Baty, George 1859 - 2 Apr 1928 Christian County Republican 5 Apr 1998 p1 & p8
[Note: Son of ? & Malinda (McDaniel) Baty - brother Abraham Lincoln Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as John L.; brother William Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as George, both agreed on mother’s maiden name]
Former Citizen Died In Springfield
Death of George Baty Reported This Week - Burial Took Place At Sparta
The death of George Baty, a former citizen of Christian county, is reported by the Springfield Daily News, of Monday, April 2nd, as follows: Nobody knows why George Baty committed suicide, because George Baty had no means of telling anybody. George Baty was 69 years old and he could not read or write. Almost the only companions he knew were the phantoms that shared with him the duty of night watching White City baseball park. He was 69 years old and he had been a farmer most of his life and he had never married. And he was lonesome. Spring always made him lonesome. Spring made him sick. That much he told a scant acquaintance. Even on a farm when spring came round and things would be growing, he would be sick - with a strange lonesome sickness he could not understand nor explain. Three years ago, he came to Springfield from his home at Sparta. He could not read nor write and that seemed to be an awful handicap to an old man looking for a job. But he was hired as a night watchman at the baseball park. Nights of lonesomeness and days of sleep. Ghosts for comrades in his working hours and restless dreams in his sleeping hours. Two spring seasons ripped through his lonesome soul, and George Baty made his lonesome rounds of the lonesome park in the night. A few days ago, the arrival of the ball players told him a third spring was here - a third year of solitary night watching. So yesterday morning, when the sun was high, George Baty went “home” to the room that he had occupied for many lonesome springs at the New Central hotel, on Boonville Street. He sat on the edge of his bed and took stock of the situation. He was 69 years old. He had never married. He couldn’t read and he couldn’t write. That, acquaintance told, had bothered him much. And he was lonesome. Sick. Sick with the lonesomeness that spring brings to an old man. Half an hour of such contemplation and George Baty went for a walk. Walked to a nearby drug store and casually purchased a bottle of deadly poison. Back “home”, then, to his little hotel room. To sit again on the edge of his bed and be lonesome. Nobody knows what ran through his head as he gripped the bottle of poison. He had decided to kill himself. Nobody knows exactly why as he had nobody in whom to confide and because he couldn’t write his farewell - the hand that could grip the bottle of deadly poison, the hand that could guide death to his mouth, couldn’t pen a word of lonesome farewell. So, he drained that bottle of poison. That must have been about 8:30 o’clock in the morning. Something of the presence of death must have permeated that hotel that had been the lonesome home of George Baty. For at 10 o’clock, a clerk, impelled by a “hunch” he could not explain, went to the old man’s room and opened the unlocked door. George Baty, who had been an old man and lonesome, lay slumped on the edge of the bed. His right hand gripped the bottle of deadly poison. His mouth was seared with the fatal stuff. He was dead. There were dried tears in his eyes. Tears, possibly from the agony of the deadly stuff. Tears, possibly from the last hurt that the last spring could cause George Baty. They called the coroner. Suicide, he said. Autopsy unnecessary. Inquest superfluous. Why had he killed himself? Nobody knows. Nothing left to tell. No note. No last gesture. Nothing much in the room but an old man dead of his own hand in the springtime. They’ll take his body home today, home to Sparta, where this afternoon at 2:30 o’clock there will be funeral services. A brother John lives at Sparta. He was once probate judge of Christian county and still is a prominent citizen. There is another brother, William, who lives in Springfield. They couldn’t explain. It was spring and George was an old man and solitary. And he was always sick in the springtime.
