Rabbit Lore #15 (1914)

Chatham RECORD, 1914 NOV 18, "Chatham Rabbits":

From the News and Observer.

The famous Chatham county rabbits are finding their way to Raleigh and a number of the cafes of the city are serving them on their regu!ar bill of fare. Rabbits are one of the chief products of Chatham and have a wide reputation throughout the country. Raleigh people are very fond of the Chatham rabbit and it has been said that they consume so many of them during the fall and winter season that they gradually take on the "rabbit lope" when walking around on the terrestrial sphere.

Rambler #5 (1914)

[Image of the 1908 Rambler advertisement linked from the Wikipedia commons. See also the article on the Rambler.]

The fifth and final installment in the "Rambler's Musings" series, published in the Chatham RECORD on Feburary 18, 1914, follows:

RAMBLER'S MUSINGS. No. 5.

Is it not aggravating for a man to sit down and build air castles and then have a puff of wind blow them into a thousand pieces? That's what Rambler did, or rather let his imagination take him a hundred years ahead to see the "new" Pittsboro. What he thought he saw was enough to make most any of the people here today wish they could live that long. But it is not to be and although one hundred years from today Pittsboro may have a population of 50,000 souls, may have factories, paved streets, trolley lines and everything up to date, not a living soul here today will be here then. Every single person -- man, woman, child -- will be dead and forgotten.

Then while we are living today why not let us make the best of it? Let us get some of the pleasures and advantages that the people a hundred years hence will be enjoying.

Other towns are growing, why not this one? People here want industries to come; they want people to move here; they want paved streets and they want good roads leading into town.

But strange as it may seem and bad as they wish for these things, some of them put a check to the growth of the town when a person proposes to buy land and bulk here. If you buy my land, they say, you must pay for it. I don't blame a man for trying to get all he can for his land. It is natural that he'd want to do so, but there are times and places where a little foresight could be used in reducing their property value. It would be. more beneficial to them In the long run, help reduce their taxes, fill up the vacant places and cause Pittsboro to start to grow. Some people never stop to think of old man Malaga Grapes. He owned land, had money, horses, everything, and he probably thought he'd take it with him -- BUT HE DID NOT.

Tell me why dirt in Pittsboro should be priced so high and I'll tell you why there is no money at the end of a rainbow.

If Pittsboro was filled with manufacturing plants; if it even had a population of 10,000; if it had electric lights, paved streets, water, sewerage and no hog pens, people might have some cause for raising the price of their property, and unless property owners place a fair value on their lots people will not come here, nor will any enterprises, which so many people crave, ever be started here, and the owners of these high-priced lot will go the way of their fathers. It is true it can be left to their children. Malaga Grapes did that very thing.

Rambler knows of a case where the owner of 300 acres of land is od and feeble. He cannot work. But before he'd sell that land for $4,000, which he has been ofered, and place the noney at interest he rents it for the magnificent sum of $90 and has to pay the taxes on it.

Why not cut up his big farm into fifty acre plots, if he does not care to sell, and rent them out. He could get at least $25 a year for each farm and there would be six ears of corn grown whre only one is grown now.

"Everybody to his own notion," said the groundhog, as he went into his hole to escape the snowstorm.

RAMBLER.

Rambler #4 (1914)

[The images L'avenue de l'Opéra and Chantier de construction électrique linked from Visions de l'an 2000, a 1910 series depicting life in the year 2000. From a digital exhibition of the National Library of France, hat-tip to the remarkable time-sink of a blog, Paleo-Future, "A look into the future that never was," and to tommy yum, who showed it to me.]

We continue here with #4 in the series of five numbered columns written for the Chatham RECORD by a pseudonymous "Rambler" in the opening months of 1914. In this installment [skip to it], published in the RECORD on January 28, 1914, Rambler imagines himself a Rip van Winkle falling into a hundred-years' sleep in the woods beyond Roberson Creek, then awaking to a vision of Pittsboro in the year 2014. It's an interesting bit of local speculative narrative, and probably the main reason why I chose to reprint the Rambler series.

