Hangs Self at Wife's Grave

1916

Man Who Mourned Four Years Commits Suicide.

PHILADELPHIA, Pennsylvania — Four years ago Michael Streb, 76, knelt beside the body of his wife and prayed — prayed that he might join her in death. Patiently, he waited for the grim answer to his prayer.

Wednesday the caretaker of Northwood Cemetery passed a little grave in a remote corner. At its head was a birch tree and dangling from a limb was the limp body of a white-haired man. The headstone of the grave bore the inscription, "My Wife." When morgue officials searched the pockets of the dead man they found nothing but a wedding ring inscribed "Rachael Streb."

Death had been too tardy and Michael Streb had gone along the road to meet it — at the grave of his wife.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Sept. 16, 1916, p. 5.

Elephants' Tongues

1895

"Only a few of the many people who have thrown peanuts into the elephants' mouths," said Head Keeper Manley of the zoological gardens to a Philadelphia Record man, "have noticed that the tongue is hung at both ends. A tongue hung in the middle is a human complaint, but elephants have a monopoly on those hung at both ends. The trunk suffices to put the food just where it ought to be, and the tongue simply keeps it moving from side to side over the grinders. When a peanut gets stuck on the elephant's tongue he raises it in the middle, like a moving caterpillar, and the shell cracks against the roof of the mouth, to then disappear down a capacious throat."


Didn't Want to Sneeze

A whimsical old Englishman who died over a century ago left a will in which he stated what he wished done at his funeral. His first request was that sixty of his friends be invited, accompanied by five of the best fiddlers to be found in the town. Second, he wished no tears to be shed, but, on the other hand, insisted that the sixty friends should be "merry for two hours," on penalty of being sent away. And, finally, that "no snuff be brought upon the premises, lest I have a fit of sneezing." — Harper's Young People.


A singed cat dreads the cold.

Gone To Rest — Dr. John P. Finley, Iowa, 1883

Leon, Iowa area, 1883

Gone To Rest

Dr. John P. Finley died at his home in this city, Sunday evening, March 11, 1883, at 9 o'clock. He had been in feeble health for several years, but was able most of the time to attend his patients. He made two trips to the country during the blustery weather of last week, which it is thought hastened his death. His death was unexpected to most of our citizens, very few of whom knew he was sick, until they received the sad intelligence of his death.

Dr. Finley was one of the pioneers of the State. He came to Iowa long before it was made a State, when the Indian and buffalo held undisputed sway over the greater part of its territory. He participated in and contributed to its rapid growth and development. The greater part of his life was spent as a practicing physician. He was careful, laborious and unremitting in his attention to the arduous and responsible duties of the profession he loved, and for which be was eminently fitted, both by natural disposition as well as by careful training and study.

In politics Dr. Finley was an earnest Republican — we may say, a decided partisan — but with no bitterness of feeling. Always courteous, kind and respectful to those who differed from him, he won, as he deserved, friends from all sorts and classes of people. He held but few public trusts, but his ability and integrity were marked in every position he assumed. During the war he accepted a position as a member of the State Board of Enrollment and served until the close of the war. In this important position he endeared himself to thousands of volunteers by his active care for their welfare, while his energy, fairness and scrupulous honesty marked his fitness for the trying position. An exalted public spirit ever animated him, and soldiers in every part of the State remember him kindly for his faithfulness and promptness in responding to every demand made upon him. His kindness of heart was unbounded. Thoughtful of the happiness of others, he endeared himself to all with whom he was intimately associated, and was a marked favorite of all with whom he came in contact. He had ability of no mean order, but it was used less for his own advancement than for the service of others. With all his toil and trials, his life was a happy one, for he consciously contributed to the happiness of others.

Dr. Finley was a man of a high sense of honor, of irreproachable integrity, fine abilities and professional acquirements. He possessed a heart of as tender susceptibilities as a woman. He fully appreciated the responsibilities of life, and met them in a right manly way. There was nothing sordid or mean in his nature; nothing low, base or groveling. In the fullest, widest meaning of the term, he was a gentleman. Now that his life is finished, the testimony is cheerfully borne that he has left to his family and friends the precious heritage of a good name.

This brief tribute we would pay to our loved friend, for he was our friend, sincere, earnest and true. Rest and sleep, sleep and rest! There are many who mourn you — eyes that are dimmed with tears as they remember with grateful hearts your many generous acts of kindness. There are many who feel that your place can never be filled. "The best portions of a good man's life are the little acts of tenderness and love;" and with these Dr. Finley's life was made redolent and glorious. Such men must die, but the world is the better that they have lived.

