Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Abraham Lincoln Loved Cats, Dogs, Goats, a Pig, a Turkey, and his Horse of course.

Abraham Lincoln's law partner in Springfield, Illinois, William Herndon, noted that "Mr. Lincoln himself was a compassionate man, and hence, in dealing with others, he avoided wounding their hearts or puncturing their sensibility. He was unusually considerate of the feelings of other men, regardless of their rank, condition or station." Mr. Lincoln was even more considerate of children and animals.

Abraham Lincoln's Cats.
"Tabby"
When Abraham Lincoln was elected President, he was given an unexpected gift of two kittens from Secretary of State William Seward in August of 1861. The President doted on the cats, which he named Tabby and Dixie, so much so that he once fed Tabby from the table during a formal dinner at the White House.

Embarrassed by Abe's action, Mary Todd Lincoln told him it was "shameful in front of their guests." The President replied, "If the gold fork was good enough for former President James Buchanan, I think it is good enough for Tabby."

Lincoln's friend Caleb Carman recalled how the President would pick up one of the cats and "talk to it for half an hour at a time." The cats apparently won the President over with their quiet adoration.

At one point during his first term, Lincoln said in frustration, "Dixie is smarter than my whole cabinet! And... furthermore... she doesn't talk back!"

"Dixie"
Lincoln had a particular affinity for stray cats and occasionally brought them home. Mrs. Lincoln even referred to cats as "my husband's hobby."

When visiting her father and stepmother in Kentucky, Mary told her husband by mail that their son Eddy had taken up "your hobby" by adopting a stray kitten.

At General Ulysses S. Grant's headquarters in City Point, Virginia, during the siege of Petersburg in March 1865 (just weeks before his assassination), the enormous task of reuniting the country lay ahead with the Civil War drawing to a close. Lincoln found his attention distracted by the sound of mewing kittens. Lincoln noticed three stray kittens in the telegraph hut. Admiral David Porter wrote later that he was struck by the sight of the President "tenderly caressing three stray kittens. It well illustrated the kindness of the man's disposition and showed the childlike simplicity mingled with his nature's grandeur." Porter recalled that Lincoln stroked the cat and whispered, "Kitties, thank God you're cats and can't understand this terrible strife that is going on." Before leaving a meeting in the officers' tent that day, Lincoln turned to a colonel and said, "I hope you will see that these poor little motherless waifs are given plenty of milk and treated kindly."

Abraham Lincoln's Dogs.
Mr. Lincoln's compassion extended to dogs, too. Fido was a mixed-breed dog with floppy ears and a yellowish coat. When fireworks and cannons announced Abraham Lincoln's victory in the Presidential election 1860, poor Fido was terrified. The Lincolns were worried that the long train trip to Washington, D.C., in 1861, combined with loud noises, would terrify Fido. John and Frank Roll, two neighborhood boys, promised to care for Fido. Mr. Lincoln made them promise to let Fido inside the house whenever he scratched at the front door, never scolded Fido for entering the house with muddy paws, and fed him if he came to the dinner table. The Lincolns gave the boys the roll pillows from their sofa so Fido would feel at home! Did you know "Fido" is Latin? Fido is from "Fidelitas," which translates as "Faithful." Fido outlived President Lincoln but came to a similarly tragic end in 1866.
In 1893, John Eddy Roll copyrighted this picture and turned it into a Carte de Visite (Cabinet Card) sold at the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago that year.

In the White House, Jip took Fido's place. Nurse Rebecca Pomroy reported that "his little dog, Jip, helped relieve Lincoln of some portion of the burden, for the little fellow was never absent from the Presidential lunch. He was always in Mr. Lincoln's lap to claim his portion first and was caressed and petted by him throughout the meal."

The Lincoln household was a home for the lost and neglected. Cynthia Owen Philip wrote about an incident in which a dog named Jet adopted the Lincoln family. "In mid-October 1861, during the bleak months after the Union defeat at Bull Run, President and Mrs. Lincoln were driven across the Potomac River to Alexandria, Virginia, to present flags to newly formed volunteer regiments assembled there. On their return to the capital, a sleek black hunting dog trailed their carriage to the White House, trotted after the President right through the front door, and to the delight of the Lincoln children, quickly made himself at home." Unfortunately for the boys, the dog had abandoned his owner, army surgeon George Suckley. In a newspaper, he read about the new White House resident and went to the White House to claim him. He and Mr. Lincoln agreed that Dr. Suckley would furnish one of Jet's pups in exchange for returning his father. But by the time the exchange was made in December, Jet had again disappeared, so Dr. Suckley withheld the puppy.

