Tidbits from the February 17, 1888 Ypsi Commercial

Kicked off with a jab at those who came to Ypsilanti to visit the Occidental spa on North Huron Street and "take the waters":

A thirteen-year-old boy who stole something gets hauled off to reform school, apparently for YEARS:

Folks from olden times are hearkening back to even earlier times with a reenactor party. 15 cents in 1888 is equivalent to $3.50 today.

The death of Robert Campbell, father-in-law to Ypsi poet-farmer William Lambie, dies at William's home in Superior Township just outside the city limits:

Finally, Michigan Avenue druggist Frank Smith combines personal and professional advertising in his bid for a housegirl and his roster of wares, many of which were the patent medicines of the day:

The Sparrow Plague in 1886

Now here is a curious document from the Archives. It is a letter sent from the federal board of agriculture to onetime local poet-farmer William Lambie. Dated October 2, 1886, the form letter thanks Lambie for the receipt of his count of English Sparrows.

The non-native English Sparrow was a serious farm pest, consuming volumes of grain from farm fields. It was such a problem that there was enough material for me to write a whole story about it over at the Chronicle.

Of course, yesterday my husband filled up our bird feeder and there are a whole passel of English Sparrows hungrily pecking up the grain right now...times change.

Another curious aspect is: why on earth was this inconsequential bit of ephemera saved among Lambie's effects? Much less handed down through the years? It's interesting of course, but it seems odd that this form letter would float through the years to become part of the Archives holdings. A mystery. (click for larger image).

William Lambie and Burns' Birthday

Ypsilanti poet-farmer William Lambie noted Robert Burns' birthday every year in his journal, which he faithfully kept from 1874 until his death in 1900. Some excerpts:

1876, January 25: Frank and Jones killed the two pigs. Burns Birthday. Frank thought the buckwheat too damp to thrash, the soft corn about fed out.
Read the Hamilton papers that Sir William Wallace's mother was a Strathaven woman. Why did I leave the friendly early days to live far away-toiling and saving, receiving little wealth on the misty marsh at Ypsilanti?

1877, January 25: Robert Burns Birthday-born 1759.

1879, January 25: Burns born 120 years ago. Wife and I went to hear Andrew Campbell lecture on Burns' in the evening-good lecture to a small audience.

1881, January 25: Took a load of Scholars, Teachers and Chickens to Town. Mr. Chidester paid $2.45 for 11 Roosters-Mr. Fletcher's man left $35 for the cow, Star. (Lambie didn't ALWAYS mention Burns' birthday each year).

1887, January 25: Burn's Birthday-the time for Scotchmen to make speeches, sing and eat Haggis-Frank came at night from Detroit and brought good news that Mother on the edge of 90 was in good health and spirits.

1888, January 20: Just above zero and dreary-few eggs and little milk. Had account of hundreds being frozen to death in Dakota. Mr. Fairfield called and invited me to read a poem for Burns' Anniversary at the Congregational Social next Tuesday.

1889, January 25: 25. Robert and I walked in the old woods. Burn's Birthday. Light frost and sunshine. Paid Mr. Woodruff one dollar for the Sentinel. Belle went to Ann Arbor.

1890, January 25: Burn's Anniversary. Robert and his man sawed and split LaFurge's wood and I helped.

1891, January 25: A day for Scotchmen to celebrate-Burn's Anniversary. The cow Robert bo't from Knapp had a calf.

1893, January 22: Not very cold but did not go to Church on account of the snow. Wrote about Burns Natal Day. (January 26: "We hear of fifty thousand voted to build a new Church when I think the old one good enough.")

1895, January 25: Burn's Birthday-Drifting snow. Frank sold hay and went round by Bells to take Mary to his house. Brother Robert called in the cold and bro't papers.

1896, January 25: Burn's Anniversary-Belle came here and Mary went to Town then Mary went home with Willie-Mild and muddy.

1897, January 25: The thermometer about at the bottom, 10 below here and 16 at Frank's farm-Burn's Birthday-sunshine-below zero all day.

The final time Lambie mentioned Burns in his journal was in January of 1899. He died the following spring.

1899, January 25: Burns Day-Mr. Hunter, his wife & daughter came to see us. Robert brot Oats & corn to feed the hungry hens.

Prose Selection by William Lambie

William Lambie was a Scotland-born Ypsilanti farmer of Scottish extraction. In 1883 he self-published a book of prose and poetry "Life on the Farm."

Today's prose selection touches on Lambie's pacifism. It is one of several examples of his writing in which he compares the fruits of peace to those of war.

