Saturday, October 21, 2017


Herriman Saturday

Wednesday, May 19 1909 -- Philadelphia Jack O'Brien is to meet reigning heavyweight champion Jack Jonson in the ring today, but the fight is scheduled for just six rounds, and there will be no official scoring. Herriman wonders if boxing fans will rightfully ignore what is just a sideshow that offers the two fighters an easy payday.


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Friday, October 20, 2017


Wish You Were Here, from Albert Carmichael

Here's a Carmichael series we haven't seen yet. "They Never Come Back" was issued by Taylor Pratt & Company as Series 728, probably around 1913-14. For some reason Carmichael chose not to sign any of the cards in this later series -- perhaps because he was starting to think of himself as a success as a newspaper artist?


Did you notice the car has a British, i.e., right-hand drive, steering wheel? Granted, that's probably a function of showing off the dame, but it is curious.
Seems as if right-hand drive American cars were quite common then:
What are we supposed to understand from this card? They never came back, meaning what? They drove over a cliff and died? They got lost and died? They drove all the way to California because they didn't know how to turn around? They went somewhere and shacked up and had wild animal sex for many decades thereafter? They just went someplace else because they couldn't stand the old lady? They were con artists and were actually stealing the old lady's car? They have no idea who the old lady is, nor why she was speaking to them? They went and robbed a bank and their names are Bonnie and Clyde? In other words — I don't get it.
You should submit it to Comics I Don't Understand. Always thought they should do classics as well as new comics.

... or maybe it's just not a good gag.

Btw, I'd still like to get some details about the Neil the Horse newspaper comic strip from you. Might you contact me at strippersguide at

At this time he had already started dating my Great Grandmother (they married in May of 1914). Family lore is that they met when he was teaching a class at Cooper Union School of Art in NYC in which she had enrolled.
Maybe you are right, between the newspaper and the teaching position he may not have wanted to identify himself on the postcards.
The image of the man seems to be a take on himself. Though the lady and her mother do not look like my Great Grandmother and her mother.
Thank you for posting, I really wish my Grandfather was alive to see it, he really would have enjoyed it!
All the best, APC's Great Granddaughter
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Thursday, October 19, 2017


King News by Moses Koenigsberg: Chapter 11 Part 2

 King News by Moses Koenigsberg

Published by F.A. Stokes Company, 1941

Chapter 11

The Ordeal of the Red Hankerchief (part 2)

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It was my privilege twice during that period [editorship of the Chicago American] to furnish emphatic proof of editorial independence from advertising control. The occasions grew out of widely different news items. First came what has been described as the bloodiest strike on record. Second was the fatal shooting of Marshall Field, Jr.

The labor conflict was the result of Montgomery Ward & Company’s refusal to arbitrate the closed shop demand of seventeen garment workers. The controversy had smoldered for nearly five months. Then, on April 7, 1905, the seventy-one teamsters employed by the same firm walked out in sympathy with the striking needle pliers. The company was boycotted and picketed. That spread the strike to department stores and coal, grocery and express corporations. Their drivers refused to make deliveries to customers who had been declared “unfair.” A call went out to business men to oppose this trade union action with a fight to the finish.

The Employers’ Teaming Association was formed. It imported strikebreakers by the thousands. Trainloads of Negroes were brought from the South. Racial differences thus intensified the struggle. Street battles were fought at all hours in every section of the city. The sheriff swore in 2,300 deputies to reinforce the police. Casualties to the innocent passer-by became so numerous that panic hovered over the community. Frightened citizens demanded the imposition of martial law. Injunctions were sued out and indictments returned against both labor leaders and employers for conspiracies to violate writs of court. The rioting increased daily. By July, 21 dead and 415 wounded victims were reported.

Strikers run from shooting strike-breakers, 1905
This was pitched warfare. Its flames scorched walls far outside the arena in which labor and capital were waging their contest. It was of the highest importance to present the news with an impartiality beyond question. That was my constant aim. But both sides found fault with the American’s reports. Cornelius P. Shea, president of the teamsters’ international association, was personally directing the labor forces. He suffered a misplaced admiration. It was Napoleon to whom should have gone the approval that Shea lavished on himself. In several telephone conversations he expressed sharp displeasure over the American's treatment of current events in Chicago. He believed “the unions were getting the dirty end of the stick.” He demanded that I place greater emphasis on news favorable to the strikers and “choke off a lot of the other rot.”

