Founded in 2017, Strange Times is a twice-monthly newsletter that explores the weirdest news of 1921, one day at a time. To get free games and the original PDFs of every article that runs in Strange Times—plus stories that didn’t make the cut—back me on Patreon.
To Kill a Cook
Not much news on the To Kill a Cook front this week, so here’s a fetching picture of me peeking out coquettishly from behind that most beautiful galley:
Preorder now for your very own copy. Of the book, I mean. They’ve yet to perfect a method of copying me and that’s probably for the best—I doubt I’d sell.
Things I Like
Artist & Craftsman Supply! An employee-owned art store with locations across the country, A&C is one of my favorite places in Philadelphia. I hit the Chestnut Hill location often—for calligraphy nibs, notepads, or tchotchkes for the kids. The prices are reasonable and the staff is wonderful, plus it smells like sharpened pencils. If you’re looking for a last-minute stocking stuffer, go grab a fistful of little rubber monsters or 2B Staedtler pencils. You simply can’t go wrong.
King Arthur Flour! Speaking of employee owned companies, I’ve gone back to basics with my bread baking, baking this recipe four times this month so far. If you need a project this week to get you through the holiday doldrums, it’s dead easy, it’s got an instructional video, and at the end you’ll have bread.
Jane Russell! Last night we watched Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which is up in the Criterion Channel’s Howard Hawks collection. Marilyn is the draw and she’s amazing but for me the most singular part of the picture is “Ain’t There Anyone Here For Love?”, which must be the gayest musical number old Hollywood ever produced. Those flesh-toned swimsuits, oh my god!
Today we have twin stories of bear-mistreatment, chased with an all too brief yarn about a divorcé who loves his cat. Leave bears alone on…
August 24, 1921
Coney Island peddler Samuel Smuckler confesses to killing a man over a dollar in a dice game.
A failed mutiny on board the Allianca is blamed on “the potency of Haitian rum, three drinks of which, it is understood, will transform a village librarian into a roaring lion.”
The Massachusetts State Commission on the Necessaries of Life reports that a 10¢ lunchroom cheese sandwich costs about 2.75¢ to make, while a 15¢ ham sandwich can be made for a nickel. The ham sandwiches have been found to contain around 1 ounce of cheese and 1.125 ounces of ham. (Frankly, that’s a pretty wimpy sandwich.)
Moroccan bandit Raisuni offers to surrender to the Spanish government on account of “the bad state of his health, as he is suffering from excessive obesity.”
The Weather: Fair today and probably Thursday; moderate temperature; moderate southeast winds.
This is the kind of nonsense rich people used to get up to—dumping a frightened baby bear at the stock exchange as a prank. As cruel as that is, I do wish our useless rich would spend more time on mischief rather than the oligarchic cruelty that has lately become so fashionable.
William Rohr boasts that he is a pretty hard man to surprise. He used to be on the police force, for one thing, where surprises were a daily occurrence until he got used to them. Since leaving the force he has been engaged in guarding the outer portals of the New York Stock Exchange.
But yesterday he received the surprise of his life. A limousine drew up to the Broad Street entrance of the exchange, halted at the curb, and a dapper young man alighted, dragging behind him a small bundle of black fur. Inside the fur was a baby bear. The limousine moved away and the young man, dragging the bear along, strode hastily across the sidewalk and into the Exchange entrance.
Rohr grabbed for what he quickly realized would be unwelcome visitors. His grab was at the individual leading the bear, but the man ducked, dropped the chain, and Rohr came up with a small, black, frightened baby bear, to which he clung tightly.
In the resultant confusion, in which the bear, his chain, Rohr and half a dozen assistants were mixed, the man who had brought the bear sped around the corner and was lost in the crowd.
The bear represents a problem for the Exchange and its doorkeeper. Anybody who wants a pet bear can have it for the asking and the transportation, and if there are no immediate claimants, it is expected that the bruin family in the Bronx Zoo will be asked to take the little fellow in. He is occupying a kennel at the home of one of the exchange messenger boys, half a dozen of whom clamored for the right to adopt him.
One story was that the bear had been brought down to Wall Street by a peddler, and had been spied by a group of brokers out to luncheon, who had purchased the animal with the idea that they could smuggle him into the Exchange as a present to one of their friends who recently deserted the bear side of the market, purchased a considerable line of stocks, and was debating whether or not to take a loss on them.
A lot of strange stuff here. I had to read it twice to confirm that the occupants of the boat were in no danger from the murdered bear—that the only concern was that if they didn’t chase it down and kill it, the bear “would get away.” So what! Let the bear get away! Who’s it gonna hurt?
The second puzzler is that as far as I can tell, Michigan never had a governor Charles E. Osborn, suggesting that the story was actually referring to Chase S. Osborn, who was governor from 1911-1913. Oddly, his first and middle names were Chase Salmon, which is exactly what that bear might’ve been doing if he hadn’t come along and killed it with an axe!
SAULT STE. MARIE, Mich., Aug. 23.—Using a small woodman’s axe as his only weapon, Charles E. Osborn, former Governor of Michigan, fought and killed a black bear yesterday. Mr. Osborn was in a small rowboat off Duck Island, his Summer home in the St. Mary’s River, when he killed the bear.
Mr. Osborn and Mr. and Mrs. Earl P. Mallory of Evanston, Ill., saw the bear swimming toward Duck Island from the Canadian shore, a mile distant. No one in the party had a rifle, Mr. Osborn having only a .32 calibre revolver and a woodsman’s axe. It was realized that the bear, on reaching shore, would get away. Mr. Osborn decided to go out to meet it. Mrs. Mallory volunteered to go with him in the little skiff, but as she could not swim expertly the offer was declined.
Mr. Osborn paddled swiftly to meet the bear, which became threatening as the boat approached. The pistol proved useless, only one cartridge exploding. The rowboat touched the bear three times, and the bear got a forepaw on the edge of the boat. Mr. Osborn, fearing that the boat would be upset, struck at the animal with the axe. At one time in the tussle he grabbed the bear by the throat, beating its head with the axe. He finally killed the bear and brought the carcass to shore.
I mean, it’s not like it was the cat’s fault.
PARIS, Aug. 23.—“Don’t be disheartened and don’t forget to feed the cat,” was the message which a Paris woman left on the mantlepiece for her husband when she went off with another man five years ago.
After looking for her everywhere, the husband has at last obtained a divorce. But he says he will still go on feeding the cat.