Apparently, Abraham Lincoln Loved all Critters.
Indeed, Mr. Lincoln was known to go to great lengths to rescue animals from adversity – including once backtracking to rescue a pig stuck in the mud because he couldn't bear the thought of its suffering. Friend Joshua F. Speed recalled a trip he took with Mr. Lincoln in 1839 on the way back to Springfield: "We were riding along a country road, two and two together, some distance apart, Lincoln and Jon. J. Hardin is behind. (Hardin was afterward made Colonel and was killed at Buena Vista). We were passing through a thicket of wild plum and crab-apple trees, where we stopped to water our horses." After waiting some time, Hardin came up, and we asked him where Lincoln was. "Oh," said he, "when I saw him last" (there had been a severe wind storm), "he had caught two little birds in his hand, which the wind had blown from their nest, and he was hunting for the nest." Hardin left him before he found it. He finally found the nest, and placed the birds, to use his own words, "in the home provided for them by their mother." When he caught up with the party, they laughed at him. He said earnestly, "I could not have slept tonight without giving those two little birds to their mother."

Illinois politician William Pitt Kellogg recalled: "Next to his political sagacity, his broad humanitarianism was one of his most striking characteristics. He fairly overflowed with human kindness." Historian Charles B. Strozier noted, "Lincoln's lifelong sympathy for animals…was hardly the norm for the frontier." Historian Douglas L. Wilson noted that Mr. Lincoln" was unusually tenderhearted. We see this in several reports of his childhood that depict him as concerned about cruelty to animals. When his playmates would turn helpless terrapins on their backs and torture them, which was apparently a favorite pastime, the young future President would protest against it. He wrote an essay on the subject as a school exercise that was remembered years afterward. This instinctive sympathetic reaction seems to have been recognized by his stepbrother as a vulnerable spot in Lincoln's makeup, for he is reported as having taunted Lincoln as he was preaching a mock sermon by bashing a terrapin against a tree.


Abe's son Tad's love of animals perhaps exceeded his father's. The Lincolns adopted two goats, Nanny and Nanko, who had the run of the White House property – to the consternation of the White House staff upset about the damage they caused to furniture and flora. The goat "interests the boys and does them good; let the goat be," President Lincoln told a White House employee who objected to the goat. Mr. Lincoln took pride in the goats' affection for him. He told Elizabeth Keckley, a black seamstress who worked for his wife, "Well, come here and look at my two goats. I believe they are the kindest and best goats in the world. See how they sniff the clear air and skip and play in the sunshine. Whew? what a jump," he exclaimed as one of the goats made a lofty spring. "Madam Elizabeth, did you ever see such an active goat?" Musing momentarily, he continued: "He feeds on my bounty and jumps joyfully. Do you think we could call him a bounty jumper? But I flatter the bounty jumper. My goat is far above him. I would rather wear his horns and hairy coat through life than demean myself to the level of the man who plunders the national treasury in the name of patriotism. The man who enlists in the service for consideration deserts the moment he receives his money, but to repeat the play is bad enough. The men who manipulate the grand machine and make the bounty jumper their agent in an outrageous fraud are far worse. They are beneath the worms that crawl in the dark, hidden places of earth."

In August 1863, President Lincoln wrote Tad to announce the disappearance of his son's "Nanny Goat." She had been last seen "chewing her little cud in the middle of Tad's bed. But now she's gone." Like Tad, Nanny apparently had the run of the White House. There was the suspicion that one of the White House staff had been Nanny's undoing. By the following spring, the goats must have been replaced because Mr. Lincoln reported in a telegram to his wife: "Tell Tad the goats and father are very well – especially the goats."

As President, Mr. Lincoln continued to conduct animal rescue missions. Lewis Stanton, son of Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, recalled how his father and Mr. Lincoln handled one difficult situation at the Soldiers Home in northeast Washington: "Mr. Lincoln and my father arrived at the cottage. They at once noticed the peacocks roosting in a small cluster of cedar trees with ropes and sticks caught in the many small branches and recognized the dangerous and uncomfortable position when they would attempt to fly to earth on the morrow. The two men immediately went to work, solemnly going to and fro unwinding the ropes and getting them in straight lines and carefully placing the small pieces of wood where without catching they would slide off when in the morning the birds flew down." President Lincoln delightedly relaxed at the Soldiers Home with his son Tad and Stanton's children.


When the White House stables caught fire in February 1863, President Lincoln had to be restrained from entering the burning edifice to rescue six trapped horses. One pony belonged to his late son Willie, and another was Tad's. Two pet goats were also apparently destroyed. President Lincoln personally "burst open the stable door… and would have tried to enter the burning building had not those standing near caught and restrained him," recalled presidential guard Robert McBride. The death of Willie's pony particularly pained him. William P. Bogardus recalled: "– one of the boys and I went up to see the fire. As we watched the burning building, someone put a hand on the tight board fence surrounding the barn and vaulted over. The fence was over six feet high. As he came up to where we were and stood by us, he remarked, 'Well boys, this is a pretty how-dodo' and then recognized that it was Mr. Lincoln. There were twenty-five of the one hundred men of the company selected to act as his mounted escort on his rides to and from the Soldiers Home, where he spent the hot months of the summer."

In Springfield, "Old Robin" was a valued family member. Neighbor Fred T. Dubois recalled: "Old Robin was the family horse of the Lincolns, which used to draw the family carriage, which had two seats, an open one in front and the rest of the carriage closed. Some of the family always drove, as Mr. Lincoln never had a coachman. He had only one man around his house who cared for the horse. Salaries were very meager at that time, and this man of all jobs wore plain clothes all the time and, as was customary in those days, was treated as an equal by everyone." At President Lincoln's funeral in Springfield in April 1865, Old Robin played an honored role. He was led by the Rev. Harry Brown, a Negro minister who had been an occasional handyman for the Lincolns.