Revisiting attempts from past eras to predict the future involves us in a kind of negotiation between things familiar and alien. There's a certain pleasure that arises when we see human needs that seem obvious and enduring get "solved" by innovations in obsolete technologies. So when the marvelous blog Paleo-Future shows us an advertisement for a wireless phone from 1910, we instinctively love it, in part because the functional need for a wireless telephone asserts itself as so obvious and eternal, and in part because the apparatus seems somehow to require an umbrella.

When Rambler talks of flying above a Pittsboro that spreads five miles south and north to the Haw River, well, he's not far off from what we're likely to see in 2014, even if he doesn't quite have the details right. His map grid of 991 numbered streets seems whimsical, but his overall vision of a boom has a ring of prescience to it. The projection of 50,000 people matches the entire county's population at the 2000 census, but seems on target for the northeastern quadrant of the county over the next decade or so. Bynum may not have a population of 3000 in the year 2014, but the Briar Chapel development resides in its township of Baldwin, and very well could. The train tracks no longer run through Pittsboro, and public transportation has no reach in town, but if we cup our ears and mute the TV we we might hear echoes in our bio-diesel boomlet of Rambler's invocation of cars (and tri- and unicycles) powered by electricity.

Part of the piece's appeal is Rambler's fixing his vision in the year 2014, which lies just ahead of us in our own future, imminent enough that our own planning cycles encompass it. This past weekend, news came via a political pamphlet left on my doorstep of "unprecedented development pressures making the Tues., Nov. 6 town election one of the most important in county history." The flier from Pittsboro Together has emblazoned in large, bold type across the front a word the Rambler could relate to: imagine. And yet, these smart-growthers do not bring visions of flying cars. They ask us to imagine, instead, "if Pittsboro became like Cary..." For readers beyond the Triangle area of North Carolina, "Cary" is a nearby Piedmont municipality said to be so overfed on sprawl that it stands as shorthand for the ultimate in suburban dystopia. On the one hand, who doesn't want a prosperous town? On the other hand, no one seems to want Cary.

I think Rambler would delight to see the Pittsboro of 2007 grown ripe with the fruits of technology and population growth: paved streets and a visible, uniformed police force to name two that he cites, and while they might seem humble in a place like Cary, I think he'd agree that our shiny new co-op, microbrewery and big box hardware store qualify as the "magnificent stores" he mentions; more of the same is surely on the way. But he would find the terms of the discussion to be very different than in 1914. It's easy to love the idea of a prosperous Pittsboro, but hard to see how prosperity lasts unless it's balanced with sustainable living and long-range planning. The industrial age is over; human- and rabbitkind produce more and we also consume more than in our youth. Somewhere we as a, um, people crossed a threshold into middle age, and the dreams of the Rambler lose some of their charm.

Still, I think it's fair for a Rabbit to ask: where's my flying car?

"Rambler's Musings No. 4" (January 28, 1914) follows; see below for more about the Rambler.

RAMBLER'S MUSINGS. No. 4.
Editor of The Record:

Rambler has talked of building dwelling houses, cotton mills and manufacturing plants. This week he is going to take you a hundred years ahead. In other words, in imgination, he is going to sleep and not wake up until the year 2014. If the reader will let his imagination run ahead for a hundred years he will be able to see Pittsboro in a new light.

* * * * * * *

Gracious! I feel tough. This has been the longest night I believe I ever saw. What am I doing over here in these woods? Have I been drunk and wandered away out here to keep anyone from seeing me? Gosh! There's a lot of fuss going on over in town. Listen at the steam whistles. Capt. Alson must be going. out. No, that’s not his train. There goes another whistle. And listen at the bells. I never heard the sound of bells like that before. Why, that sounds like a street car! What's the matter with me?

