Rhymes From The Silver State

-historical lyrics

The lore of common culture in northern Nevada. Colorful!

By CW BAYER ™ nevadamusic ™

© 2014 CW BAYER

The cover: The first Piper’s Opera House, D Street, Virginia City.

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! INTRODUCTION ...... 6

CALIFORNIA AS IT IS, 1849 ...... 7

ARRIVAL OF THE GREENHORN, 1854 ...... 9

BOUND FOR THE LAND OF WASHOE, 1863 ...... 11

BALDY GREEN, 1865 ...... 12

EXCELSIOR, 1866 ...... 14

THE ARTFUL JERKER, 1868 ...... 16

THE COLLOQUY OF THE OLD TIMERS, C.1868 ...... 17

THE DAYS OF '49, 1868 ...... 28

THE WASHOE CANARY, 1871 ...... 30

FIRE IN THE TUNNEL, 1872 ...... 32

ARE YOU A HOOD-A-LUM, 1872...... 34

OSCEOLA, 1877 ...... 35

CHICKEN TOMALES, 1879 ...... 37

THE PRINCESS WEIMAR, 1879 ...... 39

SILVER JACK’S RELIGION, C.1885 ...... 43

THE MINER’S SOLILOQUY, 1888 ...... 45

THE BOLD BUCCAROO, 1889 ...... 47

OUT OF CARSON, 1892 ...... 48

LAKE TAHOE GIVES NOT UP HER DEAD, 1894 ...... 49

THE MIRACULOUS BULL, 1894 ...... 50

COUSIN JACK, C.1895 ...... 56

SOUTHERN KLONDIKE, 1900 ...... 57

THE FELLER I WAS SORRY FOR, 1901 ...... 59

THE HIGHGRADER, C.1905 ...... 61

THE LURE OF THE SAGEBRUSH, 1904 ...... 62

BY THE TRUCKEE, 1905 ...... 64 3 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! THE MINING ENGINEER’S SONG, 1909 ...... 65

BACKIN JIM, 1909 ...... 66

MORNIN ON THE DESERT, 1910 ...... 69

I’M ON MY WAY TO RENO, 1910 ...... 70

CASEY JONES, 1911 ...... 71

MORN ON THE PRAIRIE, 1912 ...... 73

THE COLONY, 1912 ...... 74

THE GIRL OF THE SAGEBRUSH STATE, 1914 ...... 75

THE LAST TRIP, 1917 ...... 77

THE CALL OF THE AMBULANCE, 1917 ...... 79

TONOPAH, 1918 ...... 80

THE DESERT RAT, 1919 ...... 81

SONG OF THE DEATH VALLEY PROSPECTORS, 1919 ...... 83

ROUND-UP POEM, 1922 ...... 85

AFTER LEWIS CARROLL, 1924 ...... 87

THE WHY OF ITCHIN’ FEET, 1924 ...... 88

THE DESERT RAT, 1924 ...... 90

A CHRISTMAS EVE DREAM, 1924 ...... 92

HARD ROCK DANN, 1925 ...... 93

JUST A MEMORY—OF SOMEONE I’VE TRUSTED, 1927 ...... 95

WAGON TRAMPS ON THE CARSON SINK, 1929 ...... 96

MORNING DEW, 1929 ...... 98

US OLD BOYS ON BOULDER DAM, 1931 ...... 100

US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM, 1932 ...... 102

HOME MEANS NEVADA, 1932 ...... 104

DEATH VALLEY CURLEY, 1934 ...... 106

IN MEMORIUM TO WHISKEY PETE, 1934 ...... 107

THE DIVORCEE’S SOLILOQUY 1938 ...... 108

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! THE LONE TREE, ‘50S...... 109

PORTRAIT OF NEVADA,‘60S ...... 110

THE RUSTY OLD FORD CAR, ‘70S? ...... 111

BOOKS BY CW BAYER ...... 113

ENDNOTES ...... 114

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! INTRODUCTION

Here are examples of lyric from an earlier time, all of it using old styles of meter and rhyme. These words say a great deal about the mythology of the silver State—about what ordinary people thought was happening at different times.

From 1849 through most of the 19th century, in Nevada, “western” meant mining and mining culture. About the turn of the 20th century, this softened and expanded into a mythology of “sage and pine” as well as the “desert rat.” To some extent, this belied Reno’s embrace of the sin industry—divorce, booze, gambling. That story is in my book, “Reno’s Jazz Hysteria.” Then, during the mid-30s, as described in that book, Nevada redefined “western” as “cowboy”.

The contradictions inherent to that final mythology continue to this day. Nevadans live midst institutionalized contradictions—a severe contrast between a sin industry and a natural paradise. I sometimes wonder if modern poetry does not, in fact, better convey this tension than does historical verse from an earlier time. Beginning in the 1940s and more obviously since the 1970s,1 modern poetry has largely replaced the old style of lyric in Nevada. Poetry by Gary Short,2 Kirk Robertson and Shawn Griffin’3 has signaled an increasing shift to free verse in modern, “Nevada poetry”.4

Modern verse is beyond the scope of this current book. Others discuss it much better than I do. The older rhymes in this book come from a less conflicted time. For what its worth, here is a broad selection from a lost literature and a vanished culture of direct language.

CW Bayer,

Carson City, Nevada

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! California As It Is, 1849 5 Thaddeus Meighan, New York

To understand the historical role of lyric —both song and poem—in northern Nevada and, by extension, the culture of the far West one must know about the popularization of the phrase “seeing the elephant” by a song sung to thousands in New York City during early 1849. To “see the elephant” meant to embrace risk and fun in the face of public scorn. The phrases widely used by young men coming to California by sea or land during the gold rush. Modern discussion of the phrase prefers to see it as a folk-expression. However, its popularization was quite specific.

In New York City during late 1848, as news that the California gold strike of January 1848 was, in fact, significant and as young men by the thousands packed their bags, the Temperance League took the stance that picking up the ground was immoral. Working in father’s store was moral. Operating his American Museum in the City, P.T. Barnum sought to define himself as a moral man and commissioned a comic musical to convey this sentiment. He hired newspaperman Thaddeus Meighan to write the song, “California As It Is.” Meighan wrote his lyric as a parody of the recent hit, “Jeannette and Jeannot.”

Meighan did not like Barnum. He seems to have felt free to use one of Barnum’s projects as an example of flim- flam and humbug—a cheat. During 1842, Barnum had purchased a mastodon bone and, calling it an “elephant” charged people to see it. In the song, Meighan compared what some in New York saw as false promise of California to seeing this “elephant.” The song was sung for thousands during the spring of 1849. Coming by sea or land, young men then appropriated the phrase and, for years, it summed up a culture of risk and fun that defined western mining. In a broader sense, the rejection of a civilized reality for embrace of transience and adventure runs through not only the mining era but also subsequent eras of Nevada rhyme.

I’ve been to California and I haven’t got a dime, I’ve lost my health, my strength, my hope, and I have lost my time. I’ve only got a spade and pick and if I felt quite brave, I’d use the two of them ‘ere things to scoop me out a grave. This digging hard for gold may be politic and bold, But you could not make me think so; but you may if you are told, Oh! I’ve been to California and I’m minus all the gold, For instead of riches plenty I have only got a cold, And I think in going mining I was regularly sold.

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! I left this precious city with two suits of gallus rig, My boots, though India-rubber, were sufficiently big For to keep the water out, as well as alligators, And I tell you now my other traps were very small potatoes: I had a great machine, the greatest ever seen, To wash the sands of value and to get the gold out clean, And I had a fancy knapsack filled with sausages and ham, And of California diggers I went out the great I Am, But I found the expedition was a most confounded flam.

Now only listen to me and I’ll tell you in a trice That poking in the dirt for gold ain’t more than very nice; You’re starved, stewed, and frozen and the strongest man he says He’s bound to have your money or he’ll wallop you like blazes; I was shot and stabbed and kicked, and remarkably well licked, And compelled to eat poll parrots which were roasted but not picked, And I slept beneath a tent which hadn’t got a top, With a ragged blanket round me and the ground all of a sop, And for all this horrid suffering I haven’t got a cop.

So here I am without a home, without a cent to spend, No toggery, no wittles, and not a single friend; With lizards, parrots, spiders, snakes, and other things unclean, All crowded in my stomach and I’m very week and lean. But I ain’t the only one that’s got tired of this ‘ere fun, For about a thousand chaps are ready now to run As hard as they can possibly, from there to kingdom come, For there ain’t nobody, sir, but here they might be some, And enjoy their cakes and coffee and now and then some rum.

Moral: If you’ve enough to eat and drink and buy your Sunday clothes, Don’t listen to the gammon that from California blows, But stay at home and thank your stars, for every hard-earned cent, And if the greenhorns go and dig, why coolly let them went; If you go, why you will see, the elephant, yes sirree, And some little grains of gold that are no bigger than a flea; I’ve just come from California and if any here there be Who is got that yellow fever they need only look at me, And I think New York will suit ‘em, yes exactly to a T.

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! ARRIVAL OF THE GREENHORN, 1854 6 John Stone, California

Written in the Sierra Nevada about gold rush era emigration across Nevada, this song appeared on the cover of Stone’s first book—Put's Original California Songster. Stone published many California gold rush songs during the 1850s. I outline more of these in The Strychnine Banjo. These songs and this song in particular helped set the standard for a mock heroic western lyric style—based on direct influence from London saloon theater originated in San Francisco during the early 1850s. The form carried over into what came to be called cowboy poetry. A lawyer, with the pen name “Old Put”, Stone put the case for the first western hero—Pike, the overland emigrant from rural Missouri or Illinois who possessed gun craft and woodcraft, the qualities of rugged survival admired and emulated by Yankee as both arrived in California. The song discusses the chief killer of overland emigrants—bad water, water in the alkali flats of the Great Basin. And it touches on the means—diarrhea, a topic that could never have been mentioned in an eastern song at the height of the Victorian era. Stone’s songs were considered “vulgar” by some. As discussed in my book, The Strychnine Banjo, among forty niners Stone’s songs were later overshadowed by the stage songs, Joe Bowers and, The Days of Forty Nine.

I’ve just got in across the Plains, I’m poorer than a snail, My mules all died, but poor old Clip, I pulled in by the tail; I fed him last at Chimney Rock, that’s where the grass gave out, I’m proud to tell, we stood it well, along the Truckee route. But’ I’m very weak and lean, though I started plump and fat, How I wish I had the gold machine, I left back on the Platte! And a pair of striped bed tick pants, my Sally made for me, To wear while digging after gold and when I left says she, “Here take the laudanum with you Sam, to check the di-a-ree.”

When I left Missouri river, with my California rig, I had a shovel, pick and pan, the tools they used to dig; My mules gave out along the Platte, where they got alkalied, And I sick with the “di-a-ree,” my laudanum by my side. When I reached the little Blue, I’d one boot and a shoe, Which I thought by greasing once or twice, would last me nearly through; I had needles, threads and pills, which my mammy did prescribe, And a flint-lock musket full, to shoot the Digger tribe, But I left them all on Goose Creek where I freely did imbibe.

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! I joined in with a train from Pike; at Independence Rock, The Indians came in that night, stampeded all their stock; They laughed at me, said, “Go a-foot,”but soon they stopped their fun, For my old mule was left behind so poor he could not run. So I packed my fancy nag, for the rest I could not wait, And I traveled up Sweet Water, till I came to Devil’s Gate; When my mule gave out in sight of where I started in the morn, I’d have given all my boots and shoes if I had not been born, Or I’d rather shipped at New Orleans, to swim around the Horn.

I arrived at Salt Lake City, on the 18th of July, Old Brigham Young was on a “bust,” he swore they’d never die; I went to the see the Jordan, with a lady, God forgive her, She took me to the water’s edge, and shoved me in the river; I crawled out and started on, and managed very well, Until I struck the Humboldt, which I thought was nearly hell, I traveled till I struck the sink where outlet can’t be found, The Lord got through late Saturday night, he’d finished all around, But would not work on Sunday, so he run it on the ground.

The Peyouts stole what grub I had, they left me not a bite, And now the devil was to pay—the Desert was in sight; And as the people passed along, they’d say to me, “You fool, You’ll never get through the world, unless you leave that mule.” But I pushed, pulled and coaxed, till I finally made a start, And his bones, they squeaked and rattled so, I thought he’d fall apart, I killed a buzzard now and then, gave Clip the legs and head. We crossed the Truckee thirty times, but not a tear was shed, We crossed the summit, took the trail, that to Nevada led.

When I got to Sacramento, I got on a little tight, I lodged aboard the Prison brig, one-half a day and night; I vamosed when I got ashore, went to the Northern mines, There found the saying very true, “All is not gold that shines.” I dug, packed and chopped, and have drifted night and day, But I haven’t struck a single lead, that would me wages pay, At home they think we ought to have gold on our cabin shelves, Wear high-heeled boots, well blacked, instead of rubbers, No. twelves; But let them come and try it, till they satisfy themselves.

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! BOUND FOR THE LAND OF WASHOE, 1863 7 Mart Taylor, Virginia City

Accompanied by her mentor, Jake Williams, on gut-strung minstrel banjo, during 1863 sixteen year old Lotta Crabtree sang this song in Virginia City to cheer the miners after a difficult winter. In 1856, Mart Taylor sought to counter what he saw as John Stone’s “vulgar” verses. He largely failed at this yet, in the process and while creating a family-friendly mountain troupe, he helped launch Lotta’s career. In 1863, she was still learning banjo from Jake Wallace. The impish girl from Rabbit Creek near Grass Valley, went east in 1864 and eventually became the highest paid female performer in the nation. This 1863 song was Taylor’s last effort with Lotta who was being mentored on the banjo and in minstrel theater by Jake Wallace. See my book, The Strychnine Banjo, for their story.

Exciting times all around the town, Glory, Glory to Washoe. Stocks are up and stocks are down, Glory to old Washoe.

Washoe! Washoe! Bound for the land of Washoe, And I owned three feet in the “Old Dead Beat,” And I’m bound for the land of Washoe.

There is the big Gould and Curry and the Great Wide West. Glory, Glory to Washoe. O! I think they are the largest and the best, Glory to old Washoe.

There is the Yellow Jacket tunnel and my Mary Ann. Glory, Glory to Washoe. Oh, Johnny, how is your dog, or any other man, Glory to old Washoe.

Oh, see the crowd on Montgomery Street. Glory, Glory to Washoe. Everybody is talking feet, Glory to old Washoe.

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! BALDY GREEN, 1865 8 Charley Rhoades, Virginia City

This song may have been written by Rhoades for performance of a burlesque—a parody of a play—making fun of the mainstream work, Arrah-no-poke. He appears to have done this during late 1865 at The Music Hall on D Street in Virginia City. In all likelyhood, the song’s enduring popularity among resident results because Baldy Green was robbed no only in 1865 but in two more years—giving Rhoades reason to reprise the song several times. In ’65, he played the Music Hall. However in 1867 and ’68 he and his troupe appeared at Piper’s Opera House. See my book, The Strychnine Banjo.

Drury Wells wrote: Speaking of holdups, I call to mind a catchy bit of frontier balladry called Baldy Green, which used to be the most popular song on the Comstock. Charley Reed’s Chicken Tamale and Daniel’s Razzle Dazzle couldn’t compare. K.B. Brown used to laugh and stamp his feet when he heard Charley Rhoades play the banjo and sing it. ‘Everybody stamped their feet in those days,’ explained ‘K.B.’ in reminiscent strain. ‘That was before the dudes had introduced the custom of clapping. You can bet your life that anybody would have been tarred and feathered or ridden out of town on a rail just as quickly for clapping his hands as he would for wearing a swallow-tail coat. Old Judge Mesick and Jonas Seely and Colonel Bob Taylor and Jase Baldwin and Rollin Daggett, all used to sit together in John Piper’s old Opera House, and whenever Rhoades would come out and sing Baldy Green they’d hit on the benches in front of them with their six-shooters and call “Bully!” until Piper would try to give them back their money to get them to stop. I’ll always believe that Rhoades wrote Baldy Green himself, though I understand Hank Donnelly, Superintendent of the Eureka Con. mine tried to prove that Alf Doten did. The way the song came to be written was that Wells- Fargo’s stages were being robbed nearly every day, just as if Milton Sharp or Black Bart had been there, and their high-toned driver, Baldy Green, seemed to be the favorite with the road agents. Anyway, they stopped him oftener than any of the others. Some suspicious people used to say that Baldy was in with the play and gave the boys the right tip, but that was all josh. Everybody who knew Baldy protested that it wasn’t so, but it made him madder to tell it on him that it really was true. One of the exciting events in Baldy’s much-interrupted career is immortalized in the song.

I’ll tell you all a story, and I’ll tell it in a song And I hope that it will please you, for it won’t detain you long; ‘Tis about one of the old boys, so gallus and so fine, Who used to carry mails, on the Pioneer Line.

He was the greatest favor-ite, that ever yet was seen, He was known about Virginny by the name of Baldy Green. Oh, he swung a whip so gracefully, for he was bound to shine— For he was a high-toned driver, on the Pioneer Line.

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! Now, as he was driving out one night, as lively as a coon, He saw three men jump in the road, by the pale light of the moon; Two sprang for the leaders, while one his shotgun cocks, Saying, ‘Baldy, we hate to trouble you, but just pass us out the box.”

When Baldy heard them say these words, he opened wide his eyes, He didn’t know what in the world to do for it took him by surprise. Then he reached into the boot, saying, “Take it, sirs, with pleasure.” So out into the middle of the road went Wells and Fargo’s treasure.

Now, when they got the treasure box they seemed quite satisfied, For the man who held the leaders then politely stepped aside. Saying “Baldy, we’ve got what we want, so drive along your team,” And he made the quickest time to Silver City ever seen.

Don’t say greenbacks to Baldy now, it makes him feel so sore, He’d traveled the road many a time, but was never stopped before. Oh, the chances they were three to one and shotguns were the game, And if you’d ‘a been in Baldy’s place you’d a shelled her out the same.

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! EXCELSIOR, 1866 9 Short Fellow, Washoe Valley

A parody of Longfellow’s “Excelsior”. Longfellow would no doubt have penned his “Excelsior” like this if he had been riding home on a cold night after long hours “soldiering" in Washoe City during the 1860s. At the time, Washoe City lay near the lumber mills providing timbering to the Comstock and it seemed poised to become the regional hub.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through a Washoe village passed, The driver of a scrubby team; And every now and then he’d scream, Excelsior!

His brow was sunburned, and his eye, Flashed like a meteor in the sky: And the clam-horn’s note were far surpassed, By the accents of that fearful blast— Excelsior!

“Try not to pass,” so Paddy spake: “The snow won’t melt for mor’n a wake, The roarin’ Truckee’s dane and cowld,” But still that voice defiant howled Excelsior!

“Oh stay,” the maiden said, and rest, Thy classic mug upon my breast.” The weary traveler wiped his nose, And higher yet those accents rose— Excelsior!

“Beware the snow storm and the sleet; Beware the treacherous wildcat feet.” This was his comrade’s last good-bye; But still he answered with a sigh— Excelsior!

As homeward at the break of day, A miner plods his weary way. On end stood each and every hair. For a voice screamed thro’ the startled air: Excelsior!

A man was found by a faithful pup, With snow and ice half covered up, Hungry, cold and stiff—not dead— Who faintly, very faintly, said— Excelsior!

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! At Huffaker’s he soon was seen, Imbibing nitro-glycerine: And as he quaffed the liquid dram, In accents wild he cried—God d—n, Excelsior!

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! THE ARTFUL JERKER, 1868 10 Bolivar Spikens, Gold Hill

On March 15, 1868, Gold Hill News assistant editor Alf Doten and his landlord’s wife settled in for an evening of spiritualism. He impressed her greatly with his ability to raise the spirits, talking to the dead, by tipping the table. They began an affair. Three days later, on the morning of March 18, after partaking of the St. Patrick’s Day Fenian Grand Ball at the Athletic Club in Virginia City, Doten published this work by “Bolivar Spikens”— who was probably Doten himself, the barbed conqueror. His reference to a “gal from Sonoma” seems to be to an earlier romance, during the 1850s—a story he tells in his journal. In the final verse, Doten included some gold rush slang, though as an editor and a man with social aspirations he could be hesitant about publishing the mining language he heard all around.

Bring me, sweet ‘Jerker,’ some lager beer! And sit you down here by me.” So we sat on the brightest of all summer days, Drinking lager, and I singing love’s sweetest lays, ‘Till her dark eyes beamed with a softening gaze, That was mightily pleasant to see.

“Bring us, dark ‘Jerker’, some brandy punch!’ And a pitcher full she and me, Contrived to imbibe, ‘till I clasped at her waist, Caring for naught but that dear, dear face, Radiant glowing with love’s charming grace, And amorous glances free.

“Bring, dearest ‘Jerker,’ some whiskey straight!” We drank it, and she sank down, Into my lap, and I dreamed to my breast, My darling “young gal from Sonoma” I pressed, And we both sweetly snored in the realms of the blest, The lovingest pair in town.

Darn that old “Jerker,” Ah! She was a “bilk”, Of the “very first water”, I own, For when I awoke, I found I was “sold;” “Gone through” by this “Jerker” so loving and bold, She had robbed me of sixty-three dollars in gold, And “vamosed” for parts unknown.

