Hubby's Superstitions Made Her Life a Burden

1909

List Shows He Knew Them All

Woman Put Up With Them Until Life Ceased to Be a Pleasure, Then She Asked for a Divorce — Story She Had to Tell Beats Any Ever Heard in a Court Room

SEATTLE, Wash., Oct. 6. — Because he is "the most superstitious man in the world," and for cruelty and eccentric habits arising from his beliefs, Mrs. Sofia Rudd was granted a divorce from Robert Rudd, a well to do farmer of Kitsap County. Here are some of the things he did, according to allegations presented for evidence:

When their only child was 1 year old she was forced to swallow a teaspoonful of fine sand, one grain meaning every [*line of text missing.]

He hung a live toad in the stable, in the belief that the total number of days required for the tortured thing to die would be the number of prosperous years of his life.

Last spring he compelled his wife to disrobe and walk wound a newly planted potato patch, that the crop might be a prolific one.

Nailed a wagon wheel over the gate and tied a skull bone of a horse to the gate, that none passing through bring disease to the family.

Impaled an owl on the gable and fastened a hawk to the side of the barn to discourage other birds from visiting his barnyard.

Would not permit his wife to raise ducks or geese, because white fowls are said to bring discontent.

Kept a piece of wood from a coffin once dug up in Oregon tied to his wagon to keep caterpillars off the farm.

A rooster was kept tied on to a nest for six months to discourage hens from wanting to set.

Scattered boards full of nails and pieces of barbed wire in the path traveled by his cattle on turning them into the fresh green pastures in springtime. If an animal was injured he immediately killed it, because he believed that same animal would have died from overeating before the summer was passed, and that to end its life then would thus save the grass for the other cows.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Oct. 9, 1909.

*Note: A good guess would be one grain of sand for every day of the child's life that year.

An Eccentric Wisconsin Man

1878

The Milwaukee (Wis.) Sentinel says: Capt. William Plocker, of Brandon, is a peculiar man — quite peculiar.

He was educated for a banker, but never adopted the profession. Thirty years ago he located in the town of Metomen, Fon du Lac county, having purchased a large tract of land. Previous to that he had spent some years as a steamboat official on the western lakes. His was one of the best managed farms in Metomen, yet he found ample time to do an immense amount of reading.

His library is one of the largest in the county, embracing many of the choicest works, and every one of the thousands of books has been read and reread by the captain. He is well posted on any subject, almost, that may be named. At times when thinking or reading he is oblivious to everything about him.

In his early days, his farm-house, near Fairwater, was converted into a public house, with himself as proprietor. While the captain was in one of his brownest of brown studies, a traveler stepped in and asked if he could get accommodations. There was no answer. A second, third and fourth time the question was propounded, with a like result. By that time the would- be patron's patience had departed, and he gave the captain a slap on the cheek which sent him whirling to the floor. Imagine the surprise of that traveler when Plocker gathered himself up, reoccupied his chair, and proceeded with his thinking, without as much as a "thank you."

On one occasion, when the hired man was away, the captain had ten cows to milk. It took him until nearly midnight, and when the task was completed he deliberately poured the eight pailsful of milk into the swill barrel, detecting the mistake just as the last pail was drained.

One day, at Brandon, he went to the house of a friend when the house was full of visitors. Going to the library he picked up a book and returned to the parlor, filled with happy guests, stretched himself at full length on the lounge, read an hour or more, and then, without having said a word or looked at a person, took his departure.

After serving his district in the Assembly in 1875, he sold his farm for $12,000, visited the old country, and is now a resident of Brandon, whose people talk of making him their first village president.

He Never "Collars Down"

1915

One of the proudest boasts of "Cyclone" J. H. Davis, the Congressman from Texas in the new House, now in session, is that he has "never collared down to anybody." As a matter of fact, "Cyclone" Davis doesn't allow anything to graze his neck but his flowing beard, the largest yet seen in the halls of Congress.

