Newspaper Clipping of the Day

That headline pretty much says it all, but here's the rest of the story, as reported in the "New York Times" for July 28, 1856:

On Saturday night last, a man who resided in Twenty-ninth-street was killed in a most singular manner. The following are the peculiar circumstances, as far as our reporter has been able to learn them--for, in consequence of the opinion entertained concerning his relatives by the deceased, who was a man of considerable wealth and respectability, they have made great effort to keep the particulars from the public ear. It appears that nearly a year ago the deceased, who was fifty-three years of age, became strongly impressed with an idea that, when he should die, the parsimonious disposition of his relatives would lead them to put him in a cheap coffin, while he had a strong desire to be buried in one of polished rosewood, lined with white satin and trimmed with silver. Soon after this strange idea got possession of his mind, he discovered an elegant coffin in one of the principal warehouses, which suited him. He purchased it for $75; had it sent to his residence at nightfall, and stowed it away in a small closet adjoining his bed-room, where it remained until the time of the accident. How it occurred is not known to a certainty, for the first intimation the family had of the lamentable occurrence was from a servant, who, on going to call him to breakfast, found the door wide open and the deceased lying upon the floor, dead, with his coffin at his side. She screamed, which soon brought the family, and on raising the body the skull was found crushed in upon the brain. He was discovered about 8 o'clock yesterday morning, when, to all appearance, he had been dead several hours. On examining the closet, a bottle containing a quantity of sherry wine was found, and as Saturday night was excessively warm, he is supposed to have gone to the closet in order to procure the wine to use with some ice-water he had on a small table by his bedside. It is thought that he must have sought for it in the dark, and by some mistake upset the coffin, which stood nearly upright. Becoming sensible that it was falling, he probably made an effort to get away, when he fell, and the outer end struck his head with sufficient force to fracture his skull and cause almost immediate death. The inquest will be held with all possible secrecy. The unfortunate impression of the deceased concerning his relatives is a sufficient reason for withholding the names of the parties.

This story, of course, leaves one question lingering in all our minds, namely, "Was he buried in his killer coffin?"  This detail is lost to history, but I assume that was the case.

I'm sure the unnamed gentleman would not have wanted it any other way.

Murder by Telegram; or, The Mystery of the Foul Fowl

Hubert Chevis

In June of 1931, the life of 28-year-old army lieutenant Herbert "Hugh" Chevis looked pretty darn good. He was happily married, prosperous, and well-liked by everyone who knew him. He had no known enemies or any notable personal difficulties.  His life seemed almost disarmingly fortunate.

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you're already guessing that this state of affairs did not last long.

Lieutenant Chevis was living in a bungalow at Blackdown Camp, near Aldershot, England. His wife of six months, a wealthy and glamorous woman named Frances Rollason, still had a flat in London, where her three children from a previous marriage lived, but she often joined him in his military quarters. On June 20, the Chevises ordered two partridges from a local poulterer. When they arrived at the bungalow, their cook, Ellen Yeomans, placed them in a meat-safe outside the building, where they remained until it was time to prepare them for the evening meal.

At the dinner table, Chevis was given the larger of the two partridges. (Mrs. Chevis did not care for partridge; she only served it because it was a favorite of her husband's.)  When he began to eat, he announced that the bird tasted horrible. Mrs. Chevis gingerly tasted a piece from his plate, and agreed that it "left a filthy taste." She thought her own partridge tasted merely "fusty." Chevis ordered his batman to remove the partridges and have them destroyed, to ensure that their dog would not get at them.  Mrs. Yeomans obediently put the remains of the birds into the kitchen fire.  This was destruction of what would later have been extremely valuable evidence.

Not long after sampling this peculiarly distasteful dinner, Chevis became extremely ill, and soon fell into frightful convulsions. The lieutenant was rushed to the hospital, but little could be done for him. After a night of dreadful suffering, Chevis died early the next morning. Mrs. Chevis also became sick, but recovered. Tests showed that the lieutenant died of strychnine poisoning.

Although the partridges had already been disposed of by the time Chevis was hospitalized, strychnine was found in the remains of the juice in which the birds had been cooked. A Home Office analyst calculated that for so small an amount of meat to kill Chevis, the birds must have been heavily impregnated with the poison. The presumption was that someone managed to sneak over to the meat-safe--it was never made clear if it was kept locked or not--and injected the partridges with a concentrated solution of strychnine. (All the other birds sold by the poulterer were examined, and found to be completely normal.)

Not only was no convincing motive for the poisoning ever found, the identity of the killer remains an utter mystery. It must have been someone close enough to Chevis to be familiar with the layout of the bungalow and the location of the meat-safe--but who? Further complicating the mystery is the fact that the safe was surrounded by neighboring bungalows, and the back yard was guarded by Chevis' dog, who was known to bark at strangers. Any outsider trying to sneak into the yard was running an enormous risk of being caught.

