When I attended Fair Grove High School many years ago, we occasionally played Morrisville in basketball or baseball, but the school was called Marion C. Early High School, not Morrisville High School, and I remember wondering why. Why didn't the school simply have the name of the town in its title like nearly all the other small-town high schools I knew about?
I'm pretty sure I could have learned the answer if I'd been inquisitive enough to do a little research or even to ask a few people who might be in a position to know, but I did neither of those. Recently, though, I learned the answer without really trying. I was just scrolling through some Springfield newspapers when I came upon a 1925 article about Marion C. Early's donation of the land and buildings for the school.
Born in 1864, Early, a St. Louis lawyer, grew up on a farm near Morrisville. Although limited educational opportunities were available to him, he managed to obtain enough early schooling to enroll in Drury College in Springfield. After working his way through Drury, he studied law at Washington University in St. Louis, earned his law degree, and was admitted to the bar.
Although Morrisville did not have a high school during the early 1900s, it did have a junior college, Morrisville-Scarritt College, which was founded in 1909 with the merger of Morrisville College (previously Ebenezer College) and Scarritt College of Neosho. The deed to the land on which the college was located stipulated that it had to be used for educational purposes.
However, when the college closed in 1924, the people of Morrisville could not afford to purchase the land. Mr. Early, who had been a trustee of Morrisville-Scarritt College, bought the eight-acre tract of land and the college's four brick buildings for an estimated $100,000 and donated them to the town of Morrisville for use as a high school. A consolidated school district was organized, and the town's first public high school opened in September of 1925 as Marion C. Early High School.
Sunday, May 11, 2025
Sunday, May 4, 2025
Gasconade Bridge Tragedy
Construction of the Pacific Railroad west of St. Louis began in 1851. The road was supposed to become the first transcontinental railroad, and by the fall of 1855, it had reached the Missouri state capital at Jefferson City. To mark this milestone, a celebration was planned in Jefferson City for November 1, and early that morning an excursion train of 12-14 cars carrying about 600 passengers left St. Louis to attend the festivities.
The trip to Jefferson City was about two-thirds complete when, shortly after one o'clock in the afternoon, the train approached a wooden bridge over the Gasconade River at the present-day town of Gasconade. The bridge was not yet complete, but it was supported by a temporary trestle that was thought safe. However, as the train started across the bridge, the structure gave way, precipitating the front locomotive and ten of the passenger cars into the river. The bridge was about thirty feet above the river, and the water that the train cars plunged into was as much as twenty feet deep.
The rear locomotive and one of the passenger cars became disengaged from the rest of the train and were thus saved. In addition, some of the passengers had gotten out of their respective cars before the train started across the bridge in order to inspect the bridge and to observe the crossing. They, too, were saved, unless they happened to be on the bridge as the train started across it. Still, over thirty people were killed in the disaster, and another 100 or more were injured.
The rear locomotive raced back the way it had come to give an alarm, but details about the disaster were slow to reach the cities. As information about the tragedy trickled into St. Louis over the next couple of days, the entire city was thrown into "a dark time of distress."
A reporter for a Jefferson City newspaper reached the Gasconade bridge on Saturday morning almost 48 hours after the disaster. He described the scene as "such a heap of ruin as few mortals ever before gazed upon."
The Gasconade tragedy was the first major bridge collapse in American history with large-scale casualties.
The trip to Jefferson City was about two-thirds complete when, shortly after one o'clock in the afternoon, the train approached a wooden bridge over the Gasconade River at the present-day town of Gasconade. The bridge was not yet complete, but it was supported by a temporary trestle that was thought safe. However, as the train started across the bridge, the structure gave way, precipitating the front locomotive and ten of the passenger cars into the river. The bridge was about thirty feet above the river, and the water that the train cars plunged into was as much as twenty feet deep.
The rear locomotive and one of the passenger cars became disengaged from the rest of the train and were thus saved. In addition, some of the passengers had gotten out of their respective cars before the train started across the bridge in order to inspect the bridge and to observe the crossing. They, too, were saved, unless they happened to be on the bridge as the train started across it. Still, over thirty people were killed in the disaster, and another 100 or more were injured.
The rear locomotive raced back the way it had come to give an alarm, but details about the disaster were slow to reach the cities. As information about the tragedy trickled into St. Louis over the next couple of days, the entire city was thrown into "a dark time of distress."
A reporter for a Jefferson City newspaper reached the Gasconade bridge on Saturday morning almost 48 hours after the disaster. He described the scene as "such a heap of ruin as few mortals ever before gazed upon."
