McCormick messenger. (McCormick, S.C.) 1902-current, July 27, 1939, Image 6
McCORMICK MESSENGER. McCORMICK, S. C.. THURSDAY, JULY 27, 1939
Add to Your List of "Red Letter Days" in July
Birthdays of Two Who Deserve Remembrance
For Their Gifts to America’s "Folk Literature"
/
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT
S LOWLY England’s sun was setting o’er the hilltops far away.
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white.
Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring tonight!”
“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold—
“I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset”; and her face grew strangely white
As she breathed the husky whisper, “Curfew must not ring tonight!”
“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—and his accents pierced her heart
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart—
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;
Every evening. Just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it Just and right.
Now I’m old, I still must do it: “Curfew, girl, must ring tonight!”
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright.
As in undertone she murmured, “Curfew must not ring tonight.”
With quick step she bounded forward sprang within the old church door,
Left the old man threading slowly paths he’d trod so oft before;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which fell no ray of light.
Up and up, her white lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell,
Awful is the gloom beneath her like the pathway down to hell;
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow,
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light.
And she springs and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
Out she syrung, far out; the city seemed a speck of light below;
She ’twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro; «
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil’s funeral knell.
shii the maiden clung more firmly, and, with trembling lips and white.
Said, to hush her heart’s wild beating, “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
It was o’er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted; but the brave deed she had done
Should be told long ages after:—often as the setting sun
Should illume the sky with beauty, aged sires, with heads of white
Long should tell the little children, “Curfew did not ring that night.”
O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow
Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn.
Touched his heart with sudden pity—lit his eye with misty light;
“Go, your lover lives!” said Cromwell: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
—Mrs. Rose Hartwick Thorpe
By ELMO SCOTT WATSON
(Released by Western Newspaper Union.)
J ULY has its full quota of
birthdays of American
notables so that we might
honor half a dozen distin
guished personages on every
one of its 31 days without ex
hausting the possibilities. In
cluded in such a list would
be Presidents John Qqincy
Adams and Calvin Coolidge;
Vice Presidents George M.
Clinton, George M. Dallas
and Elbridge Gerry; Henry
Knox, first secretary of war,
and Gideon Welles, secre
tary of the navy in Lincoln’s
cabinet; Gen. George H.
Thomas, the “Rock of Chick-
amauga,” and Gen. Nathan
Bedford Forrest, the “Wiz
ard of the Confederacy”;
such naval heroes as John
Paul Jones and David Farra-
gut and Richmond Pearson
Hobson; John Ericsson, Elias
Howe and Samuel Colt, in
ventors; and such men of
millions as John Jacob Astor,
John Wanamaker, John D.
Rockefeller and George East
man.
My theme, however, is not
of the deeds nor achieve
ments of these statesmen,
soldiers and merchant
princes. I sing of a humbler
kind of folk—those who com
pose the songs and poems
which become the favorite
“pieces” of the common peo
ple. And in particular, I tell
of a woman and a man whose
names are but little known
to their fellow-Americans
(compared to those cited
above) but who once set pen
to paper and wrote lines
which will be repeated long
after their authors are for
gotten.
MRS. ROSE H. THORPE
If you have ever recited “Cur
few Must Not Ring Tonight” at
school, you should have given it a
thought on July 18. For on July
18, 1850, there was born JdtWil
liam Morris and Mary Louisa
(Wight) Hartwick near Misha
waka, Ind., a daughter whom they
named Rose Alnora. While
Rose Alnora was still a pig-tailed,
beribboned little girl, the family
moved to a farm near Litchfield,
Mich. There one day she was at
home, supposedly studying her
lessons. But her mother noticed
that she was busily engaged in
writing something on her slate.
“What are you doing?” the
mother demanded.
Startled by the question and
with a guilty feeling that she
should be busy “doing her sums”
instead of writing romantic
verses, Rose Alnora started to
erase them. But her mother
stopped her, read what she had
written—and didn’t scold her!
Instead she sent the poem to the
Detroit Commercial Advertiser
and after it appeared in that pa
per it was reprinted in dozens of
others.
Years later it was included in
a book of her poems called “Ring
ing Ballads” and a Boston Tran
script reviewer wrote: “The
name of Rose Hartwick Thorpe
(she was married to Edmund
Carson Thorpe, a writer of Ger
man dialect recitations, in 1871)
is familiar to every reader
through that wonderfully popular
ballad, ‘Curfew Must Not Ring
Tonight.’ It requires peculiar
genius to write a genuine ballad—
something that flows spontaneous
ly from the heart and goes directly
to the heart. This gift Mrs.
Thorpe possesses to the fullest
degree. No poem written by an
American author has been so
widely copied, nor has achieved
so universal a popularity as the
one referred to She has written
others as perfect in a literary
sense and as full of that indescrib
able rhythmic swing which char
acterizes ‘Curfew’ and the pub
lisher has brought them together
in a form which should make both
author and public grateful.”