What made this already unsettling case uniquely creepy were the messages sent after the crime. On the day Herbert Chevis was buried, his father, Sir William Chevis, received a telegram from Dublin. All it contained were the words, "Hooray. Hooray. Hooray." Sir William's address was not listed in any directory and his name had yet to be mentioned in newspaper reports about the death, which suggested that the writer was someone who knew the family, rather than some random crank. All the police could learn about this sinister message was that it had been written by someone who signed his name as "J. Hartigan," giving as an address the Hibernian Hotel. Investigation showed that no one by the name of "Hartigan" had been staying at the Hibernian. No one associated with Chevis knew anyone by the name of "Hartigan," and the dead man had no known connection with Ireland. Some newspaper reports indicated that a man who bought strychnine in Dublin a few days before Chevis' death matched the description of the man who sent the "Hooray" telegram, but even if this was true, it did not help in determining his identity.

The police interviewed dozens of witnesses and potential suspects, including Frances Chevis and her ex-husband, but everyone questioned had either unassailable alibis or no discernible motive, or, most frequently, both.  Desperate to solve the mystery, it was even suggested that the poisoning was accidental.  Perhaps Chevis' partridge had, while still alive, ingested some poison that killed both the bird and the man who later ate it?  That theory, although still vaguely tossed around by crime historians, is so unlikely that it is difficult to take it seriously.  The poisoning almost had to have been an "inside job"--that is to say, someone in the household--but then, who sent the telegram from Ireland? Or did "J. Hartigan" have nothing to do with the poisoning? Could he have simply been someone with a personal grudge against the Chevis family who decided to cruelly gloat over the tragedy?

The "Hartigan" telegram

After a local paper, the "Daily Sketch," published a photograph of the telegram, the editor received a postcard. It read, "Why did you publish the picture of the 'Hooray' telegram?" It was signed, "J. Hartigan." (However, some students of this case believe that this message was a hoax, written by someone other than the original "Hartigan.")

Soon afterwards, Sir William Chevis also received a postcard signed "J. Hartigan." It had been mailed from Belfast, but it is uncertain whether this was really from the sender of the Ireland telegram. All the card said was, "It is a mystery they will never solve. Hooray."

Unfortunately, the sender was quite right.

Weekend Link Dump

Knock knock!

Who's there?

Yeah, well, you know the rest.

On to this week in The Weird:

What the hell are the Tjipetir blocks?  Now we...maybe know?

What the hell are the Roman dodecahedra?

What the hell is Siberia's Whale Bone Alley?

What the hell are poltergeists?

What the hell was the Dorchester Pot?

Who the hell was King Tut?

Where the hell is Parker R. Mason's boulder?

Watch out for the Black Mountain of Queensland!

Watch out for the Aztec Death Whistle!

Watch out for a Tony Blair Christmas!

Russia is really sinking!

The United Kingdom is really booming!

A close-up look at Saharan rock art.

The ghost who sought justice for her own murder.

What the well-dressed Norwegian Iron Age person was wearing.

A Titanic anecdote showing how you should always heed your premonitions.

Mary Rose Renfrew, who really could be in two places at once.

Everyone give this ghost a hand!

18th century French mourning rules.

Photos of Christmas shopping in New York a century ago.

This isn't your parents' Stonehenge.  Literally.

Peter Stuyvesant's rules for responsible drinking.

The dogs of war.

Broadway's last cow.

17th century Cries of London.

Dealing with WWI shell-shock.

19th century attacks on a village witch.

The French Revolution and the phantasmagoria.

The half-million-year-old artwork.

Mhorag, the Loch Ness Monster's overlooked sibling.

A roundup of Weird Beard Facts.

The hazards of 18th century travel.

This shouldn't be surprising, but space travel does some out-of-this-world things to the human mind.

The eerie world of deep sea treasure hunting.

The long history of fretting and whining about alcohol.

A French Thanksgiving feast.

Two really freaking big rocks.

Early photographs of the amazing rock city Petra.

The death of the Marquis de Sade.

Calculating the market worth of a Georgian wife.

Stalin's Domino Effect: How the assassination of one Communist Party official set off a long chain of death and misery.

Mrs. Guppy, the Seance Snow Queen.

When buildings become ghosts: a look at England's long-abandoned mansions.

Two long-forgotten British holidays.

The life of Eleanor of Castile.

The sad tale of the "real Lolita."

Two women duel with sand-filled socks,1902.

All I say is, you gotta love the Daily Mail.

Eritha the Priestess takes 'em all to court.

Hippasus of Metapontum, who was murdered over math.  I often had the same urge during my junior high school Algebra classes.

That's it for this week! I'll be back on Monday, with a lesson in the danger of eating partridges. Particularly if poison is included in the recipe. In the meantime, today happens to be my birthday, so I'll be offline most of the day.





Here's Warren Zevon to get this party started off right.  This song never fails to touch my sentimental old heart.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Yet another case of Mystery Fires, as reported in the "Pittsburgh Press," August 20, 1948:

Macomb, Ill., Aug. 20--There wasn't much left for the "mystery fires" to destroy on Charlie Willey's farm today.

The "ghost flames" destroyed the second barn last night. Mr. Willey now has lost his five-room frame cottage and two barns to the fires, which seem to come from nowhere.

Mrs. Willey said she and her husband were sitting in their yard, next to the charred ruins of their home at 6 pm when the blaze broke out.

"I just looked up and the barn had burst into flames," she said. "We just stood and watched. There was no chance to save it."

The barn, which contained hay, burned in 26 minutes, Mrs. Willey said. Fireman were too late to save it.

"You wouldn't have been able to save it if you had been right there with the fire hose," James Peak, a passerby, told Macomb firemen.

