.

The natives retreated for another war-council and Father Andrew's disciples continued happily, almost ecstatically, about their work. Whether they were in the midst of shopping for their employers, or baking a deep-dish apple pie, the unexpectedly used to burst forth with little exclamations of delight like "Peace[?] "It's truly wonderful!" Thank you Father!" and so on. Even when they stumbled and fell or accidentally upset a glass of water in their masters' or mistresses' laps, they said: "Thank you, Father, I'm sorry."

Well even then, the employers couldn't find it in themselves to be mad.

{Begin page no. 3}"They're just great, big children." they'd say, and smile indulgently.

The fact is, the religious satellites, who called themselves by such funny names as "Happy Boy Job", "Patience Delight", "Eternal Faith" etc. were {Begin deleted text}hones{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}honest{End handwritten}{End inserted text} as the day is long and were excellent servants in every other respect. In addition to that, they could be hired for half the price of the lazy, sullen, shiftless [?] Niggers who were natives of the town.

And so, Father Andrew-Elijah remained. And when the white house-wives greeted their cooks and maids with an amused, patronizing:

"Good morning, Charity Light, How are you today?"

Charity Light would answer in all earnestness:

"Peace! Ain't it wonderful? Father Andrew-Elijah's God! You'all want bacon 'n' eggs fo breakfas', dis mo'ing".

Even on Main Street it was not unusual to hear one of Father Andrew's angels, in a none too melodious voice and with the gleam of the fanatic in his eye, singing: Father Andrew-Elijah's The Light of The World."

The "Jonesities", as they were called, soon saved enough to buy the two houses adjoining their property on Plum Hill Road. One of the houses was converted into a sort of temple where the nightly meetings were held and Sunday dinners served. Free dinners, they were, and sumptious. Feasts to rival those of Biblical times. Not only the "angels" particiapated. Everyone was invited.

Not many outsiders came at first. They were a still a little wary. A few of the bolder townspeople ventured in, however, and came away with wild stories of the huge banquet tables and savery {Begin page no. 4}Cooked meals. More and more people appeared as the Sundays passed. Some came all the way from the city or the end of the island. And they were not disappointed. The banquets were as colorful and extravagant as they had been pictured. But most amazine as all was the fact that, of all the hundreds of people who ate their fill, nobody paid. Everything was free. The treat was on Father Andrew-Elijah.

"God provides everything for his people" some of the angels were heard to say, as the free chicken, pork chops, roast brown duck and suckling pig, smothered spare-ribs and an assortment of vegetables, fruits and nuts were passed around in abundance.

Judging from the size of some of their eyes, the visitors still did not, believe it was true, even after they had sat down at the tables. With hundreds of darkies storming the quiet, bourgeous community in dusty, broken down cars every Sunday afternoon, running over the carefully tended lawns and trampling the municipal shrubbery, the ire of the townspeople was once more aroused. They trouped down in a body to demand that the police do something about it.

"Chief Becker", the spokesman for the group began, "You've got to do something about these niggers. They're not only a nuisance but they're running property values down to nothing, they've got most of us crazy, whooping and hollering until all hours of the night and putting on their war-dances on the lawn."

Well, election was coming up. Chief Becker got busy. "No-Parking" signs began to appear everywhere in the vicinity of the Kingdom, although no one could remember having ever seen one in the history of the town. Many of the poor whites solved this {Begin page no. 5}problem for the Kingdom by letting visitors park their cars at twenty five cents each. Chief Becker, not to be outdone, began stopping all cars, looking at registration certificates, and being generally annoying to all niggers seen driving a car in the neighborhood. This did not stop the crowds. In fact, they got bigger. Chief Becker cussed a blue streak. He pulled his hair out. But not matter what he did or how much he raved and ranted, the influx could not be stopped. The chief was licked-and he knew it.

"Boys," he said to the citizens' committee," "Iv'e tried everything I could think of but the niggers keep comin', I'm sorry, There's nothing else I can do."

The town-fathers, more alarmed than ever, got together and petitioned "God's" arrest on the grounds of not only maintaining but being a public nuisance. The fact that the populace was becoming more and more jittery through lack of sleep caused by the "Kingdom's" nightly goings-on was specifically sighted in the petition and Father Andrew-Elijah hustled unceremoniously into court. The atmosphere there was so hotile, however, that the defense moved for a change of venue and the proceedings were resumed in the little neighboring town of Salt Point.

Judge Walker, who presided at the hearing and who didn't like niggers anyhow, literally jumped on the good reverend with both feet. He not only sentenced him to a year in jail but fined him five hundred dollars to boot.

Four days later, much to the surprise of everyone, Judge Walker dropped dead.

The doctors said: "Heart trouble."

Father Andrew-Elijah, grinning with a sly, knowing look {Begin page no. 6}and acting for all the world like the cat that swallowed the canary, proclaimed:

"The cosmic forces of nature work with me."

The townspeople back in Hopeville shook their heads and began to wonder if there wasn't something to the story of old Jonesy's black-magic after-all.

The "angels" went hop-skipping through the streets shouting: "We told you so! Father Andrew-Elijah's God! Peace! Ain't it wonderful?"

Old Andrew's slick city lawyers appealed the case and the Appellate Division immediately reversed the late Judge Walker's fateful decision. Then the "angel" really got beside themselves. That night they hung lanterns in the trees, danced wildly around a greasing banquet table, flung their arms skyward, babbled in unknown tongues and sang, more lustily than ever; "Father Andrew-Elijah's The Light Of The World!"

Once again there was peace in the Kingdom.

* * * * * * * *

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM D Extra Comment

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd

ADDRESS 224 W. 135th St. NYC

DATE September 5th, 1938

SUBJECT RELIGIOUS CULT OF "FATHER DIVINE"

The interview is, as near as I remember, a fairly accurate report of Chief Tucker's description of the advent and stay of Father Divine's religious followers in Sayville, L. I. The interview was given while Father Divine was on trial at Mineola, L. I. for "being and maintaining a public nuisance."

Chief Tucker's whimsical and humorous description, I feel, represented the general attitude of the townspeople who seemed to feel that the cult and all its followers were somewhat ridiculous. There were others who apparently felt just the opposite. A report of other narratives will subsequently follow.

FOLKLORE

***

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}18{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview {Begin handwritten}Tales - Anecdotes{End handwritten}

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Clerance Weinstock & Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 110 King Street

DATE May 1, 1939

SUBJECT My People Made The Truckin Business

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview

Harlem Labor Center, 125 Street, N.Y.C.

3. Name and address of informant

A heavy-set Negro man of light complexion. Appearently in his late forties.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Labor hiring room. Benches, chairs, Posters: "Black and White Unite." Bunch of bananas with caption, "Stay In Your own bunch, Or You'll get Skinned". Card tables. A row of large windows looking down upon streets below, alive with cars, street cars and people.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

****

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Clerance Weinstock & Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 110 King Street

DATE May 1, 1939

SUBJECT My People Made The Truckin Business

a.

My people made the trucking business. You see all these companies around here? We made em. We even built the buildings. Some of the fellows whats big shots now, used to go round with wheel barrows. Now they got trucks; they're big shots. We helped em get where they are and now they dont want to look at us anymore. They dont want you. Its the same thing everywhere. Now take the worlds fair. They had us draining and fillin-in out there, working in all that filth. They got us when they wanted to get it ready and now the dirty work's done, let me see you go out there and get something. Let me see you!

Same thing, all over. Just take the truckin business. I'm a handler. I've been in this business since 1898. Our people made that business; made them warehouses. N when they got it made they didnt wont us. Its just like a man makin steps. You make the business and ask for a raise. Well, they got to pay you. Thats two steps. Then things go long n you got to get a union. Thats the third step. And right there's the step they kill you on. Now theyd rather give {Begin page no. 2}the work to somebody else. They dont want to pay you that good money. N aint much you can do about it. You see that picture up there in the wall? "Black and White Unite". Them hands is clasped together in the picture, but here its wide apart. Always squabbling. Caint get together. Thats really the way it is.

I been in this business forty-one years. Sometimes I get tired and leave it n get me a family. But dam it! I was tellin my wife the other day, the last time I did it I believe it changed my luck. Folks connected with this dam Oxford movement. Just a lot of dam talk. Its just like you sittin here talkin to me; just a lot of questions. Made me so tired I quit the job. She was always askin me questions. Always wanted to know my business, Made me tired as hell. But I finally go so I could talk to em like I wanted to n I told her it was just a lot of noise. The Oxford movement, hell! She asked me all my business, just everything, trying to get in my business. Talking bout the Oxford movement. Just trying to get in my business; thats all. So I said 'You ask me all these questions, so Im goin to ask you: How many times do you go with your old man a night?' That stopped her. Hell yes I told her. Thats just what I told her. Shes tellin me somethin about Buckman. Hell, what'd he do: He couldnt get along with his parish, so he beats it to England to do some more studyin. Then he had some goddam dream about Christ on the cross n writes back here hes very sorry n everything, that he was wrong. So he starts this Oxford movement. And all the suckers, they fall for {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} his dream. So he goes back to England and gets a big building and she tells me about this vision. Hell anybody can have a vision and then say $5000,000. N these suckers fall for it. Made me sick askin all them questions. N they talk {Begin page no. 3}about Father Devine. Now there's a man whose doin somethin. Talking about the work of Christ dont cost nothin. Hell, you get these big buildings and these coal bills n light bills got to comin in n you get all them people travelin round with Buchman -- why he had seventeen people come over with him last time -- who you thinks payin for all that? The vision? Tellin me about visions. Hell my luck aint been the same since I worked for them people. Ever since I worked down there my lucks been bad; aint had a thing to do. Thats the reason I dont have no faith in man. I been around all this stuff too much. It dont mean nothin. The unseen spirit up yonders alright. Get on your knees and get in touch with him. But man? Man aint nothin. Thats the reason we caint get nowhere down here with this union; man aint no good.

Sure, theres some good. Same is alright. What did God say about em being all mixed up. He said: Let em mingle together, I'll seperate the goats from the lambs. How many times you ate goat thinking you was eating spring lamb?

Yes, I believe in visions. Ive had em myself. I was living down town with a family an seen the womans husband who'd been dead six years. Her boy was sick n seen him too. He came and stood in the hall between the two rooms n said "Im going to take three rooms. You can come on if you want to" The boy was a kid twenty-two years old n he heard im too. A few days later the boy was gone, dead.

Dreams come to me all the time. I get fore-warnings whenever somethings about to happen to me. I know just when and {Begin page no. 4}how. Hell, you have am too. All fellows do; they just forget when they wake up. I had one last night bout what this meeting was for this morning. N I think things'll be alright for me n a lot of the fellows. Things we been workin on oughta come out right.

Things would be alright if it wasnt for these Irishmen. They the ones causing the trouble. You know that. I'll tell you bout the Irishman. What makes em so dam onery is that they been slaves to the English. Couldnt even hunt on their own land. Raise crops and it all goes to the king. Caint even shoot the hares thats running over their own land. Caint plant corn except by permission. Everything goes to England. N dont let him get over here. Hes like a bird out of a cage, a canary bird thats been in such a small place he couldnt feel himself. He gets over here and gets a little land n hes gone. He dont know you. You know thats right. You caint get along with him. Hell. They the ones whats causing all the trouble. You just have to get an Irishman down n beat the shit out of him; than hes the best friend you got. You couldnt have a better friend than a Irishman you knocked the hell outta.

I had a warnin one time when I was working. I had a piano bout to lower it out of a window on a pulley. N when I started down stairs to let it come, somethin said "You better not let that down!" So I runs back up stairs an looks and the dam piano was hanging there by a strand. The dam rope was coming apart n it was just hanging there by a few strands. Now if I hadnt listened to that warning, me n six or seven other men would have been dead. I have dreams all the time. I dreamed about my grandfather who had been dead thirty-three {Begin page no. 5}years who I'd never seen n I asked my mother the next mornin n she said yes that was the way he looked.

FOLKLORE

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NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}Da{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 W. 150th Street, Manhattan

DATE June 14th, 1939

SUBJECT Harlem

1. Date and time of interview

2. Place of interview Corner of 135th Street and Lenox Avenue

3. Name and address of informant Leo Gurley

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C

TEXT OF INTERVIEW (UNEDITED)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 West 150th Street, Manhattan

DATE June 14th, 1938

SUBJECT Harlem

I hope to God to kill me if this aint the truth. All you got to do is go down to Florence, South Carolina and ask most anybody you meet and they'll tell you its the truth.

Florence is one of these hard towns on colored folks. You have to stay out of the white folks way; all but Sweet. That the fellow I'm fixing to tell you about. His name was Sweet-the-monkey. I done forgot his real name, I caint remember it. But that was what everybody called him. He wasn't no big guy. He was just bad. My mother and grandmother used to say he was wicked. He was bad allright. He was one sucker who didn't give a dam bout the crackers. Fact is, they {Begin deleted text}go{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}got{End handwritten}{End inserted text} so they stayed out of his way. I caint never remember hear tell of any them crackers bothering that guy. He used to give em trouble all over the place and all they could do about it was to give the rest of us hell.

It was this way: Sweet could make hisself invisible. You don't believe it? Well here's how he done it. Sweet-the-monkey cut open a black cat and took out its heart. Climbed up a tree backwards and cursed God. After that he could do anything. The white folks would wake up in {Begin page no. 2}the morning and find their stuff gone. He cleaned out the stores. He cleaned up the houses. Hell, he even cleaned out the dam bank! He was the boldest black sonofabitch ever been down that way. And couldn't nobody do nothing to him. Be- cause they couldn't never see im when he done it. He didn't need the money. Fact is, most of the time he broke into places he wouldn't take nothing. Lots a times he just did it to show 'em he could. Hell, he had everybody in that lil old town scaird as hell; black folks and white folks.