Dr. John P. Finley was born in Augusta, Kentucky, on the 29th day of August, 1813. After the death of his father, which occurred when he was quite young, he moved to Piqua, Ohio, with his mother and brothers. Here he clerked in a store for some time, and studied medicine. He afterwards engaged in business at Lima, Ohio, and in 1836 was married at Piqua, Ohio, to Maria L. Cheever, who died in Des Moines, Iowa, in January 1865. He came to Iowa in 1839, and settled on a farm near New London, Henry county, where he lived a few years. From New London be moved to Burlington, and from there to Galena, Illinois, where he engaged in the drug business. In 1845 he returned to Iowa, and lived at Bloomfield until 1853, when he moved to Leon, where has been his home ever since, with the exception of two years spent in Des Moines during the war.

Dr. Finley was an active and honored member of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. He was a charter member of Bloomfield lodge, No. 23, and the first charter member of Leon lodge, No. 84, also a member of Decatur Encampment, No. 38.

For many years he was a member of the Methodist church, and Rev. A. Brown conducted a short funeral service at the residence, after which the Odd Fellows took charge of the services. The Decatur County Medical Society, of which the deceased was an active member, attended the funeral in a body. The Odd Fellows turned out in full force, and most of the lodges in the county were represented. A large number of citizens were present, and the deep feeling manifested showed unmistakably the strong hold the deceased had on the affections of the people among whom he had lived and toiled so many years.

The services at the grave were the beautiful ritual of the Odd Fellows, with solemn dirge and impressive obsequies. So was a noble man laid to rest on a beautiful hill, near a large evergreen, in the early spring time, when the springing grass and swelling buds are nature's assurances of the life to come. His good name, his kind disposition, his great ability, and his social qualities, will be remembered long after his body molders to "mother dust."

——

The following resolutions were unanimously adopted by the Leon Lodge, No. 84, I. O. O. F.:

WHEREAS, It has pleased Almighty God to remove from among us our beloved brother Past Grand John P. Finley, senior, it is therefore, by Leon Lodge, No. 84, I. O. O. F., of Iowa, at their lodge room assembled,

Resolved, That in the death of Brother Past Grand Finley, the community has lost an upright, honest man; society at large a genial and true gentleman; the family a kind and affectionate father, and this lodge one of its most honored and faithful members, whose name is inscribed the first upon the Charter of the lodge, and who has lived for the last two years as the only remaining charter member.

Resolved, That since the 7th day of February, 1856, Brother Past Grand John P. Finley, sr., has been a true and faithful worker in this lodge, and his genial presence in times of despondency, his energy and ability as a worker, and his high appreciation of the tenets of our order, to a great extent has kept alive the fire upon the altar of this lodge, for more than twenty seven years.

Resolved, That while Brother Past Grand Finley will never again sit with us in this lodge, we will ever cherish his manly qualities, emulate his many virtues, and in token of our high esteem for him, we have draped the lodge in mourning, and will wear the fraternal badge for thirty days.

Resolved, That to the family and friends we pledge our heartfelt sympathy in their bereavement, reminding them and ourselves, however, that what has been our great loss has proven his eternal gain.

Resolved, That these resolutions be spread upon the records of this lodge; that they be published in the Decatur and Davis County Iowa, papers, and that a copy of these be presented to our deceased brother's family.
JOHN L. YOUNG,
C. W. BECK,
C. M. MURRY.

——-

John C. Stockton:

The news of the death of Dr. John P. Finley fell with sadness upon my ears. In December, 1849, I met him at his home in Bloomfield, Iowa. He was then vigorous, brilliant, and versatile. Gentle as a child in his manners, kind as a woman in his devotion to his friend and brave as a lion in defense of his conviction of right. Dr. Finley was of a noble stock of Scotch Irish Presbyterians. My father listened to the ministration of his grandfather, Robert Finley, in western Pennsylvania. Robert Finley was a strong man among strong men. Two of his sons, John P. Finley, the father of our friend Dr. Finley and James B. Finley, were Methodist Ministers.

Rev. John P. Finley was a finished classical scholar and died while he was president of Augusta college, Kentucky. To his widow was left the care of his children, which she raised with honor. The two brothers Dr. William McKendree Finley passed away only a few years ago, his only remaining brother now follows him. Each of these brothers were pioneers in the civilization of Iowa, as their father and brothers had been in Ohio, and their grandfather had been in Western Pennsylvania. With his generation. Dr. Finley has passed away. A nobler heart never beat in the bosom of a man.

I owe this tribute to the memory of these good people that I knew and loved so long.

Yours, HENRY CLAY DEAN,
Leon, Iowa, March 12.