I got up on my feet and looked around. Where am I? What's the name, of this place? I never saw this town before. I am going to find, out where I am. Yonder is the railroad. Look at the tracks! I've been asleep here all night, but all those tracks were not there yesterday. I take up the railroad. Why, here's Robertson creek and this place must be Pittsboro. It is, I am told, but look at the new street, and the houses built up alongside the creek, and they extend as far as I can see. What's the matter with the place. It wasn't that way yesterday. I am drunk again, and lost. I'll nave to tell Mrs. Rambler another big ghost story.

I come to a street crossing. A sign on the corner reads "First street, East." I take up that street and go west about four blocks. Stores to the right; stores to the left. This cannot be Pittsboro. Yes, that is what it is, was the answer a blue-coated policeman gave me. Am I dreaming? No, I am wide awake. I look down at my feet; I move them; I am not asleep.

I finally reach one of the principal streets, I guess, as there were thousands of people walking the sidewalks. In the road way were all sorts of vehicles, all run by electricity. Some had two wheels, some three and some with only one wheel. Some of these vehicles were loaded with merchandise and some with people. Everything was moving. Hello! there comes a street car! Yonder is another one crossing the street. I stand bewildered -- lost. I knew I was in Pittsboro yesterday. There is the monument over there, but where is Manly Smith's wooden building? Look at the magnificent stores; and the streets are all paved. They have policemen in uniforms. Pete Gunter did not have a uniform yesterday. This can't be Pittsboro.

I wander up the street further. Hello! there's a printing office. I believe I'll go in. On a table lies a pile of papers. No one is in the room. I pick up a paper and look at it. It is the Chatham Record, dated January 25th, 2014! It was January 25th, 1914, when I wandered over to the woods beyond Robertson creek and laid down and went to sleep -- just 100 years ago today. And I thought it was yesterday.

Rip Van Winkle slept 20 years and I have slept 100!

While looking over the thirty-two pages of The Record a gentleman entered the room. He was a fat, chunky man and wore a cap -- it was Col. Bruce Poe. I recollected him in a minute. He recognized me too.

After talking over bygone days I asked the colonel how it was he had lived so long and was looking so healthy. "Why," he says, "you recollect away back yonder Capt. John Crump had a preparation -- a powder -- called "Life's Elixir?" You know it was said at the time it would prolong a man's life hundreds of years. Well, there was only three men in town outside myself that used that powder, and that was Col. Dr. Pilkington, Capt. Crump and Col. Fletcher Mann. The doctor," he continued, "is still in the drug business when he is on the ground. Col. Mann is in business at 592 West 742d street. He has been married five or six times and, you wouldn't believe it, but he is looking for another wife. Capt. Crump is working for the telephone company. He fell off a pole two or three days ago and broke a leg, but he put some of his powder on it and he is all right.now. I think he flew over to Raleigh this morning in his bird car."

Hundreds of other questions were asked the colonel about former citizens, but they were all dead.

Then he took us out to his bird house. He does not deal in Ford cars now but is a birdite. His bird, as he called it, was in the shape of an eagle; had the head, the tail, the appearance of a bird. I was asked to step inside. I was afraid, but I got in and sat down. I wish I could describe my feelings but have not got the space. He touched a spring, there was a flutter or two and the car sailed gracefully in the air. It was fine -- grand. We were about a mile in the air when we espied a car coming towards us. "Here comes Pilk now," he said. In a moment the two cars stopped alongsde [sic] of each other. We shook hands, talked a few minutes and separated.

The air was full of cars. Any way you'd look you'd see them.

Here I got good view of Pittsboro. From where the old courthouse used to stand (a magnificent one stood there now) the streets going north and south were avenues. The cross streets are numbered from First street to 991st and extend from Haw river on the east to Rocky river on the west. The avenues extend from five miles on the south to Bynum on the north. Bynum has a population of 3,000. On Haw river could be seen the big power plant.

And all this space was filled with residences, mills, factories and 50,000 busy people.

