National Geographic : 1937 Jul
THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE Photograph by B. Anthony Stewart HIS SAILING DAYS ARE OVER, BUT HE CAN'T FORGET THE SEA Even the sails of this model windjammer are made of wood, carved and plied into place with infinite care. On the deck are tiny figures of men, painstakingly whittled. The maker of the model lives at Sturgeon Bay, a yachting center, whence a canal cuts across Door Peninsula to Lake Michigan. The architecture of the period, fortu nately not yet trampled down in some of the quieter towns, yet charms the visitor. I think of Hudson on its hillside, with its white-painted columns and "American Gothic" windows facing the river. Silver Threads Among the Gold was a favorite new song then-its verses written by a Shiocton man. For a last glimpse of the Germans, here they are in Mader's Restaurant in Mil waukee. The helpings of Kalbshaxen (calves feet), pickled string beans, and Apfelkuchen are enormous. Beer is plen tiful-or perhaps it will be a choice bottle of wine from the Fatherland that is or dered, "the Fatherland" in most cases being the pre-Bismarck Germany of long, long ago. For a last look at the Scandinavians, here is one of their Apostle Islands fishing villages. Shy yellow huskies that will drag the fishermen's sleds over the ice in winter peer out from under the reeled-up nets. This lore of boats, and sleds, and nets, and cedar-plumed pole buoys harks back to another country. Accomplished northern- ers work here, who know how to live in a cold land. And now what of the final mixture-of these, and the many lesser elements? OUT OF THE MELTING POT Our last stop is in a Milwaukee park on the Fourth of July. The band plays, and the school children of the neighborhood march in, wonderfully scrubbed and starched. All have their eyes pinned on the ice-cream booth, for on the Fourth of July ice cream is the portion of every Milwaukee boy and girl. But now the band breaks into America. The parade stops and everybody waves his flag. In a shady place, among the proud mothers and fathers, sits an old grand mother, watching and listening. Is her name Thompson, I wonder, or Wisniewski, or Lefevre, or O'Dowd, or Sundstrom, or Eschweiler ? Impossible to say. But behind the happy shine of her glasses is the shine of a tear, as the penny flags wave and the music rises.