—Saturday Blade, Chicago, Dec. 18, 1915, p. 11.

Lives On Five Cents a Day

1901

Indiana Laborer Thrives on Exclusive Diet of Oatmeal

William Hamlin, a laborer, of Mishawaka, Ind., employed in very active work, and who spent the summer as a laborer in digging sewers and laying water-mains, has subsisted throughout the summer and fall on five cents a day, and is still continuing the experiment. Mr. Hamlin selected oatmeal for his diet, paying two cents a pound therefor, and consuming two and a half pounds a day, or seventeen and one-half pounds a week of seven days, at a total cost of thirty-five cents.

Hamlin's daily bill of fare since last summer has consisted of the following menu: Breakfast, plenty of hot drinking water and three-quarters of a pound of oatmeal; dinner, plenty of drinking water and one pound of oatmeal. For supper he takes a hot or cold bath, sometimes only a foot bath, three-quarters of a pound of oatmeal and plenty of drinking water. Mr. Hamlin says that after eating supper he often feels frisky as a colt. Whenever his appetite becomes rebellious and his stomach seems to crave other food he simply lays the oatmeal away on the shelf until the appetite returns and the stomach becomes subjugated.

Several citizens of this place, acquainted with Mr. Hamlin's eccentricities, vouch for the accuracy as detailed, and assert that Mr. Hamlin is as well satisfied with his present physical and mental vigor that he is not desirous of returning to the old order of things.

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.

A Quarter That Returned Seven Times in 29 Years

1900

Interesting Travels of a Mutilated Coin

"Have you ever discovered what a small world this is?" said A. J. Flyshaker, the other day to a New York Telegraph reporter. "I have, and I have found that it is impossible to get away from one's self in it.

"You don't think so? Well, I will give you just one instance of it which you would not believe if I could not prove it to you. You see this quarter," and here the speaker displayed a much worn silver piece upon which were stamped the letters "F. L. Y." "Well, this is the story of how even a quarter can't get lost. It was in March, 1871, I stamped those letters on that coin. It was at the time when there was a general howl over the mutilation of money, and the street car lines in Louisville, where I then lived, had instructed their conductors not to receive anything of the sort. Being young, and eager for trouble, I deliberately stamped the word 'Fly,' which was then as now my nickname, upon this quarter, and after a long row forced the conductor to take it and give me change.

"That was twenty-nine years ago, and during that time the coin has returned to me seven different times, the last being in March last, in this city. The last occasion of its return to me was in San Francisco, three years after I had returned from a tour of the world, which wound up with a long stay in Australia. Before that I had seen it in Detroit, New York, Galveston and Denver. How it traveled around I don't know, but I am sure the story of its wanderings would be full of human interest.

"What I want to tell you about, however, is how I came to get it this last time. I had been in the habit of stopping in at McCoy's saloon occasionally for a drink, and I was usually served by John Kennedy, the head bartender. He comes from Troy, and last March, on his 29th birthday, he visited his home there. Before returning he got a bill changed, and among the coin was this quarter. He kept it in his pocket for two or three days after getting back, and thought nothing more about it until I happened in.

"Then he told me he had a coin with 'Fly' on it. He showed it to me, and I recognized it as the one I had stamped in Louisville, just twenty- nine years before. The coin itself was minted in 1857, so it was fourteen years old when I stamped it. By comparing notes with Mr. Kennedy it further developed that I had stamped it in Louisville on the day he was born in Troy. After the coin had been traveling all over the United States for twenty-nine years, it falls into his hands in his native town on his 29th birthday, and he, a casual acquaintance, brings it to New York and returns it to me."

The Wogglebug Story — Witches and Hobgoblins

Wisconsin, 1905

Bachelor Brothers Move Away to Avoid Witches and Hobgoblins

Christian and William Born, who live in Lebanon on the Woodland R.F.D. road next to J. B. Schneider, have been busy for some time past in building a sort of a Noah's ark on wheels, and there has been considerable speculation by their neighbors as to whether the outfit would turn out to be an automobile or a flying machine. Nothing would have surprised their friends, however, as the boys have long been regarded as foolish.

