Once upon a time, a renowned employee for the Southern Railway lost a battle to a cat that had broken into his home on West 44th Street. Before I tell you about this battle, allow me to introduce you to Alexander Stephens Thweatt, a Southern gentleman who dedicated his life to the railway.
Alexander Thweatt was born in Milledgeville, Georgia, in 1862. He was the son of Peterson Thweatt, Confederate Comptroller General for Georgia during the Civil War.
Alex started working at the age of 12 as a clerk in the ticket office of the Richmond and Danville Railroad in Atlanta. By the age of 20, he was a district passenger agent for this railway.
In 1885, Alex married Nannie Neill Hays of Louisville. Nannie’s father was Major Thomas H. Hays, another Confederate veteran and a former State Senator of Kentucky. Her grandfather was John L. Helm, governor of Kentucky in 1850 and 1867.
The couple moved to New York City around 1894, when Alex was promoted to Eastern passenger agent for the newly reorganized Southern Railway. At this time, the railway, which offered passenger service to the Carolinas, Georgia, Florida, Mexico, and California, had offices in the National Shoe and Leather Bank Building at 271 Broadway.
The Southern Railway paid $7,000 a year in rent for its offices in the circa 1893 National Shoe and Leather Bank Building at 271 Broadway, on the southwest corner of Chambers Street. This building was replaced with a 28-story skyscraper around 1910.
Alexander actively marketed the Southern Railway, placing national ads promoting events such as Mardi Gras and Atlanta conventions, which would attract numerous rail passengers from New York, Baltimore, and other eastern cities on the rail line. He also promoted himself by sharing work stories or little snippets of conversations that he overheard during his day, like this snipped below.
The Great Possum Escape at the Southern Railway Office
By December 1904, when this next story took place, the Southern Railway had a second New York City office at 1185 Broadway, on the northwest corner of West 28th Street, in a building attached to the Fifth Avenue Theatre.
According to the New York World, Alexander “gave an impromptu exhibition of how to handle a possum” on New Year’s Eve that year. “His appearance in the role of an animal trainer was in the railway office at 28th Street and Broadway, in the presence of an awe-stricken crowd of clerks, policemen, citizens, and Sam, the porter.”
Apparently, Alexander had received a Christmas present of four large persimmon-fed possums from friends in North Carolina. The possums reached his office late, were fed, and left in their crate for the night. When Alexander came downtown the next day, he found the sidewalk in front of his office blocked by young boys with their noses glued to the big plate glass windows.
“What’s the trouble, Sam?” he asked the porter, who was running excitedly from one door to another.
“Good Lawdy, don’t you see. Eem blamed possums has done got loose and I can’t ketch ‘em.”
Alexander laughed at Sam. “What, you can’t catch a possum?” Sam explained that he was born and raised in New York and had never ever seen a possum before let alone tried to catch one.
Seeing that something had to be done as the crowd grew larger, Alexander threw off his overcoat and went inside. He gently kicked the first possum, which then played dead. Then he reached down and put his forefinger under its tail.
Perhaps these were the large windows at 1815 Broadway where the young boys had pressed their noses to watch the possums running about the offices of the Southern Railway. The Fifth Avenue Theatre (former Apollo Hall), which had a main entrance on West 28th Street, is just to the left of this circa 1900 photo.
The possum curled its tail curled around his finger, allowing Alex to lift it back into the crate. He did the same with the other three possums.
“You see, I was raised in the South,” he told the crowd. “I’ve been possum hunting many times. When a boy I learned that all you had to do was to touch a possum’s tail. The possum will play ‘dead’ immediately and you can do anything you want to with him.”
Alex said he would send three of the possums to Southern friends living in New York City. The other he reportedly had killed and later served with candied yams—yuck (possum was a very popular Southern dish at this time).
Now, Alexander may have been a good possum wrangler, but when it came to other animals, he was apparently a bit challenged.
The Cat Burglar of West 44th Street
In 1900, Alexander Thweatt was living in a four-story apartment building at 257 West 44th Street, near 8th Avenue, pictured here in 1925 (far right, only partially visible). In 1927, all the buildings in this photo were torn down to make way for the 30-story Hotel Lincoln. New York Public Library Digital Collections
One night in March 1900, after retiring to the bedroom in his ground-floor apartment at 257 West 44th Street, he was awakened by his wife Nannie. She whispered to him, “There must be burglars in the house. I’ve heard them.”
Alex got his revolver and crept out of bed. He was groping around in the darkness when he heard a loud yell. Somehow, he managed to jump and land on top of his dining room table (I’d be very impressed if he did indeed pull off this cat-like maneuver, especially since the press once called him “a somewhat corpulent gentleman”).
He turned on a light and searched the room, but there was no burglar in sight. However, the front window was partly open.
While continuing to search the room, Alex spied a large black cat trying to get out the window. He dropped his revolver, picked up a broom, and chased the midnight cat burglar.
During the battle, the poor man sprained his right ankle, broke two window panes, smashed all the crockery on a sideboard, and upset a parlor lamp. Luckily, the lamp—if powered by kerosene–was not lit at the time.
The cat escaped without harm. Maybe, just perhaps, this cat was an ancestor of Abe Lincoln, the brave kitten who took up residence at the Hotel Lincoln, the large hotel that was constructed in 1927 on the site where Alexander and his family lived in 1900.
The Final Days of Alexander S. Thweatt and the Southern Railway
During the 1900s, the Southern Railway moved its New York City offices several times. In 1906, they moved to the ground floor of the Gilsey House at 1200 Broadway, on the northeast corner of East 29th. (Maybe the owners of the Fifth Avenue Theatre didn’t want to take any more chances with escaped possums?)
The Gilsey House at 1200 Broadway (extant), on the northeast corner of East 29th Street, celebrated its grand opening on April 15, 1871. The Southern Railway opened its midtown office here in July 1906.
By 1914, the offices of the Southern Railway had taken over the retail space once occupied by upscale jewelry store Howard & Co. at 264 Fifth Avenue, a former mansion that had been the home of New York City merchant A.T. Stewart.
Around 1913-14, the Southern Railway opened a new office at 264 Fifth Avenue, pictured here in 1940. New York City Department of Records.
Alexander died in his home at 600 West 150th Street following a brief illness on December 4, 1917. He was survived by his wife, four married daughters, a son, and four grandchildren. He was buried in Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York.