The white folks started trying to catch Sweet. Well, they didn't have no luck. Theyd catch 'im standing in front of the eating joints and put the handcuffs on im and take im down to the jail. You know what that sucker would do? The police would come up and say: "Come on Sweet" and he'd say "Youall want me?" and they'd put the handcuffs on im and start leading im away. He'd go with em a little piece;Sho, just like he was going. Then all of a sudden he would turn hisself invisible and dissapear. The police wouldn't have nothing but the handcuffs. They couldn't do a thing with that Sweet-the-monkey. Just before I come up this way they was all trying to trap im. They didn't have much luck. Once they found a place he'd looted with footprints leading away from it and they decided to try and trap im. This was bout sun up and they followed his footprints all that day. They followed them till sundown when he come partly visible. It was red and the sun was shining on the trees and they waited till they saw his shadow. That was the last of the Sweet-the-monkey. They never did find his body and right after that I come up here. That was bout five years ago. My brother was down there last year and they said they think Sweet done come back. But they caint be sho because he wont let hisself be seen.

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview {Begin handwritten}19{End handwritten}

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

JUN 19 1939

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 W. 150th St.

DATE June 7th, 1939

SUBJECT

1. Date and time of interview June 6th, 1939

2. Place of interview Colonial Park near 150th St., Man.

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

A City Park, benches and childrens' Playground. Behind us, the strata of rock leading up to Edgecome Avenue. The Subject is an elderly Negro man, born in Virginia.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}

TEXT OF INTERVIEW (Unedited) {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 W. 150th St.

DATE June 7th, 1939

SUBJECT

Its too bad bout them two submarines. They can experiment an everything, but they caint go but so far. Then God steps in. Them fellows is trying to make something what'll stay down. They said they'd done done it, but look what happened. Take back in 1912. They built a ship called the Titanic. Think they built it over in England; I thinks that was where it was built. Anyway, they said it couldnit sink. It was for all the big rich folks; John Jacob Astor-all the big aristocrats. Nothing the color of this could git on the boat. Naw suh! Didnt want nothing look like me on it. One girl went down to go with her madam and they told her she couldnt go. They didnt want nothing look like this on there. They told the madam "you can go, but she caint." The girls madam got mad and told em if the girl didnt go she wasnt going. And she didnt neither. Yessuh, she stayed right here.

Well, they got this big boat on the way over to England. They said she couldnt sink - that was man talking..It was so big they tell me that was elevators in it like across yonder in that building. Had the richest folks in {Begin page no. 1}England, almost ready to dock, and ups an hits a iceberg, and sank! That was the boat they said was so big it couldnt sink. They didnt want nothing look like this on it; no ssuh! And dont you think that woman wasnt glad she stuck by that girl. She was plenty glad. Man can only go so far. Then God steps in. Sho they can experment around. They can do a heap. They can even make a man. But they caint make him breath. Why the other day I was down on 125th St., and 8th Ave. They got one of them malted milk places. Well suh, they got a cow on the counter. It looks like a real cow. Got hair. I was standing there looking and the doggone thing moved its head and wagged its tail; man done even made a cow. But, they had to do it with electricity. {Begin deleted text}Gos{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}God{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the only one can give life. God made all this, and he made it for everybody. And he made it equal. This breeze and these green leaves out here is for everybody. The same sun's shining down on everybody. This breeze comes from God and man caint do nothing about it. I breath the same air old man Ford an old man Rockerfeller breath. They got all the money an I aint got nothing, but they got to breath the same air I do.

Man caint make no man. Less see now: This heahs nineteen-hundred-and-twenty-nine. For 1900 years mans had things his way. Hes been running the world to suit himself. Its just like your father owned that building over there and told you you could live in it if you didnt do certain things. And then you did what he told you not to. And he finds it out and says, "Go on, you can have the whole building, I wont have nothing else to do with it. You can turn it upside-down if you want to." Well, that was the way it was in the world. Adam an Eve sinned in the Garden and God left the world to itself. Men been running it like they wont to. They been running {Begin page no. 2}it like they wont to for 1900 years. Rick folds {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Rich folks?{End handwritten}{End inserted text} done took all the land. They got all the money. Men down to the City Hall making $150,000 dollars a year and nothing like this caint even scrub the marble floors or polish the brass what they got down there. Old man Ford and J.P.Morgan got all that money and folks in this park caint even get on relief. But you just watch: the lawd made all men equal and pretty soon now its gonna be that way agin. Im a man. I breath the same air old man Ford breaths cause God made man equal. God formed man in his own image. He made Adam out of the earth; not like this concreate we sitting on, but out of dirt, clay. Like you seen a kid making a snow man. He'll git him a stick and make the arms. And he'll get another stick and make for his neck; and so on, just like we got bones. That was the way God made man. Made him outa clay and in his own image: That was the way he made Adam. One drop of God's blood made all the nations in the world; Africans, Germans, Chinamen, Jews, Indians; all come from one drop of God's blood. God took something outa Adam and made woman, he made Eve. The preachers tell a lie, and say it was his rib. But they have to lie I guess. They didnt do nothing but sit back in the shed and let you do all the work anyway. But God went into Adam and took something out and made Eve. Thats the Scriptures; it said he took [something?]. I caint remember the exact words, but it said he took something and it didnt say nothing bout no rib. Eve started having children. Some of em was black and some of em was white. But they was all equal. God didnt know no color; we all the same. All he want from man is this heart thumping the blood. Them what take advantage of skin like this got to come by God. They gonna pay.

They tell me bout ol George Washington. He was the first president this country ever had. Frist thing I heard was he said keep us {Begin page no. 3}look like this down in the cornfield. He tole em "dont let em have no guns. You aint to let em have no knife. Dont let em have nothing. "He tole em if they wanted to have a strong nation to keep us down. He said if ever they git guns in they hands theyll rise up and take the land; dont let em have nothing. But he didnt says nothing bout no pick and ax!"

They been carrying out what he said. God didnt say nothing. That was just mans idea and here in this country they been carrying out what old man George Washington said. But God's time is coming. Today you hear all these folks got millions of dollars talking bout God. They aint fooling nobody, though. They even got "IN GOD WE TRUST" on all the silver money. But it dont mean nothing. This sun and air is God's. It dont belong to nobody and caint no few get it all to theyself. People around this park can have all they want. But you wait. God's gonna straighten it all out. Look at the dust blowing in that wind. Thats the way all the money they got gonna be. You see things, folks, they call white, but man aint got no idea of how white God gon make things. Money wont be worth no moren that dust blowing on the ground. Wont be no men down to Washington making fifty-thousand dollars a week and folks caint hardly make eighteen dollars a month. Evervbodyll be equal, in God's time. Wont be no old man Rockerfeller, no suh! Today you caint even buy a job if you had the money to do it with. Wont be nothing like that then. He'll let loose and somethingll slip down here and them what done took advantage of everything'll be floating down the river. Youll go over to the North River, and over to the East River and youll see em all floating along. And the river'll be full and they wont know what struck em. The lawd's gonna have his day.

{Begin page no. 4}Theyll be a war. But it wont be no more wars like the World War. It wont bother me and you. Wont really be no war. Itll be the wicked killing the wicked! The war like the World War'll never be agin. They fooled now. They building navies and buying guns. But dont you worry, itll be just the wicked killing out the wicked. Its comings; God's time is coming and its coming soon!

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 West 150 Street

DATE May 10, 1939

SUBJECT Harlem

1. Date and time of interview

April 30, 1939 8:00 P.M.

2. Place of interview

Eddie's Bar, St. Nicholas Avenue near 147 Street

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

Anonymous

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Modernistic barroom, green walls, marine designs, Red imitation leather upholstery. Mirrors. Nickle phonograph in rear half of room where food is served. Bronze metal work, framed. Waiter and waitress, the former in black uniform, the latter in green. All of this in good taste.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the, number to which the material refers.)

****

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited(

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 West 150 Street

DATE May 10, 1939

SUBJECT Harlem -- Ahm In New York

Ahm in New York, but New York aint in me. You understand? Ahm in New York, but New York aint in me. What do I mean? Listen. Im from Jacksonville Florida. Been in New York twenty-five years. Im a New Yorker! But Im in New York an New York aint in me. Yuh understand? Naw, naw, yuh dont get me. Whut do they do; take Lenox Avenue. Take Seventh Avenue; take Sugar Hill! Pimps. Numbers. Cheating these poor people outa whut they got. Shooting, cutting, backbiting, all them things. Yuh see? Yuh see whut Ah mean? I'M in New York, but New York aint in me! Dont laugh, dont laugh. Ahm laughing but Ah dont mean it; it aint funny. Yuh see. Im on Sugar Hill, but Sugar Hill aint on me.

Ah come here twenty-five years ago. Bright lights, Pretty women. More space to move around. Son, if Ah had-a got New York in me Ahd a-been dead a long time ago. What happened the other night. Yuh heard about the shooting up here in the hill. Take that boy. Ah knowed im! Anybody been around this hill knows im, n they know he went fo a bad man. Whatd he do? Now mind yuh now, His brothers a big-shot. Makes plenty money. Got a big car an a fine office. But he comes up on this hill tearin up peoples property if they dont pay him protection. Last night he walks into this wop's place up the {Begin page no. 2}street n tries to tear it up. Now yuh know thats a bad man, Canna tear up the wops place. Well, he stepped outthe door n a bunch of them wops show ed up in a car n tried to blow im a way. He had too much New York. Ahm in New York, yuh see?, But New York aint in me! Hell yes, He went n got too much New York, Yuh understand what Ah tryin to tell yuh?

Ah been in New York Twen-ty-five years! But Ah aint never bothered nobody. Aint never done nothin to nobody. Ah aint no bad fellow. Shore Ah drink. I like good whiskey. Ah drinks but Ah aint drunk. Yuh think Ahm drunk. Ah dont talk drunk do Ah? Ah drinking n Ah got money in mah pockets. But Ah aint throwing ma money away. Hell, Ah talking sense, a aint Ah. Yuh heard me way in yonder didnt yuh? Yuh came to me, heard me. Ah didnt have to come-after yuh did Ah? If Ah hada been talking foolishness yuh wouldnt a paid me no mind. Hell, Ah {Begin deleted text}known{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}know{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Ahm right. Ah got something to say. Ah got something to say n Ah aint no preacher neither. Ahm drinking. Ah likes to drink. Its good for mah stomach. Good whiskeys good for anybody's stomach. Look at the bottle: Mont Vernon! good whiskey. Whut did the saint say? He said a little spirits is good for the stomach, good to warm the spirit. Now where did that come from? Yuh dont know, yuh too young. Yuh young Negroes dont know the Bible. Dont laugh, dont laugh. Look here Ahll tell you something:

Some folks drinks to cut the fool

But some folks drinks to think Ah drinks to think.

FOLKLORE

****

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview {Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 W. 150th Street

DATE June 15, 1939

SUBJECT HARLEM

1. Date and time of interview June 14, 1939

2. Place of interview Front of the building at #470 W. 150th Street.

3. Name and address of informant

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

City Street.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C

TEXT OF INTERVIEW (UNEDITED)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Ralph Ellison

ADDRESS 470 W. 150th Street

DATE June 15, 1939

SUBJECT HARLEM

I was sitting up on the bandstand drumming, trying to make myself some beat-up change. Wasnt such a crowd in the place that night, just a bunch a them beer-drinkers. I was looking down at em dancing and wishing that things would liven up. Then a man came up and give me four dollars just to sing one number. Well, I was singing for that man. I was really laying it Jack, just like Marian Anderson. What the hell you talking about; I'd sing all night after that cat done give me four bucks; thats almost a fin! But this is what brings you down. One a these bums come up to the stand and says to the banjo player:

"If you monkeys dont play some music, Im gonna throw you outta de jernt."

Man, I quit singing and looked at that sonofabitch. Then I got mad. I said:

"Where the goddam hell you come from, you gonna throw somebody outa this band? How you get so bad? Why you poor Brooklyn motherfriger, I'll wreck this goddam place with you."

Man, he looked at me. I said:

"Dont look at me goddamit, I mean what I say!"

By this time everybody is standing around listening. I said:

{Begin page no. 2}"I oughta snatch your goddam head off-- Oh I know the {Begin deleted text}restill{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}rest'll{End handwritten}{End inserted text} try to gang me. But they wont get me before I get to you. You crummy bastard."

Then man, I make a break for my pocket, like I was pulling my gun. Ha, Ha, goddam! You oughta seen em fall back from this cat. This bum had on glasses and you oughta seen him holding up his hands and gitting out amy way. Then the boss came up {Begin deleted text}rinning{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}running{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and put the sonofabitch out into the street and told me to get back to work. Hell, I scaired the hell out of that bastard. A poor sonofabitch! Drinking beer and coming up talking to us like that! You see he thought cause we was black he could talk like he wanted to. In a night club and drinking beer! I fixed him. I bet he wont try that no more.

Man, a poor white man is a bring-down. He aint got nothing. He cant get nothing. And he thinks cause hes white hes got to impress you cause you black.

Then some of em comes up and try to be your friend. Like the other night; Im up on the stand drumming and singing, trying to make myself some change. I was worried. I got a big old boy, dam near big as me, and every time I look up hes got to have something. Well the other night I hadnt made a dam thing. And I was sitting there drumming when one of these bums what hangs around the place-one a these slaphappy jitterbugs, comes up to me and says:

"You stink!"

Now you know that made me mad before I even knowed what he was talking about. A white cat coming up to me talking about I stink? I said: "What you talking about. What you mean I stink? He said: "You aint a good follow like the other cats. You wont take me up to Harlem and show me around." I said:

"Hell yes, mammydodger, I stink! If thats what you mean Im gon {Begin page no. 3}always stink. Youll never catch me carrying a bunch of you poor sonsabitches up there. What the hell you gonna do when you get up there? You aint got nothing. Hell, you poor as I am. I dont see you coming down to Harlem to carry me up to show me the Bronx. You dam right I stink." Man, he just looks at me now and says:

"Jack, you sho a funny cat.'

Can you beat that? He oughta know I aint got no use for him. DAM!

Another one comes up to me - another one a these beer-drinking bums- and says:

"I want to go up to your house sometime."