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! THE COLLOQUY OF THE OLD TIMERS, c.1868 11 Dr. Henry De Groot, Ione

Dr. De Groot arrived in California during 1848. He then went back east and returned west in 1849. During 1860 and 1863, he drew the first good maps of Nevada. De Groot had a particular interest in names and was assigned to rename Lake Tahoe—formerly Lake Bigler. From 1864 to 1867, he helped run a newspaper in Ione, Nye County. Based on the third stanza, it was probably during this period that, reflecting on the aging 49ers, De Groot began composition of “The Colloquy Of The Old Timers”. He may have published it in his newspaper. But no copies from that source survive. The poem was published in California during 1876 by The Golden Era. According to accounts, De Groot never sent the work to be printed in California but, in some manner, it reached the editor. During 1881, The Territorial Enterprise editor, Dan DeQuille, published a shortened version under the borrowed title, “The Days of ’49.” Though largely forgotten today, the poem was once lauded as the most authentic example of gold rush language from the California diggings.

The poem pictured the western mineral more cosmopolitan than Pike—the literary mining hero of 1850s California, derived from the rural Pike County emigrant who came overland. De Groot’s heroes are well-traveled. Ultimately, it would be this rootlessness among miners that would lend to efforts by western writers to replace the miner as the western hero. The poem’s nostalgia for the early days of the gold rush and it racist verses are authentic to the attitude of miners during this period. The poem is framed as a conversation between Dan who lives in Idaho and Jim who has traveled from the Southwest. The first part lists places on a journey through diggings undertaken in California between roughly 1850 and 1854. The second part lists individuals and their fates. This theme may have directly inspired Charley Rhoades’ song, “The Days of ’49.” In the third part, Dan digresses to the story of Henry Van Sickle shooting Sam Brown in Carson Valley during 1861. And, Jim digresses to stories of fighting Indians in the Southwest. Finally, the poem describes Dan’s adventures in Idaho. The poem concludes with a homily to the eternal search for gold.

“Hello!” “Hello!” “Why Jim! “Why Dan!” “Good Lord! I want to know!” “Well, well! old fel! Give us your han’- “Bu, Jim, how does it go?”

“Oh! sometimes gay and sometimes rough— And how’s it go with you?” “Well, times jus’ now’s a little tough Up here in Idaho.

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! “But where ya been, Jim, ever since We left the Stanislow, And pulled up stakes down at Dent’s— Now eighteen years ago?”

“Wal, since that time that we put out On that stampede from Stoney, Been mos’ the time knockin’ about Down in Air-e-zoney.

Only been back a month or so, And thought I’d take a tramp Through the old diggin’s long with Jo, Who stops at Nigger Camp.

Started from Alpha on our trip, And passed up the Divide, Through Tangle-Leg and Let-Her-Rip, Red Dog and Whiskey Slide.

Then after leaven’ thar we went Down by the Tail Holt mill, ‘Crost Greenhorn Mountain to Snow Tent, And up to Gouge-Eye Hill.

From Gouge-Eye down to Esperance, Slap Jack and Oro Fin; Through Deadwood over to Last Chance, Root Hog and Lost Ravine.

From Petticoat, then Shirt-Tail Flat, And on by Murderer’s Bar, Crost Bloody Run and thro’ Wild Cat, To Poker and Lone Star.

Then Angel’s Camp down by Rawhide We took a run one night, Through Chinese Roost and Satan’s Pride Across to Hell’s Delight.

Then came along to Poverty, Dead Broke and Bottle Ridge, By Hangtown, Poor Man and Lone Tree, Garrote and Smash-up Bridge,

Through Nip and Tuck and old Bear Trap, Coon Hollow and Fair Play, Along the Scorpion and Fir Gap, Kanaka and Ed Rey.

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! We stopped one day at Never Sweat, Another up at Ophir, Then moved our boots on to You Bet, And struck across by Gopher

To Sucker, near Grass Widow Bend, What as’t was getting late, We brought our journey to an end Down by the Devil’s Gate.”

“Well, Jim, you must uv seen a heap; I’d like to make the rounds As you have done, and take a peep Through the old stamping grounds.”

“Y-a-s, but I tell you what it is, The times they ain’t no more In Californy as they was ‘Way back in Fifty-Four.

‘Hits swarming with them Chinese rats, Lots tsk the country, sure, A race that lives on dogs and cats, Will make all mean or poor.”

“But ‘bout the girls and Schneider’s frow, And Kate and Sal Magee? I ‘spose they’ve all got married now— Leastwise they ought to be.”

“Married! You can buck high on that; Some of them two, three times; First fellows they just had to get— They didn’t have the dimes.”

“Well! well! do tell! is that they way The gals is going on? But how’s the boys and old man Ray, And Ike and Steve and John?

And what become of Zaccheus Wade, Who run the big mule train?” “Wall, Zach he made his pile, they said, And then went back to Maine.

And so did old Pop Ray and Steve, And Ike and Johnny Yates,— All I made a raise at last, I believe, And went home to the States.”

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! “And Slater, him that took the trip With us to Yazoo Branch?” “Wal, Slate he kind o’ lost his grip, And settled on a ranch.”

“And Jackass Jones that came about With whiskey on the Bar?” “Wal, Jackass, too, he petered out, And went—I don’t know whar.”

“And tell me, where is Jerry Ring, Who kept the Grizzly Bear, Jes’ down forninst the Lobscouse Spring, And kilt the Greaser there?

That Greaser Jesus, don’t you know, That stabbed Mike at the ball, The time we had the fandango At Blood and Thunder Hall?”

“Oh, Jerry didn’t no no good, Got crazy ‘bout a woman, And tuck at last to drinkin’ hard, ‘Cause she got sort o’common—

Y-a-s, was by nature low inclined, And went clean to the bad, Which worked so on to Jerry’s mind Hit almost made him mad.

Dick went one day up Pike Divide, And thar lay Jerry dead, A navy pistol by his side,— A bullet through his head,”

“Tight papers them on Jerry Ring, But, Jim, as sure as you live, Them women is a dreadful thing— For a man to have to do with.

But Plug Hat Smith that kept a stand— Sold pens and ink and such?” “Wal, Plug he helt a poorish hand, And never struck it rich.

Got sort o’luny and stage-struck, Cut up a heap o’capers, And final went below and tuck To writin’ for the papers,”

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! “And Jolly Jake, that drove so long There on the Lightnin’ Line, And afterwards from One-horse Town To Webfoot and Port Wine?”

“Got hurt on Bogus Thunder Hill— Thrower on his horses’ necks— Was carried up to Coyoteville, And thar hant in his checks.

“’T was kind o’ queer; but these they said, War the the last words of Jake, Wal, boys, I’m on the down-hill grade, And cannot reach the break.’”

“And Butcher Brown that used to boast He’d killed so many men?” “Ah, Butch, he met his match at last— Van Sickle settled him”

“Went out to Washoe, kilt three thar, And found it getting hot; His health required a change of air, And he got up and got.

Said how he’d sent a baker’s dozen Across lots to the grave; Would like to make the number even Before he took his leave.

So went for Van and came blamed nigh A gittin’ him, they say, Then on his horse, that stood near by, He jumped and rode away.

Now Henry ain’t no hand to blow, But jes’ that sort o’feller, On which it’s always safe to go Your very bottom dollar,

Said to himself, like, ‘Now this whelp, To get his even tally, Will very likely go and kelp Some neighbor up the valley.

Reckon I’d better block his game, And do the thing at one’t; Besides, I don’t much like this same Rough way o’ being bounced.’

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! When Sam had got off ‘bout a mild, He heard a minie hum, Looked round, and that war Van well-heeled— Just coming after him.

Not fancying much that minie’s tone, Sam he put off and ran, Like he would rather save his own Than raise the ha’r o’ Van.

And so they rid—wal, I suspect, Nigh on a three-mild race— Exchanging shots without effect, Who Van gave up the chase—

Leastwise lay off, for about midnight, When Sam came back to Lute’s, He let him out in a squar fight Jes’ standin’ in his boots.

Next day the jury found deceased, His name was Samuel Brown, And further that they all believed He had been taken down

By one Van Sickle, and somewhar About Lute Old’s last night, And on their solemn oaths did swar He served the d—-d cuss right!”

“Bully for Van! He’s hard to beat— And for the jury too— Though most a shame that way to cheat The gallows of its due.

Where’s sailor Jack, that used to cruise With Alabama and Yank, Them chaps that bilked the boarding-house And bust the faro-bank?”

“Jack left the country on a ship, And t’others, I don’t know as They ever got back fro the trip They tuck to Barbacoas.”

“Learn anything ‘bout Teddy Kearu Or Bruisse Bob Magoon?” “Both down that in the Bay, I learn, Keeping a 12 1/2 cents saloon.”

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! “And him that wore the big moostache?” “You mean that rich French count? He’s down that too—a slinging hash At the Miner’s Restaurant.

Yas, Frisco’s lousy with them sorts And bums of all condition, Some of them capping for their sports, Some playing politician.”

“But tell me, Jim, about the sights, And what you’ve done and seen; Reckon you’ve had some ‘Pache fights, Down yonder where you’ve been?”

“Y-a-s, got us in a rocky pass, And there corralled one day, They had a dead sure thing on us— Couldn’t fight nor get away.

And ‘fore our party could back out, They shot poor Fred McKean,— The arrers flying thick about, But no a varmint seen.

And when I found that Fred would die, I felt almighty bad, And jist laughed out,—I couldn’t cry, I was so thundering mad.

And then I said, ‘Now, look here, boys, Ef you would save your lives. You jist put up them shootin’ toys, And sail in with your knives.’

And raisin’ quick the ‘Pache whoop, I started on ahead—“ “And did the t’others back you up?” “Yes, Dan, you bet they did!

And when the cusses seed us come, They raised a scroughing yell, To which our boys sang out each one, ‘Wade in, and give ‘em—fits!’

And of our band I b’lieve the whole Was wounded more or less; But we made good Ingins of them all, And they’ll stay good, I guess.

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! Poor Fred, when I cam back to him, Though trying hard to speak, Could only say, ‘Tell mother, Jim,’ He was so powerful weak.

And the next day we made his grave Upon a little hill, Under the shade of a mesquite grove, On the road to Cristoval.

We had after that another fight With them yar pesky fellows, Down at Arroya Saucerlite, Among the little willows.

But that they didn’t get us foul,— We’d larnt their sneaking ways,— And you can swar we made ‘em howl, And git between two days.

As for their names, why, Dan, sich frights You never came acrost— Espirtu Santo which the whites They called the Holy Ghost.

Las Mariquitas, Juan de Dios— These names they seemed so funny. We christened on the Runty Marias, And t’other Pious Johnny.

We altered heaps o’Greaser names,— Los Ojos de Inez, Sierra Blanco, Sebastians, El Cobra, and La Paz.

So, too, we changed ‘mongst other things, San Pedro to St. Pat, The Eyes of Inez to Mud Spring, La Paz to Quaker Flat.

El Pajaro we called The Bird, La Reina, Gypsy Queen; Salinas and El Rio Verde, Salt River and The Green.

San Nicholas we dubbed Old Nic, Moreno, Dirty Dun; Arroyo Muerto, Murder Creek; Puerco, Ground Hog Run.

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! We cut our names on every cross, And burnt some to the ground, To let the natives know their bless, The white man, had been round.

Warm thar! Why, Dan, ’t was jes’ that hot, That beaus were cooked well done. And we always filed the coffee-pot, Hit standing in the sun.

Soldiers who died they nearly froze,— Least that’s the story they tell— And sent right back for their underclothes The moment they got to—well

Not to the land of the holy ones, Whar blood shall cease to flow; And thar being no use for these sons of guns, They’re not very apt to go.

“But, Dan, how has it been with you, Off on some wild-goose chase?” “Yes, took a trip to Carriboo And over on the Peace:

Staid there three years and then turned south, Came back to Camp McPhail, And so on down to Quesnelle Mouth, And cross the La Heche Trail

To Kamloops and Okinagane, And through the Grand Coule, By way of the Smilkameen, Clean round to Kootenai.

Stopped till I made a raise again, Then started out anew, And striking cross by Coeur d’Alene, Came on to Idaho.”

“I’d a class call at Tete l’June, In May of Fifty-seven, A little more and there’s have been Another saint in heaven.

A half-breed Brule, a vicious set, There—with a fishing spear— The broken point is in me yet, The scar, you see it here.

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! A well-aimed shot from Johnny Noon, And at a single bound That savage passed from Tete l’June To the happy hunting ground.”

“Well, Dan, you’ve been about some, too— But tell me, if you know, What had become of Ned McGrew, And what is Sleepy Joe?”

And Poker Pete and Monte Bill, And—I forget his name— What used to run the whisky-mill, And keep the keno game?’

“Well, as for Ned, can’t ‘zactly say, But ‘bout the t’other three, The last we heard, were up this way A hanging on a tree,—

Went into the Road Agency Along with Texas Jim; The Vigilants of Montany Likewise also got him.

Sleepy was drowned at upper Dallas, And so was Al La Tour— Went in a skift over the falls, And we didn’t see ‘em no more.

Some think that New was eat by bears, And I must think so, too, Cause didn’t one gobble up Nic McNares On the trail to Cariboo?

Cold up North! I’ve known a name To congeal in my mouth, And that is how the saying came About the ‘frozen truth.’

Yes, and I’ve seen stranger feats, You know, Jim, I’m no liar,— The flames freeze into solid sheet, As they rose up from the fire.”

“Sure that’s right cold! But tell me, Dan, How goes the mining game, And what’s the chance here for a man To strike a paying claim?”

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! “Well, jest ‘bout here it’s rather slim, But I’ve got one that pays, So pitch right in here with me, Jim, And when we’ve made a raise,

We’ll pull of north with a good rig, For yesterday i seen Gus Gape, who said they’d struck it big High up on the Stickeen.

Or if you rather like the south, Why, then it’s south we’ll go; The only drawback is the drouth, Down that ar way, you know.”

The next we hear of Dan and Jim may be on the Yukon, Or in the forests, damp and dim, That shade the Amazon;

Or what’s more likely still, we shall Hear of them on their way To the Diamond Fields beyond the Vaal In Southern Africa.

And if there be no mines up there For them to prospect, then They’ll surely leave the Heavenly shore For the Pacific Coast again.

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! THE DAYS OF '49, 1868 12 Charley Rhoades, Virginia City, as modified by Jake Wallace

In my book, “The Strychnine Banjo” I discuss this song at length. It appears to have been composed by minstrel show banjoist Charley Rhoades and performed December 9, 1868, at Piper’s Opera House in Virginia City on D. Street—the building shown on the cover of this book. A parody of “Black Crook”, the show—“The Grasshopper Feast”— provided a benefit night for Rhoades’ partner, Otto Burbank. It featured “hits at locals”. Rhoades’ original lyrics emphasized the different states from which each character had come—betokening the cosmopolitan nature of far Western mining culture. Beginning in 1869, banjoist Jake Wallace campaigned this song in San Francisco and then up and down the west coast for decades. After about 1872, this song became the universal anthem of the “old timers” or 49ers at their pioneer society events across the nation and in the various mining towns to which they dispersed across the West—carrying an essential element to “seeing the elephant”, risk and fun. This is Wallace’s version as he sang it during 1894 at San Francisco’s Midwinter Exposition, in the gold rush theme village.

Oh! here you see Old Tom Moore, A relic of former days; A bummer too they call me now, But what care I for praise. My heart is filled with the days of yore, And oft do I repine For the days of old, the days of gold. In the days of ’49.

I’d comrades then that loved me well A brave and jovial crew. And all the boys that now remain I know there is but few. They were good souls, they never flinched Or never yell or whine, But like good old bricks They stood the kicks, In the days of ’49.

There was Monte Pete, I’ll ne’re forget The pluck he always had. He’d deal for you both night and day As long as you had a scad. One night a pistol laid him out; Twa’s his last lay-out in fine, It caught Pete sure, right in the door In the days of ’49.

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! There was Poker Bill, one of our boys And always in for a game. And whether he lost or whether he won To him ’twas all the same. He’d pass the “buck” and ante a slug, And go a hatful blind, but in the game of death Bill lost his breath In the days of ’49.

There was New York Jack A butcher boy, so fond of getting tight, Whenever Jack got on a spree He was spoiling for a fight. One day he ran against knife, In the hands of old Bob Cline, And over Jake we held a wake In the days of ’49.

There was Rattlesnake Jim, Who could outran a bull you bet. He roared all day and he roared all night, I believe he is roaring yet. One night he fell into a prospect hole, Twa’s a roaring bad design. In that hole he roared out his soul In the days of ’49.

There was old lame Jess a hard old cuss Who never did repent. He never missed a single meal, And never paid a cent. But poor old Jess like all the rest, Did at length to death resign. For in his bloom he went up the flume In the days of ’49.

Of all the comrads I had then, There’s none left to boast. And here I walk around the Camp Like some poor wandering ghost. As as I go from place to place, Folks call me a wandering sign, And say there’s old Tom Moore A bummer sure, of the days of ’49.

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! THE WASHOE CANARY, 1871 13 Anon., Reno.

“Jem Beggs” was the name of a rough musician in Henry Mayhew’s 1834 historical farce, “The Wandering Minstrel.”14 This poem projects Beggs as a rebellious man into a Nevada mining town. In this poem, Beggs’ music seems equated to his role as a mine canary.

A miner’s canary: A caged bird kept caged in mines, as its demise provided a warning of dangerous levels of toxic gases. Here, the canary appears to be the miner himself and he takes on his landlord. Anti-boss sentiment seems to have been clearly on the rise by this date and to have lasted into the 20th century. By 1871, once home to 1200 people, Star City lay in serious decline, home to only a few dozen. The poem seems to comment on the ultimate futility of a fight between a tenant and landlord in a place doomed to disappear. Though the City lay in today’s Pershing County, at the time Nevada as a whole could be referred to as “Washoe.”

Within a cabin, six by ten, Jem Beggs was dreaming of his power, When he should make his pile and leave The spot he’d worked for many an hour. In dreams thro’ “Rag Town” camp he bare The treasure of a millionaire; And as he slung his cash on high, He stole a smile and yanked a sigh, Like a Washoe canary bird.

An hour passed on—Jem Beggs awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his landlord shriek, “Your board! Your board! You bilk! You sneak!” He woke to fight ‘midst dust and smoke, And yell, and cuss, and poker-stroke, And ear-rings falling fast, He brought his double-fist to bear Upon the landlord’s larboard ear, And Jem, he raised a yell: Strike—till you close his starboard eye! Strike—till you make the claret fly! Jem stole a smile and breathed a sigh For the Washoe canary bird.

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! They fought like tigers, long and well; They strewed the floor with Jem’s bedclothes; Jem straightened out, the landlord fell, Bleeding at mouth and nose. When his surrounding comrades saw His smile, then rang their loud hurrah, And the big fight was won. They saw the landlord’s peepers close, His hairless scalp, his battered nose— We’ll have no more conduct like those, Said the Washoe canary bird.

Go to Nevada’s distant land, Where Humboldt sinks beneath the sand; To where Star City’s site now stands— You’ll find Jem’s famous cabin. Explore the deserts up and down; Gaze on her hills of purple brown, Where numerous dark volcanoes frown, You’ll hear, as you approach the town, A sound break on the desert air, And through the hills and canyons tear, Like double barreled thunder: Yaw-he, yaw-he, yaw-he— ‘Tis Washoe’s famed Ca-nai-ri-e.

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! FIRE IN THE TUNNEL, 1872 15 G. H. Jennings, Esq., Virginia City.

The American Flat tunnel—“Tunnel No.2— burned on October 17, 1872 as the recently built Baldwin engine “Reno, No.11” pulled cars from Carson City to Virginia City with Johnny Batholomew barreled through the flames as passengers screamed. It had been operating in Nevada for about a month. The train was scorched and several windows were cracked by the tunnel fire. After two months repair, the tunnel and railroad were back in operation. The “Reno” appeared in the 1937 movie “Courage Of The West” and numerous other movies subsequently. The engine is currently in Tuscon.16 “Fire In The Tunnel” may be the only historical lyric about the V&T railroad. Reverend Ayers wrote: Oct. 17, 1872, as an excursion train, loaded with passengers, most of whom were women and children, rounded the curve close below the tunnel and with No. 6 train thundering close behind, the timbering in the tunnel was discovered by the fireman to be on fire. The engineer, Johnny Batholomew, comprehended the position at a glance, made one of the most brilliant dashes, under the circumstances, on record. The train passed through the tunnel safely, when to have stopped short would have been sure death. The cab caught fire and had to be rebuilt.

I ain’t very much on the fancy, And all that sort of stuff, For an engineer on the railroad, Is apt to be more, “on the rough”. He don’t “go much” on “his handsome,” I freely “acknowledge the corn.” But he has got to “git up” on his “wide-awake”, That’s “just as sure’s your ’re born.”

Now, I’ll tell you a little story, ‘Bout “a run” we had for our necks, When we thought “old Gabe” had called us, To “ante up our checks.” We came ‘round the curve by the tunnel, Just beyond the American Flat, When my fireman sings out, “Johnny! Look ahead! My God, what’s that?”

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! You bet, I warn’t long in sightin’, There was plenty for me to see, With a train full of kids an’ women, And their lives all hangin’ on me. For the tunnel was roarin’ and blazin’, All ragin’ with fire an’ smoke, And “Number Six” close behind us,’’ “Quick, sonny! Shove in the coke.”

Whistle “down brakes” I first thought, Then, thinks I, “old boy, ‘t won’t do”, And with hand on throttle an’ lever, I knew I must roll ‘em through! Through the grim mouth of the tunnel, Through smoke an’flame as well, Right into the “gateway of death,” boys, Right smack through the “jaws of hell”!

The staunch “old gal” felt the pressure, Of steam through her in’r joints. She acted just like she was human, Just like she “knew all the points.” She glided along the tramway, With speed of a lightning flash, With a howl assuring us safety, Regardless of wreck or crash.

