Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This story starts off with a guy named "Nam Sarcy" and just gets weirder from there. The "Taranaki [New Zealand] Herald," December 23, 1899:

A Texas rancher named Nam Sarcy was a famous bear hunter, and had scoured the woods in the neighbourhood of his home in Antelope Canyon, in Edwards County, until he knew every foot of them and every bird and beast within their confines.

Sarcy was an intelligent but uneducated man, in good circumstances, devoted to his family, and respected by his neighbours.

One day Sarcy disappeared from his home. He had often been away on hunting trips, and his family were not uneasy until his absence had run from days into weeks; then his friends and neighbours scattered through the mountains or formed little searching parties, and took the trail.

Sarcy had never exhibited mental peculiarities to warrant suspicion that he was not of sound mind; and it was supposed that he had met with an accident.

It had been his habit when at home to keep a pet bear. He was fond of bears, and nearly always had one about the ranch. His bears he raised from cubs captured in the mountains. Nothing seemed to give him so much pleasure as playing with his pet. He was a powerful man, and would amuse himself for hours wrestling with his bear, throwing it to the ground or tiring it in a scuffle.

He would often "play bear" for his children. He would go about the house on all fours, like a bear, growling and snapping at the children, who would scamper away screaming with delight at the play.

Sarcy had been gone from home some months, and his wife and friends had given him up. It was the general opinion that he had been killed in a fight with a bear or had met with an accident.

One day last August a hunter going through the woods not more than two miles from Sarcy's house found the rifle of the missing man lying on the ground under a large pine tree; not far away was the carcase of a large bear, which had been skinned. The hide was gone. This was thought to be a clue to the presence of Sarcy, but a search failed to bring any trace of him.

A few days after the discover of the gun, the community were thrown into wild excitement by finding the body of a little Mexican girl in a berry patch. She had been killed and the body partially devoured by a large bear, whose tracks were plain to old hunters. The trail was cold, however, and the bear could not be followed.

It is not a bear region in the vicinity of Antelope Canyon, but signs of them became frequent. Some children fishing in a mountain stream were chased by a bear. His big tracks were found, and the ranch men hunted him, but without avail. Bruin was as cunning as he was audacious. The hunters often saw his tracks by the streams, but not one of them caught a glimpse of him.

It was Sarcy's wife or widow--she did not know which--who was the first to meet the bear, who had become to the mountaineers a mysterious, uncanny beast.

One evening she was going to the spring for water. At a turn in the path she came face to face with the bear. She knew it would be fatal to run, for the bear would spring upon her. So she stepped slowly backward, the bear following as slowly. Her foot caught in a root, and she fell and rolled over and over, screaming for aid. The bear sprang for her, and began gently nosing her. Suddenly it turned, and galloped off into the woods.

When Mrs. Sarcy told her story there was much wonderment. There followed fast many strange adventures in all of which the bear took part.

One day a number of children were playing about the schoolhouse, when the big bear appeared and tried to join in their play. The children ran screaming to the schoolhouse for protection. The bear followed them into the house, and danced up and down the aisles. This would have been amusing had it been a tame bear, but here was the mysterious bear that no hunter could follow, and no hunter had seen.

The beast danced toward the teacher, who was terrified. It held out its paws as if in invitation to a waltz, and the teacher made a flying leap through the window. The bear growled in its disappointment, and the children fled through windows and doors and took short cuts for home.

This story aroused the hunters, and they organised a big chase, but no one around could find the bear, and there was not a hound in the country that could long keep its trail.

One morning Mrs. Sarcy found bear tracks in her dooryard. The evening before, and for several evenings the old deer-hound that had accompanied Sarcy on his hunting trips set up a furious barking.

One evening Mrs. Sarcy went out to where the old dog was playing with some large animal whose outlines she could only dimly make out. The animal stood near the gate, and the dog rushed upon it, frolicked around, barking joyfully.

Speaking of this afterwards, Mrs. Sarcy said: "I am not sure what the animal was, but I believe it was a bear."

The people began to think the woods haunted: the frontier preacher called a meeting to talk the matter over. While the meeting was going on and the preacher was praying, the mysterious animal walked in at the back door, slapped the preacher over, and, standing on his hind legs, ambled down the aisle, snapping at the flying worshippers, who had left their guns at home.

That night the valley was aroused and talking of the terror, the devil, the demon bear.

Mrs. Sarcy was aroused that night by a noise in the room in which the children slept, which adjoined her own. She arose from her bed and stepped to the door. To her horror she saw a great black bear standing beside the bed in which her children slept.

She stepped swiftly into her own room, and caught up her husband's rifle. She knew how to shoot. She raised the rifle to her shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

"Sallie, don't shoot any more; you have killed me!"

It was Sarcy, her husband, and he had been fatally hit. She was at his side at once, screaming in agony.

Sarcy lived until the next day, and before he died he told a marvellous story of his mental suffering.

"For a long time before the mania seized me," said the dying man, "I had been thinking I was a bear."

This delusion grew on the man until he could find no relief except by going into the woods and acting like a bear for several hours. After a jaunt of this kind he would return home quiet. When he found he could no longer control himself he left his home, went into the woods and killed a bear, and arrayed himself in the animal's skin. In this way he hoped to cure himself of his malady.

In his lucid moments he greatly desired to see his wife and children. He recalled seeing his wife at the spring--as a dream. He could not remember having chased the children, nor did he know anything of the death of the Mexican girl.

He often watched his own children at play from a safe retreat near his home. He had lived on berries and roots, and he remembered that he had often enjoyed eating raw meat.

The moral of this story is: Whenever you have the urge to reinvent yourself as a bear, keep it as a hobby. Don't try to turn professional.

[Note: Thanks to Twitter's @Litrvixen for bringing this clipping to my attention. I seem to be crowdsourcing the blog these days, which can only be an improvement.]

The Weird, Wandering Wanderwells

If Aloha Wanderwell hadn't existed, she would have had to make herself up.

So that's exactly what she did.

In Winnipeg, Canada, Aloha was born on October 13, 1906 with the name "Idris Galcia Hall," and, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis, she almost deserved it. Circumstance led her to acquire an early taste for world travel. In the beginning of World War I, her father, a wealthy rancher named Herbert Hall, joined the army, becoming a lieutenant in the Durham Light Infantry. The entire Hall family shared his travels, spending the war behind Allied lines, in England, Belgium, and France. Unfortunately, in 1917 Herbert was killed in action. His widow sent their children to boarding schools in Belgium and France, an experience that evidently only whetted young Idris' longing to escape. She soon fled her school to seek adventure in Paris.

