The over-wrought child requires quiet methods

Posted by Dave Tabler | July 19, 2017

Bulletin of the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Immigration,
published in Richmond, distributed statewide
July 1921, Bulletin No. 166, p. 74

“Have you studied this subject seriously—the nervous child?”

Should there be one rigid rule for the training of all children? I am convinced that there should not. And if there is one exception it is for the over-sensitive, over-nervous child about being put to bed.

The average country child gets too little sleep. This is partly due to living in few rooms, to busy mothers and to lack of understanding of what sleep means to children. The very nervous child should have even more sleep than the average child, but it is not always easy to get her to sleep.

In the first place, she resists going to sleep with every fiber of her being and this makes people think her cross. The more she resists the more nervous she becomes until she is in a perfect quiver. To whip her then, the natural impulse of worried adults, is to give her a shock from which she might never be quite the same again.

The over-wrought child requires the quiet methods of one who has herself under control. This is easier said than done, I grant you, but who will say that a little child’s welfare is not worth any effort of self-control? Not you and not I. When she screams take her in your arms gently and smilingly; keep a soft old blanket around her, particularly around her feet and rock her slightly, singing a low tune as soon as she quiets a little.

mother and children at bedtime, 1915“But you object to rocking a child to sleep,” some one will say. The well, sturdy child, yes, but there is something about the movement of rocking that will often tempt the sick, overwrought child to slumber.

Regularity is one of the important factors in training a nervous baby to go to sleep easily. Have her bed comfortable, with sheets and all-wool covers. Quilts are heavy and overburden her.

Then lie down beside her every night and tell her stories, not exciting ones about bears and bad men, but tell her about the quiet affectionate lamb you had when you were a little girl, about its fleece and how funny it looked.

Never give her more than one story a night, string the same one out if need be. Then when she is over her nervous spell in a week or two, talk to her reasonably and explain to her that you must darn some socks for Daddy that night and you want her to see what kind of stories she can tell herself.

If often helps to wrap a soft blanket around her feet when you lay her down. Remember that the brain requires blood to think and blood that is in the feet is not in the brain. Sometimes if she has not eaten much and is restless, a glass of warm milk or a cracker or two will attract the blood from the brain to the stomach.

A soft doll is a real comfort to the nervous, restless child, especially if you do not seem to listen to her when she talks aloud to it. Some children like to hold a flower. I know one mother who sometimes puts a single drop of violet water on the baby’s pillow, and she lies there so long smelling it that she drops off to sleep.

New-born babies should sleep nearly all the time; children of about four should sleep about thirteen hours; of seven, twelve; of eight or nine, eleven; of twelve, ten. A child sleeping in the open air can get best development with a little less than this, but one with her head in the corner of a room requires a little more sleep.

Things to be avoided are:

1) Teasing.
2) Tickling.
3) Tossing.
4) Anger.
5) Great fear.
6) Terrifying stories.
7) Violent rocking.
8) Bright sunlight in unshaded eyes.
9) Glaring windows.
10) Hard white walls.
11) Places of public gathering.
12) Food difficult to digest.

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The Swamp Rabbit engineer had to back up a mile to retrieve a lost cow-catcher

Posted by Dave Tabler | July 18, 2017


by Charles A. David
Greenville News [SC]
July 18, 1926

You may name your boy Percival, Algernon, or Montmoresst, but if some chap at school dubs him “Sorrel-top,” “Bully,” or “Buster,” the nick-name will stick and his real name forgotten. So it has been with this little railroad–its owners christened it the Carolina, Knoxville and Western, but some fellow with a bit of humor in his make-up spoke of it as “The Swamp Rabbit,” and that appropriate name continues to the exclusion of the longer and higher-sounding one.

Its owners christened it the Carolina, Knoxville and Western, (shown here in 1888), but local wags quickly dubbed it "The Swamp Rabbit."

Its owners christened it the Carolina, Knoxville and Western, (shown here in 1888), but local wags quickly dubbed it “The Swamp Rabbit.”

When the route was surveyed, if it ever was, it was evident that if they followed the swamp bordering the river, that little grading would have to be done, and building the line would be just that much cheaper.