I said:

"Fo what! Now you tell me fo what!" I said: What-in-the-world do you want to come up to my place for? You aint got nothing and I sho aint got nothing. Whats a poor colored cat and a poor white cat gonna do together? You aint got nothing cause you too dumb to get it. And I aint got nothins cause {Begin deleted text}Im{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}I'm{End handwritten}{End inserted text} black. I guess you got your little ol skin, thats the reason? Im supposed to feel good cause you walk in my house and sit in my chairs? Hell, that skin aint no more good to you than mine is to me. You caint marry one a Du {Begin deleted text}Points{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Ponts{End handwritten}{End inserted text} daughters, and I know dam well I caint. So what the hell you gon do up to my place?"

Aw man, I have to get these white cats told. They think you supposed to feel good cause they friendly to you. Boy I dont fool with em. They just the reason why I caint get ahead now. They try to get all a mans money. Thats just the reason why I found me a place up the street here. {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Got two rooms in a private house witha private bath. These other cats go down to Ludwig Baumans and give him all their money so they can meet you on the street and say: "Oh you must come up to my apartment sometimes. Oh yes, yes, I have some {Begin page no. 4}lovely furniture. You just must come up sometime; You know, man, they want to show off. But me I done got wise. Im getting my stuff outa junk shops, second hand stores, anywhere. I aint giving these Jews ny money. Like the chicks. I used to get my check and go out with the boys and pick up some of these fine feathered chicks. You know the light chicks with the fine hair. Wed go out making all the gin mills, buying liquor. Id take em to a room and have a ball. Then Id wake up in the morning with all my beatup change gone and {Begin deleted text}Id{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}I'd{End handwritten}{End inserted text} have to face my wife and tell her some deep lie - that she didnt believe. I dont do that no more. Now I give most of my money to my wife. And I put the rest on the numbers. And when I see the fine chicks I tell 'em they have to wait till the numbers jumps out.

See this bag? I got me a head a cabbage and two years a corn. Im going up here and get me a side a bacon. When I get home, gonna cook the cabbage and bacon, gonna make me some corn fritters and set back in my twenty-five-dollars-a-month room and eat my fritters and cabbage and tell the Jews to forgit it! Jack I'm just sitting back waiting, cause soon things is gonna narrow down to the fine point. Hitlers gonna reach in a few months and grab and then thingsll start. All the white folksll be killing off one another. And I hope they do a good job! Then there wont be nobody left but Sam. Then we'll be fighting it out amongst ourselves. That'll be a funky fight. Aw hell yes! When Negroes start running things I think I'll have to get off the earth before its too late!

Introduction to MR. COOKE: REMINESENCES

by A. Fitzpatrick

Somewhere along Oneida Ave. in the Bronx, you'll come across a modern red brick house which is set back about eight feet from the sidewalk. Surrounding the house is a lovely garden and a carefully groomed lawn. The garden is abundant with flowers of all kinds and colors.

Ring the bell. After a few seconds the door will be opened by a very dignified personage with a bristling moustache and a Van Dyke beard. You will be cordially invited to enter. This is Mr. C. born in County Sligo {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Ireland {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} 82 years ago. You note his rosy complexion and his gentle voice.

Inside, he shows you around his immaculately kept home. The room to which he finally takes you is furnished tastefully and expensively with a living room suite, a piano, table, rugs, draperies and ferns.

Light a cigarette and offer one to Mr. C. He refuses; {Begin deleted text}[hen?]{End deleted text} he neither drinks nor smokes.

You ask him many questions. He is never embarrassed. He answers in great detail. He understands your purpose.

You are informed that Mr. C. is a retired stonecutter, that his wife is deceased and that he has six children living. Although his formal education never went further than grammar school, Mr C. is self-educated through his interest in literature and mechanics. {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}insert paragraph on next sheet{End handwritten}{End note}

And finally, if you are not sufficiently impressed by this time, Mr. C. will {Begin deleted text}tell you that{End deleted text} gently inform you that he is the President of the Eucharistic Society, the highest order, socially, in the Catholic faith and the only organization of its kind in America. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}He is also a member of the Holy Name Society and the [Nocturnal Division?] Society{End handwritten}{End inserted text} All this apart from his typically keen Irish memories of {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} New York. {Begin handwritten}[Prepare reader to Mr C's ??]. [?]{End handwritten}

{Begin page}Insert -- It is difficult to detect any trace of the famed Irish brogue in Mr. C's speech; that is, at least for the first few minutes. Then suddenly, when he has warmed up to the story, he slips into as good a brogue as ever was spoken in County Sligo. {Begin handwritten}[A.M.?]{End handwritten}{Begin page}{Begin handwritten}[A?] [1831?] 10/6{End handwritten} Circumstances of Interview

State. New York.

Name of Worker. A Fitzpatrick.

Address. 327 East 145th St. Bronx.

Date. October 5th 1938.

Subject. [Mr Cooke: Reminesences?] {Begin deleted text}[?] and jokes.{End deleted text}

1. Time of Interview. [1.30 P.M.?]

2. Place of Interview. [At home.?]

3. Name and address of informant. [T.A.Cooke. 4300 Oneida Ave. Bronx?].

4 Name and address of person who secured informant.

[H. Leonard?]. [Manager A. & P store?]. [143rd St and Third Avenue?].

5 Name and address of person, if any accompanying me. [None.?]

6 Description of house and surroundings. [--?]

The residence, one family type, consists of a typically modern residence. Built of red brick, and set back about eight feet from the sidewalk, it is surrounded by a beautifully kept garden which extends alongside the side of the house.

The entrance is to the side. The lawn is carefully groomed and there {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}is{End inserted text} an abundace of flowers of all varieties, visible to the eye.

The home itself, the interior, is immaculate and most beautiful. As one enters the hallway. he is confronted by a wide carpeted stairway, which leads to the upper rooms. The room in which the interview was held was a a picture of neatness, cleanliness and was indicative of a man of ample means.

The furnishings, {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} [,?] while not too {Begin deleted text}elabrate{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}elaborate{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, were undoubtedly expensive, and consisted of {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}a{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Piano, a beautiful three piece suite, end tables, rug, scatter rugs, ferns and draperies, a home beautiful to behold.

The window view disclosed other beautiful one family residences of a like type, all set in their own beautiful and well-cared-for grounds. {Begin page}A Fitzpatrick. {Begin deleted text}Page-seven.{End deleted text} {Begin handwritten}[B?] 10/[?]{End handwritten}

State. N.Y.

Name of Worker. A Fitzpatrick.

Address. 327 East 145th St [Bx?]

Date. October 5th 1938.

Subject. [Mr Cooke: {Begin handwritten}Reminesences{End handwritten}?]

I. Ancestry; None of importance.

2. Family. Wife deceased. six children living.

3. Place and date of birth. Tubercurry, Co Sligo. Ireland. Jan 6th 1856. 4 places lived in and dates. 35 years residen at 879 10th Ave. N.Y.C. three years at present address. other places not recalled.

5. Education. Ordinary grammar school.

6. Occupations and accomplishments. Stonecutter by trade. at present retired.

7. Special skills and interests. Mechanics. and Books.

8. Community and religious activities. Active in all social activities in his immediate parish. Is a member of The Holy Name Society and The Nocturnal Division Society. He is also President of the Eucharistic Society at 76th St and Lexington Avenue. (The Eucharistic Society is the only one of its kind in America and is the highest order, Socially, in the Catholic Faith. 9 Description of Informant. Mr Cooke {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text} impresses one at first sight as a person of high breeding and education. Soft spoken and gentle in his manger he conveys an impression of one who {Begin deleted text}demans{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}demands{End handwritten}{End inserted text} respect and in a position to secure it.

He stands perhaps five feet five inches high is grey and is the owner of two bristling moust aches and a Van Dyke beard. It is quite evident from his rosy complexion that he has always been a lover of the great outdoors. He neither drinks or smokes and has never indulged in either vices. The visitor is mostly impressed by his neat apparance and the cordial welcome extended. Comment may also be made by the painstaking efforts on Mr Cookes part to make the visitor feel at ease. {Begin page}{Begin handwritten}[C?]{End handwritten}

State. N.Y.

Name Of Worker. A Fitzpatrick.

Address. 327 East 147th St. Bx.

Date October 4th 1938. 6

Subject. Mr T.A.Cooke, Informant.

Folklore. New York.

[md] {Begin deleted text}[ell?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"Well{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, ye're askin me a lot, on account of me mind not being what it used to be, but if I can help you any I'll be glad to.

Anyhow, I'm 82 years ould. I was born in a small town outside place called Tubercurry, Co Sligo. Maybe ye've heard of Tubercurry, Its not much av a place but I Was born there anyhow, and I first saw the light of day on January 6th 1856.

All me folks were simple folk like meself. Me Father was {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}a{End handwritten}{End inserted text} wheelwright but I had a likin' for stonecuttin' and if I do say so meself, I was'nt a bad hand at it. I had a sister out here in New York and she was always askin' us to come out here and live. I also had an [uncle?] in Staten Island, but we niver bothered with him. Anyhow, we made our minds up to come out, and we did,-the whole sivin of us. We sailed from Queenstown, (they call it {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}['?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Cobh {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}['?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} now, but it does'nt chamge it a bit), and we landed in New York,-( he pronounced it 'Knew Yark'), {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[-?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} on a Sunday morn on June the 12th, 1881 {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} after a tin day trip.

We stayed in a Hotel for a few days and thin we located in a house at 879 Tinth Avenue, That was 57 years ago. It was real Irish section that we lived in {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in thim days {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} and mind ye, we lived there for thirty five years. Well {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} what with wan thing and another, some of the younger wans gettin' married and such, we moved to other places and now I'm livin at me present address for the past three years.

I forgot to tell ye that I lost me Wife some years ago and a better woman niver lived, God Rist her Soul.

{Begin page no. 2}"Well, to get back to the beginnin'. Whin I landed here I had no trouble gettin' a job, anyone could get a job in thim days. The first job I got was with the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad where I worked for many years at me trade. I also worked for a long time with the New York Cintral. They did'nt pay ye much wages in thim days but what ye got ye could buy a lot with, if ye understand. Why, you could go into a butcher's shop and get a couple of pounds of corned beef and they'd throw in the cabbage to go with it, try and get it now, and they'd give ye all you'd want, too.

But its not the same New York to day, no sir, I've seen some great changes in me day. Ye would'nt believe, to look at it now, that at seventy second St and Eight Avenue,- it's Central Park West now,- that right opposite [theMajestic?] Hotel, where the Dakota apartment house now stands, and bye the way, that's the ouldest apartment house in the city to day, did ye know that?, well, as I was sayin', right there {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} where the ould Dakota stands, it used to be a goat farm and many's the time I saw the people buyin' the goat's milk to feed to their children.

Ah Yes, times have changed. Where are your Horse cars?. Ye may laugh bedad, but let me tell you, ye were more comfortable in thim cars in the Winter than ye' are to day in ye're subways and elevator railroads. They were different Winters then. Plenty of cold and snow. You look like a man of fifty years of age or thereabouts and {Begin deleted text}mabe{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}maybe{End handwritten}{End inserted text} you rimember the ould belly stoves that they carried in the horse cars, and the box av coal and the shovel that the conductor used to put the coal on the fire?. Even the passengers thimselves used to shovel the coal whin the fire wint low {Begin deleted text}.{End deleted text}

Ye know, ridin' on the horse cars on a Sunday was great treat in {Begin page no. 3}thim days. The young fellas and the girls would have lots av fun. Why there used to be dancin' in the cars on Sunday evenin's. And I mind the time whin girls that had'it any escort would stand on a corner by the tracks playin' the accordeon and the mouth organ in the hopes that the car would stop and someone pay their fare so that they would get on and join in the fun. There would be dancin' and singin' and a wild time all round. Ah, they certainly had good times. {Begin deleted text}[??]{End deleted text}

They had gas lamps thim days and I can see him now, the lamplighter, comin' along the street with the long pole in his hand and the flame on the top, inside a brass contraption to prevent it from blowin' out, and how he used to stick it up inside the lamp to light the light. Ye'd think it was only yesterday.

There are lots av things I can tell ye but ye'll have to give me time to think thim up. Could ye give me a couple av days and I'll see what I can do?. I also have some ould '[Commalyies?]; (Irish songs), that I'll let ye have, if I can find thim, and also some poetry.

Here's a couple of verses that {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}I{End handwritten}{End inserted text} can recall;

Ireland's Son so good and bold
Not to be tempted by women or gold.
And there are women and gold galore.
They love Virtue and Honor more.

_______

Here's another wan;

And she went on with her maiden smile.
Safety lighted her 'round the Green Isle.
For blessed forever are they who will ride
On Erin's Virtue and Erin's Pride.

{Begin page no. 4}Wait 'til I tell this wan;

When I first came over to America, as I told ye, I stayed in a Hotel. It was on a Sunday morn and after Mass I was standin' in the doorway by meself, when another fellow came over to me, he was Irish too, and axed me for a match.

Well, I had a couple of matches in me pocket and I gave him wan. When he lit his pipe he asked me if I'd have a cigar. I told him I did'nt smoke.

Afetr a while he asked me if I'd have a drink. and I told him that I did'nt drink. He seemed to get mad for he suddenly turned to me and said 'Do ye eat grass? because ye're neither fit company for man or beast, and thin be walked away.

That wan reminds me of a story that I heard in the ould country. You, as an Irishman, as ye say ye are, surely must have heard of Lord Leitrim after which the County is named?.

Well, he was a regular tyrant of a landlord as we all know. There was no standin' him. He made the lives of the people so miserable. Wan day a couple of Irishmen vowed to kill him and so wan night they hid in the bushes alonside the road, where he always used to pass in his carriage at nine o'clock at night.

They waited until nine fifteen and until nine thirty and they started to get uneasy because he had'nt come along and he was never known to be late. Nine forty-five passed by and at tin o'clock wan of thim turned to the other and said 'Something must have gone wrong, Cassidy, he was niver as late as this before'. 'I dont know phat can be keepin him', said Cassidy, 'BUT I HOPE NOTHIN' HAPPENED TO THE POOR FELLAH'," {Begin page no. 5}"And another wan that I can recall, is the wan about Cromwell, the Tyrant. Father Tom Burke could vouch for this;

There was a statue of Cromwell in Dublin. I dont know if it's there now or not, but anyhow, so the story goes, two Irishmen were standing under it, tearing Cromwell apart.