Following Alexander’s death, there were no more newspaper ads promoting the railway offices at 264 Fifth Avenue. Perhaps Southern Railway moved its offices in 1917, but the ads stopped, never to run again, when the old ticket agent died.
From the mid-1920s to 1930, the offices for Southern Railway were located at 152 West 42nd Street. A man by the whimsical name of R.H. De Butts was the Eastern passenger agent.
In 1971, Amtrak took over most intercity rail service. Southern Railway initially opted out of turning over its passenger routes to the new organization; however, it shared with Amtrak operation of its flagship train, the New Orleans-New York Southern Crescent. Under a longstanding haulage agreement, Amtrak carried the flagship train to all stops north of Washington.
By the late 1970s, growing revenue losses and expenses forced Southern to exit the passenger rail business. It handed full control of its passenger routes to Amtrak in 1979.
Today, the Crescent runs a daily train from New York City to New Orleans. I’m a big fan of trains, so this trip is on my bucket list. I’ll raise a toast for Alexander while we’re rolling through Georgia.
One of the last ads for Southern Railway during Alex S. Thweatt’s tenure as Eastern passenger ticket agent.
Over the River and Through the Woods to Gabe Case’s Place on Jerome Avenue
Sleigh-riding in Central Park, 1898. New York Public Library Digital Collections
As I sit here writing this story on the third day of January 2022, we still have not had any snow in the Hudson Valley. Well, we had a dusting of snow on Christmas Eve, but that was certainly not enough snow to go sleigh riding on a plastic toboggan let alone a horse-drawn sleigh.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, the first snowfall of the season in New York City was marked by a race in horse-drawn sleighs. Trotters of wealthy railroad men, bankers, merchants, and stablemen would race through Central Park, down Seventh Avenue, over the Central Bridge (Macombs Dam Bridge), and along Central Avenue (Jerome Avenue) to Johnny D. Barry’s, Gabe Case’s, or Judge Smith’s roadhouses in what was then the West Morrisania neighborhood of the Bronx.
The prize to the horseman who arrived first on runners without scraping the macadam was a magnum of wine or champagne, plus plenty of bragging rights. It was expected that the winner would share the magnum’s contents with his fellow horsemen at the roadhouse.
The winner of the first snowfall race would win a magnum of wine or champagne at one of the several roadhouses along Jerome Avenue, just across from Macombs Dam Bridge.
1898 poem about the sleigh-riding contest.
This era was the heyday of road racing in Harlem and the Bronx, when high-society men like William K. Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, William Rockefeller, William C. Whitney, Leonard Jerome, and Robert Bonner would put on a spectacular show by racing their trotters on snowy days and on every spring and summer afternoon.
Thousands of spectators would gather on the grassy banks of the streets to watch and cheer on their favorite trotters as they headed down Seventh Avenue in Harlem and Jerome Avenue in the Bronx.
No doubt the men had great fun racing down the street, but their real goal was Fleetwood Park racetrack, where gentlemen could trot their horses against time on a one-mile oval track.
From about 1871 to 1898, Fleetwood Park was a popular racetrack located in what was then the town of Morrisania (then Westchester County), between present-day Webster and Sheridan Avenues and 165th and 167th Streets. According to the New York City Landmarks Preservation, the last race took place there on October 8, 1897. The park was officially closed on January 1, 1898, and development along Clay Avenue began in 1901 with the construction of 28 two-family homes.
One of the favorite features of these daily equine displays were the social gatherings and suppers at the various roadhouses scattered along Jerome Avenue, on the east side of Macombs Dam Bridge.
Johnny D. Barry’s, aka The Romantic House, was the first roadhouse as one crossed over the old wooden bridge (see illustration below). Next there was Gabe Case’s place along Cromwell’s Creek, where one could get the finest fish supper. Beyond Gabe’s, about a mile farther up Jerome Avenue, was Judge Smith’s roadhouse at East 167th Street, which was just a few blocks west of Fleetwood Park.
In 1813, Robert Macomb constructed a dam across the Harlem River for his mill on Devoe’s Point. Although the state required Macomb to operate a lock to keep navigation open, only small boats could pass through the small lock at his toll bridge. The Central Bridge opened in 1861 and was replaced by the current Macombs Dam Bridge in 1895. Johnny Barry’s old roadhouse was torn down a year later.
One of the most famous customers of these popular roadhouses was William K. Vanderbilt, who ruled the horse-racing world with his trotters Aldine, Early Rose, Maud S, Lysander, and Leander. Vanderbilt, whose father (Cornelius Vanderbilt) was also a frequent customer, never missed a stopover at the three main roadhouses on a winter sleigh ride or while on his way to Fleetwood Park. At Gabe Case’s, he would rest for a while on the piazza or join his fellow horsemen in the conservatory, aka lookout tower.
William Vanderbilt with Maud S. and Aldine at Fleetwood Park in 1883.
Although Vanderbilt was the king of the racetrack, when it came to sleigh riding, no one could beat stableman and Harlem River Speedway superintendent John J. Quinn. Every year for almost 25 years in a row, Quinn won the coveted magnum of wine at Gabe Case’s roadhouse with his many trotters, including Wildwood, Lutegard, and Dexter K.
Quinn owned the Eureka boarding stables in Harlem on 124th Street just off Seventh Avenue. As the stableman once told the press, “three snowflakes meant sleighing.” He had a standing order with the stable foreman to have the fastest horse in the stable ready at the stable door at the first sign of snowfall.
John Quinn on the Harlem River Speedway with Dexter K and another horse. The Illustrated American, 1898.
Sometimes Quinn would cheat by jumping the gun too fast and dragging his sled’s runners on the bare macadam. Gabe Case would have to send him home without the magnum; a new race would take place the day after the first snowfall was adequate for proper sleigh riding along Jerome Avenue.
John Quinn with his horse Dexter K. in front of his Harlem stables in 1898. Maybe it’s just the poor quality of this news photo, but it looks like grass or macadam is still showing on the ground.
A Brief History of Gabe Case and His Jerome Avenue Roadhouse
Although all of the roadhouse owners reportedly awarded a magnum of wine or champagne to the fastest sleigh riders, Gabe Case’s place had a great reputation for several reasons.
Gabe Case’s hotel and roadhouse on Jerome Avenue. Surrounded by woodlands and close to Fleetwood Park and Cromwell’s Creek, it was a popular rendezvous spot for horsemen and fishermen. The roadhouse featured Swiss gingerbread work and a tower with a brass weather vane in the shape of a horse.