Abraham Lincoln Pardoning a Turkey?
President Lincoln's compassion extended to turkeys, too. Thanksgiving was first celebrated as a national holiday in 1863, after Abraham Lincoln's presidential proclamation, which set the date as the last Thursday in November. Because of the Civil War, however, the Confederate States of America refused to recognize Lincoln's authority, and Thanksgiving wouldn't be celebrated nationally until years after the war.
It was, however, in late 1863 when the Lincolns received a live turkey for the family to feast on at Christmas. Tad, ever fond of animals, quickly adopted the bird as a pet, naming him Jack and teaching him to follow behind as he hiked around the White House grounds. On Christmas Eve, Lincoln told his son the pet would no longer be a pet. "Jack was sent here to be killed and eaten for this very Christmas," he told Tad, who answered, "I can't help it. He's a good turkey, and I don't want him killed." The boy argued that the bird had every right to live, and as always, the President gave in to his son, writing a reprieve for the turkey on a card and handing it to Tad.
Tad kept Jack for another year, and on election day in 1864, Abraham Lincoln spotted the bird among soldiers lining up to vote. Lincoln playfully asked his son if the turkey would be voting too, and Tad answered, "O, no; he isn't of age yet."
Lincoln's horse, "Old Robin," was held by Rev. Henry Brown on the day of his funeral in 1865. F.W. Ingmire, photographer.
Mr. Lincoln named his horse "Old Robin." Old Robin was the riderless horse with boots turned backward in the stirrups in Abraham Lincoln's funeral procession.

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.


Cubs Win the 1908 World Series and Chicago Celebrates.

Dr. Neil Gale identifies this photograph's correct subject and date, which is over 115 years old as of 2023. The subject was unknown and, thus, mislabeled on the Internet. This is one of a handful of historical photos on which I corrected or identified the subject matter.
Downtown Looking North on State Street from Madison Street, October 14, 1908.
CLICK HERE TO ENLARGE THE PHOTOGRAPH.
This photo was taken on Wednesday, October 14, 1908, at 1:05 PM (per the Marshall Field clock) as Chicago Cubs fans flocked to the streets to celebrate the Cubs winning the World Series against the Detroit Tigers. Game 5 had a 10 AM start time, and the average time of a nine-inning MLB game is 3 hours. The game was played at Bennett Park in Detroit, Michigan. The image was most likely captured by a photographer standing on the roof of a streetcar.

I contacted Major League Baseball (mlb.com) and then sent my research and photo. MLB used this photo in one of their online articles.


RESEARCH PROCESS
The handwritten date on the face of the photograph (poor penmanship), which was misread as 1909, is actually 1908. I inverted the picture in Photoshop and used other filters to deduce that the last digit was eight (8), not nine (9).

Moreover, on that date and time in Chicago's history, nothing else would bring such a crowd (today, called a flash mob) out in the streets of downtown Chicago, bringing traffic to a standstill. News traveled at lightning-fast speed via telegraph, telephone (by 1908, the total telephones in Chicago proper had increased to 140,000, primarily businesses), and by word of mouth.

Copyright © 2016  Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D. All rights reserved.

The O'Leary's, their cow, and the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

Before we begin discussing the Great Chicago Fire, let's talk about the summer of 1871, which marked a fourteen-week drought; the fire department was taxed dailyThe wood-constructed Chicago was a dry tinder box. 

The devastating "Burlington Warehouse Fire" occurred on September 30, 1871. Twenty fires in one week, three on October 4, four on October 5, and five on October 6.

An alarm sounded sometime between ten and eleven o'clock on the night of October 7, the "Saturday Night Fire" for 209 South Canal Street. The entire area from Jackson, Adams, Clinton Street, and the River was ablaze within twenty minutes of the fire's discovery. Even though the firefighters were totally exhausted, they fought unceasingly, eventually preventing the fire from crossing Adams to the north. Too short of recovery time to put the apparatus back in service and insufficient rest left the firefighters thoroughly spent for what they were to encounter in just a few hours, the Great Chicago Fire. 

On October 8, 1871, Chicago endured one of the worst urban fires in American history. Maximizing tinder-dry conditions, a gale-force wind turned a small fire into a huge disaster. Almost four square miles of the city were destroyed. Approximately 300 people died, and the entire business district was wiped out.

Chicago had come a long way since Jean Baptiste Pointe de Sable, the first settled near Lake Michigan on the Guarie River in 1788. He built a house closer to the lake and sold it to John Kinzie

Chicago prospered from a small settlement of local Indians who called this place Chicagoua 
into a major transportation center (40 years later).

As the Civil War (1861-1865) neared its end, Chicago was "the metropolis of the northwest." By 1868, little was stopping the city's growth. The three branches of the Chicago River formed a kind of boundary for the town. The south branch divided the rural part of south Chicago (where the O'Leary family lived) from the urban part.

