Mitch Miller – "The Children's Marching Song" (1959)

With a knick-knack, paddywhack

Give a dog a bone

In 1715, the French built Fort Michilimackinac, a supply depot for fur trappers and traders that overlooked the Straits of Mackinac, which connects Lake Michigan and Lake Huron and separates the Lower and Upper Peninsulas of Michigan.

The British took over the fort in 1761 after its victory in the French and Indian Wars.

On June 2, 1763, a large group of Ojibwe Indians got together in an open field in front of the fort to play baaga’adowe – a traditional Native American game that eventually developed into modern-day lacrosse.

The British residents of Fort Michilimackinac enjoyed the spectacle of hundreds of nearly naked Indians running to and fro, tripping their opponents or knocking them to the ground with their sticks  as they pursued the ball.

But as 19th-century American historian Francis Parkman explained in his 1851 book, The Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Indian War After the Conquest of Canada, the game suddenly took a surprising turn:

[F]rom the midst of the multitude, the ball soared into the air, and, descending in a wide curve, fell near the pickets of the fort.  This was no chance stroke.  It was part of a pre-concerted stratagem to insure the surprise and destruction of the garrison.  As if in pursuit of the ball, the players turned and came rushing, a maddened and tumultuous throng, towards the gate. . . . 

The amazed English had no time to think or act.  The shrill cries of the ball-players were changed to the ferocious war-whoop.  The warriors snatched from their squaws the hatchets, which the latter . . . had concealed beneath their blankets.  

Some of the Indians assailed the spectators without, while others rushed into the fort, and all was carnage and confusion.   . . . Within the area of the fort, the men were slaughtered without mercy.

A British trader named Alexander Henry, who had decided to stay in his room and write letters rather than go outside and watch the game, was startled by the war-cries and ran to his window to see what the commotion was all about:

I saw a crowd of Indians, within the fort, furiously cutting down and scalping every Englishman they found . . . I saw several of my countrymen fall, and more that one struggling between the knees of an Indian, who, holding him in this manner, scalped him while yet living.

*     *     *     *     *

Henry grabbed a fowling piece, expecting to hear the garrison’s drummers beat the call to arms.  But the British soldiers had been caught completely off guard by the surprise attack, and the massacre continued unabated.

At length, disappointed in the hope of seeing resistance made to the enemy, and sensible, of course, that no effort of my own unassisted arm could avail against four hundred Indians, I thought only of seeking shelter amid the slaughter which was raging.

Fort Michilimackinac as it looked
at the time of the massacre

The Ojibwe didn’t like the way the British had treated them after taking possession of Fort Michilimackinac, but they had no beef with the many Frenchmen who lived within the fort.  So Henry ran next door to seek help from his French neighbor, Monsieur Langlade.

Henry explained that he was in danger of losing his scalp, hoping that the Frenchman would offer to hide him until the danger had passed.  But he was sorely disappointed.  

Langlade merely shrugged his soldiers and said, “Que voudriez-vous que j’en ferais?”  

In other words, “What the hell do you expect me to do about it?”

*     *     *     *     *

A Pawnee woman who was a slave to the hardhearted Langlade took pity on Henry and led him to a garret where he could hide.  But the Ojibwe eventually ferreted Henry out, put him and several other Englishmen into canoes, and headed for a nearby island.  But a group of Ottawa Indians intercepted the Ojibwe canoes and set the captives free.

The Ottawa chief greeted the Englishmen warmly, and told them that the Ojibwe had intended to kill and then eat them.  Henry learned later why the Ottawas had intervened on their behalf:

They were jealous and angry that the Ojibwes should have taken the fort without giving them an opportunity to share in the plunder.

*     *     *     *     *

The origins of today’s featured song – which I chose to feature today because the name of Fort Michilimackinac reminded me of the lyrics quoted above – are more than a little obscure.  

There are versions of “This Old Man” in several early 20th century folk-song collections.  Pete Seeger and his stepmother, Ruth Crawford Seeger, included it in their 1948 collection, American Folk Songs for Children, and Pete recorded it a few years later.

