Mechem explained in a gloss that the learned Spaniard here referred to the buffaloes which then roamed the Kansas steppes. He adorned his brochure with beautiful drawings of the jayhawk, one of them by Frank Miller of the Kansas City Star. His labors lifted the bird at one stroke to the level of the guyascutus, the lunkus, the cutercuss, the lufferlang, the flitterbick, the billdad, the club-tailed glytodont, the wiffle-poofle and other such fauna of the Great Plains,2 and greatly increased the pride taken in it by loyal Kansans.3
Kentucky has been the Blue Grass State since the Civil War era, and is the heir to a much larger Blue Grass region that once included Tennessee and even extended into Ohio, Indiana, Virginia and Pennsylvania. Bartlett, in the second edition of his “Dictionary of Americanisms,” 1859, described this area as “the rich limestone land of Kentucky and Tennessee,” and Schele de Vere, in 1872,4 added Pennsylvania. The DAE’s first example of Blue Grass State as applied specifically to Kentucky comes from John S. Farmer’s “Americanisms Old and New,” 1889, but it is probably considerably older, though Schele de Vere omitted it from his list of accepted designations for the State. In place of it he gave Bear State, which has been disputed by Arkansas, and Corncracker State, the cracker part of which has been collared by Georgia. In the years immediately following the Revolution Kentucky was often called the Dark and Bloody Ground, which was supposed to be a translation of the Indian phrase from which its name was derived. That name, at the start, was variously spelled Kentuck, Kentucke, Kaintuck and even Caintuck, and after the War of 1812 Old was often prefixed to it. Dark and Bloody Ground alluded, not to battles between Indians and the first white settlers, but to contests between Northern and Southern tribes of Indians, but by 1839, as the DAE shows, it had come to be accepted as a reference to “the slaughter of white pioneers.” Kentucky has also been called the Hemp State, the Rock-ribbed State and the Tobacco State, but without much frequency. The first of these was applied to it, not because of the activity of its busy and accomplished hangmen, but because it produced large crops of hemp. It is rather surprising that the State has acquired no appellation calling up the speed of its race-horses, the traditional beauty of its women, or its Bourbon whiskey. The DAE’s first example of Bourbon whiskey is dated 1850, but the example given shows that the name was already preceded by good old.
Pelican State for Louisiana goes back to 1859, and seems destined to outlive all rivals, for the World Almanac now lists it without an alternate. The pelican has appeared on the seal of the State since before the Civil War, and a committee of the State Convention of 1861, appointed to prepare a new State flag and seal, resolved to keep it there on the ground that it had “long been the cherished emblem of Louisiana.” The pelican was chosen originally because it is plentiful along the Gulf coast of the State. Schele de Vere, in 1872, listed Creole State as an alternative nickname for Louisiana, and explained that it had arisen “on account of the large number of its inhabitants who are descendants of the original French and Spanish settlers.” This designation was borne proudly so long as it was generally understood that a Creole was a Caucasian,1 but when ignorant Northerners began assuming that the term connoted African blood it passed out of favor. The DAE traces it to 1792, and shows that it began to be applied especially to the people of New Orleans by 1807. Shankle says that Louisiana was once called the Sugar State, and Charles J. Lovell traces the nickname to 1855, but the DAE does not list it. It appeared as the French State in the Hon. Amelia M. Murray’s “Letters From the United States, Cuba, and Canada” in 1856, but that designation has also vanished.
Maine is the Pine Tree State, and a pine tree appears upon its seal. The DAE’s first example of the use of the term is from Harper’s Magazine for March, 1860, but it appears in Bartlett’s second edition of 1859, and must be older. On the Brother Jonathan list of 1843 Maine is called the Lumber State, which is not listed at all by the DAE. Shankle also lists Border State, Polar Star State, Old Dirigo and Switzerland of America. The first seems to have gone out when the States bordering on slave territory began to be called Border States (traced by the DAE to 1849), and the last is disputed, as we have seen, by Colorado, New Hampshire, New Jersey and West Virginia. Dirigo is taken from the motto on the State seal, a Latin word signifying “I direct, or guide.” This motto long antedated the saying, “As Maine goes, so goes the country,” which was first heard in the national campaign of 1888 and is now obsolete. Otherwise, Maine has led the country on but one occasion – when, in 1858, it passed a Prohibition law which paved the way for the Eighteenth Amendment of 1919. There is a single star on the State seal, but that it is Polaris, the pole star, is not in evidence.