'He's in Hell, where he ought to be' said one.

Just then Father Burke passed by and hearing the remark said, 'Ye ought to ashamed of yerself for sayin' that'.

'Well, ye're Riverince, Phat's the use of havin' Hell, if he's not in it,'.

"And before I finish, I have to go now, but I'll see ye to-morrow, As I say, before I finish, I'll tell ye the wan about the Irishman that came into a saloon and asked for a bottle of whiskey in a hurry.

The bartender said 'Sure, but why the hurry?'

'Well!, said the Irishman, 'Me friend is sick in bed and the doctor is with him, He's just asked him has he seen any pink elephants floatin' around the room, and mind ye, he said that he did'nt;- and bedad, THE ROOM IS FULL OF THEM '" {Begin deleted text}MORE.{End deleted text}{Begin page}Circumstances of Interview

State. New York.

Name of Worker. A Fitzpatrick.

Address. 327 East 145th St. Bronx.

Date. October 5th 1938.

Subject. Mr Cooke. Reminesences poems and jokes.

1. Time of Interview. 1.30 P.M.

2. Place of Interview. [At home?].

3. Name and address of informant. T.A.Cooke. 4300 Oneida Ave. Bronx.

4 Name and address of person who secured informant.

H.Leonard. Manager A.& P store. 143rd St and Third Avenue.

5 Name and address of person, if any accompanying me. [None?].

6 Description of house and surroundings. [-?]

The residence, one family type, consists of a typically modern residence. Built of red brick, and set back about eight feet ['?]from the sidewalk, it is surrounded by a beautifully kept garden which extends alongside the side of the house.

The entrance is to the side. The lawn is carefully groomed and there {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}is{End inserted text} an abundace of flowers of all varieties, visible to the eye.

The home itself, the interior, is immaculate and most beautiful. As one enters the hallway. he is confronted by a wide carpeted stairway, which leads to the upper rooms. The room in which the interview was held was a a picture of neatness, cleanliness and was indicative of a man of ample means.

The furnishings, {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}, while not too [elabrate?], were undoubtedly expensive, and consisted of [?] Piano. a beautiful three piece suite, end tables, rug, scatter rugs, ferns and draperies, a home beautiful to behold.

The window view disclosed other beautiful one family residences of a like type, all set in their own beautiful and well-cared-for grounds. {Begin page no. 6}Irish folk-Lore. {Begin handwritten}Page 6{End handwritten}

Week Of Oct 10th 1933. {Begin handwritten}10/13 [920?] Add to [?] story{End handwritten}

Poems from collection of T.A.Cook {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} 4300 Oneida Ave. Bronx.

------ GOD SAVE ALL HERE.

[md]

There's a prayer that's breathed alone
In dear old Ireland's land.
'Tis uttered on the threshold's stone
With smile and clasping hand.
And oft, perchance, 'tis muttered low
With sigh and falling tear.
The grandest greeting man may know-
The prayer, "God save all here".

*****

In other lands they know not well
How priceless is the lore
That hedges with a sacred spell
Old Ireland's cabin door.
To those it is no empty sound
Who think with many a tear.
Of long-loved memories wreathing 'round
The prayer, "God save all here".

********

Live on, O prayer, in Ireland still
To bless each threshold free
The echoes of her hones to fill
With sacred fervency.
And Guarding with it's holy spell.
The soul and conscience clear.
Be graven on each heart as well,
The prayer, "God save all here".

*********** {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}This little poem was published in a "Knights of Columbus dance program 50 yrs ago. Where it came from, Mr Cook [could not explain?]{End handwritten}{End note}{Begin page no. 7}{Begin deleted text}Cook{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Cooke{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}43000{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}4300{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Oneida Ave. Bx. 'Tis Always So.

[md]

Across the meadow with clover sweet, I wandered one evening with weary feet.
For my heart was heavy with untold woe, for everything seemed lo
go wrong, you know.
'Twas one of those days, whose cares and strife, quite overshadow
the good in life.

----

So, lone and sad, 'neath the twilight stars, I wandered down to the
Pasture bars,
To the pasture bars, 'neath the hillside steep, where patiently waited
a flock of sheep.
For the happy boy, with whistle and shout, who was even now coming, to
turn them out.

-------

"Good morning", said he, with {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}boyish{End handwritten}{End inserted text} grace, And a smile lit up his
handsome face.
He let down the bars, and we both stepped back, and I said, "You
have more white sheep than black".
"Why yes", he replied, "and did'nt you know? More white than black,
why, 'Tis always so".

******

He soon passed on with {Begin deleted text}is{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}his{End handwritten}{End inserted text} flock 'round the hill. But down by the
pasture I lingered still.
Pondering well, on the words of the lad. "More white than black,"
More good than bad.
More joy than sorrow, more bliss than woe. "More white than black,
and "'Tis always so".

********

And since that hour, when troubles rife, gather, and threaten to
shroud my life,
Or I see some soul on the downward track- I cry, "There are more
white sheep than black"
And I thank my God that I learned to know, the blessed fact," 'Tis
always so".

************** {Begin page no. 3}WILL MY SOUL PASS {Begin deleted text}THROUG{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}THROUGH{End handwritten}{End inserted text} IRELAND.?

The story of a dying old woman and the Priest who has come to visit her ( {Begin deleted text}Compose{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Composed{End handwritten}{End inserted text} by Dennis O Sullivan of New York City, over 50 years ago).

--- ------

"O' Soggarth, Aroon, sure I know life is fleeting.
Soon, soon, in the strange earth, my poor bones will lie.
I have said my last prayer and received my last blessing.
And if the Lord's willing, I'm ready to die.
But, Soggarth Aroon,, can I never again see,
The valleys and hills of my dear native land
When my soul takes its flight from this dark world of sorrow
Will it pass through old Ireland to join the blest band?

-------------------- {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}"Soggarth." is "Priest" in Irish "Aroon" ---- "Dead." "Arrah" -- "Well." ([?]?){End handwritten}{End note}

O' Soggarth Aroon, sure I know that in Heaven.
The loved ones are waiting and watching for me.
And the Lord knows how anxious I am to be with them
In those realms o {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}!{End handwritten}{End inserted text} joy, 'mid sould pure and free.
Yet, Soggarth, I pray, ere you leave me for ever.
Believe the last doubt of a poor dying soul
Whose hope, next to God, is to know that when leaving
'Twill pass through Old Ireland On the way to it's goal.

-------------

O, Soggarth, Aroon, I have kept through all changes,
The thrice blessed shamrock, to lay o'er my clay.
And, Oh, it has minded me, often and often
Of that bright smiling valley, so far, far away.
Then tell me, I pray you, will I never again see,
The place where it grew on my own native sod?
When my body lies cold, in the land of the stranger
Will my soul pass through Erin on it's way to our God.?

***********

"Arrah, bless yo my child, sure I thought it was Heaven,
You wanted to go to, the moment you died.
And such is the place on the ticket I'm giving,
But a coupon for Ireland, I'll stick on it's side.
You're soul shall be free as the wind on the prairies.
And I'll land you at Cork, on the banks of the Lee.
And two little angels, I'll give you, like fairies
To guide you alright, over mountains and sea.

-------------

Next Page.- {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}Has not been published, [only?] in a dance program 50 yrs ago. according to Mr Cook. There were [??????]{End handwritten}{End note}

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx, N.Y.

DATE October 5, 1938

SUBJECT MR. COOKE: {Begin deleted text}REMINESENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISCENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

1. Date and time of interview 1.30 P.M.

2. Place of interview AT HOME

3. Name and address of informant T. A. Cooke, 4300 Oneida Ave., Bronx.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

H. Leonard Manager A & P Store 143rd St. and Third Ave.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you None.

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

The residence, one family type, consists of a typically modern residence. Built of red brick, and set back about eight feet from the sidewalk, it is surrounded by a beautifully kept garden which extends alongside the side of the house. The entrance is to the side. The lawn is carefully groomed and there is an abundance of flowers of all varieties, visible to the eye.

The home itself, the interior, is immaculate and most beautiful. As one enters the hallway., he is confronted by a wide carpeted stairway, which leads to the upper rooms. The room in which the interview was held was a picture of neatness, cleanliness and was indicative of a man of ample means.

The furnishings, while not too elaborate, were undoubtedly expensive, and consisted of a {Begin deleted text}Piano{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}piano{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, a beautiful three-piece suite, and tables [rugg?] scatter rugs, ferns and draperies, a home beautiful to behold. The window view disclosed other beautiful one family residences of a like type, all set in their own beautiful and well-cared-for grounds.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick,

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx.

DATE October 5, 1938

SUBJECT MR. COOKE: {Begin deleted text}REMINESENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISCENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

1. Ancestry None of importance. Family. Wife deceased. Six children living.

2. Place and date of birth Tubercurry, Co Sligo, Ireland Jan. 6, 1856

3. Family

4. Places lived in, with dates 35 years resident at 879 10th Ave. N.Y.C. three years at present address. Other places not recalled.

5. Education, with dates Ordinary grammar school

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates Stonecutter by trade. at present retired.

7. Special skills and interests Mechanics and Books

8. Community and religious activities Active in all social activities in his immediate parish. Is a member of the Holy Name Society and The Nocturnal Division Society. He is also President of the Eucharistic Society at 76th St. and Lexington Avenue. (The Eucharistic Society is the only one of its kind in America and is the highest order, {Begin deleted text}Socially{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}socially{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in the Catholic Faith.

9. Description of informant

Mr. Cooke impresses one at first sight as a person of high breeding and education. Soft spoken and gentle in his manner he conveys an impression of one who demands respect and in a position to secure it.

10. Other Points gained in interview

He stands perhaps five feet five inches high is grey and is the owner of two bristling moustaches and a Van Dyke beard. It is quite evident from his rosy complexion that he has always been a lover of the great outdoors He neither drinks or smokes and has never indulged in either vices. The visitor is mostly impressed by his neat appearance and the cordial welcome extended. Comment may also be made by the painstaking efforts on Mr. Cookes part to make the visitor feel at ease.

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}[.?]{End handwritten}

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 East 147th St. Bronx

DATE October 4, 1938

SUBJECT MR. T. A. COOKE: INFORMANT

"Well, ye're askin me a lot, on account of me mind not being what it used to be, but if I can help you any I'll be glad to.

Anyhow, I'm 82 year ould. I was born in a small town outside a place called Tubercurry, {Begin deleted text}[Co.?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Co{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Sligo. Maybe ye've heard of {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/[.?]/#-{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Tubercurry, Its not much av a place but I was born there anyhow, and I first saw the light of day on January 6th 1856.

All me folks were simple folk like meself. Me Father was a wheelwright but I had a likin' for stonecuttin' and if I do say so meself, I was'nt a bad hand at it. I had a sister out here in New York and she was always askin' us to come out here and live. I also had an uncle in Staten Island, but we niver bothered with him. Anyhow, we made our minds up to come out, and we did-the whole sivin of us. We sailed from Queenstown, (they call it 'Cobh' now, but it does'nt change it a bit), and we landed in New York,-(he pronounced it 'Knew Yark'), on a Sunday morn on June the 12th, 1881, after a tin day trip.

We stayed in a Hotel for a few days and thin we located in a house at 879 Tinth Avenue, That was 57 years ago. It was real Irish section that we lived in, in thim days, and mind ye, we lived there for thirty five years. Well, what with wan thing and another,

{Begin page no. 2}some of the younger wans gettin' married and such, we moved to other places and now I'm livin at me present address for the past three years.

I forgot to tell ye that I lost me Wife some years ago and a better woman niver lived, God Rist her Soul.

"Well, to get back to the beginnin'. Whin I landed here I had no trouble gettin' a job, anyone could get a job in thim days. The first job I got was with the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad where I worked for many years at me trade. I alwo worked for a long time with the New York Cintral. They did'nt pay ye much wages in thim days but what ye got ye could buy a lot with, if ye {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}e/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} understand. {Begin deleted text}Why, you could buy a lot with, if ye understand.{End deleted text} Why, you could go into a butcher's shop and get a couple of pounds of corned beef and they'd throw in the cabbage to go with it, try and get it now, and they'd give ye all you'd want, too.

But its not the same New York today, no sir, I've seen some great changes in me day. Ye would'nt believe, to look at it now, that at seventy second St. and Eight Avenue,-it's Cintral Park West now,-that right opposite the Majestic Hotel, where the [Dakota?] apartment house now stands, and bye the [way?], that's the [ouldest?] apartment house in the city today, did ye know that?, well, as I was sayin', right there, where the ould Dakota stands, it used to be a goat farm and many's the time I saw the people buyin' the goat's milk to feed to their children.

Ah Yes, times have changed. Where are your Horse cars?. Ye may laugh bedad, but let met tell [you?], ye were more comfortable in thim cars in the Winter than ye' are today in ye're subways and elevator railroads. They were different Winters then. Plenty of {Begin page no. 3}cold and snow. You look like a man of fifty years of age or thereabouts and maybe you rimember the ould belly stoves that they carried in the horse cars, and the box av coal and the shovel that the conductor used to put the coal on the fire?. Even the passengers thimselves used to shovel the coal whin the fire wint low.

Ye know, ridin' on the horse cars on a Sunday was great treat in thim days. The young fellas and the girls would have lots av fun. Why there used to be dancin' in the cars on Sunday evenin's. And I mind the time whin girls that had'nt any escort would stand on a corner by the tracks playin' the accordeon and the mouth organ in the hopes that the car would stop and someone pay their fare so that they would get on and join in the fun. There would be dancin' and singin' and a wild time all round. Ah, they certainly had good times.

They had gas lamps thim days and I can see him now, the lamplighter, comin' along the street with the long pole in his hand and the flame on the top, inside a brass contraption to prevent it from blowin' out, and how he used to stick it up inside the lamp to light the light. Ye'd think it was only yesterday.