The Willeys also reported an outbreak of small fires in their milkhouse. They have lived in a makeshift tent since their house burned last Saturday, and use the milkhouse as a dining room.

Mrs. Willey said that she opened the door to the milkhouse yesterday morning and noticed smoke. She put out a small blaze in shelf paper in a cupboard.

Like the other fires which have plagued the Willeys for two weeks, yesterday's blazes seemed spontaneous.

Just six buildings--three chicken brooders, a chicken house, a smokehouse and granary--remain on the Willey farm, about twelve miles south of here.

The blazes began two weeks ago, when the Willeys first noticed brown spots on their wallpaper. The spots spread and then burst into flame.

The Willeys doused the fires but more appeared--200 in a week.

Finally the Willeys moved out of their home. Saturday the house burned and the next day their first barn went up in flames.

Mr. Willey said the wallpaper couldn't be blamed since he had torn it off the walls and the barns weren't papered. It couldn't be defective wiring because the house was not electrified.

The family was virtually isolated by the fires today. In order to talk with them by telephone--which was moved to the granary--it was necessary to have the operator relay the messages.

Mrs. Willey said the family still wasn't frightened by the fires.

"There must be some natural explanation for them," she said. "And we're not going to let them lick us. We're still going to rebuild on the foundation of our old home."

Soon afterward, a "natural explanation" was indeed offered for the fires. Newspapers reported that Willey's 12-year-old niece, Wonet (or Wanet) McNeil, admitted to having set all the blazes. She had been living at the farm with her father, Mrs. Willey's brother Harold McNeil, ever since her parents divorced. Wonet said she had recently visited her mother in Bloomington, Illinois, and "didn't want to go back to the farm." She said she had set all the fires using nothing more than matches.

There were doubts expressed about this oh-so-tidy solution. Her aunt Lou Willey commented that Wonet must have been "awful slick" to set all those fires--over two hundred of them--without anyone spotting her. How could she have used only matches to set off these baffling, incredibly intense blazes? (No trace of flammable liquids were found at any of the fires.)  How to explain that many of the fires had started when Wonet was nowhere in sight? Mrs. Willey insisted that her niece was an amiable, obedient girl who had seemed happy with them.

There were suspicions that the Deputy State Fire Marshal, John Burgard, had "trapped" the child into admitting guilt, allowing him to quickly wrap up an increasingly frustrating crime.  When he first accused her of being the arsonist, she denied it. When Burgard continued to insist that she must be the culprit, she burst into tears and refused to talk. It was not until she was interrogated--alone--by Burgard and the District Attorney that she broke down and "confessed."

In the end, however, everyone had no choice but to accept this as the solution to the mystery. Whether it was an entirely credible one is, of course, a matter of personal opinion. Custody of the girl was given to her maternal grandmother, Mrs. John Johnson, and the Willeys disappeared from the headlines.

The Case of the "Spirit Baby"

Throughout recorded history, there have been "spiritualists" who do seem to possess some sort of genuine wild talents. Others are well-meaning, but deluded types. Many are nothing but cynical crooks. And, unfortunately, you occasionally find one who was downright evil. One particularly poignant case of spiritual betrayal played out in American newspapers in the early 20th century.

A young couple named William and Ada Robbins lived on a rented farm near Dysart, Iowa with their three-year-old son Harold. They were a prosperous and happy couple, but Mrs. Robbins longed for a daughter to make their family complete. On October 1, 1919, her dearest wish was granted when she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Vivian Constance. Tragically, the baby lived for just five hours.

Ada was devastated, and seemed utterly unable to deal with her loss. She became so morbidly obsessed with mourning the child she had known so very briefly, that her husband and friends feared for her sanity, and even her life. Always a deeply religious woman, Mrs. Robbins became fixated on the Biblical story of Elisha, who raised the Shunammite's son from the dead. In her fixation on death, she seemed ready to give up on the world of the living.

Then one day, James Wheeler, a hired hand on the Robbins farm, told William that his wife Sylvia was a talented spiritualist. Perhaps she could help Ada deal with her tragedy.

By this point, Mr. Robbins was so concerned about his wife's mental health that he was ready to try anything. He agreed that Mrs. Wheeler should be summoned. What harm could it do? he told himself.

When the "medium" arrived at the farm, she immediately told Mrs. Robbins that she was in constant communication with the dead baby's spirit. Ada was transfixed by the news, and desperately peppered Mrs. Wheeler with questions. "What did the baby look like? How was she being treated? Did she miss her mother?" The "medium" responded with vague, but highly soothing answers, and assured the young woman that she, too, could be taught to make contact with her lost daughter.

From that day on, Ada Robbins put herself completely under Mrs. Wheeler's control. She gave the medium her complete trust and obedience. Mrs. Wheeler took the Robbinses to Chicago, where they heard the prominent spiritualist Sir Oliver Lodge lecture on life after death. This experience turned Ada into an utter, unwavering believer in the spirit world--particularly the spirit world as shown by Mrs. Wheeler. William Robbins was a bit more skeptical, but he was so relieved by his wife's newfound hope and energy that he kept his doubts to himself.

Ada continued to read and re-read the story of Elisha. Eventually, she worked up the courage to mention it to Mrs. Wheeler. Was there any reason, she asked longingly, why such a miracle could not happen to her? Could her baby be brought back from the grave?

