A Thanksgiving Elopement: 1870s?

Earned His Annual Treat.

“As long as my employer lives,” said the big workman, “I’m sure of just as fine a dinner for Thanksgiving as the market affords.”

“Invited to his house?’

“No, of course not. He has too much sense to set me down to a table with a lot of the upper crust. I’d feel like crawling under the board, and could no more eat than if I was gagged and handcuffed. He sends the stuff to the house, and we never get it all closed out much before Christmas.

“Does he treat all his men that way?”

“Couldn’t afford it. He has hundreds of them, you know. But me and him had what he calls an escapade a good many years ago. You know, I was a coachman for old Grinder. He had a daughter, the prettiest woman in the state, and with spirit enough to lead an army. My present boss fell in love with her and she with him. Grinder fairly kicked the roof off the house, and told me to do the same with the young boss if I ever caught him on the premises. But, to begin with, I’d do anything on earth for my young mistress. Then I was in love with her maid, and she told me mighty plain that if I took sides with old Grinder against his daughter I’d have to go away from home to do my courtin’. It was a warm Thanksgiving day when the young folks planned to elope. The mistress wanted me to drive them, but I told her, in a meanin’ way like, that I better drive the old gentleman when he took up the chase. She saw the point, and told me not to hurt him serious.

“Sure enough, when Grinder heard the girl had slipped away after dinner, he was a cyclone. Away we went in a light buggy with a fast horse. On the creek-bottom road I managed an upset, and dragged him through slush and mud for a quarter of a mile. He was mad enough to murder some one, but he was too proud to own he was beaten, so he forgave the young folks and set the boss up in business.”

Evening Star [Washington DC] 25 December 1897: p. 15

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  One does so like a happy ending!  Clever man, to control the “upset” and yet not kill the bride’s father nor “hurt him serious”!  And how delightful that the “boss” continues to demonstrate yearly how much he valued the “escapade” that won him his wife.

Mrs Daffodil hopes that all of her readers enjoy as fine a Thanksgiving dinner as the market affords.

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

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An Unpleasant Meeting over Shawls: 1877

An Unpleasant Meeting.

Not long ago two ladies stood at the shawl counter of one of the two leading dry goods stores in St. Louis. They were unknown to each other, but were each intent in the examination of shawls. One of the ladies was finally handed something that struck her fancy. She turned the article over and over, with admiring eye upon it, and asked its price. She was told what is was, and with a sigh laid it down again. ‘I like it,” said she; ‘it suits me perfectly, but I can’t afford it. My husband tells me that we must retrench as much as possible.’

The sympathetic saleswoman was about replacing the shawl upon its shelf when the other lady spoke: ‘You do not intend to take the shawl, then, Madame?’

‘No,” was the response.

‘Then I think I’ll take it. It suits me, too, and I was only waiting for your determination.’ Then, turning to the saleswoman, the last speaker told her to do up the purchase, adding, ‘Charge it to Mr. ___.’

The effect the name had upon the lady who was unable to buy the shawl was electric. ‘That’s my husband!’ she shrieked, and there was a scene upon which the curtain did not fall at once by any means.”

Kentucky Advocate [Danville KY] 16 February 1877: p. 1

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil had thought to commend the two ladies for not falling into a petty squabble or even fisticuffs over the shawl, as some women do at the bargain counter and that curious ritual known as the Running of the Brides, but when a husband is at the centre of the squabble, one really can do nothing more than retire to a safe corner to watch the altercation and possibly lay a wager on the outcome.

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

Mrs Hubbard’s Three Warnings: 1800

 

MRS. HUBBARD’S THREE WARNINGS.

It was in the days of our grandmothers, when there were brick ovens in the land, that Mr. Hubbard bought his house, and bought it very much against his wife’s will. It was a lonely house, and reported to be haunted. It was next to a graveyard, which, though unused, was not cheerful, and which had likewise the reputation of a ghost. However, Mr. Hubbard did not believe in ghosts, and was too cheerful to be depressed by warnings, and never intended to be lonely.

“Mrs. Hubbard,” he said, when his wife shook her head over the purchase, “I got it cheap, and it is a good one. You will like it when you get there. If you don’t, why then talk.”

