Morris tribune., 1921-11-25

him, "Who wrote ole Black JoeY
Where was it written? Under what
circumstances did the old darkey
Joe begin his enviable careerT" writes
Monroe Reid in the New York World.
The Bowery is inseparable from
New York City; we all know odds
and ends of one sort or another about
the Bowery. But how many people,
either passing along the Bowery or
walking up Fifth Avenue or River
side Drive, are acquainted with the
fact that "Ole Black Joe," the wonder
full old darkey song with the pathetic
refrain, I'm comm, I'm COMM" was
thought out, created and set to music
at No. Is Bowery by lonely, hungry,
poverty-stricken genius named Stephen
Collins Foster? -, =.
= / listened to the laundering ele-
waited overhead; / smiled at the cleo
trio trolIeys, the big motor trucks, the
automobiles, and I tried to think back
to the Civil War days, when homeless,
comfortless Steve Foster roamed the
Bowery and peddled songs for few
dollars. And here was No. 10, where
he spent his last few days before he
Hospital.
No. 10, indeed, but instead Of caba-
ret and music hall, a quick lunch
restaurant, managed by Fuerst
Brothers, occupies the ground floor.
1 entered and accosted the "boss," one
Of the brothers. The tables we're most
Of them in use. My straw hat looked
strangely out Of place.
"Hello," said 1, socially. "Say, do
you know Of q man named Foster who
lived here long, long time agoT"
They Knew.
"Yep," replied Mr.. Fuerst, 'a song
writer wasn't he? A reporter was
round here once to find out about this
chap. Sent a Teller to take photo,
too cause this chap lived here. Wrote
old Black joe and a lot Of niger
ditties'
where did he sleepT" I asked.
"What kind Of place was this back
In 1882 -.
"He slept upstairs ina furnished
room. They boarded here then, and
downstairs was eatin' place and dance
hail. 49,.
proceeded up a Night Of stairs to
interview the manager of the ,Lanier
Hotel, which boosted rooms for Is
cents. The first floor contained three
sections. In front nearest the win
dows facing the Bowery was the as
sembly hall for hotel visitors. The
manager Inhabited a wooden box Of
fee which separated the rooms" from
the assembly hall.
"How; long. have you been hereT' I
inquired. !
mot long," said Manager Bertfam
MacDermott. 'T been in charge three
months now. Been here about four
years..
"Know anything about the author
of those old songs, Way Down Upon
the Swanee Ribber;;' My Old Ken
lucky Home and 'Ole Black Joe?
Foster lived here way back in the
early CO.'S"
ooh, yes" affirmed MacDermott,
drawing. I'm from Kentucky my
self: I'm q Southerner and I know all
those old darkey songs. Nowadays
they don't write any more good dit
ties. I used to write the sentimental
ones myself. Been in every State in
the Union. Say, where dye reckon
could send any. If wrote emp
I advised the aspiring poet and
o~oYY spfr
"What was this hotel like back at
that time? Hasn't the place been re-
modelled since then? Does any one
remember the musician who wrote
ole Black joe in this house"
"Well, course it's all been improved.
Tore down the walls, FIR. instance,
and put up these here wood'n par
titions for rooms. Besides folks keep
comm and goin," explained MacDer-
mott. "Sixty years is long while
/ ago."
$50 you don't know where poor
Foster slept, chi"
"In one of the torn-down rooms. Ye
see, they've always had lodgings here,
with eating. places downstairs-caba-
ret and that sort Of thing"
"All four floors belong to the no
tell" -. T..
Eyes, sir, and every one fixed up
-. with rows Of these wood'n rooms, just
like this" ..-
#s Tells OF His Death. -
Downstairs on the Bowery sidewalk
/ encountered an old fellow standing In
crowd of loafers.
Mister" said 1. "d'you happen
to know anything about Foster, the
chap who wrote that old negro song,
ole Black JoeY"
"Eh?" said the old fellow, turning
quizzically toward me. He showed his
toothless gums, nodded his head,
grtnned and beckoned me to quieter
corner. "Steve Foster, eh?"
I agreed, and he stroked his chin
IL \