So we find that the railroad hugs the edge of the swamp from its starting point just below the “medder” to its terminal on the south bank of the Saluda, where the money gave out and the road suddenly stopped, and it gazes sadly across the stream that has never been bridged.

The road as it now stands, and it looks as if it was destined to stand there forever, is only some fifteen miles long–just a trifle longer than its name–its real name, I guess.

The road is now a little more than a right-of-way, and two wavy streaks of rust; but at one time it held hope of great things for Greenville, as it was intended to link this section with the rich coal fields of Tennessee, and we all dreamed dreams and had visions of cheaper coal, and a direct line over the mountains.

But the lack of money and the antagonism of rival interests sounded its death knell, and blasted our hopes. The road started out bravely, with the very best intentions, with head up and tall over the dashboard, planning to cross the mountains on a wonderful grade that had just been discovered, hesitate briefly at Knoxville, and then strike out into the boundless West.

But as it neared the foot of the mountains something happened–funds ran low, the enthusiasm languished, and the bubble that promised so much, burst with a sickening thud, leaving Knoxville and Greenville just as far apart as ever, and coal still sells around ten and twelve dollars a ton.

To add to its many troubles, the road got into court, and for years it was bombarded with attachments, injunctions, judgments and the like, and then rival factions took a hand, with the result that at one time the rails were taken up and sold, leaving nothing but the crossties, and most of them rotten.

But by some hook or crook new rails were procured, and once more the road was in a usable condition. One serious trouble with the road was that the name was too long for the length–it was misleading, as no one could understand why a road bearing the name Knoxville and Western should begin and end in the upper part of Greenville County, and people got to looking on the whole thing as a joke. For a while at first, daily trains were operated—I should have said train, not trains—which came down some time during the morning, and went back to the starting point in the afternoon, and spent the night where it was cool and pleasant.

It never was a train that bothered much about regular hours for leaving and arriving, and a hide-bound schedule was beneath its notice. It left when it got good and ready, and made no rash promises as to when it would arrive.

There was something delightfully informal about this friendly little railroad, and there was a certain element of chance about riding on it that added to the zest of the trip. It did not always stop at the same place, but you could flag it down anywhere simply by holding up your hand, and it would slow down and let you get on.

No one could keep from having kindly feeling for anything so obliging, and I came to have something akin to affection for it.

At that time one of my good friends and myself did considerable fishing, though we caught mighty few fish, and Montague, one of the stations, and in the streams about Riverview, so we came to be fairly regular patrons of the road, and the conductor never refused to take us on, or let us off, no matter where we might be.

Most of the rolling stock was second hand, and had been retired on a pension by some other road, and under the varnish of the passenger coach could distinctly be read the legend, “Pennsylvania RR. Co.,” showing that it was far from home and friends. I did not know until I became intimate with it that so many things could get the matter with a locomotive as happened to the motive power of the C.K. &W.

Some days it would make the trip without a single break down, and then again, it would have to stop for repairs every few miles. For instance, I remember returning one night from Marietta where I had been to attend the funeral of a friend, and coming down during a heavy rainstorm, the engineer discovered that he had lost the cow-catcher, and he had to back the train a mile or so before he found it in a ditch by the track, where it had come loose and dropped off. Such little things were constantly happening, but no one thought anything of them and took it as a matter of course.

The “Swamp Rabbit,” true to its name, did not mind inequalities in its pathway, so the track went up and down, following the lay of the land wherever possible. Lack of funds for the upkeep of the roadbed, light rails, and cheap equipment generally, served to make it one of the roughest I have ever encountered, and before a passenger got to the end of his journey he was considerably shaken up, and found that he owned bones that he did not know he possessed. I have heard that some of the farmer’s wives utilized this shaking up, and made the railroad to do their churning. They would take their churn of buttermilk along with them when going to town, and when the whistle blew for Greenville, all they had to do was to take off the top and remove the butter to a plate—it had been churned by the motion of the train. I do not say this was true, but it certainly was possible.

I remember one day that my fishing companion and myself boarded the train in Greenville for a day’s outing in the country, and from the time we pulled out I noticed that it was running even slower than usual, and I inquired the cause, and the conductor coolly informed us that the car just ahead was loaded with dynamite for Wing’s quarry, several miles up the road, and he wanted to get it there with as little jolting as possible. Very reassuring, that, to the two fishermen sitting there gripping reels in one hand and lunch in the other! But the conductor told us that he had carried up several loads of the stuff and none of it had exploded yet. After that experience we always made it a point to find out what the car in front was loaded with before we bought tickets.