The Gasconade tragedy was the first major bridge collapse in American history with large-scale casualties.
Sunday, April 27, 2025
Pumpkin Center
I mentioned Pumpkin Center, a crossroads community in Dallas County (MO) when I wrote about colorful names of Ozarks towns and villages a few weeks ago. It's located about five miles north of Buffalo on Highway 73 at its intersection with Highway 64. I used to pass through Pumpkin Center occasionally (depending on what route I took) when I'd drive to Jefferson City or Columbia from southwest Missouri, and I often wondered about the curious name of the place.
Moser's Directory of Missouri Places doesn't say much about Pumpkin Center and nothing at all about how it got its quaint name. However, I ran across a 1934 Springfield News and Leader article recently that gives a little bit of info about the place and how it got its name.
At the time of the article, J. M. "Uncle Josh" Duff and his wife operated a general store at the crossroads. In fact, according to newspaper, Duff had "the only store in Pumpkin Center, the only filling station, the only home, the only barn, the only well." In other words, "Pumpkin Center belongs to Uncle Josh."
The store served as a community trading post where farmers from the surrounding area traded cream, eggs, and produce for other home necessities. It was also a popular loafing spot "during the slack season," and often tourists would stop in just to visit the rustic place.
When Josh was away from the store, his wife, Nancy, operated it, but she didn't want to be called "Aunt Nancy," and she wasn't crazy about the tourists snapping pictures of the store and its owners.
Duff had bought the store about 1924 from A. L. Hause, who had gotten it from Charles Cussack, who in turn had acquired it from Robert Miller, the original owner. When Miller built the store, the house, and the barn about 1908, he was at a loss as to what to call the crossroads community. The forerunners to the present-day highways that intersect at the place were just dirt roads that would become muddy messes during wet weather. A neighbor, remarking on all the rain the area had been getting, supposedly said to Miller, "You might as well call it Pumpkin Center; this is a pumpkin growing country."
When Highway 64 was built some years after the store was established and was routed past the store, gasoline pumps were installed, but the place never became a booming metropolis. Today, there is still not much there other than a crossroads store and station.
Moser's Directory of Missouri Places doesn't say much about Pumpkin Center and nothing at all about how it got its quaint name. However, I ran across a 1934 Springfield News and Leader article recently that gives a little bit of info about the place and how it got its name.
At the time of the article, J. M. "Uncle Josh" Duff and his wife operated a general store at the crossroads. In fact, according to newspaper, Duff had "the only store in Pumpkin Center, the only filling station, the only home, the only barn, the only well." In other words, "Pumpkin Center belongs to Uncle Josh."
The store served as a community trading post where farmers from the surrounding area traded cream, eggs, and produce for other home necessities. It was also a popular loafing spot "during the slack season," and often tourists would stop in just to visit the rustic place.
When Josh was away from the store, his wife, Nancy, operated it, but she didn't want to be called "Aunt Nancy," and she wasn't crazy about the tourists snapping pictures of the store and its owners.
Duff had bought the store about 1924 from A. L. Hause, who had gotten it from Charles Cussack, who in turn had acquired it from Robert Miller, the original owner. When Miller built the store, the house, and the barn about 1908, he was at a loss as to what to call the crossroads community. The forerunners to the present-day highways that intersect at the place were just dirt roads that would become muddy messes during wet weather. A neighbor, remarking on all the rain the area had been getting, supposedly said to Miller, "You might as well call it Pumpkin Center; this is a pumpkin growing country."
When Highway 64 was built some years after the store was established and was routed past the store, gasoline pumps were installed, but the place never became a booming metropolis. Today, there is still not much there other than a crossroads store and station.
Saturday, April 19, 2025
Dadeville Banker Killed during an Attempted Holdup
About 1:30 in the afternoon of July 26, 1926, two young men in a 1926 Ford touring car stopped in front of the Crisp Prairie Bank of Dadeville (MO) after making several passes up and down the street in front of the bank. The taller of the two men got out of the vehicle and entered the bank. In the bank at the time were longtime banker Charley Landers, one customer, and the customer's small son. Brandishing a revolver, the tall bandit ordered all three of them into the vault.
Instead of entering the vault as ordered, Landers started toward the door of a small office at the back of the bank, and the would-be robber shot him twice in the back, once before he entered the little room and again after he'd passed through the door. Landers staggered through the room and out a rear door, where he fell to the ground.
The bandit, with the revolver still in his hand, backed out of the bank without taking any money. He walked to the waiting Ford and got in, and the vehicle headed east out of town.
