Or alternatively, Le Voyage dans la Lune and some other short films from 1902. The first film in our selection is a true leap forward for humanity, probably the first film that really stands up 116 years later, both as a very watchable story and as a work of art. If you’ve never watched it then please, give it a go now – you will be amazed.
A staple of weird history sites, the Poison Squad were a self-selected group of healthy young men who willingly ingested food laced with untested food additives including formaldehyde and Borax. From their brave efforts come the foundations of the US FDA.
Everyone knows that the calendar we use makes very little logical sense, but once such a fundamental standard it set, would anyone ever go to the trouble of trying to change it? Well, it turns out that the answer is yes – Moses B. Cotsworth did, and he got surprisingly far too, until the more pressing issues of the early 20th century got in the way.
Here’s one of those stories you might reasonably consider to be an old shaggy dog tale, but which turns out to be the work of a single author, adapted ad infinitum since its publication in 1902. It has a novel concept, and a nice subtle extra twist, but having read a lot of Poe and Maupassant as a teen, I find it generally quite weak sauce. Your mileage may vary.
“Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it.” —Anonymous
Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnum villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess; the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical chances, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
“I’m listening,” said the latter grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”
“I should hardly think that he’s come tonight, ” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
“Mate,” replied the son.
“That’s the worst of living so far out,” balled Mr. White with sudden and unlooked-for violence; “Of all the beastly, slushy, out of the way places to live in, this is the worst. Path’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”
“Never mind, dear,” said his wife soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the next one.”
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. the words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
“There he is,” said Herbert White as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently as her husband entered the room followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
“Sergeant-Major Morris, ” he said, introducing him.
The Sergeant-Major took hands and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly as his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.
“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.”
“He don’t look to have taken much harm.” said Mrs. White politely.
“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, just to look around a bit, you know.”
“Better where you are,” said the Sergeant-Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass and sighning softly, shook it again.
“I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said the old man. “what was that that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”
“Nothing.” said the soldier hastily. “Leastways, nothing worth hearing.”
“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White curiously.
“Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps.” said the Sergeant-Major off-handedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him again.
“To look at,” said the Sergeant-Major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
“And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
“It had a spell put on it by an old Fakir,” said the Sergeant-Major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”
His manners were so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter had jarred somewhat.
“Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White cleverly.
The soldier regarded him the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth.”I have,” he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.
“And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.
“I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.
“And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.
“The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply, “I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”
His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
“If you’ve had your three wishes it’s no good to you now then Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”
The soldier shook his head. “Fancy I suppose,” he said slowly.” I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused me enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy tale, some of them; and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterward.”
“If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing him keenly,” would you have them?”
“I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”
He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
“Better let it burn,” said the soldier solemnly.
“If you don’t want it Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”
“I won’t.” said his friend doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire like a sensible man.”
The other shook his head and examined his possession closely. “How do you do it?” he inquired.
“Hold it up in your right hand, and wish aloud,” said the Sergeant-Major, “But I warn you of the consequences.”
“Sounds like the ‘Arabian Nights'”, said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me.”
Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and all three burst into laughter as the Seargent-Major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.
“If you must wish,” he said gruffly, “Wish for something sensible.”
Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier’s adventures in India.
“If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time to catch the last train, “we shan’t make much out of it.”
“Did you give anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
“A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly, “He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”
“Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be henpecked.”
He darted around the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs White armed with an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said slowly. It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”
“If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you!” said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that’ll just do it.”
His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down and struck a few impressive chords.
“I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted his words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
“It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”
“Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son, as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”
“It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.”
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, an the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled on all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the rest of the night.
“I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good night, ” and something horrible squatting on top of your wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.”
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the side-board with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
“I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs White. “The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”
“Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.
“Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father, “that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”
“Well don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”
His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired Sergeant-Majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.
“Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home,” she said as they sat at dinner.
“I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”
“You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.
“I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it; I had just – What’s the matter?”
His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connexion with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
“I – was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.’ ”
The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?
Her husband interposed. “There there mother,” he said hastily. “Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure sir,” and eyed the other wistfully.
“I’m sorry – ” began the visitor.
“Is he hurt?” demanded the mother wildly.
The visitor bowed in assent.”Badly hurt,” he said quietly, “but he is not in any pain.”
“Oh thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank – ”
She broke off as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned on her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the others averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling hand on his. There was a long silence.
“He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low voice.
“Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion,”yes.”
He sat staring out the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before.
“He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.”
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. ” The firm wishes me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.”
There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.
“I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,” continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation.”
Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, “How much?”
“Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.