The “Swamp Rabbit” road is still running in a spasmodic kind of way, hauling gravel, cordwood, and an occasional coop of chickens.

They will tell you that they are only running tri-weekly freight, but they do not tell you that that means you come down one week and try to get back the next, but find that live passengers are barred.

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Francis Scott Key’s descendants in western Maryland

Posted by Dave Tabler | July 17, 2017

In 1870 Alice Key Howard [the author’s aunt], a daughter of Mrs. Charles Howard, bought from a man named Stabler a four room hunting lodge with separate kitchens, standing in a dense grove of oaks, many of whose survivors still surround the present house.

This picture, “The Foot Paths Through The Glades,” is a reprint of a painting, artist unknown, made for the American Bank Note Company of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It presents a true-to-life scene in Mt. Lake Park, Maryland, around 1890. The paths were made of tan bark.

This picture, “The Foot Paths Through The Glades,” is a reprint of a painting, artist unknown, made for the American Bank Note Company of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It presents a true-to-life scene in Mt. Lake Park, Maryland, around 1890. The paths were made of tan bark.

Even in my memory there was an oak grove with a path through it where the present Shafer house now stands. Several additions and wings were built before the original four room lodge became the low rambling red structure, now known as 79 Alder Street.

Willed by Alice Key Howard to her niece, Elizabeth B. Howard, its present owner, it was for eighty years the summer home of many of Francis Scott Key’s grandchildren and great grandchildren.

One grandson, John Ross Key, a notable painter, especially of mountain scenery, was a frequent visitor, and one of his paintings of “The Old County Bridge” was long in the possession of an Oakland family.

McHenry Howard, father of Elizabeth G. Howard, was a passionate fisherman, and with his first cousin, Dr. James McHenry Howard, went by horseback, or by horse and buggy, over then all but impossible roads, on month long fishing trips to the Cheat and Elk Rivers. His diary, illustrated in part by his own sketches, is immediately destined to the Garrett County Historical Society.

Another granddaughter of Francis Scott Key’s, Mrs. Edward Lloyd of Wye House, Talbot County, spent much time with her mother in Oakland, as did Mrs. Charlton Morgan (Ellen Key Howard) of Lexington, Kentucky. In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Charlton Morgan and their children spent several winters in Oakland, one at least at 79 Alder Street.

A notable group of boys played together in Oakland in those days. Cal Crim, Henry McComas, Charles McHenry Howard and Thomas Hunt Morgan. Thomas Hunt Morgan, winner of the Nobel Prize for biology in 1933, and known before his death several years ago as the greatest living biologist in the world, received his first schooling in what I understand was a log cabin schoolhouse in Oakland. He and his cousin, Charles McHenry, were great rattlesnake hunters and amassed a trophy of rattles which I still own.

In 1893, Mrs. Charles Howard (Elizabeth Phoebe Key) celebrated her 90th birthday in Oakland. All day a stream of visitors poured in, people from Oakland and Deer Park. (I have her letter written to an absent member of her family which also, with her picture, will go to the Garrett County Historical Society.) In the evening, a large dinner party was given and I vividly remember the long table decorated with ferns and with ninety candles blazing.

In 1897 she died there, and again I remember the American Flag in red, white and blue flowers which covered the coffin, sent by “Doctor McComas.”

Many members of the family have died at 79 Alder Street, the little daughter of Dr. Edward Lloyd Howard and Laura Maynard Howard first, in 1894. Since then, Mrs. McHenry Howard in 1908, McHenry Howard in 1923, and their daughter May Howard in 1943.

A very deep love for Oakland and Garrett County is born into, and inherited by, all the descendants of Francis Scott Key, who have spent their summers at 79 Alder Street, and though for the past two years the present writer is the only member of the family to get there, and that, in all too short a stay, yet it is always with a deep sense of homecoming, of belonging in great part to Garrett County, that I return.

“A Summer Home in the Mountains,” by Julia McHenry Howard, Tableland Trails magazine, Summer 1953, pp 2-4, Felix G. Robinson, publisher

Julia McHenry Howard (1886-1959) was a great-granddaughter of Francis Scott Key, composer of the “Star Spangled Banner.”

