Correspondence

New York, 1895

To the Editor of the Long Island Farmer:

DEAR SIR — Permit me to forward you my complaint. It is for the benefit of the people of our town in general. I wish to complain of the very disgraceful condition of the sidewalks on New York avenue, in wet and snowy weather. There is a pretence of old boards that are loose and rotten, and when one passes over them, the water flies up and spoils more clothes than if the boards were not there.

As this is one of our principal streets, where many strangers pass to and from the trains, they immediately get the idea, what a dirty place Jamaica is. In this respect they are right. But we could have clean and dry sidewalks. Other streets have been seen to by our board of Trustees, but this one has been overlooked. Has some one on this street a "Pull?"

— A TRAVELLER AND TAX PAYER.

—The Long Island Farmer, Jamaica, N.Y., Jan. 18, 1895, unknown page number.

The Coast of Maine

1916

Bold, lovely Coast of Maine
I tune my lyre to sing of thee
In sultry summer days; vacation's plea
Calls often in sweet wooing tones to me—
Where shall we go prithee?
Imagination takes swift wing
And in a motor boat we are afloat
With refreshing breeze on billowy sea.
Chug, chug, we onward go in glee
From Kittery Point to Old Quoddy.
What varied views are seen
At the numerous points that lie between;
York Beach and Kennebunk, Old Orchard Beach,
Then Portland, in our power boat we reach,
The myriad isles of Casco Bay, are in our way
With loveliness that stirs our lay;
Squirrel Island next, and now we near
Point Pemaquid, Muscongus Bay is here,
The Medomak also, which becomes a rill
At headwaters near "Paul Shinars" Mill.

Friendship, synonym of coast equality,
Port Clyde is on our lee,
Through Mussel Channel to Owl's Head we speed
Rockland is near, with everything you need.
Penobscot's waters we should fain explore
Long wooded banks to bustling Bangor,
Replenishing gasoline with fresh supplies
We turn our vessel's prow toward the main
Past Vinal and North Haven we nearly fly,
And land at Eggemoggin, fair Deer Isle.

Gem of the bay, bisected spot
With pretty hamlets lined,
Sunset, Mountainville, Little Deer, Sunshine,
A paradise for tourists here we find.
Where nature's resources rest the wearied mind.
Up anchor and away thro' devious Jericho,
Past Swans' Island and Bar Harbor and Ho! Ho!
Frenchman's Bay we leave on our way,
Petit Manan quite soon we scan
Then o'er Englishmans' bay, fast as we can;
We make Machiasport, and soon before us lay
West Quoddy Head, and Passamaquoddy Bay.

The very collection of such scenes
Is cooling mid the fever heat of things;
There seems to be a tugging to get away
Where Oceans' lyric song is heard, and naiads play,
To island, bay, cove, meandering stream,
Where majestic yachts go flitting by
To charm the gazers' eye;
While spreading trees with foliage green
Crown shores, smile vernal, o'er the scene.

Amidst such splendid vasts 'tis grand,
Yea grander than Acadia's strand,
Land of Evangeline,
Or Scotia's glories Scott doth sing.
Elysium for rest and fish and game
Is the bold, lovely coast of Pine Tree Maine.

— H. W. COLLINS.
STANDISH, Me.

—The Fryeburg Post, Fryeburg, Maine, Sept. 26, 1916, p. 1.

Made It Fit the Name

1901

"Red Rock, N. Y.," said a man who spent some time there, "isn't much of a place, but there is something interesting about it that I fancy all the world doesn't know. The present name is not the one it has always borne, and what its other name was I don't know. Whatever it was the people did not like it and concluded they would change it. There was no particular reason why they should call it Red Rock, but that was determined upon, and so Red Rock it became.

"Then in the course of time strangers of an inquiring turn of mind began to ask why the place had such a name, and as no reason could be given newcomers to the neighborhood began to want a name that meant something. This insistence grew so strong that the old residents began to look around for a reason for the name of their place, and at last they found a huge boulder nearby which they said was what had suggested the name. But the boulder was gray instead of red, and the progressists insisted that that would not do. At last the old timers hit upon a new plan, and, procuring a barrel of red paint, they painted the big rock red. Red Rock indeed it was now, and not only was all opposition to the name overcome, but the painting of the rock every spring has become an annual festival, and the people celebrate it with a big picnic and general celebration.

"It was a new idea to me, and if there is any other town anywhere on earth that is christened every spring with red paint or any other color I don't know where it is." — New York Sun.

The Playground Movement

1914

Up to a few years ago, it never occurred to the older people that Young America needs a place to play in. It was commonly supposed that a live boy would find plenty of amusement in selling newspapers, running errands, or hoeing the back yard garden. If he must have his game of ball once in a while, there was the street or someone's vacant lot.

As a matter of fact it often happened, even in the country town, that there was no place where a set of boys could play a game of ball without being ordered to quit.

Most American towns were laid out with no provision for the children. There was ample foresight for anything in which money could be made. Railroads and factories never lacked opportunities. Land was often given to attract them. But the cases where land was given where young people could play their games freely, and work off superfluous and threatening energy, were rarely seen.

In the larger cities the modern playground, with a tangle of yelling kidlets, is a sight to do a wholesome-hearted person good. The boy who is chasing a baseball is not robbing fruit nor standing on the street corner smoking cigarettes.

A playground entertaining a large crowd of children does not fully serve its mission unless carefully supervised by some competent person. The average boy gets altogether too much fun from tormenting some one under his size. Also the average crowd of 12-year-olds is very far from ready for self-government.

But even if a neighborhood or a village can merely open up a vacant lot and turn the youngsters loose, the results are worthwhile. In that case the parents will occasionally have to intervene to make Young America "salute the flag."

"The Town of Hate" Is Dead

Oklahoma, 1920
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"THE TOWN OF HATE" IS DEAD; TOO MANY FEUDS, NO CHURCHES

WATONGA, Okla., May 20. -- Hate killed Ferguson, Blaine County, Oklahoma.

Fifteen years ago, a town of 1,000 people, having a large salt factory, a gypsum plant, and shipping facilities. Ferguson today is dead. By order of the Postoffice Department, the office has been closed and soon the railroad will be discontinued, with trains running only to Hitchcock.

Ferguson is said to have died fighting as it had lived. People were supposed to have hated each other, and main street fights were common. West of town, alleged outlaws "Yeager" and "Black" had their rendezvous, from where in early morning, they are said to have stolen horses and cattle of farmers and citizens, and then sought safety among the canyons and hills.

The Cyclone saloon still flares out its sign, but its proprietor has set up business in another city. The building is used as a barn, the Cyclone was the scene of many brawls.

The song "Oklahoma" was written at Ferguson. Mrs. Guy Camden, the author, frequented the city and the mountainous vicinity. Other poets and composers once lived in Ferguson.

Inhabitants claim that there never was a good thing done for Ferguson, alleging that strife, hatred, and opposition led to its downfall. Ferguson never had a church, nor talk of a church. The only schoolhouse in its history would not seat more than twenty-five children.

Wrongs were not punished, it is said, and people were permitted to run rampant.

The town of hate is dead.

--The Saturday Blade, Chicago, May 22, 1920, page 1.