I s’pose I might have “jumped the train,” In hope to save sinew and bone, And left them women and children, To take that ride alone. But I tho’t of a day of reck’nin’, And whatever “Old John” done here, No Lord aint’t going to say to him then, “You went back as an engineer.”

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! ARE YOU A HOOD-A-LUM, 1872 17 Sellerman, Pine Grove

In the mining town of Pine Grove, the bib shirt crowd did not like the Irish and German miners in the diggings. In turn, the Irish and German boys at the local Lyceum—literary gathering— made fun of the bibbed shirt crowd. The upper crust had labeled them with a term—hood-a-lum or hoodlum. This term had been coined about 1868 to describe Irish street thugs who beat up the Chinese along the Barbary Coast in San Francisco. The miners appropriated the term for this comedy song, a parody of “Have You Seen Sam.”

I came to town the other day about a week or more, I traveled many a weary mile my feet were very sore. I called at Jerry G’s saloon to get a little rum, He looked at me and smiling said, are you a Hood-a-lum.

Are you a Hood-a-lum – I’m a hood-a-lum, I hear where’er I go, What is this Hood-a-lum, does any body know.

Next day I went up to the mine and soon I found the boss, He hardly spoke a word to me, he was so very cross. I asked if he could give me work, he looked at me so glum, Says he, I have no work for you, you are a Hood-a-lum.

I started down the street again, I felt a little vexed, Not knowing what the people meant, though very much perplexed. A fellow looked at me and said I want you to keep mum, Or I will put a head on you, I’m big chief Hood-a-lum.

I went to buy a suit of clothes, a hat and pair of boots, The store man said how very cheap, he sold the cheapest suits. I said to him how can you dare to ask me such a sum, They’re cheap says he I think said I you are a Hood-a-lum.

I met a lady at a ball, I thought myself in luck, She smiled so very sweet, on me of course she must be stuck. I told her I would like to call, she said I need not come, I did not tell her but I thought she was a Hood-a-lum.

This word is nearly new to me, I hear it talked about, I know not what to think of it, I cannot make it out. Next evening, I intend to go and see the Lyceum, In hope that I might find one there, a genuine Hood-a-lum.

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! OSCEOLA, 1877 18 R.G. Schofield, Osceola

I send effusion number two To help you fill your papers And give you all the local news Of Osceola capers.

The place is growing pretty fast And should be called a city. Two stores, two boarding houses, forge, And whiskey mills aplenty.

Old Schultz has been with us awhile To boss Mongolian labor And try his hand at panning dirt, Or cinch his nearest neighbor.

There’s Commins come To assess our gold and labor. I must not say too much of him, For I might want his favor.

George Doane is here and keeping store, With goods of all descriptions, Dried apples, nails, potatoes, cloth, His clerk will fill prescriptions.

Tip Johnson stands behind the bar With gold scales nice and handy, But if you want the coin from him Your dust must not be sandy.

Joe Ayers, a noted blacksmith is, Who makes his grub by stealing, But this is quite a paradox For honest is his dealing.

Ned Allen, his is down the creek, And brags about his rocker He says it beats all rockers made I’d like to find his locker.

There’s Bibbins minding boots and shoes, And hoisting up big boulders, But that you know is naught for him, He has such wondrous shoulders.

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! My friend Chappell is growing thin, Since we took out the nugget. The only thing that troubles him A partner t’was that dug it.

My news is done, so fare you well. I’ll come unto un ending, For you’ll get sick to hear from me Should I keep on my sending.

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! CHICKEN TOMALES, 1879 19 Charley Reed, Virginia City

This lyric was probably sung to the tune of “Upidee”.20 It parodies Longfellow’s “Excelsior.” Though the Chinese vendor of rice tomales—joong— is described in stereotypical, racist terms, the point of the song appears to be that the Chinese vendor gets the better of the granger—the rancher visiting town. This is a noteworthy example of defending other races among the Nevada bohemian set that included professional and amateur musicians and poets. It was written and performed at a time when anti-Chinese feeling and laws were growing in the far West. The author was a well-known minstrel who performed in Virginia City.

In 1916, Walter J. Thompson wrote: Charley Reed was more of a comedian than a minstrel. He was different from Emerson in his style and stage manners. The black on his face was not necessary to his line of entertainment. It was hardly suggestive of negro minstrelsy while he sang songs in other dialects and carried out his comical work on a diversified human interest platform, wherein a white face would have served as effectively as a blackened phiz. He warbled about topics close to the people of the city and the events of the day. Whether his ballad was eulogistic of the nutritive qualities of the “hot chicken tamale,” which then was sold on every street corner, or exploited the wonderful things that were to happen “in 1901,” or told of gay society doings in “Sweet Mooneyville by the Sea,” it was all the same. They hit the public in the right spot and “it was to laugh.”

The shades of night were falling fast, As up and down C street there passed, A heathen with Italic eye, And as he went, this was his cry— Tomales!

His eye was sad, his brow above, Looked like a dried up buckskin glove; And like a broken fish-horn rung, The accents of that well-known tongue— Tomales!

In beer saloons he saw the crowd, And then he yelled out still more loud, (While lunch fiends guzzled, ate and cussed, And swore they’d like his head to bust), Tomales!

“Try not to pass,” the gambler said, “Until I have been duly fed.” The Chinaman, with eye oblique, Bowed lowed and made answer meek, Tomales!

“Come here,” the barkeep said, “and rest, A peppery lunch beneath this breast.” Then John, he winked his crooked eye, And thus let fall his usual cry, Tomales!

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! The hoodlum snarled, “Git out o’ here, Or, by the gods, I’ll have your ear.” The peddler then moved on quite brisk, On cash sales only would he risk, Tomales!

“Dish up yer grub,” the granger cried: “Sich truck as that I never tried,” But as he set his basket down, The heathen grumbled, with a frown, Tomales!

“How do you make this wond’rous dish? It is of fowl or flesh or fish?” This the inquisition bold, Into that compound, hot and cold, Tomales!

“Me make ‘em tomale welly nice, Ketch ‘em plenty good lats and mice.” Thus did the cook with truth declaim, The secrets of that dish they name, Tomales!

Then rose the granger’s anger dire, And blazed his auburn locks of fire, While from his hungry maw there came, The remnants of those very same, Tomales!

“Beware the peddler’s awful mite: Beware the hoodlum’s savage bite.” This, the reporter’s last advice, Then calmly tackled, once or twice, Tomales!

Next morning when the sun arose, The granger donned his country clothes, And homeward turned his weary feet, Swearing he ne’er again would eat, Tomales!

No more the one eyed Chinaman, Is seen where once his race he ran; But still his ghost it haunts the spot, And shrieks, although we hear it not, Tomales!

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! THE PRINCESS WEIMAR, 1879 21 W.K. Weare, Carson City

The poem was written shortly before “Life Among The Piutes”, published during 1883, by Sarah Winnemucca. “The Princess Weimar” is probably about her. Sarah Winnemucca had married a German. This poem contains racial stereotypes. The romanticized image of the Native American had become a common device among white Americans, allowing them to gloss over and ultimately forget the violence done to Native Americans across the continent. At the same time, in intention, the poem appears to be a bohemian criticism of racism and white oppression. It concludes with a ringing defense of the Native American, albeit couched in romantic terms.

I had roamed the wide world over, I had sailed on every sea; Tropic clime, or Borean region, Each were commonplace to me.

Belles had sought to win my homage, Sought to win me by their smile; But my heart was cold as winter, I had learned the ways of guile.

I had read the “Tales of Cooper”; Read of “radiant Indian Queens” In the mountains stately forests— On the valley’s lovely greens.

No! no common love should win me— City life was tame and slow; I would woo and wed a princess— To the wild-wood I would go.

So I left the town and market, For the mountain and the mine, In the Golden Age’s birth time, In the year of Forty-Nine.

From its course we turned the river, Where for ages it had rolled, And my comrades all were happy, For its bed was sown with gold.

But my heart was dead within me; Every day the same routine. I had met no forest beauty, I had seen no “Indian Queen.”

Months had passed—’t was Indian summer, And the south wind’s gentle breathe, Came, the soft and sweet forerunner, Of the year’s approaching death.

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! When I left my camp and comrades, Wandered forth among the hills: Faded were the summer’s glories, Dried the spring-time’s gushing rills.

And the sighing of the zephyrs, Through the pine-trees seemed to say, With a sad Aeolian cadence, “Passing, passing all away.”

Suddenly, as if by magic, Stood before my sight arrayed, One more grand realization, Than my fancy had portrayed.

She was dressed—I’ll drop the fashion— But her lovely shoulders bore, One red blanket, somewhat dingy, Simply that, and nothing more.

It was fastened round her bosom, Just above the tawny zones, By some San Diego diamonds, Made from shells of abalones.

Oh, the glory of her coiffure! On the theme I long could dwell; No chignon, but pitch and ashes, With a terebinthine smell.

Oh, the simple child of nature! How she bore my earnest gaze, With a trusting unsuspicion, Rare in these degenerate days.

On her back she bore her dowry— Flattened out upon a board, Hung the heir of all the Pi-Utes— He was gagged and never stirred.

I had learned from friend Longfellow How the noble savage died, With a silent, unrelenting, Fierce, ungovernable pride.

There I learned to solve the puzzle— Early training was the trick; That young brave could die by inches, But could neither cry nor kick.

Quickly she unloosed her burden,

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! Flung it down beside a rock; Think of that, Caucasian mothers, Who have feeble nerves to shock.

Then I asked the peerless beauty, What her Indian name might be; And she answered, “Winc-tum-sam-shew Ho-lo-ting-much-Na-goo-chee.”

So ‘t was plain she was a princess, And could my devotion claim; With the Indian—as the white man— Lineage goes by length of name.

But the night was growing colder, And the stars began to shine; What was there that I could do for One so lovely—so divine?

Quickly, then, as if by instinct, I a flask of brandy drew; And I offered that unto her— Wonderful! how well she knew!

Pious men, we Forty-Niners! We who have not fortunes made, For we never think of striving, Without spiritual aid.

Oh, the magnitude of swallow! Oh, the volume of the draught! When I saw her so accomplished, Cupid launched the fatal shaft.

In a canon near the Carson, From the city’s vice away— Where the white man’s missing cattle, Unaccountably do stray—

You may find a red “campoodie,” And within a redder face; There I keep my Indian beauty, There I rear my dusky race.

They shall never know the troubles, That attend on books and schools; Never know the vain repinings, Of the educated fools.

Never follow politicians,

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! For the sake of filthy gain, And find out that modern greatness, Builds on truth, and mankind slain.

Never tread the Senate chambers, And descend to take a bribe— Shaming all the honest record, Of the Pi-Ute Indian tribe.

Better track the gaunt coyote, Chase the wild, impetuous hare, Hunt to death the fierce hog-squirrel, Run before the grizzly bear,

Ride a noble mustang, pony, And of manhood loudly brag; While the light of all the harem, Walks behind, and packs the “swag.”

Bad, indeed, these savage instincts, Undefiled by love of gold; Worse, to sell a trusting people, And them selves to shame be sold.

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! SILVER JACK’S RELIGION, c.1885 22 Senator J.P. Jones, Carson City

John Percival Jones—1829-1902—arrived in California from Cleveland in 1849. In 1868, he moved to Gold Hill, Nevada where he was superintendent of the Crown Point silver mine. In 1873, Jones was elected by the Nevada state legislature to the United States Senate, in which he served five terms from 1873 to 1903. Jones visited Los Angeles in 1874 and bought a three quarter interest in Colonel Robert S. Baker’s ranch in Santa Monica. In 1875, Jones and Baker laid out the town of Santa Monica. Jones built the first railroad (Los Angeles and Independence Railroad) from Los Angeles to Santa Monica. In Nevada, Jones campaigned as an anti- corporate populist. Among men of this persuasion, religion could be seen as a manipulation of the worker and, as early as 1870, this was a common view among miners who, at that time, comprised much of the voting population in Nevada. These political views probably lead to the poem. In part, it is a defense of natural religion over organized religion. At the same time, during the late 1880s Jones became a huge supporter of pro-silver legislation and, at one point, left the Republican Party to help creates The Silver Party23 . Nationally, it allied with William Jennings Bryan’s “free silver” movement.24 Free silver was a major economic policy issue in late 19th-century American politics. “Its advocates were in favor of an expansionary monetary policy featuring the unlimited coinage of silver into money on demand, as opposed to strict adherence to the more carefully fixed money supply implicit in the gold standard."25 In other words, Silver Jack’s “religion” might be said to have been silver except that the poem frames his concern as a defense of Jesus, perhaps to equate the silver cause with morality in a rough way.

I was on the drive in ’60 working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson and ain’t soon expected back. And there was a chap among us by the name of Robert Waite; He was kinder slick and tonguey; I guess he were a graduate.

Bob could gab on any subject from the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy just as smooth and slick as oil. He was what they call a skeptic and he loved to sit and weave High falutin’ words together, saying what he didn’t believe.

One day as we were waiting for a flood to clear the ground, We all sat smoking “nigger head” and hearing Bob expound. Hell, he said, was a humbug and he proved as clear as day That the Bible was a fable and we allowed it looked that way.

As for miracle and such like, “Twas more than he could stand, And for Him they called the Savior, he was just a common man. “You’re a liar,” shouted someone, “And you’ve got to take that back!” Then everybody started. Twas the voice of Silver Jack.

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! Jack clicked his fists together and he shucked his coat and cried: “’Twas by that thar religion my mother lived and died, And although I haven’t always used the Lord exactly right, When I hear a chump abuse Him he must eat his words or fight.”

Now Bob he warn’t no coward, and he answered bold and free: “Stack your duds, then cut your capers, for you’ll find no flies on me.” And they fit for forty minutes, and the boys would hoot and cheer, When Jack choked up a tooth or two, and Bob he lost an ear.

At last Jack got Bob under, and he slugged him wunst or twict, When Bob finally admitted the Divinity of Christ. Still, Jack kept reasoning with him, ‘till the cuss begun to yell, And allowed he’d been mistaken in his view concerning Hell.

Thus that controversy ended, and they riz up from the ground; And someone found a bottle, and kindly passed I round, And we drank to Jack’s religion in a quiet sort of way. So the spread of infidelity was checked in camp that day.

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! THE MINER’S SOLILOQUY, 1888 26 Anon., Virginia City

Some held that the miner should be grateful to be working. Others saw the miner as trapped by the corporate wage. The 20th century lore of the desert rat romanticizes the miner. It’s good to remember that for many 19th century Nevada miners, the work meant descending in deep dangerous shaft, lowered by a head frame, and working for corporate bosses.

On a pay-day a lone miner came home from his work; He lifted the latch, opened the door with a jerk. Then gloomy and silent his pipe he did fill; While he thought what he’d spent and of the cash in the till.

“I’ve paid for my lodging and likewise my hoard, But the Chinaman I’m dodging, for his bill I’ve ignored. Which leaves for yet a few dollars or so, That I’m darn sure to bet at a game of faro.”

Thus mused the miner as he puffed out the smoke. He was an old-timer and oft had been broke. But times had grown hard since those halcyon days, When with Bill, his old “Pard” he had oft made a raise.

As he thought of the past and the years he had wasted— Of the joys and the sorrows which since youth he had tasted, His pipe it went out and he filled it anew, While resolving about a new course to pursue.

“I’ll drink no more gin, no, not a darned drop, I”ll save all my ‘tin’ for all gambling I’ll stop. “Then I’ll buy me a farm where the wild Carson roars, And nice little schoolmarm to do up the chores.”

But, alas for the miner! Alas for his fall; Though he saved every shiner—he soon lost them all. For he dabbled in stocks when they talked of a boom, And thus his spondulicks all went up the flume.

Then he got all the money he could raise and could borrow, And determined, how funny, to get even at faro. He tackled the play with a stack of red checks, And felt pretty gay—till the dealer changed decks;

When he lost a big bet that scattered his pile, And caused him to sweat and the dealer to smile. He tried it again with a bet on the ace, Which the dealer scooped in with his usual grace,

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! And to make a long story short, his checks they soon vanished, And his good resolutions from his memory were banished. He got as full as a goose, was carried home to his bed, Where he woke next morning with a very swelled head.

Now what did he after, ‘tis strange to relate. He ne’er jumped in a shaft, nor blew off his pate, But went to his work with his shift on the ten hundred level, And he’s now running a drift where it’s hot as the devil.

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! THE BOLD BUCCAROO, 1889 27 Old Horse, Winnemucca

In this early “cowboy” poem, the hero is cast in a romantic light. This image may be influenced by the lore of the Mexican vaquero—dashing, well-mounted, romantic, carefree.

Over the hills on a broncho’s back, Far o’er the prairie’s endless track; Away where the bunch-grass, wild and long, Dances and waves to the brooklet’s song; Far from the city’s noisy whirr, With broad sombrero and clanking spurs, Fringed “chaps” and pistols, too, Happy and free rides the bold buckaroo.

Free as the reindeer, trouble and care, Never exists in the buccaroo’s fare. No thought of the future, no trouble or strife, Weakens his slumber or darkens his life; With shout and song he gathers the steers, And is free from worry, trouble and fears. His boots for a pillow, the prairies his camp, His home is the saddle; a star is his lamp.

After the season’s work is done, Mavericks branded and Winter com; Then to the town for the annual spree, Speedeth the buccaroo, wild and free. There, in the dens of vice and sin, ‘Midst sirens’ charms and fumes of gin, There, ‘mid the shouting, swaying throng, Mingles the shout of the buccaroo’s song.

Over the hills on a broncho’s back, Far o’er the prairie’s endless tract, Away, where the bunch-grass layeth dead, He stops at the brook to bathe his head; Far from the gin-mills rushing road, He vows to linger forever more; Slick and sorry, and busted too: Such is the life of the bold buccaroo.

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! OUT OF CARSON, 1892 28 Amy Requa, Carson City

A widely popular parody— adapted in a variety of locations. Written down in Carson City by Amy Requa 1892.

Out of Carson City in a Pullman Train, For six months a wanderer on the raging main, Came a young explorer, tall and slim and swell, Quite extensive whiskers and light moustache as well.

Through a quiet village now the train doth glide, Empty seat behind him, no one at his side. Enter aged couple, take the hindmost seat, Enter blushing maiden, pretty and petite.

Tremblingly she falters, is this seat engaged, Sees the aged couple, properly enraged. Young explorer rises, sees her ticket through, Looks out on the snow shed and knows just what he’ll do.

Pleasantly they chatter, how the cinders fly, Soon the young explorer gets one in his eye. Sympathetic maiden turns her head about, Please sir can I help you try and get it out.

Then the young explorer feels a gentle clutch, Hears a gentle murmur, does it hurt you much. Rip, slap, bang, into a tunnel quiet, Oh the blessed darkness, black as Egypt’s night.

Out into the sunshine glides the Pullman Train, The young explorer’s beaver is ruffled just a grain. The maiden’s hair is tumbled and there soon appears, A dainty little earring in that horrid fellow’s beard.

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! LAKE TAHOE GIVES NOT UP HER DEAD, 189429 W. E. Hazen, Carson City

During April of 1894, W.E. Hazen and his son went camping at Lake Tahoe. They talked of joining Hazen’s wife who had died during January. During May, Hazen committed suicide at the Arlington House Hotel in Carson City. This poem was found on his body. In 1896, the words were published as a song. In 1897, Hazen’s son killed himself. The poems’ purple verse contrasts the slang of other poems in this book. Its sad history contrasts the zest of other pieces.

Others have praised thy beauteous tints, With which Niagra’s rainbows vie; Others have praised thy crystal depths, In which thy grander glories lie.

In praiseful prose, in ode, in song, Thy every charm has been portrayed. The camera’s light, the artist’s skill, Have to thee highest tribute paid.

To perfect thou in Nature’s sight, In size and symmetry of form, For Summer’s sun to make thee less, Or show the forces of rain, or storm.

And Nature’s edict has forbid, King Frost to breathe on thee so chill, As o’er to fetter free waves, That rise to billows as her will.

I grant thee each and every charm, That ever in thy praise was said, Yet this to me is more than all, Lake Tahoe gives not up her dead.

Guard me, fair Tahoe, let me rest, With thy blue waters o’er me head, Grant me my wish to with thee stay, Dear Tahoe give not up the dead.

But let thy waves a requiem sing, No funeral rite be o’er me said. To thy charm I home pay, Lake Tahoe gives not up her dead.

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! THE MIRACULOUS BULL, 1894 Joseph T. Goodman, formerly from Virginia City

Sam Davis published this poem in his “Midwinter Appeal and Forty Niner Journal”, at Gold Gulch. This ‘49er theme village—which today we would call a “theme park”—was dreamt up by Davis for San Francisco’s 1894 Midwinter Exposition in Golden Gate Park. Sam Davis owned and edited the Carson Appeal, in Carson City. When he pointed out the dilapidated state of his building, a local prize-fighter, Billy Armstrong, suggested in jest he take the building to the California event as a true gold rush example. The exposition signaled the end of the mining era. Though “sage and pine” poetry seems to begin around 1904, my view is that the “sage and pine era begins in 1894-’95.

This poem by Joe Goodman mixes mining and ranching themes. It focuses on the former editor of Virginia City’s Territorial Enterprise and Nevada Congressman, R.M. Daggett. While editor of the Enterprise, Goodman had hired Sam Clemens. Like Davis, Clemens and others, Goodman could write serious literature. Davis’ Midwinter Appeal described this poem: An Adventure of Hon. R.M. Dagger, as Related by a former partner at the ’49 Camp

In 1913, in The History of Nevada, Sam Davis published a serious and purple poem “Virginia City” by Goodman. Vernacular lyric like the one below may have been seen by Davis and others as humor—light. In other words, what we might see today as quintessentially “western” was, for many of its primary creators, a form of humor, supplementary to more serious work.