She found that chance when she was only 16, thanks to a Pole named Valerian Johannes Piecynski. Piecynski was a colorful character, a sailor and world traveler who had been briefly imprisoned by the Americans on suspicion of being a German spy. (He also had a penchant for illegally wearing military uniforms.) Changing his name to the considerably snappier "Walter Wanderwell," he continued his somewhat mysterious life as international man-about-town, forming a pacifist organization known as the Work Around the World Educational Club For International Peace (WAWEC.) This group--whose activities remain somewhat murky--appeared to accomplish little except catching the ever-watchful eye of J. Edgar Hoover, who feared Wanderwell was building his own subversive private army. (However, it has been plausibly alleged that WAWEC was nothing but a con aimed at luring gullible would-be "fighters for peace" into handing over the $200 "membership fee.") Wanderwell does not seem to have ever held a normal job, and had no private income of his own, but he appeared to make a decent living escorting the wealthy to remote, exotic lands.

In 1922, Wanderwell and the Ford Motor Company co-sponsored the "Million Dollar Wager," where two teams in (naturally) Ford Model Ts would compete in a race to see who could tour the most countries. Wanderwell would drive one of the cars, with his wife, Nell, leading the other. Anxious to secure as much publicity for himself as possible, he cannily knew that one of the best ways to get it was to have an attractive, equally flamboyant young woman accompanying him on the expedition. He placed ads in the Paris newspapers announcing: "Brains, Beauty, & Breeches--World Tour Offer For Lucky Young Woman!" For restless young Idris, it was the chance of a lifetime. When she presented herself in front of "Captain" Wanderwell, the pretty, six-foot-tall, ready-for-anything girl immediately secured herself a place as his sidekick. He rechristened this blonde Amazon with the more euphonious name of "Aloha."

The pair set off on what was the early 20th century equivalent of a reality TV show. They filmed themselves on their travels, showing the reels at their periodic speaking engagements. Walter and Aloha drove their Model T through Africa, the Middle East, Asia. Aloha became famous--with only some hyperbole--as "The World's Most Traveled Girl." In Calcutta, they made headlines with a well-publicized meet-up with pilots who were in the middle of the first aerial circumnavigation of the globe.



With all the publicity Wanderwell was gaining, he did lose one thing--his wife. Somewhere along his busy route, he took enough time to file for divorce. ("Too many women caused our marriage to go on the rocks," Nell Wanderwell later shrugged.)

Walter and Aloha came to America in January 1925. They married in Los Angeles several months later. This was more a marriage of convenience than the fulfillment of true love. The FBI--still eying Wanderwell with disfavor for his wartime activities--was threatening to arrest him under the Mann Act. (This notorious law, which made it a criminal offense to transport women across state lines for "immoral purposes," was a handy tool for authorities to use against anyone who rubbed them the wrong way.)

In the next two years, the Wanderwells had two children, Valerie and Nile. The pair lived up to their adopted surname, continuing their ramblings across the globe, eventually reaching 43 different countries. According to one account, along the way, Aloha briefly disguised herself as a man and fought in the French Foreign Legion. It is a story that probably belongs in the "too good to check" file. However, international journalist Rachel Crowdy gave an eyewitness account of a memorable sight: the tall, flowing-haired Aloha, dressed as a cowgirl, riding through the streets of Geneva on top of an armored car, waving to the amazed crowd as though she were visiting royalty. In China, they were captured by bandits. They only secured their release when Aloha agreed to teach them how to use machine guns. Walter was not nearly as popular, at least with the authorities of every country they visited. He was widely--and who knows how accurately--suspected of being a communist agent. His travels were believed to be merely a cover for his subversive activities. Whatever the truth to these charges may have been, (he was likely a mere grifter rather than an international spy,) Walter was unquestionably an open and habitual womanizer. This probably did little to endear him to his proud, strong-willed wife.

In 1929, the Wanderwells returned to America and bought a home in Miami, Florida. They turned their self-made newsreels into a feature film, "Car and Camera Around the World." In the following year, they were hitting the road again. They traveled to Brazil, ostensibly searching for the lost explorer Percy Fawcett, but in reality, they were hunting for their favorite quarry: publicity. At one point, their plane crashed in uncharted jungle along the Amazon. Aloha took shelter with an indigenous tribe for several months while Walter hiked back to civilization to get replacement parts for the plane. Their expedition--or, rather, extended photo-op--became another film, "Flight to the Stone Age Bororos."

It was after this adventure that the Wanderwell story shifted from adventure caper to Agatha Christie murder mystery. Late in 1932, they bought a rickety, 20-year-old yacht, "Carma," with the intention of making yet another film out of a trip to the South Seas. Sixteen excitement-seekers paid $200 each to become "crew members." (Never mind that none of them knew the first thing about sailing.) Typically for Walter, most of the "crew" were pretty young women. Authorities said publicly that the ship was unseaworthy, but felt unable to do anything to stop the expedition. Aside from that, plans for the voyage appeared to progress smoothly. The only odd incident was the mysterious disappearance of Walter's gun. Although the entire yacht was carefully searched, it was never seen again.

The "Carma" never did reach the South Seas, for the simple reason that on December 5, 1932, while still in the harbor at Long Beach, California, Walter Wanderwell was shot to death on board his newly-purchased ship.

On that fatal night, Aloha was in Los Angeles, making efforts to sell the rights to their proposed South Seas film. Most of the crew was on shore leave. Four others remained on the "Carma." They spent the evening playing cards in the mess hall. Walter was about ten feet away from them, alone in the cabin he shared with his wife. The two Wanderwell children--who were only 5 and 6 years old--slept in a nearby room.

While the quartet in the mess hall eagerly chatted about their upcoming adventure, they suddenly saw the face of an unfamiliar man in one of the open portholes. He was wearing a grey coat. His face was largely shaded by the coat's collar and a cap drawn low over his eyes.

"Where's the skipper's cabin?" he asked. They told him where it could be found. A minute or so later, they heard Walter greet the stranger with a "Hello!" They later said he sounded surprised, but not alarmed. Several minutes later, the sound of a gunshot ran through the ship.

By the time the crew reached Wanderwell's cabin, the visitor had disappeared. And Wanderwell himself was dead. He had been shot in the back at very close range. The murder weapon was never found. No one could ever explain how the assassin managed to vanish in the mere seconds before the crew rushed to the cabin.  Adding to the mystery was the fact that no one in the crowded harbor saw any stranger board or leave the yacht.

