"Poor and Old and Only in Way," Song of Music Master Was Prophecy

1920

Years ago Carl Raymond, the old music master of Chicago, wrote a song by this name:

"I'm Poor and Old, and Only in the Way."

Today Raymond is poor and old and he says he's only in the way. His home is wherever he hangs his hat. He has had riches and fame; now he has but memories. Sometimes he plays the piano in a little restaurant on a Chicago avenue.

Just now he's in the county hospital — broke and friendless. Weakly reclining on a hospital bed, he repeated words from one of his songs:

As we walk down the street,
How, how often do we meet
Some poor old man whose life is naught but woes;
And with age his form is bent,
In his pockets not a cent,
And for shelter he does not know where to go.
With relations by the score
Who turn him from their door
And, sneering, in the street just pass him by;
If you ask why 'tis done,
He'll answer you and say:
"I'm poor and old and only in the way."

As the old fellow's voice died away he said sadly: "That's my life in a nutshell. I never thought when I wrote those words that some day I would apply them to myself."

Raymond was born eighty-one years ago in the shadow of Bunker Hill monument, the son of a banker. At 16 he enlisted in the Mexican War. After peace was declared he became an intermittent correspondent for the New York Herald. Then came the Civil War and he joined the colors again. In 1857 he came to Chicago. All this time he was writing songs — hundreds of them, including "Just One Girl," "There Are No Friends but the Old Friends" and "Passing Away Beyond the Clouds."

"But now I'm thru," he said sadly. "You see, I'm poor and old and only in the way."

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Aug. 7, 1920, p. 1.

A Tribute To The Home of His Childhood

Maine, 1916

By Rev. George B. Ilsley.

Where was it? In Limerick — one of the best of all the towns in York county, Me., encircled by hills on every side — with excellent farms and orchards, having "fine variety of hard and soft wood growth." The old academy stood upon one of its most sightly hill tops — with the village just below it to the north. From this eminence a splendid view of Mt. Washington was obtained. Except for the climb, it was an ideal spot for scholars. It was a High school, indeed! The village with its three meeting-houses and numerous stores was a centre for trade to surrounding towns. Stages ran daily to Portland, Saco and every other to North Berwick via Alfred.

Not a mile south was the home of my childhood. In 1825 grandfather and father bought one of the Felch farms, and lived together upon it, till 1856, when within three weeks they both died. Until then for 16 years it was my happy home. Working on the land was conducive to physical health and vigor.

Going to the summer and winter terms at the old schoolhouse, developed our mental abilities from the A B C's up to admission to the academy where I began to fit for college in 1856.

"How dear to my heart are those scenes of my childhood!" The making of maple-sugar was strenuous recreation — to lug up the sap from the woods and the boiling of it down to syrup! But, oh how sweet it was! Then came the putting up the gaps in the walls which the frosts had made all around the fields and pastures. It was an early spring task. In haying 5 and 6 would be mowing one after the other. It was fun for us boys to follow up and spread it; and then ride the horse to rake it with "the old revolver."

Sometimes it would be September ere we finished.

The old farm of 200 acres seemed immense to my childish comprehension. It was two miles around it. To go through the woods to the Marr's pasture, where the sheep and oxen were kept, was quite an expedition. But it was always a delight to go with father to salt the sheep!

The farm was well located, all in one solid block, bounded on the west by the Main road, on the north by the county road to Limington, on the east by Peter Fogg's pasture, and south by Isaiah Guptil's farm. (He had six boys, Moses, the triplets, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Hiram and Stillman, and five girls. At one time five in the family could not walk alone.)

To the south Ossipee Mt., 4 miles away, was the highest point to gaze upon. Shapleigh hills and plains were beyond. To the north those of Cornish and Limington appeared. The outlook, going back and forth to the village was always beautiful and inspiring. It is still so as I return to it. No other scenery is quite like it. II. No neighbors were quite so good as those just at a near by "Felch Corner". Shall I name them? Across the garden, below, was uncle Jeremiah's house, with cousins Ben and Ed. The Allen sisters, who sold out to Stoddards and moved to the village, one was my earliest school teacher. Then the Meserves, and aunt Polly and son, Nathaniel L. The Brackett Leavitt family with Shubel, Sarah and Louise; across on the corner. The FelcheS, Amos Gene, Amos Jr, and Alvan, the preacher, then beyond Major his son, Moses Fogg. Westward a bit the little Knowlton home, and then the Pierce family, Daniel and Josiah brothers; then the old wooden school house now since 1858, the brick one then, Albion Bradbury, mother and sisters, then the Doles and Gilpatricks, just on the brow of Favor's hill, where we had our best coasting in winter. Half a mile from Felch's Corner to the East way Tufts bridge. Here was the trout brook running through Bradbury's and Tufts field above the road and through Fogg's pasture south of it, and then into Cradbourne's, then into Pierce, and Gilpatrick's meadows. Do I not still see the hole where I caught my first one? Yes indeed, and going back to it 40 years later cutting away the alders I took another out of the same place. I may do it again before I'm eighty.