Mrs. Wheeler smiled and replied that it was quite possible indeed. She reminded Ada that Christ had empowered the disciples to heal the sick and raise the dead. With enough faith, Mrs. Wheeler assured her, there was no reason anyone might gain the same powers. "The trouble with people nowadays," she sighed, "is that they have no faith." When Ada hesitatingly pointed out that her child had been dead and buried for months, Mrs. Wheeler scolded her. This just showed that Ada did not "believe" sufficiently.

Mrs. Wheeler set out to train her to "believe." Under the medium's tutelage, Mrs. Robbins devoted herself to a life of fasting and prayer that would have done the most rigorous ascetic proud, all in the name of strengthening her "faith." She was encouraged by Mrs. Wheeler's assurances that her baby's guardian angels were pleased by her efforts.

As they neared the first anniversary of little Vivian's death, Mrs. Wheeler began hinting that the "guardian spirits" thought Ada was nearly ready to have her wishes granted. Finally, one day, after coming out of a "trance," she told the ecstatic young woman that the spirits promised to bring her baby back from the grave. However, she could not yet say when and how this revival would take place.

Mrs. Wheeler then announced that she must go to Chicago. Communications were better there, she explained. After her arrival in the Windy City, she wrote Ada letters saying that she was spending all her time in a trance, preparing for the great moment when baby Vivian would rematerialize. "My spirit has been suspended for six days and I believe I am fit for this supreme materialization. My body is turning green and the spirits tell me that this greatest of miracles will soon come to pass."

When she returned to Iowa, it was with the news that June 14 was the day chosen for this resurrection. An adult spirit would accompany the child on her journey back to earth. On the morning of the great day, Ada, as Mrs. Wheeler instructed, filled their cottage with fresh flowers to welcome their ethereal visitors. The medium also directed everyone in the house to wear white robes and to leave the door of the kitchen ajar. She added that they were absolutely forbidden to tell anyone else of what was to take place.

William Robbins was becoming increasingly uneasy of what his family had gotten into, but by this point he had no idea how to get back out. He flatly refused to wear his white robe, and refused to wait up that night for the expected miracle. He went off to bed around 9 p.m., probably muttering some very unspiritual words under his breath.

Ada sat up alone in the quiet darkness. The anticipation so unnerved her that she finally became frightened and went up to bed herself. But she could not sleep. Around ten, she began to hear strange noises.

Someone was in the house!

The trembling young woman saw a shadowy human figure enter the bedroom. It was carrying something in its arms--a baby! The figure placed the child in her arms, whispering, "This is a gift to thee from the Father." The strange being then slid to the doorway, and quietly disappeared.

As Mrs. Wheeler had told her to do, Ada sat quietly holding the baby for fifteen minutes after the figure had left. Then she excitedly awakened her husband.

William Robbins was flabbergasted by what he saw. He examined the baby carefully. She certainly looked exactly like the dead Vivian...He didn't know what to believe.

Ada, of course, knew exactly what had happened. It was a miracle! Thanks to Mrs. Wheeler, God had answered her prayer and brought her child back to life!

Word quickly spread about the arrival of the "spirit baby." Unsurprisingly, it earned the Robbins family a good deal of attention. People came from miles away to see the child. Newspaper reporters besieged the farm. They became an instant tourist attraction.

When Mrs. Wheeler returned from Chicago a few days later, she announced her severe displeasure with all the fuss, and demanded that the public be banned from the household. "There are spiritual powers who are angry at the child's return to life," she solemnly told Mrs. Robbins. "They will lose no opportunity to snatch it back, and if enough human beings touch it the baby will dissolve again into ether." However, this prohibition did not stop Mrs. Wheeler from taking advantage of the publicity. She and her husband set up a big tent outside the Robbins farm, where they conducted revival meetings. The most prominent feature of these spiritual gatherings was the frequent passing of the contribution plate.

Mrs. Wheeler's domination over Ada became even more complete--and more demanding--than before. The "medium" moved her entire family, as well as two friends, into the Robbins home--getting free room and board, of course. She then had another message from the "spirits." The Robbins family, she announced, must immediately move to California. If these orders were not followed, she said ominously, the baby would dissolve back into the spirit realm, for good. The Wheelers, of course, would accompany them. Mrs. Wheeler planned to utilize the publicity surrounding the "spirit baby" to start a "spiritualist community" in the Golden State.

By this point, William Robbins had had about enough of the Wheelers and their troublesome entourage of spirits, but he gave in when his wife pleaded with him not to risk losing their child a second time. He sold their farm equipment, bought two automobiles, and the strange crew headed West. The Robbinses paid all the expenses.

By the time they arrived in Redondo Beach, California, Mr. Robbins had learned certain things which he felt more than justified his suspicions of the Wheelers. For one thing, a Chicago "medium" his wife had consulted, and who had encouraged Ada's hopes of resurrecting her baby, was a close friend of Mrs. Wheeler's. There were rumors that a female infant disappeared from a Chicago orphanage right before the arrival of the "spirit baby." And a train had arrived in Dysart from Chicago right before little Vivian II's "resurrection."

William Robbins may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but he was quite capable of adding two and two together.