Michigan is the Wolverine State in the World Almanac, but it has also been called the Lady of the Lakes, the Lake State and, in recent years, the Auto State. Wolverine State is traced by the DAE to 1846, when it appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine. Schele de Vere said in 1872 that it was suggested by “the number of wolverines (literally, little wolves) which used to abound in the peninsula, and gave the inhabitants their name of Wolverines, by which they are still generally known.” The DAE’s first example of Wolverine is dated 1835. It appears also in the Brother Jonathan list of 1843. A writer in the Detroit Free Press,1 quoted by Shankle, calls it the impromptu invention of a young girl of 1800, based on the jocosity of a tavern-keeper named Conrad Tan Eyck. Tan Eyck was in the habit of telling his guests that any meat they had eaten in his house was a wolf steak, and when he launched his waggery on the girl she replied: “Then I suppose I am a wolverine.” But wolverine was not actually new in 1800, for it had been in use since the early Eighteenth Century to describe a small mammal of the marten family, plentiful in all the Northern woods. John Gyles, in his “Memoirs of Odd Adventures, Strange Deliverances, &c,” published in 1736, described it as “a very fierce and mischievous creature, about the bigness of a middling dog,” and Dr. Robert W. Hegner, in his “College Zoölogy,”2 says that it is so greedy and so enterprising that it steals bait from traps, and even makes off with the traps themselves.3 Why the name of this voracious creature should have been given to the people of Michigan is still a matter of speculation. In American Notes & Queries for March, 1944,1 a Michigander named M. M. Quaife pointed out that the early fur-trade inventories offer no evidence that “the wolverine ever lived or was trapped in our Michigan southern peninsula,” and that during the 30s of the last century, when the people of the State became Wolverines, the State still had no northern peninsula. Nevertheless, the nickname was already current at that time, for in “A Winter in the West,” published in 1835, Charles Fenno Hoffman told of meeting a typical Wolverine at “Prairie Ronde, Kalamazoo Co., M.T.” This specimen he described as “a sturdy yeoman-like fellow whose white capot, Indian mocassins and red sash proclaimed, while he boasted a three years’ residence, the genuine Wolverine, or naturalized Michiganian.”2 Lake State for Michigan early collided with Lake States, which began to be applied generally to all the States bordering upon the Great Lakes so early as 1845.
Minnesota chooses to be called the North Star State, and has the motto, L’Étoile du Nord, on its seal. Schele de Vere, in 1872, listed it as the New England of the West, and before that it had been the Gopher State and the Beaver State. But Gopher State was also claimed, c. 1845, by Arkansas, and Beaver State was claimed, at various times, by other States, e.g., Oregon. Shankle quotes Charles E. Flandrau, author of “The History of Minnesota and Tales of the Frontier,”3 to the effect that the advocates of Gopher State and those of Beaver State fought it out bitterly in the 50s, and that the latter won. But Gopher State survived and the people of Minnesota are still called Gophers. Shankle also lists Bread Basket of the Nation, the Bread and Butter State, the Cream Pitcher of the Nation, the Playground of the Nation and the Wheat State, but all of these reflect the passion of boosters rather than vox populi.
Schele de Vere, in 1872, reported that Mississippi was the Mudcat State, after “a large catfish abounding in the swamps and the
mud of the rivers,” and this designation was listed by the Encyclopedia Americana so late as 1932, but it seems to be obsolescent. The nickname of choice is now Magnolia State. It has rivals, according to Shankle, in Bayou State, Eagle State, Border-eagle State, Ground-hog State and Mud-waddler State. Bayou State is listed by the New International Encyclopedia, and was included in the World Almanac list in 1922, along with Eagle State, but both seem to be passing out. The DAE traces Bayou State to 1867, but overlooks Eagle State. The latter is said to have been suggested, like Border-eagle State (traced by Lovell to 1846), by the fact that there is an eagle on the State seal. But there are also eagles on the seals of Alabama, Florida, Illinois, Iowa, Maryland, Michigan, New York, Oregon and Pennsylvania.