In 1871, Chicago had over 330,000 inhabitants. Its fire department and equipment were "modern" for the time, but the city employed only 185 fire-fighting personnel. On the night of October 7, before the big fire on the 8th, a fire broke out at Lull & Holmes Planing Mill at what is now 209 South Canal Street. Some of the city's equipment was damaged while the already overworked, understaffed fire-fighting crews were battling that blaze.
The Front of the O'Leary House at 137 DeKoven Street, Chicago, Illinois.
Patrick and Catherine O'Leary lived with their five children in the rear of this house at 137 DeKoven Street, Chicago. 
It's generally acknowledged that the fire started in the O'Leary barn, but no one is sure how it started. There is the belief that Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicked over a lit lantern. But there is no proof of this claim.
Patrick and Catherine O'Leary lived with their five children in the rear of this house at 137 DeKoven Street (Today: 558 West DeKoven Street), Chicago. They rented out the front two rooms. They owned five cows, nameless, which grazed in the yard. This was common for near-westside Chicago dwellers - like the O'Learys - before the Great Fire of 1871. Owners relied on their living-within-the-city animals for fresh milk and eggs. They would either consume the products themselves or sell them to their neighbors. Both the above photographs, circa 1870, depict such a homestead within Chicago's city limits.

Daniel ("Peg Leg") Sullivan first saw the flames coming, he said, from the O'Leary barn. Yet, when one considers Sullivan's line of sight to the barn (see illustration), it's doubtful he could even see the O'Leary property. Maybe he really wasn't where he said he was. Along those lines, a recent study blames Sullivan himself. Did he go to the O'Leary barn to feed his mother's cow that night? If so, did he smoke there and inadvertently start the fire? Historians have always considered the drought and an out-of-control brush fire as the likely cause. That was at least part of the official findings after concluding the investigation.

Cornelius "Pudgy" O'Leary (1858-Unknown) was the unnamed son of Patrick and Catherine O'Leary. Rumors claimed the Pudgy accidentally started the Chicago fire while playing cards in the barn, and no proof was ever verified.

Per the "Find-A-Grave" website, Catherine and Patrick O'Leary's children were:
  • Mary O'Leary Scully (1856–1885) 
  • Catherine T. O'Leary Ledwell (1867–1936)
  • James Patrick O'Leary (1870–1925)
  • Patrick O'Leary (1874–1913)
In 1880, he was a prisoner at the House of Correction in Chicago, Cook County, Illinois. Around 1883, Kate Snyder (also known as Kate Campbell) gave birth to a child that was said to have been fathered by Cornelius. The child died in infancy. On August 23. 1885 in Lake, Cook County, Illinois, Cornelius shot Kate Snyder and his sister Mary (O'Leary) Scully. Kate died, and Mary was taken to the County Hospital in Chicago, where she died on August 24, 1885. On September 22, 1885, Cornelius was captured in Kansas City. He was brought back to Chicago on September 27, 1885. He claimed not to know anything about the murder. On December 24, 1885, he pleaded guilty to the double murder. He was sentenced to forty years in prison, which could be reduced to twenty years on good behavior. He was taken to the penitentiary in Joliet, Illinois, on January 7, 1886. He was taken to an insane asylum on December 2, 1889. What happened to Pudgy after being moved to the asylum is unknown, as is where and when he died or where he was buried.

Ironically, O'Leary's house, located at 137 DeKoven Street, was spared from the fire.

Southeastern view of the O'Leary house. In the center of the block stands a small one-story tenement. On every side are ashes and cinders. Not a house or shed remains west, south or north of it, and half a dozen ash piles tell the passer-by where houses on the east of the solitary shanty stood. It is a past explanation that all the rest burnt, and that's all that remained.
Looking north from the back of the O'Leary house towards Taylor Street.
All that remains of O'Leary's famous barn is the debris in the forefront.
Whatever the cause, a combination of failures worked against Chicago that night. An elaborate fire alarm system - dependent on human input - failed. The alarm closest to the O'Leary farm (Box 295) was never rung. Firefighters near DeKoven Street learned about the fire when they saw it. All available men and equipment were fighting a losing battle on the south side. No one dreamed the fire would jump the River, and no one was there to combat the growing wall of flames when it did.

People were awakened by the fire. Many left their homes with shawls and blankets around them. People fleeing certain death spent the night among the cemetery dead - at Potter's Field, near Lincoln Park - close to the Lake Michigan shore. The Chicago Tribune was burned out of its building. Citizens, in a panic, tried to flee over the Randolph Street Bridge.

There was a heartbreaking loss of life as entire families could not escape. A hundred thousand people who had enjoyed an unseasonably warm and beautiful Sunday were homeless by Sunday night.

When the Chicago Fire started, Mary Todd Lincoln (widow of President Lincoln) was residing at her son Robert Lincoln's house on Wabash. Read what happened.