So the house was bought, and into it the Hubbard family went. There was scarcely a chance for a ghost to show his face amid such a family of boys and girls. Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard counted ten of them, all noisy ones.

Having once expostulated and spoken out her mind as to the house, Mrs. Hubbard gave up the point. She scrubbed and scoured, tacked down carpets and put up curtains, and owned that the place was pretty. As not a ghost appeared for a week, she made up her mind that there were no such inhabitants; she even began not to mind the tombstones. So the house got to rights at last, and baking-day came about. In the press of business they had a great deal of baker’s bread, and were now tired of it.

Mrs. Hubbard never enjoyed setting a batch of bread to rise as she did that which was to be eaten for the first time in the new house.

“For I cannot get up an appetite for stuff that nobody knows who has had the making of,” said Mrs. Hubbard; “and all puffy and alumy besides.”

So into the oven went the bread, and out it came at the proper time, even and brown and beautiful as loaves could be. Mrs. Hubbard turned them up on their sides as she drew them forth, and they stood in the long bread-tray, glorious proofs of her skill and the excellence of the oven, when Tommy Hubbard bounded in. Tommy was four, and when at that age we are prone to believe that anything will bear our weight. Tommy, therefore, anxious to inspect the newly-made bread, swung himself off his feet by clutching the edge of the bread-tray, and over it came, loaves and Tommy and all.

Mrs. Hubbard flew to the rescue and picked up the loaves. All were dusted and put in the tray again but one. That lay bottom upward under the table.

“A bothering child, to give me so much trouble!” she said, as she crawled under the table to get it. “A—oh—ah—dear, dear, dear—oh—oh my—”

And there on the floor sat Mrs. Hubbard, screaming, wringing her hands and shaking her head. The children screamed in concert. Mr. Hubbard rushed in from the garden, where he was at work.

“What’s the matter, mother?” he gasped.

Mrs. Hubbard pointed to the bottom of the loaf lying in her lap.

“Look there and see!” she said. “It is a warning, William; I am going to be taken from them all.”

And he looked, and he saw a death’s-head and cross-bones as plainly engraved as they possibly could be.

“It is accident,” said Mr. Hubbard. “Such queer cranks do come, you know.”

But Mrs. Hubbard was in a troubled state of mind, as was but natural.

“The stories about the haunted house were true,” she said, “and the spirits have marked the loaf. I am afraid it is a warning.”

And the loaf was put aside, for even Mr. Hubbard did not dare to eat any of it.

Mrs. Hubbard got over her fright at last, but the news of the awfully marked loaf spread through R__, and the people came to Hubbard’s all the week to look at it. It was a death’s-head and cross-bones certainly; everyone saw that at a glance; but as to its meaning, people differed. Some believed that it was a warning of approaching death; some thought that the spirits wanted to frighten the Hubbards away and get possession of the house again all to themselves. This latter supposition inspired Mrs. Hubbard with courage; finally, being a brave woman, she adopted the belief, and, when another baking-day arrived, put her loaves into the oven once more, prepared for cross-bone, and not to be frightened by them. The loaves baked as before. They came out brown and crusty as Mrs. Hubbard turned each in her hands. There were no cross-bones visible, but on the last were sundry characters or letters. What no one could tell until there dropped in for a chat a certain printer of the neighborhood, accustomed to reading things backward.

“By George!” said he, “that is curious. That is curious—r-e-s-u-r-g-a-m, resurgam; that is what is on the loaf—resurgam.”

“It is what they put on tombs, isn’t it?” asked poor Mrs. Hubbard, faintly.

“Well, yes,” said Mr. Hubbard, being obliged to admit. “But it is not so bad as cross-bones and skulls.”

Mrs. Hubbard shook her head.

“It’s even solemner,” said the little woman, who was not as good a linguist as bread-maker “I feel confident, William, that I shall soon be resurgamed, and what will these dear children do then?”

And now that the second loaf was before her eyes, marked even more awfully than the first, Mrs. Hubbard grew really pale and thin, and lost her cheerfulness.

“I have a presentiment,” she said over and over again, “that the third baking will decide who the warning belongs to. I believe it is meant for me, and time will show. Don’t you see how thin I am growing?”

And though Mr. Hubbard laughed, he also began to be troubled. The third baking-day was one of gloom. Solemnly, as at a funeral, the family assembled to assist in the drawing.