In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to the house steeped in shadows and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen – something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
But the days passed, and expectations gave way to resignation – the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes mis-called apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.
It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
“Come back,” he said tenderly. “You will be cold.”
“It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.
The sounds of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
“THE PAW!” she cried wildly. “THE MONKEY’S PAW!”
He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”
She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”
“It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied, marveling. “Why?”
She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
“I only just thought of it,” she said hysterically. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”
“Think of what?” he questioned.
“The other two wishes,” she replied rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”
“Was not that enough?” he demanded fiercely.
“No,” she cried triumphantly; “We’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”
The man sat in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs.”Good God, you are mad!” he cried aghast. “Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish – Oh my boy, my boy!”
Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed he said unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
“We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not the second?”
“A coincidence,” stammered the old man.
“Go get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.
The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been dead ten days, and besides he – I would not tell you else, but – I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?”
“Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him towards the door. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”
He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantlepiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized up on him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
“WISH!” she cried in a strong voice.
“It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.
“WISH!” repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back back to his bed, and a minute afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but sat silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.
At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock came so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.
The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.
“WHAT’S THAT?” cried the old woman, starting up.
“A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones – “a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”
His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.
She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.
“It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.”
“For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.
“You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.
“The bolt,” she cried loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If only he could find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.
The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him the courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.
116 years before the combination of uncanny valley CGI and the voice of James Corden, a minor Childrens’ publisher put out a small run of picture books about a naughty rabbit. This book immediately lifted its 32-year-old author out of obscurity and went on to be one of the best-sellers of all time.
Before I had kids I found Beatrix Potter’s work to all be a bit too twee and chintsy, too many moral lessons with sweet illustrations, not nearly enough weirdness. These days I’ve come round to it more, it’s a world of its own which is just fine on its own terms.
From Excavated Shellac, the story of one of the first adventures to record the music of the rest of the world.
Likely the music was baffling to these engineers from America. Up to that time, the normal recording repertoire for the Gramophone Company was what one might expect. It primarily consisted of Western classical vocalists and instrumentalists, comic singers, military bands, and other entertainers. A substantial amount of European folk music had certainly been recorded by that time – in Spain, for example – but Asia was a different story. In 1902, even Cairo had not yet been visited and captured on disc. This was an industry in transition in more ways than one; improving rapidly in terms of technology, yet still in its earliest stages, recording anything, expanding markets.
When I was four or five years old I somehow acquired a Ladybird Horror Classics edition of ‘The Hound of The Baskervilles’. This one in fact:
If that cover, or the equally terrifying illustrations within weren’t enough to scare a young child, the book also came with a cassette. The “horror” theme of this publication continued with the introductory music – Mussorsky’s ‘Night on a Bare Mountain’ – and the reading, which managed to emphasise the most horrific passages with its tone of blank dread. Look, some kind soul has uploaded it to youtube, so you can hear what I mean. The passage from 3:50 onwards is particularly gruesome.
Naturally this was immediately my favourite book, and I would insist on listening to it at bedtime every night. This possibly led to a lifelong interest in spoken word recordings, a mortal fear of large dogs and a feeling of lingering injustice to the noble-sounding name of Stapleton
I hadn’t read the real book until this year and was pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s just as good as I feared it wouldn’t be. It’s easily the best of the Sherlock Holmes novels, from the way it starts out as a standard Holmes short story (with a very sinister undertone) to the way Sherlock spends half the book as essentially a ghost (remember that he was supposed to be dead in 1902), to the fantastically dramatic ending out on the Grimpen Mire.
Unfortunately as far as I’m aware nobody has apparently made a decent film version of the story. From this list the Peter Cushing version is ok, but messes with the story too much, the Peter Cook / Kenneth Williams version is a silly mess, the 2002 BBC version is a complete misfire, and the episode of Sherlock from 2012 is perhaps the weakest in that whole series. Nobody seems to have recreated that atmosphere, and nobody has made a dog as terrifying as the one on that audiobook. But there are quite a few I haven’t seen, so please let me know if there is a good one out there.
1902 is the year everything started to explode. Not particularly in the world of music, not really in the world in general, but very much so in on my computer in 2018. Suddenly there is just so much out there to listen to, and the idea of listening to everything starts to recede, swiftly, from my sight.
The fault here lies with a variety of engineers, who had recently perfected techniques to reproduce gramophone records and phonograph cylinders without any great loss in sound quality. No longer would performers have to play in front of a great bank of horns again and again – one single best performance was all that was needed, and so was born the profession of recording engineer – though nobody seems to have talked of it as a profession for quite a while.