Gabe Case was born on Clinton Street in the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1830. He was married for a short time, but his wife reportedly died at a young age, sometime prior to 1880. The couple never had children.
Gabe’s first business venture was a hotel called The Fulton, which was at 18th Street and Fourth Avenue. When the Fleetwood Park racetrack opened in 1871, he took a job managing the clubhouse there. Like the other men who raced at Fleetwood, Gabe was also a horseman who enjoyed racing his chestnut trotters Tom and Jerry at the track or taking longer rides with his reliable distance horse, Decoration.
Sometime prior to 1875, a hotelier named William H. Florence built a roadhouse on Jerome Avenue, just north of present-day 162nd Street. The roadhouse property backed onto Cromwell’s Creek, named for the descendants of John Cromwell, a nephew of Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell. In the late 1700s, James Cromwell used the waters of the creek to propel his mill.
The site of Gabe Case’s hotel at the intersection of what was then Jerome Avenue and Marchwood Place is noted at the top center of this 1879 map of Morrisania.
William Florence had owned a large hotel on 154th Street and Eighth Avenue, just west of Macomb’s Dam bridge in Manhattan. He lost the property in 1873 after allowing ex-Assemblyman Tomas C. Fields to use the hotel as collateral in lieu of a $5000 bond. Fields skipped town, and Florence’s hotel was seized.
Florence’s new building had a commanding view of Jerome Avenue and the bridge, and was surrounded by a beautiful forest along Cromwell’s Creek, which was a popular place for swimming, fishing for striped bass, and ice skating.
Gabe Case took over the lease from William Florence and named it Gabe Case’s Hotel.
Gabe Case’s Hotel and the Hoboken Turtle Club are noted on the middle left of this 1885 map.
Gabe Case in perhaps his slimmer years.
In addition to the renowned sleigh-riding contests, Gabe Case hosted many events at his roadhouse, including a popular quail-eating contest and a hog-guessing contest (guess how many pounds it weighs). Gabe Case’s was also headquarters for the Hoboken Turtle Club, whose members would host annual clambakes and turtle soup dinners at the hotel. News reporters liked to point out that Gabe’s large size (at one point he reportedly weighed 285 pounds) was probably a good advertisement for his food business.
In addition to his horses, which lived in stables attached to the roadhouse, Gabe Case kept a green parrot, several canaries, and a few bull terriers at the roadhouse. During the winter months, Gabe reportedly loved to sit in the hall close to his beloved talking parrot as he greeted all the sleigh riders.
The Final Days of Gabe Case and His Roadhouse
In 1886, a museum man named George H. Huber purchased Gabe Case’s place for $25,000. The deal allowed Gabe to continue running the roadhoase–where he also lived with his nephew, Charlie Russell–until his lease expired in 1890.
On March 30, 1890, just two days before Gabe was scheduled to take over the lease at the old Mount Saint Vincent House in Central Park (which later became McGown’s Pass Tavern under Case’s proprietorship), his horse Decoration died of complications from colic. The horse, whom Gabe had purchased from Robert Bonner for $215 in 1879, was buried near the old Fleetwood Park; a monument was erected there in his honor.
Gabe postponed his move to Mount Saint Vincent, possibly due in part to his horse’s passing.
George Huber ran a museum on East 14th Street, where Harry Houdini reportedly performed when he was 17 and several wild wolves appeared in a performance called “Little Red Riding Hood and her pack of tamed wolves.”
Much has been written about Gabe Case’s years at McGown’s Pass Tavern, so I’m skipping that part for another story at a later time. So we’ll fast-forward to July 1901, when Huber expanded Gabe’s old Jerome Avenue roadhouse to accommodate vaudeville performances.
By this time, the interest in racing trotters along Jerome Avenue was waning, especially since Fleetwood Park had shut down a few years earlier. Gabe was still awarding the magnum of wine to sleigh riders, but now the horsemen were racing only as far as McGown’s Pass Tavern in Central Park.
On June 1, 1904, Gabe Case died in his residence at the tavern at the age of 74. A large funeral procession led from his tavern to Calvary Methodist Episcopal Church at Seventh Avenue and 129th Street–this was the first ever funeral procession through Central Park. Case was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery.
Gabe Case died at his McGown’s Pass Tavern on June 1, 1904. (Notice the horses near the entranceway.)
Eight years after Gabe Case’s death, on June 12, 1912, a fire caused considerable damage to a wing that had been added to his old roadhouse on Jerome Avenue. This building was occupied by a fight club where boxers could train and compete. The main building, including the lookout tower, was not damaged in the fire.
Three years later, Huber decided to sell all of his vast holdings on Jerome Avenue, which included 56 lots between 162nd and 170th Streets. Apparently the old roadhouse had been repaired by this time; New York State Senator George Thompson reportedly purchased it for his wife as a Christmas gift.
I’m not sure what Mrs. Thompson did with her gift, but I do know that by 1924, the old Jerome Avenue roadhouse was on its way out.
George Huber’s Jerome Avenue holdings included Gabe Case’s old roadhouse (building with tower at left) and all these other buildings pictured in 1910.
In 1924, the City of New York acquired land for a park on seven blocks to the east and west of Cromwell Avenue.
Then in 1929, the Bronx County Park Association extended Macombs Dam Park above 162nd Street along Jerome Avenue, atop the old Cromwell’s Creek. They named the park in honor of John Mullaly, a news editor and secretary of the Parks Commission.
The southwestern end of John Mullaly Park was constructed over the site of Gabe Case’s hotel and roadhouse on Jerome Avenue and 162nd Street.
Mullaly was a strong advocate of setting aside parkland in the Bronx. His efforts culminated in the 1884 New Parks Act and the city’s 1888-90 purchase of lands for Van Cortlandt, Claremont, Crotona, Bronx, St. Mary’s, and Pelham Bay Parks, as well as the Mosholu, Pelham, and Crotona Parkways.
John Mullaly park opened on August 24, 1932.
Groundbreaking for the new Yankee Stadium–which replaced the old 1923 stadium just south of East 161st Street–began in August 2006. The first ground was broken on a running track at Macombs Dam Park and at the southern end of John Mullaly Park.
Today, if you’re sitting way out in left field at the stadium, you can think about Gabe Case’s roadhouse and the famous horsemen who raced their trotters to that very location on summer afternoons or whenever it snowed in Old New York.
All that equine history took place right under your seat.