Ada Robbins, however, stubbornly, desperately clung to her trust in the medium. However, even her faith began to waver when she saw Mrs. Wheeler go into a shop and purchase a bunch of cheap necklaces. "I am expected to materialize sixteen gifts at a seance this evening," the medium explained. "The strain is too great, and so I am going to use these." After this, Mrs. Robbins saw her mentor habitually "materialize" numerous other items that she knew had come from the corner drug store, rather than the spirit world. At long last, Ada came to the depressing realization that her "miracle" was nothing more than an incredibly audacious fraud. The Robbinses booted the Wheeler menage out of their lives, and headed back to Iowa, in a mood proverbially known as "sadder but wiser." In March 1922 the couple successfully sued the Wheelers for the car they had bought for the medium's family, as well as other expenses. However, Mrs. Robbins was too frightened to enforce the court's judgment. She feared that if she angered Mrs. Wheeler too much, the medium might "dematerialze" the baby.

Sometimes, our most unreasonable beliefs are the hardest to overcome.

There are many things one would like to see done to anyone who takes deliberate advantage of a mother's grief--public horsewhipping at the very least--but Sylvia Wheeler appears to have gotten away with her hoax scot-free. Which just goes to show what a rare commodity justice is in this world.

The newspapers of time reported that William and Ada hoped to learn for certain the true identity of their "spirit baby," although by this point they had become so attached to the child that they did not want to give her up. (It is unknown to me why the police did not solve the mystery by simply hauling the Wheelers into the nearest station and grilling them like a cheese sandwich.)

I cannot find any evidence they ever did discover the girl's true parentage. Perhaps they really did not want to know. The last reports I can find of the family came from May 1924, when various newspapers revealed that Ada had saved "her 4-year-old daughter, Vivian," from death or serious injury. Apparently the child had climbed up a 50-foot ladder on a windmill. She was within only a few feet of the blades when Mrs. Robbins saw her and frantically rescued the child.

Compounding the sadness of this peculiar story is the fact that Ada Robbins died in March 1926, aged less than thirty. I do not know what became of Mr. Robbins and their children after that, but hopefully they were able to rebuild their lives from the havoc wrought by the Wheelers.

Weekend Link Dump

It's Friday!  Time to relax!

Just ask the cats.

Welcome to this week's Festival of the Links:

Where the hell is the Amber Room?

Where the hell is Tom the Cat?

What the hell is this Siberian palace?

Who the hell were the Green Children of Woolpit?

Watch out for Tek-Tek!

Watch out for trigger-happy aliens!

Watch out for the Unlucky Mummy!

America is really booming!

The adventures of "Manchester's Sherlock Holmes."

"Log Ness Monster" doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?

An insurance scammer comes to a bad end.

So, Alabama has a swamp full of murdered dolls.

Yes, I can imagine summoning a demon as my character witness.

More speculations about the Bog Bodies.

Paganini's wandering corpse.

A cure for the plague that seems pretty damn unfair to the pigeons.

An Englishman explores the Arctic in the early 20th century.

More on the Mystery of the Missing Thunderbird.

Now, here's a useful-sounding book:  Ancient Egyptian spells.

Jesus in Japan?!

Early 20th century Canadian witchcraft.

Exploring a Greek "underwater Pompeii."

An escaped slave in ancient Egypt.

How a Georgian writer described Thanksgiving.

The weird--and very damaging--underground world of selling ancient texts.

Fifty Shades of Rome.

The life of a Roman Empress.

Oliver Cromwell's peripatetic head.

A mystery in the archives: Who stole the papers of Felix Frankfurter from the Library of Congress, and why?

Remembering the bravery of a Scottish sea captain.

Mystery Fires in Nigeria.

The importance of Divine PR.

A beautiful sailor's valentine.

A desert full of ships.

Haydn's musical tribute to a dog.

Do we dream of past lives?

The sad case of the Tempting Trousers.

Was Vincent Van Gogh murdered?

Was John Hedley the luckiest man of WWI?  Or just the most imaginative?

The arguments over Jesus' marital status continue.

How New York became Gotham.

Beyond Mrs. Claus:  Christmas' forgotten females.

The Eiffel Tower's secret apartment.

The tale of Davy Crockett's coonskin cap.

Nobody can hope to know the true meaning of the word "weird" until you've heard North Korean pop music. Trust me on this one.

A look at Iceland circa 1900.

Marie de Guise:  More than just the mother of Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth Linley:  More than just Richard Sheridan's wife.

How a saint, a murdered spy, and the Holy Grail all converged in one obscure English village church.

The 18th century, when you could make a living as a door-to-door guinea pig salesman.

That's it! See you on Monday, when I'll be looking at the strange case of a baby who came back from the dead. In the meantime, here's some Tennessee Ernie. Because, damn it, I love this song.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, Thanksgiving Edition

I like Thanksgiving. Any holiday that revolves around huge amounts of food and drink is aces with me.

But fear not, even such a benign celebration has attracted its share of disaster, and I'm just the person to chronicle it all. Think of this post as a feast, Strange Company style: a hearty helping of murder, with generous side dishes of violence and misery, with a slice of The Weird for dessert.

The rest, of course, is gravy.

For instance, the "Milwaukee Journal" for November 29, 1935 told of a man who provided his dinner companions with unexpected entertainment with their meal:

While Ernest Mahr, 20, of 539 W. Juneau Av. was eating his Thanksgiving dinner Thursday police walked in and arrested him on a charge of automobile larceny, second offense. Friday he was arraigned in the district court and bound over to the municipal court for trial.