Ever since my amateur days, there had been unceasing evidences of an irrepressible editorial afflatus among interested laymen. It was, as a rule, stridently vocal. But it had usually come to me in the form of criticisms or suggestions. Never before had it been translated into an explicit direction. My indignation did not lessen Shea’s insistence. He became furious. He decided to have me removed. Happily, he did not employ the direct-action method favored by some of his less resourceful associates. He telegraphed an earnest protest to my employer. Shea intrusted a copy of his complaint to Glen E. Laughery, the American’s labor reporter, for exhibition to me. That was my last personal communication from or about Shea. Later, I learned that the remonstrance reached Hearst in California. Apparently, it shared the same fate allotted to letters which Hearst believed would “answer themselves in a couple of weeks.”

The employers were much more formal in presenting their objections. They submitted an application for a meeting with the editor. The request, while outwardly courteous, assumed a minatory tinge from the composition of the designated committee. It consisted exclusively of leading advertisers. The members were executives of the seven most prominent department stores on State Street, Chicago’s famous shopping artery—Marshall Field & Co., Carson, Pirie, Scott & Co., Charles A. Stevens & Bro., Siegel & Cooper, Mandel Bros., The Fair, and Hillman. Their visit was attended by a disconcerting solemnity. It was difficult to dismiss the feeling that at any moment they might intone a requiem.

The session imposed on me an unexpected burden. It had been my understanding that the formidable delegation of advertising magnates would be met by the highest-ranking dignitary the American could present. That should have been Richard A. Farrelly. He had been detached from the New York American the year before to serve as Hearst’s editor-in-chief in Chicago. Farrelly was one of the journalistic galaxy which a decade earlier moved its orbit from the Pulitzer to the Hearst constellation. He detested formal conferences. At the last minute, he left me alone to face the seven envoys from State Street, availing himself of “a constitutional right to evade cruel and unusual punishment.”

Time has not blunted the point of a single major argument advanced at that tilt over the resistance against dollar pressure on the press. Of course, the committee disavowed any intent to confuse advertising patronage with the purposes of their visit. It was merely a coincidence that all of them were in the practice of buying newspaper space. They had been selected because their daily contacts gave them a wider and deeper familiarity with the current phases of community life than was the normal experience of other classes of business men. Still, it must be apparent that a continuance of the present trend of affairs would make the use of advertisements a futile function. Oh, no! This wasn’t meant for anything like a veiled threat.

The committee were bent no more on intimidation than instruction. They were merely good citizens come to point out a common peril—a swift-growing crisis that they believed the editor could ward off. Though doubtless he had no such purpose, his method of presenting the news supplied a rallying force for elements of disorder. It was a constant spur to the strikers’ flagging spirits. What an opening this made for me! Did the gentlemen know that the strike leader—the president of the teamsters’ organization— took an exactly contrary position? Would it astonish my visitors to hear that Shea had protested earnestly and repeatedly that I “was following a policy definitely adverse to the interests of the unions”?

No, the committee were not even mildly shocked by this revelation. As a matter of fact, it betrayed an unreasonableness that fitted into the mosaic of their views. They did not charge the American with conscious hostility either to the employers or the strikers. They were not critical of the textual content of the stories published. What worried them was the effect of the headlines. It was the big, black lettering which they condemned.

Plastered over the top half of a front page, each of these headings was undeniably provocative. They were planned that way. And this was the grave menace which the State Street savants had called to discuss. The very size of the type, they were sure, conveyed a meaning apart from the words. It was stressfully exciting. It was in itself suggestive of violence. Above all, it infused the strikers with a false sense of their own importance. It would goad them into a persistence certain to cost Chicago irreparable damage.

Parts of my reply were baked in cerebral ovens suspended over a fire that had been burning for fourteen years. The flame had been started by W. Ballantyne Patterson, the real estate promoter who first jostled my confidence in the invulnerability of the press. He applied the spark by revoking an advertising contract with the San Antonio Times. The cancelation expressed dissatisfaction with the subordinate display of my story of a soiree at Patterson’s home. The pettiness of the grievance magnified the significance of the incident. Failure to combat this attempt at tyranny over the news remained in my memory the least forgivable stain on the escutcheon of journalism. Ever since, the yearning had possessed me to share in a complete and final reversal of the shield. Now the department store moguls had let me in for a “big time” inning.