There are lots av things I can tell ye but ye'll have to give me time to think thim up. Could ye give me a couple av days and I'll see what I can do?. I also have some ould' Commalyes; (Irish songs), that I'll let ye have, if I can find thim. and also some poetry.

Here's a couple of verses that I can recall;

Ireland's Son so good and bold
Not to be tempted by women or gold.
And there are women and gold galore.
They love Virtue and Honor more.

-------------------- {Begin page no. 4}Here's another wan;

And she went on with her maiden smile.
Safety lighted her 'round the Green Isle.
For blessed forever are they who will ride
On Erin's Virtue and Erin's Pride.

Wait 'til I tell this wan;

When I first came over to America, as I told ye, I stayed in a Hotel. It was on a Sunday morn and after Mass I was standin' in the doorway by meself, when another fellow come over to me, he was Irish too, and axed me for a match.

Well, I had a couple of matches in me pocket and I gave him wan. When he lit his pipe he asked me if I'd have a cigar. I told him I did'nt smoke.

Afetr a while he asked me if I'd have a drink. and I told him that I did'nt drink. He seemed to get mad for he suddenly turned to me and said 'Do ye eat grass? because ye're neither fit company for man or beast, and thin he walked away.

That wan reminds me of a story that I heard in the ould country. You, as an Irishmen, as ye say ye are, surely must have heard of Lord Leitrim after which the County is named?.

Well, he was a regular tyrant of a landlord as we all know. There was no standin' him. He made the lives of the people so miserable. Wan day a couple of Irishmen vowed to kill him and so wan night they hid in the bushes alonside the road, where he always used to pass in his carriage at nine o'clock at night.

They waited until nine fifteen and until nine thirty and they started to get uneasy because he had'nt come along and he was never known to be late. Nine forty-five passed by and tin o'clock wan of thim turned to the other and said 'Something must have gone {Begin page no. 5}wrong, Cassidy, he was niver as late as this before'. 'I dont know phat can be keepin him', said Cassidy, 'BUT I HOPE NOTHIN' HAPPENED TO THE POOR FELLAH',"

"And another wan that I can recall, is the wan about Cromwell, the Tyrant. Father Tom Burke could vouch for this:"

There was a statue of Cromwell in Dublin. I dont know if it's there now or not, but anyhow, so the story goes, two Irishmen were standing under it, tearing Cromwell apart.

'He's in Hell, where he ought to be' said one.

Just then Father Burke passed by and hearing the remark said, 'Ye ought to ashamed of yerself for sayin' that'.

'Well, ye're Riverince, Phat's the use of havin' Hell, if he's not in it,'.

"And before I finish, I have to go now, but I'll see ye to-morrow, As I say, before I finish, I'll tell ye the wan about the Irishman that came into a saloon and asked for a bottle of whiskey in a hurry. The bartender said 'Sure, but why the hurry?' 'Well!, said the Irishman, 'Me friend is sick in bed and the doctor is with him, He's just asked him has he seen any pink elephants floatin' around the room, and mind ye, he said that he did'nt; and bedad, THE ROOM IS FULL OF THIM '"

{Begin page no. 6}Three old poems from Mr. T. A. Cooke's collection:

(1) "God Save All Here"--This little poem was published in a "Knights of Columbus" dance program 50 years ago. Where it came from, Mr. Cooke could not explain. GOD SAVE ALL HERE

There's a prayer that's breathed alone
In dear old Ireland's land.
'Tis uttered on the threshold's stone
With smile and clasping hand.
And oft, perchance, 'tis muttered low
With sigh and falling tear.
The grandest greeting man may know--
The prayer, "God save all here".
In other lands they know not well
How priceless is the lore
That hedges with a sacred spell
Old Ireland's cabin door.
To those it is no empty sound
Who think with many a tear
Of long-loved memories wreathing 'round
The prayer, "God save all here".
Live on, O prayer, in Ireland still
To bless each threshold free
The echoes of her homes to fill
With sacred fervency.
And guarding with its holy spell
The soul and conscience clear,
Be graven on each heart as well
The prayer, "God save all here".

***

(2) "'Tis Always So"--From the same source. 'TIS ALWAYS SO

Across the meadows with clover sweet,
I wandered one evening with weary feet,
For my heart was heavy with untold woe,
For everything seemed to go wrong, you know.
'Twas one of those days whose cares and strife
Quite overshadow the good in life.
So, lone and sad, 'neath the twilight stars
I wandered {Begin deleted text}downt{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}down{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to the pasture bars,
To the pasture bars, 'neath the hillside steep
Where patiently waited a flock of sheep {Begin page no. 7}For the happy boy, with whistle and shout,
Who was even now coming to turn them out.
"Good morning", said he, with boyish grace,
And a smile lit up his handsome face.
He let down the bars, and we both stepped back,
And I said, "You have more white sheep than black".
"Why yes", he replied, "and didn't you know?
More white than black, why, 'tis always so".
He soon passed on with his flock round the hill,
But down by the pasture I lingered still,
Pondering well on the words of the lad--
"More white than black", more good than bad.
More joy than sorrow, more bliss than woe.
"More white than black--and 'tis always so".
And since that hour, when troubles rife
Gather and threaten to shroud my life,
Or I see some soul on the downward track,
I cry, "There are more white sheep than black".
And I thank my God that I learned to know
The blessed fact, ",Tis always so".

***

(3) "Will My Soul Pass Through Ireland?"--Composed by Dennis O'Sullivan, of New York City, over 50 years ago. Mr. Cooke says the poem was published only in a dance program, also that there were two composers --the second name he does not remember; WILL MY SOUL PASS THROUGH IRELAND?

O, Soggarth Aroon, sure I know life is fleeting;
Soon, soon, in the strange earth, my poor bones will lie.
I have said my last prayer and received my last blessing,
And if the Lord's willing, I'm ready to die.
But, Soggarth Aroon, can I never again see
The valleys and hills of my dear native land,
When my soul takes its flight from this dark world of sorrow
Will it pass through old Ireland to join the blest band?
O, Soggarth Aroon, I know that in Heaven
The loved ones are waiting and watching for me,
And the Lord knows how anxious I am to be with them
In those realms of joy, 'mid souls pure and free.
Yes, Soggarth, I pray ere you leave me forever,
Relieve the last doubt of a poor dying soul
Whose hope, next to God, is to know that when leaving
'Twill pass through old Ireland on the way to its goal.
O, Soggarth Aroon, I have kept through all changes
The thrice blessed shamrock to lay {Begin deleted text}o'ver{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}o'er{End handwritten}{End inserted text} my clay,
And, oh, it has minded me often and often
Of that bright smiling valley, so far, far away. {Begin page no. 8}Then tell me, I pray you, will I never again see
The place where it grew on my own native sod?
When my body lies cold in the land of the stranger,
Will my soul pass through Erin on its way to our God?

*

Arrah, bless you my child, sure I thought it was Heaven
You wanted to go to, the moment you died;
And such is the place on the ticket I'm giving,
But a coupon for Ireland I'll stick on its side.
Your soul shall be free as the wind on the prairies,
And I'll land you in Cork, on the banks of the Lee,
And two little angels I'll give you, like fairies,
To guide you alright, over mountains and sea.

*

Arrah, Soggarth Aroon, can't you do any better?
I know that my feelings may peril your grace,
But if you allowed me a voice in the matter
I won't make a landing in any such place.
The spot that I longed for was sweet County Derry,
Among its fair people I was born and was bred;
The Corkies I never much fancied when living,
And I don't want to visit them after I'm dead.
Let me fly to the hills where my soul can be merry,
In the North, where the shamrock more plentiful grows;
In Counties of Caven, Fermanagh and Derry,
I'll linger till called to a better repose.
And the angels you give me will find it inviting
To visit the shrines in the Island of Saints,
If they bring from Saint Patrick a small bit of writing
They'll never have reason for any complaints.

*

A soul, my dear child, that has pinions upon it,
Need not be confined to a Province so small;
Through Ulster, and Munster, and Leinster, and Connaught,
In less than a jiffy you're over it all.
Then visit sweet Cork, where your Soggarth was born,
No doubt many new things have come into vogue,
But one thing you'll find--thatboth night, noon and morn,
As for centuries back, there's no change in the brogue.

*

Good Mother, assist me in this, my last hour,
And, Soggarth Aroon, lay your hand on my head;
Sure you're Soggarth for all, and for all you have power,
And I take it for penance for what I have said.
And now, since you tell me through Ireland I'm passing,
And finding the place so remarkably small,
I'll never let on to the angels, while crossing,
That we know a distinction in Counties at all.

****

{Begin note}Note: "Soggarth" is "Priest" in Irish,
"Aroon" is word for "dear",
"Arrah" is word for "Well".{End note}

Introduction to {Begin deleted text}REMINESENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}: MR. G. HALE

by A Fitzpatrick

In a drab, little, furnished room on East 42 St., Mr. H. waits for the Home Relief investigator. He has been unemployed now for many years. Once in a while he gets a small carpentry job. In the 1920's he was employed intermittently as a newspaperman.

But the interviewer finds him sociable and co-operative. Mr. {Begin deleted text}[C.?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}H{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. does not wish to discuss his troubles, past or present. Briefly, Mr. {Begin deleted text}[C?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}H{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. sums up his life. He is fifty-one. Was married. Now divorced. A son died in 1926.

The siege of unemployment and the humiliation of living on Home Relief, have not entirely destroyed Mr. H's self-respect, and interest in living. {Begin deleted text}His appearance is neat{End deleted text} His appearance is neat under the circumstances.

What does he do with his time? Time is a heavy load when you're unemployed. Mr. {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[H?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} occupies himself in Parochial affairs: he is a religious Catholic. He is interested too in short story writing and mechanics. {Begin deleted text}He relates stories which were told to him by his grandfather for whom he has an enormous respect. Mr. H. says that the stories are true and that he has always had the greatest respect for his grandfather from who relate{End deleted text} d

Mr. H. related several stories which he heard from his Grandfather, a native of County Limerick, Ireland. This County Limerick story-teller arrived in the United States in 1850 and he fought for the North during the Civil War.

Mr. H. says that the stories are true and that he has always had the greatest respect for his Grandfather's beliefs. {Begin handwritten}[A.M?]{End handwritten}

{Begin page}What Did They See? - no good to us, in my opinion. lw

Tom Shea and the Widow: all right

The Little Cobblers: good lw {Begin page}{Begin handwritten}[??]{End handwritten}

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview {Begin handwritten}[15?]{End handwritten}

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE. New York

NAME OF WORKER. A Fitzpatrick.

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx. N.Y.C.

DATE October 20th 1938.

SUBJECT {Begin deleted text}Circumstances of interview.{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[Reminscenses?]: Mr. G. Hale{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

1. Date and time of interview October 19th. 1938. 1.P.M.

2. Place of interview. At Home. 322 East 42nd St. City.

3. Name and address of informant. George Hale. 322 East 42nd St. City.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. H Leonard. Mgr. A & P Store. 144th St & Third Ave.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you. None.

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc. Informant resides in a small room on the top floor, rear, in a rooming house at the above address. It is neatly furnished with bed chair and dresser. a Washing sink is also in the room. A small rug on the floor. There are clothing stores underneath and on the opposite side of the street is Holy Cross R.[C.?] Church. In the same block, a few doors towards the West, is The McGraw - Hill building.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM [B?] Personal History of Informant

STATE. New York

NAME OF WORKER. A Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS. 327 East 145 St. Bronx. N.Y.C.

DATE October 20th 1938

SUBJECT {Begin deleted text}Personal History of Informant.{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[Reminscences: Mr. G. Hale?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

1. Ancestry. Irish.

2. Place and date of birth. Cayuga County. City of Auburn. N.Y.S.

[md]

3. Family. Family consisted of Wife, Son and Daughter. (Informant is now divorced.).

[md]

4. Places lived in, with dates. Present address. 322 West 42nd St. City Resided there, three weeks to date. Former address, 324 West 42nd St, 18 months. Prior to latter resided at 463 E 158th {Begin deleted text}st,{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}St,{End handwritten}{End inserted text} three years and for five years previous to that {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} at 367 East 167th St. Bronx.

[md]

5. Education, with dates

Public School and High School Graduate.

[md]

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

Newspaperman, intermittantly, from 1920 to 1934, Free-lance work 1934 to date. Also carpentry off and on, (Non Union).

[md]

7. Special skills and interests

Short story writing, Interviewing, mechanics and books.

8. Community and religious activities

Religion, Catholic. Active in Parochial affairs

9. Description of informant

About five feet six inches in height. Weight is about 148 lbs. Age 51 Exceptionally neat in appearance. Strikes one as above the average in intelligence. Is a deep thinker.

[md]

10. Other Points gained in interview

Very cooperative and sociable. Quick to grasp a situation. Quite conversational and although having experienced tragedy in a mismated marriage, (He is divorced since 1935), has evidently adjusted himself to a situation beyond his control. Despite, the foregoing he has a fine .head of hair, grey lacking and, although 51 years old, has the appearnce of a man much younger in years.

It may be added that Mr Hale is a recipient of Home Relief. He has been without steady income for many years. {Begin handwritten}[??]\{End handwritten}

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM {Begin deleted text}C{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}B{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}Text of Interview (Unedited) STATE New York NAME OF WORKER A Fitzpatrick ADDRESS 327 Eaat 145th St. Bx. DATE October 10th. 1938 SUBJECT Continuation of ancestry and historical background.{End deleted text}

The informant's Paternal Grandfather, a native of Co Limerick. Ireland, arrived in the United States in 1850. He was a Union soldier in the Civil War.

The resultant folk-lore tales were garnered by the Grandson,-(the informant),-from his Grandfather who was a great story teller. Mr Hale states that the stories, two of which are herewith submitted, are true and that he has always had the greatest respect for his Grandfather's veracity and beliefs. Mr Hale Sen' died in 1926.

There is hardly an Irishman or an Irishwoman that has not had some kind of personal experience of their own, back in the old country. An experience of something uncanny and inexplicable. My.Grandfather, I recall, once told me of an incident that had no solution. Here it is;- find the answer yourself.