This poem echoes the conversational tone of De Groot’s 1868 poem, “Colloquy of the Old Timers.” In addressing two who have eloped, the poem creates a theme that reappears in the 1904 novel, “The Spenders”, set in Nevada—the contrast between the grizzled western narrator and the young sophisticates. With a verse beginning, “Do you know what a desert is like?”, the poem also foreshadows Nevada’s sage and pine poetry of the early 20th century. Goodman was credited with hiring Twain at the Territorial Enterprise. After 1874, for a time, Goodman co-owned a Virginia City mine with J.P. Jones. This association with Jones suggests that Goodman wrote of the “bull” in the vein of a natural western wonder—a spirit of nature in line with the populism shared by both men. And, like Jones, he places this subject in a ranching rather than a mining contest as that, by the end of the 19th century, was where respectable western identity headed. That being said, his mining background bring to this the gold rush mining slang and phrasing that has become vernacular western writing.

So, you’re tenderfoot comers to whom all is new? Just consider you’ve full and free scope. Be seated ma’am—only a campstool, it’s true, But you’ll not scorn the offer, I hope. Daughter, likely? No! Wife, maybe? What, neither the two? Well, it’s not the worst sin to elope; And, if you two have done it, the best thing for you Is to join in the swim on this Slope.

We old-timers, you bet you, are all at a loss When you talk of that trip on the keers; There has been a big change since we nailed in across Them same plains with a lot of lean steers. Any stories? Yes, some; but Rol Daggett’s the boss Of all yarns that one anywhere hears— Rol was here when this camp wore its primeval gloss, 50 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! And we roughed it together for years. He was only a boy when he aimed to drive down From the Miami, in Forty-nine, And fall in with a train at some emigrant town He could purchase an outfit and join; But he just took a hand at draw-poker for fun, On his way by the river-boat line, And he struck Independence with only his gun And a dollar’n half in coin.

Most galoots would have weakened and crawfished right there; It was almighty binding, you’ll own; But the fluke never brought Rol the least bit of care Nor a thought that he shouldn’t push on: He bought bar-lead and powder and that sort of ware Till his dollar ’n -half was gone, And then shouldered his rifle and roached up his hair And pulled out on his journey alone.

I imagine it doesn’t seem much of a stretch When you’r snatched right along it by steam, But just try to realize spanning that patch By slow strikes with an emigrant team— On the hoof the whole day, half the night to stand watch, On and on as you creep in a dream— It would be the uncommonest kind of a scratch If you hit upon how it would seem.

It was none of your junketing journeys on skates For those fully provided and bold And who made the riffle at last; but their fates Are no means the worst to be told; There’s many a fellow ‘twixt here and the States Whose detectable visions of gold Will never come true till the crystalline gates Of the heavenly city unfold.

But I’m scouring, a thing that should never be done In relating a straightforward tale: Rol erected his pompadour, shouldered his gun And pulled out by himself on the trail; And thus week in and over he kept pegging on With no comrade to hearken or hail, Steering straight through the wild for the lair of the sun With a pluckiness nothing could quail.

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! Game was plenty at times; he’d abundance to eat, And again there was none to be had, But he’d cinch up his belt till his heart could scarce beat, Like a gritty and sensible lad, Or ramps fearlessly into an Indian retreat— The red devils that season were bad, But they treated Rol kindly, and gave him dried meat, For they thought that the boy must be mad,

He didn’t see much of the endless array Of ox-teams, and kept off from the same, For he hadn’t a penny which he could pay And the emigrants frightened the game; He was wedded, besides, to his vagabond way. And considered their bullwhacking tame, So he kept right ahead on his own private lay And just let them flicker and flame—

Only sighted or called them and gave them the go And kept forging ahead to the west, But he came upon one is s crisis whose woe Wouldn’t let him pass on like the rest: The cholera was dreadful that summer, you know, And the whole camp lay dead of the pest Save a brother and sister, of seven or so, And a babe at its dead mother’s breast.

Death is solemn enough in a civilized place Where affectionate kindred here nigh The poor moral remains to becomingly case And to tenderly close the dimmed eye; But it’s awful to see the unceremonied face Staring stonily up to the sky— If for nothing in life, pray to God for the grace Not to die as the animals die.

For the dead all assistance was valueless now, And the scene wasn’t tempting to stay, So Rol yoked together a bullock and cow— For the babe must be fed on the way— Hitched them onto the lightest though cumbersome scow,, Heaped it full of provisions and hay, Then, bestowing the children on top of the mow, He moved forward in solemn array.

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! Thus for many weeks more he pressed onward in haste With his caravan over the route, The two children did well and behaved to his taste, And the baby grew healthy and stout;— But a fortnight or so after Bridgers was passed The ox died and its yoke mate gave out, And Rol sat himself down in the desolate waste With his heart full of anguish and doubt.

Do you know what a desert is like? It’s a space Where a curse seems spread out like a blot— It’s an image of death and despair, save a trace Of past being or hope there is not— It’s a hell where prayers fail, for one feels that God’s face Never turned or will turn to the spot;— Now imagine yourself, if you can, in the place Of poor Rol and his terrible lot.

It was not for himself that he felt at a loss, For he knew he could worry it through, As he’d but to abandon the children and toss O’er his shoulder his rifle anew; But the youngsters had won on the pitiful cuss Till he felt like a father thereto, And with mountains to climb yet and deserts to cross What on earth could them innocents do?

Hope is strong in young bosoms, but even hope dies When no promise of help is in sight; And Rol sank down disheartened and tries to devise What was best to be done in this plight, And the merciful stars looks in peace from the skies Ere he settled on what he thought right— ’Twas to wait till sweet slumber had curtained their eyes And then kill all the youngsters that night.

Wretch, ma’am? Why there wasn’t as much as a hair To be found among all on his head But became sympathetic and soft, as it were, At a word that was tenderly said; Not a cry for assistance arose anywhere But the lad, was the first help that sped;— If he’d had to abandon them innocents there, He had better abandon them dead.

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! Rol could curse more than pray, but he sort of half prayed To be shown some scape from his doom. Thought the kids fell asleep, he delayed and delayed— Until suddenly out of the gloom A huge object appeared of an inkier shade And continued to darken and loom And advance toward the spot where he cowered dismayed Till it stood within tangible room.

The lad’s nerves were like steel, but he felt his brain rock And a force at his heart clutch and pull, For he thought it the devil who’d come there to mock The petition he’d mumbled so dull, Or a messenger sent from the heavenly flock To rebuke what had entered his skull Either way, it was best he should sleep off the shock— But, lol daylight showed only a bull.

Yes, a bull; not an ornery bellowing brute, But the kind a Europa would prize; A magnificent front, a hue blacker than soot And an amiable look in his eyes; He outmeasured the tongue of the wage a foot And was built in proportion to size, With as rounded a form and as shiny a coat As if pastured in Paradise.

He stood perfectly still to be lashed to the tongue, After which he just lighted out straight And, as if but a toy, snaked the outfit along O’er the sands at a galloping rate; He seemed somehow to know he must buckle in strong, For the season was getting on late, And so, week after week, without let up, he flung Himself loose as the same rushing gait.

He was kind to the kids from the moment they met As a cosset they’d known all their days; It was good as a circus to see them all get On his back and their merry shouts raise, And they cuddled all night by the side of their pet Who hot blood kept them warm as a blaze— But he never once drank, and he never once eat, And he hadn’t an animal’s way.

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! These singular qualities puzzled Rol some, But he wasn’t quite certain what trait To expect in a bull such a distance from home, So he just let the beat keep its gait And contented himself with appraising the sum It would bring as a price or by eight— Till at Sutter’s Fort, just as the winter had come, The bull landed the craft and its freight.

Not a mortal on earth ever saw that bull more From the time they corralled him that night The whole valley was scoured as clean as a floor But on never a trace could they light; And Rol said many times, as we reasoned it o’er, He believed, as he’d father in God’s might, That it wasn’t a bull but a spirit that wore The appearance of one to his sight.

For if God—so he argued—would walk in the hush Of the Garden to spy with squint lids, Would appear as a cloud or as flame in a bush, Plague the land of the pyramids And commission archangels to pilot the rush Of the old filibustering cids, It’s fair to suppose that he might make a push To deliver three innocent kids.

And the children? Oh, yes, ma’am, I had nearly forgot, They remembered the place they were from And the first stake Rol made here he shipped the whole lot, Babe and all, to their people back home; As for him, for a long while he drifted about, Mostly busted but not on the bum; We were parts for a year or so; chums in and out, And he then went away as he’d come.

He is camping this side of eternity yet, But alas he is old and grows stout; He’s been a rancher, has edited papers a bit, Was a Member of Congress one bout, Held the Ministership in Hawaii, and writ Some good books—there his record gives out; But I’m betting that some day the Lord will see fit For his sake to repeat that first scout.

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! COUSIN JACK, c.1895 30 Anon.

The Irish were often known as the muckers—the unskilled miners who shoveled the rock ore from the muck to the ore cart after it was drilled and blasted. In contrast, Cornish miners were known as skilled at the steam drill and hence were in demand by the mine bosses. According to lore, the Cornish miner often went to the mine boss and said, if you need a good man I’ve got a cousin, Jack, back in Cornwall. In the West, the Cornish often came to be referred to as “Cousin Jacks.” The Cornish were known for the their mining skills, their pasties and their singing.

You ask me for a song, folks, and I’ll try to please you all, Don’t blame me if I do not suit, for nature has its call.

But for singing and for mining, they have somehow got the knack, It’s a second nature to that class of lads called Cousin Jacks.

You’ll find them on the mountain top, you’ll find them on the plains; You’ll find those boys where’er you go, and you’ll find their mining claims.

They come from distant Tombstone and Virginia on the Hill. You ne’er can beat a Cousin Jack for hammering on the drill.

Amongst you other Irishmen do justice if you can, For there’s none that can compete with the good old Cornishman.

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! SOUTHERN KLONDIKE, 1900 31 Bar Frances and John Nay, Tonopah

From The Recollections of Lottie Stimler Nay, Central Nevada Museum:…”the boys were camping and doing their work (at the diggings.) And they were having... (to) make the best of things and trying to amuse themselves. And Joe Nay was quite a singer. And Bar Frances was another good singer. And so they made up this song and tried to describe their trials and tribulations that was going on there. And so...they made up this song...and they called it “Southern Klondike.” Eventually...it went around the country and up around Belmont and amongst all of us young people. It was a popular song. And we danced to it. We danced all kinds of dances to it—two steps and polkas and everything else.”

A second generation German from St. Louis, her father, Henry Stimler, had emigrated to California around 1849, reportedly playing accordion along the route. Like so many other gold rush young men, during the 1860s he left California and went east into the Great Basin, following the new strikes. In Austin, Nevada, Stimler helped form the German Cranchen Society, a musical organization that, at one point, spent $1000 to import a piano by sea through San Francisco. Around 1865, Stimler settled south of Austin in the boomtown of Belmont, central Nevada, working as postmaster. During 1875, he and a friend opened a variety store. The local Shoshone Indians became important customers. Stimler married a Shoshone lady he had apparently hired to work in his store. As a result, the upper crust seems to have excluded Stimler from its ranks.32 This was more symbolic than practical. Perhaps because the town was small, its social and economic life depended on participation by men like Stimler as well as the Shoshones. Through the 1870, 80s and 90s Belmont enjoyed a viable community life with local officials providing regular dances that included all the town’s youth. Lottie was one of the first three women at Tonopah in 1901 when Jim Butler made that strike. This song refers to a strike made at “Southern Klondike”. John Nay went there in December of 1899.33

In the Montezuma Valley, a place you’ve all heard tell, There’s a group of quartz location discovered by Corts and Bell. They made it Southern Klondike and we think they’ve named it right For every one that’s seen those claims, they clear their altered sight.

It was a walk along the mountain on the way from a to z, And the things that bridge chloride, on the surface can you see. The place that we’ve been working is what we’ve named “the well.” It’s the nearest approach we’ve ever made to the hot place they call....

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! (First Chorus) Southern Klondike or the daisy You would set the devil crazy. And your weather’s always hazy Oh Southern Klondike. (spoken) How do you like it? (reply) What? What? Southern Klondike.

They had a little Dutchman, they named “the missing link.” He had hand toads in his whiskers, and his feet, how they could stink. He used to cook their beans, when they were doing in “the well”. How we ever managed to stomach them, I’m sure we could not tell.

For his tea was full of soap suds. His dish towels stood alone. We used to eat his gravel plates, and go to bed and groan. He had a pitiful story, he used to tell the boys. Of how his brothers..?...enticed him off, from the state of Illinois.

(Second Chorus) To Southern Klondike on Sand Hill, Where he starved us to a stand still. And no matter go where we will. We’ll remember, God, the Dutchman who fed (us) on his soup made of water black and stinky, So no harm told Jack we’d drink it he was such a man of thinking. In Southern Klondike (spoken) How do you like it? (reply) What? Southern Klondike.

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! THE FELLER I WAS SORRY FOR, 1901 34 Baker City, Oregon

Though from Oregon, this poem deserves note as a work of prospectors such as those in Nevada. The language and setting provide an early example of the outdoor style that long defined Nevada’s desert poetry. The paper reported the words of the miner who came to the editor and gave his reasons for publication. The visitor alluded to the men who lived “out there” and to their literary habits—suggesting a culture of desert rats that, it seems, disappeared totally by the end of the 1920s.

Any poem that sacors of prospectors, whether it be about their rich strikes, their dreams, their everyday life— anything in fact that speaks in any way of the man behind the pick, is always read with interest,” says an old mining man, who had just returned from a trip in the mountains. “Why,” he continued, “I never go out on a trip but I invariably take along with me books, papers and scraps of poetry, all of them containing something about prospectors. And if you newspaper men knew how these same items about prospectors cheered the men, you would write even more than you do. Now here’s a poem that I picked up. Where? Oh, I’ve forgotten just where I did run across it; but I’ll bet you I’ve shown it to twenty men during my last trip. Here it is,” and he produced from a capacious pocket the follow, headed:

Campin’ up on the Feather Bar; Made a strike; and a ‘doby jar Full o’ nuggets, Jeemunee!— Purtiest sight that I ever see! Felt so good that I searched my jug Out’n the pack; an’ slung a chug Into my innards. Just as I Swallered it, here come ridin’ by Sorriest cuss that I ever see Ragged an’ lame, an’ he says, says he— “Lost my pile in the big washout Down on the Feather! Waterspout Tuck my wealth an’ my wife!” he says— Melted the heart of your Uncle Hez! Made me gulp an’ my old eyes blur!— Feller I was so sorry fur!

“Gimme a flapjack, pard! Says he, Coughin’ some ostentatiously, Pities him deep, so I cooks a spread— Bacon an’ beans an’ sour dough bread, Beds him down in a heap o’ stray— (The same I steals for my jackass) Saw Half o’ my whiskey down him, sir! Feller I was so sorry fur!

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! Goes to sleep an’ I dream that I Takes my flight to the fur-off sky; Camps outside o’ the Golden Gate, ‘Lowin’ I’ll shorely have to wait; But riff! An’ the golden gate swings wide— “Pass!” says Peter; an’ durn my hide! Peter’s that same poor devil sir!— Feller I was so sorry fur! Woke up some a the break o’ day— Dad burn greaser had gone away! Mavericked all ‘o my jar o’ gold, All o’ my beans and bacon! Stoled Everything lose and hit the Pass, Ridin’ away on my ole jackass! Last that I see of the low-down cur— Feller I wuz so sorry fur!

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! THE HIGHGRADER, c.1905 35 Anon., Goldfield

Shoveling ore into the ore cart, the mucker might carefully drop the high grade into his lunch box. Then, after work, he’d head for the assay office and supplement his salary. The bosses were not happy. However, at this time, the practice was common.

Way out in the State of the Nevada, In a mining camp far out of the way, A hobo, a Cripple Creek miner, Struck for a job there one day. He was a hell of a fine lookin’ fella, A gentleman, at once you could see. But he had a look in his face that said plainly, “Nearer, my God to Thee.”

The boys they all laughed when they saw him, And started to throw the bull con. For the book that they saw in his pocket, Was the gospel according to St. John. He gave us a sermon each Sunday, He taught us to pray and to kneel. He said, “Leave the high-grade for the company, ‘Cause only wicked men steal.”

He worked there just three months and ten days, Then he said, “Turn in my time,” He’d lent the boys most of his wages, So I said, “Here, pal, take some of mine.” When he answered, his eyes they were smiling, With that “Nearer, my God, to Thee” look. He said, “No, pard, now I’m trusting, In almighty God and this book.”

Well, the next morning I had the occasion To pick up his grip from the floor. Say, it’s a wonder I didn’t get ruptured; And God knows he might ha’ had more. Now he is bucking the tiger, And say, but I hope he will win, For he was a jolly good mucker, If he did take a piece for a pin.

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! THE LURE OF THE SAGEBRUSH, 1904 36 Sam Davis, Carson City

Carson Appeal editor Sam Davis’ 1904 poem, “The Lure Of The Sagebrush”, heralded a new Nevada era of sage and pine that ran from about 1895 to 1932. Through the 1870s, the Nevada attitude toward sagebrush was “prejudicial” though boosters promised the land could be improved.37 Through the 1880s, the non-Nevada press generally referred to “sagebrush” when describing a barren, primitive or hard environment. As early as 1892, in the California press, Nevada was sometimes referred to as the “sagebrush state”.38 However, during the 1890s, all this changed and Davis seems to have been central.

For Sam Davis, “sagebrush” had greater significance—an identity and independence unique in the nation and somewhat opposed to other places. His support of the Silver Party during the 1890s epitomized this and, with eventual decline of the party, the broader sentiment continued.

In 1892, Davis argued in the press on behalf of the Silver Party and was dubbed the “sagebrush editor.”39 Davis helped organize events at the San Francisco’s Midwinter Exposition, 1894, in Golden Gate Park where a “Sagebrush Day” was held on May 16. All 5000 attendees wore a badge of sagebrush.40

“The Lure Of The Sagebrush” was printed numerous times, including in the Nevada Historical Society’s collection of poems and essays, “Suggestions For The Public School Celebration Of Nevada’s Semicentennial of Statehood, October, 31, 1914.”41 The sentiments of the poem became part of an education agenda in which essays and poems were sent out to school children across the state lauding the desert and its virtues. In 1932, this poem appeared again in the publication, Troubadour—edited by Reno native Mrs. D.C.McKay. In the State Journal, Earl H. Lief was also soliciting poems for this publication.42

By 1919, the sage and pine theme came to focus on a new Nevada hero known as the “desert rat.” By 1940, the image of the “cowboy” would thrive in northern Nevada. The wrangler became the contrast to the sophisticate. In real life and in the more lyrid media, this would take the form of the rancher versus the Hollywood socialite divorcee. However, from 1905 to 1932, the theme often maintained a sparkling innocence.

The need for a new definition of the west and of a western hero began at least by the 1880s with concern for the “dishonesty” of miners—their failure to embody the nobility, permanence and morality that civilized people sought in the West and, particularly, in creation stories of American settlement in the West. The contrast between the miner and rancher is mirrored in northern Nevada by the debate between Dayton and Genoa over which community is oldest—the former a possibly habitation for miners since 1849, the latter an agricultural community with a land claim book dating back to 1851. A fundamental step to articulating a more rooted, rural western hero came came in 1892 with experiences by Philadelphia lawyer, Owen Wister, and culminating in his 1902 novel, “The Virginian”. In it, he set out to capture the nobility of the California 49er—the “old timers” or pioneers— whose demise he saw as a tragedy. Yet, the hero’s exploits occurred in a ranching world like that of the 1890s.

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! Davis’ poem seems to have come directly in the wake of Henry Leon Wilson’s 1904 book, “The Spenders” in which the grandpa—a grizzled prospector—has made a fortune yet still prefers to be out there in the mountains —looking for wealth he has already attained for the sheer joy of the wide open spaces. The character appears modeled on Jim Butler who made the Tonopah strike in 1900. Davis’ poem appeared in Sunset Magazine, Vol. 14, 1905. That an old timers like Davis would embrace pastoralism—a parallel to the general shift toward the cowboy or rancher hero—suggests the vitality it possessed at the onset, the sense that it could, in fact and despite it romanticism, preserve the independence and risk taking of the 49er. The verse and, less commonly, songs in this mode would be constructed in the traditional way with structure and technique—mirroring the arts- and-craft movement of the day.

Have you ever scented the sagebrush That mangles Nevada’s plain? If not, you have lived but half your life, And that half lived in vain.

No matter where the place or clime That your wandering footsteps stray, You will sigh as you think of her velvet fields And their fragrance of leveled hay.

You will loiter awhile in other lands, When something seems to call, And the lure of the sagebrush brings you back And holds you within its thrall.

You may tread the halls of pleasure, Where the lamps of folly shine, ‘Mid the sobbing of sensuous music, And the flow of forbidden wine;

But when the revel is over And the dancers turn to go. You will long for a draught of her crystal streams That spring from her peaks of snow.

You will sigh for a sight of the battling crags, Where the Storm King holds his sway, Where the singing sun, with its brush of gold, Tells the tale of the dying day—

And when you die you will want a grave Where the Washoe zephyr blows. With the green of the sagebrush above your head, What need to plant the rose?