This should have been a relatively easy case to solve. Given that it was a shipboard killing, logic suggests that only a handful of people knew Walter's whereabouts that night. The others aboard the "Carma" that night were questioned carefully--a police captain told the press that there had been "some dissension"--among the passengers--but none of them had any known motive for the murder. The police soon cleared them from suspicion. (While the investigation continued, the crew members remained on the "Carma," happily charging lookyloos 10 cents a head to tour the ship.)

Four of the "Carma" crew, which included Aloha's sister Margaret Hall.

Walter's playboy ways arguably gave his wife a motive for murder, but her alibi proved rock-solid. Aloha did nothing to help matters by declaring that she could think of "a thousand men" who wanted her husband dead. (The police chief, after doing some investigating into Wanderwell's background, had to agree that she was not exaggerating.)

William James Guy, a 24-year-old Welsh soldier of fortune who had worked on one of Wanderwell's previous expeditions, was known to have been on very bad terms with Walter. (As a result of his experience working for Wanderwell, Guy had concluded the man was a crook and warned others against having anything to do with him.) After several crew members identified Guy as the man in the grey coat, he was put on trial for the killing. (When she was put on the witness stand, Aloha livened up the legal proceedings when she dramatically collapsed in a faint.)  Guy insisted his innocence, although he freely admitted that "I would not have minded killing him." Fortunately for the defendant, he was able to produce an alibi for the time of the murder--he was 30 miles away, having dinner with friends.  (One wonders, incidentally, why he didn't present this alibi before being put on trial.)  The crew members who had previously identified Guy as the "man in grey" were considerably less certain under oath.  Lacking any real evidence against him, Guy's acquittal became virtually inevitable. (He was, however, subsequently deported.)  Guy continued his career as a mercenary until he suffered a fatal plane crash in 1941.

William James Guy at the time of his arrest.

Walter's murder was never solved, probably at least partly due to the fact that no one seemed particularly anxious to seek justice on his behalf. Was he killed by one of his numerous personal enemies? A cuckolded husband or boyfriend of one of his mistresses? Did Aloha hire a hit man? Did his death have anything to do with his extremely shady enterprise, WAWEC?

Were the police too hasty in exonerating the four crew members who were on board the "Carma" the night of the murder?  Certainly, their story about the mysteriously appearing and disappearing "man in grey" sounded implausible.  Could they have been part of a real-life "Murder on the Orient Express" plot against the remarkably unpopular Wanderwell--perhaps with the connivance of the conveniently absent wife and/or William Guy?  (It is of some interest that, although it was Aloha who first suggested to police that Guy might be the murderer, she and the young Welshman were said to be "too friendly.")

The relatively few crime historians who have examined the case all seem unwilling to even make an educated guess about who shot Walter Wanderwell.

Walter's mysterious demise did absolutely nothing to cramp Aloha's style. She learned to fly a seaplane, which she used to explore uncharted areas of the Amazon. About a year after her husband's murder, she remarried, to another adventurer named Walter Baker. The couple made several more films of their world travels: "To See the World by Car," "India Now," and "Explorers of the Purple Sage." She went on several well-received lecture tours, and wrote an autobiography, "Call to Adventure!"

The peripatetic pair eventually finally settled down in Cincinnati, Ohio, where Aloha worked in radio and print journalism. In 1947, the Bakers moved to Newport Beach, California, where she eventually died in 1996 at the age of 89. As had been the case with her first husband, Aloha was buried at sea.

It is remarkable that Hollywood has never made a movie out of this woman's dynamic, strange, and slightly sinister life.

But then, who would believe the story if they did?

Weekend Link Dump

This week's Link Dump is sponsored by the Worldwide Federation of Cats Who Are Laughing At Us.

What the hell is this ancient rock art?  Now we...well, sort of know.

What the hell happened in Warminster in 1965?

What the hell happened in Augsburg in 1591?

Who the hell was King Arthur?

Watch out for the Mandela Effect!

Watch out for that anarchist soup!

Watch out for the chocolate of Chiapas!

Watch out for those vindictive vicars!

Watch out for those paranormal peacocks!

Are you a witch?  Then watch out for those broomsticks!

How a 14th century kidnapping/rape helped change the course of British history.

Squonks: the saddest cryptids.

How to tell your witches from your sorcerers.

A roundup of British crime in 1843.

Andrew Jackson and the Bell Witch.

The life of a Regency nursemaid.

The tomb of a Russian princess spawned many strange legends.

Witchcraft accusations in modern France.

Pseudocriticism of pseudosciences.

Good luck with that one, guys.

Discovering the ancient cave paintings of Petra.

The latest in the "Gospel of Jesus' Wife" controversy.

Of literacy and leapfrog.

Hannah Snell vs. the press gang.

The ghost map of Gainesville.

Weird bosses.

Upstaging Stonehenge.

The man who poisoned a president's grandfather.

Archaeologists vs. Ancient Aliens.

George V's parrot.

An 18th century Rumpole of the Bailey.

A possible early victim of a notorious serial poisoner.

Robert Southey and his cats.

A clubhouse for deadbeat dads.

The strange case of a polio version of Typhoid Mary.

The grave of an ancient warrior princess.

Leek Milk and Carrot Beer make me very happy I didn't drink in the Georgian era.

Princess Diana and the alien big cats.  Now, there's a headline for you.

And, finally, this week in Russian Weird:



Side note: Russians are all lunatics. Even weirder than the Latvians.  Your average Russian makes Florida Man look like Calvin Coolidge.  I used to date a Russian guy. Trust me on this one. 

So, there you go for this week. See you on Monday, when I'll be looking at the very strange couple in the center of a very strange unsolved murder. In the meantime, here's a bit of Telemann:

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This medieval-sounding tale of a fatal curse put on a Kentucky doctor appeared in the "St. Louis Republic," October 11,1901:

"Within nine days that fine mare will die, the colt you value will die, your last hunting dog will disappear, and then you will die."

This was the prophecy made by an unknown mysterious woman to Doctor Alfred Lemberger, and it came true to the letter, for Doctor Lemberger fell over dead from heart failure on the evening of the ninth day.

The other conditions of the prophecy had already been fulfilled.

Now every detective on the Louisville force and every newspaper reporter is looking for the strange woman who made that prediction. Physicians say that she probably caused the man's death by the psychic effect upon him. But the question remains, Who is the woman? for only Doctor Lemberger knew and he never told her name. That section of the city was never so excited before.  Miss Kate Schuster, who was to have married the doctor the latter part of this month does not know nor does her sister Mrs. Schweitzer, who kept house for the bachelor. His brother and intimate friends can tell simply what Doctor Lemberger told them that a woman had predicted his death.

