THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A TRAMP

by

JOHN LEWIS EVERSON

I was born at Grand Crossing, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, on February first, 1873. My father was a well-known Chicago physician and my mother, I have been told, was a school teacher at the State Normal School in Bloomington when she married my father.

My earliest recollection is that of making mud pies when I was about three years old. Assisted by a neighbor's little girl of about the same age, I formed the pies in the tops of baking-powder cans, after which my mother would place them in the oven to bake for us while we resumed our play. And when, some half-hour later, mother called us into the kitchen, opened the oven, and in our presence removed from the can-tops several creamy white biscuits which she proceeded to butter and sugar for me, no thought of substitution entered our minds . . . but now, I wonder. Such is the essence of faith.

When I was five, we moved to the West Side in Chicago where I attended the Scammon school on West Madison Street. Mother had taught me to read a year or more before, and by lying about my age, she experienced no difficulty in having me admitted to the school. During that year, my parents had built for themselves a two-story brown dwelling at 2212 Indiana Avenue; and when we moved into it, I was transferred to the Mosely school at 24th street and Michigan avenue, which I attended with marked distaste and dishonor until I was eleven. I was an unruly child, constantly being punished for AWOL at home and at school, and a disgrace to my parents and teachers who seeied unable to either wheedle or beat into me any of their curriculum other than reading, spelling, and arithmetic; these subjects I seemed to acquire a knowledge of instinctively. I shall always remember how gleefully I joined a small group of recalcitrant pupils in vociferously shouting during recess:

The eagle flew from north to south
With Old Man Kirk in his mouth,
But when he saw he was a fool
He let him drop to teach our school.

Mr. Kirk was the school's principal, but it was no fault of his, I am sure, that at the end of five years of schooling I had advanced no farther than high fourth grade.

During that five years, much happened to confirm me in my devilish ways. My father's rapidly growing medical practice kept him busy all day and half the night. Mother, under father's tutelage, had become an able chemist, and when not busy assisting him in the multifarious duties of his profession, she devoted a great part of her time to experimenting with various chemical means of extracting mineral values from low-grade ores. They both were more interested in mining than in anything else, and father had accumulated enough beautifully engraved shares of various companies to paper the walls of a room. Most of them were issued by the Golden Age Mining and Milling Company and were sold to father by a man named Brick Pomeroy, a mining promoter of New York. Needless to say, they were worthless.

It was probably due to the preoccupation of my parents more than to any other cause that I was permitted to grow up unrestrained. I roamed the streets by day and night in company with other headstrong boys, and became a member of the notorious Carey's Patch Gang. These young ruffians, eight to fourteen years of age, terrorized the neighborhood by acts of vandalism and petty theft. Carey's Patch was a district adjacent to the Illinois Central Railroad's roundhouse at Sixteenth Street and the lake. For the most part, the houses were flimsy shacks housing poor working people of several nationalities, though predominantly Irish. Saloons and groceries were numerous, with an occasional combined candy-and-stationery store where one could buy (or steal, when opportunity offered), in addition to the usual Deadwood Dick, Calamity Jane, Peck's Bad Boy, Nick Carter and similar dime novels, highly lascivious storiettes such as "Only a Boy", "A Night in a Turkish Harem", and porno- graphic photographs that would bring a blush to the face of the most hardened prostitute. These items were usually kept in the living quarters of the proprietors in order to thwart the occasional raids of the police, inspired no doubt by some Anthony-Comstock-minded person with sufficient political pull to be granted that much of a concession to the upholding of public morals.

These storiettes and photographs were expensive, however, costing from fifty cents to a dollar, and quite beyond the means of any individual member of the gang; so we used to pool our nickels and dimes occasionally and get one of our older members to buy some much-wanted story or picture we had been told about or given a glimpse of by the storekeeper. On such occasions we would gather together in a vacant lot, build a small fire on which to roast potatoes (usually stolen) and then one after another eagerly read or scan the prized possession. Many a fight I witnessed over the priority rights to read or have first look that often came as a result of the unrestrained impatience of two or more members, though as a rule those who had contributed dimes were given priority over their less opulent companions. When the curiosity of all had been satisfied to some extent, it was not uncommon for members of the gang to separate by ones and twos, crawl under elevated sidewalks or into empty boxcars, and personally or mutually relieve their overwrought feelings by practices best left to the imagination.

By the time I was seven I had learned to swim in the shallow lagoons between rows of rock-filled piling near the shore. Before I was eleven I had swum from the foot of sixteenth street to Government Pier, a distance of over a mile, returning to encounter a policeman who promptly pinched me for swimming in the nude. This was my first arrest, and when my father got me home after paying a ten-dollar fine he gave me one of the soundest thrashings I had ever received. He was a firm believer in the old maxim "Spare the rod and spoil the child", and it was his practice of this belief that was the last straw which led me to run away from home.