The new Dole, Gilpatrick, and Hodgdon saw-mill in which father had a share was a place of great attraction to me and all the boys of the neighborhood. In early spring we could get a big trout, and in summer pickerel. It was a fine place for swimming also, and for building rafts to paddle over the pond to fish and dive from when in bathing.

Many a pleasant picnic was held here, as well as on the old farm when the cousins came in summer time from Portland and Chelsea. But now the old mill is all gone.

Planting time always had some excitement about it, carting out the barn dressing, then plowing it in. Breaking up new ground required all the oxen and steers we could muster. It was a big team sometimes.

One year, Abe Guptil was the hired man, one of the twins. We began spring work April 9th and got all the planting done on May 13th. Then came the sheep washing when the flock was driven to the County Bridge over a mile away. Sometimes we boys, in ducking the big lambs, got plunged in ourselves by their vigorous resistance. This with the shearing and the marking of the lamb's ear, by splitting them was a time of great interest to us. There was nothing dull or dreary about such childhood days.

The hoeing, when the twitch-grass was stout I never enjoyed very much. But I recall one time when grandfather was about 80 and I 15. We had a race to see who would hoe his row out first. I did my best, but he beat me. Up to 83 he was a smart man to work, no matter whether it was hoeing or mowing, digging potatoes or husking corn, he was sure to do his part.

Seventy years ago we as boys had no boughten toys. We had to make our traps for squirrels, skunks and woodchucks if we caught them. Our bows and arrows to shoot with, and our kites to fly we made.

Grandpa being a cabinet-maker in Portland brought many of his tools to Limerick, and had a shop for them. This was our resort on rainy days; and we were not slow about using them to make what we felt we wanted most. At one time I strove hard to construct a violin, but failed in glueing it together. At bow-guns, stilts, traps and sleds, we became quite proficient.

When grandpa found that we had dulled his saws, planes or chisels, and each of us answered that "I didn't do it," he would make his earnest reply to us, "Nobody did it." "Nobody did it."

But we loved him if sometimes he did seem to scold us. We knew he loved us. He was a kind and great hearted, Christian man.

Every morning just before gathering about the big, round breakfast table, when all were present, was his time to furnish devotion. A chapter was read from his Bible, taken down from the dinning room shelf, then he knelt in prayer on our behalf. At every meal it was his custom to ask God's blessing on the food before us.

When the weather was too cold for the Sunday evening prayer meetings to be at the school house our dining room was the usual place for them, at early candle light, where 50 or more, by opening the sitting room, could be seated. In this he always took some part by prayer or testimony. He was a good singer and joined in every song. As a small boy I remember how I helped bring in the chairs and arrange them in rows, for men on one side and women on the other. The light-stand with the Bible and hymn book for the minister was always near the sitting-room-door. The young folks used to gather and those who were not church members used to take the sitting room.

It was grandfather's custom to have a song service after the people had gone.

It was his delight to rehearse many of the old hymns, and have us gather round and help him. With my three sisters and two brothers we had a good time of it; especially when he got out the old bass viol, and uncle Jeremiah came in with his clarionet, and if Aunt "Nodie" was there with her excellent soprano voice, those to me were pretty fine concerts. Here I took my first lessons in music. One of his favorite hymns was "How Firm a Foundation Ye Saints of the Lord." Such influences tended to draw me early into Christian life, and later all my brothers and sisters.

Our aged grandpa's example and life were a constant benediction upon us, filling the home with the sweetest of good influences. His benignant face stills hangs upon my study wall.