Taken to a hospital in Springfield, Landers lived long enough to give a description of the man who shot him, but he died later that same evening. A large reward was offered for the apprehension of the man who killed Landers, and at least four separate men were arrested on suspicion over the next few months, but each was soon released for lack of evidence and the inability of Dadeville townspeople to identify them.
Another man was arrested on suspicion two or three years later, but he also was released after he was brought to Dadeville and people who had seen Landers's killer said he was not the man. Interest in the crime gradually waned after that, and, as far as I've been able to determine, no one was ever prosecuted for the murder of Charley Landers.
Instead of entering the vault as ordered, Landers started toward the door of a small office at the back of the bank, and the would-be robber shot him twice in the back, once before he entered the little room and again after he'd passed through the door. Landers staggered through the room and out a rear door, where he fell to the ground.
The bandit, with the revolver still in his hand, backed out of the bank without taking any money. He walked to the waiting Ford and got in, and the vehicle headed east out of town.
Taken to a hospital in Springfield, Landers lived long enough to give a description of the man who shot him, but he died later that same evening. A large reward was offered for the apprehension of the man who killed Landers, and at least four separate men were arrested on suspicion over the next few months, but each was soon released for lack of evidence and the inability of Dadeville townspeople to identify them.
Another man was arrested on suspicion two or three years later, but he also was released after he was brought to Dadeville and people who had seen Landers's killer said he was not the man. Interest in the crime gradually waned after that, and, as far as I've been able to determine, no one was ever prosecuted for the murder of Charley Landers.
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Robbery of the Bank of Pennsboro
I stated recently on this blog that seemingly every little town in America had a bank once upon a time, and the majority of them apparently got held up at one time or another. Add Pennsboro, Missouri, a small community in southern Dade County, to that list.
On November 2, 1928, a "rough-looking" man entered the Bank of Pennsboro about three o'clock in the afternoon and, flourishing a firearm, demanded that the assistant cashier, Truman Allison, show him the money. The bandit scooped up all the readily available cash, about $900, locked Allison in the vault, and made his escape in a Chrysler automobile.
A customer entered the bank just as the robber was fleeing and soon helped Allison get loose. The men went to summon law enforcement but found that the bandit had cut all the telephone wires leading in and out of Pennsboro.
Based on a description of the getaway vehicle, the Pennsboro bank bandit was traced to Springfield and identified as local businessman B. W. Baty. While being questioned at his pressing/dry cleaning shop, Baty was allowed to go into a back room, where, unknown to officers, he secured a small bottle of poison. Arrested and taken to the central police station on the evening of November 3, he committed suicide by taking the poison. Baty's family didn't think he was guilty of the robbery, because they said he didn't need the money, but all the evidence, including the license plate number of the Chrysler, pointed to his guilt.
At the time of the Pennsboro bank robbery, the town sported a population of about 75 people and had three other businesses besides the bank: a post office and two general stores. Nowadays, it's hardly a wide place in the road. It's home to a church and a couple of residences, and that's about it.
On a personal note, I mainly write historical nonfiction, but I do occasionally write fiction and have for many years. Recently I published a western novel, Return to Dry Creek (https://amzn.to/4i8bLiR) as an e-book, and in connection with the launch of that book, I'm making the first book in the series, Wild in His Sorrow (https://amzn.to/4cso8oO), which I published a couple of years ago, free to download for the next four days.
On November 2, 1928, a "rough-looking" man entered the Bank of Pennsboro about three o'clock in the afternoon and, flourishing a firearm, demanded that the assistant cashier, Truman Allison, show him the money. The bandit scooped up all the readily available cash, about $900, locked Allison in the vault, and made his escape in a Chrysler automobile.
A customer entered the bank just as the robber was fleeing and soon helped Allison get loose. The men went to summon law enforcement but found that the bandit had cut all the telephone wires leading in and out of Pennsboro.
Based on a description of the getaway vehicle, the Pennsboro bank bandit was traced to Springfield and identified as local businessman B. W. Baty. While being questioned at his pressing/dry cleaning shop, Baty was allowed to go into a back room, where, unknown to officers, he secured a small bottle of poison. Arrested and taken to the central police station on the evening of November 3, he committed suicide by taking the poison. Baty's family didn't think he was guilty of the robbery, because they said he didn't need the money, but all the evidence, including the license plate number of the Chrysler, pointed to his guilt.
At the time of the Pennsboro bank robbery, the town sported a population of about 75 people and had three other businesses besides the bank: a post office and two general stores. Nowadays, it's hardly a wide place in the road. It's home to a church and a couple of residences, and that's about it.