The song became popular after it appeared on the soundtrack of the 1958 Ingrid Bergman movie, The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.  The Mitch Miller recording that I’m featuring today was a top-20 single in 1959. 

There are a number of theories concerning the meaning of the lyrics, none of which are very persuasive.

Click here to listen to “The Children’s Marching Song.”

Click on the link below to buy the song from Amazon:

Mitch Miller and his Orchestra -- "March from 'The River Kwai' and Colonel Bogey" (1957)

The Bridge on the River Kwai, which was released in 1957, was a huge success at the box office -- it cost only $2.8 million to make, but grossed over $30 million.

Here's the trailer:

The movie won seven Academy Awards, including those for best picture, best director (David Lean, who went on to make Lawrence of Arabia and Dr. Zhivago), best actor (Alec Guinness), best cinematography, best editing, best adapted screenplay, and best music.

That screenplay was the work of two blacklisted screenwriters, Carl Foreman (who also wrote the script for High Noon), and Michael Wilson (who had won an Oscar for A Place in the Sun).  Since neither man could be credited for his work on the script, the official credit went to Pierre Boulle, whose 1952 novel of the same name was the basis of the movie. 

Given that Bouelle was a Frenchman who did not speak English, he was an odd choice for a screenwriting credit.  (Years later, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences gave posthumous Oscars to Foreman and Wilson.)  

The most memorable scene in the movie ist when he British prisoners of war march into the prison camp whistling the "Colonel Bogey March."

Major F. J. Ricketts
(a/k/a Kenneth Alford)

That march was written in 1914 by a British bandmaster, Major F. J. Ricketts, who published it and other compositions under the pseudonym Kenneth Alford.  The two-note phrase (a descending minor third) that begins each line of the melody was supposedly copied from a golfer who whistled those notes instead of shouting "fore" when he teed off.  

The name "Colonel Bogey" was a reference to an imaginary golfing opponent -- it was a reference to the course itself, which is the real opponent of a golfer -- and the word "bogey" later came to mean a score of one over par on a hole.

The same melody was used for a British World War II ditty, "Hitler Has Only Got One Ball."  Here's one version of the verse to that song:

Hitler has only got one ball

Göring has two but very small

Himmler is somewhat sim'lar,

But poor Goebbels has no balls at all

There are a number of alternate versions, including this one:

Hitler has only got one ball

The other is on the kitchen wall

His mother, the dirty bugger

Chopped it off when he was small

It has long been rumored that Hitler was, in fact, monorchid -- that is, had only one testicle -- perhaps as the result of a wound to the groin he suffered in World War I.  The Soviet autopsy on Hitler's remains, which was released in 1970, stated that Hitler did not have a left testicle.  But many have questioned whether the autopsy was altered for reasons of propaganda.

The composer of the soundtrack for The Bridge on the River Kwai, Sir Malcolm Arnold, composed over a hundred film scores, as well as symphonies and other orchestral pieces.  His personal life was a bit of a show, thanks to schizophrenia (his children once had him committed to a mental hospital) and alcoholism.

From a story in the Daily Mail:

Friends recall a man whose generosity knew no bounds, but Sir Malcolm, who began his career as a professional trumpeter, was also often drunk and highly promiscuous.

On one occasion, his wife came home to find him making love to a maid over a table.  On another, he had sex with a waitress on a restaurant floor.

In later years, the cellist Julian Lloyd Webber, a close friend, recalled how he was told to "f*** off" when he reprimanded Sir Malcolm for trying to kiss his wife on the mouth.

Hey, no one's perfect.  (You can click here to read the entire Daily Mail story.)

Here's Mitch Miller's recording of "March from The River Kwai and Colonel Bogey," which combines the "Colonel Bogey March" with Arnold's original composition, "The River Kwai March":

Click below to buy the song from Amazon:

Mitch Miller & the Gang -- "Down by the Old Mill Stream" (1958)

Down by the old mill stream

Where I first met you

Redings Mill is a village just south of Joplin, Missouri (my hometown) that was named for the grist mill on Shoal Creek that John S. Reding built there in 1832.  Reding's mill (some spell the name Redding) was the first mill in Newton County.