The committee’s graciousness in waiving all consideration as advertisers was duly acknowledged. That waiver, however, only underlined the realities. It was impossible to face such a group of conspicuous business leaders without recognizing the potentialities of their presence together in a newspaper shop. It would be impossible to shut my mind entirely to this formidable implication. Still, the delegation had been helpful in frankly disclaiming any thought of possible coercion or undue influence. That made it unnecessary to thresh out in detail certain truisms that must form the basis of my remarks. The mere citation of a few, such as these, would suffice:
These axiomatic phrases might sound like labored homiletics prepared for a class in journalism; but they framed the preliminary view that must be taken of any proposal to a newspaper emanating from advertising sources. The substance of the committee’s suggestion would be thoroughly digested. The friendliness of their motives alone assured this course. But a reciprocal friendliness prompted the explanation that no matter what conclusion was reached, it would be guided solely by editorial judgment. The seven shamans of State Street withdrew as ceremoniously as if they had just delivered an ultimatum to an oriental potentate. Perhaps there was some warrant for their gravity. They had performed a delicate mission. They had made clear their disapproval of the typography of a daily newspaper. In the vernacular of a less pretentious circle, they had “just laid an egg.” It never hatched.

 My next declaration of editorial independence from advertising dominance was marked by a clash inside the Hearst organization. The set-up had been altered. Farrelly was no longer my chief. He had been transferred to Boston as publisher of the Boston American. And there was now a publisher on the Chicago American. William Preston Leech had resigned as general manager of the San Francisco Chronicle to accept this new post. These changes were in accord with a revision of managerial policy that W. R. Hearst was effecting. It pointed toward emphasis of the business department’s control of operations.

Until then, the editorial chief had been recognized as supreme in each unit. Now, the highest insignia of office were pinned on the publisher. His installation in first rank clothed him with a prestige calculated to command the advertiser’s fullest respect. Appointees were chosen with especial regard to their promotional ability in the sales field. Meanwhile, the editor was not divested of any responsibility. There was no lessening of his direct accountability to the proprietor. The degree of his subordination to the publisher was dependent on himself—on the measure of forcefulness, strategy and tact that he employed in maintaining an uninterrupted two-way channel of communication with Hearst. High altitude in a newspaper organization stimulates editorial aspirations less aggressive at lower levels. So, most of the new heads of operation found it difficult to keep their hands off the news. Intriguing games of office politics followed.

This regime was essentially Hearstian. It tied authority to the person instead of the job. Suppose it did lead to occasional confusion. Suppose some executive’s spirit was broken or that another’s initiative was bogged down. Suppose that now and then there was a snarling of the threads of methodical procedure. What did all this amount to beside the strokes of brilliance that might ensue from friction between personality and position? Why hamper genius with discipline? The cock-sure answers that stood for a while have since bobbed up for reexamination.

Leech’s advent as publisher of the Chicago American had not affected my status as managing editor. It did temper my relations with Max Annenberg, the circulation manager. Leech had been connected with the business direction of dailies in several cities. His experience had not included any editorial training. That, of course, stamped a marked reservation on my acceptance of his chieftaincy. Annenberg attached himself to his latest boss with professed enthusiasm. One bond had held Max in hearty collaboration with me—a common passion for increasing circulation. Under Leech, Max’s ardor was seasoned with a solicitude for advertising revenues.

Annenberg was just beginning his climb to the highest compensation of any employee engaged in the distribution of periodical publications. His earnings on the New York. Daily News in the late 1930s exceeded $200,000 annually. Max is not to be confused with his brother, Moses L. Annenberg, who, also starting as a newsboy in Chicago and serving for a number of years as a lieutenant of W. R. Hearst, ultimately became the multimillionaire proprietor of the Philadelphia Inquirer. At one time Moses L. Annenberg received the largest cash income in America derived from sources not listed on the Stock Exchange. Much of his wealth was garnered from a monopoly of racing news for bookmakers. The curiosity of government agents led to his occupation of quarters in a federal prison. His sojourn there consumed part of the time required to make up an $8,000,000 penalty.

The Annenbergs did not exert a sedative influence. They kept both competitors and associates always on the qui vive. Near the upper rungs of their respective careers, they became bitterly estranged. That ended my long study of their personalities. Their candor obviated any further research. It presented them as ruggedly unique individuals, contemptuous of conventional—and sometimes other—restraints.

Few dishes tempted Max’s palate so much as the word “murder” tickled his tongue. His favorite headline was “Double Murder and Suicide.” With that, he always promised extra sales. My argument that it might repel as many buyers as it tempted fell on deaf ears. He was sure it injected into his street hustlers such a vim as they got from few other labels. And, that, he insisted, meant a batch of additional readers.