Lest it be assumed that my father was of a brutal nature, I affirm the contrary. In fact, he was a most kind and affectionate man. Many more times than he flogged me, he gathered me into his arms and, with tears streaming from his eyes, begged me to be a better boy; and at those times, I too would cry and for a few weeks would really try to live up to his expectations, but it was no use. There was a wild restlessness in me which I could not control, and sooner or later I lapsed into disobedience and insubordination.

While the Patch Gang was composed mostly of boys, there were always several girls, ranging in age from ten to fourteen, who helped enliven our nocturnal adventures by suggesting bits of deviltry quite beyond the imagination of most of us. They would egg us on to acts of arson, such as the burning of sheds and privies, and the daubing of paint and filth on the marble steps and front doors of the brown-stone-fronted dwellings on Prairie and Calumet Avenues. At that time, the residences of the most affluent were separated by but two short blocks from the hovels of the impoverished. The gang levied blackmail on the well-to-do by begging dainties such as cake and pie and even dimes. If a boy begged at one of the brown-stone fronts and the cook didn't have anything prepared that she thought the boy would find toothsome, she would either give him a dime or tell him to come back later when she would have a pie or cake for him. To refuse meant that within a day or two the householder would find the front of his house daubed up or an expensive window broken.

Most of the girls would reward their favorites by permitting and even demanding sexual embraces. One in particular, a fully developed but tubercular girl of thirteen named Cherry, could not be induced to go home until she had received the attentions of at least five or six of the gang, and no doubt she would have been glad to have included the entire crowd of fifteen to twenty-five. I assume she was a nymphomaniac.

My parents were regular attendants at the best theatres, and I at the worst. Father was a personal friend of John A. Hamlin, of Wizard Oil fame, the owner of Hamlin's Opera House where most of the Shakesperian plays were given. They went every Saturday night, and when father could find me in time I was required to go with them. He seldom found me in time, however, for at about the age of eight I became a habitu‰ of the Park Theatre, a burlesque or variety show house located on State Street below Congress, and quite near to the four-story dilapidated building that formerly housed the now-famous Russ Medical College.

Saturday night was a gala night at the Park Theatre. It was there that, sooner or later, one was bound to see the much-talked-of John L. Sullivan and other fistic celebrities, but the chief attraction was the star comedian, J. W. Kelly. I regret that my feeble pen is inadequate to express fully the tribute I should like to pay to this master of pathos and comedy. Kelly was, to my mind, the greatest comedian of the past century. I have seen the best of them; David Warfield at the old Bella Union theatre in San Francisco, and later in his dramatic career in "The Auctioneer", "Music Master", and "The Return of Peter Grimm"; Ezra Kendall as a vaudevillian and in "A Pair of Kids", and "The Vinegar Buyer"; and many others, but none so fired my imagination as Kelly.

Can you imagine any of the other comedians of the past or present even trying to popularize such utter trash as the following?

A jolly good old soul.
He lived upon his little farm
Down near the swimming hole.

He had an only daughter
And to win her I did try,
And when I asked him for her hand
Why, this was his reply:

Treat my daughter kindly
And say you'll do no harm,
And when I die I'll will to you
My little house and farm.
My horse, my cow,
My sheep, my plow,
My hogs and little barn
And all the little chickens in the garden."

Kelly did it; and in two or three months' time every kid in town and most of the grown folks were either humming, whistling or singing the silly thing to an even sillier tune. On Saturday nights, pedestrians, when passing saloons, would have their ears bombarded with "Treat my daughter kindly", sung by a roomful of half- drunken men; and sedate men and women meeting each other on the street would greet each other with "Have you heard this? 'Treat my daughter kindly'", etc., and both would laugh vociferously.

Who wrote it? Probably Kelly himself. I doubt if the song was ever heard outside of Chicago. What a laugh Tin Pan Alley would get out of it today.

How did Kelly popularize it? By sheer personality. Each time, before singing it, he would tell his audience in all seriousness that he had just learned a new song that so far surpassed anything he had ever heard in beauty of expression, transcendence of theme, and all the other imaginable virtues, that he was unable to sing it without crying, for which he begged his listeners' indulgence. He would then sing the song, and at the end would be shedding copious tears, as would his audience; but theirs were the tears of prolonged and unrestrained laughter. They loved him and delighted in the deceptions he often practiced upon them.

The burlesque show was a mere fol-de-rol of background. Kelly was the whole show, and of the two and one-half hours he would spend nearly two hours singing, reciting comic and pathetic poetry, and improvising songs and verses about people in the audience. Whenever he could spot any prominent personage out front, as John L. Sullivan, the mayor, or an alderman, he would invite him to come up on the stage and sit in a chair of honor near the wings.

He could put a world of dramatic feeling into "Casey at the Bat", and always made a tremendous hit singing "Slide, Kelly, Slide!", a song I believe he wrote himself. It went like this:

"I played a game of baseball,
>I belonged to the Casey nine.
The grandstand it was crowded
And the weather it was fine.