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! BY THE TRUCKEE, 1905 S. Florence Ray

This poem appeared in Ray’s 1905 book, Fallen Petals. She was about 16 years old at the time given that in 1901, she was in Sixth grade in Reno.43 The Carson Appeal, edited by Sam Davis, the collection of sentimental poems, “crude”. “She cloths beautiful thoughts in unmetrical lines.”44 The complaint was that the lines did not have a “certain number of syllables” as, The Carson Appeal stated, it should. In other words, Ray’s poetry is conversational even while the lines rhyme—an approach that, someday, would become common. Ray had lived in Colorado and, by the time of publishing the book, lived in California. She implies that her parents died while living in Reno and this became part of this poem. Her parents may be the “fallen petals” of the title and the entire book may, in some sense, by about that subject. Her praise of sagebrush and the Truckee river foreshadows Rafetto’s 1932 song, Home Means Nevada, below. Also, like that song, she cites Nevada as a place one should “love the best” and rhymes this with “West.” This poem seems to come independently from Davis’ “Lure of The Sagebrush” yet shares with that poem an early claim to recognizing sagebrush as part of Nevada beauty.

They sing of heart’s dear treasure in an old Kentucky home, Of Virginina’s fields of waving green, Where sweet flowers are ever blooming near a loved one’s tomb; Of the northern lands, to all the rest a queen.

But all hearts are not burned ‘neath the southern sod. I remember well the spot I love the best. ‘Tis a place of peaceful slumber known to myself and God, Near the Truckee, in Nevada, way out West.

There the wild sage brush is growing, where in other climes the flowers About the loved ones lain away to rest. But to me it is far sweeter than the richest Southern bower; Near the Truckee, in Nevada, way out West.

Oftimes I’ve wandered where the Truckee gently flows, With my schoolmates, or a loved one, lost to me; By the river as it sparkled in its glee. There I lived with my dear parents in a home of love and peace.

Now the dream of life is over, all are sleeping there today, In a spot to me the dearest, homelike nest, And my heart is sweetly resting in the graveyard where they lay, By the Truckee, in Nevada, way out West.

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! THE MINING ENGINEER’S SONG, 1909 45 Anon., Reno

The image of the rowdy miner remained in place. A version of this song appeared as early as 1907, sung at University of Nevada events.46 This song is related to “A Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech” which appeared in 1908. It may be a parody. Or both may reflect a variety of such songs at the time.47

I wish I had a barrel of rum, And sugar three hundred pounds, The college bell to mix it in, The clapper to stir it round. I’d drink to Mackay’s school of mines, And friends both far and near. I’m a rambling wreck from Reno Tech, And a mining engineer.

Come join my humble ditty, From the sagebrush state I steer, Like every honest fellow, I take my whiskey clear. Like every honest fellow, I take my whiskey clear, I’m a rambling wreck from Reno Tech, And a mining engineer.

O Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was black as jet. And everywhere that Mary went, The Billy goat went, you bet. He followed her to school one day, Which made her hot as fire, For Mary rode upon a bike, And Billy chewed the tire. Come join….

O Mary had a little man, More wealth than brains, you know, And everywhere that Mary went, That man was sure to go. He followed her to church one day, And there the two were twain. O he liked it for a little while, But he never smiled again. Come join….

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! BACKIN JIM, 1909 48 E. Isabelle McClelland Hansen, Mason Valley

E. Isabella McClelland Hansen (1882-1971) came to Fallon, Nevada from California in 1909. After a year in Utah, she and her husband, Harry Hansen, lived in Mason Valley from 1912 to 1948.49 Originally published during 1909 in The Fallon Eagle, “Backin’ Jim” was used in Federal Government Homestead pamphlets. It was read in fall of 1920 at a conference of the Nevada Federation of Women’s Clubs held in Minden, Nevada, apparently in response to their public call that summer for “Nevada poems.” The poem seems to have been a fundamental find in their search and, then, important to the Federation’s ensuing efforts— a decade and a half during which the Journal collected and published Nevada poems—many though not all of which were “Nevada poems” with a sage and pine theme.

Harry Hansen was a rancher and she was a school teacher.50 Hansen’s daughter, Esther Rada, collected her poems and published them around 1975: “Songs Of A Desert Country.”51 The book contains her school-girl poems from California, poems from her ranching days and poems written late in life as she reflected. Only “Backin’ Jim” is in We’re doing things in Carson Sink, vernacular. Her poem, “A Voice From Nevada” seems to have also On both the Walkers too, had a public reading. Like many of her poems “A Voice From Along the little Truckee, Nevada” asserted the needs and validity of the rancher settling the But we’ve just begun to do; desert. One verse from that poem illustrates how this was validated In Humboldt Valley and the south by ties to the prospectors still in the desert. Amid the citrus groves, In all the land where far and wide “Backin’ Jim” came early during intense agricultural settlement the The lone prospector roves. Carson Sink—widespread digging of irrigation ditches and “reclamation” of desert and marsh land in the desert, converting it to agriculture, that occurred in northern Nevada during and after World War I. Shown here is the remnant of gasoline engine driven irrigation pump built by the G.W. Price Company in San Francisco and now abandoned in the brush at the south end of Washoe Lake.

I’ve been lisenin’ to you wimmen All a-sayin’ what you think Of the good and bad of livin’ Up here on the Carson Sink. But I know as I’ve set thinkin’ Of the children an’ of him, That to me the place don’t matter— I’m out here backin’ Jim.

For he thinks in this new country There’s a chance to get ahead; He was sick of havin bosses An’ of huntin’ jobs, he said. So we’re out here on a homestead Clearin’ sagebrush with a vim, An’ I’m cookin’ beans and bacon In the desert, backin’ Jim.

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! Sometimes when I look around me An’ see miles of brush and sand, It is hard to think that someday This will be a fruitful land; Then I ketch the sight of ditches, Full of water to the brim, An’ I think: “who knows?” It may be. An’ I stay, a-backin’ Jim.

Yes, I’m backin’ Jim. The landscape Ain’t no matter, for he sees While he’s workin’ diggin ‘ ditches All the valley green with trees, Miles and miles of fragrant pasture Stretchin’ to the purple rim Where the clouds rest on the hilltops, Bringin’ visions to my Jim.

So I try to see with his eyes, Men can look ahead an’ plan, To a woman waitin it’s harder For she ain’t built like a man; When the restless sand goes flyin’ On the wind, I smile at Jim, Sweep it out an don’t say nothin’ Hatin’ to discourage him.

When I tire of breakin’ water, Or of cookin’ or of hills, I go outdoors in the sunshine Where my eyes can see the hills; For I find a comfort in them Like the psalmist in the hymn, An’ it cheers me up an’ rests me, Keeps my heart up, backin’ Jim.

Out of school time, plantin’ wind breaks Tanned and healthy, blithe of heart, Both the boys do chores a whistlin’, Each one glad to do his part. When we have these broad fat acres Planted out in payin’ trim No more jobs an’ no more bosses In Nevada, backin’ Jim.

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! Yes, it’s hard upon us wimmen, For we are the pioneers, But I think we’d all feel better If we could look down the years. There’s a future for the country Where men work with faith and vim, An’ I seem to feel it comin’ Workin’ here a-backin’ Jim.

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! MORNIN ON THE DESERT, 1910 52 Katherine Fall Pettey, Tuscon

Published in the Nevada State Journal, 1924, as part of the paper’s “With Nevada Poets” series, this poem first appeared in Katherine Fall Pettey’s (1874-1951) 1910 book, “Songs From The Sagebrush”, published in Tuscon.53 The poem became famous and was sometimes printed on postcards. It appeared in Nevada state’s Highways And Parks magazine during 1936.54 Though not from Nevada, the famous poem’s influence on the naturalistic style of sage and pine poetry seems obvious. It seems to have put into wider circulation the “lure of the sagebrush” theme already stated by Sam Davis. It helped set the stage for the sage and pine poems in the Nevada State Journal’s “With Nevada Poets” series, July of 1923 into August of 1925. There are no “cowboy” poems in this series. The Journal created a romantic story about its origin.

From The Journal. “Editor’s note—The following, found written on the door of a cabin in Southern Nevada, has been printed numerous times before, but because of its general appeal and because it was written by a Nevadan, unknown though he is, it is reprinted in this column.”

Mornin. on the desert, and the wind is blowing free, And it’s ours jest for the breathin’ so lets fill up, you and me. No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breath, Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and teeth.

Mornin’ on the desert and air is like a wine, And it seems like all creation has been mad for me and mine; No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor’s miles away. And the little done shanty that belongs to me and May.

Lonesome? Not a minute! Why I’ve got these mountains here That were put here jest to please me with their blush and brown and cheer; They’re waitin’ when the summer sun gets too sizzling’ hot An’ we just go campin’ in ‘em with a pan and coffee pot.

Mornin’ on the desert, I can smell the sagebrush smoke, I hate to see it burnin’ but the land must sure be broke. Ain’t it jest a pity that wherever man may live, He tears up much that’s beautiful that the good God has to give?

Sagebrush ain’t so pretty? Well, all eyes don’t see the same, Have you ever see the moonlight turn it to a silver flame? An’ the greasewood thicket yonder—well, it smells jest awful see When the night wind has been shakin’ it for its smell is hard to beat.

Lonesome? Well I guess not! I’ve been lonesome in the town, But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown. All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin’ free, An’ its ours jest for the breathin’ so let’s fill up, you and me.

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! I’M ON MY WAY TO RENO, 1910 William Jerome, Jean Schwartz

Bill Murray recorded this song in 1910, well before the divorce industry began in Reno. The song was sung in Tonopah at a local theater—presumably in the context of vaudeville as then presented in movie houses.55 The chorus alludes to the Civil War song, “The Battle Cry of Freedom.”

My wife and I don't get along, we simply fight and fight, I married her to win a bet, It really serves me right. The love she once declared was mine, Has simply turned to hate, So I've made up my mind to visit old Nevada state.

I'm on my way to Reno, I'm leaving town today. Give my regards to all the boys and girls along Broadway Once I get my liberty, no more wedding bells for me, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

I've stood an awful lot from her and never said a word, But, on the level, as a wife She simply was a bird. At night when I'd come home from work, Just tired out and dead, I'd always find her eating soda crackers in bed.

I'm on my way to Reno, I'm leaving town today. It's liberty or death with me, my hair is turning gray. Reno life is simply great; they grant divorces while you wait Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

It's awful when you tie yourself up to a suffragette, And suffer, suffer, suffer till your brains are all to let, She had the sign on me all right, I really will admit, She used to make me stay at home and try to learn to knit.

I'm on my way to Reno, I'm never coming back, And if I do I surely hope the train runs off the track. Life in Reno must be grand, husbands marching hand in hand, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

There was a time when South Dakota was the proper place, But when compared with Reno, it was never in the race, The only real Arcadia from 'Frisco east to Maine, Just think of it, the Judge and Jury meet you at the train.

I'm on my way to Reno, to break the Marriage Knot, You just get off the train and drop a nickle in the slot, You just get off the train and then, Turn round and then jump on again, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

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! CASEY JONES, 1911 56 A Professor On The Piano, Venice Beach

The miner drilled holes and put a stick of dynamite in each hole. It was important that each stick explode lest he return to the mine and drill into a missed hole. As the miner drilled again, the mucker shoveled the lose ore into the ore cart. During 1911, miners from central Nevada rested at Venice Beach in Los Angeles where this song was composed by a “professor” on the piano. It comically illustrates the result if one of the sticks did not explode and the miner returned to the shaft to drill into a “missed hole.”

Come all you muckers and gather here, A story I’ll tell you of a miner dear. Casey Jones was the miner’s name, On a Burleigh machine he won his fame.

Casey Jones was a ten-day miner. Casey Jones was a ten-day man. Casey Jones took a chance too many. And now he’s mining in the Promised Land.

The story I am about to tell, Happened at a mine called the Liberty Bell. They went into the crosscut and mucked her out, And Casey said, “We’d better step about.”

Casey said, “We’d better dig in, Before that damned old shift boss comes in. If he finds out we’ve been taking five, He’ll send us to the office to get our time.”

They went into the crosscut, put up the bar, Placed the machine up on the arm. Put in a starting drill with its bit toward the ground, Turned on the air and she began to pound.

Casey said, “If I haven’t lied, There is a missed hole on the right hand side.” His partner said, “Oh gracious me, If it ever went off where would we be.”

They went into the crosscut to drill some more, The powder exploded with a hell of a roar. It scorched poor Casey just as flat as a pan, And now he’s a minin’ in the promised land.

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! Casey said just before he died, “There’s one more machine I would like to have tried.” His partner said, “What can it be?” “An Ingersoll jackhammer, now don’t you see.

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! Morn On The Prairie, 1912 Leslie Curtis, Reno

In 1912, Leslie Curtis published an updated version of her 1910 book about divorce in Reno, “Reno Reveries.” With essays, statistics, playlets and poems she provided by objective and subjective description of her experience in the “divorce colony”—those who arrived for three months to meet the residency requirement and benefit from Reno’s “divorce mill.” Reno’s economy was said to be based on the import of money with divorcees through the 1930s. The poems range from bitter to sentimental. Curtis’ “Morn On The Prairie” should be read in light of her emotions during divorce. The book was republished in 1924 and sold well as Reno reinvigorated its divorce industry during 1931. See my book, “Reno’s Jazz Hysteria.”

Morn on the Prairie-the dew on the grasses Lit by the sunrise, a warm amber sea ; Painting the sage in its sombre gray masses Color of rose as each gay sunbeam passes, Blending bright hues, creeping on length by length. Come and be part of me-quicken the heart of me- Lend me thy gladness, thy vastness, thy strength.

Noon on the Prairie-the great sun ascending, Grasps in its fury the desert and me. No drop of water the dry earth defending; Not a blade rustles ! Is silence unending? Death stalks abroad in the glare of thy light! Boil the young blood of me-else what's the good of me? Lend me intensity, purpose and might.

Dusk on the Prairie-the wind softly blowing Sweeps o'er thy domain untrammeled and free! See! The last glow of the sunset is showing Deeper and darker the shadows are growing; Fading from sight are the hills in the west! Solace the soul of me-chasten the whole of me- Lend me forgetfulness, happiness, rest.

Night on the Prairie-the bright stars are gleaming, Lighting the dome of the vast inland sea. Cold is the moonlight that endlessly beaming, Chills the young blood of me-sets me to dreaming! Makes the mad youth of me plead for release ! Come be a part of me-enter the heart of me- Lend me thy brilliancy, grant me thy peace.

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! THE COLONY, 1912 Leslie Curtis, Reno

In “The Colony”, Curtis touches on a frequent theme of observers both in 1912 and again during the early 30s— Reno’s dependence on the residency of those seeking divorce and the moral debate is tcaused both in Nevada and beyond.

Have you ever thought about the Reno Colony And what we owe this little fad, divorce? Fair plaintiffs oft advising, Forever criticising, Yet their money helps us on a bit, of course.

If you legislate against the Reno Colony, To other fields the fair ones you will drive. For ill-advised propriety Brings poverty with piety, And some of us would much prefer to thrive.

Does Reno really know how much the Colony Contributes to the cafes and the stores? Hotels would soon be closing, The population dozing, If broken heart's should favor other shores.

A necessary evil is the Colony, It must exist when Love has sullen grown, So quit the foolish knocking, Your own progression blocking, And learn to let what's well enough alone.

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! THE GIRL OF THE SAGEBRUSH STATE, 1914 57 Clara E. McClelland, Goldfield

David Belasco’s 1905 Broadway show, “The Girl Of The Golden West” swept the nation as a play and was then converted by Puccini into an opera. (See my book, “The Strychnine Banjo.” The image of the western girl— strong, independent—became central to sagebrush and pine lyric as it celebrated the people who lived in the western desert. It appears based on the reality of women on ranches at a the zenith of ranch life and ranch culture in the far West. Women played a central role in sage and pine poetry through the 1930s—fundamental to the first historical collections in Nevada as well as the collection of Nevada poetry. In 1914, Hollywood created a movie, “The Sagebrush Gal”, featuring a large mine explosion, filmed at Randsburg in San Bernadino. “The Girl Of The Sagebrush State”, illustrates the western-woman theme as taken up by rural Nevadans. The drawing of a Nevada girl or woman shows three things that might be indicative of clothing for such a “girl.” She wears hat lacking the ornamentation that women in society typically wore—virtually a slouch hat. In ranching or hunting situations, Nevada women sometimes wore a man’s hat. It shows a heavy belt—a woman might carry a holstered knife or gun in a loose, wide belt when hunting. And it shows a bandana, useful for dust and to dip into water for keeping cool.

Way out in Nevada State, You’ll be sure to meet your fate, They say she may not be fair, But she is always on the square, The girl of the Sagebrush State. She’s most always blithe and merry, And sometimes she is quite contrary, Can do many a good deed When she sees a man in need. The girl of the Sagebrush State.

I will shout and sing ‘Bravo!” For the girl of old Nevada, The girl of the Sagebrush State, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

A girl who can swiftly ride, O’er desert and mountain side, And whenever she sees the game She is steady in her aim, The girl of the Sagebrush State. She is capable as a cook, With mentality to write a book, They say she has no knowledge, But then she’s finished college, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

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! She may not be so pretty, But she’s strong and quite witty, And she can really dance and sing With the grace to please a king, The girl of the Sagebrush State. A girl that need never wait, So do not ever go too late, Don’t be tardy in wooing, For she is up and doing, The girl of the Sagebrush State.

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! THE LAST TRIP, 1917 58 J.C.R, Jarbidge

Between 1900 and 1925, train tracks crisscrossed Nevada and provided much of the transportation. The Jarbidge Stage Robbery proved to be the last stage robbery in the Old West. On December 5, 1916, the driver of a small two horse-driven mail wagon was ambushed as he was riding to the town of Jarbidge, Nevada. The driver was killed and $4,000 was stolen, however, three suspects were arrested shortly afterward, including a horse thief named Ben Kuhl. Kuhl became the first murderer in American history to be convicted and sent to prison by the use of palm print evidence. Kulh was arrested and served 28 years at the State Prison in Carson City.59 The stolen $4,000 was never recovered and is said to be buried somewhere in Jarbidge Canyon.

1917 marked the end of the western trail’s “hold-up” era, memorialized that year by the “celebrated detective”, William A. Pinkerton in The Police Journal60 —excerpt below. The article goes on to describe the hold-up man as, after 1875, frequently a “cowboy with criminal inclination.”

The Elko Daily Independent wrote: The following came to us from Jarbidge. It will be remember that Fred Searey was the stage driver who was shot and killed last December when the mail stage was held up.

The Sage speeds down Toward Jarbidge town— The Driver, his heart is light; In the iron rack Lies the money-sack, With the mail secure and tight, And he feels content And confident That he’ll land it in town this night.

The road is rough, And the going is tough Through the hills that are cold and bare, But he feels like one With work well done, And is glad he will soon be there; And thoughtlessly He fails to see The treacherous, hidden snare.

Foul Murder’s head, Rears up so red, Behind her hideth Greed; The crack of a gun, And the deed is done—

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! A soul from a body freed. And thieves with ease The booty seize And vanish with lightning speed. And the murdered Boy, The pride and joy Of his Mother, as we all know, Has paid the price To Avarice— His life-blood stains the snow. And the night-wind stirs In the pines and firs And sobs at the sight below.

The hills low down And darkly frown On that gruesome piteous sight— For they feel the breath Of the Angel Death, And they hear her footstep light In the twilight dim As she comes to him And bears him into the night.

Farewell, Old Pal So genial— So faithful, tried and true— We will hope and pray When comes the day In which we are summoned, too, At our post we’ll be Found steadfastly, As staught to our trust as you.

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! THE CALL OF THE AMBULANCE, 1917 61 Helen R. Grigsby, Tonopah

On July 21, 1917, The Butler Theater Orchestra performed this song at the Richard Mercantile Building. The Tonopah Ambulance Regiment began to pass around small metal ambulance-shaped banks through local high school students to raise money for an ambulance. The Regiment’s leader, flag designer, mixer of “TAR punch” and wife of a local physician, Mrs. Helen R. Grigsby wrote,“The Call Of The Ambulance”. It was set to music. Mrs. Arthur Neth sang it for the first time publicly on August 20. September saw composition of a poem, “The Song of the Ambulance,” followed by a play and more poems. On October 20, 250 children sang “The Call Of The Ambulance” at the Airdrome. The effort ultimately purchased an ambulance for the war effort in France.

From the hills of old Nevada Where the silver bullion grows, Comes this ambulance to succor Those sore wounded by our foes. On our banner waves our motto, ‘This to Know To Will, To Dare, Therefore thru the thickest fighting We will give our soldiers care.

Hurry up, hurry up To the poor wounded man, Yes we are coming, Yes we are coming Just as fast as we can; When you hear the toot of that big auto car, You’ll know ‘tis our ambulance, from Tonopah.

Don’t you hear our engines chugging? Don’t you see our colors wave? Bringing comfort to the wounded To the soldier grand and brave. And above us waves Old Glory, Bidding us to keep it there And we bow our heads in silence For our fathers loving care.

And when the war is over And the awful debt is paid, We shall love our boys so dearly For the sacrifice they made. And we know our land shall blossom, Like a garden after rain Because of that closer brotherhood Which humanity shall gain.

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! Tonopah, 1918 Charles H. Rullison, Silver City

The war effort also lead, in 1918, to Charles H. Rullison publishing in Reno his poetry collection: “Poems of a Nevada Pioneer, benefit of the Red Cross and Our Dear Soldier Boys.” The sentimentality of poems like “Nevada” offers nothing novel. His poem, “Tonopah” refers to people living in the wild place having “larger hearts”—the persistent Nevada or “desert rat” idea that those living tin the desert are superior, a theme that seems to come from the young prospectors themselves and to then pervade Nevada poetry through the 20s and 30s.