On a personal note, I mainly write historical nonfiction, but I do occasionally write fiction and have for many years. Recently I published a western novel, Return to Dry Creek (https://amzn.to/4i8bLiR) as an e-book, and in connection with the launch of that book, I'm making the first book in the series, Wild in His Sorrow (https://amzn.to/4cso8oO), which I published a couple of years ago, free to download for the next four days.
Monday, April 7, 2025
Another Pretty Horse Thief
In my book Wicked Women of Missouri https://amzn.to/3Rq24Sh, I write about a couple of attractive young women who caused sensations in the southwest Missouri area around 1890 when they borrowed rigs from liveries, didn't pay up front, and didn't bother to return them. They were both charged with horse theft and sent to prison for short stints.
The outbreak of horse thievery among good-looking young Missouri women during that time frame apparently wasn't confined just to the southwest part of the state, though. Take Clara Graham as an example.
Clara, a tall, well-dressed young woman, worked for a family on the east side of Kansas City in early 1889. On February 13, a dispute arose between her and certain members of the family, and she quit the job or was released. The next day, having nothing else to do, she decided to take a buggy ride, and she engaged a rig from the Gordon and Schmid Livery. She picked up a friend of hers, a barber's wife, and then rode around Kansas City a while before driving to Armourdale (now a neighborhood in Kansas City, KS, where they were joined by a man named McCoy, a friend of Clara's.
According to Clara's later story, McCoy gave her something to drink that must have been laced with a drug, because the next thing she remembered was waking up in St. Joseph two days later. But she still had the horse and buggy, and there was no sign of McCoy or her lady friend. The next day, she drove on to Troy, Kansas, because she had an uncle living near the town, who, she thought, might help her out. She stayed at a hotel in Troy for several weeks and, when she got ready to leave, she sold the rig to the hotel proprietor and got enough to satisfy the debt she owed for the room and board with $30 left over.
However, Clara spent the $30 on trifles and was once again broke when she was finally traced to the Troy area in mid-March. She was brought back to Kansas City to face a charge of grand larceny. Clara did not oppose extradition.
Her arrest and appearance in the Kansas City Court on a horse stealing charge caused "a flutter of excitement." Taking note of the sensation, if not contributing to it, the Kansas City Times editorialized, "A horsethief is about as unpopular a mortal as can follow a rogue's profession. Hanging in none too good for him.... A vulgar horsethief is beneath the notice of a high-toned bank burglar or even a gentlemanly pickpocket, but when a horse thief is a woman, and a good-looking one at that, the whole aspect of things is changed."
The Times described Clara as tall, "finely formed," and "of unusual intelligence." Prior to taking the horse and buggy for a joy ride, she had "a magnificent suit of brown hair," but she had cut it short and put on a blonde wig prior to engaging the rig so that she would not to be recognized. Clara had "dark gray eyes and regular features, and while not beautiful, is quite interesting."
Another newspaper opined that Clara would "not win the first prize in a beauty show," but that "she has a pleasant and somewhat handsome face."
Clara claimed she wrote to the livery in Kansas City on more than one occasion while she was on the lam trying to explain the circumstances of what had happened, but that she did not hear back. Authorities were skeptical of the claim and even more skeptical of her claim that she had been drugged.
Clara pleaded not guilty to the charge of horse stealing, claiming she had no intention of stealing the rig but had planned to return it from the start. She cited the fact that she'd left most her belongings in Kansas City as proof that she meant to return. The fact remained, however, that she had sold a horse and buggy that did not belong to her, and she was indicted on the grand larceny charge. She remained in jail in lieu of $1,000 bond.
Clara was scheduled for preliminary examination on March 22. She waived examination when the appointed time came, beseeching the judge only that he reduce her bond so that she might stand a chance of getting out of jail, where she had been thrown side by side with "women of notorious character." The judge reduced the bond to $500, but Clara remained in jail.
At her trial in early May, Clara was found guilty and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. She was transferred to Jefferson City in early June, and a number of people began working on her behalf almost immediately to have her sentence mitigated. In early December, the governor granted her a full pardon, and she was released to the custody of her father, after serving only about six months of her two-year sentence.
The outbreak of horse thievery among good-looking young Missouri women during that time frame apparently wasn't confined just to the southwest part of the state, though. Take Clara Graham as an example.