Thirty eight electric passenger trains alone stopped at the union station daily.

There are three daily papers printed in the city.

The town has grown some within the last hundred years, remarked the colonel, as we stepped upon the ground.

RAMBLER

When I opened the series, I had found no other columns by Rambler, but further research has turned up more of his writings. The numbered series of "Rambler's Musings" that began in January 1914 seems to have cut off at #5 in February, 1914; but Rambler wrote to the RECORD on numerous other occasions. The "Musings" series focuses on a vision for the development of Pittsboro, while Rambler's earlier columns tended to pass along local anecdotes, gossip, folklore and tall tales.

In "Musings" #4, Rambler goes off an extended tangent treating the "Life's Elixir" powder invented by a Capt. Crump of Pittsboro. As it happens, a piece appears in the Chatham RECORD of July 2, 1913, which relates a tall-tale or two about "Life's Elixir"; unfortunately, my current copy of the issue cuts the "Pittsboro Inventors" piece off and right now I can reprint it only in part, also below. I'll update this post with the full version at the earliest opportunity, but I'd have to say I'm about 99% certain it also came from the pen of the Rambler. It echoes his style, and also features prominently the figure of "Col. Bruce Poe".

Pittsboro Inventors.

While Pittsboro as a town cannot claim as many noted things as some other towns in this State, it has nevertheless some smart inventors. Among them is Capt. J. J. Crump, the inventor of the cross-cut saw, the hobby horse the see-saw and other useful things.

The captain once invented a horse-shoe that was put on without nails, but it did not prove much of a success, as the glue would get damp and the shoe drop off.

His latest realization of a success was a powder, which is composed of several ingredients. This powder he calls "Life’s Elixir," and is good for man or beast. To prove its efficacy as a milk producer and cow fattener, I will state the following facts:

Col. Bruce Poe, one of the finest gardeners in this State, the man who raised Irish potatoes so large and they grew so fast that they pushed his fence several inches from the line, bought a cow from Col. Bob Glenn. It was a small cow, but Col. Glenn said he'd guarantee that the cow would give a quart of milk a day. Col. Poe knowing the wonderful effects of Capt. Cramp's powder, bought five cents worth of it. Before giving the cow any powder he milked her for the first time that evening and she gave her usual amount, a pint. After milking he gave her more feed and a tablespoonful of the powder. The next morning the colonel went out to milk his cow (the colonel is a fine milker and delights in the pastime). He noticed that the cow had grown considerably larger, but he begin to milk and sing (he always would sing while at work) and the milk began to flow, slowly at first, but faster. Soon his pails were full and he called for more vessels. In a few minutes they were full and more buckets were culled for. The colonel had quit singing; consternation was depicted on his face. "Bring me some tubs," he called out in alarm, "this cow is raining milk." The tubs were soon full; in fact, everything that would hold milk was full, and still the end was not in sight. "Go and tell Capt. Minor to come here," said the colonel, excitedly. "What do you want with him," he was asked. "I want to rent the water tank over at the oil mill." Just then the sluice of milk began to cease -- the cow had been milked dry.

On feeding the cow that night (she was not milked any more that day) she was given another tablespoonful of the powder, and that was the colonel’s undoing. During the night the cow had grown so fast that she had pushed down the fence and next morning was gone. The colonel has never seen her since.

[Cont'd]

Rambler #3 (1914)

[Image of auto stuck in the mud from the National Museum of American History's "America on the Move" exhibit.]

The Rambler series continues with #3, from the Chatham RECORD of January 21, 1914:

RAMBLER'S MUSINGS.
No. 3.

Editor of The Record:

Last week we talked on a cotton mill and house-building. We are going to talk about something this week that Rambler hopes will interest you.

Did you ever see a horse and wagon stalled in the mud? No matter how hard the horse pulled he could not move the wagon. All sorts of advice would be given the driver only to fail moving the load. The horse just could not budge it until a lot of husky fellows gathered around the wagon and put their shoulders to the wheel.