Fleeing people thought they'd be safe in Lake Michigan, and they weren't. Some never came out of the water. The intense heat from the burning buildings, even the flames from them, reached the water and even stretched out over it. The fleeing men, women, and children rushed into the lake till nothing but their heads appeared above the surface of the waters, but the fiery fiend was not satisfied. The hair was burned off the heads of many, while some never came out of the water alive. Many who stayed on the shore, where the space between the fire and water was a little more expansive, had the clothes burned off their backs.

The Meteorite Theory
Recently the idea of a disintegrating comet, with falling meteorite debris, has resurfaced as a possible cause, first suggested in 1883. A 58½ pound meteorite was allegedly found on the shore of Lake Huron. At the time of the fire, people said they saw burning material falling from the heavens. The fire burned approximately 1.2 million acres, with the number of deaths estimated between 1,500 and 2,500. No one took them seriously, of course. They were just hysterical people, weren't they? Yet the line of actual fires, drawn from the meteorite's Lake Huron location to Peshtigo, Wisconsin, and Chicago, Illinois, makes one wonder about the evidence. Or was it just a coincidence?

The 558 West DeKoven Street Address Years Later
558 W. DeKoven Street (was 137 DeKoven Street), Chicago. 1934
558 W. DeKoven Street (was 137 DeKoven Street), Chicago. 1949
The Chicago Police and Fire Academy now occupies the spot at 558 W. DeKoven Street (137 DeKoven Street) at the corner of South Jefferson Street, Chicago.
Absolved of Blame
Mrs. Catherine O'Leary and the cow were exonerated (but not Mr. Patrick O'Leary) from starting the 1871 Chicago Fire. The 
Resolution was signed by Richard M. Daley and the City Council on September 10, 1997.
sidebar 
St. James Cathedral at 65 E Huron St., Chicago, was gutted when the Great Chicago Fire erupted. Nothing was left but the stone walls, the Civil War Memorial, and the bell tower, whose bells rang for as long as possible, warning the neighborhood of the encroaching fire.
Surviving Structures
The following structures are the only structures from the burnt district that survived the Great Chicago Fire:
  • Mahlon D. Ogden Mansion on the north side of Whitney Street (Walton Street today) between Dearborn and Clark.Streets. Today, this property is the Newberry Library location.
  • Police Constable Bellinger's cottage at 21 Lincoln Place (2121 North Hudson, today).
  • St. Ignatius College Prep.
  • St. Michael's Church, 234 Hurl-but Street (1633 North Cleveland Avenue today), in Chicago's Old Town neighborhood.
  • Chicago Water Tower.
  • Chicago Avenue Pumping Station.
  • Two homes at 632 and 650 Hurl-but Street (2323 and 2339 North Cleveland Avenue today) are said to be survivors, but I'm having difficulty verifying these addresses.
False claims of structures that survived the burnt district of the fire: 
  • Even though Old St. Patrick's Church at 700 West Adams Street in Chicago, website's claims to be a survivor of the 1871 Chicago Fire, they were NOT in the burnt district. The Church was a few blocks farther west than the fire's reach. They also claim to be the oldest public building in the City of Chicago, but the Church was NOT owned by the City of Chicago or the State of Illinois. (Click the 'burnt district' link in the story)
This is a section of the map of the 1871 Great Chicago Fire burnt district (area in red). As you can see, Old St. Patrick's Church at Adams and Des Plaines is 1,775 feet or 1/3 mile WEST of the fire, which stopped on the east side of the Chicago River on Adams Street.



  • The Henry Brown Clarke House was built in 1836 at 1855 South Indiana Avenue in Chicago. The Chicago Fire started at O'Leary's Barn, 137 DeKoven Street (1100 South), and swept north and east to the lake. The Clarke House was left untouched because it was eight blocks south of where the fire reached. It was purchased in 1871 by John Chrimes, a prominent Chicago tailor, and he moved the house further south to 45th Street and Wabash Avenue into what was then the township of Hyde Park. In 1977, the City of Chicago purchased the house and moved it to its current home at 1827 South Indiana Avenue.
Additional Reading
Video
The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 - "YOU ARE THERE"
The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 - "YOU ARE THERE." This film, narrated by Walter Cronkite, takes you through the Great Chicago Fire as if it were a TV news broadcast. An excellent way to "experience" what it might have looked like on television and perhaps what it could have been like to live through the Great Chicago Fire.
Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.



[1] Jean Baptiste Pointe de Sable, the "du" of Pointe du Sable, is a misnomer. It is an American corruption of "de" as pronounced in French. "Jean Baptiste Pointe du Sable" first appears long after his death.

Why is Chicago's Catalpa Avenue between Western and Lincoln Avenues so wide?

The three-block stretch of Catalpa Avenue between Lincoln and Western Avenues was part of a citywide program to widen roads and open new ones in the 1920s, which was motivated by the growth in auto traffic. An ordinance to widen Chicago arterials was passed in 1926 and completed in 1928.
This part of Catalpa was designed to connect the newly widened Lincoln Avenue to the north and the freshly widened Western Avenue. Lincoln Avenue couldn't be widened south of Catalpa because Lincoln was already too heavily developed. So Catalpa Avenue was widened to provide a convenient place for traffic from the south on Western Avenue to cross over to the northern part of Lincoln Avenue, which is also part of US Highway 41. At the time, Highway 41 was the major thoroughfare into and out of the city from the north.
Much of Chicago north of Catalpa was undeveloped, so it was relatively easy to widen the streets there. Once the roads were widened and traffic increased, development began to spread. Of course, many arterials that were part of the widening project were in developed areas, which led to some odd building modifications. 