"Every new generation should be an improvement on the last. We would like to see our young people live noble lives and be pioneers in righteousness. But the old are first. "The hoary head is a crown of glory if found in the way of righteousness." The men and women who have fought the battles of life long and well, who have kept their integrity, who have been tried in the crucible and found pure, weighed in the balances and found not wanting, are the

REAL PRESIDENTS

and Kings of humanity. We are sometimes called old fogies. If a man has established a good moral character, gives an honest dollar for all he receives, and has exerted an influence for good all his life, has a young fogy ever done as nuch for humanity? It is not what a man is going to do, but what he has done, that is the true test of his worth. We hear a good deal about ringing speeches in Congress to save the country, but it is the pioneer's ax ringing in the forest, the farmer singing at his plow, the reaper clicking in the harvest field, and the thrasher humming in the barnyard, that not only saves, but sustains the country. It is the faithful pioneers, who have grown gray producing more than they consume, who have converted great forests into fruitful fields, who have made Washtenaw what it is, who are the first men in the land, in more ways than one.

"The victories of peace are far better than the victories of war; the history of the old settlers are not written in letter of blood, but in the peaceful victories of civilized over savage life. The harvest field of life-giving productions is far before the tented fields of destruction; it is better to tell of how many thousand bushels of wheat have been produced by valiant industry, to feed the hungry and enrich humanity, than to tell of how many thousands have been killed on the cruel battle fields, to fill the land with debt, desolation, and woe."

"The Eclipse" by William Lambie

William Lambie was a Ypsilanti farmer of Scottish extraction. His introduction to his 1883 book of prose and poetry "Life on the Farm" reads thus:

"On stormy days and while resting at noon I have been in the habit of writing the thoughts that passed through my mind while working on the farm. No one complains that farmers write too many books, or make too many speeches, or are in any way burdensome on humanity. They are known by their fruits rather than by their books, and if they fall behind In harmony and eloquence they often more than make it up in common sense and useful industry. The pulpit, the bar, and the press are well represented, but we hear very little from a farmer's standpoint--those who produce the most seem to have the least to say..."

Today's poetry selection deals with the November 15, 1891 lunar eclipse, an event Lambie observed. It was published in the November 20, 1891 Ypsilanti Commercial.

The Eclipse

November fifteenth brought a storm,
The ground was white on Sabbath morn:
The church was full, the sermon good,
The singers in melodious mood:
The through the rain, the mud and storm,
We had to drive like Jehu home,
And still the rain came down in showers,
In dark and lowering evening hours.
After the sermon, papers read,
And some were going off to bed,
One peeped into the News by Scripps,
And said, 'Hallo! A grand eclipse,'
But on that dark and stormy night
No moon or stars could cheer our sight:
But fast the clouds cleared from the sky,
And raised our thoughts to worlds on high:
The moon unveiled her peerless light,
With our earth's shadow clear in sight.
Nature all her orbs controlling,
To "eyes in a fine frenzy rolling,"
Well done, astronomers of the sky,
Who lift our thoughts to worlds on high,
Who bring this world and Heaven nearer,
Hope and joy and visions clearer.

The Farmer and the Poet

New Chronicle article about Ypsilanti poet-farmer William Lambie and his quest to connect with his favorite poet.

"Apple Trees" by William Lambie

William Lambie was a Ypsilanti farmer of Scottish extraction. His introduction to his 1882 book of prose and poetry "Life on the Farm" reads thus:

"On stormy days and while resting at noon I have been in the habit of writing the thoughts that passed through my mind while working on the farm. No one complains that farmers write too many books, or make too many speeches, or are in any way burdensome on humanity. They are known by their fruits rather than by their books, and if they fall behind In harmony and eloquence they often more than make it up in common sense and useful industry. The pulpit, the bar, and the press are well represented, but we hear very little from a farmer's standpoint--those who produce the most seem to have the least to say..."

Here is this Saturday's selection from his book "Life on the Farm": a poem that takes as its subject Lambie's apple trees.

APPLE TREES

I planted apple trees when life was young,
At the gladsome light of the morning sun,
In the mellow ground, while the robins sung.

And aye when the winter's storm was o'er,
And sweet vernal flowers came back once more,
They showered fragrant bloom o'er my cottage door.

When the blossoms lost their sweet perfume,
And the apples took the place of bloom,
I spent happy hours in their shade at noon.

And many a young heart danced with glee
In the halcyon hours on the flowery lea,
Getting ripe "sweet-boughs" off the apple tree.

When over the hills they came from school,
And autumn's days were growing cool,
Merry hearts filled barrels of Baldwins full.

When the winter nights grew dark and long
The apples cheered many a heart and home,
With feasting and glee and choral song.

And now, when my head is growing gray,
The bloom of the trees is passing away,
After yielding fruit for many a day.

I would like to spare the apple tree
That so long has borne so full and free,
But they're fading on the grassy lea.

They have brought me health as well as gold,
And now fuel to warm the young and old
When the winter winds blow bleak and cold.

--William Lambie

"Farm Song" by Ypsilanti Farmer-Poet William Lambie

FARM SONG.

When the darkness closes o'er us,
And the cattle all are fed;
Then we meet around the table,
Grateful for our daily bread.