With this came stars who were able to achieve fame on an international level – for example Enrico Caruso and Billy Murray, who are both featured here for the first time. Vaudeville troupes would come by the studio and lay down a version of their most famous routine, virtuoso instrumentalists would make definitive recordings of set pieces, and around the world, from Japan to Brasil to the Vatican City, recordings were being made for mass distribution. From the last of these we have some of the only recordings from a castrato, Alessandro Moreschi.
This is all good news of course, but it’s all starting to be a bit much for me to get through. I’m happy to say that I personally love all the music featured in this hour-long mix – but this is perhaps just 2% of what I listened to. From the rest perhaps 30% is maudlin sentimental ballads about brave soldiers going off to meet their doom, and maybe 40% is badly-recorded, unremarkable recordings of solo opera singers. A good half of my month is involved in downloading, listening to and deleting these, just to pull out the occasional nugget of gold. So much time does this take, in fact, that I haven’t had time to write a proper blurb. So here we are – an hour of sounds from 1902. Enjoy.
Charles D’ Almaine – Down At Finnegan’s Jamboree (Excerpt 1) 0:00
Sousa’s Band – Trombone Sneeze 0:10
Campbell & Roberts – An Interrupted Courtship On The Elevated Railway 2:13
Arthur Collins & Byron G. Harlan – I’m A-Dreaming Of You 2:35
Collins & Harlan – Two Rubes In A Tavern 4:35
Bohumir Kryl – Carnival Of Venice 5:03
Charles P. Lowe – Carnival Of Venice 6:57
Len Spencer And Gilbert Girard – Daybreak At Calamity Farm 8:44
Edison Military Band – Lizard And The Frog 9:11
International Phonographic Language School – Spanish Lesson #9 11:12
Vess L. Ossman – Darkies Awakening 11:30
Charles D’ Almaine – Down At Finnegan’s Jamboree (Excerpt 2) 13:42
Billy Murray – Under The Anheuser-Bush 14:58
Len Spencer – 23rd Psalm 16:46
Choir Of A. A. Arkhangelsky – Axion Esti 17:11
Salomea Kruszelnicka – Vissi D’arte (Puccini) 18:50
Alessandro Moreschi – Crucifixus (Rossini) 20:09
Enrico Caruso – Una Furtiva Lagrima (Donizetti – Elisir D’ Amore) 22:40
M.A.A.Mikhailova And A.Semenov – Serenada 24:20
Len Spencer – The Lord’s Prayer 27:05
Instrumental Trio – Abkhazuri, Kabardinskiy Tanetz 27:23
Abdal Ali – Death Lament 28:32
Peking Opera – Old Valet Carries Master’s Letter 29:25
Performer Not Given – Japanese Song 30:17
American Quartet – A Meeting Of The Limekiln Club 30:55
Edison Symphony Orchestra – Down On The Old Plantation 31:23
Invincible Quartet – On Board The Oregon 32:44
Edison Symphony Orchestra – Old Folks At Home (Suwanee River) 33:05
Burt Shepard – Parody On ‘Suwanee River’ 34:44
Byron G Harlan & Joe Belmont – Merry Farmer Boy 36:09
Joe Belmont – Bird Imitations 37:40
Georg Tramer – Czardas 38:11
Cal Stewart – Fire Department 39:14
Arthur Collins – Under The Bamboo Tree 40:06
Invincible Quartet – Fireman’s Duty 42:10
Dinwiddie Colored Quartet – Poor Mourner 42:50
Dinwiddie Colored Quartet – Down On The Old Camp Ground 43:53
Haydn Quartet – Owl And The Pussy Cat 44:44
International Phonographic Language School – Italian Lesson #7 45:38
Little Russian Choir Conducted By A. Romanchenko – Since The Time I Got Married 45:47
Byron G. Harlan And Frank C. Stanley – The First Rehearsal For The Huskin’ Bee 46:43
Columbia Band – Arkansaw Husking Bee 47:00
George P Watson – Alpine Specialty 48:33
William Tuson – Nellie Gray 49:42
Victor Minstrel Company – On The Levee 51:12
J. Frank Hopkins. – Medley Of Reels 51:24
Invincible Quartet – Night Trip To Buffalo 53:31
Banda Da Casa Edison – Hino Nacional 53:48
Columbia Band – Reminiscences Of Scotland 54:11
Len Spencer – Arkansas Traveler 54.53
Will F Denny – Parody On ‘ Widow’s Plea For Her Son’ 55:08
Len Spencer – Arkansas Traveler 57:13
Prof D Wormser – Heimweh 57:22
Bohumir Kryl – Russian Fantasia 58:19
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