Wings of Imagination
A letter by
Harold Clayton Hume (Clayte)
Letter provided by Bonnie Amaon, granddaughter of Louisa Hughes
My Dear Friends:
If the day’s housekeeping is at an end, and you two girls have met for another evening of pleasant companionship; if the house is well defended by Tom’s army of good-natured chums or protected by that ever-watchful guardian - the house dog; if you are ready for a “lark,” and are not afraid of ghosts: then prepare your mental eyes, ears, and nerves for a strange environment. Close your mind to Hanna life and home surroundings and transport yourselves on the wings of imagination to poor, dear old Carbon - Carbon, a camp of the past and with a past. (continued below)
(Photo from Hanna Basin Museum)
When Harold Clayton Hume (Clayte) died in March of 1957, his obituary acknowledged that, “If medals were given to educators for devotion beyond the call of duty, he would have a trunkful” (Pine Bluffs Post, March 28, 1957, 1). He had arrived in Pine Bluffs in 1915, seen the first seniors graduate in 1918, and continued in the school until 1947; upon his retirement, he was given the title “Superintendent Emeritus.” Today, the H. Clayte Hume Scholarship honors him by remaining available to Pine Bluffs’ graduates. Donations may be sent to Pine Bluffs Alumni Association, PO Box 401, Pine Bluffs, 82082.
Upon his coming to Wyoming, Professor Hume’s first assignment (1903-1905) was in the dying coal camp of Carbon. From there, as did the Union Pacific Railroad and the mining activity, he moved to the newer camp of Hanna, where he remained for ten years. The 1910 census captured him as” single” and a “boarder” in the house of Gwen Jones, a mine disaster widow; newspaper items mentioned him only in connection with the school, the Methodist Church, and his temperance activities. In the following extraordinary letter to his Hanna “chums” Sarah and Louisa (probably students Sarah Angwin and Louisa Hughes, young daughters of transplanted British miners Joseph Angwin and George Hughes), Clayte Hume revisited Carbon on the “wings of imagination.”
Upon his coming to Wyoming, Professor Hume’s first assignment (1903-1905) was in the dying coal camp of Carbon. From there, as did the Union Pacific Railroad and the mining activity, he moved to the newer camp of Hanna, where he remained for ten years. The 1910 census captured him as” single” and a “boarder” in the house of Gwen Jones, a mine disaster widow; newspaper items mentioned him only in connection with the school, the Methodist Church, and his temperance activities. In the following extraordinary letter to his Hanna “chums” Sarah and Louisa (probably students Sarah Angwin and Louisa Hughes, young daughters of transplanted British miners Joseph Angwin and George Hughes), Clayte Hume revisited Carbon on the “wings of imagination.”
To the Misses Sarah Angwin
and Louisa Hughes, “Jolly Chums”,
Camp Hanna.
My Dear Friends:
If the day’s housekeeping is at an end, and you two girls have met for another evening of pleasant companionship; if the house is well defended by Tom’s army of good-natured chums or protected by that ever-watchful guardian - the house dog; if you are ready for a “lark,” and are not afraid of ghosts: then prepare your mental eyes, ears, and nerves for a strange environment. Close your mind to Hanna life and home surroundings and transport yourselves on the wings of imagination to poor, dear old Carbon - Carbon, a camp of the past and with a past.
Twilight lingers on its many hills - hills, rough, misshapen, blotched with decaying houses and decorated with rank sage brush and hay fever weeds - hills once dotted with miner’s homes, now spotted with fallen wrecks, infested with “snooky” rats, lurking spiders and gliding snakes - hills that only a few years ago at this hour resounded with music, banter, and laughter of a numerous mining population.