There were other phases of Max’s partiality for the word “murder.” Its frequent use suggested a callousness in quarters that it was advantageous to impress with such a quality. The Chicago war for newspaper circulation was entering a homicidal stage. Max Annenberg was acquiring a reputation apt to deter weak-kneed rivals from the sort of violence that might prompt reprisal. After he had joined the Chicago Tribune, several years later, a shocking rise in the mortality rate among news-dealers brought his name conspicuously to the fore. It has been my suspicion that this notoriety was less deserved than designed. It did not diminish Max’s payroll stature. It was partly responsible for his mention as “a throbbing sinus of newspaperdom.”

At half-past four in the morning of November 23, 1905, a telephone call awoke me. It was from Joseph H. Finn, editor of an edition of the American listed on the press schedule as the “Indiana,” because it was timed to catch trains for the Hoosier State. To the newsboys, it was the “Postscript,” descriptive of its relationship to the morning papers. Its official designation for the editorial and composing-room staffs was “Morning Glory.” That was more cynical than poetic. It emphasized the inconvenience of the hours of the shift, least desirable in the whole newspaper routine. Beginning work in successive squads at 9, 10 and 11 o’clock in the evening, they finished duty at respectively 5, 6 and 7 o’clock in the forenoon. There was no “jocund day standing tiptoe” to meet them. Instead, the “Morning Glory” rolled off the presses in ironic reminder that their night’s chore ground the morning and the glory thereof into plain supper-time.

Marshall Field Jr.
Finn was a capable editor. A few years later he organized a successful advertising agency. He was seldom stumped. But in this instance, he was clutching the upper branches of a tall tree. He asked for instructions on the handling of an extraordinary news event with angles of unusual delicacy. Marshall Field, Jr., had been found dying from a gunshot wound. This, in itself, was more than a local story of the first magnitude. It involved one of the proudest names in America. The wounded man was the son of an international figure who prized his position as the world’s greatest merchant less than he esteemed his rank as foremost citizen of Chicago.

The four morning papers had issued extras to cover the latest developments of the tragedy. The headlines of three—the Tribune, Record-Herald and W. R. Hearst’s Examiner—described it as an accident. The Inter-Ocean heading referred to the wound as self-inflicted, without further explanation. According to an unofficial statement issued several hours later, the victim was found on a couch in his wife’s boudoir. Blood was pouring from a bullet wound in his side. On the floor lay an automatic revolver. The discovery was made by the butler. He had been summoned by a bell. That was at 5:30 in the afternoon. The household was aroused and young Field was hastened to Mercy Hospital. The ambulance bearing him away passed the carriage in which his wife was returning from an afternoon of social calls. A surgical operation was performed at 6:30.

An element of mystification was introduced by the family’s reticence. The police were not notified until midnight. Then the notice consisted only of the formal hospital report required by law in such circumstances. Two detectives were assigned to investigate. Nobody at the Field mansion or at the hospital was communicative. It was three o’clock in the morning before Assistant Chief of Police Schuettler organized enough of the facts to bring the case to the attention of his superior, Superintendent Collins. The unexplained lapse of more than six hours, between the shooting and the notification to the authorities, presented an enigma. The riddle was complicated by continued secrecy.

The wording and typography of the headline as well as the first paragraph of the text of the story to appear in the next edition of the American were dictated over the telephone. The heading, in two lines approximately eight inches deep, read:


In fifteen minutes, Finn was followed on the phone by Max Annenberg. Ordinarily, Max’s work-day began at 7 a.m. The Marshall Field story had hustled him out of bed several hours earlier. Evidently he had been in touch with Leech. Marshall Field & Co., the bellwether of Midwest mercantile affairs, had some time before crossed the Chicago American off its list of advertising media. Leech confronted no task more pressing or consequential than recovering the patronage of this top-notch advertiser. Annenberg’s call stressed the critical nature of that problem.

“I’ve just come from the composing room,” Max said in palpable agitation. “I saw the head you ordered. Koenigsberg, you’re murdering the paper.”

“First degree, or just manslaughter?” I asked, as much to reprove him for idiomatic excess as for extravagance of statement.

“This is too serious to ‘kid’ about,” Annenberg answered. “You know that we need the Marshall Field business more than anything else; and your head will put the kibosh on our last chance to get it back.”