His folks were well to do, owning a very large farm in Co Limerick. Of course he had, as all farmers over there have, some cattle, some sheep, dogs and chickens. He had six dogs, two of whom were very ferocious. These two were so vicious that my Grandfather had rings put in their noses by which they were kept tied to the house. At night he released them and God pity the tramp or anyone that tried to get into the property.

One night, about ten o'clock; (my Grandfather was still up at the time) the dogs suddenly started to snarl and growl at something they seemed to see in the distance. They suddenly jumped off the porch and ran towards a hedge some 75 feet distant. Well, whatever it was, when they reached the hedge they immediately stopped and turning tail, ran back and into the house, a terrific fear in their eyes and the hair all bristling on their backs with their tails between their legs.

They went under the beds and for two days they could not be budged.

Some weeks later there was a repetition of the same occurance, but this time there was a development. The horses, [?] there were two of them, were loose in the grounds. When they saw the dogs running as before, towards the same spot in the hedge, they ran too, but when the dogs, (whatever they saw), set up a howl and turned to run back to the house; the horses jumped the hedge, and it is a positive fact, they WERE NEVER SEEN AGAIN. My Grandfather requested the neighbors to keep an eye out for them but they had vanished as if into the thin air. There never was an explanation {Begin handwritten}[md]{End handwritten} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[TOM SHEA [?] THE WIDOW?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

Mt Grandfather, when he choose, could speak as good English as the next one, but in his story-telling, he would lapse into the dialect of the 'Ould Sod', and one, unfamiliar with the vernacular, might find it difficult to understand. We, as kids always looked forward to the evening, especially in the Winter, when we'd gather around the parlor stove watching the glowing coals through the isinglass door {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End note}

{Begin page no. 5}A Fitzpatrick.

At such times, when Grandad was sitting down, all he needed was his old corn-cob pipe and an appreciative audience. Afet the story was over we'd climb up the steep stairs to a cold bedroom, to dream of fairies bridging a much, desired gift or possibly, as often happened, to toss about in troubled sleep, trying to escape from the goblins that Grandad's story had created for us.

We always knew when a story was coming when we'd see him with a sulphur match held over his old pipe. He'd take a few tugs, settle back in the old rocker and with one glance at us all, would say, 'And you, Danny Hogan, (a neighbor's boy), 'Wan laugh, or 'een a chuckle and I'll tell ye no more, d'ye moind?'. This threat usually produced the desired effect and when he was assured of a quiet and respectful audience he'd heave a long {Begin deleted text}sig{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}sigh{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of contentment and begin the story.

'Known as honest and as foine a man as iver the saints let breathe, and [YOU?] there, Dinny Hogan, ask ye're Father, he knew him too-Tom Shea was a hard workin' man. He was about 40 years ould and lived in a little shack that he built himself. {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}[?]{End handwritten}{End note}

He had three pigs, 35 chickens, a cow and a horse, but most 'av {Begin deleted text}[?] [thhe?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}THE{End handwritten}{End inserted text} time he worked for neighboring farmers. He spent little or no time in the Village, savin' his money and living a quiet life.

He had wan ambition, and that was to save enough money to marry the Widow Callaghan, buy a {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} larger farm and raise children. He always contributed to the Church and it's charities, attended the Masses, helped his fellow man and in general was an upright God-fearing man.

Adjacent to Tom's place was a much larger farm with a much bigger house. It *1 {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} vacant because it's tenants migrated to America. It's real owner, an absentee English Landlord, was reputed to be a cruel, greedy miser, determined to get the last cent from the poor tenants. {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}[Was *1]{End handwritten}{End note}

Well, to own this place was Tom's long cherished dream, If {Begin deleted text}he{End deleted text} he secured it he could ask the Widow Callaghan for her hand. Now we're coming to it. Wan night, after a particularly hard day in the field, he retired {Begin deleted text}earl{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}early{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to bed and {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[HAD?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} hardly gotten to sleep when a voice whispered in his ear; 'Tom, --- Tom; wake up and go to the cliff'.

At first he was too tired to be aroused but finally the voice became louder and more insistent and after hearing the voice three times, Tom got up, dressed and with the voice still ringing in his ears he left the house. There was only wan place that he could go and wan place that could have been meant so Tom went there.

He [sttod?] on the brink of the cliff in the light of a full moon wondering what to {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Do{End handwritten}{End inserted text} next, when a voice coming from somewhere down below {Begin page no. 6}hollered 'Help me. Help me'. Well, being well aquainted with the nature of the cliff, Tom knew of a spot; about 200 feet down, where the voice seemed to be calling for help and the ledge could only be reached by goin' down to the bottom and climing up a long narrow pathway. So he started off.

It was a long tedious journey, goin' all the way down and half way up, but eventually he finally reached the spot and what did he find? There was a white haired old man, lying prostrate on the rocky ledge, blood oozing from numerous cuts and in a bad way.

He carried him back {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} a task that took him several hours, to his shack, hitched his horse to the shay and went to the village to the Doctor. The Doctor, after examining him found that he had a broken leg in addition to his many wounds. He told Tom to take him back to his shack and, under no circumstances to move him, promising that he would call on him the next day and every day until he had recovered sufficiently to return to his own home.

Tom took him home as ordered, and put him to bed and a few days after he was recovered enough to talk. He identified himself as the absentee landlord of the place that Tom had so long coveted and desired.

It seems that he had arrived in the village to look over his property had lost his way and unfortunately fell over the cliff.

After a number of weeks, convalesing at Tom's place he was a new man again. He learned of Tom's desire to own the property and in a feeling of gratitude for the care that he had received at Tom's hands gave him the property, free and clear, for his very own. Of course I need not say that Tom went for the Widow, hell bent for leather, and in a short time after a hasty courtship they got married, raised a nice family and as the sayin' goes, 'Lived happily ever after'.

But Tom, to this day, knew that he never would have gotten anywhere if it was'nt for the voice of the little man that woke him out of his sleep that night and, knowin' of his desires and his ambitions, set out to help him. Maybe the same little man made the landlord fall over the cliff. What do you think?.

--------------- {Begin page no. 1}{Begin handwritten}[???] [???]{End handwritten} {Begin deleted text}{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[1?] [680?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}Folklore. (Irish.) A Fitzpatrick{End deleted text}

Subject. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"The Little Cobblers"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Continuation of Mr Hale's Folk Tales .

No 3. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[The Leprechauns?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

Here is another tale that I remember hearing my Grandad tell.

I cannot recall the place that he said that it {Begin deleted text}happend{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}happened{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. It was somewhere out in the West of Ireland, if I remember rightly.

It appears that there was a family by the name of McGuiness. They owned a little farm of about 30 acres and not such a lot of stock, just a few chickens, a horse, a few pigs and a cow.

The family consisted of the husband {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} James, his Wife and five children. They were anything but well to do, starving most of the time. Things went from bad to worse and the husband, from worrying fell sick and died.

The Widow decided to carry on for the sake of the children and DID manage to get by, through being frugal and thrifty. But she never could buy anything, like clothes, shoes, Etc, that were necessary to a large family like hers.

Of course she could patch up the {Begin deleted text}childrens{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}children's{End handwritten}{End inserted text} clothes when it was needed, which was almost all of the time, but their shoes were what worried her most. and they were in bad shape, what with holes in them and being lop-sided at the heel and some without any sole at all.

One night, after the children were all put to bed, she looked at their shoes and the tears came into her eyes. What could she do?. The Summertime was alright for the tots. They could run around barefooted and no {Begin deleted text}ham{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}harm{End handwritten}{End inserted text} befall them, but here was Winter only a few weeks away and she did'nt want them catching a heavy cold which might develop into something more serious, that eventually, might mean opening the grave and putting them alonside her beloved Husband, James.

In desperation she sat down and tried to figure a way out. Then suddenly a thought came to her. She had once heard that the little men, the Leprechauns, were cobblers by trade and if they knew of her plight they surely would help her. Anyway she knelt down and with all the faith and sincerity in her voice, she told them of her situation and begged them to help her.

She was so sincere in her plea that something within her assured her, somehow, that her prayer would be answered. With light heart she started to sweep up the kitchen floors which, as most Irishmen in the rural districts in Ireland know, was just the simple earth.

She wanted the place to be clean when the little men arrived, as she surely knew they would.

She went to the cupboard, and although there was'nt much there, she fixed up a little meal for the fairies in case they were hungry. And then after putting two fresh candles on the tables she took the five little pairs of dilapidated shoes and a worn pair of her own and placed them in front of the fire. This done she went, in a happy mood {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to bed, to await the results that the morning would bring. {Begin page no. 2}During the night, she fancied she heard the strains of soft music down below in the kitchen. But thinking she was dreaming she went to sleep again. Again she woke up with the music in her ears and unable to sleep further, and with a bit of curiosity in her mind, she got out of bed and tip-toed to the head of the stairs. Then not able to restrain her curiosity further, softly came down, step by step, noticing that the music seemed to be getting louder.

The door to the kitchen was closed when she reached it. She pushed it open a crack and peeked in and lo and behold what did she see?.

The candles had all burned out but the room was full of a strange light, where it came from she could'nt see, and right in the middle of the floor, dancing around six brand NEW pairs of shoes, were forty, or maybe, fifty little fairies having the time of their lives. On the table were all the plates, -- where she had piled the food,-empty. She stood spellbound for quite a while, and, knowing that if she went into the room she'd break the spell and perhaps, cause hard luck to fall on her, she went softly back to her room. In the morning when she came down, there were the new shoes, just as she saw them during the night and the marks of little feet, in the earthen floor, all around them.

Needless to say, to the day of her death she will always uphold the Leprechauns and list them first in her category of friends.

----------

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview {Begin handwritten}4{End handwritten}

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick.

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx, N. Y. C.

DATE October 20, 1938

SUBJECT {Begin deleted text}REMINSENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISIENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}: MR. G. HALE.

1. Date and time of interview October 19, 1938 1. P. M.

2. Place of Interview At Home 322 {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[West?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} 42nd St. City.

3. Name and address of informant George Hale, 322 East 42nd St. City.

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. H. Leonard Mgr. A & P Store. 144th St. & Third Ave.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you None

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Informant resides in a small room on the top floor, rear, in a rooming house at the above address. It is neatly furnished with bed chair and dresser. A washing sink is also in the room. A small rug on the floor. There are clothing stores underneath and on the opposite side of the street is Holy Cross R. C. Church. In the same block, a few doors toward the West, is The [McGraw-Hill?] building.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx N. Y. C.

DATE October 20, 1938

SUBJECT {Begin deleted text}REMINSCENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISCENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}: MR. G. HALE.

1. Ancestry Irish

2. Place and date of birth Cayuga County, City of Auburn. N. Y. S.

3. Family Family consisted of Wife, Son and Daughter. (Informant is now divorced.)

4. Places lived in, with dates Present address 322 West 42nd St. City. Resided there, three weeks to date. Former address, 324 West 42nd St. 18 months. Prior to latter resided at 463 E. 158th St. three years and for five years previous to that, 367 East 167th St. Bronx.

5. Education, with dates

Public School and High School Graduate.

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

Newspaperman, intermittantly, from 1920 to 1934, Free-lance work 1934 to date. Also carpentry off and on. (Non Union).

7. Special skills and interests

Short story writing, Interviewing, mechanics and books.

8. Community and religious activities

Religion, Catholic Active in Parochial affairs

9. Description of informant

About five feet six inches in height. Weight is about 148 lbs. Age 51 ?Exceptionally neat in appearance. Strikes one as above the average in intelligence. Is a deep thinker.

10. Other Points gained in interview

Very cooperative and sociable. Quick to grasp a situation. Quite conversational and although having experienced tragedy in a mismated marriage. (He is divorced since 1935), has evidently adjusted himself to a situation beyond his control.

{Begin page}Despite the foregoing he has a fine head of hair, grey lacking and, although 51 years of age, has the appearance of a man much younger in years.

It may be added that Mr. Hale is a recipient of Home Relief. He has been without steady income for many years.

The informant's paternal Grandfather, a native of Co. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Limerick, Ireland, arrived in the United States in 1850. He was a Union soldier in the Civil War.

The resultant folk-lore tales were garnered by the Grandson - (the informant) - from his Grandfather who was a great story teller. Mr. Hale states that the stories, two of which are herewith submitted, are true and that he has always had the {Begin deleted text}[?]reatest{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}greatest{End handwritten}{End inserted text} respect for his Grandfather's veracity and beliefs. Mr. Hale Sen' died in 1926.

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 East 145th St. Bronx N.Y.C.

DATE October 20, 1938

SUBJECT {Begin deleted text}REMINSCENCES{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}REMINISCENCES{End handwritten}{End inserted text}: Mr. G. Hale WHAT DID THEY SEE?

"Ireland is too well noted for it's implicit belief in the supernatural, that goes without saying.

There is hardly an Irishman or an Irishwoman that has not had some kind of personal experience of their own, back in the old country. An experience of something uncanny and inexplicable. My Grandfather, I recall, once told me of an incident that had no solution. Here it is; - find the answer yourself.

His folks were well to do, owning a very large farm in Co {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}./{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Limerick. Of course he had, as all farmers over there have, some cattle, some sheep, dogs and chickens. He had six dogs, two of whom were very ferocious. These two were so vicious that my Grandfather had rings put in their noses by which they were kept tied to the house. At night he released them and God pity the tramp or anyone that tried to get into the property. {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}/[.?]/#{End handwritten}{End note}

One night, about ten o'clock; (my grandfather was still up at the time) the dogs suddenly started to snarl and growl at something they seemed to see in the distance. They suddenly jumped off the porch and ran towards a hedge some 75 feet distant. Well, whatever it was, when they reached the hedge they immediately {Begin page no. 2}stopped and turning tail, ran back and into the house, a terrific fear in their eyes and the hair all bristling on their backs with their tails between their legs.

They went under the beds and for two days they could not be budged.