Here's the first bridge that was built at Redings Mill.  (I'm not sure why Redings lost the apostrophe before the "s," but it did.)

In 1930, a new bridge was built at Redings Mill to carry Missouri Route 86 over Shoal Creek:

Note the rather sharp curve the highway takes just after the bridge -- not exactly the safest highway design.

The 1930 bridge -- which is a three-span, open-spandrel bridge -- was built by M. E. Gillioz of Monett, Missouri, which built dozens of bridges in Missouri and neighboring states in the twenties and thirties.

When I was growing up, there was a swimming pool near the bridge.  The Redings Mill pool was a large, privately-owned facility that put Joplin's municipal pools to shame. 

I drove over the 1930 bridge many, many times when I was a teenager living in Joplin.  My destination was often the Redings Mill Inn.

The Redings Mill Inn was built by John Reding, and is owned and operated today by his descendants.  Click here to read a blogpost about the Inn by Reding's great-great-great-granddaughter.

Here's a picture I took of the Inn last month:

Back in the seventies, the Redings Mill Inn was known as "Gene and Darlene's."

Here's an excerpt from a blogpost by a former Joplin resident whose father used to take him to Gene and Darlene's for hamburgers on Sundays:

On Sundays sometimes, when I was a kid, daddy would come up with the notion that burgers from Gene and Darlene's would really hit the spot.  Being always in favor of food in general, and carry-out food being really exotic to me, the idea was always a winner in my opinion. . . . 

Stucco on the outside, I guess, and inside just like thousands of other old bars of that time -- the Hamm's sign with the polar bear, Slim Jims and pickled eggs and cheap cigars for sale.  But Gene and Darlene's had more to it than most places like that.  That second floor -- what went on up there? And that cupola on top -- absolutely fascinating and unknown.  

Downstairs there was a wide, low-ceilinged room with a dance floor that must have hosted a hundred thousand fox-trotting, two-stepping, and just plain shuffling and swaying feet over a half century or so. . . . That room with its worn but always polished wooden floor was a few degrees cooler, even on the hot days.  I would wander in there on those quiet Sunday hamburger runs, and wonder what kind of things went on in such a place. 

Daddy had an ulterior motive, as I also figured out a lot later.  His regular haunts for draft beer were closed on Sundays, but because Gene and Darlene's served food he could get a cold one or two while the burgers were on the grill.  That's why Sundays were the only day of the week when Gene and Darlene's was a dining option.

Click here to read the entire post.  

I vividly remember one particular trip to Gene and Darlene's.  I ended up there late one summer night when I was 21.  (You could drink 3.2% beer in Kansas when you were 18 back in those days, but the drinking age in Missouri was 21 -- which explains why I didn't spend any nights at Gene and Darlene's prior to that summer.)

There was a pool table on the edge of the dance floor, and a couple of friends and I were playing eight-ball and drinking beer when one of us got a brilliant idea.

We took turns going to the men's room, but our purpose wasn't just to drain the lizard.  We were sneaking pool cues and billiard balls into the bathroom, where we opened the window and tossed our booty into the parking lot.  After finishing our beers, we left the bar, put the sticks and balls into our car, and got the hell out of Dodge.

None of us had a pool table at home.  So why did we steal a few random billiard balls and some warped old cue sticks?  

The answer should be obvious.  We were 21-year-old boys, and WE WERE DRUNK!

I did not have the last laugh that night.  That summer, I was working at a freight dock, unloading and loading truck trailers for Jones Truck Lines, a regional carrier that went bankrupt 20 years ago.

I often had to work the 3 AM to 11:30 AM shift, but the day before our visit to Gene and Darlene's, my boss had told me he wouldn't need me the next day.  Hence my being out so late drinking.