Last week Thursday they loaded up their deep sea going cab with a number of trunks and boxes, and started on a pilgrimage, leaving everything on the place as though they intended returning that day. Their shepherd dog was left as custodian over the eighty acre farm and about thirty head of stock, besides a large number of chicks.

When they did not return that day nor the next the neighbors went over and cared for the stock and notified the chairman of the town, Herman Witte, of the case. He started a deputy sheriff after the boys, and he overtook the outfit at Troy Center Tuesday evening. They said they were en route to the sunny south in obedience to a command from the spirit of their dead father, who has also ordered the construction of their portable house. The deputy invited them to return by rail with him to Juneau to meet a number of his friends, members of the medical profession and they readily assented, as their team needed a rest anyway. So they are now in Juneau, where they were examined as to their sanity.

The boys' father died some years ago, and they have been living with their mother on the farm, neither of them being married, although they are both over forty-five years of age. They have been having a strenuous time with the witches and hobgoblins the past year. Somebody bewitched three of their best milkers at a time when milk was high, while another witch cast a spell over their chickens when the egg market was around thirty cents. All this they were up against for years and withstood manfully, but when the Wogglebug told them that their farm was heavily encumbered and would soon be foreclosed upon by a number of witches, they gave up in despair and at this time their father's spirit appeared and billed them for a trip to Missouri.

The neighbors say that Mrs. Born has been mentally unsound for years, and that the boys have always been very eccentric and extremely superstitious.

Their team and wagon passed through the village this afternoon being driven back to Lebanon, and its odd appearance attracted lots of attention. — Neosho Standard.

A Poet's Treasures – What Was Found in Eugene Field's Room

1896

A Poet's Treasures

Eugene Field's Queer Room and Its Strange Contents

Before we go upstairs to Eugene Field's room, the one which holds his choicest treasures, it is necessary to remind you again that he has a child's love of grotesque toys and of barbaric colors and effects. He was especially fond of red. The room in which he died is papered with a fantastic, swirling pattern on a red ground, which is absolutely exasperating to those people who prefer soft browns and dull reds. Few persons understand what his idea was in selecting this red paper with its grotesque yet conventional swirl. In Henry B. Fuller's "With the Procession" that author tells about a Chicago woman named Susan Bates, who furnished her whole house magnificently except one little room.

Upon this room she spent a great deal of money, and visited many old-fashioned stores, in order to furnish it like a primitive one she had occupied when a girl in her father's house. Now this was partly Eugene Field's idea in furnishing his own room. He was fond of grotesque effects, he loved red passionately, and he wanted a reminder of the furnishings of a century ago. Where he found that gorgeous red paper, or the old-fashioned calico for the red curtain, would be difficult to tell, but he had a knack for discovering quaint things which other people pass by without notice. When it is added that the rugs on the floor are also red, perhaps it may be imagined that this room in hideous. But it is not. The long bookcase on one side, the white column in the middle around which are arranged shelves holding Mr. Field's treasures, and a gray screen repeating with a slight variation the same singular swirl that is upon the walls relieve the eye to such an extent that the effect is harmonious.

As you enter the room, you are confronted with two hideous figures. An outlandish Japanese figure is suspended from the wall by one arm. In the other it holds three Japanese gongs fastened together so as to make a loud sound when struck with the red stick. The other is the face of a hobgoblin attached to the headboard of his bedstead. Field pretended that he bought it to frighten away his babies when they insisted upon interrupting him while he was writing; but, like their father, they were so fond of the ludicrous that the strange faces the monster would make when certain strings were pulled only made them laugh; so the intended bugaboo but added to the attractions of the room.

