Forgotten News

by Jack Finney

  A forlorn hope: I didn't really expect to hear from anyone, but I did. One night a man, retired and living in Florida, sat reading my book. He turned a page, came upon the Leslie's woodcut, and sat looking at it in surprise, possibly in astonishment. He had seen the old woodcut innumerable times, for his mother was Ida Small, and she had the same Leslie's cover in a scrapbook she had kept of this most enormous event of her life.

  But the copy her son had seen so many times in his own long life was different from the one in my book on his lap. On her scrapbook copy his mother had drawn an indignant X in purple pencil through the bearded face; because, she told her family, there had been no such person at all.

  She hadn't been saved by any anonymous rescuer but by a real person, the fireman just behind the nonexistent bearded man on the ladder, John L. Rooney of Hook and Ladder No. 10, New York City Fire Department; and she was grateful, and remembered him for the rest of her life.

  What was the rest of that saved life? Her son, Charles Haight, told me: in a long detailed letter, with which he also sent me photocopies of some of the things in Ida Small's scrapbook. She was twenty-four years old when she was rescued, and she had another twenty-four to live.

  In the first of them, "… fireman Rooney was given a reception by friends of my mother's, on May 22nd, '83, at which time she presented him with a watch provided by funds" of $300 given by "friends and Ida Small. And friends presented her with a beautiful gold watch and chain for her fortitude. I have the chain now. My brother had the watch."

  She married Charles H. Haight a few years later, a widower with two small daughters whom she cared for as though they were her own, and who loved her as their mother. A son of her own was born in 1887, and the following year another, the man who wrote to me.

  And then, twelve years after her rescue, Fireman Rooney was killed in a loft fire on Twenty-sixth Street, and Ida Haight wrote this, keeping a copy in her scrapbook. "Yonkers, N.Y. Dec. 29th, 1894," it is dated.

  "Dear Friend "Rev. J. T. Wilds:—

  "I have just returned from the home of Mr. John L. Rooney, where his family are in deep sorrow, over the loss of a kind and devoted husband and father.

  "To me, he was my Hero!

  "In June, 1882 [she remembered wrongly; it was the last day of January], he was the instrument in God's hand of saving me from burning to death. I was alone in the Office on the fourth floor, on the Beekman Street side of the building known as the old 'World Building' 37 Park Row. All escape being cut off except the windows to which the fire was fast approaching, I climbed out, let myself down to the lintel of the window below. Seeing a sign and wire three windows from me, I stepped from one lintel to another over three windows, thinking I might drop to the street in that way, but a gentleman below, warned me to wait for the firemen, which I did.

  "It was but a few minutes, when Hook and Ladder No. 10 came bounding past the Post Office. No sooner seen, than Mr. Rooney had a ladder in his hands, and oh how plain I see him now, as he waved his hand to me, and calmly and loudly called, 'keep cool, keep cool!' He was up that ladder in an instant, but alas, the ladder only reached the bottom of the window on which I stood. While we looked at each other in almost hopeless despair, the ladder was suddenly raised by the men below [I hope my hero was at least among them] to almost a perpendicular position bringing him to my feet.

  "He stood very near the top round, without anything to hold on to and he directed me in such kind, steady and cheering tones, which gave me such assurance in his ability to help me, that I obeyed.

  "He said, 'can you sit down? Hold on to my shoulder, and see if you can put your foot upon the top round.' Then putting his strong hand at my waist, he said: 'Now when I tell

  you to drop you must do so.' As he took the weight of my body upon him the ladder swayed, slipped, and caught upon the trimming of the windows. Then the people cheered Mr. Rooney, as well they might. My very being was, and ever shall be filled with intense gratitude.

  "He tried to say I was the hero, but I can see no heroism in one trying to save their own life; but when a man has a much loved wife and family at home, and risks his life to save another, just because it is a life, I can hear the world exclaim with me, He was the Hero!

  "Although so brave, he was exceedingly retiring in his nature. When asked to attend a Thanksgiving service held at my church, the 7th Presbyterian, that my friends might have a chance to see and shake hands with my rescuer, he shrank from so much publicity.