This doctored Google Earth map shows the location of the old Yankee Stadium (which is now Elson Gene Howard Field) and the new stadium. The red X marks the approximate spot of Gabe Case’s roadhouse inn on Jerome Avenue at 162nd Street.
This is not Puck, but this 19th-century dog looks like he’s enjoying the good life.
The following story took place on East 21st Street, which was once the southern boundary of the eighteenth-century Rose Hill Farm.
As this festive holiday tale was reported in The Sun on December 29, 1893, “There was much ado on Christmas Eve in the home of Mrs. Brewer, at 43 East 21st Street, and no trouble was spared in decking the towering Christmas tree, to the illumination of which on Christmas night Mrs. Brewer had invited her friends.”
Apparently, the invitations did not mention in whose honor the preparations were made for the grand party that was to take place in the four-story boarding house. So naturally, there was “great astonishment” when word leaked out that the honoree was a dog. An aristocratic dog, “well fed and plump,” to be more exact.
When the female guests arrived at the party and had assembled themselves around the tree, Puck walked into the room on his hind legs beside his mistress. He had a napkin tied around his neck.
Next to the tree was a child-size chair. Puck jumped onto the chair and watched with interest as Mrs. Anna Brewer lit the candles on the tree. When all the candles were lit, the little pug began to bark while the guests clapped their hands.
As the New York Evening World noted, “He barked his delight…and worked his Schneiderian membrane so hard sniffing at the sweets that he almost had convulsions of his uvular process.”
Puck and Anna Brewer lived at 43 East 21st Street, pictured here in 1940, many years after the boarding house had been converted to a shop and loft building. NYC Department of Records
“He wants some candy,” Mrs. Brewer said as she began pulling at some candies that she had hung on the tree. Puck caught the candies in his mouth, jumped off the chair, walked on his hind legs to a table, and helped himself to all the other delicacies that his mistress had set out for him. According to the Evening World, “he fairly wallowed in caramels and marshmallows” while the guests nearly smothered the dog with kisses.
When Puck tired of feasting on the treats, Mrs. Brewer removed his napkin. At last, the human guests were allowed to partake in the food and festivities.
A few days after the party, the Evening World wrote a snarky review of the affair:
“Has your pug dog seen Santa Claus this year? Has the dear little smudge-nosed darling had its Christmas gift? No? Ah! What a pity! What a shame! Don’t let the poor, precious pet see these remarks, then, and don’t tell it anything about that pampered pug Puck on East Twenty-first Street, who has had a Christmas tree all to himself…
There are dogs and dogs just as there are babies and babies, and we are sure there are some dogs in this town just as there are some babies in this town that did not have Christmas trees of their own. How sorry we all ought to be for those Christmas-treeless dogs who have never met Santa Claus or wore a napkin around their necks at a Yule banquet of bonbons or even felt the ultimate differentiated thrill of joy which a flea on the end of Puck’s tail must have been shaken with Christmas Eve.”
Now, perhaps Mrs. Brewer was simply rewarding her pug for stopping a burglar who had broken into her home eight months earlier.
According to the Albany Morning Express, a four-foot-tall man named George Oppinger was found in her house on the night of April 4,1893. Authorities had been on the alert for the man, after receiving a cable from Scotland Yard that he was sailing from England to New York to escape charges. He was arrested and sentenced to six years in state prison.
The article doesn’t mention anything about Puck, but perhaps the small dog alerted Mrs. Brewer to the small criminal.
Tootsie the Pug Responds
Pugs were quite popular with high-society ladies in the late 1800s and early 1900s, and, like the pugs of Alice Austen, were often photographed.
Apparently, the Evening World’s sarcasm was lost on at least one pug-adoring woman.
On January 13, 1894, the Evening World published a letter from Ida L. Follett of Dayton, Ohio, that that she had addressed to Mrs. Brewer. In the letter, Mrs. Follett wrote:
“I didn’t think any one was as foolish(?) over a dog as I am, for I also had a tree for my Tootsie. The article pleased me so.” Mrs. Follett went on to write that her pug was six years old, and that she had bottle-fed Tootsie since she was a baby (as the mother dog had such a large litter and could not feed them all).
Like Puck, Tootsie was a spoiled dog. For Christmas that year, she received an ottoman, a combination bank, a session with a professional photographer, some toys, and some pennies for the bank.
Tootsie at least shared some of her wealth: she reportedly saved her pennies each year until February 4, when Mrs. Follett would buy flowers for the grave of her sister, who had loved the little dog just as much as she did. (Maybe Mrs. Brewer got some noble ideas after reading this letter.)
Love Lane and the Rose Hill Farm
If you enjoy New York City history, the following is a detailed history of Love Lane and Rose Hill Farm, in what is now the Rose Hill neighborhood, just north of Gramercy Park and west of Kips Bay.
Prior to 1827, a private lane called the Abingdon Road, aka Love Lane, ran on or near the line of 21st Street. On the east side, Love Lane extended to today’s Park Avenue South, then angled northeast to Third Avenue and East 23rd Street. On the west side, it extended to the Fitzroy Road (Eighth Avenue).
According to Charles Hemstreet, author of Nooks and Corners of Old New York (1899), the lane originally took its name from the oldest daughter of Admiral Sir Peter Warren, who married the Earl of Abingdon (the lane was the northern limit of Warren’s 300-acre estate). The name Love Lane was established in the late 18th century.
Hemstreet theorized that Love Lane became a nickname for the Abingdon Road because it was a favorite road for dating couples to take long carriage rides out to the country (which is what midtown Manhattan was then called). “The generally accepted idea is that being a quiet and little traveled spot, it was looked upon as a lane where happy couples might drive, far from the city, and amid green fields and stately trees confide the story of their loves.”
The old lovers’ lane began to disappear in 1827, when 21st Street was ordered opened. In 1899, six years after this story of Puck the pug took place, there were still five old houses on West 21st Street that had once existed on Love Lane: 25, 27, 51, 53, and 55 (the latter three were thought to have been a single large house serving as a tavern).
Evening Post, January 30, 1827
Another small private road–Rose Hill Street–which ran on a northwest angle from Love Lane to the Eastern Post Road, traversed the land on which Puck and Anna Brewer’s apartment building at 43 East 21st Street was constructed in the mid-1800s. This street was named for the Rose Hill Farm, a large farm and country estate owned by the Honorable John Watts.