It moved then, didn’t it? You bet. So it is with some towns. A town will get into a rut. A few spasmodic efforts will be made to get it out by some of the more enterprising citizens, then a few more little jerks and pulls until it finally looks as if the poor old town was gone for sure.

But some day another kind of a fellow comes along and he sees the old town, and he also sees how bad she is stuck in the rut. He likes the looks of the place. it seems good to him. The people are clever, sociable and entertaining and he asks himself: "Why is this thus? Why don’t these people get on the main line?" And the more he studies over the question the more it puzzles him. He pulls off his coat and goes to work. He talks to this business man and that. He talks to the citizen. He tells them the advantages of such and such a thing; how it would benefit them, and not only them but others. The eyes of these people are opened. They, too, get to work and the result is the old town is MADE to get out of the rut. New life is taken on, new people move in, new enterprises come in, business gets on a boom, new stores and new residences begin to spring up, everything begins to flourish and everybody carries a happy face.

This is not an overdrawn picture. The town of Pittsboro has been in a rut for many years. Time and time and time again have some of its citizens tried to get it out, but the more they pulled the deeper it seemed to sink, until they gave up in disgust and despair.

Now there is yet a chance to get the old town back on its feet again, but every man must put his shoulder to the wheel and PUSH. IF YOU CANNOT PUSH, PULL. If you cannot do either don’t get in the way. LET'S ORGANIZE A CHAMBER OF COMMERCE. That will be the husky fellow to pull us out of the rut. Let the citizens get together and talk the matter over. "Argufy" the matter, as it were. There are plenty of public-spirited citizens here, and there may be some in the county who have not lost all pride for their county capital, that would join. Who knows but what such a movement, if conducted on the right line, would not be a stepping stone for the people of today to leave to future generations. Let's try it anyhow.

RAMBLER.

Rambler #2 (1914)

Continuing the Rambler series, #2, from the Chatham RECORD of January 14, 1914, follows:

RAMBLER GETS TO MUSING.
No. 2

Editor of The Record:

The story printed in last week’s Record about old man Malaga Grapes is no joke and has a moral. It shows that man, no matter how rich he may be of this world's goods, when he dies he is brought down to a level with the poorest on earth.

Then why should a man toil and struggle, hoard and save for others? Would it not be better for him, for his family, for his county and for the people in general if he had taken only a part of his savings and put it into some manufacturing plant, where it would not only have helped him but also helped many others. You have got to die. There is no getting around that point, and it is a fact beyond question, that you cannot take your money with you. Then let Rambler offer some suggestions.

We are not talking particularly to the people of Pittsboro but to the whole county. It is the duty of every citizen in his county to take some pride in his capital city. Pittsboro has stood here for lo these many years. It seems to have got stuck here, and it needs the help of the business man, the farmer and all others who have any pride at all for their county seat to come to its rescue and pull it out of its present condition.

There are vacant lots galore here that need the hand of man to better improve them. Pittsboro needs houses. Here is the place where thousands of dollars could be invested that would pay the investors at least from 6 to 10 per cent and probably more. There are half a dozen families here today that would be glad of the chance to rent four or five room houses, but they are not here. People would come here to live if they could get houses, but they cannot get them and they move to other towns. Then again, how can you expect manufacutring plants to come into a town when the people do not seem to care whether there are any houses or not.

Every little business helps. Look at the hosiery mill here. Though small, yet several thousand dollars a year is spent among the merchants and others. Look how many thousands of dollars have been paid out by the Chatham oil company, by the Nooe planing mills and other works.

Pittsboro has a splendid school, excellent teachers and the healthfulness of the town cannot be surpassed. It could be made a fine winter resort if it was pushed in that direction. Don't say "Shucks! Pittsboro will never be more than it is. It's dead already." No wonder, when some of its own citizens continue to knock it in such a manner.