Five loves came out mark less, but one remained.

Mrs. Hubbard’s hand trembled; but she drew it forth; she laid it on the tray; she turned softly about. At last she exposed the lower surface. On it were letters printed backward, plain enough to read this time, and arranged thus:

“Died April 2d, lamented by her large family.”

“It is me!” cried Mrs. Hubbard. “I am to go to-morrow. This is the 1st. I do feel faint. Yes, I do. It is awful, and so sudden!”

And Mrs. Hubbard fainted away in the arms of the most terrified of men and husbands.

The children screamed, the cat mewed, the dog barked. The oldest boy ran for the doctor. People flocked to the Hubbards. The loaf was examined. Yes, there was Mrs. Hubbard’s warning—her call to quit this world.

She lay in bed, bidding good-bye to her family and friends, her strength going fast. She read her Bible and tried not to grieve too much. The doctor shook his head. The clergyman prayed with her. Nobody doubted that her end was at hand, for people were very superstitious in those days.

They had been up all night with good Mrs. Hubbard, and dawn was breaking, and with it she was sure that she must go; when, clattering over the road and up to the door came a horse, and on the horse came a man, who alighted. He rattled the knocker and rushed in. There was no stopping him. Up the stairs he went to Mrs. Hubbard’s room, and bolted into it.

Every one stared at him as he took off his hat.

“Parding!” said he, breathlessly, “I heard Mrs. Hubbard was a-dying—and she’d warnings on her bakings. I came over to explain. You see, I was sexton of the church here a few years ago, and I know all about it. You needn’t die for fear just yet, Mrs. Hubbard, for it is neither spirits nor devils about, nor yet warnin’s. What marks the loaves is old Mrs. Finkle’s tombstone. I took it for an oven-bottom, seeing there were no survivors and bricks were dear. The last folks before you didn’t get them printed off on their loaves because they used tins, and we got used to the marks ourselves. Cross-bones and skulls we put up with, and never thought of caring for the resturgam. So you see how it is, and I am sorry you’ve been scared.”

Nobody said a word. The minister shut his book. The doctor walked to the window. There was a deadly silence. Mrs. Hubbard sat up in bed.

“William,” said she to her husband, “the first thing you do, got a new bottom to that oven.”‘

And the tone assured the assemblage of anxious friends that Mrs. Hubbard was not going to die just yet

Indeed she came down the very next day. And when the oven had been reconstructed, the first thing she did was to give invitations for a large tea-drinking. On which occasion the loaves came out right.

Arthur’s Illustrated Home Magazine, Volumes 45-46, 1877: pp 209-210

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  In the past there was a good deal of superstition about houses by church-yards, much of which, Mrs Daffodil fears, was entirely reasonable. Church burial grounds were the haunt of the Resurrection Men, as well as unhygienic effluvia and miasmas from a surfeit of burials. In fact, the entire rural cemetery movement materialized out of the spectre of disease arising from the graves. It was also difficult to keep the bright, cheerful outlook when faced with one’s mortality every time one looked out a window.  To-day, of course, one would be making enough to live luxuriously in the South of France by leasing the house to “ghost-hunters.”

Some of Mrs Daffodil’s readers may be horrified by the sexton’s casual treatment of the old grave-stones, but it has ever been thus. In London’s St Pancras Churchyard there is a tree surrounded by gravestones, known as the “Hardy Tree.” Before he became known as a writer of salacious and grittily realistic fiction, Thomas Hardy worked as an architect. He was employed to help clear away the graves to built the Midland Railway over part of the churchyard. Many and varied were the uses for old tombstones under such circumstances. That stone-faced person over at Haunted Ohio has helpfully provided a post on “A Few Uses for a Dead Tombstone.”

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

Knitter’s Face and Knitting Nerves: 1917-1918

 

knitting for soldiersA

Knitting for Soldiers, Julian Alden Weir

In the wake of patriotic needle-work for the Great War, came a host of new ailments.