>Such a noble lot of players
Never before was found
As landed from the omnibus
That day upon the ground.

The game it was started
And I went to the bat.
I made two strikes when Casey yelled,
"What are you striking at?"
I missed the third, the catcher muffed
And to the ground it fell.

I ran like blazes down to first
And the crowd began to yell:
"Slide, Kelly, slide!
Your running's a disgrace.
Slide, Kelly, Slide!
Stay there, hold your base.

For if someone doesn't steal you
Or your batting doesn't fail you,
They'll take you to Australia,
Slide, Kelly, Slide!"

When Kelly sang the chorus it made one almost slide out of his seat trying to get to first base, so realistic did he make it. The first "Slide, Kelly, Slide!" was rendered imperatively, but the second reached a crescendo of despair, to be followed immediately by a sighing note of relief which assured that the runner was safe. The rest mattered little, but I would give a lot to hear him sing tnat song again in his rich baritone voice with its delightful Irish brogue. His art was more than art, it was genius!

When I was a little over eleven years old I obtained my parents' consent to take a vacation job as messenger boy for the American District Telegraph Company. My duties were to deliver telegrams, notes, and packages, and quite often I was sent into the redlight district with boxes of flowers to be delivered at such notorious resorts as Carrie Watson's, Luella Dane's, and others. The girls at these places were decorous, though friendly, in their attitude toward me, but somewhat carelesss about covering their bodies, and on several occasions I saw more of the female form than a boy of my age should have been allowed to see. I had a photo- graphic memory and, after such experiences, I took great delight in vividly describing to favored members of the gang all that I had seen. Had my parents known that I was being sent into such "dens of iniquity", they would have made me quit my job.

During this period I had been sent several times to an appointment in the Hodges Building with notes, candy and flowers. The recipient was a very pretty young woman who usually gave me a ten-cent tip, and on two or three occasions, some of the candy I brought her. She was very friendly and on one occasion she put a piece of candy between her lips and invited me to try and get it. I bit off part of it as her arms enfolded me, and within the next ten minutes I learned more about plain and fancy kissing than it was good for me to know. She was to teach me much more later.

I had attained puberty when I was eleven, and was too worldly-wise not to know what it was all about, for I had learned much by hearsay. I asked her if I couldn't call and see her that evening on the first time I was off duty. She told me I could call at six o'clock that evening, but that I would have to leave before eight, at which time she expected her gentleman friend to call. The office out of which I worked was only half a block away, and when I got off at six o'clock I went immediately to her apartment where she welcomed me with open arms. This began a, to me, glorious friendship that lasted for several months. When she moved out of the building without saying goodbye to me or leaving any message, I was disconsolate. I tried in every way my immature mind could conceive of to locate her, but was unsuccessful.

One day when I was a few months over eleven, I found in the street near our home a four-bladed copper-handled pocket knife. I showed it to my father, and told him where I had found it. I presume he did not deem it to be of sufficient value to advertise for the owner, for he told me I could keep it. A day or two later, when I was proudly showing the knife to a group of five or six envious companions, one of them asked me how much I had paid for it. When I told them I had found it, another boy, slightly older than I - one whom I had trounced in a fist fight a few days previously- spoke up and said, "That's mine, I lost it."

None of the boys believed him, and as he was known to be a cheat and liar, I refused to give it to him. Had I done so, this account might never have been written; for when I returned home an hour or two later, I found the knife's claimant in my father's office talking to my father. Father, who knew of the fist fight we had had, asked the boy to repeat in my presence the story of how I came into possession of the knife. The boy had the effrontery to say again that at the time of our fight I had threatened to punch him still more if he didn't give me the knife, which he said I knew he carried.

I hotly denied the accusation and threatened to punch his nose off the next time we met, whereupon my father, without giving me the slightest chance to prove the boy a liar, sternly bade me give him the knife. I did so very reluctantly, and when the boy had left, father led me to the woodshed and gave me the hardest and longest whipping I had ever received; and painful though it was, it was the first time in my life that I had the courage to refrain from screaming. Father was boiling with rage, as was I, and had not my mother intervened for the first time in her life he might have collapsed and died from the strain on, I later learned, a badly weakened heart. As it was, mother had to help him into the house and put him to bed, where she ministered to him and then came and did the same for me.

I don't know how long my father remained in bed. I only know that mother was in constant attendance on us both. She would come to my room and dress my wounds and try to comfort me. She cried over me a lot and told me that father had promised her never to whip me again. I do know that on the third day after the whipping I rose, dressed in my best suit and shoes, and after filling a bag with edibles I took several dollars from my father's desk. He must have heard me, for he called my name, but I did not answer. I left the house by the back door and stopped by the barn to bid a tearful farewell to Fanny, a beautiful Irish setter, and her litter of puppies. I petted Nelly, our horse, and Bossy, our Jersey cow, then unlatched and rolled back the creaking sliding door. I stepped out into the alley and into what I hoped would be a world of freedom from restraint.