The frigidity of a nightgown ensemble may have accented the chill of this questioning response: “Do you mean to suggest that the story be suppressed?”

“Of course not; but the mystery angle is suicide.”

Max didn’t mean that young Field had sought to destroy his own life. He did mean that self-destruction for the Chicago American lay in the headlines that I had dictated to Finn. Max felt certain that any assertion of mystery in connection with the shooting would array the all-powerful Marshall Field group and their friends against the offending newspaper. And Max professed to fear that the American could not survive the punishment that would be meted out.

Annenberg had never before objected to a startling headline. Obviously, he was playing a part. He was acting as a catspaw to force my hand. “Whether you know it or not,” I said, “you are advising the suppression of news. If you had any facts which our staff was unable to obtain, there would be some excuse for your call. But without any pretense of fresh information, you offer advice about the editorial handling of a story. You wouldn’t presume to do such a thing except to ‘get a rise’ out of me. Well, you’ve got it. The head that I have ordered on the Marshall Field story will stand. If your concern about your employer’s property in this situation is sincere, you should take it up with the proper person, your chief. The publisher is entitled to discuss this matter with the managing editor.”

A moment later, Leech telephoned. “Annenberg says you want to talk with me,” he began.

“That is not correct,” I answered quickly. “You know that I don’t need Annenberg’s help to reach you.”

“But Annenberg said—”

“Mr. Leech,” I interrupted, “my watch shows five o’clock. It’s not an hour for stage setting. Let’s save time with a bit of frankness. Annenberg apparently has reported to you what I said to him about the headlines on the Marshall Field shooting. If you wish to discuss my statement now, let’s proceed from that point.”

“Well, Koenigsberg, do you realize that Marshall Field & Co. are the most important advertisers in Chicago and that while they may not regularly buy the largest volume of newspaper space, they do buy a great deal?”

“Not in the American.’’

“That’s the main point,” Leech retorted. “We’ve been trying very hard to get them back in the paper. How can we ever hope to do that if we antagonize them on a story such as this?”

“Your question is just as unanswerable as the trick query of the prosecutor in the stage farce—‘When did you last beat your wife?’ We haven’t set out to antagonize Marshall Field & Co. We’re publishing the news. That’s our job. If we do it well, we’ll hold the respect of everybody, including the Marshall Fields. If we flunk—especially if we do so with the idea that we’ll be rewarded for flunking—we’ll lose the respect of everybody, including the Marshall Fields. And what would be the attitude of other advertisers if they learned that we had omitted important intelligence with the purpose of having one of their competitors accept the omission as a bribe for the renewal of his business?

“I don’t purpose to tell you anything about the sale of space; but I’m convinced it would be easier to get contracts with those who believe we print the news without fear or favor than with those who suspect us of killing or distorting news. The fact that Marshall Field & Co. are not advertising with us now tightens the squeeze on us. It puts us in the center of the spotlight. I think your prospect of getting the Marshall Field account will be better after we have published this story than it would be if we failed to print it. That, however, is not my reason for going ahead. My duty is to serve the reader without truckling to the advertiser. That’s what I shall do until I’m stopped.”

There was an uncomfortably long silence, during which I nervously canvassed the courses open to Leech. Dare he countermand my orders to the staff? That was possible, but unlikely. It would be risking too unpalatable a result. He might try to reach W. R. Hearst by telephone. I had no misgiving on that score.

“I am not happy about this,” Leech said at last. “I can only hope that you’re right; but I’m not sure. However, I am not going to put up a fight.”

Marshall Field, Jr., succumbed to his wound on November 27th, five days after the shooting. On December 2nd a jury impaneled by Coroner Hoffman returned a verdict of accident. That formality failed to silence the stories that shrouded the death in the most persistent of Chicago’s legendary mysteries. The most popular theory laid the scene of the shooting in the Everleigh Club, a resort of international notoriety colored by yarns—widely credited but never substantiated—of world-famous beauties who, incognito, shared its prismatic piquancies from time to time.

William Preston Leech succeeded, before many months, in regaining for the Chicago American the advertising patronage of Marshall Field & Co. The circumstances are recounted by way of illumination of one of the most widely discussed phases of journalism—“the influence of the advertiser on the freedom of the press.”