Parts of several buildings on Ashland Avenue were literally sliced off when this project got underway. One of the most dramatic examples is the massive Our Lady of Lourdes church on Ashland south of Lawrence. It was moved across the street, rotated to face Leland Avenue, cut in half, and then expanded by 30 feet.

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Chicago City Hall and Cook County Courthouse at LaSalle and Washington Streets with the County Wings just added in 1870.

Chicago City Hall and Cook County Courthouse at LaSalle and Washington Streets with the County Wings just added in 1870.
One of the urn-like finial capstones of the new wings was removed by a wealthy souvenir collector named Seth Wadhams. The capstone now is displayed in the southwest corner of Wilder Park in suburban Elmhurst, Illinois.

Compiled by Neil Gale, Ph.D.

The First Radio Station and the First Radio Broadcast in Chicago, Illinois.

The first radio station to broadcast in Illinois was KYW AM 560 kHz Chicago, beginning at 4:30 on the afternoon of November 11, 1921, a new broadcasting station went on the air with a program broadcast from the stage of the Chicago Civic Auditorium.

In November 1920, the Westinghouse Electric & Manufacturing Company established its first broadcasting station, KDKA, located in its plant at East Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in order to promote the sale of their radio receivers. This initial station proved successful, so in 1921 the company developed plans to set up additional stations in major population centers.

The station was first licensed on November 15, 1921 as Chicago's first broadcasting station, with the randomly assigned call letters of KYW. It was initially jointly operated by Westinghouse and Commonwealth Edison, with Westinghouse later taking over as sole operator. Through the financial support of Samuel Insull, and the cooperation of Mary Garden, director general of the Chicago Opera Company, KYW's initial broadcasts consisted of the opera company's entire six-day-a-week winter season schedule.

Ten microphones were installed across the Chicago Civic Auditorium stage, with equipment for switching between them as needed. After the close of the opera season, KYW installed a studio in the Commonwealth Edison building, and began producing additional programming. By fall of 1922 the station was operating for twelve hours a day.

In 1927, Westinghouse affiliated its four radio stations (KYW, KDKA in Pittsburgh, WBZ in Springfield, Massachusetts and WBZA in Boston) with the National Broadcasting Company's (NBC) NBC-Blue Network, which originated from station WJZ in New York City, which had been transferred from Westinghouse to the Radio Corporation of America (RCA) in 1923. Westinghouse had been a founding partner of RCA, NBC's original parent company.

In 1923, Westinghouse established a station, KFKX in Hastings, Nebraska, located near the center of the country. The station was designed to serve a dual purpose, of providing an agricultural service, and for testing the practicality of using shortwave transmitters to link together radio networks, with KFKX receiving much of its programming by shortwave from KDKA in Pittsburgh. In 1928 the project was abandoned, although it was announced that the KFKX programming was being consolidated with KYW, which resulted in the creation of the dual call letter assignment of KYW-KFKX. KFKX would be quietly dropped from the call sign in 1933.

The second  radio station was WLS (World's Largest Store [Sears]) AM 890 kHz, Chicago, which began broadcasting on April 12, 1924.

For more information about Chicago's roll in radio and radio unit production, see my article; "Chicago Radio Laboratory (CRL) [Zenith Radio Corporation] of Chicago, Illinois."




It All Began with an Oath and an Opera.
Behind the Scenes at Chicago's First Radio Broadcast.

The first words ever broadcast in Chicago, Illinois were, "My God, but it's dark in here!"
Mary Garden

They were spoken by Mary Garden (1874-1967), world-class soprano and director of the Chicago Grand Opera Association. They were uttered sixty-two years ago tonight on radio station KYW (AM) 560 kHz, licensed to the Westinghouse Manufacturing and Electric Company.

Ms. Garden said what she said because she couldn't see: the area where she was standing was lit by a single bare light bulb.

Ms. Garden and members of her company had been asked to participate in a test of KYW's transmitter, recently installed on the roof of the Commonwealth Edison Building at 72 West Adams.

A telephone line had been strung from the transmitter to a tent on the stage of the Auditorium Theater where rehearsals were in progress for the approaching opening night of the opera season (the tent had been pitched to deaden the echoes of the empty theater). Inside, a group of musicians and Ms. Garden had gathered around what they'd been told was a "microphone."

Ms. Garden had been asked to introduce the musicians, directing her voice into the microphone as she did so. Ms. Garden, following her initial stumbling, did as requested. Then Maestro Giorgio Polacco led the musicians through some orchestral selections from "Madama Butterfly." And soprano Edith Mason sang an aria or two.
AUDIO/VIDEO
"Annie-Laurie" by Mary Garden, 1928 - RUNTIME [2:48]
Thus broadcasting in Chicago was born. Sixty-two years before there was Don, Roma and Jim Shorts on the radio in Chicago there was opera. And nothing but opera. For when the season began on Monday, November 14th, KYW broadcast each and every performance. And nothing else.