It started several weeks ago when Doctor Lemberger was called to attend a child suffering from diphtheria. The physician and family differed as to the diagnosis. He reported it as diphtheria, placarded the house, and enforced the sanitary measures that the law provides. The family objected bitterly. The baby died. One of the family visited the physician's office on Goss avenue to "wish him ill."

 According to the story of the dead man's intimate friends, Doctor Lemberger was a member of a little club that met each week at the home of some member for a social card game. Almost all of the well-known men in that section of town belonged. It was at a club meeting that the doctor first told the story of the strange prophecy. The man who heard him tell the story first repeated it.

"Boys," he began, "you can play cards on my coffin in a couple of weeks if the prophecy of a woman made today comes true."  Then he went on to tell his friends about the table what he called a good joke on himself. He told them the story, but held back the name of the woman, professing not to know it. In the intervals of the game, amid the jokes and laughter of his comrades the doctor told how the woman had entered his office and said first that she wanted to let him know that he need not hunt for that dog; that he was gone; because he would never come back. It had gotten into the street and a boy had carried it to the country. Then the woman said:

 "Be careful, for in nine days that fine mare will die, your colt, that you value, will die, and finally you will die on the ninth day--if you are not careful."

"But that mare is not mine. She belongs to my brother," said the doctor.

"That makes no difference," replied the woman. "Anything that is in your stable during the next nine days must die. You have enemies and they may kill you. The greatest danger to your life will be in the nine days after the mare dies. Don't go out alone at night. You can believe this because I predicted the death of President McKinley, but said nothing about it because I feared I might get into trouble."

The members of the club heard the doctor's story, and straightaway it became the standing jest. But one day the physician did not answer the questioner so readily. The fine mare was dead. Colic seized the mare one morning, and before Doctor Miller, the veterinary surgeon who was quickly summoned, could arrive she had died.

In a couple of days, however, the physician had apparently forgotten all about the incident. He was only reminded of it by the disappearance of his good hunting dog and the death of two of her pups the same day.

But one of the strange woman's prophesies remained now to be fulfilled. Lemberger had ceased to scoff about the fortunetellers, soothsayers, and the like.

One day he went fishing, but told the people at the house exactly what must be done in case he did not come back.  When the doctor went out at night he took a man with him. The time for the club meeting rolled around. The doctor went. He seemed in finer spirits than he had been for a week. He was even joking and laughing about the prophecy of the strange woman. They were playing "auction pitch."

"I bid one," said the man on Doctor Lemberger's left. The physician skinned his cards. The others were doing the same thing and paid little attention to him.

"I bid two," said Doctor Lemberger at last--then he fell forward on the table dead. The last prophecy of the strange woman had been fulfilled. It was the evening of the ninth day.

Other obituary notices confirm that Dr. Lemberger did die suddenly on October 9 of a massive heart attack. He was only 34 years old.

A similar story about the eerie circumstances surrounding Lemberger's death appeared in the "Louisville Courier-Journal" on the following day:

"Within nine days that fine mare will die, the colt that you value will die, your last hunting dog will disappear, and then you will die."

This was the prophecy made by an unknown, mysterious woman to Dr. Alfred C. Lemberger, and it came true to the letter, for Dr. Lemberger fell over dead from heart failure on the evening of the ninth day. The other conditions of the prophecy had already been fulfilled. Now all Germantown is asking the question: "Who is the woman that made the prophecy?" And none seems able to answer, for the prophecy was made to Dr. Lemberger in private, and only he knew the woman's name.  Miss Kate Schuster, who was to have married the doctor the latter part of this month, does not know, neither does her sister, Mrs. Schweitzer, who kept house for the bachelor. His brother and intimate friends can tell simply what Dr. Lemberger told them--that a woman had predicted his death.

It all started several weeks ago, when Dr. Lemberger was called to attend a child suffering from diphtheria. The physician and the family differed as to the diagnosis. He reported it as diphtheria, placarded the house and enforced the sanitary measure that the law provides. The family objected bitterly. The baby died. One of the family visited the physician's office on Goss avenue to "wish him ill," as the saying goes in that part of town.

Mrs. Schweitzer yesterday told the story of the visit. "She came and wished the doctor ill every way, and he was awful mad, and said he reckoned he'd get even with her some time."

"But is the mother whose child died the woman who predicted Dr. Lemberger's death?" asked the reporter.

"No, that is another one," said Mrs. Schweitzer. "I think she came first to tell the doctor where his hunting dog had gone. He had a fine dog, and it disappeared. One day a medium-sized woman came to his office. I didn't notice her. I wouldn't have thought of it but for the stories that the doctor told. He said that the woman predicted that he would never get the dog back, because it had been carried far away in the country by a boy, who picked it up on the street. He said, then, that she went on to tell him not to worry about that dog, because if he wasn't careful his mare would die and his colt and his other dog, and, finally, himself. My! the doctor was mad. He said he would like to break that woman's neck for telling him such foolishness. I don't believe in such things, but it all came true."

The reporter hunted up another friend who had been very close to Dr. Lemberger. And then, the only story of the occurrence that the doctor told his friend came to light.

Dr. Lemberger was a member of a little club that met each week at the home of some members for a social card game. Almost all of the well-known men in that section of town belong. It was at a club meeting that the doctor first told the story of the strange prophecy covering his end. One of the men who heard him tell the story first repeated it:

"Boys," he began, "you can play cards on my coffin in a couple of weeks if the prophecy of a woman made today comes true."

Then he went on to tell his friends about the table what he called the good joke on himself. He told them the story, but he held back the name of the woman, professing not to know it. In the intervals of the game, amid the jokes and laughter of his comrades, the doctor told how the woman had entered his office and said first that he need not hunt for that dog that was gone, because it would never come back. It had gotten into the street and a boy had carried it to the country. Then the woman said: "Be careful, for within nine days that fine mare will die, your colt that you value will die, and finally you will die on the ninth day--if you are not careful."

"But that mare is not mine. She belongs to my brother," said the doctor.

"That makes no difference," replied the woman. "Anything that is in your stable during the next nine days must die. You have enemies, and they may kill you.  The greatest danger to your life will be nine days after the mare dies. Don't go out alone at night. You can believe this, because I predicted the death of President McKinley, but said nothing about it because I feared I might get into trouble."

The members of the club heard the doctor's story and straightaway it became the standing jest.  For the next few days, whenever any member of the little club saw Dr. Lemberger, the greeting would be exchanged: "Well, Doc, ain't dead yet, are you?"  And the doctor would reply with some joke at the expense of fortune tellers, witches, soothsayers, and the like.