KNITTER’S FACE

What is the strange expression worn by women these days? This puckered browed, pursed lipped, strained expression? Why, it is the knitter’s face, and it has lately become prevalent in Pittsburg. One sees it at club meetings, at the theatre, at the Red Cross room, and in the homes. Far from being a disfigurement, the knitting face is a badge of patriotism as unmistakable as a food pledge window card in one’s front window. It means that the party who is wearing it is working hard for the comfort and pleasure of our American boys in the army and navy. The silly young thing does not wear it as she clicks away on a pink and pale-blue sweater for her own graceful shoulders; it belongs only to the women and thoughtful young girls who, bending over a khaki sweater, dream of the warmth that will come to some far away boy when he slips it on over his half frozen body. The symptoms of the face are five, to-wit: Tensely knit brows, eyes cast thoughtfully downward, lips puckered anxiously, jaws fairly set and the general expression of rigidity. Not only does the face bear its testimony, but it has spread to the upper portion of the body, which is likely to be held at a stiff angle, arms close to the sides and muscles tense. At the Red Cross room it is seen daily for that is where members of those wearing it congregate. The Sun [Pittsburg KS] 15 November 1917: p. 4

A New Disease

Chicago reports the outbreak of a new disease which is spreading eastward. The epidemic, known as “knitter’s face,” afflicts not only women, but also some boys and men. The affliction is characterized by a tense facial expression. High fever and partial delirium are the first symptoms, the sufferer invariably muttering incoherent phrases in which the words, “knit sixteen, purl two,” “cast off” and “arm size” occur with frequency. Color blindness speedily follows, the patient evincing the keenest delight in the crudest combinations of tints. The advanced stages of the disease are marked by atrophy of all social emotions.— The Trained Nurse and Hospital Review 1918: p. 18

KNITTING FACE, LATEST EPIDEMIC SPREADS FAST

Appendicitis, tonsillitis and good old-fashioned grippe have got to take a back seat. There is a new epidemic in Montana. It is “knitting face,” which the name given by a clinic of physicians, who recently discussed its causes and effects. The malady is both contagious and infectious. It made its first appearance soon after war was declared, and it has been spreading with great rapidity. Husbands are worried, physicians, baffled, and even children notice a difference in the appearance of mothers and older sisters, as  result of its effects.

At the beginning there were only a few cases but it has spread now into homes, offices and schools and is especially noticeable around women’s clubs and society affairs.

It is easy to distinguish those afflicted. In the early stages it is most noticeable, by a look of great concentration, and constant moving of the lips, as if counting “one-two-three-four” with an occasional “one-two-three—darn” and a quick movement of the fingers as if unraveling something.

In the more pronounced cases the victim is constantly in a deep state of concentration, and while sitting in a street car rides two or three blocks past her corner without thinking to get off. Her face becomes set in stern lines, her mouth drawn and eyes narrowed leaving the impression that the victim is in physical pain. The Ronan [MT] Pioneer 9 November 1917: p. 6

The nerves of the patriotic knitters also suffered.

WOMEN IN NEW YORK SUFFER NEW AILMENT IN “KNITTING NERVES”

Margaret Harvey. The feminine contingent of Denver’s population is decidedly out of fashion. Knitting nerves have been in existence for more than two weeks in New York city and not one case of the malady has been discovered in Denver as yet. Which goes to show that the New York women are up-to-date in their ailments as well as in their occupations, fads and amusements.

Knitting nerves are like many other diseases which have been introduced into polite society after some fad has become especially popular throughout the country. For instance, the “tango foot” was a general ailment several years ago when the social world was busy tangoing. Then “fox trotitis” and “moviezootie” were discovered. After the craze for knitting nerves subsides, “Hooveritis” will, no doubt, find its way into society as a result of the stringent conservation regulations adopted by the women throughout the country. Whether the conservation disease will affect the brain or the stomach is a question that must be decided by the physician who originates it. It will become more general perhaps than knitting nerves, due to the fact that it will not be confined to the women who put the conservation ideas into practice, but may extend to every member of the family.

Stopping to consider the conservation question, some ingenious person might originate various maladies and blame them on the food administration. Instead of knitting nerves, they might have “Hooverized nerves” or “sweetless day nerves”; for, if the sugar shortage become much more pronounced in the East, it’s bound to affect those who eat large quantities of candy for the benefit of their nerves alone.