As twilight fades into evening and the stars dimly light up the scene, stand on yonder rock-ribbed hill and view the ruins of a once flourishing colliery. Every side presents wasting remains, relics of former days of prosperity. In the distance on your right a brick edifice stands out above a jumble of dilapidated frame and log structures. It was built in anticipation of a courthouse, for Carbon once promised to be the capital of a county. The building now wears the look of a disappointed office-seeker, the picture of a lost hope. It seems to have withdrawn itself from neighborly intercourse and will have nothing in common with the rickety buildings that encircle it. While they gape and “jerk faces” at each other and make the night hideous with their creaking and screeching's, the brink edifice remains immovable in countenance, indifferent to present surroundings, and seems to be living in the past.
Down below you in a narrow dale is what was once Main Street, now simply a road bordered by the crumbling office of a former Justice of the Peace, the bars of a bank building, a post office sign, the tree that once shaded the doorway of “Coffee” Johnson’s store; also one live object, Milliken’s Hall, sometimes awakened from its stupor by the urgent request of strangers for shelter or refreshments.
On the opposite side of the vale, at the foot of a hill, facing the old railroad bed, stands the historic Wyoming House, once the abode of the present pedagogue of the Carbon School. Well does the schoolmaster remember his introduction to the house and the two years that he called it home. With his mind’s eye he can now see plainly the stand and basin over which he bent his lank form as he washed Wyoming soil and honest sweat from his face at the close of the school day; the mirror before which he stood as he trained his promising mustache, or brushed the golden locks that then rested in waves above his classic forehead; the desk in the parlor at which he sat with his books about him in deep study or painful mental exertion; the dining table from which he was wont to feed his seemingly hollow body; the long, narrow, dark hall through which he quakingly passed each night on his way to the front room upstairs - the room to which he retired for rest, but where he often spent long hours in nightmare, with cold feet, and in fearful dread of a toppling roof; the landlady - but she is a history in herself, so for the present you leave Wyoming House past associations and turn to present and near scenes.
So close that you can peer in through a sunken window is the shack in which Billy Boles, the drunken fiddler, cut his throat with a rusty jack-knife. You imagine you can see blood stains on the floor, and are sure you hear gurgling, moaning, and choking. Don’t shake so; it’s only the creaking of the disjointed structure as it rocks in the wind. But perhaps you had better whistle and “careless-like” stroll away, for soon the fiddling ghost will usher forth on his nightly weird serenade.
You pass hurriedly by the spot where an excited mob once kicked a barrel from beneath “Rattlesnake Pete” on trial and left his body dangling to a telegraph pole. Let us not recall the incident, for it is growing darker and those fluttering rags might remind one of a ghastly figure swinging in the night air.
Increase your speed as you near that rickety building with a front like a deformed and scarred human face; it’s haunted, and you’ll breathe easier when you get by. As you hasten on, you have a creepy sensation that something in white is following, and you hear a rustling and footfalls behind you. You turn your head to either side, and villainous-looking shacks shake frightful rags at you, hold gaping old shoes before you, and creak swinging doors in your ears. The ghosts are closing in now, and wishing to escape, you race directly ahead, down the steep hill, toward a light that shines dimly out through a many windowed building.
Timidly, cheeks blanched with fear, teeth chattering, shivering as though with ague, you stealthily climb the broken steps that lead to the entrance of the lighted apartment and peek in through a hole in the battered door. Stretched across the distant end of the room is a thin curtain, through which the light so shines that you distinguish the dim outline of a figure, a human form, seated before a pile of books, head bowed and supported by long, thin hands. Fearful of intruding on the apparition behind the curtain, yet more fearful of the sounds and sights without, you gently push open the door and cautiously step in. As you nervously close the door, its rusty hinges wheeze and the sinking floor creaks beneath your feet. Glancing round with a shudder, you observe that the living phantom by the weird light has raised his head and is straining lusterless eyes about the room. You shrinkingly attempt to hide behind each other and breathe softly lest you break the awful silence by the lightest sound. Fortunately, you are wearing dark cloaks and are in the shadow. You remain unseen, and yet have an opportunity to study the individual behind the curtain. He rises to “turn on” more light. The body and limbs are long, thin, and nervous. The eyes and cheeks are sunken, the hair is disheveled about the ears, and the shaded light imparts a pale yellowish cast to the face. You almost believe him a specter escaped from the ghosts at play in the hills, and you quit breathing for the moment. As he again leans forward over his book, the few remaining strings of front hair; remnants no doubt of his youthful golden locks, fall over his throbbing temples, unintentionally disclosing the crowning sorrow of his life, a prospective bald pate. You are reminded of a friend who has thin hair, and you grow curious and observing. You note rows of desks before you and see maps and charts in the lighted portion of the room; then you know that you are in the Carbon schoolhouse, and that the ghostly-looking figure reading by the dim light must be your former teacher. Fear leaves you (I hope) and you voice a greeting to make known your presence.