This busy town that we’ve so long slighted, The bristling place before we never saw. Still, we knew that we would be delighted When some kind wind blew us in Tonopah.

We have often seen plats and maps of ground; Large cities and small ones, of town and states, But in this place we’re so turned around, Or Sol’s forgot his proper place and dates.

We would catch a glimpse from the plane below, In our winding way up the mountains slopes, Where Nature has so lavishly, you know, Hidden her death for him who toils and hopes.

We love this places, its mines its mills and marts, There’s life in such towns that none others know. The people are accused of larger hearts, We don’t know, but it seems that way they grow.

And though this place to some may seem uncouth, To fortune hunters those wild winds drift there. It bring us back to restyle days of youth; For Tonopah’s fairy land of nowhere.

And so this town to use like second sight, Since we made one more in old Comstock plays, The music of the stamps by day and night Like mother’s lullaby in childhood days.

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! THE DESERT RAT, 1919 62 Ralph Garnier Coole, Tonopah

Ralph Garnier Coole’s poem “The Desert Rat” put the new young prospector in the Tonopah/Death Valley region squarely on the literary and cultural map. The phrase, “desert rat”, first appears in the Los Angeles press in 190363 , describing Kern County prospectors who do not stay in one place more than a day or two. In a 1907 article in the Tonopah Bonanza the itinerant “desert rat” is contrasted to the “hermit” miner who settles.64 The phrase appeared in a 1917 mineral report for California with a photo of the Amargosa desert in Inyo County.65 The phrase probably gained further impetus through the 1919 movie, The Desert Rat.66

Coole’s poem seems to have been influential in putting the phrase, “desert rat”, into circulation among poets, helping to redefine the sage and pine school.67 With jazz hysteria taking hold of Reno during 1919 and the ‘20s, the city’s refined poetic interest seems to have focused on desert rat poetry—helping locals to focus on nature and not on downtown sin. As evident from a song sung in Reno that year, nostalgic for the sagebrush was also catching on in the Truckee Meadows.68 As discussed more fully in my book, “Reno’s Jazz Hysteria”, this interest in the outdoors was genuine. Yet, also, it came as Renoites looked to the desert and the mountains for refuge or solace while, within Reno, residents became resigned to an economy based on jazz, divorce, booze, gambling and prostitution.

Tonopah’s some lively, son, Boomin’ shore enough. Strikin’ pay dirt every day, Durn good lookin’ stuff. Camp’s plumb full o’tenderfeet; Plenty sourdoughs, too; Some with pokes cram full o’dust, Some without a sou.

Dancin’ girls with dreamy eyes; Makes my heart grow young. Heard one sing a song tonight; One I ain’t heard sung Since I hit these diggin’s Years an’ years ago— Heard the music sobbin-like— Sobbin’ soft an’ low.

I was just a youngster then, Careless, wild an’ free; Might a been a millionaire— But—spent it! That was me. She had hair just like the gold, Shinin’ fair an’ long— Funny how it all came back, Listenin’ to that song!

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! Life was young an’ so was I— Then—there came a day! He was sleek an’ handsome— An’—well, she went away! Many, many moons, son, Since I heard that song— Got a prospect in the hills— Guess I’ll move along.

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! SONG OF THE DEATH VALLEY PROSPECTORS, 1919 69 Frank Crampton, Death Valley

Frank Crampton wrote of a final meeting for many of the old prospectors, in Death Valley, during 1919. Though not from Nevada, the song chronicles the end to the culture of prospectors going out there. The image of the desert rat would become increasingly nostalgic. Though the general theme is of loners, the poem also refers to men working at corporate hard-rock mining—indicative of the reality. He wrote: The last verses were made up by a large group, all of use prospectors, desert rats, and hard-rock stiffs, at the almost deserted camp of Greenwater in the fall of 1919, when most of the group got together. It was t be the last reunion for most of us, although we did not know it at the time.…The few verses that I do remember, however, reveal the depth of feeling against the hardships each old timer faced, and shared sometimes with another of his kind, on the desert, but which were accepted without comment or complaint as part of the chosen life. Other than in verses of this song, I have never heard hardships mentioned by any of the old timers excepting as something to joke and laugh about, because what they did and what happened to them was commonplace. Had the old timers, prospectors, and desert rats not had to fight for everything that they got, and then fight to keep what they had found and to make it worth while, they would have called it “deep enough” and let someone else take on the job. To them nothing was worth while unless it was earned the hard way.

We’ve roamed the hills and made new trails, Our burros by our side; We’ve looked for gold, but ain’t found none Old Timer don’t you cry.

Oh! Oh! You desert rats, Don’t you cry no more; We’ve almost reached the Golden Gate, Our old pals waiting there.

We few are left, the most are gone Up on to Heaven’s shore; And soon we’ll be within the gates Old Timer don’t you cry.

There’s water there, the sun don’t burn, The hills are low, not steep; And sand don’t choke your breath away, Old Timer don’t you cry.

The wind don’t blow, the rain don’t rain, The trails ain’t got no rocks; The weather’s mild, just as you like, Old Timer don’t you cry.

No need to hobble Johnny now, Or look for him all day; The grass is green and not burned up, Old Timer don’t you cry.

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! The steel don’t dull, no need to muck, No real work more to do; The Lord is there awaiting too, Old Timer don’t you cry.

The gulches all are water filled, And gold dust by the pan; The next round shot will blast her in, Old Timer don’t you cry.

So down the drink and make a toast To all who still are here; Another one to pals now gone, Old Timer don’t you cry.

They’re waiting there with burros packed, With cinches right and fast; I’ll join them now, and wait for you, Old Timer don’t you cry.

Our pals are waiting patiently, The jacks are reared to go; I’m going now, good-by old pals, I’ll wait up there for you.

My last shift’s in, I’m on my way, I’ll wait until you come; And start again to look for gold, Old Timer don’t you cry.

You won’t have long to wait no more, Maybe a year or two; And sing again as now we do, Old Timer don’t you cry.

So tap her light until you come, And when it’s deep enough; Just load her light and tamp her soft, Old Timer don’t you cry.

And when we all have reached those gate, Our pals awaiting there; We’ll roam again on golden trails, Old Timer don’t you cry.

Oh! Oh! You desert rats I’ve landed straight up here, The boys all say to hurry up, They’re waiting here for you.

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! ROUND-UP POEM, 1922 70 W. L. Sims, Reno

In August of 1922, Oregon rodeo clown W. L. Sims—known on stage as Si Perkins—arrived in Reno with his “outlaw horses”71 for the Nevada Round-up—the first Nevada rodeo. In Oregon, during 1917, he lead a “Hayseed Band.”72 At least it seems that he did— “Si Perkins” was a comic vaudeville name in wide usage73 — often doing minstrel show skits74 and vaudeville. 75 It seems to have designated a country bumpkin and to have dated back to 1897.76

In Oregon, it may have been this “Si Perkins” who lead a jazz band between 1918 and 1920.77 For the 1922 Round-up in Reno he advertised as “The Charlie Chaplin of the buckaroos with his trick horses and mules.”78 The paper wrote: “Si says the different between his stunts and those of the other fellows is that he takes all the hard falls that bring a laugh and never spares his own bones one whit….A diversion of the trip was keeping track of fifty bucking horses that he brought with him. These animals are now being pastures are the Lewis ranch east of Reno….Si has a versatility of talents. Among them is writing poetry. While driving down here from Oregon behind his ‘pesky’ mules, he though of the following verses about the coming rodeo at Reno.”

Each town in Nevada has a round-up every year, And the people of the country meet these round-ups with a cheer. For they love to see the cowgirls, in their wild and dashin’ ways, And they love to see the cowboys as they did in olden days.

The wildest of wild horses are run in from the range. They shore are wild and wooly with the witch knots in their manes. They are roped and snubbed and saddle, A cowboy crawls upon one’s back, Sometimes he soars to heaven Sometimes he double back.

Wild steers are lassoed and hog tied, And bulldogged by one man Pony expresses; relay races; Oh, Gee, but aint’s that grand.

There a town in Washoe County Near the California line, That wants a lot of cowboys To come and have a time.

Trick riders, ropers, spinners And broncho twisters game The ones that come from Klamath THe town of round-up fame.

Wild Cat McCarty and big Jack Kane Whom you all do surely know’ Are going to go to Reno To a real wild west show.

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! Ben Dobbins, he agoin The drunken rider of great fame, Perry Ivory; he’ll be there The cowboy with a name.

Charley Bailey’s goin’, too, With his million dollar smile, And when he gets there The town sure will look wild.

And the Indians by the dozens With their feathers and their dye Will follow Charlie Bailey Or know the reason why.

All you boys git read For the fever’s runnin’ high, And we’ll meet you all in Reno Where the bronchus scratch the sky.

Now this is all I’ve got to say It comes on Labor Day, So now boy try to remember The -2-2-4 of this September.

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! AFTER LEWIS CARROLL, 1924 79 Anna H. Martin, Reno

In 1923, The Nevada State Journal began its “With Nevada Poets” Series. Some of these poems appear here. The series may have stemmed from an effort during the summer of 1920 by the Nevada Federation of Women’s Clubs to collect Nevada poems for presentation that fall in Minden. Not all the poems focused on Nevada.

This poem comes from that series. Its listing of place names in a clever fashion is reminiscent of De Groot’s “Colloquy Of The Old Timers.” From Wikipedia: Anne Henrietta Martin (September 30, 1875 in Empire City, Reno, Nevada – April 15, 1951 in Carmel, California) (pseudonym, Anne O'Hara; nickname, Little Governor Anne) was a suffragist, pacifist, and author from the state of Nevada. Her main achievement was taking charge of the state legislation that gave women of Nevada the right to vote. She was the first head of the department of history of the University of Nevada (1897-1901) And was active in the suffrage movement in England in 1909-1911, working with Emmeline Pankhurst. She was president of the Nevada equal franchise society in 1912, and the first national chairman of the National Woman's Party in 1916. She was the first woman to run for the United States Senate; She lost twice, in 1918 and 1920.80

’Twas Reno! And the V. & T. Did Dyke and Dayton in Dun Glen. All Ely was the Tonopah And the Rawhide was Minden.

Beware the Rhyolite, my son; The Schurz that catch, the Fleish that bite; Beware the Panamint and shun The Cliente night!

He look his Luning sword in hand. Long time the Washoe foe he sought, So rested he be Fallon tree And stood Goldfield in thought.

And, as in Lander thought he stood, The Panamint with eyes of flame, Came Carlin through the Fernley wood And Cortezed as he came.

One, two! One, two! And through and through The Elko blade went swift, Gerl-ach! He left it dead and with its head He Beowawed softly back.

And, hast though slain the Panamint? Come to my arms, Manhattan boy. Golconda day! O Deeth! Oro! He Empired in his joy.

’Twas Reno and the V. &. T. Did Dyke and Dayton in Dun Glen. All Ely was the Tonopah And the Rawhide was Minden.

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! THE WHY OF ITCHIN’ FEET, 1924 81 Ace, Reno

From the Nevada State Journal “With Nevada Poets” series.

There are some folks with queer ideas, Forever tellin’ you Of places to be sure and see And things you ought to do. Now often times it’s just such folks That I detest to meet. Because back comes the fever then, And pains of itchin’ feet.

One time some one just said to me The desert! Great waste of burning sand, Contains no single living thing; As yet, there is no man, Tho there’s been many who have tried, No water can they find. So I just had to pack my pack And cities leave behind, To cross the blooming desert And find one thing that lived, Then go back to those folks and say, You’re wrong, because I did!

But there, out in the desert, Parched tongue, in burning heat I met an old prospector, Who said, “You see that peak?” “She’s highest in this section, And I’ve heard folks explain How many miles they had to look To see the ocean plain?”

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! That’s why I left the desert And took a bran new notion, I’d like to climb right to her top And see that good old ocean. I toiled and climbed for three long days, No other soul in sight, When on the fourth day of my clim I saw a plane alight, Upon a plateau up ahead, And then a man get out. So I mushed up to him and said, “Hello! What you about?” “Well, I’m bound north, to find the pole,” “Say yes, and I’ll take you.” O.K. with me, and now I am one Of them explorers, too.

He fixed a leak, then in we clumb, And let the engine roar. Then smoothly glided off the earth, We’re on our way once more. Just when I thought we’re doin’ fine, I heard my partner shout, The doggone engine’s out of time, We gotta land. Look out!

The spot that he picked out to land I marked in memory With clothes and shoes, before I swam To shore—’twas in the sea. I stayed all day right on the shore Without a stitch of clothes, And if I hadn’t built a fire, I know I would have froze.

It’s not much use to worry you With how I did get back, Because, you know, I couldn’t go No place and call a hack. But here I am again at home, Content to settle down, Until some folks with queer ideas Just happen to come ‘round, And then start in a-tellin’ me Of ideas that are new, Or some new thing I oughta see Or what I ought do.

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! THE DESERT RAT, 1924 82 Marvin V. Robinson, Reno

From the Nevada State Journal “With Nevada Poets” series.

As I ponder and dream in the twilight, Just thinking of this and of that, To my mind comes a faint, worn out memory, Of a friend, an Old Desert Rat, In country of deserts and mountains, A country of sagebrush and pine, A land of untold dangers, Where water is darned hard to find. Legends of old had enthralled him, Legends of wealth and free gold, The Goldess of Fortune had beckoned, And he’s followed her trail ‘till he’s old. The trails and hardships are many, And the trails are sure to be hard, But He’s satisfied with his company, A silent old Jack for a pard. His wages are poor and uncertain, Some times he’s not paid at all But his father never wavers a moment “I’ll sure strike it rich before fall.” When once a rich vein he uncovered, He reigned like a king o’er the land, But he didn’t know much about business, And in a while it had slipped from his hands. The roll that he made did not last long, For amusement he gave it away. The money and cities could not Keep him happy, day after day. A complete new pack and outfit, Was all that he saved from the strike, And excitement ran high as a child’s When he brought the new pack to the light. Back in his old clothes once again, Back on the trail once more, One again he had answered the call, He wondered what life had in store. There are hundred of others just like him, Camping on ridges and flats, They’d fade out and die in the cities, But live long as a Desert Rat. They live in the great open spaces, Where life to them is worth while, Living alone with our Maker, And sharing with Him each trial.

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! The last time I saw him he told me, That his lot was the best after all, And he had a good hunch that this time, He’d get his reward before fall.

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! A CHRISTMAS EVE DREAM, 1924 83 Curley Lewis, Reno

From the Nevada State Journal “With Nevada Poets” series.

’Twas the long, long night before Christmas, the whole cell-house gloom Beswatched in a sterile silence, dead as the gutted moon; We all lay on our bunks, numbed by the cold, and blue, Claw-fingered Mex, and Windy Cook, and Dangerous Johnny Pugh.

Then out of the frozen sagebrush arose a peculiar wail, Like the bark of white-fanged husky, brining the Yukon mail; Smack into our gloomy cell-house, with blood-shooter eyes that leered, Came stranger, bespattered and grimy, and God! what a long white beard.

He didn’t say beans for a moment, just camped in his tracks and smiled, Making each calloused convict feel like a little child; Push was the first to recover, he spat out a heart-sick taunt, “What are you doing here stranger? What in the hell do you want?”

“Want” asked the stranger softly, his eyes had a mystic blaze; “I want you Cons’s to be happy, I want to change your ways; I’ve brought you the pardons I begged for, up at the Governor’s house, Go on back to your kinfolks; tell them you just got out.”

He lifted a package from the his pocket, then onto an empty bunk, Like sunshine on a thin veranda spread, the pardons looked the size of a trunk; Here was an Emperor’s ransom; here was more than enough; Out eyes stared out from their sockets; stunned by his ghastly bluff.

Then up spoke a aged convict, with the ague a-shaking his paws, “You’re giving the pardons to us, stranger? Why—you must be Santa Clause.” The minute he made that statement, the bearded stranger was gone; But there on the musty bunk, the pardons gleamed bright in the dawn.

The cold seemed to have left the cell-house, and heat entered like a warm breath. We started and looked at each other, like sounds who’d been seeing a wrath: The first honest tears for ages, stood in each renegade’s eye, And putting his head on Windy’s shoulder, John tore off a dam good cry.

Wile out from the frozen sagebrush, Like a buzzard’s pinions in flight, There tickled an eerie whisper—Happy Christmas to all—Goodnight.

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! HARD ROCK DANN, 1925 84 Henry McNamara, Reno

This poem may be a references to Dan McNamara, active in Manhattan, Nevada around 1908 and involved in a 1908 lawsuit versus The Manhattan Union Mining Company.

The sun was setting in the West, One evening late in May, While on the burning desert sand, Two fortune-hunters lay.

Their pack was scattered on the ground, While the burro seemed to beg But the thing their eyes were centered on Was the empty water keg.

The first to speak, with voice made weak, From travel, thirst and cramp, Was Hot Water Dan, a hard-rock man, From Nevada’s greatest camp.

It seems, says he, twixt you and me, That life’s great jig is up: From Dawson’s slush, to Bisbee’s bush, I’ve drunk a bitter cup.

So, I bury the pick and the prospect pan, And leave forever the haunts of man. His voice was hushed by a mighty sound: The burro was rolling on the ground.

A kick, a plunge, a staggering fall. The burro was gone beyond recall. The silence is broken by Stuttering Jack, Who, for years, has followed the prospect lack.

Whose fiery eyes and heated breath, Tells him he faces a desert death. “Goodbye, old Comstock, with your mighty hills, Good-bye, old Bodie, and Carson river mills.

“Goodbye to long eared jacks, “Hot water, mines and prospect packs; I’m going now, where gold will bring no joy, Goodbye, Dan, goodbye, old boy.”

And they fell asleep in the desert’s gloom, Under the gaze of a smiling moon. After many months the bones are found, Bleached and white upon the ground,

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! By Chapperal Joe, from New Mexico, A northbound trapping Navajo, And finding a message on the pack To the haunts of man, he brought it back:

“Take me back to old Comstock, And bury me under bonanza rock. And on my tomb, place ‘Hard Rock Dan, A roving Western Mining Man.”

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! JUST A MEMORY—of someone I’ve trusted, 1927 85 Words by Ben Klegg, music by Frank Bruno

A prisoner’s message in song from Nevada State Prison, Carson City, Nevada. Dedicated—not only to the weary souls behind prison walls and bars—but also to the many heavy hearts in the outside world.

When it’s dark over head, And the sunshine has fled, And our paths seem all mis’ry and pain, When we try hard to smile, Tho’ we’re sad all the while, And we wonder had life been in vain, It is then that there creeps thru the window, Cherished visions of long, long ago, Filled with sad memories, As they drift back to me, And see ev’ry heart string aglow.

Just a mem’ry of someone I’ve trusted, Just a memory grown dim from the tears, Will it vanish at last, Like a dream from the pat, Or still cling to my heart thru the years, Just a mem’ry of soft arms enfolding, Just the sweet childish laughter of yore, These are memories still dear, Tho’ they burn deep and sear, And I pray God they’ll last ever more.

Of the longings untold, Of old friendships grown cold, Of the bitter dregs drained from life’s cup, Tho’ our future must be, In this Gethsemenee, ’Tis the portion each pris’ner may sup, Thru the memories of hopes that are shattered, Thru the pitfalls we’ve found on the trail, This thot yet is ours, Be it sunshine or show’rs, To still “Play the game” tho’ we fail.

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! WAGON TRAMPS ON THE CARSON SINK, 1929 86 George W. Davison

During 1927, The Nevada Federation of Women's Clubs published this poem in a book, “Nevada Poems”. That book represented a high point in publication of sage and pine poetry —poems with a Nevada theme—at least prior to Bertha Raffetto’s 1932 song, “Home Means Nevada”—which seems to stem from a 1930s effort to revive “sage and pine” or Nevada poetry. The Journal and the book both mixed vernacular or rough verse with more purple poetry having little to do with Nevada. And, beginning in the early 1930s, the organized Reno focus on poetry for school children shifted simply to poetry as a whole, replacing what had been a greater focus on things western.

Inclusion of this poem in the 1927 book suggests that social issues were marginalizing celebration of the “desert rat” or prospector just as, during the late 19th century, the miner had been scorned—both for their transience. Arising from the economic panic of 187387 and the resulting worldwide depression, across the nation, a “tramp” was an impoverished migrant worker who walked—tramped—and who rode the rails.88 During the 1880s, in rural Nevada, anti-corporate sentiment could defend “tramps”—as illustrated here by an article from the Pioche Record.89

Tramps were also criticized. In 1896, a San Francisco article reprinted in Reno described California as a terrible “paradise for tramps.”90 By 1920s, California papers discussed “tramps” living in cars—including migrant “fruit tramps.”91 Still, as in this photo from 1920s Visalia, in California tramps were needed in the fields and resented at the same time. And tramps became a fixture of Hollywood moviemaking.

This poem seems to resent tramps from California. The California references in this poem suggest a family of California tramps who find Nevada not so comfortable and who return to California. As such, this poem is a comic Nevada criticism of Californians. It implicitly criticizes all desert rats. Yet, the poem appears in the 1927 book, Nevada Poems, probably because its language is the western slang associated with celebration of the desert rat in the land of the sage and pine. The criticism may not have been noticed by the editors. And it is a competent piece of vernacular writing. It signals an end to tolerance of “tramps” and desert rats across Nevada.

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! Yes, we’ve had our tryout, stranger, campin’—starvin’ half the while Not a neighbor within range, sir, ‘round us nigh for twenty mile. That’s why all of us look ailin’—no, its not the ornery ills— We’re all a droopin’, palin—dyin’ homesick for the hills.