But one day the physician's joke did not answer the questioner so readily. The reason was plain. The time for the counting of the nine days had arrived. The fine mare was dead.  Colic seized the mare one morning, and before Dr. Miller, the veterinary surgeon, who was quickly summoned, could arrive, she had died.

In a couple of days, however, the physician had apparently forgotten all about the incident. Only he conducted a very careful examination of the stable, and ordered the negro boy, John, who attended to the horses, and who slept in a room over the stable, to move into the main house.

The club meeting night was the day after the mare died, and the members cast all sorts of jokes at their friend, asking him if he was not sorry that he had only one week to live, and similar pleasantries, which he apparently enjoyed as much as the jokers.

About three days after the death of the mare the six-months-old colt drooped and would not eat. No one told the doctor because of the prophecy, but the next morning the colt had developed an acute case of pleurisy. Dr. G.W. Knorr, from the office of Dr. Miller, was on hand quickly. He saw at once that the colt was in a very serious condition. Four men worked with the little animal for six hours and then, like the mare, it died.

Two of the strange woman's prophecies had come to pass.

"I never saw a man so much broken up over the death of an animal," said Dr. Knorr last night, "and certainly it was rather a strange case. I don't see how the colt got pleurisy in that stable."

The morning after the death of the colt, the last good hunting dog disappeared. Two of the pups died that same day.

But one of the strange woman's prophecies remained now to be fulfilled. Dr. Lemberger had ceased to scoff about fortunetellers, soothsayers and the like.  One day he went fishing, but told the people at his house exactly what must be done in case he did not come back. When the doctor went out at night now he took a man with him.

The time for the club meeting rolled around. The doctor went. He seemed in finer spirits than he had been for a week. He was even joking and laughing about the prophecy of the strange woman.  They were playing "auction pitch."

"I bid one," said the man on Dr. Lemberger's left.

The physician skinned his cards. The others were doing the same thing and paid little attention to him.  "I bid two," said Dr. Lemberger, at last. Then he fell forward on the table-dead.

The last prophecy of the strange woman had been fulfilled. It was the evening of the ninth day.

As a postscript, here is an even weirder tale from the "Atlanta Constitution," January 8, 1902:

Louisville, Ky., January 7.--Three Louisville young men have within the past six weeks come to violent deaths which were foretold them. The singular fatality which overhung them, the fact that their fates were predicted and that they died within so short a space of time has caused considerable comment.

The first of the three to die was Stuart Young. A few months ago there was not a gayer young man about town than he. Attractive, with a host of friends and holding the lucrative post of city treasurer, he seemed in an enviable position. But Young's pace had grown until finally he had to take the city's money to meet expenses. Then he began to gamble to catch even and ruin was complete.

It has recently been the fad in Louisville for young people to visit one of a member of those fortune telling here. During the summer Young was at a number of fortune tellers who held forth parties. The fortune teller gazed at Young's hand and then shook her head ominously.

"Your line of life is broken now," she said.

On November 27 he shot himself through the head in a freight yard within a block of his hotel just after an afternoon paper had announced his shortage.

The second to meet his doom was Austin Kent. He came of a leading wealthy family of Louisville. A few weeks ago he went to St. Louis. One evening he made one of a part at which palmistry served to pass away the time. The young lady who was reading Kent's hand said laughingly:

"Why, Austin, you should be dead now. Your life line stops at thirty and you're thirty-one."

"Well, I guess I've got a new one by now," laughed Kent.

Ten days later, while on an automobile party he sprang to escape what seemed a certain collision between the vehicle and a freight engine, and was ground to death beneath the wheels of the enging.

Will H. Goddard was the last to fill out the trio of destinies. He was a young man, well liked socially in Louisville for his attractive personality and gay spirits. Like Young he went on a fortune telling party. The seeress told him he would meet a violent death in less than twelve months. On Thursday last he was on a hunting expedition and pulled his gun toward him by the barrel, believing it empty. It was discharged and the contents passed through his heart.

But slightly removed from these cases by time, and of a similar nature, was that of Dr. Alfred Lemberger. Last August he incurred the enmity of a fortune teller of the east end who cursed him and his, and predicted that in nine days he would be dead. On the evening of the ninth day Dr. Lemberger died while sitting at a table playing cards with friends.

These may have been merely coincidences but they have given Louisville fortune tellers a grewsome reputation for fatal veracity. Fortune telling parties are no longer popular with the young folk of the city.

"Grewsome," yes, but you can't say Louisville palm-readers don't give you your money's worth.

The Drunken Poet of Danville

Tell me that Thomas Johnson Jr. was the author of the first known book of poetry to be published in Kentucky--indeed, that his slim volume "The Kentucky Miscellany," may have been the first book ever published in the American West--and I will nod, smile politely, and shrug. I am not a literary scholar, I say. I have no plans to become a contestant on "Jeopardy." ("I'll take 'Dead and Unread' for $500, Alex.") What is that bit of historical trivia to me?

Go on to inform me that Johnson has gone down in history as "The Drunken Poet of Danville," and I begin to prick up my ears.

Throw in the fact that his verses were notoriously vulgar, blasphemous, and breathtakingly defamatory, and I give out a joyful yell of "Blog post!!"

Unfortunately, we have very few details about Johnson's life. Like many other great artists of the past, his work must serve as his biography. It is believed that he was born in Virginia around 1760 and that he moved to Danville some time in his early adulthood, although that is only guesswork. In the 1780s, his poems began to appear in Kentucky newspapers.

It seems that Johnson had mixed feelings about his adopted town. "On Danville" probably won't be reprinted by the city's Chamber of Commerce any time soon:

Accursed Danville, vile, detested spot
Where knaves inhabit, and where fools resort--
Thy roguish cunning, and thy deep design,
Would shame a Blackbeard or an Algernine.
O, may that fatal day be ever curst,
When by blind error led, I enter'd first.

Johnson was even less flattering about the Bluegrass State as a whole. It inspired one of his most memorable odes, "The Author's Hatred to Kentucky in General":

I hate Kentucky, curse the place,
And all her vile and miscreant race!
Who make religion's sacred tie,
A mask thro' which they cheat and lie;
Proteus could not change his shape,
Nor Jupiter commit a rape,
With half the ease those villains can
Send prayers to God and cheat their man:
I hate all Judges here of late,
And every Lawyer in the state.
Every quack that is call'd Physician,
And all blockheads in Commission--
Worse than the Baptist roaring rant,
I hate the Presbyterian cant--
Their Parsons, Elders, nay, the whole,
And wish them gone with all my soul.
Far worse than these, I yet do hate,
All those who pimp or speculate.
All rogues and villains, men in trade,
(If a distinction may be made.
Glad would I be: `twas quickly done,
For my own part I know of none).