  "A few months later my friends thought it would be a nice thing to present Mr. Rooney with a watch. Not as a reward for my rescue, for that could not be done, but so that his children might have something to look at as a reminder of his bravery. It was my privilege to present this little testimonial to him in the presence of nearly 2000 people.

  "As he stood upon the platform I shall never forget how noble he looked, and how his unselfish nature shone out in his reply, which was as follows: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, permit me to mention a couple of facts in connection with the rescue of Miss Small. What I did was strictly in the line of my duty. It is something that is expected and demanded of each and every member of the Fire Department by our superior officers. I am no exception to that rule and I know of no man during my connection of nearly ten years with the Department, who would have shirked under the same circumstances.'

  "I have learned that this was only one of the many heroic acts which he performed.

  "Later in the summer we all looked upon him with pride, as Mayor Edson pinned the Bennett Medal upon his coat with words of praise.

  "Was he not a true Hero? Pray with me that the dear Lord will bless his wife and children and that they may 'Lean Hard' on the widows' God who is always ready to comfort.

  "Very sincerely yours,"

  Ida Haight, her son told me, was active in church work; died in 1906; and "was a marvelous person and everyone loved her."

  Appendix

  Between September, 1970 and December, 1973, the earliest stirrings of what Forgotten News came to be were published as an occasional series of articles written for the Op-Ed pages of The New York Times. Two of these seven short pieces were eventually included in the book in rewritten form; the subjects of the other five did not make the final cut.

  Presented in the following pages are the original seven articles as they once appeared in The New York Times, now—ironically—forgotten news items themselves.

  - Ed.

  Where Has Old-Fashioned Fun Gone?

  Do New Yorkers ever have fun any more, plain old fun? Are there any adults left who actually play? We all know the catechism: No, of course not. Why? Because New Yorkers are hardened, while fun and play are properties of innocence...

  But some sort of New York equivalent of the Dead Sea scrolls asks: Was Jay Gould an innocent? Were Russell Sage and J. P. Morgan soft? They, and their associates, were not, Lord knows.

  Around noon the day before Christmas Eve, 1882, someone on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange released a great gas-inflated balloon in the shape of a jockey. As chins lifted, nearly everyone on the floor watching it rise to the ceiling, a couple of brokers sneaked through the crowd each holding an end of a 75-foot rope. When they were on opposite sides of the floor they began to run. Those of the crowd who weren't knocked flat were tied together in a struggling mass, and dragged around the floor.

  Somebody got possession of one end of the rope, someone else the other, they began yanking, each got help, then more help, and a tug-of-war began. When there wasn't a handhold left on the rope, latecomers grabbed coattails, and as the big snake squirmed across the floor, coats were ripped up the back and coattails torn right off. Spectators began amusing themselves by knocking off contestants' silk hats, and jumping on them.

  At one end of the floor, a grind-organ man was being dragged into the Exchange from New Street. He began to crank, and brokers began dancing together, frequently reaching out to smash in each other's silk hats. "Young Billy Hatch" of Hatch & Kendal
l did a jig; Isidor Wormser and Billy Henriques were forced to do a waltz. The tug-of-war broke up, and a general cotillion began in which, the next day's Times said, "those who took the parts of ladies entirely disregarded the proprieties of the art terpsichorean and practiced high-kicking." By now the dancers were yelling "like Comanche Indians," the hat-smashing had become ecstatic, and the associates of Fisk, Gould, Morgan, Sage, and Vanderbilt were blowing fish horns, sprinkling one another from watering cans, and dragging members of the Exchange around the floor on their backs.

  A large pail of water simmering on a stove top was filled with silk hats. A number of the smaller brokers were being stuffed headfirst into tall wicker baskets used to hold ticker tape, and rolled around the floor. Some of, the boys began drop-kicking a football.

