Norman Perkins' Scrapbook

By Carolyn Good

Oh, the treasures in the Archives!

I’m currently working on a project to catalog all the old scrapbooks in the WHC Archive collection, and I came across one full of intriguing news clippings, programs and correspondence entitled “Sons of Vermont.”  I’d love to share part of the story that unfolded within.

In these 21st century days, except for COVID restrictions of course, we are a mobile and transitory people, moving where jobs and a sense of adventure may take us.  So too were folks in the 19th century as the West was being opened to the population through railroad expansion.  And still, like the Vermonters of the 1870s, we might say, “Once a Vermonter, always a Vermonter.”

On July 17, 1877, a notice was published in the Chicago Tribune inviting all born-in-Vermonters residing in Chicago to gather in honor of the one hundredth anniversary of the declaration of the “Free and Independent State of Vermont.”  Thus, an association was formed, and they called themselves the “Sons of Vermont.”  Among the 150 or so men and women who gathered at their first annual Banquet at the Grand Pacific Hotel in Chicago were several from Woodstock, including Norman Williams II, John Marsh, Lyman Mower, T.A.Southgate, J.K. Stearns, D.K. Pearsons, and Norman C. Perkins, originally from Pomfret.  I mention Mr. Perkins because he found himself reflecting on memories of Vermont, and created an original poem each year to be read during the “literary portion” at the Annual Banquet.  You can imagine these folks, living in the modern and bustling city of Chicago, remembering their far away homes in Vermont with fond nostalgia.  These banquets, of the Sons of Vermont, were nights to revel in reminiscing and to remind each other of their special and particular heritage as Vermonters.  It’s not surprising then, to find that the banquet menu included such items such as Memphremagog Muscalonge, Champlain Goose, Ompompanoosic Hulled Corn, Catamount Tavern Venison, Mansfield Mtn Partridge, Equinox Mtn Boar’s Head, Windsor County Pumpkin Pie, Montpelier Crackers, and wrapping up with Ethan Allen Beach Seals and Palmer House Ice Cream.  I’ve no idea what Beach Seals are, but you get the idea!  By the third annual banquet, the number of those present had grown to almost four hundred.

All these doings were published in full in the Vermont Standard, including Mr. Perkins’ poems.  One in particular, entitled “A Rhyme of the District School,” was read at the annual banquet on January 16, 1880. The Vermont Standard account prompted Charles Marsh of Woodstock to write to his old friend Norman Perkins in Chicago, “I write this to say to you that I read it with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction.  I attended that school when a boy.”

Today, as our pandemic-weary children are nostalgic for the good old school days of just ONE year ago, Mr. Perkins was reflecting with much apparent fondness for the school days of his youth in Vermont in the 1840s.  I’m sure we’ve all seen an old school house on the dirt roads as we drive around the Woodstock area. As we think of those surviving school houses, maybe we can imagine, along with the Sons of Vermont, and join with them in reflecting on “the good old days.”

Below are selected stanzas from the six-page poem “ A RHYME OF THE DISTRICT SCHOOL,” by Norman C. Perkins, read at the annual banquet of the “Sons of Vermont” of Chicago, Illinois, January 16, 1880:

The small, square school-house, with its sloping shed, 

With clap-boards covered, always painted red,

Stood like Fame’s temple that did overlook

The Hill of Knowledge in the spelling-book. 

‘Twas Learning’s cheap and ever free abode, 

and Public, for it stood right in the road.

Its playground stretched, with many a guide-board sign,

From Massachusetts up to Derby Line.

Within, the teacher’s throne stood at the end -

Two rows of desks on each side did ascend.

With seats in front for little victims, where

Their feet hung useless, dangling in the air.

A mighty stove down in the middle stood,

And roared all day with heaps of maple wood.

There may have been a black-board, and perhaps

There hung a set of Mitchell’s Outline Maps.

…

What house could hold that crew of boisterous boys

Whose sex and presence were made known by noise, 

As of a winter morning they rushed in

With caps of fur, and dinner pails of tin.

With trouser legs tied down with bits of twine,

With rosy cheeks that evermore did shine

With health’s own luster; with the melting tracks

Of snow balls sticking still upon their backs,

And stood, in coats that their own mothers wove,

To thaw their aching fingers at the stove?

...

(and afterwards, the family at home in the firelight)

There I see the mother sitting,

As she gently takes her knitting

Work from out the curious basket that the Indians wove -

Sitting in her old position, 

On a patchwork, feather cushion,

In her own low rocking chair beside the stove.

…

So she sat there, slowly rocking, 

As she knit the little stocking,

Looking up with many a nod and tender smile

At her children’s faces ruddy,

As she saw them at their study,

Softly humming some old ditty all the while.

…

And then came her boy’s distractions,

Puzzling o’er his Vulgar Fractions,

But she said, “My son, to-night I would not try.”

And, a smile her face adoring,

“Twill seem easier in the morning;

Take good courage – it will come out by and by !”

…

O, that faith of loving blindness!

O, those words of living kindness

Of the ones who gave their lives for such as we!

In our ears they sound forever,

Like the echoes ending never,

In the shell that brings its music from the sea!

Like their spirit’s fond caressing,

Let their names fall like a blessing

On our children as we bring them to the font;

For something nobler than all others

God created all our mothers –

God created all the mothers of Vermont!