Missouri, which in former days was the Iron Mountain State, the Bullion State, the Lead State, the Ozark State, the Puke State and the Pennsylvania of the West,1 but now it is known universally as the Show Me State. The origin of this designation is not yet established, but it seems to have been given nation-wide currency by a speech made by Willard D. Vandiver, then a congressman from Missouri, in Philadelphia in 1899 or thereabout.2 The occasion was a dinner of the Five O’Clock Club. Vandiver, who, as a member of the Naval Affairs Committee of the House of Representatives, was in Philadelphia on public business, had not expected to be invited, and had thus brought no dress clothes. Neither had another impromptu guest, Congressman John A. T. Hull, of Iowa. They decided to go in their ordinary clothes, but at the last minute Hull somewhere found a dress-suit, and thereby greatly embarrassed Vandiver, who was the only diner without one. When the time came for speeches Hull delivered an eloquent eulogy of Philadelphia, and the toastmaster then called upon Vandiver. Let him now tell his own story:
I started with no serious thought,… but determined to get even with Hull in a good-natured way. I made a rough-and-tumble speech, saying the meanest things I could think of about the old Quaker town … in the worst style I could command; and then, turning to Hull, followed up with a roast something like this:
“His talk about your hospitality is all bunk; he wants another feed. He tells you that the tailors, finding he was here without a dress suit, made one for him in fifteen minutes. I have a different explanation: you heard him say he came here without one, and you see him now with one that doesn’t fit him. The explanation is that he stole mine, and that’s why you see him with one on and me without any. This story from Iowa doesn’t go with me. I’m from Missouri, and you’ll have to show me.
It will be noted that Vandiver did not claim the invention of the phrase; all he apparently intended to suggest was that his apt use of it before an Eastern audience served to spread it. It was further spread by its frequent use during the presidential campaign of 1912, when Champ Clark of Missouri was one of the candidates for the Democratic nomination. But its origin plainly goes beyond Clark and Vandiver; indeed, there are Missouri antiquarians who seek to run it back to pioneer days. A number of the etymologies that have been suggested were recorded in 1941 in an article by Paul I. Wellman, published in the Kansas City Times.1 The first was given as follows:
Claim was once made by General Emmett Newton, of Missouri, to having originated the phrase at Denver in 1892, when he was attending a convention of Knights Templars with his father. Newton, then a boy, was collecting badges, and a man smiled at him and said: “I have a better collection than you, I’ll bet.” Newton instantly replied: “I’m from Missouri. You’ll have to show me.”
Another:
Dr. Walter B. Stevens, author of “A Centennial History of Missouri,”2 cites an incident in the Civil War when an officer of a Northern army fell upon a body of Confederate troops commanded by a Missourian. The Northerner demanded a surrender, saying he had so many thousand men in his command. The Confederate commander, game to the core, said he didn’t believe the Northerner’s boast of numerical superiority, and appended the now famous expression, “I’m from Missouri; you’ll have to show me,” to his note refusing to surrender.
Yet another:
W. M. Ledbetter, a former reporter of the Kansas City Times, said he heard the phrase first in Denver, during the mining excitement. At that time he was in a hotel where there was a green bell-hop. The clerk called to one of the more experienced boys, and said: “He’s from Missouri; you’ll have to show him.”
Mr. Ledbetter said he frequently heard the phrase used in the mining towns, particularly Leadville. There were many Joplin miners there, and they, experienced in lead mining, did not know the methods used in silver mining. The pit bosses were constantly saying: “That man is from Missouri; you’ll have to show him.”
The last etymology was confirmed by Joseph P. Gazzam, an old mining man, in a letter to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch on July 14, 1941. He said:
I was superintendent of the Small Hopes Consolidated Mining Co., at Leadville, Colo., in 1896. “Big Bill” Haywood, Moyer and Pettibone of Butte came to Leadville with a number of gunmen and shut down the mines in the early Summer.
We had a sufficient number of native-born Americans, whom the Butte gunmen let severely alone, to keep the mines dry and in condition. We tried to arbitrate, but without success. In September, the owners decided they must either “pull the pumps” and let the mines drown or import labor from the outside.