Love Lane (red arrow) and Rose Hill Farm are shown on the Randel Farm Maps, 1818-1820. The blue arrows mark the location of Rose Hill Street and 43 East 21st Street.
John Watts, the son of Robert and Mary Watts, was born in New York on April 5, 1715. Following his education abroad, he returned to New York to become one of the most eminent lawyers in the country.
Among his many accomplishments, Watts was a member of the New York State Assembly, he founded the New York Society Library, and he was the first president of the New York City Hospital (now the Weill Cornell Medical Center), which he also helped in organizing.
Anne De Lancey,1723-1776
On November 13, 1747, five years after his marriage to Anne de Lancey, Watts obtained about 130 acres of land bounded by the Bloomingdale Road (Broadway), Eastern Post Road, and Love Lane. The farm was called the Rose Hill Farm, named for the Watts family’s ancestral estate in Scotland.
John Watts purchased the property—originally part of the Stuyvessant farm—from his brother-in-law, Lieutenant-Governor James de Lancey. He built a mansion on a hill just north and west of East 24th Street and Second Avenue, where he and Anne lived with their many children during summer months (Rose Hill was their country retreat; the Watts family also had a “city” home at 3 Broadway, facing Bowling Green.)
A long roadway lined with elm trees and flanked by fields and woodland extended southeasterly toward the Rose Hill mansion from the Eastern Post Road and present-day East 28th Street.
Rose Hill was the favorite resort of the aristocracy during this time, as John and Anne were well connected with New York City’s leading families and held an important place in society.
John Watts, 1715-1789
The Final Years of Rose Hill Farm
Alas, Watts’ loyalty to the King of England forced him and Anne to leave New York and flee to Wales in 1776 near the start of the Revolutionary War. Anne died a few months later, and John never returned to America.
The family’s large estate, including Rose Hill and the house on Broadway, was confiscated by the Committee of Forfeiture. After the war ended, his oldest sons, Robert and John, unsuccessfully petitioned to reclaim their properties. They were eventually allowed to buy back the properties in 1784, which included vast holdings in ships, mills, factories, banks, and investment houses.
In 1786, John Watts Jr. sold a large chunk of the property to Nicholas Cruger, then one of the most prominent merchants in New York City (and a mentor of a young Alexander Hamilton). Watts retained the southwestern portion of the farm as his country estate.
The main house at Rose Hill had burned down in 1779 during the British occupation. Cruger rebuilt the estate house and all the farm buildings destroyed during the Revolution. Then in February 1790, he advertised that Rose Hill Farm was for sale.
Nicholas Cruger, 1743-1800
The lengthy ad that appeared in the New-York Daily Advertiser gives a full picture of Rose HIll at this point in time:
A Farm for Sale. That very elegant and pleasantly situated FARM, Rose Hill, lying on the banks of and adjoining the east river, three miles from this city, containing 92 acres of valuable land, in the highest cultivation, chiefly in mowing ground, the whole well inclosed, principally with stone fences of a superior construction, bounding on the public road 1175 feet; a pleasant avenue through the orchard in front of the house, also a good road that comes out into the bowery land, next to the honorable James Duane’s; on the premises there is an elegant dwelling house of 50 by 37 feet; a commodious farm house of 50 by 20 feet; an excellent barn with carriage houses and stable, 20 by 40 feet, a hovel with a large hay loft over the whole 96 by 15 feet, corn crib, fowl house &c. all the buildings are new and well finished in the most commodious manner, a fine bearing orchard of 260 engrafted apple trees of the most approved sorts, and a great variety of other kinds of the best English and American fruits, a thriving nursery of upwards of 9000 young fruit trees, numbers of which are inoculated and engrafted; an elegant garden, with the finest collection of flowers, flowering shrubs, strawberry, asparagus beds, etc. ten acres in wheat and rye.
Cruger did not end up selling the land; he instead leased the property to General Horatio Gates–ironically, a Revolutionary War hero–in September 1790. General Gates established his country seat at Rose Hill, which, in addition to the large, two-story frame and brick estate house, included barns, outhouses, and fruit and vegetable gardens. He and his wife, Mary, kept only the area around the manor house for themselves, renting out most of the surrounding farmland.
The site of the Rose Hill mansion, farm house, and barn is noted on this 1827 Rose Hill Farm map (area in yellow), when the property was owned by Betram Peter Cruger. The site of the future Bull’s Head Market is also noted on 24th Street, just west of Third Avenue.
General and Mrs. Gates received many prominent visitors at Rose Hill, including Thomas Paine and General Tadeusz Kosciuszko, a. Polish military engineer who served in the Revolution and designed American forts such as West Point.
The General passed away in April 1806, but Mary Gates continued to live at Rose Hill until her death in 1810. The home was then leased to Gamaliel Smith, a merchant who established his summer retreat there from 1811 to 1815.
Eliza Leaycraft Smith, the young daughter of Gamaliel Smith, described Rose Hills as follows:
“…a beautiful place on the east river, about 24th St. Two blocks below Bellevue hospital, which was commenced while we lived there. This place was only three miles from the Battery, and you would have supposed you were at least thirty miles from the city. The house was large and handsome, standing on a hill with a gentle slope to the farm house, [a] nice large building, with several barns; beyond the lawn was very expansive with numbers of splendid trees...A carriage road of white pebbles surrounded the house, & a beautiful grove of cedars led to the garden which was filled with every variety of the best and choicest fruit.“
In 1812, the Rose Hill property was surveyed and partitioned into 1,010 individual lots to be divided among the heirs of Nicholas Cruger, which included his second wife, Ann Rogers, and his eight children.
Following this event, one of the first major developments occurred in 1826 when an association of New York butchers purchased lots along 24th Street, just west of Third Avenue, for the establishment of a cattle market and tavern known as the Bull’s Head Tavern (the tavern was destroyed by fire in 1841).
Evening World, June 1830. The “Alms House” referred to in this ad was the Alms House Hospital, predecessor to Bellevue Hospital.
Most of the area around Rose Hill Farm, however, retained much of its rural, undeveloped character during the 1820s and 1830s, as noted in the 1827 map above.
By 1830, the old Rose Hill mansion had been converted to a boarding house, as advertised in the Evening World in the summer of 1830. The home was still standing until at least 1835 (the “large and substantial” mansion was advertised for sale in April 1835), and the barn reportedly remained on 24th Street for a bit longer.