One man of God in particular has achieved immortality thanks to Johnson's "On Parson Rice, Who Refused to Perform Divine Service Till His Arrears Were Paid."

Ye fools! I told you once or twice,
You'd hear no more from canting R—e;
He cannot settle his affairs,
Nor pay attention unto prayers,
Unless you pay up your arrears.
Oh, how in pulpit he would storm,
And fill all hell with dire alarm!
Vengeance pronounced against each vice,
And, more than all, curs'd avarice;
Preach'd money was the root of ill;
Consigned each rich man unto hell;
But since he finds you will not pay,
Both rich and poor may go that way.
'Tis no more than I expected—
The meeting-house is now neglected:
All trades are subject to this chance,
No longer pipe, no longer dance.

An executed wife-murderer named William Hudson was the theme of one of Johnson's better epigrams:

Strange things of Orpheus poets tell,
How for a wife he went to Hell;
Hudson, a wiser man no doubt,
Would go to Hell to be without.

Johnson's most famous poem commemorates the time when one of his frequent drinking bouts caused him to arrive at Erasmus Gill's tavern too late for dinner:

O Thou, who bless'd the loaves and fishes:
Look down upon these empty dishes!
By the same power those dishes fill,
Bless each of us and curse old Gill.

A Parson Douglass, who married a "young and buxom wife/By nature form'd for those delights/That brides expect on wedding nights," probably never thanked Johnson for the poet's description of his honeymoon:

The priest cries, "it will not do,
Faith, Betty, you'll not get your due;
I've tried, but cannot make it out,
Love's fierce machine has turn'd to snout.
Make you the way but fair and plain,
I'll take a nap and try again."
At length the wish'd for morning came,
The Parson tried, 'twas all the same--
"Ah! Faith and troth, 'tis worse and worse,
I'll keep thee, Betty, for a nurse;
My hapless impotence deplore,
And never will attempt it more."

One also wonders what the heroine of "On a Lady, Who Suffered a Loud Escape at Craig's Meeting," thought of the honor.

While Craig deplor'd our Savior's fate,
Close by the pulpit Celia sat.
Twas silence now, and all was calm,
When Craig began to sing a psalm;
With solemn look, devotion pours,
And all the congregation roars;
Celia, too, among the rest,
But Celia was with wind oppress'd--
So laying modesty aside,
And sweet becoming female pride,
Careless too of all decorum,
Let a rouser just before 'em;
Which soon dispell'd all devout gloom,
And sent a smile throughout the room.
Let others show their lukewarm zeal,
That cannot warm emotions feel.
The praises sure are far above,
Which issue near the fount of love.
It sings the sure approach of death
But sings the tune with stinking breath.

This is how an acquaintance of Johnson's named Captain Hughes has gone down in history:

A dingy hat compound of wool,
Closely confin'd his empty skull--
Beneath, short hair, in Baptist dock;
With vermin strung on every lock,
His little eyes both sore and red,
Were sunk an inch within his head;
O'er which, a pair of eye-brows rose,
Shading the wart upon his nose.

When a Danville lawyer named Michie died, Johnson wrote an ode describing him as "the ugliest man God did made," and that "He'll plead in Hell without a fee." Even more stirring was Johnson's eulogy for William Gill:

Here lies the corpse of Billy Gill,
Whom cruel Crow in rage did kill,
Beneath this stone he safely lies,
No orphans mourn, no widow cries;
His happy children, happy wife,
Freed from oppression, freed from strife;
Join in the shout, proclaim the joy,
He's gone who did our peace destroy.

On one occasion, a Danville man who raced horses fled town leaving a pile of unpaid debts. Johnson observed the event with:

John run so long and run so fast,
No wonder he run out at last;
He run in debt, and then to pay,
He distanc'd all, and run away.

Johnson's softer side is shown in his eulogy for a dog:

Here lies the corpse of little Cue,
Whose heart was honest, good and true.
Why not preserve her memory then,
Who never yet, like faithless men,
Concealed in smiles a mortal spite,
Nor fawned on them she meant to bite?

The following poem addressed to his "Brother Soldiers," indicates that Johnson served in the Revolutionary War:

Our country gave us great applause,
And own'd our valour gain'd the cause.
To praise, false show of profit lack;
They grant us lands then take them back.
What could brave soldiers wish for more:
We now are independent sure!
Our cash and chattels being gone,
We've nothing to depend upon.

Johnson was capable of tender romantic interludes, as shown in some lines addressed to a Polly Armstead, who played the frontier Laura to this Kentucky Petrarch:

The lilies pleasing to the sight,
May boast indeed their virgin white;
But Polly's breasts doth lovelier dawn,
Beneath their envious veil of lawn."

Some more suitable-for-mixed-company verses read:

To sing of Polly, lovely maid,
Requires no fabled muse's aid;
Her charms can inspiration give,
And make her poets numbers live.
Venus, thy throne of beauty yield;
Nor love dispute with her the field;
Thou ne'er had won the golden prize,
Had Paris viewed my Polly's eyes.
In vain the Goddess would compare,
With her for feature, shape and air;
In Pallas' self, alas! we find
But a weak emblem of her mind.
Observe the diamond's lucid blaze,
Darting forth its sparkling rays;
These shining charms could never vie
With charming Polly's brighter eye.
The crow who mounts on pinion high,
And seems to pierce the azure sky,
His sable plume, however rare,
Is white, compared with Polly's hair.

Unfortunately, Johnson's affections were not returned. In another poem, he refers to Armstead as the "dear tho' fatal cause of all my pain." One of his poems serves as a farewell to this lost love:

But kind heaven forbid that she should know
Pains like mine, or feel such scenes of woe;
Whate'er my fate may be, may bliss be thine,
And still be guarded by the powers Divine.

Johnson appears to have remained a childless bachelor.

Johnson's autobiographical poems have a genuine ring of melancholy, even self-disgust:

Love's the pain that I endure,
The sole disease you cannot cure;
I love, but am not lov'd again,
O curse of curses, cruel pain!
'Tis this deprives my soul of rest,
And fills with care my troubled breast.
To drive the fair one from my soul
I fly for refuge to the bowl.
O Whiskey dear, thy aid impart,
And cease my dying, bleeding heart.
'Tis done, thy fumes are in my brain,
And quite absorb all sense of pain;
But soon is quenched the pleasing flame,
And Pain and Grief their empire claim--
My spirits soon begin to sink,
I rise to take the other drink,
To shun the pangs of Grief and Pain,
And get completely drunk again.