Conservation of coal is apt to bring on all kinds of rheumatism and influenza and grip, to which any resourceful person could attach elaborate names. Wheatless and meatless days will doubtless give some up-to-the-minute physician an opportunity to discover a new ailment, as everyone knows how necessary proteins are to the manual laborer and lighter foods to the thinker.

As for lightless nights, no end of unusual diseases might develop from this order of the government. Young people, no doubt, will be the most susceptible to any maladies resulting from dimly lighted parlors and theaters, one of which will surely be “spooneritis.” Many new diseases of the heart are apt to baffle medical authorities and these are bound to become contagious if the war continues much longer.

But to return to knitting nerves, it is perhaps due to the fact that the knitters of Denver are too much engrossed in their work to devote any of their time to being nervous that the disease has not made its appearance here. The majority of Denver women who knit are of the opinion that the occupation serves as a sedative for the nerves and many nervous women have taken up knitting principally for the purpose of benefiting their health. Dr. Louis R. Weizmiller of the New York Y.M.C.A., the originator of this 1918 style of maladies, says that knitting nerves are the result of overwork on war knitting. Denver women object to the disease, however, and demonstrate their absence of nerves by knitting as they read and study. Denver [CO] Rocky Mountain News 13 January 1918: p. 13

One newspaper fearlessly pooh-poohed the notion that knitting caused disease. 

The Knitting Habit.

Lowville Journal and Republican:

The “knitting face” and “knitting nerves” are being discovered by doctors who like to see their names in print. Oh, well, the brilliant medicos simply have to discover some new malady occasionally in order to keep pace with the new cures. Don’t mind ‘em, ladies! Go right ahead with your Red Cross work. The knitting habit isn’t a disease, anyway; it’s a remedy for bridge-whist-shattered nerves and it will prove a blessing and comfort to young men whom you may never see, but who will rise up and call you blessed. Watertown [NY] Daily Times 18 January 1918: p. 2

And others made dreadful puns on the subject:

“Knitting Face.”

From the Kansas City Star.

Another familiar sight due to the war, reported from Chicago, is the “knitting face.” Consisting, we presume, of the knitted brow, the off-cast eyes, the double-stitched chin and the purled teeth. The Washington [DC] Post 7 November 1917: p. 6

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  As is often the way, a ladies’ affliction suddenly becomes a male problem:

WHERE A NEW AILMENT FITS

Dr. L.A. W. Welzmiller, physical director, and Dr. C.P. Christensen, psychology society president, both of New York, announce that thousands of women are breaking down under “knitting nerves,” and that the spread of this new ailment is becoming very serious.

We are ready to believe it. Mother sits all hunched up, all day and all evening, and knits and knits as if there were only 3 instead of 365 days in the year, and her nerves collapse. We surely want the physical directors and psychologists to do all they can for her.

But aren’t the experts going to give one solitary thought to father’s knitting nerves? He’s got ‘em. He gets home from a day’s hard work and finds mother fiddling away with the pretty needles on a sweater. Daughter Susie is over in one corner working at a helmet. Son Willie is in another corner sawing out a wash rag. The odor of Bridget’s burning potatoes fills the sitting room, as Bridget’s soul goes out to a pair of wristlets. All father has to do is to sit down and consume the gladsome evening time by, for and of himself. Continue the situation about seven evenings the week, and the real, agonized patient for “knitting nerves” treatment is father. Everybody knits but father, and he just sits around lonesome and has “the nerves.” Miami [OK] District Daily News 2 January 1918: p. 4

The medical profession seemed to enjoy creating new maladies. Mrs Daffodil has previously examined The Telephone Face; Motor-car Face, and Tango Foot.

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

 

 

Encore: Alternatives for Mourning During the Great War: 1914-1918

mourning hat and veil 1914

On this Remembrance Day week-end we remember some of the alternative methods of mourning suggested during the Great War.

In 1917 Reformer Dorothy Dix strongly urged an end to traditional deep mourning. She pointed out that “What the psychological effect, not only upon the minds of women, but upon men of the sight of thousands of women dressed in mourning is appalling to consider…[a woman who puts on a colored dress] saddens no one else with her sorrow. She stabs no other woman to the heart with a remembrance of her own loss…Her colored dress, worn when her very soul is black with mourning, is the red badge of courage.”

