[People’s Press, 26 June 1900]
This community was startled and shocked this (Tuesday) morning by the totally unlooked for news of the death of Col. Buchner of this town.
Wm. Buchner was a native of the township of Crowland, son of late S. W. Buchner. He was a prominent Conservative, having twice been the candidate of that party for the Local Legislature.
Later he was a contractor for harbor work at Port Colborne, after that collector of customs at Fort Erie, and latterly has followed the insurance business. He leaves a widow, daughter of late George Brooks of St. Johns, and several children. He was a life-long member of the Methodist church.
He filled the position of reeve of his native township, Crowland, and that of warden of the county for a term.
His death, which occurred about 6 o’clock this morning, was caused by angina pectoris, and was terrible sudden. He was as well as usual last night, and it was not known that anything was wrong until about 6 this morning. Doctors were at once sent for, but he died a few minutes later.
Funeral arrangements are not made as we close for press.
The bereaved ones have the great sympathy of all in their sudden and terrible bereavement.
(Saturday Globe)
[Welland Tribune, 19 October 1900]
On Wednesday, Sept. 26, 1900, there passed away, in the person of Peter Beckett, one of Pelham’s eldest and most honored citizens.
Born at Effingham, North Pelham, November 16, 1817, of Quaker parentage, he grew to manhood under the best of home influences. He married, Elizabeth, daughter of Rev. Leonard Haney, who survives him. He has also left a large family: W.H. Beckett, Wainfleet; P.W. Beckett of Pelham; B.H. Beckett of Pelham; S.L. Beckett of 522 Ontario street, Toronto; Mrs. W. VanWyck of Wainfleet; Mrs. W.L. Brown of Church street, Toronto; and Mrs. J.M. Whyte of Toronto.
The war of 1837 found him prepared to waive the traditions of his fathers, a no light matter, joining the militia in defence of his country. Appointed Ensign under Lord Elgin, in 1846, he was made Captain of Welland Militia in 1856, being specially commended for loyalty by Governor Sir Edmund Head. His sword, now in possession of a member of his family, has been used in the war of 1812, at Queenston Heights and Lundy’s Lane, by his friend, Captain Park.
But it was in the acts of peace not of war that Peter Beckett put forth his best efforts. A staunch Liberal and a subscriber to the Globe since the origin, Mr. Beckett had been an active factor in the rolling- up of the old-time Liberal majorities of 300 in the banner township of Pelham. Sir James Edgar, when contesting Monck, was his guest, and named his son Pelham as a tribute to the work and worth of Mr. Beckett. He has filled to credit to himself and great gain to the municipality the offices of Councillor, Deputy-Reeve and Reeve in Pelham. As Justice of the Peace, his rulings were marked with firmness and moderation, yet his influence as Justice of the Peace was less than his power as Peter Beckett, whose word was a bond, and whose life work is partially evidenced in the deservedly high name Pelham holds today morally, educationally and industrially. In religion Beckett was a consistent Methodist, holding his connection with the Fenwick Methodist church, and passed away to his rest full of days and with a record of a well-spent Christian life.
[People’s Press October 23, 1900]
Stowed here, with old treasures and dresses,
Queer bonnets, gay ribbons and lace,
The rose that once decked her dark tresses,
The picture of her winsome face,
I found—queerly fashioned with buckle and bow,
With jewels to sparkle and glance–
The quaint little shoes that Grandmother wore
The night that she learned to dance.
Oh! Gay was my Grandmother, surely.
That night, as her feet flew along
In time to the orchestra’s music,
Her heart keeping time with a song;
Oh! Trim was her form and light were her feet,
And proud of her shoes was she,
The vain little girl, dancing at her first ball,
–Grandmother, that was to be.
Like stars were her eyes in the lamplight,
And full were her lips, rich and red,
She looked like a bird in the sunshine,
As through the gay measures she sped;
I wish I could see her, as that night she looked,
Some power would the gift to me give,
For the old people say that when she was young
My Grandmother looked like me.
Quaint shoes. I will aye keep them sacred,
My Grandmother’s feet are but dust;
No music will rouse them to dancing,
She sleeps the sweet sleep of the just.
But still—as a vision—I see gliding by,
A figure in gossamer dressed,
It fades—I recall that with slim feet unshod
My Grandmother lies at rest.
[People’s Press October 23. 1900]
All the summer, early and late,
And in the autumn drear,
A maiden stood at the orchard gate
And waved at the engineer.
He liked to look at her face so dear,
And her homely country dress;
She liked to look at the man up there
At the front of the fast express.
There’s only a flash of the maiden’s eye,
As the engine rocks and reels,
And then she hears in the distance die
The clinkety, clink of wheels,
Clinkety, clink; so far apart
That nothing she can hear
Save the clink of her happy heart
To the heart of the engineer
Over the river and down the dell,
Beside the running stream,
She hears the sound of the engine bell
And the whistle’s mad’ning scream,
Clinkety clink; there’s an open switch,
Kind angels, hide her eyes!
Clinkety, clink; they’re in the ditch,
Oh, hear the moans and cries!
Clinkety, clink and down the track
The train will dash today,
But what are the ribbons of white and black,
The engine wears away?
Clinkety, clink, Oh, worlds apart,
The fireman hangs his head;
There is no clink in the maiden’s heart–
The engineer is dead.
Cy Warman in New York Sun.