In Memoriam – R. A. Smith

1885, Leon, Iowa area

R. A. Smith died at his residence in Eden township, April 7th, 1885, aged 47 years, after an illness of 18 months.

Deceased was born in Illinois in 1838, and the same year his parents emigrated to Van Buren county, Iowa. In 1864 he was married to Miss Rebecca Perdue, of Decatur county, Iowa. He leaves a wife and 6 children, who mourn the loss of a kind husband and tender father. Services were held at his late residence on the 8th by Elder Wm. Anderson and the undersigned in singing, prayer and reading part of the 15th chapter of Cor. and part of the 4th chapter of 1st Thes. Mr. Smith was well respected by his neighbors, as shown by their kindness during his illness, and their presence and assistance at his burial, which took place at the Leon cemetery. S. A. GARBER.


WOODLAND TP., April 8th, '85

For the consolation of Miss Undine Smith on the death of her father who died the 7th of lingering consumption.

We miss thee, dear father, as we gather
Our household together for prayer or repast.
We miss thee at morning, we miss thee at noontide.
But more at eve when we meet around the hearth.

We look toward the spot, where we're wont to behold thee,
And naught but the vacant chair meets our sad gaze,
But the eye of affection is aided by memory,
And still thou art present though laid in the grave.

We watch for thy coming when twilight shades gather,
And often we listen to catch thy loved voice,
But never on earth shall its glad tones delight us,
Nor again shall thy presence our hearts rejoice.

We miss thee, dear father, at morning, at noontime,
And in calm evening we miss thee more still,
But God in his mercy saw fit to remove thee,
He knows what is best, we bow to his will.

— Mrs. E. E. B.

Eccentricities of Maiden Ladies Amused Eastern Town

1896

A Pair of Twins

The curious streak of obstinacy which crops out in many New England families, especially in small places, where the range of ideas and occupations is small, has been brought into prominence through the tales of a gifted group of story writers, notably by Miss Mary E. Wilkins. People living in other parts of the country often think her stories must be exaggerations, but dwellers in New England towns can parallel most of them from their own knowledge.

In one Massachusetts village there dwelt not many years ago two maiden ladies, called, though they were over forty years of age, "the Hatfield girls." Beside this youthful appellation, they retained a youthful taste for gay colors. As they were twins, very tall, very lean, always wearing skirts conspicuously short to avoid dust, and hat brims unusually wide to avoid injuring their eyes, they would have been rather remarkable figures even if they had not chosen to dress, school girl fashion, in clothes exactly alike to the slightest detail.

They were always together, and it was one of the characteristic sights of the village to see the Hatfield girls plodding through the snow to the postoffice in their green-and-red plaid gowns, black-braided coats and big, brown, fuzzy felt hats with great pea-green bows. Their muffs, mittens, tippets, wristers, barege veils, even their rubber boots, were duplicates of each other. In fact the sisters were as absolutely alike as the twin paper dolls which little girls cut from a piece of paper folded double.

In summer it was the same. They floated by to church in duplicate blue muslins, or watered their flower beds in the early morning in indistinguishable hideous purple wrappers.

Suddenly, the village was stirred by an exciting event: the Hatfield girls had quarreled! They quarreled because Mary Abby, who overheard a small boy making jokes at their expense, suggested to Ann Eliza that perhaps it would be as well if henceforth they dressed just a little differently. Ann Eliza received the suggestion as the cruelest of insults; but she said hotly that, after that, she wouldn't for a kingdom wear a dress off the same piece as Mary Abby's.

Sure enough, the sisters ceased to dress alike. Furthermore, they did not dress harmoniously. They were together as much as ever — but if Mary Abby wore pink, Ann Eliza had on scarlet; if she wore green. Ann Eliza wore blue; if it were yellow, she decked herself in magenta; if it were brown or gray, she tried to get a shade of the same color that would make her sister's appear dingy and faded.

It was a war of colors waged furiously for a week, bitterly for a month, spitefully for a year; then perseveringly, resolutely, obstinately, for one — two — three — four — five years; from five to ten; ten to twelve; twelve to thirteen.

Neither sister would give in, for after a brief exhibition of colors Mary Abby had tried to fight her offended twin with her own weapons, and to array herself in hues too violent to be overwhelmed. They were as gay as parakeets, the two poor bitter old twins, and the interested village had quite given up expectation of a change, when at length a change came.

One morning the "Hatfield girls," side by side, and dressed in new and glossy black, entered the postoffice amid a crowd of staring villagers, and called for their mail. They were in mourning evidently — but nobody could think who had died. At length the postmistress ventured, to inquire.

"Yes," said Ann Eliza, soberly, smoothing down her new cape, "we are in mourning. It wa'n't strictly necessary, I presume, but we thought it best. It's Cousin John's wife out in Montana. We've never seen her but we hear she was a very worthy woman, and a credit to the family."