It was always a pleasure to be with him in the field, in the carriage, or in the old meeting house on the Hill. One of my boyish amusements in the square pew at the right of the pulpit, with closed door was the getting of flies and wasps into a paper box which was made for that purpose. In the winter Grandma had her foot stove there. Old Elder Flanders of Buxton, who had a very big nose, whom my father used to shave, before he went to church Sunday morning to supply, was one of the first I can remember. He used to put up at our house. When he blew his nose with a big red bandanna handkerchief he made a loud noise of it. In the "40's" when Josiah Tilton was pastor I remember going to the Donation Party at the parsonage and the eating of blancmange of which I still have a fondness. Then came Elder Tripp who taught one term of winter school, whereby my thirst for knowledge was much strengthened. After he came Rev. Jeremiah D. Tilton under whom I joined the church in 1854.

It is with grief I think now of the diminished membership and the closed doors on Lord's Day of the Little White church on the Hill.

Most of the people of 70 years ago are buried in the cemetery close by. What a joy it would be to go back and meet them there again as in the days of childhood.

"Backward, turn backward,
O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again
Just for to night!"
***. (To mother)

"Many a summer,
The grass has grown green
Blossomed and faded,
Our faces between;
Yet with strong yearning
and passionate pain
Long I tonight
For your presence again.
Rocke me to sleep mother
Rocke me to sleep."
—Earnest Leslie.

"Be it ever so humble,
there is no place like home;
A charm from the skies
Seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thru the world,
Is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home sweet, sweet home."
— John Howard Payne.

—The Fryeburg Post, Fryeburg, Maine, Sept. 12, 1916, p. 8.

Almost Time for May Baskets

1901

Month of May is Near

Admirers of Young Women and of Old Folks Will Hang Nosegays on Doors — Recalls Visions of Childhood and Youth — Happy Days of Yore

The youngsters will be out with their May baskets in a few nights now. The evening will be punctuated with bursts of illy suppressed laughter and "pit-a-pat" will go the small scurrying feet when the door bell bearing the nosegay has been rung. We have all hung May baskets in our time. Hung them for love and hung them for sentiment and kindness. Who has not hung May baskets? To have failed is to have missed one of the prettiest customs of the American people. There is nothing more joyous than to make the hearts of others beat with pleasure as we do acts of kindness and love to those we hold dear. And how better can this sentiment of affection and regard be expressed than through the language of flowers. Flowers are nearest the angels, and the purer the expression of sentiment the happiest the lover, be the loved one gray-haired and bent or brown-eyes with rosy cheeks.

Who has not wandered in the woodland for the pink anemone and the anemone patens of the common sort, from the meadow bottoms gleaned the caltha palustrus from its banks of yellow? Who has not had mother or sister make the baskets and arrange the tinsel, placing therein the bunches of sweet-scented blossoms? As night grew on apace and the cool May time air snuffed good in the nostrils of youth and toned the muscles to a tension for sprinting, who has not met the neighbor's boy in the woodshed or out by the front gate and with him sped away in the darkness to the home of some fair inamorata whom youthful affection has sought out and made the ideal of ideals? Softly up the front walk with the best and prettiest basket of them all you steal. Deftly it is hung o'er the knob of the big door and then — !

"Ting! Ting! Ting!" goes the bell in blatant tones.

Hip! And with a great stride you leap from the porch and race into the plutonian darkness. From a safe distance you watch the operations at the door, hear the exclamation of delight and then, if there chances to be a big brother, you light out and do some hot footing lest he catch you and discover your passion for his sister. At school next day you manage to insinuate something about May baskets and then you tell a white lie when face to face with a question of identity. You know that you fib, she knows and you both know that each other knows it — but what is the difference, she knows you hung the basket.

And the old people, God bless them, we have all hung baskets of flowers on their door-knobs, and have been happier and better for it. Now as we look back upon the hanging we believe we are happier to have hung the baskets for the old and feeble ones than for the youthful ones. Time cannot obliterate the gratification for having hung these baskets, at least, with no selfish motive, no ax to grind, nothing but pure and unadulterated kindness and a desire to make others happy.

Thus youth, passing along the short shore line of happiness, grows to middle age when May baskets may not be, with propriety, hung, when business threatens to blot out the sentiment of youth. Then it is the children and the young people steal into our lives and re act the old, old story that brings back a flood of recollections and of peace.

"Silk Hats For Hire"

1910

Sign In Old Dickens' Quarters, London, Forced to Go Under Modern Pressure

London. — Among the landmarks of London that have disappeared of late are some old shops in Houghton street, Kingsway, the district that Dickens loved. The irruption of the house-breaker into this little thoroughfare has done more to disturb old buildings to make way for modern office blocks — it has displaced an old world little man, Christopher Clark, whose business for years has been one of the queerest in all London.