Auto theft is bad enough, but the holiday programs can be pure murder. From the "Miami News," November 28, 1929:

Carrier Mills, Ill., Nov. 28--Grief and unhappiness supplanted the spirit of the holiday in Carrier Mills today--the aftermath of an argument over when to hold a school Thanksgiving program.

Leslie Lightfoot, 33, school district director and teacher, was dead and Dwight Organ, 26, teacher, was held in the Saline county jail at Harrisburg, charged with slaying Lightfoot.

Lightfoot and two other directors of the school district decided the Thanksgiving program should be given Friday evening. Mrs. Lightfoot was asked to convey this decision to Organ.

Organ discredited the message from Lightfoot and called a meeting of the school district directors in a cafe Tuesday night. At the meeting, Lightfoot is said to have asked Organ why he questioned the message; an argument followed, in which Lightfoot, witnesses said, struck Organ, who in turn drew a revolver and fired twice into Lightfoot's body.

Yes, let that one sink in for a moment. These were two schoolteachers.

This next one, from the November 29, 1913 "Cambridge Chronicle," is an unusual example of family holiday cheer:

A regular "Carrie Nation," in the person of Mrs. Anna B. Glynn, of 40 School street, visited the drug store of John H. Fitzgerald, 695 Main street, Thanksgiving morning, at about 10 o'clock, and paid her respects by hurling a flatiron through one large window and a brick through the other. Then she submitted to arrest by Patrolman "Tony" Diehl. Her husband, Thomas J. Glynn, was later arrested on the charge of drunkenness. In court yesterday, Glynn was released, but his wife was held for a hearing December 5th, on the charge of breaking glass. The police took four children of the couple to the city home, where they remained until yesterday afternoon, when Mrs. Glynn called for them. According to the police, the explanation the woman gave for her act was her claim that Mr. Glynn had been sold liquor at the drug store.

This next pair may give even Mrs. Anna B. Glynn a run for her money. From the "Los Angeles Herald," November 30, 1909:

Albuquerque, N.M., Nov. 18--News of a Thanksgiving day duel at Fairview, N.M., in which both participants were killed, has just reached here.

James B. Taylor, well known cattle man and foreman of the United States Treasury mint in Sierra county, and C.A. Futch, cattleman, had been enemies ever since the latter's wedding a year ago to which he failed to invite the wife of Taylor. The men had quarreled frequently over this slight, and Thanksgiving day drew their revolvers upon meeting again and opened battle. Each was wounded twice and both died almost instantly. Fairview is eighty miles from a railroad.

So far, we've learned that some people just shouldn't put on holiday programs, act as sobriety coach, or throw weddings. Add cooking dinner to the list. "The Times News" for November 28, 1992 reported that a Walter Lee Parker, of Raleigh, North Carolina was charged with assault with a deadly weapon for stabbing his nephew during an argument about trimmings for the Thanksgiving dinner.  (The nephew was not seriously injured.)

More family cheer, this time from the "San Francisco Call," November 28, 1913:

Too much turkey and Thanksgiving cheer made a bad day yesterday for the Falkenburgs. On their way to their home at 624 Girard street, after dinner with friends. Mr. and Mrs. L. Falkenburg and their son. Edward Falkenburg, started arguing, and 15 minutes later the son was in the Mission emergency hospital with scalp wounds.

After treatment his parents went with him when to the home of their other son, William Falkenburg, 810 Hampshire street. Another argument started, during which the mother stabbed William with a hatpin. After police were called the sons decided their parents should not be arrested.

Here is one of the less satisfying Thanksgiving feasts on record, but you can't deny this guy was easy to cook for. From the "Spokane Press," November 27, 1907:

CHICAGO, Nov. 27—Of all the queer menus that will be served Thanksgiving day, the queerest is probably that of Dr. Thos. J. Allen of Aurora, Ill. Dr. Allen is the scientist who has asserted and is attempting to demonstrate that he can sustain life for 60 days on a diet composed almost wholly of peanuts. Thanksgiving day will he the forty-second of his peanut roasting. The doctor asserts that he feels much better than he did before he began to diet: that he has lost a little flesh, but has gained in nervous ability and "tone." Friends of his declare, however, that he is shaky and weak, and that his hand is cold to the touch.

The Thanksgiving dinner he will eat is as follows:

SPANISH PEANUTS WITH A PINCH OF SALT.
VIRGINIA PEANUTS IN THE SHELL.
WATER.

At the other meals of the day he will vary this diet with a glass of lemonade. He eats three-quarters of a pound of goobers daily.

The Thanksgiving dinner will be served at one of the best hotels, and the doctor will have several guests at his table who will partake of the same diet. He will lecture to the guests on the food value of the nut.

"l want it understood." Dr. Allen said, "that I do not believe the peanut is as good as some other nuts or vegetables. I am eating it alone merely to demonstrate that it will sustain life. The most natural food for any one, of course, is milk. "Meat should never he eaten. I have not touched it for two years. The peanut is like meat in that it contains a greater proportion of carbon than is of value to the human system. For that reason I think the pecan is the most nutritious of all nuts. Its proportion of albumen, carbon, etc. is better suited for assimilation.

"My ideal menu for a day on a vegetable and nut diet would be:
"7 a.m. —Lemonade with sugar.