  Was anyone surprised? Nope. It all happened annually, and not only at the Stock Exchange. Around three o'clock New Year's Eve of the year before, the fellows at the Produce Exchange began whomping each other with inflated bladders on strings, splattering one another with hunks of wet dough, and—of course—caving in one another's silk hats. Up in their offices a number of brokers, remembering previous years, were changing from cutaways and tall hats to overalls, linen dusters, and cloth caps. Downstairs Gilmore's band showed up and, in tuxedoes, not overalls, they crouched a little since the air was now thick with flying bags full of flour, which exploded on impact. Invited guests were arriving, too, each with a ticket for a reserved seat, and in a hurry to get to it. Since every ticket bore seat number 401, each was led to the only reserved seat in the place, which was still vacant since it was mounted on a column ten feet tall. As the guest stopped to stare up, he was usually whacked on the head with a stuffed club, since by now all three thousand members of the Exchange carried one. Then the fun began.

  Between numbers by Gilmore's flour-splattered band there were humorous recitations; sparring matches between brokers; sack races; foot races; a tug-of-war, naturally between the grain men and the provision men; an Irish jig by the entire Parnell Brigade; "talking matches"; a "laughing match"; a walking match. There were wrestling matches on the flour-and dough-covered floor; jumping matches; "dancing matches"; a fat man's race; and, according to The Times, which seemed to be present at all these shenanigans, "singing matches between the flute-voiced members of the Exchange."

  Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, which illustrated the fun, reported that "The fish-horn brigade and the regiment with bladders and stuffed clubs were actively at work," and that "During the performance everybody seemed to be happy and the building rang with the laughter of the assemblage. Gilmore's band played almost without ceasing until after dark, and when the members, with disarranged neck gear, emerged from the building they expressed the opinion that they had had 'the best day's sport for many a year.'"

  So what about it, Produce Exchange: What are you' planning for New Year's Eve, 1970? And how about you, Merrill, Lynch: What are you doing Christmas Eve? Maybe you should consider inviting Bache & Co., Francis I. duPont, and Morgan, Stanley to a little tug-of-war and homburg smashing down on the Big Floor. Because who really knows what makes the market go up? Things were pretty good in the first quarters of '81 and '82. It just might be worth a try.

  And who really knows, either, what makes a city livable, what gives its people a sense of fun? It may be that a new start has already been made: People seem to like strolling down the center-line of Fifth Avenue, not a car in sight. And biking in the Park. Maybe, just maybe, New York has begun reaching back toward a day when it would have been possible to say "Fun City" without sneering.

  Jack Finney, author of "Time and Again," is fatally in love with New York. (He lives in California.)

  Originally published in The New York Times, September 24, 1970

  Off to the Golden West

  "Sunday on the Union Pacific Railway"

  You'll be there five hours or so after takeoff; with the time difference, two hours—still lunchtime on the Coast, if it's a fairly early flight. Just 80 years ago this trip began in a handsome cab heading for a little two-story, red-brick Grand Central Station on 42d Street, An Englishman named W. G. Marshall made the trip, and left some notes.

  His train was waiting inside the station, his sleeping car, the "Palmyra," ready. Presently the train pulled out, and (in about the time the airport comes into sight for you) it was chugging along an open cut down the middle of Park Avenue, W. G. sitting in the Palmyra looking up at pedestrians crossing the cut on wooden bridges.

  By your takeoff time they were a little way up the Hudson, dotted with gaff-rigged sailboats, often lined with trees, but not entirely bucolic. Marshall complained that for 150 miles the track was lined with ads painted on rocks, trees, billboards and the Jersey cliffs: USE CARBOLINE FOR THE HAIR . . . TWIN BROTHERS YEAST . . . SAPOLIO . . . HARVEY'S HORSE POWDER . . . GARGLING OIL . . . TARRANT'S APERIENT CURES DIARRHEA and, mysteriously, that VINEGAR BITTERS IS ALL THE GO FOR LOVE!

  On the diner that night his dinner was as good as but not better than the food on the plane today. It cost 75¢, plus 15¢ more for a bottle of French wine. There was a long, long trip ahead, a full week.