2 Responses

  • dianne (morrow) avona says:

    In the 1950s, I lived across from the Howard house on Alder St. in the Warnick Apartments. My friends and I would sneak onto the property and play “Nancy Drew” and make a mystery about the people from that house.

  • Lisa Simmons says:

    I am trying to find any connection to Francis Scott Key thru my great-grandfather James Thomas Key of Union County, AR. My grandmother (96) says that we are related, but I can’t find the missing link if there is one.

    I think I would need to know the sons, grandsons and great-grandsons’ names. I’ve searched some on the internet but don’t find much past a list of the children’s names. Thanks for your help.

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He wears the breeches but the lady has the brains

Posted by Dave Tabler | July 14, 2017

John Wesley Langley resigned from Congress (R., Kentucky 10th Congressional District) in January 1926, after losing an appeal to the Supreme Court of the United States to set aside his conviction on charges of conspiracy to violate the Volstead Act. He’d been caught trying to bribe a Prohibition officer and sent to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.

From his jail cell he made a plea to his constituents to elect his wife to vindicate his name. He claimed that he was ‘practically penniless’ and that the only hope of saving their home was to send his wife to serve a term in Congress while he sat in prison.

When Katherine Langley (1883-1948) hit the campaign trail that spring, her husband’s conviction was a cause celebre—the feeling was widespread that her husband had been the victim of a political conspiracy. She delivered over 100 speeches, each time glorifying the name of her husband and promising to carry out his goals.

Katherine Langley was well prepared to for the task. She had worked as secretary to her husband during his 18 years in office; was an active member of the Kentucky Republican Party; was the founder of the Women’s Republican State Committee; had served as a delegate to the Republican National Convention in 1924; and had served on the Kentucky Railroad Commission. “John Langley wears the breeches,” winked one newspaper editorialist, “but the lady has the brains.”

John Wesley Langley & Katherine G. Langley of Pikeville KYOriginal photo caption reads: Both Once Congress Members – They Celebrate Silver Anniversary; Mr. and Mrs. John W. Langley as they appeared on the celebration of their silver wedding anniversary at their home in Pikeville, Ky. Mrs. Langley is a Congresswoman from the 10th Kentucky Congressional district, having succeeded her husband after he was charged with violation of the prohibition laws. At left is their two daughters, left to right: Miss Susannah Langley and Mrs. Katherine Bentley., 11/29/29.

She won the Republican primary election against a field of seven other candidates, including Andrew J. Kirk, who had been elected to finish out Langley’s unexpired term; and that fall she defeated her Democratic opponent to become the seventh woman elected to the House. Because of the growing controversy over Prohibition, her victory attracted wide editorial attention. Most comment was favorable; major Kentucky newspapers expressed the view that Mrs. Langley’s election was traceable to “the inherent loyalty of the mountain folk.”

Not all her congressional colleagues accepted her, politics being what it is. “She offends the squeamish by her unstinted display of gypsy colors on the floor and the conspicuousness with which she dresses her bushy blue-black hair,” one newspaper sniffed. She was also criticized for her flowery oratory on the House floor, a result of her earlier career as a speech teacher. These issues had no affect on the voters she served, however; she was re-elected to the 71st Congress in 1928 by a larger vote than she’d received in her first run.

Mrs. Langley lobbied President Coolidge to grant clemency to her husband, which he did with the understanding that John Langley never again seek office. However, in 1929 Mr. Langley chose to disregard that understanding and announced his intention to regain his former House seat. When Katherine Langley said she had no intention of stepping down for her husband or anyone else, the result was a publicly aired domestic quarrel that doomed the political futures of both husband and wife. When election day arrived, it was Mrs. Langley’s name that appeared on the ballot, but many Republicans stayed away from the polls, insuring victory for the Democratic candidate.

Sources: Notable American Women, 1607-1950, by Edward T. James, Janet Wilson James, Paul S. Boyer, Radcliffe College

Biographical Dictionary of Congressional Women, by Karen Foerstel

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Was it murder? Or a heart attack?