He once wrote his own pessimistic epitaph:

Underneath this marble tomb,
In endless shades lies drunken Tom;
Here safely moor'd, dead as a log,
Who got his death by drinking grog.
By whiskey grog he lost his breath,
Who would not die so sweet a death.

There must have been something inherently lovable about Johnson. It is the only way to explain why his more insulting verses failed to get him killed. He was hardly immune to criticism, however. One of his victims attempted to give the Drunken Poet a dose of his own medicine by composing some unflattering lines:

Hail Danville! hail! where Johnson shines,
The hero of his blackguard rhymes;
Whose limber pen and polite brains,
Turns epic into dog'rel strains;
Who has ne'er plead true virtue's cause,
Where merit never met applause;
Each noble act by him consign'd,
To low burlesque and dirty rhymes;
Whose genius in the jingling skill
If chiefly drawn from whiskey stills.
If e'er a lady comes to town,
Johnson's the first to run her down.
Calls Presbyterians common evils,
And sends all Baptists to the Devil.
Church prayer-books only fit for slaves,
And Methodists all fools and knaves.
From man the Polecat sure must think,
Himself defended by his stink.

Johnson was so delighted by the tribute that he included it in the "Miscellany." He remained a famously controversial figure for some years. As late as 1834, an outraged reader wrote to the "Lexington Intelligencer" sputtering about how his "decency" had never been "more outraged" than when he encountered some of Johnson's "low doggerel." "Save us from the blackguardism, for the world is sufficiently demoralized."

Johnson would undoubtedly have been flattered by that characterization, as well.

The Drunken Poet of Danville died sometime around 1820. According to an early Kentucky historian, "his intemperance hurried him to a premature grave." His burial site has long been lost.

Sadly, due to the crude and unsettled nature of frontier life, few of his verses survive. What we have of his poetry comes mainly from "The Kentucky Miscellany," which first appeared in 1789. Although it was immensely popular at the time, going through four editions, only two copies are known to be extant, both of them from the final 1821 edition. (They can be found in Louisville's Filson Historical Society and the University of Chicago.) The "Miscellany" could be called the "Tamerlane and Other Poems" of off-color doggerel.

Crude though his verses may be, they are not only weirdly entertaining, but provide a portrait of the lively social history of the early frontier. It can only be hoped that one of the above institutions will digitize their copy of the "Miscellany," thus enabling internet users to discover the work of this forgotten figure in American literature.

Weekend Link Dump

This week's Link Dump is brought to you by the Disco Dancing Cat Mummies of Egypt.

What the hell are the Himalayan Towers?

Your weekly dose of Russian Weird:  What the hell is this?

Watch out for those bored drunken angry giant wasps!

Watch out for that bewitched butter!

Watch out for those cursed boots!

Watch out for those cursed roads!

Finding the Alien Apocalypse.

The life and times of an oddball 18th century doctor.

Freemasonry and the European nobility.

The great solar storm of 1859.

The 1970s summarized in one handy link.

A hotel specifically for children.

Archaeological discoveries that could have changed history...if they had only been genuine.

Just enough of me, way too much of you.

Don't paddle those Grecian Bends!

The ongoing debate over "No Irish Need Apply."

The ruins of magical Yester Castle.

A major archaeological find relating to Bronze Age Greece.

A dead pilot doesn't take kindly to being insulted.

The ghostly woman of a famed shipwreck.

Sarah Royce, pioneer woman.

The bizarre case of the molasses tsunami.

Irish fairies in America.

How hoaxes become history.

That time women took out permits to wear pants.

Bigfoot goes country!

A very strange UFO story.

More on the Club of Queer Trades.

The courage of the Waldensians.

Death in the early Tudor era.

An amazing ancient gold collar.

More evidence suggesting the Neanderthals weren't as Neanderthal as we think.

More stories of ancient telephones.  As if the ones we have now aren't curse enough.

Elongated skulls a go-go.

How WWI was launched on a sea of awful poetry.

Charming color photographs of 1920s-1930s Britain.

The life of the Ilkeston Giant.

The cat aristocrat who was kin to John Wilkes Booth.

How you were likely to die in 1743.

The poisoning of Edgar and Virginia Poe.

That time Brigham Young dissed Anthony Trollope.

The "girl parachute jumpers" of Paris.

A famous explorer's brush with the paranormal.

How to marry a ghost.

For what little it's worth, I'm one of those who suspects there very possibly was never a murder at all.

And, finally, proof that cats only want us for our money.



And my new favorite marching band!



And we're outta here for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll be talking drunken poets. In the meantime, here's Linda Ronstadt and Ann Savoy. I could listen to that entire album forever.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day

A few weeks back, I described the odd disappearance and death of a small child named Stephen McKerron. As I said in my post, I felt the case had many features similar to those missing persons cases covered in David Paulides' "Missing 411" books. These newspaper stories from Wales chronicle another tragedy involving a missing boy that I believe falls into the same eerie, inexplicable pattern. As far as I can tell, it is not covered in any of Paulides' books.

The "Evening Express," August 10, 1900:

The visit of William Jones, of 9 James-street, Hardy, Pontypridd, to the town of Brecon was accompanied by a tragedy which threatens to embitter the lives of himself and his wife. 

On Saturday evening Jones walked from Brecon to one military camp at the foot of the Beacons. He was accompanied by his son, a bright little fellow five years of age, named Thomas. With his blue eyes and bright brown hair Tommy looked the picture of roguish activity as he trotted by his father's side, dressed in a greyish suit, with jockey cap and collarette. 

At the camp little Tom and his father met Tom's grandfather, who resides in the neighbourhood, and a cousin aged thirteen years, named W. J. Jones. The two boys were soon engaged in youthful pastimes, and the younger lad agreed to accompany his cousin to a place called Cwmllwch. Away they started, but after, it is said, crossing two bridges, and when they were half-way to the house, little Tom changed his mind. He would go no farther. He wanted his father. The boys separated. The boy of thirteen went on alone to the house. The little boy of five mysteriously disappeared, and up to a late hour on Thursday night no trace of him had been found. 

After the elder lad had visited the house, he returned to the spot where he had left his younger comrade. Finding he was gone, the cousin hurried to the camp, and gave the alarm. A military search party was kindly and promptly ordered out by Major Lloyd. 