On the shelves one may find a strange collection of quaint bottles of every conceivable shape and size, and Mr. Field hunted many shops for those candelabra which our grandmothers loved — those with glass pendants through which a child may distinguish the seven colors of the rainbow. He also had a queer collection of canes, candlesticks and baby shoes. Not alone the first shows of his own babies wore, with the toes and heels worn out, but wood shoes, and even glass shoes, reminding one of Cinderella's glass slipper. There are also two strange wooden horses, one used by Mr. Toole, the English actor, when he played "The Cricket on the Hearth," and the other, daubed with a few spots of paint, used by Mr. Jefferson in the same play. Neither must one forget Mrs. Hawthorne's ginger-jar, nor the ax Mr. Gladstone gave Eugene Field. The ax is suspended above the window. — St. Nicholas.

England's Hoboes Are Super-Tramps

1913

ENGLAND'S HOBOES ARE SWELLS

SUPER-TRAMP NO COMMON BO

LONDON, March 1. -- England has discovered that among the 60,000 tramps that adorn her countryside are some sure-enough aristocrats who, patriots believe, would take a lot of beating.

England, in fact, claims to have evolved the super-tramp; a hobo who is shared and manicured as carefully as a west end "nut," and whose dandyism lacks nothing but spats and a crease down his trousers. One such Beau Brummel of the turnpike -- whose cash capital considered on one cent -- leaned against the dock rail of a London police court in an attitude of Piccadilly grace, the other day, and smiled languidly while a police sergeant recited from his note book as follows:

"I found upon the prisoner, your worship, the following articles:

"Razor in case, leather back shaving mirror, shaving brush (badger hair), tablet of Windsor soap, bone nailbrush, case of needles, spool of cotton, thimble, table knife, dessert spoon."

Referring to this case, a Scotland Yard inspector with whom the writer talked, declared that searching an English tramp was "like dipping into a lucky back," and instanced a woman named Willis, who was arrested for vagrancy a short time ago. To the outward eye, she simply was a homeless woman, without money, food or property, but closer examination revealed a leather belt under her waist to which were attached, with a neat row of hooks, an equipment of knives and forks, a collapsible frying pan, changes of clothing, needlework, a purse containing $6.80 and a bag of food.

This outfit, moreover, said the Scotland Yard man, was not luxurious but primitive compared with the portables carried by many British "wearies." One connoisseur is known who brews exquisite China tea under Surrey hedges, while there is another known to the brotherhood as "the doctor," whose luggage include a beautiful little medicine chest which he hides in thick grass or under a heap of stones before he knocks for admission to the nearest "casual ward."

Some British hoboes are ardent collectors. They collect everything except work. The police at Kingston-on-Thames discovered a tramp a while ago, who was traveling about with a handsome kit-bag. They found in it, among other things, 61 lead pencils, four pairs of spectacles, two table knives, three linen collars, three boxes of matches, a looking glass, a tooth brush, two pairs of laces, a handsome magnifying glass, and a silver-mounted pipe.

The owner of this collection proudly denied that he was a peddler, declaring indignantly that he had "never fallen so low." Money he had none, but every now and then a tramp is discovered in possession of a sum that none of us would be sorry to have to his credit in the bank.

One such Monte Cristo among hoboes was Patrick Halloran, who, after touring the beauty spots of Ireland for 35 years, was discovered at Midleton, in County Cork, with $575 in his possession, all in golden half-sovereigns. This money was neatly piled up in two tin canisters on a wheelbarrow which Halloran had been pushing before him for many years. He had a collapsible kitchen and a collapsible bed on his wheelbarrow, too!

Then there was a queer character, known as the "eccentric duchess," who sought the aid of the police at Kettering to find shelter for the night. This "duchess" was as tattered and torn as the man in "The House That Jack Built," and her personal baggage consisted of only two brown paper parcels. When these were opened however, 344 bright sovereigns worth $5 each flowed out on the inspector's desk among the pens and ink and memoranda.

--Nevada State Journal, Reno, Nevada, March 3, 1913, page 3.