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Wednesday, October 18, 2017


Obscurity of the Day: The Roly Polys

I've made no secret that I'm not a fan of Paul West's art, but in the feature The Roly Polys he shows off a surprisingly great facility for caricature. Why West chose the genre of paper dolls to comment on major news stories of the day, like the Spanish-American War and the Boer War, I cannot fathom, but I have to admit it's kinda neat stuff. Even Governor Teddy Roosevelt makes an appearance. 

The Roly Polys was an occasional feature of the New York World's Sunday comic section from September 10 1899 to July 1 1900. Our samples above are from the collection of Cole Johnson -- unfortunately a little tattered, but this is some really rare stuff. A little bit of the poetry portion is chewed up, but as with all West's versifications, you ain't missing much.


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Tuesday, October 17, 2017


Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: Fern McLellan

Fern McLellan was born Fern A. Gordon* on November 14, 1888, in Ontario, Canada. Her birth date is from the Social Security Death Index. The birthplace was published in California and Californians, Volume 3 (1930). She was six years old when her family moved to California.

The 1900 U.S. Federal Census said McLellan was the oldest of two children born to Christopher, a hardware salesman, and Mary. The family resided at 119 South Grand Avenue in Los Angeles, California.

California and Californians said McLellan “was liberally educated, attending the Occidental Preparatory School, the College of Fine Arts of the University of Southern California, and had further training under Mr. Judson and at the Otis School of Fine Arts under Mr. Schrader.”

In the 1910 census, housewife McLellan was married to Gardner Wheeler, a salesman. The couple lived in Los Angeles; the street name is illegible. According to the 1930 census, McLellan was 20 years old (around 1909) when she married.

The 1920 census recorded three children, ages four to nine, born to McLellan who was an artist at a furniture store. Her husband was an abstractor at a title company.

Publications in Southern California Art 1, 2, & 3 (1984) said “From the mid 1920s she was listed as a commercial artist with Kenneth L. McLellan” California and Californians said “In her work as a commercial artist Mrs. Wheeler is associated with Mr. Kenneth L. McLellan. They are doing famous art illustrations, and are regarded as among the cleverest of the art illustrators in the West. They have built up a large clientele, doing work for individuals as well as for some of the largest agencies including Barkers, Lord & Thomas and others. Mrs. Wheeler’s inclination is for illustrating in the children’s world.”

At some point McLellan divorced her husband and married Kenneth McLellan.

The 1930 census recorded the McLellans, both self-employed commercial artists, in Los Angeles at 2446 North Gower Street. McLellan’s ex-husband lived down the street at 2490.

McLellan drew the weekly series Dr. Tinker Claus the Toy Mender which was written by Harold Debus. The series ran from April 3, 1932 to July 2, 1933 in the Los Angeles Times.

McLellan has not yet been found in the 1940 census. Her first husband passed away in 1944.

McLellan passed away February 2, 1967, in San Bernardino, California, according to the California death index at The Social Security Death Index did not have the day of death. McLellan was laid to rest at Forest Lawn Memorial Park. Her second husband passed away the following year.

• McLellan’s name is incorrect in the first sentence at AskArt. The family name is incorrect in the second sentence. McLellan has another entry at AskArt. The year, 1924, in incorrect in the third sentence. McLellan was in Los Angeles since the 1900 census.

—Alex Jay


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Monday, October 16, 2017


Obscurity of the Day: Dr. Tinker Claus the Toy Mender

If you're in L.A. there's no way to tell when it's Christmas time by the weather -- you need the benefit of a shopping mall or at least a calendar -- and apparently the Los Angeles Times had the benefit of neither of these handy indicators. That's the only reason I can think of that they would decide to start running a Christmas comic strip in April.

On April 3 1932, a weekly strip debuted in the Sunday Junior Times kiddie section titled Dr. Tinker Claus the Toy Mender, credited to the team of Harold Debus and Fern McLellan. With no obvious clue to which partner did what, I snooped around a bit and found Mr. Debus' byline on a few news stories, so I'm assuming that Ms. McLellan was the artistic half of the team.

Each week the feature offered a short tale about a group of anthropomorphic toys and their benefactor and friend, Santa's brother, Dr. Tinker Claus. The length of the typeset stories makes the feature more of an illustrated story feature rather than a strip, but I'm giving it a pass.

In 1933 the Junior Times section was reduced to a single page, and that entailed a reduction in space for Dr. Tinker Claus. In May the Times reduced the illustrations from four to two, and on July 2 1933 the final installment was printed, though that episode ended with the promise of another story next week. Although I am unaware of any newspapers taking the feature in syndication, perhaps the feature ran longer elsewhere.

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