As for the four-story boarding house at 43 East 21st Street where Puck and Mrs. Brewer lived, that building was demolished and replaced with a four-story brick parking garage (41-47 East 21st Street) in 1955. The building is currently being converted to a self-storage facility due to an uptick demand for self-storage as a result of Covid-19.
Patches was a hero cat in December 1912 for saving five lives in a four-story building on West 31st Street.
My latest posts celebrated a few helpful horses and heroic dogs of Old New York that came to the rescue during the holiday season. Now, it’s time to celebrate some holiday-time hero cats who saved the lives of their humans and kittens in emergency situations.
Here are just a few stories of hero cats from Brooklyn and New York newspapers published from 1904 to 1932, in chronological order.
Christmas Eve 1904: The Cat Who Saved Her Human Family
This first hero cat tale is not about a cat that lived in New York City, but because she lived just across the Hudson River in Guttenberg, New Jersey, the New York Press published the heroic tale on Christmas Day.
According to the story, the unnamed cat was “a plain, home-loving, child-petted American mouser with no pretentions to pedigree and with an absolute detestation of blue ribbons.” She lived with Joseph Gerlich, his wife, and their three young children on Hudson Avenue.
On December 23, Joseph left a coal fire burning to heat their bedrooms. Toward daylight on Christmas Eve, he was awakened by a frantic scratching and piteous mewing at the door to his room. He rolled out of bed and discovered the room was filled with gas fumes.
Joseph broke open a window and stuck his head out to take in some fresh air. As soon as his brain cleared, he awakened his wife and dragged her to the window. Then he brought their oldest child to the source of fresh air.
When he got to the rooms of his younger children–Henry, age 4, and Annie, age 2, the children were unconscious. When the fresh air did not revive his children, he ran to the nearest physician’s office, carrying them in his arms. It took Joseph and the doctor two hours of “heroic work” to revive the two little ones.
You’ll be happy to know that the cat, who joined the family as a kitten, survived and reportedly lived happily ever after with the Gerlich family. As Joseph told the New York Press, the cat was worth more than all the money in the world, and had earned all the milk and bread she could eat from then until the rest of her natural life.
1912: Patches, The Stray Cat Who Saved 5 Lives
Patches the cat saved five lives at 16 West 31st Street, pictured here in 1940. NYC Department of Records
Patches, a dark grey tabby cat, was not always welcome in the mixed-use building at 16 West 31st Street. In fact, one of his worst enemies was Daniel De Lena, an advertising agent who did not tolerate the cat’s persistency in annoying him on a daily basis.
But a few weeks before Christmas 1912, the cat’s annoying habits saved five lives.
According to the New York Press, one morning Patches jumped on Daniel’s shoulder and then kept running to and from a rear window while excitedly meowing. At first, Daniel kicked at Patches and tried to shoo the cat away.
But finally, the cat’s persistency paid off. When Daniel got up to look out the first-floor window, he saw that the rear of the building was in flames. He ran through the four-story brick building, waking several people who lived and worked there.
Several people, including Joseph Henderson (an art publisher on the top floor), Anton C. Berthon (a ribbon manufacturer on the third floor), and J. Camacho (a student visiting someone on the second floor), had to be rescued by firefighters (Camacho was “dragged out half suffocated.”) Dressmakers Caroline Meyers and Mrs. A. M. Wetsel were carried out unconscious from the third floor.
The fire, which had started in some defective insulation and rapidly spread to the front of the building, caused about $1,000 in damage. Daniel adopted Patches the cat, and told reporters the cat was now valued at $1,000.
1919: Life-Saving Hero Cats of Brooklyn
The Pulmotor, invented by Heinrich Draeger in 1907, was the first mechanical resuscitator used outside of a hospital setting. The FDNY began distributing the machines to select fire companies in January 1914 due to a steady increase in gas emergencies.
Two weeks before the first day of Hanukkah 1919, the Evening World reported on a Brooklyn cat that saved nine lives. Not the proverbial feline nine lives, but the nine lives of Jacob Braunstein, his wife, Yetta, and their seven children.
Similar to the Gerlich’s cat, the Braunstein’s cat began crying and sounding the alarm when gas began filling up their home at 433 Flushing Avenue in the South Williamsburg neighborhood. The cries woke up 13-year-old David, who opened several windows with assistance from Policemen Miller and McDermott of the Clymer Street station.
Neighbors who also heard the boy’s and cat’s cries for help came to the rescue of the other family members, who were all unconscious.
The police officers administered first aid to Saul (12), Lillian (14), Samuel (17), Bessie (9), Joseph (5), and Esther (6 months old). An ambulance surgeon from St. Catherine’s Hospital was able to revive everyone with Pulmotors.
About 10 days after this incident, another of many hero cats involving gas emergencies came to the rescue of Mr. and Mrs. Schults at 240 Stockholm Street in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn.
Reportedly, Mr. Schults had left a light burning in the dining room before he went to bed, and a gust of wind coming through an open window blew out the gas flame. The “illuminating gas” escaped from the jet and began filling the house.
Bertha saved Mr. and Mrs. Schults in their apartment at 240 Stockholm Street.
Bertha, described as a large black cat, was sleeping on a sofa and began choking on the gas fumes. She struggled into the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and began moaning pitifully. The couple tried to get up, but they were too weak from the escaping gas.
Mrs. Schults was able to call out for a neighbor in the adjoining apartment for assistance. Dr. Cartright of the Wyckoff Heights Hospital arrived and revived Mr. and Mrs. Schults (probably with a Pulmotor).
1923: Starving Woman Saved by Cat
One week before Christmas 1923, the meows of a cat saved the life of Mrs. Ellen Richards, a 74-year-old woman who was found unconscious in the rear of a hallway on Bushwick Avenue near Siegel Street.
According to the Brooklyn Standard Union, Policeman Ready of the Stagg Street station heard the cat’s cries and found the woman cuddled up behind a door leading to the cellar. She had wrapped herself in newspapers in lieu of a blanket.
Policeman Ready summoned Surgeon Mulle from St. Catharine’s Hospital, who rushed Mrs. Richards to the hospital. There, she was revived and given warm food. She said she was homeless and had no friends or family.
As was the case back then, Mrs. Richards was charged with vagrancy and ordered to appear before Magistrate Dale in the Bridge Plaza Police Court. She was remanded to jail pending further investigation. I could not find any more information about Mrs. Richards or the hero cat that found her.