A Jones Truck Lines truck

But no sooner did I get home and go to sleep (i.e., pass out in a drunken stupor) than the phone began to ring.  My mother came into my bedroom, started shaking me, and told me I was needed to work the 3 AM shift after all.

Despite the excellent wages my job paid (the minimum wage in 1973 was $1.60, but I was taking home $7 an hour), I was not pleased when my mother gave me this news.  

At first, I simply refused to respond to her.  When she persisted, I think I threw some things at her.  I know I used all sorts of bad language, which I would never have done if I had been sober.

My parents grew up in the Depression, with very little money.  (We didn't have a lot of money when I was a kid, although we didn't miss any meals.)  So as far as they were concerned, you didn't say no to good-paying work.  They would never have turned down a shift.  Of course, they never went out and drank beer until the wee hours on a weeknight either.

Eventually, they dragged my sorry ass out of bed and persuaded me to get dressed.  I think my mother made some eggs and toast for me, although I'm not sure if I ate them.

Unloading freight that night was not much fun.  Oh, I almost forgot -- the freight dock was just downwind from the Joplin stockyards, and the powerful aroma of cowsh*t that wafted in my direction that humid August night added to my miserable condition.

My boss later told my father that I didn't really sober up until after my lunch break, which began at 7 AM.  That sounds about right.

The 1930 Redings Mill bridge was replaced by a newer and safer bridge years ago, but the old bridge still stands.  It connects the Wildcat Glade trails on the east and west sides of Shoal Creek, and I walked across it last month when I was in Joplin to visit my parents.

The bridge is not a particularly distinctive or dramatic structure, but I'm glad it has been preserved.

Here's a shot of the bridge from below:

The underbelly of the bridge has been covered with graffiti:

Here's the bridge from bridge level -- now there are benches on the old roadway that allow tired hikers to take a rest and enjoy the view:

There's some whitewater just upstream from the bridge:

Here's another view of those rapids:

One of the first records I remember my parents buying when they purchased a Magnovox console stereo for our living room was Mitch Miller & the Gang's Sing Along With Mitch, which was released in 1958.

Mitch Miller was a precocious musician who played the oboe with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra when he was 15 years old.  He was the English horn soloist on the famed conductor Leopold Stokowski's 1947 recording of Dvorak's New World Symphony.

Miller later became a rock-and-roll-hating record producer for Columbia, and recorded a number of hit singles and album with the male chorus he put together in the fifties.

In 1961, Miller became a household name thanks to the success of his NBC television show, Sing Along with Mitch, which featured his male chorus and the occasional guest singer.

The lyrics to each song crawled across the bottom of the TV screen as the singers sang them, so that viewers could sing along at home.

Ready to join Mitch, his Gang, and me for a little sing-along?

Sing Along with Mitch ran until 1964 -- the year the "British Invasion" hit the United States.

I probably sang along when I watched the TV show.  I know for certain that I sang along to the songs on that Mitch Miller record album.  I can still sing each and every one of the songs on that record from memory.

I absolutely loved "That's Where My Money Goes," despite not really having a clue about what the lyrics meant:

She's got a pair of hips

Just like two battleships

I buy her everything

To keep her in style

(Well, well, well)

She wears silk underwear

I wear my last year's pair

Say, boys, that's where my money goes!

Miller loved novelty songs and cutesy lyrics.  Here's a verse from "Sweet Violets":

There once was a farmer who took a young miss
In back of the barn where he gave her a

Lecture on horses and chickens and eggs
And told her that she had such beautiful
Manners that suited a girl of her charms
A girl that he wanted to take in his
Washing and ironing and then if she did
They could get married and raise lots of
Sweet violets!
Sweeter than the roses!

In their recording of "Down by the Old Mill Stream," Miller's singers sang the song straight the first time through the verse, but then had some fun with the lyrics: 

Down by the old (not the new, but the old)

Mill stream (not the river, but the stream)

Where I first (not last, but first)

Met you (not her, but you)

Mitch Miller died in 2010.  He was 99 years old.

Here's "Down by the Old Mill Stream":

Click here to buy the song from Amazon: