The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1833-1916, 1904-10-04
COOD-BY TO SUNKEN VILLAGE.
RELIC or OLD GOATtILLE NEAR
PARK CIRCLE DOOMED.
Big Elathpuse TO he Buiit. so sauattcrs
Had 10 Move--Traditions or u Quaint
SpOt-pVe, ROOsis on Ridge Pole AMI
Chants q Death song Till Cop Comes.


SDOt-ppe, RO0sls on Ridge Pole and
Chants q Death song Till Cop Comes.
The Sunken Village is no more. That
queer relic of earlier days which squatted
down in hole Mt Broadway and Sixty
first street, only two blocks from tho Circle,
with its show houses and cab stands and
automobile garages and electric signs,
was deserted last night, II will be effaced
completely In month.
Laet month the inhabitants received
notice to quit. They had IA big moving
day yeeterday Their household furniture
and wagons and dogs and ponies and goats
were removed during the afternoon. Last
night the sole remaining inhabitant was
Henry Jurst, who lives in the very oldest
and ouaintest house of them all. He's
hanging on because he thinks the new
owners have done" him in the matter Of
rents. These new owners, the United
States Realty and Improvement Com
pany, are going to put up an apartment
house, and they won't have TO dig any
cellars.
Ever since Broadway was graded past
the Park entrance the Sunken Village has
been there. Pedestrians looked over a
high fence on Its roof tops 1t is just a
reminder of whut all the upper West Side
was within the memory of middle aged
people-in the time when the Harlem
squatter and his goat wer stock funny
paper joke. Other surrounding tracts were
improved Streets were q AIDED and built
UP, but through combinati ion of circum-
stances the owners Of the Sc lots never
improved their property. Tradition in the
village has it that it sank to its level of 20
~ 1 81
Of nature. That is rot so; it didn't ink,
but the surrounding land rose.
It is a tangle Of sha mites scrambled to-
gether any old way. In the corner is a
genuine log house. Its surface has been
smoothed away, so that no rough bark
appears. but 1t Is II log house just the
same. Its upper story has fallen into ruin
and its roof has sagged away from the
chimney; hut the ground floor is inhabited
by that same Henry Jurst who refuses to
move. In the opposite corner is little
shanty that looks like a before-the-war
slave cabin. Over it runs pumpkin vine
which nearly. hides it. Between these
Some Of them are ruined and deserted,
and it has been great PLACE for night
mixed ale parties Of Tender on toughs.
causing the police some trou bio at times.
The inhabitants were pedlers and small
,xpressmen, who slowed away tn cir wagons
4 the chinks between the shanti-e.
John +. Hackett, original living lnhabitant
lard, poet and historian OF the Sunken
Village, drank free all day while he retailed
% rubbernecks and reporters the tale OF
it's glorious past. Between cantos. he
helped pass bedsEeads and crockery and
loose boards over the fence. Hackett is
81 years old, and he has lived there
thirty three years. His house looked once
upon an alley. running betNteen Broad.
way and Columbus avenue, but they closed
the alley long ago, and his front door is
bang against the foundations of a big flat
house. By putting plank bridge across
through trap door In the roof.
oldest Twin inhahitant. all right. all
right" said Poet Hackett. There wasn't
no cars on Broadway when was kid,
at iOsth street, and the boss beer gardiner
had to buy up the stage line and run 1t
free to get customers, 1t was that Tar out.
They was a farm where the armory on
Columbus avenue Is now and just lot
Of frame houses along the avenue. One
time they brought up the elevated to Sixty
first and locomotive got pushed OF the
elevated and spilled on the farm and
second street and Tenth avenue they
had dog fights. ] used to be the boy
that packed the dog in a sack. There
amt no fun like that nowadays My people
lem. but stayed here and got to be poet
Want to hear my prettiest pome? It's
Thsn Mr.. Hackett tlnburdened himself
as follows:
In the sunfen Village do dwell.
Now my troubles will tell
About a crowd of fellers
That use all kinds Of slang.
d f6 5stas s6e fs ssnf se ' Vlias. gang
They call me Turk.
Around the streets they'll roam,
Ard .S Mhe1ssvsI they get It. ,d pint o, beer
And at our doors they'll bang.
As the sunken Village gang.
There's a lot more to it, said Mr..
might get 1t copyrighted and do me.
Il was big kid when they graded the
And then they got swell and flossy and
put UP apartment houses-and here they
are. SO doggone respectable that we've
got to move.
When the shades OF night had fallen and
the last express wagon had moved on Mr..
Hackett went across his plank bridge to the
roof Of his desolate dwelling and sat astride
the ridgepole and pointed with the pail
from which he had drawn inspiration all
day and sang mournfully.
dAl gone away" said Mr.. Hackett, poet,
TO such as 'rubbered' over the fence. All
gone away n moved. Me an Billy For
gifts an my boss-jes' moved my boss an
bis ole blind horse an the horse said to
me-Nossir, won't tell my boss's name.
It's my secret"
The policeman on the beat come along
Just then and ordered Mr.. Hackett of his
roof tree.
"All right, boss said the poet "Jes'
want to sing my death song then III 60"
The cop tried TO cross the bridge, but
Mr.. Hackett deity pulled it in and slung
1t into the yard. And while the arm OF
The law looked for pole, he sang:
have a daughter Mary
The fellers calls her Name,
She keeps company with the leader.
Mahoney is his name.
II ever she marries that Teller.
He IL give her heart pang
He'd sell her hair for pint Of beer
For the Sunken Village gang.
"Name amt Maloney." the bard paused
10 explain. "Jee' put in any ole name OF
teller that amt pretty blame good to mo-
Just then tho policeman found pole
He prodded the bard in the midriff, and
Mr.. Hackett hitched backward until he
reached the end OF the ridge pole Then
ne dropped gracefully off. The police
man hunted for an entrance and made his
way into the MACS Of the Sunken Village,