"10 a.m. —Breakfast: Brown part of the wheat cocoanut, peanuts (20 per cent), pecans, egg. Serve uncooked.

"1 p.m. —Dinner: Vesper broth, composed of figs, dates, corn syrup, malted grains. Serve without starch and uncooked.

"3 p.m. —Lemonade with sugar.

"This diet could be varied occasionally with a few bananas, grapes, oranges, raisins and apples. My theory is that the average man eats about five times too much every day. 1 would advise him to leave out meats and cut down the amount of other foods.

"My experiments have demonstrated to me the value of peanuts as a brain food. I have kept an exact record of each day's work since I changed to this diet, and I find that I can do 20 per cent more than formerly. It takes about 30 days to change from one form of diet to another, and I am just beginning to get so that I can go by a lot of delicacies and not crave them."

Dr. Allen's companions at this Thanksgiving "dinner" discovered that he had first gone in disguise to another restaurant where he had a five-course meal including baked ham, mashed potatoes, vintage champagne and several different kinds of pie. They then took him out to the alley behind the restaurant and beat him up.

All right, I made up that last paragraph, but I think we can all agree that that's how this story should have ended.

Here's one man who had an even worse Thanksgiving than the good doctor. Here is a weirdly Draconian punishment described in the "San Francisco Call," November 28, 1913:

As punishment for picking raspberries on a millionaire's estate at Hillsborough a San Francisco florist was sentenced by Judge Henry P. Bowie to forego the pleasure of his annual turkey feast.

John Nalistini, 55 Valparaiso street, San Francisco, is the sorrowful person who paid the unusual penalty. He was arrested yesterday for picking berries on the Joseph D. Grant estate. "Have you had your Thanksgiving dinner yet?" demanded Judge Bowie. "Not yet," replied the prisoner. "Then I order you confined to Hillsborough jail till all vestige of turkey has disappeared."

The Gobbler's Dream; or, The Vegetarian Pledge

As I said, I enjoy Thanksgiving, but as a virtually life-long vegetarian, I do regret the fact that the most famous feature of the day is a mass turkey slaughter. In memory of 2014's doomed-to-be-main-course birds, I'd like to highlight a few stories where their brethren got a bit of their own back.

Andrew Green, the druggist, was yesterday thrown to the ground by his horse, afrighted by a turkey flapping its wings. NJ1885
— R.L. Ripples (@TweetsofOld) November 21, 2014

From the "Adelaide Register," June 4, 1910:

A Staffordshire artist, while sketching near Hanley, was attacked by a turkey, and had an exciting encounter with the bird, lasting a quarter of an hour. The turkey approached the artist from behind, and made a sudden attack, which he just managed to escape. With his sketch block he aimed a blow at the bird's head, but missed, and then sought refuge behind a tree. The turkey pursued him, and after dodging it around the tree for some time the artist made a dash for his stool to use as a weapon, but the bird was too quick for him. Then began a combat which lasted for some minutes. The artist used his palette as a weapon of defense, and this was destroyed in the first blow. Closing with the bird, he bet every attempt it made to spring at him by kicking it in the breast, while he protected his face with his arms. It was not until the artist was almost exhausted that his cries for help were heard by a party of golfers and a farm hand. A blow across the neck put the turkey out of action.

The "Altoona Mirror," September 8, 1926:

While gathering sweet corn in a back field of the A.B. Miller farm on Saturday Mrs. Miller was attacked by a turkey gobbler belonging to a neighbor and had to battle the vicious bird for a half hour before she conquered him. Evidently resenting what he thought was an encroachment on his feeding grounds the big gobbler launched a fierce fight for mastery. He flogged and kicked, hurling himself at Mrs. Miller's face. She interposed a tin bucket which was full of roasting ears between them to protect her face and such was the force of his impact that he dented the bucket like the kick from a cow. She could not get away from the big turk as he cut off her line of retreat every time she tried to get away. He seemed to be in a dozen places at one. She beat him with the bucket and corn stalks but every blow she landed only acted to further enrage him. After a half hour of this strenuous engagement, both combatants were pretty well exhausted. But Mrs. Miller came off with the honors of war as the gobbler quit fighting as suddenly as he began and marched off home.

There was that time when a man and a turkey battled it out in court. From the "Mid Surrey Times," August 28, 1880:

A curious case has just been referred to the Russian Court of Appeal. A certain General, who had earned half-a-dozen decorations in the Turkish campaign, was walking a few days ago along one of the principal streets of Tamboff, a town in Central Russia, when he was suddenly attacked by a ferocious turkey. The unexpectedness of the encounter seems to have entirely paralyzed the faculties of the worthy son of Mars, for although he wore his sword at his side, and might easily have made mincemeat of his assailant, he raised no resistance against the enemy, but shouted loud and lustily for the police. These gentry, on the watch for Nihilists, hurried from every quarter, in obedience to the General's cries, but were anticipated in their assistance by a deacon, who, passing by at the time, seized the enraged bird--then fluttering on the General's breast--by the neck, and held him captive till the gorodovie and dvorniki came up and took him into custody. An owner for the turkey-cock was soon found, and a protocol was drawn up by the police, charging him with culpable negligence in not looking after his poultry. The case came on, and the evidence adduced added nothing to what we have already stated, and a defense was raised on the simple grounds that the Article of the Code mentioned in the indictment did not refer to feathered kind, but merely applied to ferocious bipeds and quadrupeds. The bench of magistrates discussed long among themselves the validity of this argument, and at length, amidst breathless silence, announced that "State Secretary Nikiferoff, as owner of a dangerous turkey-cock allowed to roam at large, was amenable to the Article of the Code referred to in the indictment," and sentenced him to pay a fine of ten copecks (three pence) or undergo twenty-four hours' imprisonment. A roar of laughter followed the decision of the Bench, in the midst of which the solicitor of Nikiferoff arose and gave notice that he should carry the case to the St. Petersburg Court of Appeal.