It’s a fact! My family there, sir, we’ve been roamin’ round the Sink Out where waterholes is scarcer big enough for one sized drink. Not a hill to make a showin’—white, an level as your hand! Nor a tree no higher growin’ than a sagebrush in the sand.

Just a trampin’—an a dreamin’ of the hills we uster know, Where the streams was glancin’ gleamin’ thru the Redwoods’ shade below, And our cabin, where t’was lyin’ as we left it, all alone. And the winds a sadly sighin’ round it, since that we’ve been gone.

And sometimes—just like mist appearin’ on the desert, we have seen That cabin in the clearin’ and the ranges fresh and green; And the trees a wavin’—seemin’ like we seen them in the past— It was hard to b’lieve ’twas dreamin’ and we wasn’t home at last!

Tell yer, when a man’s been used to her hills and streams and woods and rains He’s a sick a done-up rooster out there on them sunburnt plains! He just wants to keep a trampin’—then ain’t satisfied to roam! Never finds the place he’s campin’ on, feels like he was at home.

Ever tried it, stranger—never! Well, I won’t advise you to! It’s the durndest ailment ever sufferin’ mortal was put through! ‘Taint them every-day off feelin’s, likes they cure with herbs and pills; You’re outside a doctor’s heaven’s, when you’re homesick for the hills.

But we’re goin’ home—we’re closer, creepin’ closer every day. Think we’ll tramp next season? No, sir! Not if I can have a say! Trampin’ might suit some folks likin’—full of “romance” and such frills. But we’ve tried it—and we’re hikin’ back to old Sonoma’s hills.

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! MORNING DEW, 1929 C. Mumford Alvord

In 1929, southern Nevada miner, Clark Alvord, penned “Morning Dew” and then included it with a series of related poems in his 1936 book, “Indian Muse.”

Alvord spent his life mining in Eldorado Canyon, forty miles southeast of Las Vegas. He knew southern Paiutes and is said to have written a dictionary of their language. In 1912, Alford was noted for building an effective cyanide mill at the site.92 In 1924, he issued stock for his mine.93 Alvord ran a store and served as postmaster in the little town of Nelson.94

This poem, “Morning Dew”, bears out a major theme in the book —modernization, disappearance of the southern Paiutes and a hope for new willows along the shore as Boulder Dam would soon create a lake and flood the old willows. When, in 1928, the federal government announced the building of Boulder Dam on the Colorado River—later called Hoover Dam. History interested Alvord. 95 96 His mine was doing well. 97 In the poem, he imagined a Pauite maiden coming from the spirit world to give her blessing for the dam and new willows.

When Clark Alvord died in 1938, he left a portion of The Southeastern Mining Company98 and his Sky Lark mine 99 to the film star Marion Davies. The national press picked up the story. Ms. Davies was mistress to the publishing mogul Randolph Hearst. The national press said that Alvord had been watching her movies and writing her for 20 years with no response.100 101 In fact, living in Nelson, Alford could only have begun watching her movies in ’28 when the first movie theater was built in Las Vegas—the El Portal.102 . His will naming her was dated 1930. He would have written her about the same time that he wrote his poems. Perhaps both the poems and his request for her picture reflected his worry at the damming of the Colorado River.

Responding to a national outcry at the press coverage of this inheritance—the colorful story of the miner and the star— Ms. Davies stated that Alford written asking for her photograph and that, for the price of 25 center, she had sent him one.103 She stated that she would use the inheritance to endow a bed for charity patients at a Las Vegas hospital.104 The press stated that, after his death, she sent flowers.105

Alvord’s style is sentimental and antique—much like the style of the 1880s—in contrast to the “desert rat” poetry of the 20s that celebrated prospectors like Alvord. 98 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! A graceful Indian lady from the shadow worlds With her silken willow dress far below her knees And her loving mate of long centuries Gone before came by boat over the spirit seas.

Wandering down the beautiful shady streets Of Vegas town. “Oh, look!” She cried, “At the pretty flowers and umbrella trees So like our own was” first thing she spied.

“Let us stroll around the symmetrical town On the side streets where we see so many leafy dells On the very spot ages ago where in tryst We first me and loved before we hear call of angel bells.”

The Indian spirit with her fin poise With eyes of luster same as her name—“Morning Dew”— Whispered of the lovely sights to the one at Her side, “How I wish I could always remain here together with you.”

As they glided all around, “Why even The autos have names One is called ‘Jane.’ All is so like our flowery celestial home Alas, we cannot here much longer remain.”

“Soon” said Morning Dew “more water Will come From flowing stream so near. That new shores will be covered with Fresh flowing willows which us are so dear."

99 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! US OLD BOYS ON BOULDER DAM, 1931 106 Claude Rader, Boulder

Not every important vernacular poem fits into a category. Rader’s poem is not focused on or derived from sage and pine imagery or the desert rat. The poem and the response to it are pure, vernacular political polemic and came in a highly charged atmosphere. With the Great Depression, the subject of free and itinerant men became highly charged. This further leant to a shift away from celebration of the desert rat in general—of a class of people living out threre—leaving only the few remaining actual prospectors for a few poems about desert rats. During early construction of the dam, during summer of 1931, numerous workers and sometimes their family members in camp died due to the heat and resulting hydration. Temperatures in the construction tunnels reached 140 degrees.107 This poem seems to have been written in the wake of failed efforts by the International Workers Of the World or “Wobblies” to strike for higher wages and better working conditions. 200 strikers occupied the barracks. However, 1200 others went to Las Vegas to wait out the unrest and then return to work.

Abe Lincoln freed the negroes, And old Nero he burned Rome But the Big Six helped depression When they gave the stiff a home In a nice bunk house there sleepin’ There workin’ every day. The hungry look has vanished For they get three squares a day You’ll find tall Lous from Kal-a-ma-zoo And Slim from Alabam Mixed in with all the rest of us Old boys on Boulder Dam.

And the fallin’ rocks can’t scare us Nor the scorchin’ rays of the sun We’ve rode the rods and brakebeams Ragged and on the bum And they gave us jobs and fed us When we needed it you bet And we all are truly thankful With no feelin’ of regreat So we’re stickin’ till the finish There’s me and Ike and Same And we’re getting fat and stakie Us old boys on Boulder Dam

100 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! There are thousands we know that knock it, And holler, that they are cheap But to us, it brings no worry Not a moment’s loss of sleep, For, we’ve been here since it started We’re used to all the slam And we’re stickin’ to the finish Us old boys on Boulder Dam

“Oh” that bacon and for breakfast With those new moan eggs I’ll say You get down at river camp Sure we get ‘em ever’ day, And ice-cream, cake and puddin’ Pork-chops at two-bits a pound Fresh milk from contented cows And hot-cakes a golden brown Fresh meat cooked fit to eat Brush and butter, jam Flunkies dress in snowy white, For us old boys on Boulder Dam.

And the rain may come a pourin’ With sleet and flaky snow. But we’ll dam the Colorado Says our Super “Hurry Up” Crowe And us stiffs, is goin’ to help him ‘Till she’s solid and complete While they pay us honest wages With a place to sleep and eat And down here in Black Canyon You’ll find us ever’ day Where the silvery Colorado Slowly wends it’s way. Contented and all happy As a peaceful rovin lamb And we’re stickin’ to the finish Us old boys, on Boulder Dam.

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! US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM, 1932 108 Anon., Boulder

With No Apologies to Claude Rader and his “Us Old Boys on Boulder Dam.” In response to Rader’s poem, during 1932, the IWW issued a response— bitter at the lack of strike support by workers and the resulted failure of the strike. Rader’s defense of the company angered the IWW. The strike is said to have failed because men not only needed the jobs but also because they distrusted the IWW and their tactics. At the same time, the authorities were taking steps to trump up charges and expel IWW organizers from the state. The Depression was beginning to hit hard.

There are thousands we know are dissatisfied And holler that we are cheap Such stuff won’t penetrate our scabby hides Nor thru our thick domes creep; For we’ve been here since it started And unless we’re made to lam We’ll be sticking to the finish US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM!

We don’t mind the falling rocks Nor the scorching rays of the sun For our heads are solid ivory blocks And we think its lots of fun We were ragged, buzzin’ in the jungles; It’s better than Sally soup, you bet So we’re all mighty humble With not a feeling of regret And we’re sticking to the finish— There’s Woody, Mac and me! Damn But we’re getting fat and scale US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM!

Abe Lincoln free the negroes, Old Nero he burned Rome; But the Big Six fills a graveyard With the stiffs without a home. In a bunkhouse barn we’re sleeping And toiling with might and main But you’ll never hear us crabbing ‘Cause we hope to scab again— So you’ll find Shorty from Ossining And Slim from Alabam’— By golly, nearly al the crew are cussing US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM!

102 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! Oh that bacon and for breakfast With gluey hotcakes and coffee cold Over which a flag should wave at half mast As the cause of belly pains untold; Oh, that watery milk from kitchen sink With soggy cake and leather steak They make put our guts upon the blink But we gotta work for Baldy’s sake. There’s them that seems to think it tough But just some beans and a hunk o’ham By gosh, are plenty good enough For US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM!

Tho the rains may turn tornado With whipping sleep and snow; Tho the rest may damn the Colorado And our dear super Baldy Crowe We scabs are going to help him, For we’re solid and complete While they pay us coolies’ wages With a place to flop and eat. So in the slaughterhouse inferno You’ll find us every day Where the muddy Colorado Rushes madly on its way. And if the boys don’t ORGANIZE And quickly make us scram We’re sticking to the finish— US OLD SCABS ON BOULDER DAM!

103 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! HOME MEANS NEVADA, 1932 Bertha Raffetto, Reno

As early as 1920, there was talk of the need for a state song—probably as an outgrowth of general interest in Nevada verse.109 Nevada’s official state song, “Home Means Nevada” was written by Bertha Raffetto— 1885-1952110 — during summer of 1932. The initial title was, “Home Means Nevada To me.” The song’s composition came at the conclusion of the era for “sage and pine” poetry that had thrived since around 1895.

Raffetto was a contemporary of Florence Ray and her style, as well as much of the interest by society in Nevada Poems during the 20s, reflects the gentile yet, at the time, progressive and lyrical sentimental of the early 1900s. During 1929 and ’30, Raffetto composed a two songs that were sung for dances at Tony Pecetti’s Spanish Ballroom—as described further below. During 1931, she recited “ “Nevada poems” in San Francisco for a conference of the American Penwomen.111 Beginning during May 1932 and into 1938, Raffetto edited the column “Poetic Nevadans”, in The Nevada State Journal. Note the title to the column—the focus had shifted to “poetry written by Nevadans” from "Nevada poetry”. She was active with the Women’s Federation in a “poetry week” during 1931,’32 and ’33. “Poetry week” moved towards a broad poetry focus. The paper sometimes now received vernacular poems in imitation of the Nevada poetry style from the 1920s—submitted from Texas or Massachusetts or Pennsylvania.

A long-running member of the Reno branch of Pen Women and Chairman of the Poetry Section of the Women’s Federated Clubs in Reno, Raffetto was asked to write and play a Nevada song at Bowers Mansion for the Nevada Native Daughters. According to her account, she mislaid the date until noticing the engagement on her calendar, a day prior. According to her own account, this lead to a feverish night before her performance at Bowers Mansion in Washoe Valley, during the summer of 1932. At the event, upon hearing it, several state leaders asked that “Home Means Nevada” be submitted to the Legislature. It was adopted as the state song February 6, 1933. During fall of 1932, in her role of editor for the NSJ’s Poetic Nevadan department. she was active receiving poem from the “Poetic Nevadans: who were part of San Quentin prison’s Caged Poets.112

Recent interest in “Nevada song” had recently with publication of a Nevada edition to a small California booklet, “The Troubadour”. This edition contained a number of the older and some newer poems in the “desert rat” and “sage and pine” mode, though few new ones of merit. Significantly, a couple of poems addressed Nevada as a whole rather than a particular aspect. The essay on the back cover, below, illustrates the ongoing strength of belief in a pastoral, “sage and pine” Nevada where miners, cowboys and housewives co-existed as sturdy pioneers. In the publication, Raffetto’s lyric, “Nevada”, may have been a song whose words she wrote in 1930113 —also known as, “Painter of Dreams” and “Nevada, Paint Me A Picture.

“Home Means Nevada” marks the climactic work in the sage and pine school of northern Nevada verse. This was the end of the pastoral movement. Despite its sentimentality the song remains direct and simple. With talkies, the Hollywood western movie dominated everyone’s view of the “West.” Raffetto’s song remains a poignant reminder of locally created western identity prior to the gunslinger mythology of an increasingly militarist culture.

104 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! Way out in the land of the setting sun, where the wind blows wild and free, There’s a lovely spot, just the only one, that means home sweet home to me. If you follow the old Kit Carson trail, until desert meets the hills, Oh you certainly will agree with me, It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills, Home means the sage and the pine. Out by the Truckee, silvery rills, out where the sun always shines, Here is the land which I love the best, fairer than all I can see. Deep in the heart of the golden west, home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of day,Colors all the western sky, Oh my heart returns to the desert grey, and the mountains tow’ring high. Where the moon beams play in shadowed glen, with the spotted fawn and doe, All the live long night until morning light, is the loveliest place I know.

A third, more modern verse has appeared, no one seems to know the author114 :

You may follow the modern freeway roads or the old Alejo trail. (??) At the Joshua tree where the sagebrush ends, to where men with a dream prevail; From the mining sites to the neon lights turning desert night to day, Where the bighorn sheep graze the mountain steep, is the place where I long to stay.

Nevada (Painter of Dreams) by Bertha Raffetto —from The Troubadour, Aug. 1932.

Paint me a picture, O Painters of Dreams, Paint me the place where the white moon gleams Like silver lace, on Sierra’s breast, Where the pine trees moan in unsettled rest. Paint me the place where the wild peach blows, Laved by the rills from the deep-packed snows. Paint me that flower of heavenly blue; The purple sage all wet with rain! Paint, O Painter, and ease again This mad desire consuming me, Nevada’s hills again to see!

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! Death Valley Curley, 1934 115 Henry McNamara, Reno In 1934, Rosco Wright (Death Valley Curley) was a younger prospector of the “flivver” or Model T type rather than an older, burro man. By 1918, the flivver was being employed by Nevada prospectors for quick excisions into the desert.116 During April of that year, Curley played a role in the recovery of Ted Groesbeck’s body. Groesbeck had climbed down a shaft 30 feet to rescue Bill McRea who had fallen. With McRea back at the surface, Groesbeck stepped on some rotten boards, broke through and fell down the entire 500 foot shaft.117 When a rattled McRea sought help, the men at Beatty Springs in southern Nevada sprang into action to retrieve Groesbeck’s body. The event saw long articles in the paper. This poem may have brought McNamara (?-1957)118 some fame as a 1949 newspaper article confuses him with Death Valley Curley.119 McNamara fought in the Spanish-American War, busted broncs, drove a stage, prospected and acted in Reno theater.120 He wrote on a number of topics—including, during 1926, a poem celebrating the paved road between Carson City and Reno.

Midst the sand dunes of Death Valley, Roams a desert-rat that’s game, For years he’s searched for dirt that pays, And Curley is his name.

The dangers faced by desert rats, Would sometimes take your breath, For this bleak valley where they dwell Has earned its name of death.

Lured to a shaft, in search of gold, A few short days ago, Ted Groesbeck fell to certain death Five hundred feet below.

Death Valley Curley heard this call And tried to rescue him; But darkness, gas and falling stone He had to fight to win.

When rescue-workers came at last, They found him lying there: Alive but weak and broken down From gas and stagnant air.

From year to year the tale we’ll hear How Groesbeck met his end: And Curley braved the jaws of death While trying to rescue him.

Death Valley’s waste still beckons you, Like siren’s songs of old: But you must take a chance with death Before you get her gold. 106 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! IN MEMORIUM TO WHISKEY PETE, 1934 121 Anon., Las Vegas

In Collaboration by “Pete’s” Honorary Pallbearers.

It isn’t clear to what extent this poem is intended as serious piece and to what extent it may be a send-up of the western hero in Las Vegas as construction of the Hoover Dam concluded and, with the end of Prohibition, Nevada’s economy shifted to booze and divorce. The poem herald’s a new Nevada era of booze and divorce that ran from 1933 to about 1960.

He was just a long, lean Texas Gink, Who ran a joint at the edge of a sink, By the old state-line where the lizards wink.

He cursed and he swore, he was steeped in sin, And his mildest drink was Holland Gin. He fought with his friends and foe’s alike, He pistoled them up and down the pike.

He bragged and he blowed like a North Sea-whale, And a lie to tell he would never fail.

The beer that he made was a lousy brew, It would lay you out in a terrible stew. From oil drum vats to his dirty jugs, It was good for a fight with every slug.

On his whiskey too, you could always sail, For it was known as “Pete’s Third Rail,” Oh, his rye and gin, “I’m telling you pards,” Had a perfume rare, like the old stockyards.”

The damsels fair, both young and old, To “Whiskey Pete” their bodies sold. He played them fast and loose and fine, And never drew the color line.

But he drank his own booze and no more he’ll shoot, The high heels off a puncher’s boot. He played his game and he went the route, St. Peter said, “Three Strikes, You’re Out.”

So we’ve dug him down with a fare-you-well, A six-foot hole on the road to hell. The devil growled and said, with a shout, “Bar the gates, or he’ll run me out.”

107 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! THE DIVORCEE’S SOLILOQUY 1938 122 Bert Cohen, Reno

By 1910, Reno’s economy was said to rest on the divorces business. Nevada had lowered its residency requirement to three months. With the arrival of Prohibition and the jazz hysteria, Reno lived on divorce and accompanying sins—drinking, gambling, women—for decades. The nation’s interest and the lore of divorce returned with zeal in 1931 as Nevada legalized gambling and reduced the divorce residency requirement to six weeks. In my book, “Reno’s Jazz Hysteria", I discuss this.

108 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! THE LONE TREE, ‘50s. Myrtle Tate Myles, Reno

In 1972, Myrtle Tate Myles (1886-1980).123 published “The Lone Tree And Other Nevada Ballads”. The poems are well written and in the old, vernacular style. In the introduction to that book, Myles wrote that many of these poems had been written in the ‘20s.

Her account may not be true. Myles wrote that during the ‘30s she had had poems accepted to Nevada Magazine—then called Nevada Highways and Parks—and that the poems did not appear because it went under due to the depression. In fact, that state magazine began publication in 1936 and continued until World War II.124 My impression is that Myles may have heard many of the stories in the poems during the 1920s. I can find only one poem published by her during that period—a sentimental piece from 1932.125 The poems in the book seem dated to the 1950. Her poem “Singing Mountain” probably reflects the first publishing of the name “Singing Sands Mountain” for that place near Fallon— in 1954.126 The poem seem written consciously in the old vernacular style.

The poems are western vignettes, and, as such, seem to parallel Myle’s vignettes published during 1951 and 1956 as “Pioneer Nevada” for Harold’s club127 . History as vignette was also the approach in Lucius Beebe’s Territorial Enterprise during the ‘50s. These kinds of colorful stories reflect a mythological approach to history that has been active since Nevada’s founding. Myles served as a research librarian for the Nevada Historical Society from 1957 to 1969.

109 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! PORTRAIT OF NEVADA,‘60s Mildred Breedlove, Lincoln County

A dramatic end to mainstream traditional verse seemed to come in the mid ‘60s with the frustrations of Mildred Breedlove (1904-1994)128 . Breedlove’s 1959 collection of poem, “Those Desert Hills And Other Poems”, written over a ten year period, lead to her appointment that year as Nevada state Poet Laureate.129 In 1964, for the state’s centennial, Breedlove wrote a long rhymed/structured poem, “Portrait Of Nevada”.

Legally blind, Breedlove lived in a Lincoln County cabin without electricity or running water and typed the work over a three year period on an Underwood typewriter. Breedlove’s commemorative poem began as a plain statement of the desert’s forbidding environment—with no vagueness or sugar coating. Her description of the desert sounds a bit like a metaphor for her own artistic estrangement.

Lonely and waiting; abandoned; forgot; Heavy with treasures untouched and unknown; Savagely impotent; endlessly hot; Walled by the mountains that swallowed her moan. Sunshine and sand in a pitiless glare, Canyon to mesa, and valley to hill; Colorful; beautiful; desolate; bare; This is the desert…unchanging, and still…130

The long poem concluded with a series of short, interior poems on a typical range of historical figures—the litany of colorful stories so popular during the 1950s and that still underlie much of northern Nevada’s tendency toward folksy yarns as a means to history. Yet, along the way, Breedlove included description of the robber barons of the Comstock lode. That sentiment may have seemed mere history around 1960 as she began to poem. However, by 1964, with the rise of what came to be called in the counter-culture—the “establishment”—plain description of the corrupt oligarchy that ran the Comstock Lode may have seemed a renegade attack.

So…one by one, the little operators Were swallowed up; squeezed out; and went away— And, one by one, the screwed manipulators Grew richer, fatter; and had more to say….131

In 1961, Breedlove organized the Nevada Poetry Society, which ran to 1973 and was then restarted in 1976.132 The organization’s goal lay in “education and literacy”— much the same goal as the Women’s Federation had adopted during the 1930s, expanding beyond vernacular “Nevada poems” to a more general focus—one that, in their 1950 book, was still traditional in structure. In 1965 for the Centennial and with her own poem ignored by the Governor, Breedlove published a collection: “Silver Strings: Nevada Poetry Society Anthology.”