The opera broadcasts were a collaboration between Westinghouse, which wanted to sell radio receivers, and Commonwealth Edison, which wanted to increase power consumption. Westinghouse provided the transmitter. Edison provided its roof (and later a room on the sixteenth floor for a studio).

To program nothing but opera today would be broadcast suicide. But in 1921 the effect was just the opposite. For there were wondrous things to be heard from the Auditorium stage. Like the dull thud of soprano Marguerite D'Alvarez falling flat on her face as she climbed a staircase in Act I of "Samson and Delilah." Or Serge Prokofiev conducting the world premier of his "The Love of Three Oranges."

At the beginning of the 1921 opera season, there were an estimated 1,300 radio receivers in the Chicago area. When the season ended ten weeks later, there were 20,000. Opera broadcasts sold them all. By mid-January of 1922, as KYW moved on to broader fare, Chicago was stricken by a broadcast craze.

As someone who is still caught up in this mania, I want to use this anniversary as an excuse to twiddle the dial to demonstrate that the wackiness that often characterizes broadcasting today was evident from the beginning.

Walter Wilson, known on the air as "Uncle Bob", was probably the beloved personalities of KYW's early days. From 6:35 to 7:00 each evening, "Uncle Bob" would read bedtime stories and sing children's songs. During the Christmas season, he would present Santa Claus live. Throughout the year he would exhort his young listeners to stray no further than the curb when they played outdoors.

"Uncle Bob" had a tremendous following among moppets who, today, would be begging their parents for the privilege of staying up until 9:30 to watch "Beavis and Butt-head."

One day "Uncle Bob" found on his desk a letter from the mother of a young listener. "Little Mary passed on this afternoon," the mother wrote. "Her last request was, 'Tell Uncle Bob to sing "Dream Daddy" so I can hear it up in heaven.' " "Uncle Bob" did his best to comply with the request on that evening's broadcast. But early on, the tears began to flow down his chubby cheeks. And well before he reached the final chorus, he lost it altogether. "Uncle Bob" apologized to his audience and signed off early.

Twenty-nine-year-old Harry M. Snodgrass was the most popular radio performer of 1924 (according to a magazine poll) even though he was behind bars, serving a term for attempted armed robbery.

Snodgrass's big break in broadcasting came shortly after he botched a holdup in Saint Louis and was sentenced to a three-year stretch at the Missouri State Prison in Jefferson City. When Snodgrass told prison officials he played piano, they assigned him to the prison band.

The ensemble included twenty-eight thugs convicted of crimes ranging from embezzlement to burglary to murder. They were variously serving terms that ranged from two years to life.

It was Snodgrass's good fortune that the prison band appeared regularly on WOS, a station licensed to the Missouri State Marketing Bureau. Every Monday night, guards would escort the members of the band from stir to WOS's studio located beneath the dome of the Missouri State Capitol. The band would tootle for an hour or so, much to the delight of listeners throughout North America.

WOS claimed an audience in all forty-eight states and as far afield as Hawaii, Alaska, Cuba, Mexico and Newfoundland. The prison band was its most listened-to feature. Telegrams would begin to pour in as soon as the band started playing, bearing messages like "Take the band out of jail! They ought to be in heaven" or "Buy the boys a box of cigars and send me the bill."

Snodgrass soon became the group's star performer. He was short of stature and sallow of complexion ("He doesn't look like a piano player," observed one journalist). But in the words of WOS announcer J. M. Witten who introduced him, Snodgrass was the "King of the Ivories."

Listeners loved Snodgrass. Especially the ladies. In addition to letters and telegrams, they sent him cigarettes, cookies, marriage offers---and large amounts of cash. Snodgrass accepted the smokes, the goodies, and the currency. But he turned down the proposals, for he was a married man with an eight-year-old son.

In time, Warden Sam Hill judged that radio had rehabilitated Harry Snodgrass. He cut Snodgrass's three-year sentence in half.

Snodgrass broadcast for the last time on WOS on January 14th, 1925. So many people wanted to witness his farewell appearance that WOS set up its microphone in the chamber normally occupied by the Missouri State General Assembly. The crowd numbered more than a thousand, including a number of Missouri state representatives who no doubt marveled that a small-time crook's fame had come to exceed their own.

Standing before the WOS microphone, Snodgrass thanked prison officials for making his stay comfortable and the folks in radio land for making it profitable. He promised to go straight and to avoid the "white lightening" which, he confessed, had played a role in his earlier downfall. His performance generated 3,700 telegrams.

Harry Snodgrass was sprung two days later. Warden Hill presented him with $3,587.33 in cash remitted by his many fans. Announcer J. M. Witten appeared and told the press he had quit his job as an announcer at WOS so that he might accompany Snodgrass on a vaudeville tour.