Posted by Dave Tabler | July 13, 2017

“I went up to Wise that night along with my cousin and not meaning no harm,” testified Edith Maxwell at her murder trial. “Along in the evening Raymond Meade came along and said he would give me a lift back to my house in Pound. There was some more people in the car with him but we let them out down the road a piece and Raymond Meade says to me: ‘Let’s go to the Little Ritz and get something to eat.’ ”

“The Lonesome Pine Girl,” accused of killing her father Trigg on July 20, 1935, attracted the attention and support of newspaper, magazine, and radio reporters, as well as women’s organizations, across the United States and Canada. Her nickname is a reference to a well known 1908 John Fox novel, The Trial of the Lonesome Pine, that portrayed the lifestyle of mountain residents in a rather one-dimensional manner.

Edith Maxwell. Courtesy TopFoto/The Image Works.

Edith Maxwell. Courtesy TopFoto/The Image Works.

 popular was the tale with the American public that a third production of it–
this one in sound and color–was being filmed, with considerable publicity,
even as Edith Maxwell faced the first of two trials in the Wise County, VA courthouse.

The media coverage the case received for nearly 
two years rivaled that given to the Scopes “monkey trial” of the 1920s. By the end of Maxwell’s ordeal, even Eleanor Roosevelt had gotten involved.

Why the national spotlight? The Maxwell case was a clash between modernity and tradition, between “women’s rights and reason against bigotry and fanaticism.” On the side of bigotry and tradition was the “code” of the Virginia mountains, where women and children had to obey and submit to the father, even when he physically abused them.

Edith had left home for two years of teacher’s college, highly unusual for a young woman of her circumstances. After attending Radford State Teachers College (later Radford University), Maxwell reluctantly returned to Pound, where she associated with the “bright young set,” tested the boundaries of acceptable behavior, and became frustrated by the limitations of small-town life.

Raymond Meade tried to get her to drink some liquor, Edith continued in her November 1935 court testimony, but all she took was some potato chips and a glass of ginger ale. She told him it was getting late and she had better be starting for home because she was going blackberrying next morning.

When she got home around midnight her little sister, Mary Catherine, warned her: “Your bed covers is in Pappy’s room but don’t go in there. He’s drunk and he’s going to run Ma out of the house tomorrow.” But Edith went in anyhow. Pappy woke up.

‘I’m goin’ to whip you,” he said.

“Pappy, don’t you do it,” said Edith.

Pappy chased her out of the bedroom and grabbed a carving knife. “Pappy, don’t you cut me,” said Edith.

“I’ll show you I can whip you,” said Pappy.

Edith Maxwell in Wise County prison

Edith fell to the floor and fumbled for a pair of old high-heeled shoes she had given her Ma. She flailed out with one of them. Pappy fell back. Edith, half-naked from the fight, caught up a covering, ran out of the house. She could hear Pappy moaning: “Jesus, Jesus, why can’t a man whip his own child?” Trigg was soon dead, allegedly from the beating Edith gave him.

The prosecutor tried to show that Edith was a fast filly who had saddened her honest mountaineer father with her late hours and citified ways. But he could not shake her story of the fight. It was further corroborated by Edith’s 11-year-old sister Mary Catherine who, when twitted by the prosecutor for forgetting certain details, leaned out of the witness chair and yelled: “And you wouldn’t remember so good either if you had been as scared as I was that night with Pappy a-yellin’ and a-cussin’ and Edith a-tryin’ to outrun him!”

Edith, argued her lawyers, had exercised no more than her “God-given right of self-defense.” But that did not impress the jury, which, after less than an hour’s deliberation, returned a guilty verdict.

Despite expert medical testimony that Trigg’s wounds could not have caused his death and that he had probably died of a stroke or heart attack, rumor and innuendo were enough to send Edith to jail for five years of a 25 year sentence.

She was pardoned by Gov. James H. Price in December 1941 – thanks, in part, to a letter written on her behalf by First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. Upon her release, Edith changed her name to Ann Grayson and eventually made a new life for herself in Jacksonville, Fla., after marrying Otto Abshier, the owner of an Indianapolis trucking company.

The day after Trigg Maxwell died, his wife Ann, along with their daughter, had been indicted, but never brought to trial. Was Trigg Maxwell hit by Edith? Or was it Ann? Or was he hit at all?


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