The troops in camp were quickly on the alert. They carried lights, and used every device known to old campaigners to discover the lost lad. Until the midnight hour the eager soldiers explored every spot that could suggest itself, and the first faint light of dawn found them agarn searching for some trace of the lost lad. Every day, and almost every hour since the search has been continued, but the mystery is so deep that it would seem to need either the skill of a Baden-Powell or the genius of a Sherlock Holmes to ascertain whether there has been any foul play. The part of the Beacons where the lad disappeared abounds with gullies, over which undergrowths of trees and shrubs have grown thickly, and a body might be concealed for months if no unpleasant sign became apparent. The father is well-nigh distracted and a fresh element of pathos has been added to the tragedy by the arrival of the sorrow-stricken mother. The mysterious occurrence forms the leading topic of conversation at the Beacons, in the barracks, and throughout the neighbourhood of Brecon.

"Evening Express," August 29, 1900:

The interest in the boy lost three weeks ago on the Breconshire Beacons had dwindled down almost to vanishing point, but a new impetus has been given to the boy-hunt. On Tuesday night a special correspondent of the Daily Mail arrived in Brecon, with instructions to engage again in the search. He renewed the offer of £20 for anyone finding the boy alive or dead. 

The theory that the poor little lad had wandered away and failed to return to the camp alone is no longer to be acted upon. The advice of detectives whose opinions have been secured has led those engaged in the search to believe that the child has been deliberately kidnapped. In pursuance of this theory the search will be conducted over a far wider area than before, and the hunt will be conducted so thoroughly and systematically that it is hoped the interest of the public will be secured in the quest. This will result in placing thousands of amateur but earnest detectives on the lookout for strangers who have a child, apparently, not their own, bearing a suspicious resemblance to little Tommy Jones, of Mardy. 

There are two facts which have an important bearing on the kidnapping theory. The father recently stated in one of his final interviews with a pressman that his little boy had suffered from an injury to his leg or foot. As a result of this he would not run, but could walk fast. In any case, therefore, a five-year-old boy could not have had in twenty minutes a mile start of the soldiers who were searching for him. A second fact is that the father pointed out the print of his child's foot on the ground about 50 yards from the bridges over the brooks. He said that was the only print he could see of his child's foot. There were no other footprints before or beyond that spot. This fact might suggest that the child was carried by a person who placed him on the ground, so as to gain a minute's rest. To the despairing father and mother the kidnapping idea will be a ray of hope. It must be some comfort to know that men who have given their lives to criminal investigation believe in tie possibility of the little wanderer being yet restored to his loved ones. May that hope be justified by experience!

Sadly, as in the case of Stephen McKerron, those hopes were eventually dashed.  From the "County Observer," September 8, 1900:

The Brecon mystery has at last been solved. The body of the lost child Tommy Jones was found high up on the Beacons on Sunday afternoon by Mr. Abraham Hamer, a gardener, of Castle Madoc, Lower Chapel. Mrs. Hamer read the accounts of the missing boy on Friday of last week, and felt that she could not rest without making some effort to find him; she dreamed of Tommy Jones by night and thought of him all day. 

So on Sunday morning she and her husband drove 10 miles to the bottom of the Beacons and climbed the steep sides, nearly 3000 ft. above the sea level. Hundreds of people have searched the same ground during the past month, and only three days ago the father of the boy walked within 20 yards of it. As they walked, at two o'clock they suddenly lightened on a little stretched out figure in front of them.   

"Here he is," the man shouted, and his wife began to cry. Leaving Mrs. Hamer near by, the man quickly drove into Brecon, and soon Sergeant Hand, Constable Harwood, and a representative of the Daily Mail were on the spot. 

It was a pathetic little figure that lay on the mountain top face downwards, hands stretched out, and head towards home. The pocket was turned out as though the last crumb had been taken from it, and the soles of the boots showed that he had walked far. 

Evidently on the Saturday night when he was lost the boy made for the left in place of the camp to the right. Then he went down the hill and round, steadily leftwards. Going some way towards  Merthyr he would gradually get on the Mountain Ash road. Probably he recognised the peak of the Beacons and made for it. Had he walked a dozen steps further he would have seen the glen lying below with the home of his aunts. But from where he stood he could see nothing all around but the desolate hills. Not a house was in sight in all the miles of country. To the back, line upon line of black mountain ash stretched out; a few hundred yards to his right stood the grim peak of the Beacons; in front was nothing but sky. And so he fell, his hands clenched and his arms above his head. 

A crowd quickly gathered, even in that solitary spot. The father tore up the mountain side, rushing along the almost perpendicular heights as though they had been level ground. "Tommy back, Tommy back my poor little lad," he murmured. Then for the first time in all these weeks he broke down, and tears saved his reason. One man fainted at the sight. 

The condition of the ground clearly showed that the body had lain on that mountain side for a very long time. The child's hat lay within two feet of where he lay. 

On Saturday a large detachment of the Breconshire Regiment, under the command of Captain C. Wadsworth, marched up to the Shire Hall early in the morning, and from there set out for the River Tarell. When the soldiers came to parts of the riverside so steep that they could not be properly examined from the banks, Captain Wadsworth, followed by his men, plunged up to the middle in the swift current and waded through the water. This had to be done repeatedly. At the same time the police and a number of civilians helpers were hunting in the direction of Mynydd Illtyd. Spreading out they first thoroughly explored an enormous wood a little over two miles from where the child was lost. When they had penetrated the wood the searchers turned to a stretch of bracken-covered mountainside many miles in extent. The hunters formed a line about half a mile in extent, and marched forward beating the land as though for game. They came to bogs where, the old mountain guides said, men sank completely so soon as they floundered in them. These bogs were probed, but yielded nothing. They walked warily around old slate quarries where a chance wanderer could easily fall and be killed everywhere were death-trap spots where a straying child must have been killed. The body has been missing since August 4--a month all but a day.

The spot where the body was discovered was over two miles from where Tommy had last been seen, and some 1300 feet higher.  No one could explain how this little boy--who was suffering from a leg injury, no less--had traveled such a long distance over difficult mountain terrain.  Another oddity is that Tommy was wearing a whistle around his neck when he vanished.  (It was still on his body.)  Why didn't he use it to summon help?

As in the case of Stephen McKerron, the coroner's inquest ruled that Tommy died of "exhaustion and exposure." The little boy's sad, strange death lingered in the collective memory of his community for many years.

Money was raised to build a memorial to Tommy Jones on the site where he was found. It still stands there today.