Clara, a tall, well-dressed young woman, worked for a family on the east side of Kansas City in early 1889. On February 13, a dispute arose between her and certain members of the family, and she quit the job or was released. The next day, having nothing else to do, she decided to take a buggy ride, and she engaged a rig from the Gordon and Schmid Livery. She picked up a friend of hers, a barber's wife, and then rode around Kansas City a while before driving to Armourdale (now a neighborhood in Kansas City, KS, where they were joined by a man named McCoy, a friend of Clara's.
According to Clara's later story, McCoy gave her something to drink that must have been laced with a drug, because the next thing she remembered was waking up in St. Joseph two days later. But she still had the horse and buggy, and there was no sign of McCoy or her lady friend. The next day, she drove on to Troy, Kansas, because she had an uncle living near the town, who, she thought, might help her out. She stayed at a hotel in Troy for several weeks and, when she got ready to leave, she sold the rig to the hotel proprietor and got enough to satisfy the debt she owed for the room and board with $30 left over.
However, Clara spent the $30 on trifles and was once again broke when she was finally traced to the Troy area in mid-March. She was brought back to Kansas City to face a charge of grand larceny. Clara did not oppose extradition.
Her arrest and appearance in the Kansas City Court on a horse stealing charge caused "a flutter of excitement." Taking note of the sensation, if not contributing to it, the Kansas City Times editorialized, "A horsethief is about as unpopular a mortal as can follow a rogue's profession. Hanging in none too good for him.... A vulgar horsethief is beneath the notice of a high-toned bank burglar or even a gentlemanly pickpocket, but when a horse thief is a woman, and a good-looking one at that, the whole aspect of things is changed."
The Times described Clara as tall, "finely formed," and "of unusual intelligence." Prior to taking the horse and buggy for a joy ride, she had "a magnificent suit of brown hair," but she had cut it short and put on a blonde wig prior to engaging the rig so that she would not to be recognized. Clara had "dark gray eyes and regular features, and while not beautiful, is quite interesting."
Another newspaper opined that Clara would "not win the first prize in a beauty show," but that "she has a pleasant and somewhat handsome face."
Clara claimed she wrote to the livery in Kansas City on more than one occasion while she was on the lam trying to explain the circumstances of what had happened, but that she did not hear back. Authorities were skeptical of the claim and even more skeptical of her claim that she had been drugged.
Clara pleaded not guilty to the charge of horse stealing, claiming she had no intention of stealing the rig but had planned to return it from the start. She cited the fact that she'd left most her belongings in Kansas City as proof that she meant to return. The fact remained, however, that she had sold a horse and buggy that did not belong to her, and she was indicted on the grand larceny charge. She remained in jail in lieu of $1,000 bond.
Clara was scheduled for preliminary examination on March 22. She waived examination when the appointed time came, beseeching the judge only that he reduce her bond so that she might stand a chance of getting out of jail, where she had been thrown side by side with "women of notorious character." The judge reduced the bond to $500, but Clara remained in jail.
At her trial in early May, Clara was found guilty and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. She was transferred to Jefferson City in early June, and a number of people began working on her behalf almost immediately to have her sentence mitigated. In early December, the governor granted her a full pardon, and she was released to the custody of her father, after serving only about six months of her two-year sentence.
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Mexican Villa
Mexican Villa has always been one of my and my wife's favorite spots to eat in Springfield. Nowadays, there are several Mexican Villa locations in Springfield, but last night (March 28, 2025), we ate at Springfield's original Mexican Villa, which was founded at the corner of National and Bennett in 1951. At least, that's the brief history, as I had always thought it to be, but come to find out, the story is not quite that straightforward.
While stationed in south Texas during World War II, former Springfield resident G. H. Ferguson developed a love of Tex-Mex food. After the war, he and his wife, Betty, returned home to Springfield, and they purchased a barbeque restaurant, the Pig 'N Bun Drive In, at 1408 S. National in 1951. Ferguson soon introduced some of the Mexican recipes he remembered from Texas, giving Springfield its first taste of Mexican food, but the place was still called the Pig 'N Bun.
Around 1958, the Fergusons opened Old Mexico, a Mexican restaurant on South Glenstone across from the Plaza Shopping Center. At the same time, they leased the Pig 'N Bun to a man named Tommy Lafino, who turned it into the Italian Villa.
Then, when Lafino retired about 1962, the Fergusons closed Old Mexico, returned to the restaurant at National and Bennett, and renamed it Mexican Villa. So, the place where my wife and I ate last night is, in fact, the original Mexican Villa site, but it did not acquire the Mexican Villa name until more than ten years after Feguson first served Mexican food from that location.
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