And now just as a smile of gladness begins to shape itself on my wan visage; just as I start to extend the warm hand of greeting; just as I rise to bid you a kind welcome to my summer home, my own voice awakens me from this pleasant dream of meeting you into the consciousness of reality and disappointment. I pinch myself to make sure, I listen to the creaking of the coal house door, I hear the rats crawling in to gnaw corners off, I see fantastic figures at the windows. Yes, it is only too true; and as I realize where I am, I draw closer the curtains that form the walls of my private apartment.
And you - no doubt you are at this moment chatting happily or singing hymns, never dreaming of the “hair-raising” experiences that my distorted brain has visited upon you this evening. May you never suffer such close acquaintance with the night terrors of Carbon, but may you visit the place on Thursday by automobile, see desolation by daylight, and bring cheer into the poor schoolmaster’s life by the music of your jollity and an invitation to your picnic lunch.
I wonder if this is the evening before the return to their American home of those who have been visiting the dear old scenes and people in England. If so, I think you may be long awake, talking far into the night, unwilling to close your eyes on the happy vacation of close association. Perhaps you are recalling all the little incidents that have occurred to make your evening merry. May you often live them over in memory and may you girls enjoy many more just such happy times. May your future years be as full of the spirit of pure fun, and kind thoughtfulness for the pleasure of those about you and may the helpful influence of true friendship for each other grow sweeter with age and more steadfast with passing years.
And now I must close, for the hour is late, and my nose and eyes are growing worse with hay fever and demand almost constant attention. This letter, as you know, was to tell you of my life on the ranch; but as I early changed my place of residence, I chose to describe my present “unusual” environment.
Whatever has been written of sense and nonsense, is sent you in a kindly spirit of remembrance of happy times - pleasant days as your teacher, and enjoyable hours in your society these last few months. As teacher and friend, I shall ever cherish in my memory your kindnesses to me as pupils and companions, and, as it has ever been, may it continue to be my desire to have my life and influence inspire and hold your true and lasting friendship.
With best wishes -
Ever your sincere friend -
Clayte Hume.
Tuesday Evening
at Old Carbon - 7/25/’11 over
I shall be looking for that automobile party on Thursday morning - the party consisting of the three jolly chums, you two with your friend Jewel, to whom I would send words of remembrance.
C.H.
and Louisa Hughes, “Jolly Chums”,
Camp Hanna.
My Dear Friends:
If the day’s housekeeping is at an end, and you two girls have met for another evening of pleasant companionship; if the house is well defended by Tom’s army of good-natured chums or protected by that ever-watchful guardian - the house dog; if you are ready for a “lark,” and are not afraid of ghosts: then prepare your mental eyes, ears, and nerves for a strange environment. Close your mind to Hanna life and home surroundings and transport yourselves on the wings of imagination to poor, dear old Carbon - Carbon, a camp of the past and with a past.
Twilight lingers on its many hills - hills, rough, misshapen, blotched with decaying houses and decorated with rank sage brush and hay fever weeds - hills once dotted with miner’s homes, now spotted with fallen wrecks, infested with “snooky” rats, lurking spiders and gliding snakes - hills that only a few years ago at this hour resounded with music, banter, and laughter of a numerous mining population.