Some weeks later there was a repetition of the same occurance, but this time there was a development. The horses, (there were two of them), were loose in the grounds. When they saw the dogs running as before, towards the same spot in the hedge, they ran too, but when the dogs, (whatever they saw), set up a howl and turned to run back to the house; the horses jumped the hedge and it is a positive fact, they WERE NEVER SEEN AGAIN. My Grandfather requested the neighbors to keep an eye out for them but they had vanished as if into the thin air. There never was an explanation. TOM SHEA AND THE WIDOW

My Grandfather, when he choose, could speak as good English as the next one, but in his story-telling, he would lapse into the dialect of the 'Ould Sod', and one, unfamiliar with the vernacular, might find it difficult to understand. We, as kids always looked forward to the evening, especially in the Winter, when we'd gather around the parlor stove watching the {Begin deleted text}flowing{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}glowing{End handwritten}{End inserted text} coals through the isinglass door.

At such times, when Grandad was sitting down, all he needed was his old corn-cob pipe and an appreciative audience. After the story was over we'd climb up the steep stairs to a cold bedroom, to dream of fairies bringing a much desired gift or possibly, as often happened, to toss about in troubled sleep, trying to escape from the goblins that Grandad's story had created for us.

{Begin page no. 3}We always knew when a story was coming when we'd see him with a sulphur match held over his old pie. He'd take a few tugs, settle back in the old rocker and with one glance at us all, would say, 'And you, Denny Hogan, (a neighbor's boy), 'Wan laugh, or 'een a chuckle and I'll tell ye no more, d'ye moind?'. This threat usually produced the desired effect and when he was assured of a quiet and respectful audience he'd heave a long sigh of contentment and begin the story.

'Known as honest and as foine a man as iver the saints let breathe, and YOU there, Dinny Hogan, ask ye're Father, he knew him too- Tom Shea was a hard workin' man. He was about 40 years ould and lived in a little shack that he built himself.

He had three pigs, 35 chickens, a cow and a horse, but most 'av the time he worked for neighboring farmers. He spent little or no time in the Village, savin' his money and living a quiet life.

He had wan ambition and that was to save enough money to marry the Widow Callaghan, buy a larger farm and raise children. He always contributed to the Church and it's charities, attended the Masses, helped his fellow man and in general was an upright God-fearing man.

Adjacent to Tom's place was a much larger farm with a much bigger house. Was it vacant because it's tenants migrated to America. It's real owner, an absentee English {Begin deleted text}Landlor{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Landlord{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, was reputed to be a cruel, greedy miser, determined to get the last cent from the poor tenants.

Well, to own this place was Tom's long cherished dream. If he secured it he could ask the Widow-Callaghan for her hand. Now we're coming to it. Wan night, after a particularly hard day in the field, he retired early to bed and had hardly gotten to sleep when a voice whispered in his ear; 'Tom, ---Tom,{Begin page no. 4}wake up and go to the cliff'.

At first he was too tired to be aroused but finally the voice became louder and more insistent and after hearing the voice three times, Tom got up dressed and with the voice still ringing in his ears he left the house. There was only wan place that he could go and wan place that could have been meant, so Tom went there.

He stood on the brink of the cliff in the light of a full moon wondering what to do next, when a voice coming from somewhere down below ----hollered 'Help me. Help me! Well, being well acquainted with the nature of the cliff, Tom knew of a spot, about 200 feet down, where the voice seemed to be calling for help and the ledge could only be reached by goin' down to the bottom and climing up a long narrow pathway. So he started off.

It was a long tedious journey, goin' all the way down and half way up, but eventually he finally reached the spot and what did he find? There was white haired old man, lying prostrate on the rocky ledge, blood oozing from numerous cuts and in a bad way.

He carried him back, a task that took him several hours, to his shack, hitched his horse to the shay and went to the village to the Doctor. The Doctor, after examining him found that he had broken leg in addition to his many wounds. He told Tom to take him back to his shack and, under no circumstances to move him, promising that he would call on him the next day and every day until he had recovered sufficiently to return to his own home.

Tom took him home as ordered, and put him to bed and a few days after he was recovered enough to talk. He identified himself as the absentee landlord of the place that Tom had so long coveted and desired. It seems that he had arrived in the village to look over his property had lost his way and unfortunately fell over the cliff.

{Begin page no. 5}After a number of weeks, convalesing at Tom's place he was a new man again. He learned of Tom's desire to town the property and in a feeling of gratitude for the care that he had received at Tom's hands gave him the property, free and clear, for his very own. Of course I need not say that Tom went for the Widow, hell bent for leather, and in a short time after a hasty courtship they got married, raised a nice family and as the sayin' goes, 'Lived happily ever after.'

But Tom, to this day, knew that he never would have gotten anywhere if it was'nt for the voice of the little man that woke him out of his sleep that night and, knowin' of his desires and his ambitions, set out to help him. Maybe the same little man made the landlord fall over the cliff. What do you think?

******* {Begin page no. 6}THE LITTLE COBBLERS

Here is another tale that I remember hearing my Grandad tell.

I cannot recall the place where he said that it happened. It was somewhere out in the West of Ireland, if I remember rightly.

It appears that there was a family by the name of McGuiness. They owned a little farm of about thirty acres and not such a lot of stock, just a few chickens, a horse, a few pigs and a cow. The family consisted of the husband, James, his wife and five children. They were anything but well-to-do, starving most of the time. Things went from bad to worse, and the husband, from worrying, fell sick and died.

The widow decided to carry on for the sake of the children and did manage to get by, through being frugal and thrifty. But she never could buy anything, like clothes, shoes and such-like, that were nescessary to a large family like hers.

Of course she could patch up the children's clothes when it was needed, which was almost all of the time, but their shoes were what worried her most. And they were in bad shape, what with the holes in them and being lopsided at the heel, and some without any sole at all.

One night, after the children were all put to bed, she looked at their shoes and the tears came into her eyes. What could she do? The summertime was all right for the tots. They could run around barefooted and no harm would befall them, but here was winter only a few weeks away and she didn't want them catching a heavy cold which might develop into something more serious, that eventually might mean opening the grave and putting them alongside her beloved husband, James.

In desperation she sat down and tried to figure a way out. Then, suddenly, a thought came to her. She had once heard that the little men, the Leprechauns, were cobblers by trade, and if they knew of her plight they surely would help her. Anyway, she knelt down and with all the faith and sincerity in her voice she told them of her situation {Begin page no. 7}and begged then to help her.

She was so sincere in her plea that something within her assured her, somehow, that her prayer would be answered. With light heart she started to sweep up the kitchen floor, which, as most Irishmen in the rural districts in Ireland know, was just the simple earth. She wanted the place to be clean when the little men arrived, as she surely knew they would.

She went to the cupboard, and although there wasn't much there, she fixed up a little meal for {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}the/fairies{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in case they were hungry. And then, after putting two fresh candles on the table, she took the five little pairs of dilapidated shoes and a worn pair of her own and placed them in front of the fire. This done, she went in a happy mood to bed, to await the results that the morning would bring.

During the night, she fancied she heard the strains of soft music down below in the kitchen. But thinking she was dreaming, she went to sleep again. Again she woke up with the music in her ears, and unable to sleep further, and with a bit of {Begin deleted text}curiousity{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}curiosity{End inserted text} in her mind, she got out of bed and tiptoed to the head of the stairs. Then not able to restrain her curiosity further, softly came down, step by step, noticing that the music seemed to be getting louder.

The door to the kitchen was closed when she reached it. She pushed it open a crack and peeked in, and lo and behold! what did she see? The candles had all burned out but the room was full of a strange light--where it came from, she couldn't see--and right in the middle of the floor, dancing around six new pairs of shoes, were forty or maybe fifty little fairies, having the time of their lives. On the table were all the plates--where she had piled the food--empty. She stood spellbound for quite awhile and, knowing that if she went into the room she'd break the spell and perhaps cause hard luck to fall on her, she went softly back to her room. In the morning, when she came down, {Begin deleted text}t{End deleted text}{Begin page no. 8}there were the new shoes, just as she saw them during the night--and the marks of little feet in the earthen floor, all around them.

Needless to say, to the day of her death, she will always uphold the Leprechauns and list them first in her category of friends.

***

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK {Begin handwritten}8{End handwritten} Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 E. 145th St. New York

DATE December 13, 1938

SUBJECT THE ROOSTER'S GHOST - MC GUINNESS

1. Date and time of interview December 12, 1938

2. Place of interview

3. Name and address of informant James Mc Guinness 218 E 188th St. New York City

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant. (See previous interviews)

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER A. Fitzpatrick

ADDRESS 327 E. 145th St.

DATE December 13, 1938

SUBJECT THE ROOSTER'S GHOST - MC GUINNESS

This is a story that is absolutely true, and one too, that happened right here in New York. It is about a rooster that had his head cut off and continued to crow for days afterwards. The end of the story will satisfy the curiosity.

"A brother-in law of mine, living in East 225th St. in the upper Bronx, occupied a little five room, one family house. In the rear he had a garden where he grew, each year, a plentiful supply of vegetables. He was a great lover of flowers, too, and at one time had as much as thirty-one different varieties in bloom at the same time.

"At the rear of the garden he had erected a six-by-four chicken coop and a forty foot long runway for the chickens to exervise in. He had forty chickens, including a magnificient specimen of a rooster, standing nearly two feet in height. And how that boy could crow.

This brother-in-law of mine, that I'm speaking about, was a taxicab driver. He arose every morning at four A. M. and left the house at five to be at his work at six. He retired to bed every night at nine P. M. The only trouble was that he could not secure a night's unbroken sleep due to the crowing of the rooster.

{Begin page no. 2}He confided in his wife, adding "That rooster's got to go'. A few days afterwards upon his return from a hard day's work, he took the axe, grabbed the rooster, took him to the chopping block and severed his head from his body! The rooster ran around, headless, for a while and then collapsed. 'Chicken Fricassee' didn't taste bad that evening for supper.

"The next night, the one following the demise of the rooster, my brother-in-law was awakened in the early hours. He was not sure, so he listened again. There it was the rooster was still crowing. There was no mistake about it. He knew that he was not dreaming, because the crowing was repeated while he lay in his bed.

Not wishing to alarm his wife, he told her nothing about his experience of the night. He went to sleep again the next night and, sure enough, the rooster woke him up again. He wanted to tell his wife, but, knowing how {Begin deleted text}Irish and{End deleted text} superstitious she was, he kept his knowledge to himself. {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}[?]e/{End handwritten}{End note}

"However, the third night was too much for him. He was beginning to got nervous. All he knew, and was sure of was THAT HE HAD KILLED THAT DARNED ROOSTER - and being over twenty-one he had sense enought to know that dead roosters {Begin deleted text}CANT {End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}CAN'T {End inserted text} crow. He had only one rooster at the time; he had none now; so where was the crowing coming from? {Begin note}{Begin handwritten}'/{End handwritten}{End note}

"He hit upon a plan. He got up and dressed and, taking a flashlight and an axe with him, went out into the light and down to the chicken coop. He placed his hand on the wire mesh enclosing the runway and waited. He wasn't disappointed. Sure enough, there it was, and right inside the coop; - 'Cock-a-doodle-do'. He almost dropped the axe when his hair stood on end, but gathering his courage, (or what was left of it), he rushed to the coop, tore open the door and looked in. There were the chickens all asleep, huddled up close to each other and -no ROOSTER. He closed the door quickly and bolted for the house. When he was safely inside he woke his wife up and told her the story.

{Begin page no. 3}"His wife looked at him to see if he had been drinking and said, 'Are ye losin' ye're senses? Ye know that ye killed that rooster three days ago and that we ate him. Now hold ye're whisht and get back into bed. Waking a body up with such a fool tale as that, G'wan, go back to sleep.'

He tried to convince her, but it was no use. Suddenly the rooster crowed again and she sat up in bed. 'There ye are, There ye are, See, am I lyin'? Ye hear it ye're-self, dont ye?' said the brother-in-law.

He wife crossed herself and said, 'Glory be to God'. He's come back to haunt us. Oh, what'll we do, what'll we do'?

I'm goin' to go right down agin and if I have to kill ivery wan of thim damned fowl I'll get to the bottom av this', and away he went.

He went straight to the coop once more, opened the door and going inside, closed the door after him. He put his flashlight out and waited.

"Suddenly the 'Cock-a-doodle-do' came again and he put thelight on, and what did he see?, He couldn't believe his eyes, ONE OF THE CHICKENS {Begin deleted text}were{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}was{End handwritten}{End inserted text} crowing. Oh' said he, 'That's it, is it?' He took his handkerchief of his back pocket and, tying it around the legs of the culprit, slammed the door. When he reached his wife he told her that he had solved the situation and explained what he had discovered.

He killed the chicken the next evening when he came home from work. And a peculiar thing about it was, that when be cleaned it, he discovered (whether it had anything to do with the crowing or not, or maybe the chicken was a morphodite) right through the gizzard was a nail about three inches long. Figure it out for yourself. However, he got his sleep after that-and that ends the story.

With the exception that, upon several inquiries afterwards, it was found to be a common occurance that chickens DO sometimes crow.

"The wife's mother, when told of the occurance, confirmed this and remarked that there was a four-line poem that was heard frequently in Ireland,

{Begin page no. 4}appropos of this phenonemon, that went something like this:-

"A whistling woman.
Or crowing hen
Is very unlucky
To single men".

Accession no.