Nevada’s Governor, Grant Sawyer, is said to have shunned Breedlove’s commemorative centennial poem— even though she was Nevada’s state poet-laureate. Bitter, Breedlove is said to have spent all her money to self- publish the work during the ‘80s and to have ultimately left Nevada for Utah.133 A traditionalist, Breedlove scorned modern poetry as “obscurism”.134

110 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! The Rusty Old Ford Car, ‘70s? 135 Anon., Pioche

This being said, traditional verse has not really ended. And, there are more literal lyrics out there.

This one crossed my Facebook feed, from a fine Las Vegas photographer, Larry Hanson. He took this photo. It is copyrighted and used by his permission.136 (It’s much better in color.) I am just guessing at the date of the poem. If you find songs or poems, I’d love to receive a copy and any story behind them. Email: [email protected]

Larry wrote: Recently I visited the old Hackett Ranch and came across this bullet riddled rusty car. I was with a group and we stood around this car wondering its history. One of our group later found out that a friend of hers had visited the ranch in the early 90's and there was a card in it with a poem explaining the presence of the old rusty car. The poem was removed and placed in a museum in nearby Pioche. I don't believe that anyone who read the poem would have used the car for target practice. As one who has a passion for exploring Nevada, I often wonder of the history of places I visit. While at the Hackett Ranch, we spent a good amount of time in the family cemetery trying to piece the history together. This poem explains a lot.

Pause awhile to breathe a prayer For the boy who loved this car. He died that you might walk in freedom And carry his story far.

He was the oldest son of the hard-working rancher, He loved his father and mother. He learned to read in a log cabin school; He was adored by sisters and brothers.

Heeding the call of his Uncle Sam To defend his country dear, And turning his back on college days, He drove his old Ford here.

Goodbye to mother and sisters, Shaking hand with Dad, The rancher’s son left all he loved, Even the old Ford Car.

This rancher’s son who loved to read Patted the car and he walked away, ‘You sit right here and wait for me: I’ll drive you again someday.’

111 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! He fought Hitler’s men awhile in France Then chased the Desert Fox He rode in a Jeep that overturned: They buried him in a box.

Many winding desert roads he’d driven, Secure in the old Ford car. But the open Jeep crushed the rancher’s son… Another victim of that war.

Back on the ranch his parent mourned As they buried their younger son. Mercifully, they didn’t yet know They’d also lost their collegiate one.

After the war, in a flag-draped coffin, The college boy came home. They buried him on the western hill; The old Ford car stood all alone.

Shock and grief take miles to heal. Seeking comfort by going further, They sold the ranch and left the car, Awaiting the oldest brother.

When the parents died, they returned to their ranch, They’re all on the western hill… Grieving father and stalwart mother Their younger son and his collegiate brother.

Remember here the rancher’s son Who will never wander far; For his body lies in the family plot; Near the rusty old Ford car.

112 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! BOOKS BY CW BAYER

All are extensively researched—lots of endnotes. Find these books at nevadamusic.com

Profit, Plots and Lynching—the creation of Nevada Territory. The dramatic and sometimes violent story of creating Nevada, Carson City and Virginia City.

Dreaming Up Nevada—the story of William Ormsby. This is a shorter and more easily read version of Profit, Plots and Lynching. It does not contain the references. It provides a good overview of the basic story.

Rhymes From The Silver State—historical lyrics. A collection—probably the only collection—of poems and songs from Nevada’s mining era through the “sage and pine” lyric of the early 20th century.

The Strychnine Banjo—Charley Rhoades, Jake Wallace and The Days of ’49. The story of the most important gold rush, mining song to come out of the far West during the 19th century, how it was written in Virginia City, how it came to be the anthem of the aging 49ers.

Reno’s Jazz Hysteria—cabaret and ballroom. This is the story of how Nevada’s fundamental industry and cultural identity—divorce, gambling, booze and music—arose during the first half of the 20th century.

Virginia City’s Honky Tonk Revival—trad jazz on the Comstock. How ragtime piano and honky traditional jazz blossomed in Virginia City between 1950 and 1990.

All of the above present information and discussion fundamental to understanding Nevada and far western culture.

The Celtic Harp At Stonehenge—the structure of ancient British and Celtic thought. A detailed discussion of ancient lore and its structural elements.

113 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! ENDNOTES

1 https://guides.library.unr.edu/nvwriters-hall-of-fame/robertson-1994

2 https://www.nevadaappeal.com/news/announcements/gary-short-offering-poetry-reading-and-workshop-in-silver-city/

3 https://guides.library.unr.edu/nvwriters-hall-of-fame/griffin-2014

4 See my book, Reno’s Jazz Hysteria, for the rise of the sin industry.

5 Put's Original California Songster, 1855

6 Put's Original California Songster, 1855

7 Nevada Historical Soc. Bulletin 1913.

8 An Editor On The Comstock Lode by Wells Drury, Pacific Books, Palo Alto, CA, 1936. p.148-149

9 The Eastern Slope, July 18, 1866

10 The Gold Hill News, March 18, 1868

11 The Pacific Bank Handbook of 1888. De Groot’s third verse dates the composition as 18 years from the narrator leaving Dents. The Dents purchased Knight’s ferry in late 1849, so that the dating in the third verses suggests that De Groot’s poem was written in 1868. “But where ya been, Jim, ever since We left the Stanislow, And pulled up stakes down at Dent’s— Now eighteen years ago?” http://www.paulrich.net/students/readings/california_gold_rush/california_gold_07.html

Also see The Works of Hubert Howe Bancroft, Volume 25 See THE OVERLAND MONTHLY 1893. p. 261 Obituary: San Francisco Call, Volume 73, Number 119, 29 March 1893

12 This version of the lyrics is from the March 24, 1894 Midwinter Appeal, editor Sam Davis, as sung by Jake Wallace at the ‘49er Village.

13 The Nevada State Journal, February 18, 1871

14 Jem Baggs (“The Wandering Minstel”), from Punch, 1892. The Gutenberg Project. http://artscatter.com/general/the-decemberists-in- august-the-day-the-music-died/

15 "The California pilgrimage of Boston Commandery Knights Templars, August 4-September 4, 1883. See article on fire: http:// nevadagram.com/johnny-bartholomew-hero-on-the-vt-railroad/

16 http://www.virginiaandtruckee.com/Locomotive/No11.htm

17 The Pine Grove Lyceum or Pine Grove Burlesque, Nevada Hist. Society, p. 47. Photo is Pine Grove c.1870 or 1880. See http:// yeringtonmondays.blogspot.com/2016/01/yerington-monday-mines-of-lyon-county_5.html See Pine Grove story: Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 17 Jul 1954, Sat Page 7

18 R.G.Schofield Osceola, July 5, 1877, Thursday, Aug. 9 1877, Ward Semi-Weekly Reflex, republished ìSagebrush Studio, the watercolors of R.G. Schofieldî, essay by Martha Lauritzen, Nevada Historical Society exhibit program, Oct.6-Dec. 30, 2000.

19 Gold Hill News, June 18 1879

20 Upidee, a college song, Arranged by H.G. Spaulding. [parodies "Excelsior" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]. Boston: Oliver Ditson & Co., 277, Washington St., 1859.

21 Songs of the Western Shore By W. K. Weare, 1879. Born 1823; arrived in California, 1850. Mined gold in Nevada City. Moved to Nevada in 1863 with the silver discoveries. Lived in American Flat (outside Virginia City) where he mined silver and was active in Republican Party politics. Returned to San Francisco in 1874. Poet; author of "Songs of the Western Shore."

22 Attributed to J.P Jones in the Nevada Historical Society Papers, 1913-1916. Lomax had presumably collected his version many years earlier in Texas. Jones was Nevada state Senator during the 1870s. In J.P. Jones file at UCLA Special Collections. Collection number: 208. Box 5, Folder 1

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! 23 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silver_Party https://knpr.org/knpr/2017-06/silver-party

24 https://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/common/briefing/senators_changed_parties.htm#2

25 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_silver

26 The Virginia Chronicle, Feb. 16, 1888.

27 Winnemucca Silver State, Aug. 14, 1889

28 Songbook, 1891-1893, by Requa, Amy-- NC628—the lyric “Out Of Carson”. UNR Special Collections.

29 "Lake Tahoe Gives Not Up Her Dead: A Phantasy of Fate." Published in 1896 by the Carson City firm of Dunn and Lemmon. Reno Gazette-Journal from Reno, Nevada on May 15, 1988 · Page 50

30 “Mining Songs” by Duncan Emrich, Southern Folklore Quarterly, Vol. 6 (June, 1942) No. 2, pp. 103-104.

31 Oral History given by Charlotte Stimler Nay, Silver State Historical Society, 1960, Book 629 L. Central Nevada Museum, Tonopah. John Nay set out for Southern Klondike—Belmont Courier Dec. 16, 1899. First dance there, June 9 1900. Many dances in Belmont and surrounding areas that winter. Oral History given by Charlotte Stimler Nay, Silver State Historical Society, 1960, Book 629 L. Central Nevada Museum, Tonopah. Song found there on an old tape recording.

32 Belmont and the Shoshones—oral history of Alice Lorigan, Book H 629 E, p.11, Central Nevada Museum,. Evidence for Lottie Stimler Nay’s Native American mother lies firstly in photographs of Lottie and her brother, Harry as well as in circumstantial evidence—I have found not one mention of Stimler’s wife in the paper or the oral histories. Then, Stimler seems to have opened his Belmont Bazarre during Sept. of ‘75 to target the Shoshone returning from the pine nut range that October. He sold “Shoshone dialects”. (Belmont Courier, Sept. 17, 1875.) He left off with these sales during Dec. of ‘76 (Belmont Courier Dec. 16, 1876) nine months before the birth of Lottie Stimler Nay, Aug, 25, 1877—suggesting that he married a Shoshone hired to work the store counter. At one point the paper criticized Stimler for allowing three Indians to vote.. (Belmont Courier Oct. 27, 1900.). Stimler seems to have never played at a dance beside Vollmer, a German musician described in one letter as part of the self-declared “upper crust.”. Stimler left store, Belmont Courier Apr. 12, 1879.

33 John Nay set out for Southern Klondike—Belmont Courier Dec. 16, 1899. First dance there, June 9 1900. Many dances in Belmont and surrounding areas that winter.

34 Baker City Herald, June 4, 1901

35 Songs of The Western Miners by Duncan Emrich. p. 229. California Folklore Quarterly, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1942. p. 146, recited by Malcolm Rogers of Alleghany, purportedly 30 years old, placing it in the Goldfield strike. Said to have been widely sung.)

36 The Lure of The Sagebrush. Publ 1922. The Sagebrush Anthology: Literature from the Silver Age of the Old West. MS from 1904 edited by Lawrence I. Berkove

37 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 07 Mar 1875, Sun Page 3

38 Santa Cruz Sentinel (Santa Cruz, California) 13 May 1892, Fri Page 4

39 The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco, California) 22 Oct 1892, Sat Page 4

40 The San Francisco Call (San Francisco, California) 16 May 1894, Wed Page 4

41 Published in the Nevada State Legislature’s Appendix to Journals of the Senate and Assembly of the Twenty Seventh Session, 1915. p. 35

42 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 30 Mar 1932, Wed • Page 1

43 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 16 Apr 1901, Tue Page 4

44 The Daily Appeal (Carson City, Nevada) 25 May 1906, Fri Page 3

45 Carson City Daily Appeal, Feb. 16, 1909

46 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 24 Nov 1907, SunPage 3

115 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! 47 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramblin'_Wreck_from_Georgia_Tech

48 Possible first reading. Yerington Times (Yerington, Nevada) 20 Oct 1920, Wed Published in Book of Nevada Poems, Nevada Federation of Women’s Clubs, 1927, p., 30-31

49 Mason Valley News (Yerington, Nevada) 03 Jun 1977, Fri Page 19

50 Obituary. Mason Valley News (Yerington, Nevada) 05 Nov 1971, Fri Page 5

51 Nevada State Library And Archives. NEVADA REFERENCE PS3515 A45 S6

52 NSJ Mar 23, 1924

53 http://www.cowboypoetry.com/katherinefallpettey.htm

54 Nevada Highways and Parks magazine. 1 (2): 17.March 1936

55 Tonopah Daily Bonanza. May 7, 1910

56 Collected by Duncan Emrich during the late 30s, published in Casey Jones and other ballads of the Mining West, 1942.

57 Sheet music of this song.

58 The Elko Daily Independent, December 1916

59 https://truewestmagazine.com/last-stage-robbery/

60 The Police Journal, Volumes 1-5, p. 16

61 Sheet music of this title.

62 From the NV. Hist. Soc. Poetry clipping file, newspaper dated June 3, 1919. Somebody’s “Daily Chronicle.” Source unknown.

63 Los Angeles Herald (Los Angeles, California) 26 Dec 1893, TuePage 5

64 Tonopah Bonanza (Butler, Nevada) 16 Mar 1907, Sat Page 4

65 http://www.undergroundexplorers.com/documents/Biennial_report_of_the_state_mineralogist_1915_to_1916.pdf

66 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0010063/

67 Also note “desert rats” in a Ax-i-dent-Ax, July 1919, Middle Utah. A poem about Death Valley.. p.7. Ax-I-Dent-Ax, Volume 5, Issue 14 https://books.google.com/books? id=1V3OAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA7&lpg=PA7&dq=%22desert+rat%22+death+valley+1919&source=bl&ots=d7LeRw9AFG&sig=Mj23e8o YHAdKJkgZAbfd9JK1Fvk&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwisgIWz9eTfAhVYCTQIHaOGAj04ChDoATABegQIAhAB#v=onepage&q= %22desert%20rat%22%20&f=false

The phrase "desert rat” appears in March of 1919 in the Barstow Printer Barstow, California, United States Of America March 13, 1919

68 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 29 Dec 1919, Mon Page 3

69 Deep Enough, Frank Crampton, Sage Books, Denver, 1956,

70 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Washoe, Nevada, United States of America) · 26 Aug 1922, Sat · Page 16

71 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 27 Aug 1922, Sun • Page 8

72 The Eugene Guard (Eugene, Oregon) • 30 Jun 1917, Sat • Page 3

116 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! 73 Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) • 16 Oct 1919, Thu • Page 16 • The Los Angeles Times (Los Angeles, California) • 20 Feb 1917, Tue • Page 16

74 Santa Ana Register (Santa Ana, California) • 22 Jul 1921, Fri • Page 6

75 Santa Cruz Evening News (Santa Cruz, California) • 20 Nov 1917, Tue • Page 3

76 Santa Cruz Sentinel (Santa Cruz, California) • 16 Mar 1897, Tue • Page 3

77 Albany Daily Democrat (Albany, Oregon) • 09 Apr 1918, Tue • Page 4 • La Grande Observer (La Grande, Oregon) • 13 Jul 1920, Tue • Page 1

78 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 26 Aug 1922, Sat • Page 17

79 NSJ July 27 1924

80 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Henrietta_Martin

81 NSJ Sept. 21 1924

82 NSJ May 18 1924

83 NSJ Dec. 28, 1924

84 Book of Nevada Poems, The Nevada Federation of Women’s Clubs, Reno Printing Co. Reno, 1927. P. 92-93. Also published by McNamara in a private book of poetry during the 20s. Re Dan see Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 13 Dec 1907, FriPage 7

85 Sheet music of this song. Article: Wilmington News Journal, Sept. 6, 1928 p. 5

86 Nevada Poems, 1927, The Nevada Federation of Women’s Clubs, Reno Printing, p.15

87 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panic_of_1873

88 The Pioche Record (Pioche, Nevada) 06 Aug 1876, Sun Page 2

89 The Pioche Record (Pioche, Nevada) 07 Jun 1884, Sat

90 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 01 May 1896, Fri Page 4

91 Sacramento Union, Volume 212, Number 18, 18 January 1920

92 Salt Lake Mining Review August 15, 1912 p.23

93 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 27 Mar 1924, Thu • Page 7

94 https://www.nevadalabor.com/bull11/bullxi.html

117 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! 95 Biennial Report of the Nevada Historical Society, Issue 3, 1913, footnote p. 98 By Nevada Historical Society

https://books.google.com/books?id=XchYAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA98&lpg=PA98&dq=%22Clark+Alvord%22+Nevada&source=bl&ots=jIP- UsvR0c&sig=ACfU3U3CQCb2VyPn62L5L3rD0veMmf7lHg&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi_nK3O7eTgAhUps1QKHWDBDB0Q6AEwAHo ECAAQAQ#v=onepage&q=%22Clark%20Alvord%22%20Nevada&f=false

96 As implied by his comments for the Biennial Report. He also appears to have been active there in 1916:

The Salt Lake Mining Review, Volume 18. p. 39

https://books.google.com/books?id=4b1OAQAAMAAJ&pg=RA13-PA39&lpg=RA13- PA39&dq=%22Clark+Alvord%22+Nevada&source=bl&ots=CtrRxO1ghN&sig=ACfU3U3NAhYEE3Dszp6McDf20FgPSXLsEg&hl=en&sa=X &ved=2ahUKEwi_nK3O7eTgAhUps1QKHWDBDB0Q6AEwAnoECAMQAQ#v=onepage&q=%22Clark%20Alvord%22%20Nevada&f=false

97 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 08 May 1928, Tue • Page 12

98 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 13 Jan 1938, Thu • Page 6

Mine layout: PAPERS OF H.H. JOHNSON, 1908 – 1918, Nevada State Archives http://nvculture.org/nevadastatemuseumlasvegas/research/cahlan-research-library/manuscripts-collection/ms-011-papers-of-h-h-johnson/

99 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 12 Nov 1938, Sat • Page 6

100 The San Bernardino County Sun (San Bernardino, California) • 16 Jan 1938, Sun • Page 15

101 The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco, California) • 14 Jan 1938, Fri • Page 7

102 http://cinematreasures.org/theaters/1888

103 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 14 Jan 1938, Fri • Page 3

104 Photo. Davies endowment • Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 22 Jan 1938, Sat • Page 9 • •

105 The San Bernardino County Sun (San Bernardino, California) • 16 Jan 1938, Sun • Page 15

106 Published by the Las Vegas Evening Review-Journal, Nov. 9, 1931. Also see http://www.bouldercitymagazine.com/past_issues/ 2007/2007_may/history.html

107 Hoover Dam: An American Adventure By Joseph E. Stevens. p. 65-80

108 The Industrial Worker, January 12, 1932—Vol 14 #68 I think.

109 Tonopah Daily Bonanza (Tonopah, Nevada) 06 Oct 1920, Wed Page 4

118 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! 110 http://www.nevadawomen.org/research-center/biographies-alphabetical/bertha-eaton-raffetto/ Obituary. Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 08 Sep 1952, Mon • Page 11 • Also: Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 07 Sep 1952, Sun • Page 3

111 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 03 Jun 1931, Wed • Page 2

112 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 06 Nov 1932, Sun • Page 3 • The Los Angeles Times (Los Angeles, California) • 26 Nov 1933, Sun • Page 82

113 See reference to song “Nevada" Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 24 Oct 1930, Fri • Page 4 • Sung: • Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 19 Oct 1932, Wed • Page 6

114 2016 column by Karl Breckenridge. Nevada Gazette Journal. https://www.rgj.com/story/life/2016/10/28/breck-origins-home-means-nevada-and-southern-nevada-verse/92908418/

115 Nevada State Journal 23 Apr 1934, Mon Page 4

116 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 16 Dec 1918, Mon Page 6

117 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 20 Apr 1934, Fri Page 1

118 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 23 Feb 1957, Sat Page 17 He commanded the Thomas H. Barry Camp of veterans from the Spanish War of 1892. 29 May 1926, SatPage 3 See his early poem “The Man Behind The Press”- Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 23 Aug 1925, Sun Page 7 See “The Concrete Trail”, Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 10 Jan 1926, Sun Page 12 See “A Tragedy At Washoe Lake”-- Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada)30 Aug 1925, SunPage 9 McNamara wrote this many years after the 1893 drowning which seems to actually have been of Johnny Donohue’s brother, Dennis. Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada)05 Aug 1893, Sat Page 2

119 Feather River Bulletin (Quincy, California) 14 Jul 1949, Thu Page 1

120 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada)18 Mar 1924, Tue Page 4 McNamara sailed for Manila in 1899. The Yerington Rustler (Yerington, Nevada) 06 May 1899, SatPage 2

121 The Las Vegas Cloudburst, Jan. 1934.

122 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) • 05 May 1938, Thu • Page 16

123 Obituary: Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada)20 Sep 1980, Sat Page 15

124 https://www.nevadamagazine.com/nevada-magazine-history/

125 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) 03 Apr 1932, Sun Page 15

126 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 12 Nov 1954, FriPage 9

127 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 04 May 1976, Tue Page 1

128 http://www.nevadawomen.org/research-center/biographies-alphabetical/mildred-matthews-breedlove/ 119 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

! 129 Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 30 Jul 1959, Thu Page 4

130 Portrait of Nevada, Mildred Breedlove, 1964.p.2

131 Portrait of Nevada, Mildred Breedlove, 1964. p.14.

132 https://www.library.unlv.edu/speccol/finding-aids/MS-00172.pdf Collection of society material at UNR Special Collections. Nevada Poetry Society Records MS-00172 Also see Reno Gazette-Journal (Reno, Nevada) 22 Aug 2014, FriPage A6

133 Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada)20 Sep 1966, Tue Page 11

134 A Study Of Rhyme and Rhythm In Creative Expression, Mildred Breedlove, 1959, Preface.

135 The Las Vegas Cloudburst, Jan. 1934.

136 See larryhanna.com

120 Visit: nevadamusic.com for more books and CDs.

!