Taken from the pages of the Warren and Barrington Gazette this week in April 1913:
Skeleton at Burr’s Hill
With its eyeless sockets upturned to the skies, with a few scattered wisps of what once was hair, clinging to the yellow bone, it lay upon the bank, whither it had been tossed by the shovel of some laborer toiling to fill the waiting cart with gravel. About it were scattered yet other reminders of the human form that once inhabited that house of bone. A few arrow heads, what once was a chieftain’s spear, the corroded remnants of a copper kettle or dish. The neck and nose and other portions of a queer shaped bottle, that whispered of other lands, a handful of vari-colored peage or wampum, that once served as neckless or armlets. All mute but forceful reminders of passing time, the uncertainty of life, the glory and freedom of that race that once roamed these fields and pastures; that launched the frail canoe, and with strong arm sent it coursing through yonder waters; that with singing bow and swift flying dart brought down the bird, the deer, the sly fox and the growling bear in surrounding forest. And now sightless, without hearing, tongueless, the home that sheltered a brave, a fearless, a guileless Indian, is tossed upon a sand pile. Naught save a skull and a few trinkets to mark what once was a noble man, who coursed the paths of the woodlands, slept with only the stars and clouds to cover him, and after a life of happy freedom, slept with his fathers, buried deep in the sands by the sea shore, only to be disturbed in his quiet rest by the ruthless hand that sought his shroud of the centuries, to make the highway more passable for busy men. And so the silence and the peace, and the quiet sleep are violated, the tools of men break through the rainy winding sheet and toss the last remnant of a human body out upon the hillside to the bleaching sun, the pelting rains, the driving winds. Naught but a skull. To scoop, to pick it up, to hold it in one’s hands, and think. Long years ago before the white man came, he lived. Long years ago ‘ere man had harnessed the fire and the lightnings to his chariots, he struck his first flint and built his fire and stood awe stricken at the ether’s marvelous play in flashings and thunderings. And here were his primitive weapons, the arrow head and spear, to be compared with repeating rifles, his tools of homely need as beside those used by busy housewife now; and here his simple coin, the shells we crush beneath our feet, while we fondle the precious gold and silver which he never saw. Like the grave digger in Hamlet, we fondle that yellow bone, exclaiming “Alas poor Lo.” Why may not that be the skull of an Indian? Where be his pains and passions now, his courage for the chase, his unrelenting hate when foiled or wronged? At our feet the few simple possessions of his life. Whereabouts the inhabitant of these yellow rounded plates called skull sans eyes, sans nose, sans teach, sans everything save contour that stamps it the head of man, where the spirit that dwelt within? To the happy hunting grounds, to the Great Maniton hath it flown and there dwelt while the clay rotted in the earth. Naught but a skull, an Indian skull, and we peer within those great holes where once were eyes, thinking perhaps to see engraven upon the walls within the picture and the vision of that which he once saw, when in company with scores of his companions, he wandered up and down by the blue waters of the pleasant river; travelled on these green acres, or in some woody lair waited the flight of ducks, or watched the coming of the deer. Naught but a skull, a house not made by hands. Bury it reverently again in some new resting place where it can finish its long sleep, or till the hand of busy man, after other centuries again encroaches upon its slumbers brings it once more to light, and holding it, wonders, who lived within as we have wondered and mediated upon the one turned up by the shovel, from the Burr’s Hill sand pit last week. Who was it?
Drinking fountains a disgrace
We are glad to see that at last somebody has had the courage, or, if not that, the thoughtfulness to tackle the subject of public drinking fountains. The one at the North end at the junction of Main and Water streets long since went the way of those things that suffer neglect. The remaining ones are nothing less than a disgrace. They are shut off entirely during the winter months. The one on SOuth Main street distributes its supply of water from the basin to the gutter and there like Tennyson’s Brook. It goes on forever, sending a continuous stream down the hill, until it finds its own natural outlet. The sanitary condition of these iron troughs is questionable. There is never water enough to flush them out as they should be, another thing that might be remedied. The fountain on Main street at the corner of Miller has a single flickering gas light; the other has no light at all. They used to keep the stick to turn off the light and turn it on, hidden back of a neighboring fence. The drinking fountains in Warren for man and tired thirsty animals, who appreciate cooling water as much as man himself, are somewhat of a joke. Compared with some of the beautiful ones in other places, they are a travesty on a junk heap. “Good enough.” That’s the hue and cry if there should be any opportunity or move to replace them. Yet what an ornament, what a convenience, what a blessing, a handsome though not necessarily expensive, a drinking fountain would be.
About 4.30 o’clock Saturday afternoon Chief Walsh was called to the residence of John Polock on North Main street by neighbors, who complained that a bloody battle was on. It seems that Polock came home somewhat the worse from liquor and undertook his favorite occupation of beating his wife. Once before when complained of for using this method of correcting his better half, he was hauled before the court. At that time, he took a strap which had a big buckle on the end and thrashed her with it across her bared back and breast, until the flesh was almost jelly in places. Saturday afternoon, his brother in law, Pawel Cyzanwouski, was present, and no doubt recalling the wife’s previous experience, sought to interfere with the brute’s designs. To this and to any interference in his family affairs John took exception. Polock got a black eye, but Cyzanwouski fared much worse, John grabbed a bottle and hit him, the glass broke, and still he struck until finally a long gash was cut in his arm, severing the artery. Frightened and sobered by the sight of blood Polock ran out and hid in a neighboring cellar, and here the chief found him. Polock was arrested on a warrant charging assault. He was given a sentence of $15 and 15 days in jail and he deserved it. Polock’s ideas of conjugal felicity and home discipline will have to be readjusted to conform to more civil views and sane methods.