Further, mourning is costly: “the cost of a complete mourning equipment for a well to do family would buy many liberty bonds…It is said that this war is going to be won by money…Therefore, the women of the country cannot only do a big patriotic duty, but avenge their dead by putting their money into bullets instead of crepe.”

And, finally, wearing mourning is literally sickening: “That women are depressed by wearing mourning and are made sick and nervous is a well-established fact…it wrecks her own health and makes her sacrifice the living to the dead…I hope that the women of America will rise above the heathenish custom of decking themselves out in black to show that they grieve. There will be no need of flaunting personal grief, for at the bier of every soldier who dies for his county the whole nation will bow in sorrow…” Augusta [GA] Chronicle 5 December 1917: p. 5

In 1914 Mrs Edward Lyttleton, wife of a clergyman soon to be criticised for his German sympathies, suggested that mourning for the dead of the War should consist of a “simple narrow band of purple cloth to be worn on the left arm by every man, woman or child who had lost a relation in the war.” She pointed out the economical advantages and that the badge “would be the same for all classes.”  In addition, “If the well-to-do women of the empire would lead the way in this matter they would make things easier for their poorer sisters, who surely must often stint themselves of necessities in order to get the “bit of black” so dear to their hearts.” The Denver [CO] Post 16 October 1914: p. 10

The mourning armband with a star. The patent application was filed in 1918, but it was not patented until 1920.

The mourning armband with a star. The patent application was filed in 1918, but it was not patented until 1920.

Another arm-band scheme was suggested much later in the conflict and endorsed by the President of the United States.

“No mourning costumes during war time, but rather the substitution of a mourning badge or an arm-band of black with a gray star,” was the recommendation of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs at a session at Hot Springs, Ark. Mrs. L. Brackett Bishop, of Chicago, suggested that the conventional period of mourning be abolished during the war. Mrs. Bishop has made an extensive study of colors and concludes that the wearing of black causes many mental disturbances. “Certain colors are avoided by women because their nature resents them,” she said. “But the general effect is happiness. If happiness is to be won in the world, color will do it. Another reason for this strong need of color is the fact that the earth revolves each twenty-four hours a day, and each day we are in the same plane as was the fighting of yesterday. We must be bright and cheery to overcome the cloudy days. Color will win the war for us, and it is going to be won by the colors we wear and by the brightness we can thus add to the world and to the people about us through the mental attitude expressed in our costumes.” A standard arm-band furnishes an excellent substitute for the wearing of black. It has all the objectionable features of black removed and still serves the purpose of indicating that a death has occurred.

Arm-Bands Are Advocated

Patents for a standard arm-band have been applied for. This arm-band consists of a black background symbolizing the black war-cloud with the blue sky beyond. A torch indicates the blazing path of national attainment and a lyre symbolizes the rejoicing at valor and sacrifice, while the dove of peace hovers over all. These bands are to be made in the colors of the Allies. [This design does not appear in the patent records.]

The Women’s Committee of the Council of National Defense has suggested an arm-band with a gold star for the death of each member of the family in service. President Wilson has given his approval of the suggestion in the following letter made public by Dr. Anna Howard Shaw, chairman of the committee:

“My Dear Dr. Shaw: Thank you for your letter of yesterday. I do entirely approve of the action taken by the Women’s Committee in executive session, namely, that a 3-inch black band should be worn, upon which a gilt star may be placed for each member of the family whose life is lost in the service, and that the band shall be worn on the left arm. I hope and believe that thoughtful people everywhere will approve of this action, and I hope that you will be kind enough to make the suggestion of the committee public, with the statement that it has my cordial indorsement. Cordially and sincerely yours, WOODROW WILSON.”

In an explanatory statement on the subject the Women’s Committee says:

For a long time the Women’s Committee has been receiving letters from women urging some such action on their part. The determined avoidance of mourning by English women has been much commented on and praised. One woman. who advocates this step has four sons in the service one of whom has already been killed. She wrote recently: “I know the costliness of such supreme glory and sacrifice, and have felt both the selfish temptation to hide my pain behind a mourning that would hold off intrusion and the inspiration and stimulus of keeping up to my gallant son’s expectation that I should regard his death as a happy promotion into higher service. Patriotism means such exalted living that dying is not the harder part.”