Nor was the reviewer exagger
ating when he said that “no poem
written by an American author
has been so widely copied, nor
has achieved so universal a pop
ularity.” For “Curfew” has been
translated into nearly every lan
guage of the world and, in the
words of another critic, is “uni
versally recognized as a veritable
classic.” In 1883 Hillsdale col
lege conferred upon its author
an honorary M. A. degree be
cause, as the president of the
college wrote at the time, “You
have written a poem that will
never permit the name of its au
thor to‘die while the English lan
guage is spoken.”
After the success of “Curfew
Must Not Ring Tonight” Mrs.
Thorpe became a regular con
tributor of short stories and
poems to leading magazines and
weeklies and from 1881 to 1904
shfe published no less than a doz
en books of poems and stories for
young people. For the last 40
years she has lived in San Diego,
Calif., and she is living there to
day at the age of eighty-eight,
still keenly interested in the
world and modern conditions, al
though she has not written any
poems for, 10 years.
Curiously enough, she does not
consider “Curfew Must Not Ring
Tonight” as her best work. In
stead she favors her poem “Re
member the Alamo” or possibly
“The Station Agent’s Story.” But
in the hearts of thousands of
Americans who went to the “little
red schoolhouse” and who used
to “speak pieces” on Friday
afternoons, “Curfew Must Not
Ring Tonight” holds a place that
is secure.
* * *
Two days before you put a red
circle around July 18 on your
calendar in honor of the author
of “Curfew Must Not Ring To
night,” you might have marked
July 16 in the same way. For on
July 16, 1848, was born at Johns-
burg, Warren county, New York,
Eben Eugene Rexford, son of
Jabez and Rebecca (Wilcox) Rex
ford, destined for future fame as
the man who wrote “Silver
Threads Among the Gold.”
When Eben was seven years
old his parents moved to Elling
ton, Wis. At the age of fourteen
young Rexford’s writing ability
began to assert itself when one
of his poems appeared in the New
York Weekly. Three years later
he received his first payment for
literary work from Publisher
Frank Leslie of New York. Then
he entered Lawrence college at
Appleton, Wis., and paid his way
by writing for the magazines.
It was while he was a student
at Lawrence that he wrote the
poem which was to make him fa
mous. He sold “Silver Threads
Among the Gold” to Frank Les
lie’s Chimney Corner for $3.
After keeping a clipping of the
verses in his desk for two years,
he showed it to a musician named
H. P. Danks, who was suddenly
inspired to set it to music. That
was in 1878 and it immediately
became well known. The inven
tion of the phonograph helped
make “Silver Threads Among the
Gold” one of our best known
“popular ballads” and it reached
the height of its fame around
1915 when Richard J. Jose, a
leading tenor, insisted on featur
ing it in many of his programs.
After Rexford’s school days
were over he settled at Shiocton,
Wis., to make literature his pro
fession. He became a contribu
tor of prose and verse to all the
leading periodicals of the time
and since he was also an author
ity on flowers he was for 10 years
floricultural editor of the Ladies’
Home Journal. Among his pub
lished books were “Home Flori
culture,” “A Work About Bulbs,”
“Flowers: How to Grow Them,”
“Grandmother’s Garden,” an il
lustrated poem; “Brother and
Lover,” a poem of the Civil war;
and a collection of miscellaneous
poems.
Besides the song which made
him most widely known, Rexford
also wrote these songs which
were once very popular: “Only a
Pansy Blossom,” “Sing a Song
to Me” and a Latin version of
“Jesus Lover of My Soul.” He
EBEN E. REXFORD
was also a composer of many
church hymns. During his life
time he is said to have written
more than 700 poems, many of
them for children. Harry Gold
ing, English author, in compil
ing a collection of what he called
the best children’s verses in the
English language, selected three
of Rexford’s. The only other
American poets thus honored
were Eugene Field and James
Whitcomb Riley.
Rexford died of typhoid fever
in a hospital in Green Bay, Wis.,
October 16, 1916. Several years
ago a large granite memorial
was dedicated on the lawn of the
Congregational church in Shioc
ton which he helped build. A
bronze tablet on the memorial
gives the outstanding events in
his career and concludes with the
words “To Everyone God Gives
a Share of Work, to Do Some
Time, Somewhere”—a quotation
from one of his poems.
On a July day 75 years ago
there died in New York city the
author of another poem which you
may have recited on a Friday
afternoon in the little red school-
house. Or have you forgotten it?
It is:
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT
TREE
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy ax shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earthbound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy
I sought its graceful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played,
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—<
Forgive my foolish tear.
But let that old oak stand!
My heart strings round thee clin|
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild birds sing,
And still thy branches bend,
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy ax shall harm it not!
The man who wrote that poem
was George P. Morris, who was
born in Philadelphia October 10,
1802. Early in his youth, he moved
to New York and at the age of fif
teen began contributing to the col
umns of the New York papers.
One of his acquaintances in
New York was a man, 17 years
his elder, who was already noted
as a poet and editor but who was
destined for even greater fame
in later years—Samuel ' Wood-
worth, who wrote the song “The
Old Oaken Bucket.” In 1823 Mor
ris and Woodworth established a
new magazine, the New York
Mirror and Ladies Literary Ga
zette. Later Morris associated
with him in this venture another
well-known poet, Nathaniel P.