Unfortunately, I have been unable to learn how that case was finally resolved.

From the "Newark Advocate," April 1, 1936:

Coshocton, April 1.--C.C. Dawson, real estate salesman, while calling on a prospective customer was attacked by a turkey which struck him in the chest, knocking him down and causing a sprained knee. He scrambled to his feet and, limping, looked around for some means of protection. The turkey charged again but Dawson, seeing a piece of canvas, picked it up and threw it over the turkey's head, at the same time yelling for help. D.A. Overholt who Dawson was calling on, came to his rescue with an inner tube and struck the attacker. The turkey then retreated.

The last line of this next story sounds ominously like a declaration of war. The "Oakland Tribune," April 4, 1912:

Kent, April 4.--A turkey with proclivities for man killing is the property of R.R. Rotter, a compositor on a local paper. When Rotter was feeding his turkeys a large gobbler attacked him, striking him in the face so hard that he was forced to beat a hasty retreat. His face was badly lacerated by the attack of the gobbler, and Rotter says that when he feeds the turkey hereafter he will arm himself.

It's hard to top the lede from this story in the "Princeton Union," December 21, 1911:

Frank Stadden narrowly escaped having his eyesight destroyed and his nose bitten off by an infuriated turkey on Monday morning. But here's the story in brief:

John McCool sold a number of turkeys to Mr. Austin and one of them flew into a tree. Finding it impossible to coax the gobbler from its perch Frank Stadden was appealed to. Frank loaded his blunderbuss and brought the fowl to earth, but it was only slightly wounded and, when he attempted to capture it, the bird showed fight. It struck at Frank, drove its talons into his hands, bored holes into his face with its beak and greatly disfigured his proboscis. Seeing that Frank was getting the worst of the battle Mr. Austin ran to his assistance with a club and dispatched the gobbler. However, in striking at the turkey Austin's aim was not at all times accurate, and Frank received one of the blows intended for the bird which caused a big blue-black lump to appear with remarkable rapidity upon the polished portion of his cranium. Mr. Stadden asserts that never in his lifetime has he encountered so ferocious a turkey as this particular gobbler, and says he is inclined to the opinion that either its father or its mother was a great American eagle.

Fortunately, a similar story from the "Iola Register" for August 22, 2001, had a happier ending for all concerned. For some months, the town of Holland, Michigan had been terrorized by a wild turkey who had settled in their neighborhood.  He took to stalking the citizens of Holland, pinning them inside their cars or behind their front doors.  People began altering their normal routes to avoid him.  He was "the bully of the block."  "I taught in Flint for 39 years without a problem," one victim wailed. "I move over here and I'm attacked by a turkey."  The town finally called in, not Superman, but Mike's Nuisance Animal Control, who captured the predator and released him into a wooded area some miles away.

Now, here's the spirit: Have a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner--as the guest of honor! Let's end our chronicle on a cheerful note with the legend of the Sweater-Wearing Fowl, from the "Delaware County Times," November 24, 1955:

Some turkeys don't die on Thanksgiving Day...they just live out their lives in knitted sweaters.

At least this was the fate of a bird picked for eating in California one day many years ago, according to Paul Fox, Swarthmore author.

"This story," he related the other evening, "is said to be true. Two elderly women were preparing for a Thanksgiving Day dinner of traditional type.

"They were city folk, however, and when a friend in the country offered them a turkey, they accepted without taking into consideration that the turkey would be alive.

"The day before Thanksgiving, the bird arrived; the picture of good health--active and very obstreperous. The women were stumped. How to get the turkey into the shape they were accustomed to for roasting taxed their minds.

"With the burst of ingenuity, they planned the bird's death.

"One went to the drug store, and by dint of persuasive skill, bought some chloroform. Later in the garage, the two women soaked chloroform on a handkerchief and shoved against the gobbler's head.

"The chloroform and turkey performed as expected. The bird collapsed to the floor, and the two ladies promptly plucked every feather from its still body.

"At this point an act of God intervened. There was a slight earthquake, generally upsetting the routine in the household, and the ladies forgot the featherless bird for a space of time.

"Later, when things settled down, imagine their horror as they saw the naked apparition of the traditional Thanksgiving Day roast walking down the street!

"Embarrassed and shamed, the ladies caught the wandering gobbler, fed him well, and knitted him a sweater until he restored his plumage," Fox concluded.

So you see, not all gobblers end up in the oven--some wear sweaters.

That wraps up our tribute to Thanksgiving. A happy holiday to all my fellow Americans, and do your best to avoid getting stabbed with hatpins, shot, arrested, or attacked by turkeys.

Or, worst horror of all, dining with Dr. Allen.