The insignia which has been chosen by the Women’s Committee is of a kind that can readily be made at home out of whatever material can be procured. The band is to be black and 3 inches wide—the stars gilt, and one for each member of the family who has lost his life in service. These stars may be gold, of gilded metal, or satin, or of cloth. The design will not be patented, and the insignia will never become a commercial article. Dry Goods, Volume 19, July 1918, p. 5

A Jet mourning brooch, c. 1880s

A Jet mourning brooch, c. 1880s

A return to a Victorian insignia of mourning was also suggested.

Old-Fashioned Jet Brooch Replaces Crepe.

American Women Join in Move to Discard Mourning Garments.

Now that almost all American women are joining it the movement to help win the war by banishing from the streets the depressing sight of crepe and deep mourning garments, the need is felt for some expressive symbol that shall be the privilege of those bereft by death, whether through the war or through other causes….every woman who feels it a sacrifice to give up her mourning apparel would appreciate some distinguishing symbol the wearing of which would satisfy her own heart.

When the question was being discussed the other day in a room full of women, knitting for the Red Cross, one sweet-faced little woman pointed to a beautiful old-fashioned jet brooch at her throat. “This,” said she, “is my mourning. It is a treasured family heirloom full of dear associations. The members of our family do not believe in mourning apparel, but this brooch represents to me, mourning. It is never worn except at such periods, and is then worn constantly—with all costumes. When I wear this brooch, I am in mourning as truly as though clothed in deepest black.” The idea seems a very beautiful one which may well be passed on. In every family there is some piece of jewelry of this sort beloved because of association with those who have gone before and worthy of being the special symbol of remembrance and a time set apart from worldly pursuits. Oregonian [Portland, OR] 23 June 1918: p. 73

For more information on mourning in the Victorian era, with some notes on the Great War, see The Victorian Book of the Dead.

Mrs Daffodil’s previous Remembrance Day post on the Peerage in mourning is here.

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

Tommy Atkins is a Fatalist: 1918

Good Luck Charms used by Soldiers in the Great War. The Wellcome Collection.

Good Luck Charms used by Soldiers in the Great War. The Wellcome Collection.

TOMMY ATKINS IS A FATALIST

Many British Soldiers Carry Charms and Keep Mascots; Black Cats Favored.

Behind British Lines in France. The feeling of fatalism is strong among soldiers. Many hold the opinion that “if the bullet is not made for you you won’t be hit.” One soldier boasts that he knows he will come through the war all right, because during his latest battle, a large piece of shrapnel on which he found his own initial fell at his feet.

“It was made for me, all right,” he said, “but it missed the mark, so nothing else can kill me.”

Mascots and luck-bringers of various sorts are numerous in all the armies today. They are of great variety, although perhaps tiny rabbits and black cats made of “lucky” metal are encountered more frequently than anything else. Probably in most cases the lucky charm which a soldier carries is something sent him by his womenfolk in the homeland—a thimble, a ring, or a child’s trinket of some kind that has been passed down in the family as a luck-bringer.

Fear Number Three.

Among soldier’s superstitions, of which the British soldier has his full share, one of the most characteristic is connected with the number three.

“The third time is never the same,” is a proverb among the Irish troops. “The third anything is fatal,” is a common expression among the English country battalions. Soldiers have been known to refuse to take their third leave, feeling certain that it will be their last. A soldier’s third wound is said to be the one which must be most carefully attended to. A development of this same superstition prohibits the lighting of three cigarettes with one match.

Odd numbers, according to the British Tommy, are more likely to be unlucky than even ones, and thirteen is no worse than nine. Friday as an unlucky day has been dethroned, and there is no particular bad luck connected with any day of the week in Tommy’s estimation. Sunday, however, is preeminently a lucky day for battles.

White Heather is Lucky.

The lucky flower, by common consent, is white heather, and a piece properly tucked away inside the hatband is supposed to save the wearer from a fatal wound.

Some regiments regard certain decorations and medals as unlucky, not to the wearer, but to the regiment in general. One very well-known battalion objects strongly every time one of its number is awarded the Military Cross.

As regimental pets, black cats are regarded as the luckiest possession a detachment can have, and the arrival of a stray animal of this color at a gun-pit or dugout is an event of great importance. Everyone is bound to be lucky for some hours at least. To meet a black cat while marching up to the trenches puts every member of the company in the happiest humor. On the other hand, a black magpie flying across the line of march is a bad omen. To hear the cuckoo calling before breakfast is another bad omen.