As twilight fades into evening and the stars dimly light up the scene, stand on yonder rock-ribbed hill and view the ruins of a once flourishing colliery. Every side presents wasting remains, relics of former days of prosperity. In the distance on your right a brick edifice stands out above a jumble of dilapidated frame and log structures. It was built in anticipation of a courthouse, for Carbon once promised to be the capital of a county. The building now wears the look of a disappointed office-seeker, the picture of a lost hope. It seems to have withdrawn itself from neighborly intercourse and will have nothing in common with the rickety buildings that encircle it. While they gape and “jerk faces” at each other and make the night hideous with their creaking and screeching's, the brink edifice remains immovable in countenance, indifferent to present surroundings, and seems to be living in the past.
Down below you in a narrow dale is what was once Main Street, now simply a road bordered by the crumbling office of a former Justice of the Peace, the bars of a bank building, a post office sign, the tree that once shaded the doorway of “Coffee” Johnson’s store; also one live object, Milliken’s Hall, sometimes awakened from its stupor by the urgent request of strangers for shelter or refreshments.
On the opposite side of the vale, at the foot of a hill, facing the old railroad bed, stands the historic Wyoming House, once the abode of the present pedagogue of the Carbon School. Well does the schoolmaster remember his introduction to the house and the two years that he called it home. With his mind’s eye he can now see plainly the stand and basin over which he bent his lank form as he washed Wyoming soil and honest sweat from his face at the close of the school day; the mirror before which he stood as he trained his promising mustache, or brushed the golden locks that then rested in waves above his classic forehead; the desk in the parlor at which he sat with his books about him in deep study or painful mental exertion; the dining table from which he was wont to feed his seemingly hollow body; the long, narrow, dark hall through which he quakingly passed each night on his way to the front room upstairs - the room to which he retired for rest, but where he often spent long hours in nightmare, with cold feet, and in fearful dread of a toppling roof; the landlady - but she is a history in herself, so for the present you leave Wyoming House past associations and turn to present and near scenes.
So close that you can peer in through a sunken window is the shack in which Billy Boles, the drunken fiddler, cut his throat with a rusty jack-knife. You imagine you can see blood stains on the floor, and are sure you hear gurgling, moaning, and choking. Don’t shake so; it’s only the creaking of the disjointed structure as it rocks in the wind. But perhaps you had better whistle and “careless-like” stroll away, for soon the fiddling ghost will usher forth on his nightly weird serenade.
You pass hurriedly by the spot where an excited mob once kicked a barrel from beneath “Rattlesnake Pete” on trial and left his body dangling to a telegraph pole. Let us not recall the incident, for it is growing darker and those fluttering rags might remind one of a ghastly figure swinging in the night air.
Increase your speed as you near that rickety building with a front like a deformed and scarred human face; it’s haunted, and you’ll breathe easier when you get by. As you hasten on, you have a creepy sensation that something in white is following, and you hear a rustling and footfalls behind you. You turn your head to either side, and villainous-looking shacks shake frightful rags at you, hold gaping old shoes before you, and creak swinging doors in your ears. The ghosts are closing in now, and wishing to escape, you race directly ahead, down the steep hill, toward a light that shines dimly out through a many windowed building.