S. W. Mudd, general manager of the Small Hopes, told me their plans. I suggested that, if they decided to import labor, they bring in miners from the Joplin, Mo., district, as they were native-born Americans and would not be intimidated. My suggestion was accepted and plans were made to bring in the miners. Operations were started on the Coronado, a downtown mine, and the Emmet and R.A.M. shafts of the Small Hopes.
“Big Bill,” however, decided to block this plan by destroying the mines before the Missourians came in.
About 2 A.M., September 21, the Coronado was attacked and the mine set on fire. The defenders put up a stiff fight, but their position was untenable. They then came out to the Emmet, but we had a tenable position and the attackers were defeated.
The Missourians arrived in a few days and as the Coronado had been destroyed, they were all sent out to the Emmet and the R.A.M.
I distributed them among the old miners, who were told that the Missourians did not understand our system of mining and would have to be shown our methods of operation. So it became a common saying in Leadville: “He is a Missourian and will have to be shown.”1
Wellman says, on the authority of Vandiver, that Herbert S. Hadley, while Governor of Missouri (1909–13) “tried to have the expression supplanted, believing it uncomplimentary” and “even offered $500 for the best substitute,” but if this is true he seems to have stood alone, for Missourians in general have always been proud of it. Said Norman J. Colman, a farm-paper editor who became the first Secretary of Agriculture in 1889:1
These fewer than half-score of simple Anglo-Saxon words contain a correct estimate of Missouri character. It is true that we are not a people who will accept as truth statements of moment which the maker should be able to demonstrate as fact.
Show me, adds Wellman complacently, “is the watchword of a canny people.” Perhaps one reason why Missourians are fond of Show-Me State is that it has mercifully obliterated Puke State, which seems to have prevailed for many years. The origin of Puke to designate a Missourian is not known. It appears in the Brother Jonathan list of 1843, and is traced by the DAE to 1835. A humane theory, apparently favored in the State, is that it is simply a misprint for Pike, the name of a Missouri county bordering on the Mississippi, the county-seat of which is Bowling Green, the home of Champ Clark. In nearby Marion county is Hannibal, where Mark Twain spent his boyhood and which he later immortalized in “Huckleberry Finn.” There is another Pike county across the river in Illinois, and in the early days the two were grouped together as the habitat of a singularly backward type of yokel. In 1849 a good many such yokels flocked to California, and there they were known as Pike countyans, a term which gradually came to embrace any new
comer of rustic aspect, whatever his origin.2 But Missourians were called Pukes some time before this, and it is not easy to believe that the term began as a corruption of Pike.3 Bullion State is traced by the DAE to 1848, and is thought to have been suggested by Old Bullion, the sobriquet of Thomas Hart Benton (1782–1858), Senator from Missouri from 1821 to 1855 and a conspicuous advocate of a metallic currency.
Montana, in its earlier days, was the Bonanza State and the Stubtoe State, the first referring to its mineral riches and the second to its precipitous slopes, but it is now, because of its mining and smelting industry, the Treasure State.1 Nebraska was listed by the World Almanac, in 1922, as the Antelope State and the Black Water State, but is, by formal act of its Legislature, the Tree Planters State. This designation was adopted by a resolution approved by the Governor on April 4, 1895. The resolution explained that the nicknames before prevailing were “not in harmony” with the State’s “history, industry, or ambition.”2 The New International Encyclopedia made it the Blackwater State in 1916, “from the dark color of its rivers,” with Tree Planter State (in the singular) as an alternative. Shankle adds Bug-eating State and Corn Huskers’ State. The DAE lists none of these save Tree Planters State, but notes that Bugeater, as a nickname for a Nebraskan, goes back to 1872, and quotes American Notes & Queries, 1888, to the effect that it was used derisively “by travelers on account of the poverty-stricken appearance of many parts of the State.” Nebraska, like Kansas, has suffered frequently from the more murderous and fantastic acts of God, and has produced a long line of statesmen pledged to prevent them by legislation, headed by William Jennings Bryan. Bug-eating State, according to Shankle, does not imply any hint that the human inhabitants ever ate bugs, but simply that they were the favored diet of a local bat, Caprimulgus europeus. Cornhuskers was at first applied to the University of Nebraska football eleven, and was only later extended to the State and its general population.
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