Idaho Statesman [Boise ID] 20 February 1918: p. 5

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  The Imperial War Museums shared five “lucky objects” from the Great War.

On the subject of regimental pets:

SOLDIERS’ MASCOTS.

Some regiments possess curions mascots. The Royal Fusiliers for the last hundred years have kept a goat as the regimental pet, and the mascot of one of the Lancer regiments is also a goat, which they acquired some years ago in South Africa. This animal went through the Matabele war with the regiment, and though several times under fire escaped without a scratch. The 17th Lancers—the “Death or Glory” boys used to possess a large black bear with white markings, but she became bad-tempered, and so was presented not long ago to the Dublin Zoo. Star 11 September 1919: p. 6

To-morrow is Armistice Day, the 99th anniversary of the end of the Great War, reminding us that many “Tommies,” despite their charms and mascots, were not lucky enough to return.

 

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

A Jolly “Darning Party:” 1888

 

A Jolly “Darning Party.”

There is a very clever little housekeeper living in the busy portion of town and having a family of eight to look after, who makes light of family mending. Her method of disposing of this bugbear of the housewife may aid some of her weary sisters, whose lives are weekly blighted by the stockings and underwear to be made over anew.

“In the first place,” she says, “I make the three men and one boy in my family change their socks four times each week. When socks cost only 25 cents for a good pair, why should they not own a half dozen pair? Then on Sunday morning I overlook and collect all the soiled clothes and put aside every garment that needs mending. Monday morning, while the servant girl is washing the sheets, towels and such articles, my oldest daughter and myself rise a half hour earlier and mend all the torn or ripped articles before breakfast. When the clothes come from the ironing there are but few stitches to be set. I once had a girl who always insisted on putting her clothes to soak Sunday morning, but I persistently kept back those needing mending until Monday.”

Another family of growing children have a rather novel method of darning their stockings. There are four boys and five girls, three of the latter being able to darn nicely. Every Tuesday evening they have a “darning party.” The boys thread the needles, select the different cottons or wools, and the girls do the darning. The oldest boy reads some favorite book aloud, and at 9 o’clock cake and lemonade, or some like treat, is served. Any member of the family having more than two holes in one stocking is fined a penny for each hole, and the money goes to purchase new books.

The Saint Paul [MN] Globe 26 February 1888: p. 14

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Well, really… a “darning party” in which only the girls do the work yet the boys get the treats? To use an American adjective, that is “darned” unfair. Mrs Daffodil suggests sequestering girls and refreshments behind locked doors until the boys learn to darn nicely.

The gentlemen, it seems, will do anything to avoid darning their own stockings, although there was a presumption that men as a species were utterly unable to undertake such delicate work.  Some ladies found in this male ineptitude a business opportunity:

In Philadelphia a guild of kind-hearted ladies has been formed to do mending for bachelors at low rates, It is conjectured that “they sew that they may reap.’ Nelson Evening Mail, 6 May 1886: p. 2

Mrs George Washington was praised for her ceaseless knitting and darning, as were ladies who invented darning efficiencies such as this

THREADED NEEDLE CASE

At a recent entertainment the hostess, a woman high up in the social world, tore her gown so that repair was necessary, and one of her intimate friends went up to her bedroom to chat while the mending went on. The maid produced a sewing case full of needles threaded with silk and cotton in different colors, so the work was quickly done. The hostess, as they went downstairs, boasted of her foresight in having needles always ready for evening work, as it had made her nervous to see her maid try and try again for a needle’s eye when she hurried. She not only has a stock of needles on hand in black and in white, but on the day that a colored frock is to be donned for dinner needles are threaded in that color and put in place in the work basket. In fact, the system has been so perfected that the cook has a stock of threaded chicken needles handy, threaded each as it is used, so that they all will be ready if many viands need a stitch or two, as many do, to keep some fancy sharp for baking. It takes only a few moments on a bright day to thread the needles and the system really saves eyesight and time. Evening News [San Jose, CA] 14 July 1911: p. 2

What a blighted life that woman “high up in the social world” must lead if her greatest boast is of pre-threaded needles….

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.