Pittsboro is not dead by any means, notwithstanding its hard knocks and kicks. Let the enterprising business men of the county and town put their heads together and invest their surplus in a cotton mill, or a wagon factory, or a chair factory or some other kind of a plant. LET 1914 BE AN EYE-OPENER to the Jonahs.

Have some pride in your county capital. One hundred men in Chathazn could easily raise $100,000 for a cotton mill, and Pittsboro is the logical place for it. There are the railroad facilities here, and sooner or later another railroad will be built through here, and there are two of the best sites here for a cotton factory that can be found in the state.

The monied men of this county might think seriously of this project to their own advantage as well as to the community.

Remember, six feet of earth is all you will have when you are dead, and you will be dead along time. Then leave something behind you to benefit humanity.

The clock has struck 1914, men. Let's get to work.

RAMBLER.

Rambler #1 (1914)

This blog is a prequel. The idea of the Chatham Rabbit hatched as a way to connect the backstory of Chatham County, North Carolina to its doozy of an emerging narrative. In the current story, a fable for our troubled times, a sleepy little backwater county wakes up at the turn of the 20th Century to find an array of powerful and not-so-powerful interests contending for its soul. As the place's landscape, populace and social life transform under intense growth pressure, its core story follows, like it or not (and some do and some don't) the expanding course of residential development. The blog does a small mammal's mite to save some fragments of memory before that flood.

Now, when one takes on such a project, and heads to the library and into the field to do some research, all kinds of stuff can turn up worth writing about. In this space we've shared nuggets harvested from a range of sources, particularly the county's long-running newspaper, the Chatham RECORD (est. 1877). The Rabbit has relayed stories of love and marriage, community life, and the lore of the rabbit. Fellow traveler tommy yum has written of High Strangeness. We cast a wide net here, it's all wholly within scope, and we think it's all worth knowing, for while this document is about land and its use, it's also about place. Furthermore, rabbits love stories, plain and simple, and find it impossible to resist their trails arrayed like so many cabbage rows across the gardens.

But with all the dallying in the ways of lovers and horse-traders and blockaders, it's well-nigh time to take up in earnest the story we originally set out to tell, the one where the land acts as a character. Debates over land use are nothing new to this space that has been a county for 226 years, and so the Rabbit will feature some of those discussions as they appeared in the Chatham RECORD and elsewhere a century or so ago. I'll begin with the series of pseudonymous columns penned by a self-styled "Rambler" in the RECORD beginning in January of 1914.

I'm not sure who the Rambler was, and if any readers can provide information regarding the person's identity, please contact me at precept6@yahoo.com. So far in my research Rambler's trail goes cold after five columns, but those five provide a departure point for an analysis of views of land use in the early modern age. They also keenly express a vision for Pittsboro that some will find interesting to read.

I'll reprint all five of the Rambler's columns over the next week or so. In the first column, the author lays out what we might call a moral basis for development. It's something we all do, and as Exhibit A I offer the Rambler, whose own moral the reader will discern from the first of the series, from January 7, 1914.

RAMBLER GETS TO MUSING.
No. 1.

Editor of The Record

Old man Malaga Grapes is dead. Malaga is not his correct name. Neither is grapes, but it answers all purposes. But Malaga is dead and buried. Over in the cemetery where MaLaga's body is lying there are several othet bodies nearby. Over on the left is a grave that contains a pauper. The pauper is dead, too, else they would not have buried him. Over to the right is the grave of a woman. This female was a great talker. She talked about her neighbors until they shunned her; she talked about her church members until she was turned out of church. When she had nothing else to talk about she talked about the cat. This woman was a tale-bearer, the worst of all women. So one day she died because her breath gave out and she could not work up enough wind to start her to talking again. So she was buried quite near Malaga Grapes' grave.

In another grave a thief lay. Other graves around Malaga's grave contained different kinds of people -- some good, some bad, others worse. Malaga did not care because he was dead too.