Till the London county council laid reforming hands on the dim little shop it bore in the window the notice:

Gentlemen's Silk Hats
Lent on Hire for Weddings
and Funerals.

The old man seemed strangely out of place in the daylight that had been let into that hitherto dingy bypath of the metropolis as he stood by the door a day or two before closing the shop for the last time and retiring as an old age pensioner. A big white apron enveloped his bent form and he peered suspiciously at the questioner who asked him how he fared.

Gradually, however, he thawed and admitted that he was eighty-four years old. "Certainly, I have had a good business. This used to be a good street for trade. Lawyers used to use it as a route to the courts, but all those changes are taking the life out of London. Folks now get underground like moles when they want to move about the city. And every messenger boy who wants to, sports a cheap tall hat.

"What sort of customers? Most respectable customers I have always had. If a silk hat was wanted for some special occasion I would supply a good one for a shilling a day — a hat no man could fail to be proud to go out in.

"A shilling a day, mark you" (the old man lovingly polished a shining specimen of his head gear with his sleeve), "and the hat to be returned to me in the condition in which it left the shop. Should a client require a hat for more than a day a reduction would be made. There was no fixed charge. There were times when a man positively had to have a silk hat, and — well, I was not too hard on the man whose fortune was small."

"No, trade latterly has not been always brisk. It has sometimes happened that more than a month has passed before a client has come in here to hire a hat, though sometimes I might have as many as four in a day. It used to be very different. Not even a funeral is conducted decently nowadays Everything is rush and tear."

And the old man sighed as he thought of the former days, when times were good and Londoners jogged comfortably along, with the silk hat as their badge of respectability on special occasions.

A Dozen Carloads of Callers Give Newlyweds A "Belling"

Ohio, 1918

WERE TENDERED AN OLD-TIME BELLING

A dozen machine loads of Elks called at the home of Attorney and Mrs. F. S. Scott, in the Mt. Vernon road, last evening, and gave them an old-fashioned "belling."

Judge Scott had retired when his wife aroused him by informing him that several machines must have missed the road as they were coming up their driveway. The din made by the visitors was terrific, and later they were invited into the home by Mr. Scott, who introduced his wife and refreshments were served.

Congratulations were extended the newlyweds, and a speech of felicitation was made by Dr. H. H. Baker. Attorney Scott responding, stating that he was sorry they had not called earlier as he would like to have shown them all his war garden, consisting of everything in the vegetable line; his poultry and his livestock, consisting of two cows, five Belgian hares, and an English bulldog.

The visitors left after spending a pleasant evening and were all given a cordial invitation to return.

—The Newark Advocate, Newark, Ohio, June 12, 1918, p. 4.

When the Waltz Was New

1916

I have a letter in my possession written by a friend to my great-grandmother in the year 1817, at Christmas time, in which the lady expresses her grave disapproval of the "modern" tendency toward rapid dancing. The paragraph runs as follows:

"I was yester evening at your Cousin Betty's, where I was much struck with the new fashioned dances, which seemed, to me at any rate, to be out of keeping with the propriety and modesty which we look for in young ladies of our class. I can only regret the disappearance of those 'mazurkas' and 'gavottes' as well as the 'minuets' and hope that these new dances or 'valses,' as I think they are named, will quickly disappear from respectable society." —Letter in London Telegraph

—Stevens Point Daily Journal, Stevens Point, Wisconsin, July 29, 1916, page 3.

George Washington Meets Fast-Talking Modern Man

Anaconda, Montana, 1914--

Some Observations by the Wanderer

What would the immortal George Washington say if he came to Butte for a day?

The dapper young swell would greet him, of course, with a few remarks, and into his speech inject enough of the present day lingo to make the father of his country wonder what the world is coming to.

"Lo, old top; you look like the ready-cash gazabo come to pipe the gang. Now, for a starter, suppose you shoot your lamps at that across the pike -- isn't she a pippin?"

"Old top, lamps, pippin? I do not understand your language, sir."

"Now, what do you know about that? Wouldn't it crimp you? Forget it, bo, get wise, take my hunch and polish your peepers. I'll put you next to yourself. You sailed in to see dear old Butte, didn't you? Then take my wing and we'll trek over to the swellest cabaret you ever bumped into. Some doings over there, believe me."

"Believe you? Why, my good man, I cannot believe my ears, or" -- his gaze riveted on a wisp of modern femininity, garbed up to the minute -- "my eyes, either."