100-102 Williams Avenue, Brooklyn. NYC Department of Records, 1940
1932: Minnie, a Cat Who Saved 36 Lives
Minnie was a tough New York City mouser who worked in the cellar of a three-story building at 102 Williams Avenue in the northern section of New Lots, Brooklyn. A dairy business owned by Samuel Jaspe was on the ground floor.
On Christmas Eve 1932, the “nondescript gray and white” cat gave birth to five gray and white Maltese kittens. As the Brooklyn Times Union noted, “Minnie’s husband, a traveling man” was not around to witness the birth.
Not long after the kittens were born, at 11:30 a.m., some trash and boxes in the cellar caught fire. Samuel called for the fire department.
When firemen arrived a few minutes later, they saw Minnie emerging from the “smoke-belching cellar door.” She had a tiny newborn kitten in her mouth, which she carefully laid under the stoop at 100 Williams Avenue.
Brooklyn Times Union, December 29, 1932
Minnie made two more trips into the smoky cellar, each time saving another nine lives. Sadly, a fourth and fifth trip was too much for the hero mother cat: Seeing that the smoke was getting the better of her, and with flames now reaching up to the store above, the fireman had to stop her from saving her last two kittens.
Minnie reportedly fought to enter the inferno, but when she was finally convinced that her two kittens were lost, she hurriedly returned to the three babies she had saved.
After the fire was extinguished, photographers arrived to take pictures of the heroic mother. But while they were adjusting their cameras, she disappeared. A search was started.
A few minutes later, a small boy appeared with Minnie. In her mouth was one of the last two kittens, sooty and soaking wet but still alive.
Damage from the fire was slight and confined to the basement. Samuel Jaspe found a new home for Minnie and her surviving four kittens with the Levine family, who lived in an apartment above the dairy business.
Brooklyn Times-Union, December 27, 1926. The Brooklyn Times-Union and New York Daily News reported slightly different numbers of barges and lives saved.
“The barking of two dogs, answering each other on the wind and sleet swept East River saved the lives of more than 80 men, women and children asleep in the cabins of a line of 40 coal barges, torn from their moorings, at the foot of East 96th Street.”–New York Daily News, December 27, 1926
The Winter Refugees of New York
During the late 1800s and early 1900s, a city-full of people formed close-knit communities along New York City’s waterfront in wintertime. They did not live in the city proper, but rather in small cabins on coal barges moored at various docks in Manhattan and Brooklyn.
The winter refugees colony at the foot of East 96th Street would have looked similar to this one at Coenties Slip in 1905.
Throughout the spring, summer, and fall, these coal barges dotted the Great Lakes and large rivers. But at the first signs of winter, the boat captains would go in search of a safe haven for their boats and their families who lived on board with them.
The hundreds of men, women, and children who spent the winters on their coal boats in Brooklyn and Manhattan were called the winter refugees of New York.
The Makings of a Disaster on East 96th Street
Fanny, the hero dog of the coal barge R.T. Davies, with Captain Fred Graves, Captain Aldrich, and their wives.
In the winter of 1926-27, a fleet of 30 to 40 coal barges laden with 50,000 tons of coal were moored together and anchored for the season at the foot of East 96th Street. The docks at 96th Street were the landing place for all barges with coal or merchandise destined for upper Manhattan and the Bronx.
Approximately 60 or more men, women, and children made up this small community of winter refugees. They spent the first day in their new home for the winter on Christmas Eve.
That winter the fleet comprised two lead boats: the J.J. Reynolds, led by Captain Jim MacLennon, and the R.T. Davies, with Captain Fred Graves at the helm. Behind them, lashed together three abreast, were the other barges.
On Christmas day, the families dressed in their best and gathered for holiday celebrations. Several dogs, including Fanny of the R.T. Davies, Sandy of the barge J.J. Reynolds, and Peggy of the New York City fireboat George B. McClennan (docked at East 99th Street), shared friendly back-and-forth banter throughout the festive day.
But that night there was a sleet storm accompanied by 50-mile-an-hour gale winds. While the winter refugees were sleeping in their cabins, the moorings that tied the fleet together and held the clump of canal boats to the shore slipped. As on newspaper noted, “So suddenly and without sudden motion did this occur, that not a soul on board of any of the barges was awakened.”
The barges were headed for the Hell Gate Bridge, pictured here in 1930. Notice all the small islands and churning waters, and imagine what dangers were awaiting the winter refugees in the middle of the night.
The tide and cross-currents at this point in the East River are perilously strong and tricky–that’s why sailors have called it Hell Gate. With the detached fleet of barges caught up in the surge, a tragedy was in the making. One ounce of bad luck could have meant sudden death for the sleeping families.
Only a week earlier, the wreck of the motor launch Linseed King, which happened in the icy waters of the East River only moments after the boat left the 96th Street pier, killed 33 men. The tragedy was still on the minds of the canal men wintering on the pier…
Fortunately for the winter refugees on late Christmas night, there were two occupants in the colony who were wide awake: Fanny, a cross-breed Airdale and shepherd, and Sandy, a cross between an Airdale and an Alaskan husky dog.
When the boats broke loose, Sandy sank his teeth into the bedclothes of Captain MacLennon, who was sleeping on his bunk. The large husky showed his fangs and growled. Fanny went onto the boat deck and started barking and growling as the barges began heading east toward the nearby Hogsback Reef and the rocks of Hell Gate.
A Miracle on East 99th Street
Three blocks away, the city fireboat George B. McClellan was tied up at the foot of 99th Street. Fire Lieutenant John Hughes and his crew of 16 men were below deck. All cuddled up on an old coat on a bench in the McClellan’s cabin was Peggy, a fluffy white spitz dog who served as mascot–not watchdog–of the fireboat.
Hearing Fanny’s barks for help, Peggy awoke from her snooze and sprang from her comfy bed. She leaped through a partly open hatch and landed on the boat’s icy deck.
Looking out through the darkness, the little dog began to answer Fanny’s staccato yelps for help on the R.T. Davies. Barking at the top of her lungs, Peggy aroused Lt. Hughes and the other sleeping men. They knew that something must have been very wrong for their mascot to be barking as if she were being murdered.
Lt. Hughes was the first to respond to Peggy’s barks. At the sight of him, Peggy doubled her efforts, changing her barks to deafening howls as she made sure she faced in the direction of the danger.
Lt. Hughes leaned over the gunwale and aimed his light at a ghostlike fleet of barges drifting toward the treacherous rocks and currents of Hell Gate.