I have been unable to document the further career of Harry Snodgrass. But I can find no better example of the redemptive powers of broadcasting.

Now imagine that it's an early spring night in 1929 and that you're an observer in the Drake Hotel studio of WGN. Thirty-five musicians have just reached the midpoint of a peppy fox-trot of the day.

Suddenly, a secretary runs into the studio and hands a note to announcer Quin Ryan. Ryan scans the note, then quickly draws the index of his right hand across his throat. Band leader Harold Stokes silences his accordion in mid-arpeggio and signals the musicians to cease playing.

Ryan approaches the mike, hammers a brass gong, and announces, "Attention all squads! Drug Store held up at East 57th Street. Watch for three men in Buick!"

What you've just witnessed is an attempt by WGN and its Tribune parent to fight the rising tide of crime in Chicago and to gain some promotional mileage in the bargain. Here's how it was supposed to work:

In the immediate wake of the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre, the Tribune, at its own expense, installed radio receivers in all forty of the light-blue touring cars driven by members of the Detective Squad.

The detectives were instructed to listen to WGN─and only WGN throughout their shifts. When word of a crime, either in progress or recently completed, reached police headquarters, a dispatcher was instructed to telephone WGN and pass along whatever details were available to the announcer on duty. The announcer, in turn, would broadcast the information in the form of a bulletin, interrupting whatever program was in progress. The nearest squad car would hear the bulletin and rush to the crime scene---assuming its occupants were awake, listening to WGN, and not bound by prior and conflicting arrangements with the perpetrators.

WGN and the Tribune boasted that this experiment was a "success beyond expectation." And it clearly had significant entertainment potential ("Listen for the gong!" the WGN audience was advised.)

But reality did not keep pace with hype. While it's easy to imagine roving detectives listening attentively to WGN's prime-time offerings (which in early 1929 included musical variety shows and a weekly crime drama), it's much more difficult to envision them coping with WGN's daytime fare.

Try to picture a carload of hard-boiled dicks tooling around town listening to the "Mirro Cooking Class", the "Women's Club" broadcast, or the "Schulz Piano Lesson."

The triumphs of this 911 forerunner were few. The most extensively documented occurred on April 15th, 1929. During the final moments of the noon-time "Children's Story", the gong sounded. The announcer instructed a squad to high-tail it to 97th and Ewing where a band of gypsies had just robbed a filling station. One carload of detectives was actually listening. Within three minutes they encountered the gypsies at 67th and Cottage Grove. They nabbed them following a block-long chase.

No great investigative skill was involved in tracking down the culprits. The gypsies---perhaps because of ethnic pride, perhaps because of supreme stupidity─had dressed in a manner more appropriate to the finale of a Victor Herbert operetta than a two-bit heist. Anybody could have found them. But the Tribune nevertheless dispatched a photographer to police headquarters to get a shot for the next day's paper of the arresting officers, the perpetrators─and the radio (temporarily removed from the squad car) that made the pinch possible.

This noble experiment in scientific law enforcement was abandoned a few weeks later. WGN listeners were apparently finding the police flashes so intriguing that large crowds of gawkers were gathering at the designated crime scenes---often as not before the radio-dispatched detectives arrived.

Let's return to KYW's opera broadcasts of 1921. I wish I'd been around on the night of December 28th to listen to Mary Garden as "Salome" (it was her favorite role).

The performance caused an immediate scandal. Richard Strauss's score got high marks. But Oscar Wilde's libretto---which included homicide, suicide, strong hints of incest, and a bloody, necrophilic climax (not to mention the "Dance of the Seven Veils") was too much for most to take.

Tribune critic Edward Moore, who admitted he'd been left squirming by the performance, asked his readers to consider whether "sex abnormality" was an appropriate theme for art.

Sixty-two years later we can easily answer, "Of course!" For we know that libidinous aberrations are not only a commonplace staple of art but of broadcasting as well.

But Chicagoans in 1921 were not ready to buy into the premise that murder and dismemberment are the ultimate expressions of love

Following an immediate outcry, the opera board canceled a subsequent performance of "Salome" and scheduled a reprise of "Pelleas and Melisande" in its place.

This generated a new, equally juicy scandal. For Mary Garden judged that conductor Giorgio Polacco botched the performance. She called him to her apartment, told him he was a "rotten conductor" and then tried to punch him out. Maestro Polacco countered by throwing the score for the next performance at Ms. Garden's feet. "Lead your own orchestra," he screamed. "You won't sing with mine!"
The opera season thus concluded in disarray. And with a deficit of $800,000. Grand opera had become a soap opera. But, thanks to KYW's broadcasts, it had sold Chicago, and much of the nation, on a new communications medium.
Mary Garden's Time Magazine Cover,
Volume XVI, Issue № 24, December 15, 1930.
Mary Garden was the reigning queen at the Chicago Opera.

KYW, for better or worse, is long gone from Chicago. In 1934, its license was transferred to Philadelphia. And in Philadelphia, KYW remains. It's still owned by Westinghouse.

By Rich Samuels. Special to the Chicago Tribune. November 08, 1993 
Edited by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.