N {Begin handwritten}8118{End handwritten}

Date received {Begin handwritten}10/10/40{End handwritten}

Consignment no. {Begin handwritten}1{End handwritten}

Shipped from {Begin handwritten}Wash. off.{End handwritten}

Label

Amount {Begin handwritten}[3 p.?] incl [1?] form{End handwritten}

WPA L. C. PROJECT {Begin handwritten}Writers'{End handwritten} UNIT

Form--3 {Begin handwritten}Folklore{End handwritten} Collection (or Type)

Title {Begin handwritten}Erie canal songs Tom Kilboy{End handwritten}

Place of origin {Begin handwritten}West Troy, N.Y.{End handwritten} Date {Begin handwritten}12/22/'38{End handwritten}

Project worker {Begin handwritten}R. P. Gray{End handwritten}

Project editor

Remarks {Begin page}{Begin id number}8118{End id number}

Folklore

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE {Begin handwritten}New York{End handwritten}

NAME OF WORKER {Begin handwritten}R. P. Gray{End handwritten}

ADDRESS {Begin handwritten}119 State [?]. Albany{End handwritten}

DATE {Begin handwritten}Dec. 22, 1938{End handwritten}

SUBJECT {Begin handwritten}Folklore: Erie Canal Songs{End handwritten}

NAME AND ADDRESS OF INFORMANT {Begin handwritten}Tom Kilroy 2307 Broadway, [West?] Troy.{End handwritten}

1. Ancestry {Begin handwritten}Irish{End handwritten}

2. Place and date of birth {Begin handwritten}West Troy Dec. 8, 1958{End handwritten}

3. Family {Begin handwritten}Son and daughter, both married. He lives with daughter.{End handwritten}

4. Places lived in, with dates {Begin handwritten}West Troy. [Transiant?] at Cresent.{End handwritten}

5. Education, with dates {Begin handwritten}Brothers school in W. Troy until 8 yrs. Brother struck him side of face for chewing gum; never went back to school. Seems to have [?] resentment [?] his life.{End handwritten}

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

7. Special skills and interests {Begin handwritten}Driving mules and horses on [canal?]; Singing and drinking{End handwritten}

8. Community and religious activities {Begin handwritten}[?] known for singing and good [?]{End handwritten}

9. Description of informant {Begin handwritten}Stocky, e. 5:5 ft.; failing eyes sight, wears glasses; very deaf. Strong voice, evidently once good singer.{End handwritten}

10. Other points gained in interview {Begin handwritten}A bit husky after singing; asked for drink to warm his throat. His father owned many horses and mules and made a business of hauling the canal boats. His son worked with him from boyhood,{End handwritten}

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers. {Begin handwritten}mainly as a driver.{End handwritten}

Tom Kilboy is well known in Crescent as one of the few surviving singers of the Erie Canal days. He stands out, like Galusha in the Adirondacks, a folk singer very rare and hard to find. I first learned about him in Crescent though no one could give me his present address. Only after days of persistent searching in Crescent, Cohoes, Troy and finally through the help of the Police and Department of Health in Watervliet he was located in a respectable, though cheap, apartment on Broadway, in West Troy. There was no response to my knocking. A man in the lower apartment informed me that Tom was very deaf, so accompanied by this neighbor I ventured to open the door. Through an inner glass door I could see an aged man all alone, standing and fussing with something on a table. He was neatly dressed, somewhat bald and wore glasses. I bawled out my errand into his ear. Immediately he flushed, and with arms extended sideways he sang "Fifteen Years on the Erie Canal". He did not hesitate for a word; his voice, though husky was strong and musical. The thrill of pleasure was evident enough.

He was in his 81st year, he told me, and had spent his life driving mules and horses for his father on the Erie Canal since he was 12 years old. His chief delight and amusement had been singing the old songs. He was the daily minstrel on boats, on the tow path/ {Begin inserted text}and{End inserted text} in the inns along the canal, though he plays no musical instrument. His [fommal?] education ended when he was 8 years old. He had {Begin page no. 2}attended the Brothers School in West Troy until the day a Brother caught him chewing gum and struck him on the face. He never returned and seems even now to feel the smart of that reprimand.

He also sang a song of his own composing "I'm Flix O'Grady", with prideful emphasis on the line, "There goes Kilboy, the handsome young man."

After an hour he was weary and husky and needed a drink.

He will be glad to sing more songs and have them recorded.

by Marion Charles Hatch

It was Sunday afternoon. A cool breeze was blowing from the East River and the sun was warm. In a parked taxicab opposite a garage on First Ave., the interviewer talked to Huey and his brother. Huey's brother, whose first name was not obtainable, was rolled up asleep in the back seat of the cab. From time time to time he awoke and made interjections. The interviewer sat in the driver's seat with his typewriter on two iron bars which extended beneath the meter. Huey sat on the small extra seat in back of the cab. Twenty five unoccupied cabs were lined up and down the street in front of an unused warehouse.

"You have a room?"

"No address," said Huey, waving his hand dramatically.

Both men were probably born in America or came to America when they were very young. They are of Irish descent but speak clearly and rapidly without any brogue.

"Did Huey have a good education?"

"No. We were more interested in fishing in those days." said his brother.

The two brothers have stuck together through life and are now engaged in drinking themselves to death together.

They joined the army {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}at the same time{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}together{End deleted text} and {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}they have{End handwritten}{End inserted text} worked as bell hops in the same hotel. Both were skilled buglers in the army.

"Don't they say anything to you for sitting in this cab, sleeping here?"

"No. They're all good sports. If they take out this cab, we'll take the next one."

Huey is emaciated, red-faced, slight, his clothing not noticeably poor. His blue eyes gleam slyly out of their red background. His brother's face is heavier and coarser.

The interviewer paid Huey twenty five cents for the material. The money was immediately translated into a half pint of reddish whiskey which Huey said he had to buy to quiet his brother. {Begin page}{Begin handwritten}[I don't [?] their's [?] in these [?] us ________ lw?] {Begin page}Washington #3 [?]{End handwritten}

FOLKLORE

NEW YORK Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A {Begin handwritten}3,420{End handwritten} Circumstances of Interview

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Marion Charles Hatch

ADDRESS 862 First Ave.

DATE Oct. 5, '38

SUBJECT Stories of an alcoholic world war veteran.

1. Date and time of interview

Sunday afternoon, Oct. 2, '38

2. Place of interview

Parked taxicab of Sentinel Cab company, Allied System, across street from {Begin deleted text}their{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}its{End handwritten}{End inserted text} garage between First Ave. and East River on 48th Street.

3. Name and address of informant

Huey Davison. "You have a room on Second avenue have you not" I asked. With a dramatic, decisive, even proud wave of his hand: "No address" {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} he {Begin deleted text}[answer?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}answered{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant.

5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

Huey's brother, whose first name I didn't get {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} was rolled up in the back seat of the cab. He wakened and made interjections from time to time. Huey sat on the small {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} extra seat in the back of the cab. I sat in the driver's seat with my typewriter on two iron bars that extended beneath the meter. Huey laughed and talked through the window opening, through which by now some millionaire may be calling destination instructions. The day was pleasant with a cool breeze from the east river and a warm sun above. {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Twenty five unoccupied cabs were lined up and down the street in front of the blank wall of an abandoned or unused warehouse.

(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM B Personal History of Informant

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Marion Charles Hatch

ADDRESS 862 First Ave.

DATE Oct 5 '38

SUBJECT Stories of an alcoholic world war veteran

1. Ancestry

Irish descent but speaks clearly, quickly {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}and{End handwritten}{End inserted text} without brogue of any kind.

2. Place and date of birth

Probably born in America or came to America very young. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Both men about 55 years old{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

3. Family The information on this page is necessarily sketchy. All New York alcoholics, penniless, engaged in committing suicide the slow way, are suspicious. When Huey went away to buy a bottle in the middle of our interview his brother said I could get a certain story from him. I said I would ask him for it when he returned. "No" said his brother "If you ask for anything he won't answer a word."

4. Places lived in, with dates

New York and in Europe during war.

5. Education, with dates

"Did Huey have a good education" I asked his brother. "No. We were more interested in fishing in those days." Probably not over a common school education. Made {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}few{End handwritten}{End inserted text} grammatical errors.

6. Occupations and accomplishments, with dates

The two brothers have stuck together {Begin deleted text}thrugh{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}through{End handwritten}{End inserted text} life and are now engaged in drinking themselves to death, together. Besides joining the army together they worked as bell hops in hotels. This was all I could get from them without awakening suspicion.

7. Special skills and interests

Both were skilled buglers in the army

8. Community and religious activities

Very affable and good hearted. "Don't they say something to you for sitting in these cabs, sleeping here." "No No they're all good sports. If they take out this cab we'll take the next one."

9. Description of informant

Huey is emaciated, red-faced, slight, clothing not moticeably poor. His blue eyes, belieing his woe-begone face gleam out of their red background with slyness and devilment. His brother had a rougher, coarser face and heavier figure. One wondered how such happy, bright remarks could come out of such a battered, poisoned head.

10. Other Points gained in interview

See extra comment.

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York,

NAME OF WORKER Marion Charles Hatch,

ADDRESS 862 First Ave.,

DATE Oct. 5, '38

SUBJECT Stories of an alcoholic world war veteran. {Begin page no. 1}{Begin handwritten}1{End handwritten} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}∥Huey:{End handwritten}{End inserted text} "[now?] can you just keep your {Begin deleted text}moth{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}mouth{End handwritten}{End inserted text} shut {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}" Brother: "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [first?] thing you'll do is give me the price of a half pint. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}" Huey: "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} He's a wash out {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text}. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Huey:{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [He'll?] give you the {Begin deleted text}rice{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}price{End handwritten}{End inserted text} of a half pint {Begin deleted text}dont{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}don't{End handwritten}{End inserted text} worry. Now I can't do your stuff [you?] gotta {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} ask me the {Begin deleted text}qustions{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}questions{End handwritten}{End inserted text}. How about some butt {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}?{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Oh {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} that's right {Begin deleted text}yu{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}you{End handwritten}{End inserted text} don't smoke That's {Begin deleted text}vanhoe{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[Ivanhoe?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} one of the {Begin deleted text}toghest{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}toughest{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}cigarettes{End inserted text} in the world {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}" Brother:{End handwritten}{End inserted text} Away goes your {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}typewriter{End inserted text} if you take a drag out of this Its pipe tobacco but its all we got {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}." Huey speaking:{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin handwritten}∥{End handwritten} I was {Begin deleted text}foling{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}fooling{End handwritten}{End inserted text} around in 1917 {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} working for an express company [so?] we decided to go {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} to the war [we?] were all young fellows. So we went into that war game [we?] walked into a certain place on 46th st and the doctors [one?] is by the name of O'[connell?] {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} and the other was {Begin deleted text}[/]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}[nelson?]{End inserted text} [so?] we all walked it in there [he?] said to us {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}, "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [how?] many of you men want to go to camp right away {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}?"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [out?] of 45 men there {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}was{End handwritten}{End inserted text} only two that stepped forward Doctor {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}, "{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [now?] you two step back again {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}" But we insisted{End handwritten}{End inserted text} so we went to [camp upton?] [we?] don't know what happened to the other gang [separated?] I went with an {Begin deleted text}enginger{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}engineer{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}France{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [my?] partner to the 77th {Begin deleted text}diviion{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[division?],{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [l st?] {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}[battalion?]{End inserted text} [he's?] dead and I'm here. [when?] we hit {Begin deleted text}cam{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[camp?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [upton?] {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Wait! we{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}started{End inserted text} to hit the camp {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in [hoboken?] a gentleman there was [a?] {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}barber{End inserted text} in {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}the{End handwritten}{End inserted text} city of [n.y.?] {Begin inserted text}[the {Begin deleted text}comany{End deleted text} {Begin handwritten}company{End handwritten} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}barber{End inserted text}.?]{End inserted text} He decided he could get away with it [he?] didn't have {Begin deleted text}t{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}to{End handwritten}{End inserted text} go to war. So we landed on the [hoboken?] {Begin deleted text}dcks{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}docks{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [when?] we hit the docks the first thing they said was {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [throw?] your pack on the left shoulder {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} and walk up the gangplank {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}!"{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [this?] gentleman thought he could beat it by {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} puting his pack on {Begin deleted text}hi{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}his{End handwritten}{End inserted text} left shoulder and falling down {Begin page no. 2}{Begin handwritten}2{End handwritten}

[this?] gentleman {Begin deleted text}[???]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} at this time {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} goes {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}up{End handwritten}{End inserted text} the gang plank [he's?] got it all framed up how to beat the draft. [so?] he goes up the gangplank [when?] he gets in the middle of the gangplank he falls down pack and all {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}Ha!{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [but?] they fooled {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}him{End handwritten}{End inserted text} [three?] {Begin deleted text}[dailors?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}sailors{End handwritten}{End inserted text} ran down the gang {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} plank and threw him on the ship pack and all. [and?] the next time I met him was on the British front with the greatest barrage they ever had. They made him a {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} cook in the outfit to keep {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} him back of the lines. [and?] comin {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} back after the armistice [all?] during his time {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in [france?] he was {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} ritin {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} to his sweetheart in {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} the [united states?] and {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} building up his {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} moustache. He had one of the most wonderful moustaches [he?] was trying to beat the kaiser out at that time [a?] nice big black moustache. [so?] we pulled through to the {Begin deleted text}[embracation point?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}[Embracation point?]{End handwritten}{End inserted text} at Bassens outside of Bordeaux {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} Genoucourt [This?] party that's telling you the story now is the {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}/{End handwritten}{End inserted text} only person who ever sounded the boat call {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten},{End handwritten}{End inserted text} as sounded by the [united states?] army in {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}the{End handwritten}{End inserted text} A.E.F. and I sounded it at Bassens docks. {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}(In further explanation after barber's purpose in falling down the gang plank){End handwritten}{End inserted text} Instead of getting him from the {Begin deleted text}botom{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}bottom{End handwritten}{End inserted text} part and taking him ashore they run from the top part and took him {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}aboard{End inserted text} [so?] he didn't beat the draft {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}.{End handwritten}{End inserted text} {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}*****{End handwritten}{End inserted text}

There {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}was{End handwritten}{End inserted text} a cook over there [was?] a Polock. We {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}were{End handwritten}{End inserted text} livin {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in billets {Begin deleted text}[?]{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}now{End handwritten}{End inserted text} this cook every night he used to get drunk [and?] we were livin {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}'{End handwritten}{End inserted text} in billets and general Pershing give the order we had to put our shelter halves up This cook came in every night [he?] had the right of way to come in late but he used to step on everybody. [he?] step on {Begin deleted text}you{End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}your{End handwritten}{End inserted text} feet he would step {Begin page no. 3}{Begin handwritten}3{End handwritten}