The George B. McClellan fireboat responded to Fanny’s distress barks for help. The McClellan, named for NYC Mayor George Brinton McClellan Jr., operated as a fireboat from 1904 to September 1953, when it was wrecked in an explosion. Marine Engineer John D. McKean was killed in the explosion.
On the canal barge R.T. Davies, Captain Frederick Graves began shouting along with Fanny’s howls for help. Half dressed, the members of the coal barge families ran from their cabins and joined in the barking and shouting. Soon, the winter refugees heard the long shrill blast of the fireboat, followed by many short blasts summoning other ships for help.
Back on the McClellan fireboat, two pilots were posted at the wheel and ready for action. A line was thrown to the foremost barge just as the cluster of boats moved swiftly toward Hogsback Reef and the piers of Hell Gate Bridge.
This map shows the dangerous journey of the barges. New York Daily News, December 27, 1926
Using clever maneuvering and full power, Lt. Hughes attempted to herd the boats and head them off Mill Rock into the center of the stream. But the fireboat was no match for coal-laden barges.
Within minutes, the tugboat Frank A. Furst, under the command of Captain John Jones, responded to the fireboat’s distress signal. The tug and the fireboat put their noses against the J.J. Reynolds and, through combined effort, were able to push the large, heavy mass away from Mill Rock, the whirlpool, and the upper end of Welfare Island (previously called Blackwell’s Island and now known as Roosevelt Island).
Despite the gale winds, Lt. Hughes managed to fasten a line to the Reynolds. The tugboat steamed down river toward the end of the runaway barges and tossed a line onto another barge to secure that end.
Through the western channel between Welfare Island and Man-of-War reef, the fireboat and tug maneuvered the heavy boats in the wind-freshened currents. It was not until the coal barges reached the lower end of Welfare Island that the heavy mass was under control.
Once the caravan reached the Brooklyn shore, a U.S. dredge with a crew of three men was added to the rescue party. At approximately 8 a.m., the barges were finally tied down to the American Export line’s pier at the foot of Kent Street, Greenpoint, as well as along the Newtown Creek.
Lt. Hughes was able to head the boats off Mill Rock (circled at top) into the center of the river. They spun safely past Hogsback reef (circled at right), away from the whirlpool and the upper end of Welfare Island (present-day Roosevelt Island). Late 19th-century map of Hell’s Gate.
One of the large obstacles the barges had to avoid was a man-made island called the Man-of-War (now Belmont Island). The small island was created with excavated rubble from the Steinway Tunnels project for trolleys, which linked Manhattan with piano manufacture William Steinway’s company town, Steinway Village, in Queens (the tunnels are now used by the 7 train). Steinway died before the tunnels’ completion, and financier August Belmont Jr. finished the project in 1907.
Once they were safely tied up, the fireboat and tug were ready to take the women and children ashore. But the families didn’t want to leave the barges. They put on warm clothes and drank coffee in the cabins while offering Peggy “choice dainties from their galley cupboards.”
Peggy, the mascot hero of FDNY fireboat George B. McClellan, with Clara Pierrepont, December 1926, New York Daily News.
Many of the barge captains thanked their human rescuers for saving them in the nick of time. Some folk offered a prayer of gratitude for Peggy for responding to Fanny’s howls for help.
Fanny and Sandy were rewarded by their barge families with juicy chunks of steak, but it was Peggy who received the most praise in all of New York. She had proven that a mascot can truly deliver good luck.
Did You Know?
Some of the largest colonies of winter refugees were located in Brooklyn’s Erie Basin and Atlantic Basin, but there were also several communities in Manhattan.
In addition to the colony at 96th Street, there was also a small barge community at the foot of 33rd Street on the Hudson River and at Coenties Slip, an artificially created berth in lower Manhattan for ships and other vessels.
As one newspaper noted in 1905, “A merrier, happier colony is not to be found in New York than the tenants of the cabins of the canal boats.” The cabins were tiny but tidy; most were divided into two rooms: a kitchen with a cooking range and a general living room that served as parlor, sitting room, library, and bedroom.
A colony of winter refugees at the Atlantic Basin in 1873. New York Public Library Digital Collections
The piers were their Main Street, where the canalers would stroll and catch up on the latest news and gossip with their neighbors. The barge decks served as yards for the children and dogs, and for hanging the clothes out to dry on wash day.
The winter refugees made the most of their unique living conditions, and in fact may have had more of a social life than those living ashore in traditional homes.
The adults enjoyed nightly dances, card parties, live theater, and poetry readings, oftentimes dedicating an empty canal boat for use as a community center for social activities. During the day, the women could go shopping at the department stores and have purchases delivered to their cabin door. The butcher, iceman, and baker called for morning orders, and the children attended public schools.
The Trinity Church Corporation even provided a reading room and library for the winter refugees at Coenties Slip.
Winter refugees lived almost normal lives on their canal boats. New York Times, 1905
One big drawback: There was no running water, so the men would have to haul five or six pails of water a day from distant faucets for cooking and washing. (The barge residents only took baths in the summer, when they could bathe in the rivers.) They also had to rely on oil lamps for light and large coal stoves for heat.
In addition to those who lived on coal barges, there were two other distinct groups of winter refugees who sought shelter in the New York Harbor. Those who hauled grain along the Erie Canal were called Westerners. Those who hauled agricultural products from New England and Canada were Northerners.
Mrs. George Leonard and her daughter Dorothy hang the wash on their barge in a small colony at Gowanus Bay, Brooklyn, 1939. The large Leonard family could not afford to live on shore, so the parents and four children all shared the tiny two-room cabin.
The Westerners had a raised cabin in the bow of the boat to keep their horses, which were used when the boats were “walked” from Albany to Buffalo (note the horse in the illustration above). In the winter, they would loan their horses to New York State farmers. The Northern men wintered their horses at their headquarter stables in Troy, New York.
The Last of the Winter Refugees
By the 1940s, there were only a few dozen or so winter refugees who hunkered down in the New York Harbor when the New York State Barge Canal shut down for the season. The men were now leaving their wives and children at home during the winter months, returning home themselves on weekends and holidays.
For those families who stayed together in the winter, poverty was often the reason for living in the small floating communities (they could not afford to rent a home on shore). But these families tended to keep to themselves–gone were the glory days of community centers and gatherings and children romping on boat decks with their pet dogs.
Barge colony, foot of Columbus Street, Brooklyn, in 1940.