  Well past Chicago, Marshall sat writing:

  "The old emigrant road is beside us, that old beaten track so often traversed before the iron road was laid across the prairie and mountain, and which is still used by those who cannot afford the luxury of the railway train. We have been running close beside it for some distance, and have passed many oxen-drawn canvas-covered wagons loaded with whole families on their way to new homes in the still-far-off West. Now the road crosses the railway line, and there is a cartful of emigrants drawn up at the side, waiting till we have passed so that they may cross in safety.

  No in-flight movies. But at Wahsatch station they pulled onto a siding to wait for the east-bound train to pass. The conductor climbed down to the track-side, pulled a revolver from his hip pocket, and began taking pot shots at the telegraph poles. W. G. and several others joined him, he reloaded, politely passed the pistol around, and they took turns blasting away.

  When their train started up, it began descending into Echo Cañon, and, reaching the cañon floor, "we pull up in the middle of the pass to allow a performance of our engine." The engineer tootled his steam whistle in short and long blasts and various combinations while the passengers, windows open, listened and commented on the echo effect.

  After dinner the passengers, long since friends, gathered in the Palmyra before the berths were made up. In the Palmyra, as the illustration shows, "... we have an eight-stop little organ . . . and this evening we bring out its tone, and our companions contribute a few songs. The instrument has two manuals, but will sound in only one, and the upper part is devoted to pillow-cases and blankets. So for two hours we amuse ourselves with singing and playing, our conductor — who was a bit of a musician in his way — coming and helping us and treating us to a few songs. I believe if we had only room enough we should have got up a little dance. ... In this way we spent a pleasant evening."

  They went to bed then and, the Coast still days away, the train chugged on through the night, under the moon.

  You'll be passing Echo Cañon, too, in just a few hours. It will be at something over thirty thousand feet probably, so you won't be able to hear the echo effect, or even see it for that matter, under the cloud level. But you'll have entertainment, too; maybe a fine and stirring John Wayne movie, about the old days in the unspoiled West. Bon voyage!

  Jack Finney, author of "Time and Again," is in love with yesterday.

  Originally published in The New York Times, October 29, 1970

  St. Nicholas Monthly's Xmas List

  The man who has everything doesn't have these!

  You gave Him the $275 gold cigarette lighter from Dunhill's last year. This year make up a few of these for him, and save $274.75.

  BEAD PEN-WIPERS

  These are made of black broad-cloth. Cut eighteen small circles, a little larger than a silver dollar. Overc
ast the edge of each with long stitches of sewing-silk, and upon each stitch thread eight beads of any color you like. Blue, green and opal beads are preferable to gilt or silver, because these tarnish. When the circles are trimmed; bend each into half, and then into half again (see diagram), and fasten all together so as to form a ball with the beaded edges outside. You will find this pretty pen-wiper precisely the thing to lay on papa's writing-table as a Christmas surprise.

  You've looked at Georg Jensen's twenty-five-buck "limited edition" glass drinking mug engraved with a Peace dove; but he already has all the drinking glasses you think he needs. So tonight, make him a

  COVER FOR SHAVING PAPER

  Cut two pieces of thin card-board, eight inches by ten. Embroider on the-upper cover a cobweb, as in engraving, first outlining it with a pencil, and then going over the lines with long stitches. Bits of willow fastened around this make a rustic setting for the web. Line the underside of the cover with silesia, place a quantity of tinted tissue leaves between the covers, and join the whole at one corner with a ribbon bow to match silesia lining.

  You've bought a pair of Hunting World's special driving shoes to tuck into his stockings (@ $25 the pair; $26 for white). But give of yourself! Make him a

  RACK FOR TOOTH-BRUSHES, IN RUSTIC WORK

  This is very simple, but it is pretty as well. Cut two straight spruce twigs, each having two or three little branches projecting tip-ward at an angle of forty-five degrees. These twigs must be as much alike in shape as possible. Place them six inches apart; lay two cross-twigs across, as you see them in the picture, and tie corners with fine wire, or fasten them with tiny pins. Two diagonal braces will add to the strength of the rack. Hang it to the wall above the wash-stand by a wire or ribbon. The tooth-brushes rest on the parallel branches.