Willis, Hiram Fuller, a journalist,
and Theodore S. Fay, a novelist,
who continued the magazine until
1842.
x Meanwhile, he was establishing
a reputation as an author, as well
as an editor, for he was a grace
ful writer of both prose and poet
ry, many of the latter being set to
music. One critic dubbed him
“The Song Writer of America”
and his colleague, Willis, once de
clared that at any time he could
; get $50 for one of Morris’ songs,
vunread, when no other song writ
er could sell one to the same buy
er for a shilling. With Willis he
also edited a volume of “Ameri
can Melodies.” Among the songs
which he wrote that became very
popular in Nineteenth century
America were “Near the Lake
Where Drooped the Willow,” “We
Were Boys Together,” “Land
Ho!”, “Long Time Ago,” “Where
Hudson’s Wave,” “My Mother’s
Bible,” “Whip-poor-Will!” (Re
member how teacher let you
whistle the chorus when you sang
that song in school?)
But his greatest fame rests
upon the poem “Woodman, Spare
That Tree,” which was later set
to music and also became a pop
ular song. The incident which
inspired this poem was the fol
lowing: Morris and a friend
were walking through the woods
in the neighborhood of Blooming-
dale, N. Y., when his friend point
ed out an old elm tree, under
which he had played when a boy.
While the two men were sit
ting under the tree, enjoying its
shade, a woodchopper came up
with his ax and was ready to
start cutting the tree down, when
’‘N Morris’ friend offered to pay him
$10 if he would spare it. The
woodman accepted the money
and signed a bond that the tree
should not be harmed during the
lifetime of Morris’ friend.
The poem which Morris wrote,
based upon this incident, became
immediately popular when it was
published and it was even more
popular when it was set to music.
Morris’ long life of literary ac
tivity came to an end on July 6,
1864, in New York city. Most of
the things which he wrote are for
gotten now—all save one, “Wood
man, Spare That Tree.” It is still
remembered and quoted by thou
sands of Americans who know
most of its lines even though they
may never have heard of the
George P. Morris, the man who
wrote it.
Charming, Practical Patterns
T^HE afternoon dress with v-
neckline, slim skirt and shirred
bodice (1779) is unusually pretty
for those of you who take women’s
sizes. Make it for hot days with
Short, full sleeves; repeat it later
on, with the narrow roll collar and
long, snug sleeves. Voile, chiffon,
georgette, silk print and thin wool
are pretty materials for it.
Dress With Jacket-Blouse.
A classic two-piecer that will
give you loads of wear on your
vacation travels as well as sum
mer days in town, is 1783. It
brings you a sleeveless tennis
frock with sunback, that becomes
a smart little summer suit when
you add the fitted jacket-blouse.
fjaL AROUND
y] THE HOUSE
Quick Baking.—Fruit and berry
pies with lattice-style tops require
less baking time than the regular
two-crust pies.
* * *
Keep Oils Cool.—Store oils, such
as olive or vegetable, in the re
frigerator. They are likely to be
come rancid when opened unless
they are kept chilled.
* * *
Use for Leftovers.—Leftover
:ice or macaroni mixed with
cooked meat makes a good filling
for green peppers or tomatoes.
The latter need to be cooked only
20 minutes in a moderate oven.
* • *
To Inform You.—Read the labels
on canned foods. Many tell the
number of slices contained in the
can. Others give additional use
ful information about the contents.
* * *
Stains on Ash Trays.—To re
move cigarette stains from brass
ash trays, rub the trays with a
paste of salt and vinegar. Then
wash them well in hot water and
soap suds.
• * •
Washing Knitted Goods.—When
laundering sweaters or knitted
suits be careful not to stretch
them while wet or they will be
too large when dried. Before
washing, lay the garment on some
light-colored paper and trace
about it with a pencil. When it
has been rinsed fit the garment
into the tracing and lay paper and
garment on a Turkish towel to
dry. Drying may require two
days, but the fitting will be cor
rect.
* * *
Care of Bread Box.—Summer
calls for diligent cleaning and air
ing of bread and cooky boxes, pan
try and cupboard shelves and re
frigerators. Since bread molds
easily in the summer, it is best to
buy just enough for each day’s
needs.
Thus you can solve two important
clothes problems with this one
easy pattern. It will be charming
in linen, gingham, pique or shark
skin.
The Patterns.
No. 1779 is designed for sizes 34,
36, 38, 40, 42, 44, 46 and 48. Size
36 requires 4^ yards of 39 inch
material with short sleeves and
no collar; 4 7 /a yards with collar,
and long or short sleeves.
No. 1783 is designed for sizes 12,
14, 16, 18 and 20. Size 14 requires
4% yards of 35 inch material, with
out nap, for frock; 1% yards for
jacket. 4 yards of trimming.
Send your order to The Sewing
Circle Pattern Dept., Room 1324,
211 W. Wacker Dr., Chicago, 111.
Price of patterns, 15 cents (in
coins) each.
(Bell Syndicate—WNU Service.)
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