Malaga had worked hard all his life; had saved his money, stinted himself, eat half enough, and the coat he wore to town was the coat he wore year-before-last and-year-before-that-year's-coat; it would do for him, he said, for next year and year after. It was too good to throw away. And he kept on wearing that coat every day and Sunday too.

Malaga had money. He was worth half a million dollars. He had land, stock -- everything to make a sensible man happy. With all his money, with all his land, with all his stock -- he was dead and buried -- surrounded by a thief, a pauper and tale-bearing woman.

Malaga had nothing now. Neither did those other three. All were equal.

Malaga's wife died years ago, probably from starvation or a broken heart, but he kept on working and hoarding and saving until he reached the half a million goal. Then he died.

What became of all of Malaga's money, cattle and land? His only son fell heir to it and today he is living a profligate's life; smoking high priced cigars, drinking $5 bottles of champagne and wearing fine clothes.

What a different tale could have been told if old Malaga Grapes had taken $100,000 of that money, come to Pitssboro and put it into a cotton mill. He would have given work to hundreds of people; he would have helped to build up the town; he would have been looked upon as a good man. The worker would have spent his money with the merchant; the merchant would have improved his store and stock; the churches, the town and the county generally would have been benefited.

But, no. Malaga Grapes, like many other men with money and lands, did not see it in that light and hoarded his money and starved himself so others might reap the benefit.

You can save and pile up your riches but old Father Time will get you in the end and, so far as your money is concerned, the old shacks you leave will remain old shacks; the idle land will continue idle, and you are dead, having passed through this world not benefitting yourself or mankind.

If you have money put it into something that will help humanity. Take lessons from the Cones; take lessons from other philanthropic men and do likewise.

Remember only six feet of earth belongs to you and you can not take your money with you.

RAMBLER.

Return of Love Rabbit (1892, 1909, 1890-1914)

1) A few weeks ago we noted the sweet story of James W. Pearce and Maggie Pearce, who found one another via an advertisement in the Raleigh NEWS AND OBSERVER, courted by mail, met up and got hitched in Greenville, NC. Sadly, the Rabbit did not have the whole story when the item went to press. A follow-up item appeared in the "Local Records" soon after, on November 10, 1909:

A few weeks ago The Record published the romantic marriage of Mr. J.W. Pearce, of Albright township, to a widow in Pitt county, the result of an advertisement in the News and Observer. We regret to learn that the romance is shattered and so are the hopes of wedded bliss, for the bride has left her groom and returned to her former home.

2) The following surely invites further exploration, but it's worth teasing now. "Love Rabbit" goes major-daily in the New York TIMES of December 4, 1892:

TRICKED HER AGED LOVER.

THE SHREWD GAME OF A NORTH CAROLINA GIRL SPOILED

RALEIGH, N.C Dec. 3. -- In Chatham County live Samson Edwards and Jennie Culberson. Samson is hale, hearty, and sixty-two years old, and handsome for a man of that many years. Jennie is twenty-five years old and is a remarably pretty girl.

As the world goes, the old man wanted a "darling," and the girl wanted a slave. They courted. Jennie, being without worldly goods, told Samson that if he would give her $275 she would marry him, and with the money she would buy a tract of land and take the deed in her name, and that this would suffice in place of dower in case she survived her aged lover. Samson gave her the money. She bought the land, and the deed was made to Jennie Culberson.

Old Madam Eve then appeared. It seems that a younger man had been going to see Jennie on the sly. The day for the wedding with Edwards was set. The preacher was engaged and the license procured. On the day before that set for the wedding Jennie end her younger lover journeyed to Pittsborough, the county seat, and there they were married. They returned and took up their abode on the land paid for with the money of Edwards.

The frame of mind of Samson when he heard of the marriage is better imagined than described in cold type. He sought his lawyer and brought suit to recover the land. The case was a noted one and the whole county was present In Pittsborough when It was tried. The Superior Court gave judgment against Jennie for the money, but refused to order the sale of the land to pay the debt and Jennle had no other property.