Ella Higginson in Woman’s Home Companion
[Welland Telegraph April 1900]
Long had we pleasant comrades been
And loved each other well,
Yet never had a traitor glance
The secret dared to tell.
And when that first sweet night we stood–
That rose sweet night in June–
Alone and watched the herald clouds
Outride the languid moon.
Yes, even then we did not guess,
But stood entranced, apart,
Until the silence suddenly
Beat with God’s mighty heart.
And then—we know not how it was–
We trembled, each to each,
And kissed, **** and all our pulses thrilled
Too holily for speech.
When you see a man in woe,
Walk right up and say “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do!
How’s the world a-usin’ you?
Slap the fellow on the back;
Bring your hand down with a whack.
Walk right up and don’t go slow—
Grin an’ shake, an say “Hullo!”
Is he clothed in rags? Oh sho;
Walk right up and say “Hullo!”
Rags is but a cotton roll.
Jest fer wrappin’ up a soul;
An’ a soul is worth a true.
Hale and hearty “How d’ye do!”
Don’t wait for the crowd to go.
Walk right up an say “Hullo!”
When big vessels meet, they say
They saloot and sail away.
Jest the same are you an’ me,
Lonesome ships upon a sea;
Each one sailin’ his own log,
For a port behind the fog.
Let your speakin’-trumpet blow,
Lift your horn and crey “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?”
Other folks are good as you.
W’en you leave your house of clay,
Wanderin’ in the far away’
W’en you travel through the strange
Country t’other side the range,
Then the souls you’ve cheered’ll know
Who you be, and say “Hullo!”
S.W. Foss
[Welland Telegraph October 1900]
When fortune treats you slightingly
And everything goes wrong,
Remember that you still are free
To labor and be strong.
To him who bravely does his part
Misfortune is no crime;
Just hold your grip and keep up heart
And learn to bide your time.
The surest road to greatness lies
Through hard and patient work;
The glorious name that never dies
Comes not unto the shirk.
Fame sits upon an eminence,
A pinnacle sublime;
He who would win must seek her thence,
Strive on and bide his time.
The man of hope and energy
Who keeps one goal in sight,
Who goes his way with constancy,
Will some time win the fight
The man whose life a glory lends
To every age and clime
Is he whose purpose never bends,
Who works and bides his time.
Go onward. O’er the future’s hills
The dawn falls cool and sweet.
Go onward. He can win who wills
And bows not to defeat,
Go onward, though your path may lie
The way will brighten by and by.
Go on and bide your time.
And when the fight at last is o’er,
The toil at last is done;
When standing on life’s farther shore,
Beneath her setting sun;
Beyond the future’s unbarred gate
The bells of heaven chime,
And justice, love and glory wait
For him who bides his time.
Denver News
[Welland Telegraph 1900]
O. it’s joy to be up in the morning when
The dew is yet on the clover,
And the air is full of a sweetness that
Makes it a draught divine
To mount one’s wheel and go flying away
And away , a rover
In a wide, bright world of beauty; and
All that world is mine!
There’s a breath of balm on the breezes,
A scent of the wayside roses,
A hint of the incense-odors that blow
Through the hillside pines;
And ever a shifting landscape that some
New, bright charm discloses,
As I flash from nooks of shadows to
Plains where the sunlight shines.
I sing in my care free gladness; I am
Kin to the world that’s blowing;
I am thrilled with the bliss of motion
Like the bird that skims the down;
I feel the blood of a gipsy in my pulses
Coming, going!
Give me my wheel for a comrade, and
The king may keep his crown!
[Welland Telegraph May 1900]
My pa’s the sweetest, dearest pa.
‘At lives ‘ist anywhere;
When Mary tucks me n at night
He hollers from the stair,–
“Oh where’s pa’s onliest little girl?
She’s lost here somewhere round!”
An’ ‘en I cover up my head
An’ ‘tend I’m sleepin’ sound.
An’’en he hunts all round the room
Until he finds me there,
An’ growls an’ laughs, an’ tickles me
An’ I ‘ist grab his hair.
An’ tell him take me on his lap
Or else I won’t leg go.
An’ ‘nen ma says “She’ll catch a cold!”
But pa, he says, “Shaw. No!”
He tells me “pigs to market.”
How little calves go “Moo”
An‘ rides me on his foot awhile—
An’ I fall off. I do
Sometimes I play I’m gone and hid
Behind the big armchair.
And daresn’t peak because my pa
Is turned into a bear!
But bear don’t ever scratch my face
Nor catch and eat me raw.
‘Cause when I’m scared and holler cut
Bear turns back into pa
An’ last night when the rain came
So hard it most came froo,
Pa said, ‘Ist hear it smack the roof,
But it can’t get to you!
An’ ‘nen me listened’ ist as still!
An’ ‘nen first think I know
It’s mornin, an’ I’ve been to sleep,
Like all good childrens go.
Marion Short
[Welland Telegraph November 1900]
“When the frost is on the pumpkin
And the corn is in the shock”
When folks attend the autumn Fairs
And walk around and talk;
When coal and wood and winter
Clothes our scanty purpose mock.
Then the frost is in our pocketbooks
And daddy’s in the shock.
The melancholy days have come, we couldn’t stand ‘em off
When everyone’s affected with a snuffle or a cough;
The winds are getting colder and everything is dear.
The melancholy days have come—
Confound ‘em-they are here!
[Assumed 1900]
Subscribe..
