Old Home

--written for Old Home Week,
  found in The Bradford Era, 1909

When seated on the hotel porch, the natives used to tell
How Kennedy, Walker and Solomon had struck a famous well.
The Croaker well, near Tarport, we were given to understand,
Would probably be a gusher when she got into the sand.
How well she gushed, it matters not, but this we all do know.
She set the boys to thinking in the oil fields down below.
Now a rush was made to Bradford by the oil-producing band,
To get the gravity of the oil, likewise to test the sand.
Prolific was not the term they used when speaking other production;
They booker for a little pool, quickly doomed to destruction.
The village was not the city as we see it here today.
With streets all paved and buildings erected for to stay.
For Main Street was a puddle of mud with danger marks galore.
To guide the traveler from the spots where you’d find him nevermore.
The Bradford House, located where the waiting room now stands,
Was crowded to its utmost with the oil-producing bands.
For this was then the only house to feed the coming throng;
But sad, alas, she met her fate and remained not very long.
Quintuple Hill was barren, not a well was thereupon.
To grace its lofty height and add lustre to the town;
But all at once the scene was changed, like mushrooms in a night,
The hill was covered from end to end as derricks rose in sight.
The Tuna was a horrid thing, when the town she would disgrace,
When backing up, her waters from the Douglass mill dam race.
And covered all the streets so deep that boats could glide about,
That water within the houses flowed that drove the inmates out.
The Erie was the only road to bring you into town,
Her cars were not the slickest, nor her service just renown.
The depot was a stopping place, no truer words are said.
That it was not good for man or beast, it simply was a shed.
We shall not criticize this famous little town,
But just to show its ‘up’ in life together with its ‘down.’
When people began to realize that the earth was full of grease,
They made a rush for Bradford and hustled for a lease.
And oh, my, how she spilled it out, from valley and from hill,
The Standard’s tanks were scarcely built when each quickly they would fill.
Until the Standard cried aloud, ‘Stop the drill or surely we’ll be bound
To give you notice that we’re full and let your oil run on the ground.’
Notwithstanding all these obstacles, the town began to grow.
The population did increase 20,000 souls or so.
When her citizens with one accord proclaimed it was a pity
To keep the town in swaddling clothes, she must become a city.
No sooner was this said than done, and then did they begin
To pave her streets and build her blocks by filling gaps within.
Industries springing into life, like magic in a night.
Her fame now began to grow, her future looking bright.
Hotels and banks, exchanges and opera house as well,
Would grace a city twice her size, they really look so swell.
Her clean paved streets are models, none with them do compare,
While electric cars and three trunk lines her patronage do share.
Her officials and her businessmen, all citizens likewise,
Have put their shoulders to the wheel, her fame to emphasize.
Inviting back the friends of yore, and shout with one refrain,
(There's nothing better than Bradford in sunny weather or in rain.)
Bradford raises high her beacon light, invites old friends to seek
Hospitality within her realms, at the coming Old Home Week.
She promises to all who come, her welcome shall not wane,
From the time they step into the town ’til they leave for home again.
Her gates will soon begin to swing inward, if you please,
The latch will be outside the gate, the banners to the breeze.
Let nothing prevent your coming, whether living far or near,
For ‘Welcome, Welcome, Welcome’ will be the slogan while you’re here.