And whether or not the Hatfield girls mourned deeply for the unknown wife of Cousin John, it is certain that for the remaining years of their lives their clothes were black, and were cut alike, and the village guessed that they had found a way to end their warfare, without acknowledging surrender, or proclaiming peace.

Pearls of Thought — "Telling a Woman You Love Her"

1906

The most fun that people have is in planning it.

Music lessons for a girl make more noise, but cooking lessons keep the peace.

If you tell a woman you love her she believes you even when she knows you don't.

People can afford to wear plenty of mourning for a relative if they were remembered in the will.

People seem to think nowadays that a man's son is a wonder to be able to make his own living.

A nice thing about being poor is you don't make enemies for refusing to found public institutions.

When a man kisses a girl on a dark piazza, she would scream if she weren't afraid of scaring her mother.

A girl knows an awful lot to be able to make men think that her knowing nothing is better than if she did.

Once in a while a man doesn't have to lie about what kept him out so late, but it's because his wife isn't home to ask him.

If a man ever got up early enough to eat his breakfast without swallowing it all at once, he might think the cook earned her wages.

No woman is ever so sympathetic with a widow over her loss as to forget to examine carefully the kind of mourning she is wearing.

There's hardly anything makes a humorist madder than to read a joke somewhere and have you get it off on him before he can on you.

A man never seems to think he is doing his duty to his country unless he goes around before election yelling his views into everybody's ears.

When a girl is so anxious for a man to ask her to marry him that she can't wait for him to finish before saying yes, she will pretend she doesn't understand him. — From "Reflections of a Bachelor," in the New York Press.

Dolly Madison's Receptions

1874

Mrs. Madison, after the decease of her husband, returned to Washington, and, for a number of years occupied a house of moderate dimensions near Lafayette square.

She did not go into society, but held weekly receptions, at which her friends and others properly introduced were allowed to attend. She also held a drawing-room on New Year's day; which was generally attended by the principal officers of the Government, the military and naval officers in Washington, and foreign ministers attending in full costume, with the same formality observed at the Presidential Mansion.

On these occasions Mrs. Madison was dressed in a rich and ample robe of black velvet trimmed with point-lace and a magnificent turban crowning her head. She was somewhat above the medium size, moderately tending to corpulency. Her complexion was clear, and her features were still beautiful and expressive of dignity and intelligence.

The tall and slender figure of Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, whose husband, as is well known, was first Secretary of the Treasury under General Washington, would be seen standing near Mrs. Madison, dressed in the habiliments of deep mourning which she had assumed forty years before, when her husband, in the full strength of early manhood, had fallen in a duel with Aaron Burr.

Mourning Customs Around the World

1874

The usages regarding mourning have varied much at different times and in different countries. Among the Jews, the duration of mourning for the dead was generally seven days, but sometimes protracted to thirty. It consisted in tearing the clothes, smiting the breast, weeping, going barefoot, cutting off the hair, etc., etc., etc.

Among the Greeks, the period of mourning was thirty days, except in Sparta, where it was limited to ten. Among the Romans, the color of mourning for both sexes, was black or dark blue, under the republic; but under the empire, the men only wore black, the women white. Men also wore this mourning a few days, women a year, when the relation was a very near one.

In modern Europe the ordinary color for mourning is black; in Turkey, violet; in China, white; in Egypt, yellow; in Ethiopia, brown. In Arabia the men wear no mourning. The women stain their hands and feet with indigo, which they suffer to remain for eight days, during which time they abstain from milk, on the ground that its color ill becomes their gloom.

In the Feejee islands, after the death of a chief, a general fast until evening is observed for ten or twenty days, the women burn their bodies, and fifty or one hundred fingers are amputated to hang above the dead man's tomb. The Sandwich Islanders paint the lower part of their faces, and knock out their fore teeth.

The Deadly Hatpin

Woman Arrested For Puncturing Five People In the Arm.

New York, May 8.—Pedestrians on Upper Broadway last night were startled by the actions of a middle-aged woman, dressed in deep mourning, who approached four men and one woman successively and calmly jabbed each in the arm with a hatpin. When arrested the woman gave the name of Mary Maloney and an address in West Ninety-four street which investigation showed to be a vacant lot. She was picked up, charged with felonious assault. Each victim was punctured in the right arm, though why the strange woman in black wielded her hatpin weapon is a mystery. All of the victims positively identified the prisoner as the woman who jabbed them, but she indignantly denied the charge.

--Warren Evening Mirror, Warren, Pennsylvania, May 8, 1909, page 7.