When the lamps are burning brightly,
And the youngsters on the roam;
We aye feel a thrill of gladness,
When they play a bonnie tune.

When we hear the rain drops patter,
And the wind blow bleak and cold;
Sweet music takes us back again,
To the sunny days of old.

When melodious voices mingle,
And light hearts are glad and gay;
They can make our heartstrings tingle,
Like the glee of life's young day.

Let sweet homes ring with roundelays,
And mellow notes be sung;
The charming tunes and songs of praise,
To sing our old hearts young.

When sweet voices sing for gladness,
And our hearts are sad and lone;
We forget our cares and sadness,
And joy hangs around our home.

"Lines on Receiving the Picture of Mr. and Mrs. Geddes" by Ypsilanti Farmer-Poet William Lambie

William Lambie was a Ypsilanti farmer of Scottish extraction. His 1882 introduction to his book of prose and poetry "Life on the Farm" reads thus:

"On stormy days and while resting at noon I have been in the habit of writing the thoughts that passed through my mind while working on the farm. No one complains that farmers write too many books, or make too many speeches, or are in any way burdensome on humanity. They are known by their fruits rather than by their books, and if they fall behind In harmony and eloquence they often more than make it up in common sense and useful industry. The pulpit, the bar, and the press are well represented, but we hear very little from a farmer's standpoint--those who produce the most seem to have the least to say.

"When thousands of intelligent people spend so much time and money on books of fiction, no reasonable person can object to a farmer writing a book on what is true, regarding what sustains all classes in this and every other land. In collecting my scattered letters and publishing them, I hope no one will be offended, and some will be entertained and benefited. And if any one does not like my book, I hope they will write a far better one on the same useful subject, and I will not be offended at those whose powers overshadow mine, but rather be glad that I have been the means of 'provoking them to good works.' --W. L."

In other words, take it or leave it. Dusty D likes Lambie's self-confident pro-farmer standpoint. There's even a whiff of superiority--the farmer as the laconic yet useful producer as compared to windier professions. Dusty D likes that too. Without further ado, here is "Lines on Receiving the Picture of Mr. and Mrs. Geddes."

Thanks for the picture honest John
Of your good wife and you;
They mind us of the days that are gone
While Michigan was new.

They help to make our old hearts gay,
While standing in our view;
For forty years have passed away,
Since we found you kind and true.

We meet at church on Sabbath morn,
When you walk three miles or more;
All glad to see your manly form,
So active at four score.

For forty years you run your mill,
And seldom left the saw;
Aye working with a right good will,
For honor and Washtenaw.

A Republican true and strong,
Outspoken, brave and hearty;
Denouncing every sham and wrong;
And all the "whisky party."

A Deacon true in life and word,
A kind and generous giver;
Fighting life's battle at Geddesburg,
Beside the Huron river.

Up at your work by morning light,
For more than fifty years;
The banner man when friends unite,
And king of the pioneers.

--William Lambie

Ypsilanti Poet-Farmer William Lambie Hated the Smoking Car

Dusty D has been reading William Lambie's poetry of late and got curious as to where his farm is. A check of old plat maps reveals that it was 80 acres just north of Highland Cemetery. Amazingly, if you look on Google Maps, you can still see the faint outline of his and his wife Mary's farm.

Lambie immigrated here from Scotland at age 18 with his father and mother. He married Mary Campbell and they had 6 children. Lambie kept a diary and wrote prose snippets and poetry. He was known as a poet in his day, and wrote several poems celebrating silver and gold wedding anniversaries of neighbors in the community.

One thing he didn't celebrate was the railroad smoking-car. After failing to find a seat on the train one day, perhaps on a trip from our Depot to Detroit to get something, he resigned himself to sitting in the smoking-car.

William soon regretted this decision, and made no bones about it in his poem "The Smoking-Car." Note the Poe reference at the end.

THE SMOKING CAR
The passengers told me, in their glee,
They could not find a seat for me,
But all the standing room was free.

And forward stood a door ajar,
Where one was lighting a cigar ;
So I went in the smoking-car.

Right in the strong tobacco fumes,
Where men were smoking in platoons,
Puffing and talking 'round spittoons.

In they came to get a big feed—
What good, clean men do never need—
Their "bill of fare" a filthy weed.

All in a car, like Juggernaut,
Worshipers of the weed are caught,
To give their wealth away for naught.

The pipes were lighted o'er and o'er,
Ever dirtier grew the floor—
'Twas smoke and smell, and nothing more.

I grew sick of smoke and spitting,
In the tobacco temple sitting,
With the foul air around me flitting.

Some were chewing their "Honey Dew,"
Others their "Solid Comfort" blew ;
So I bade the smoky den adieu.

Unlike the solemn bird of yore,
I flitted out the foulsome door,
And left the dirt upon the floor,
And the smoking-car for evermore.
---William Lambie, c. 1883