Timidly, cheeks blanched with fear, teeth chattering, shivering as though with ague, you stealthily climb the broken steps that lead to the entrance of the lighted apartment and peek in through a hole in the battered door. Stretched across the distant end of the room is a thin curtain, through which the light so shines that you distinguish the dim outline of a figure, a human form, seated before a pile of books, head bowed and supported by long, thin hands. Fearful of intruding on the apparition behind the curtain, yet more fearful of the sounds and sights without, you gently push open the door and cautiously step in. As you nervously close the door, its rusty hinges wheeze and the sinking floor creaks beneath your feet. Glancing round with a shudder, you observe that the living phantom by the weird light has raised his head and is straining lusterless eyes about the room. You shrinkingly attempt to hide behind each other and breathe softly lest you break the awful silence by the lightest sound. Fortunately, you are wearing dark cloaks and are in the shadow. You remain unseen, and yet have an opportunity to study the individual behind the curtain. He rises to “turn on” more light. The body and limbs are long, thin, and nervous. The eyes and cheeks are sunken, the hair is disheveled about the ears, and the shaded light imparts a pale yellowish cast to the face. You almost believe him a specter escaped from the ghosts at play in the hills, and you quit breathing for the moment. As he again leans forward over his book, the few remaining strings of front hair; remnants no doubt of his youthful golden locks, fall over his throbbing temples, unintentionally disclosing the crowning sorrow of his life, a prospective bald pate. You are reminded of a friend who has thin hair, and you grow curious and observing. You note rows of desks before you and see maps and charts in the lighted portion of the room; then you know that you are in the Carbon schoolhouse, and that the ghostly-looking figure reading by the dim light must be your former teacher. Fear leaves you (I hope) and you voice a greeting to make known your presence.
And now just as a smile of gladness begins to shape itself on my wan visage; just as I start to extend the warm hand of greeting; just as I rise to bid you a kind welcome to my summer home, my own voice awakens me from this pleasant dream of meeting you into the consciousness of reality and disappointment. I pinch myself to make sure, I listen to the creaking of the coal house door, I hear the rats crawling in to gnaw corners off, I see fantastic figures at the windows. Yes, it is only too true; and as I realize where I am, I draw closer the curtains that form the walls of my private apartment.
And you - no doubt you are at this moment chatting happily or singing hymns, never dreaming of the “hair-raising” experiences that my distorted brain has visited upon you this evening. May you never suffer such close acquaintance with the night terrors of Carbon, but may you visit the place on Thursday by automobile, see desolation by daylight, and bring cheer into the poor schoolmaster’s life by the music of your jollity and an invitation to your picnic lunch.
I wonder if this is the evening before the return to their American home of those who have been visiting the dear old scenes and people in England. If so, I think you may be long awake, talking far into the night, unwilling to close your eyes on the happy vacation of close association. Perhaps you are recalling all the little incidents that have occurred to make your evening merry. May you often live them over in memory and may you girls enjoy many more just such happy times. May your future years be as full of the spirit of pure fun, and kind thoughtfulness for the pleasure of those about you and may the helpful influence of true friendship for each other grow sweeter with age and more steadfast with passing years.
And now I must close, for the hour is late, and my nose and eyes are growing worse with hay fever and demand almost constant attention. This letter, as you know, was to tell you of my life on the ranch; but as I early changed my place of residence, I chose to describe my present “unusual” environment.
Whatever has been written of sense and nonsense, is sent you in a kindly spirit of remembrance of happy times - pleasant days as your teacher, and enjoyable hours in your society these last few months. As teacher and friend, I shall ever cherish in my memory your kindnesses to me as pupils and companions, and, as it has ever been, may it continue to be my desire to have my life and influence inspire and hold your true and lasting friendship.
With best wishes -
Ever your sincere friend -
Clayte Hume.
Tuesday Evening
at Old Carbon - 7/25/’11 over
I shall be looking for that automobile party on Thursday morning - the party consisting of the three jolly chums, you two with your friend Jewel, to whom I would send words of remembrance.
C.H.
More About Professor Hume, 1915
Hanna School Play
The Hanna High School, under the direction of Professor Hume of that school, on short notice appeared here Friday and put on a little play, entitled "Out in the Streets" and it certainly was much enjoyed by all the fortunate people of Saratoga who attended. The pupils certainly did credit to themselves and their principal, and all attending spent a full evening of entertainment, as there were no dry spots in the entire program, as specialties were put on between the acts. About ten took part in the play, and about 15 pupils in all came from Hanna, along with prof. Hume and wife. (Saratoga Sun, May 6, 1915)