Edwards then appealed to the Supreme Court, and this tribunal has just decided tbat Jennie perpetrated a fraud on Samnson and violated her contract of marriage; that the transfer of the land to her was without consideration, and that the land must be sold to pay the debt of Edwards.

3) Finally, the Rabbit can but blush at the goings-on! Chatham RECORD, 1910 MAR 2:

A Real Romance

At February term, 1890, of the superior court of this county Dr. John Sanford Stone and Vallie Weathers, both of Cape Fear township, were convicted of fornication and adultery and he was sentenced to imprisonment in our county jail, but after serving a few months he was pardoned because of his bad health. Judgment was suspended on the woman. Sometime after this they both left this county, he deserting his wife and family, who heard nothing more of him until last month, when they heard that he had died recently in Georgia.

One of his sons went last month to Georgia, in consequence of information received, and there found that he and Vallie Weathers had been living for several years as Dr. and Mrs. John Sanford. At the death of Dr. Stone (or Sanford as he was there called) the woman, who was thought to be his wife, was allotted the usual year's allowance as his widow. His property in Georgia was estimated to be worth $1500, and now his family, whom he deserted, will take the proper legal steps to secure possession of it. His deserted wife is still iving, a most estimable lady, and her friends are glad to know that she will at last get something from his estate.

Our society has been going downhill, ever since 1800.

Fiddlin' (1908, 1914)

With a modern-day "old-time" fiddlers' convention taking place at Shakori Hills in a week, the Rabbit takes notice of similar events in 1908 and 1914. Nothing has turned up so far on fiddlin' in 1906-7 or 1912-13, other years for which I have copies of the RECORD. Gotta love the use of archaic spellings in the first two items. If anyone knows anything about the musicians named below, drop me a line at the email address in the sidebar.

1908

July 8, "Local Records". We are requested to announce that "Ye olden tyme fiddlers' convention" will be held here next Tuesday night (the 14th) for the benefit of the Methodist parsonage. Many old time fiddlers are expected to be present and play the old familiar tunes. Admission 25 cents reserved seats 10 cents extra.

July 15, "Local Records". Ye old tyme fiddlers' convention, held in the school auditorium last night, proved to be quite enjoyable to the audience in attendance despite the threatening weather. Nearly a dozen musicians participated in the contest, one of the instruments used being a banjo and another an autoharp the rest being the genuine old-fashioned 'fiddle and the bow.' The first prize was awarded to Mr. O.T. Williams, of Rock Rest township, the second to Mr. J.P. Taylor, of Columbia, Texas, the specialty prize to Mr. L.H. Sanders, of this township, while to our musical townsman, Mr. W.B. Hartson, fell the booby prize. The success of the entertainment (the proceeds of which went to the Methodist parsonage) is largely due to the efforts of Mr. Walter G. Jerome.

1914

May 13, "Local Records". At the fiddlers' contest held here last night Bosier Williams won the first prize of $5, and Has Hackney won the prize of $2 as the best banjo picker.

Rabbit Lore #10 (1914)

From Chatham County, 1771-1971, Chapter IX, "Towns, Communities, Townships and Early Post Offices," section titled "Siler City", pp. 214-5:

1895: W.S. Durham opens business. Mr. Durham was the town's leading dealer in poultry, eggs, and rabbits for many years. His place of business was located on the west side of South Chatham Avenue near the center of the 100 block. Volume of business is reported to have reached a maximum in 1920 when country produce bought totaled $65,000. During the fall of 1914 the following appeared in the Siler City Grit:

"Durham's Rabbitt Letter to the Boys

Dear Boys:--

The rabbit season is here again and I am ready to buy. I want your rabbits and will pay you every cent for them I can afford to pay.

I have a nice present for every boy who sells me his rabbits. Bring them along and I will treat you right.

Yours truly,
W.S. Durham"