"Ah, what's the gag; hereto pipe the procesh, ain't you? You're handing me something but don't you do it, see? You need a gin ricky; or how would a flapdoodle kerplunk dingbat at the Dutchman's strike you? Your pipes hot? Come on over to the glassy mahogany and we'll look at Reuben. No? How'd a trolley down to the place where they give a correct imitation of the hesitation and the bunny hug hit you? Can you fall for the dance? Looking for a joy ride? Name your choice and I'll dig; let's paint the old burg a lurid carinine, eh? Get me?"

"How strange it all seems. Would that my sleep had not been disturbed by the Mexican silence at Washington."

"Come out of it, old scout; you haven't sized up this dump yet. There's peaches and cream all over town. Take my steer and don't let any good thing get by."

"Farewell, my country; again, farewell my countrymen. This is not my counter -- these are not my countrymen. By heck, where am I at?"
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The old-fashioned man who established a checken ranch that his heir might enjoy the fruits thereof has a son who is doing his best to keep tab on the chickens.
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The average man who comes to see the sights of the town usually obtains his first impressions in the big mirror behind the mahogany.
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A new suit of clothes, a shine, a shave, a hat with the bow behind and a $10 bill have made millionaires out of many hard-working men.
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The apple of mother's eye sometimes develops into a pippin; often is regarded as a winesap; sometimes as a wealthy, but more than ever, as the summer approaches, she swings into the early transparent species.
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Father used to black his boots with soot from the stove lid and mother, on Sundays put a little corn starch on her ruddy chin. Both used charcoal on their teeth and read the Bible and preferred each other's company on all occasions. This day brings forth sons and daughters who never open the family Bible, never both about father only when money is needed and never mention mother's name in society and prefer any other company to that of their parents.
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Sometimes it is a fact that the man who picks his teeth with his fork and wipes off his whiskers with his knife and uses his fingers to lift the flapjacks to his mouth and passes up the finger bowl can write a check for thousands and live in his own house.
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It has been written that he who hesitates loses. That's all at variance with fact today -- the one who can hesitation best wins the prettiest girl.
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The good fellow invites half a dozen up to the bar and throws up two of the biggest silver dollars he can find. He accompanies his wife to church and fishes around in his pocket for the smallest nickel to throw into the plate.
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The majority of residents of Anaconda are not aware of the fact that a railroad used to run from a point near Washoe park diagonally across lots to Sheep gulch, up to a great quarry from which many hundreds of carloads of building rock had been taken. Lime rock also was mined in that part of the gulch and there were lime kilns there, too. Only traces remain of that once important industry.
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A man who says he is a pioneer of Anaconda, having come here about 17 years ago, accompanied a real old-timer up Park avenue the other day. Passing the brick building across the alley west of the Montana hotel the old-timer said to his young old-time friend:

"That building was the first brick church in Anaconda, one of the very first churches built here, if not the first."

The 17-year old-timer looked up and down the sides of the brick house and then at the old-timer. "That right? That a church once?"

"Sure it was, built by the Rev. Mr. Stanley, a pioneer South Methodist minister."

"Well, I'll be -- I didn't know that."
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And John L. Sullivan visited Anaconda in the early '80s, in the heyday of his importance as a fistic expert. He drew an enormous crowd to the old skating rink down in First street, since named Commercial avenue.
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One sees a very large number of things in one day in Butte if one be inclined to observe things in passing. One can almost say that one sees some things that are not in sight, so much is there before one's eyes. So much may be seen now that could not be seen a month ago. Butte is a remarkable town in many remarkable respects. It grows, it keeps apace, as they say in suffragist meetings, it is in some respects ahead of itself, and it never looks back to see if the rest of the procession is coming.
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The observer notes a wonderful change in everything, including fashions, since last fall. Now they wear high hats and flat hats, whereas last fall they wore flat hats and high hats, only they were built on different lines last fall.
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The observing visitor also notes a radical change in man's apparel. Looking back 25 years ago the observer beholds a kindly old gentleman in the act of shooting a man wearing a thing called a coat that looks more like something that someone had thrown out of a window and which fell on something alive. Nowadays that thing is called a top coat and the man wears it without molestation -- for it is vogue.
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The whiskey is the same, the people are the same, the atmosphere is the same, the cigars are the same, the hotels are the same -- only some visitors imagine that because they are away form home they can stand more abuse than they can at home.

--The Anaconda Standard, Anaconda, Montana, March 22, 1914, page 4.