[Note: Son of ? & Malinda (McDaniel) Baty - brother Abraham Lincoln Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as John L.; brother William Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as George, both agreed on mother’s maiden name]
Former Citizen Died In Springfield
Death of George Baty Reported This Week - Burial Took Place At Sparta
The death of George Baty, a former citizen of Christian county, is reported by the Springfield Daily News, of Monday, April 2nd, as follows: Nobody knows why George Baty committed suicide, because George Baty had no means of telling anybody. George Baty was 69 years old and he could not read or write. Almost the only companions he knew were the phantoms that shared with him the duty of night watching White City baseball park. He was 69 years old and he had been a farmer most of his life and he had never married. And he was lonesome. Spring always made him lonesome. Spring made him sick. That much he told a scant acquaintance. Even on a farm when spring came round and things would be growing, he would be sick - with a strange lonesome sickness he could not understand nor explain. Three years ago, he came to Springfield from his home at Sparta. He could not read nor write and that seemed to be an awful handicap to an old man looking for a job. But he was hired as a night watchman at the baseball park. Nights of lonesomeness and days of sleep. Ghosts for comrades in his working hours and restless dreams in his sleeping hours. Two spring seasons ripped through his lonesome soul, and George Baty made his lonesome rounds of the lonesome park in the night. A few days ago, the arrival of the ball players told him a third spring was here - a third year of solitary night watching. So yesterday morning, when the sun was high, George Baty went “home” to the room that he had occupied for many lonesome springs at the New Central hotel, on Boonville Street. He sat on the edge of his bed and took stock of the situation. He was 69 years old. He had never married. He couldn’t read and he couldn’t write. That, acquaintance told, had bothered him much. And he was lonesome. Sick. Sick with the lonesomeness that spring brings to an old man. Half an hour of such contemplation and George Baty went for a walk. Walked to a nearby drug store and casually purchased a bottle of deadly poison. Back “home”, then, to his little hotel room. To sit again on the edge of his bed and be lonesome. Nobody knows what ran through his head as he gripped the bottle of poison. He had decided to kill himself. Nobody knows exactly why as he had nobody in whom to confide and because he couldn’t write his farewell - the hand that could grip the bottle of deadly poison, the hand that could guide death to his mouth, couldn’t pen a word of lonesome farewell. So, he drained that bottle of poison. That must have been about 8:30 o’clock in the morning. Something of the presence of death must have permeated that hotel that had been the lonesome home of George Baty. For at 10 o’clock, a clerk, impelled by a “hunch” he could not explain, went to the old man’s room and opened the unlocked door. George Baty, who had been an old man and lonesome, lay slumped on the edge of the bed. His right hand gripped the bottle of deadly poison. His mouth was seared with the fatal stuff. He was dead. There were dried tears in his eyes. Tears, possibly from the agony of the deadly stuff. Tears, possibly from the last hurt that the last spring could cause George Baty. They called the coroner. Suicide, he said. Autopsy unnecessary. Inquest superfluous. Why had he killed himself? Nobody knows. Nothing left to tell. No note. No last gesture. Nothing much in the room but an old man dead of his own hand in the springtime. They’ll take his body home today, home to Sparta, where this afternoon at 2:30 o’clock there will be funeral services. A brother John lives at Sparta. He was once probate judge of Christian county and still is a prominent citizen. There is another brother, William, who lives in Springfield. They couldn’t explain. It was spring and George was an old man and solitary. And he was always sick in the springtime.
Baty, George 1859 - 2 Apr 1928 Christian County Republican 5 Apr 1998 p1 & p8
[Note: Son of ? & Malinda (McDaniel) Baty - brother Abraham Lincoln Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as John L.; brother William Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as George, both agreed on mother’s maiden name]
Former Citizen Died In Springfield
Death of George Baty Reported This Week - Burial Took Place At Sparta
The death of George Baty, a former citizen of Christian county, is reported by the Springfield Daily News, of Monday, April 2nd, as follows: Nobody knows why George Baty committed suicide, because George Baty had no means of telling anybody. George Baty was 69 years old and he could not read or write. Almost the only companions he knew were the phantoms that shared with him the duty of night watching White City baseball park. He was 69 years old and he had been a farmer most of his life and he had never married. And he was lonesome. Spring always made him lonesome. Spring made him sick. That much he told a scant acquaintance. Even on a farm when spring came round and things would be growing, he would be sick - with a strange lonesome sickness he could not understand nor explain. Three years ago, he came to Springfield from his home at Sparta. He could not read nor write and that seemed to be an awful handicap to an old man looking for a job. But he was hired as a night watchman at the baseball park. Nights of lonesomeness and days of sleep. Ghosts for comrades in his working hours and restless dreams in his sleeping hours. Two spring seasons ripped through his lonesome soul, and George Baty made his lonesome rounds of the lonesome park in the night. A few days ago, the arrival of the ball players told him a third spring was here - a third year of solitary night watching. So yesterday morning, when the sun was high, George Baty went “home” to the room that he had occupied for many lonesome springs at the New Central hotel, on Boonville Street. He sat on the edge of his bed and took stock of the situation. He was 69 years old. He had never married. He couldn’t read and he couldn’t write. That, acquaintance told, had bothered him much. And he was lonesome. Sick. Sick with the lonesomeness that spring brings to an old man. Half an hour of such contemplation and George Baty went for a walk. Walked to a nearby drug store and casually purchased a bottle of deadly poison. Back “home”, then, to his little hotel room. To sit again on the edge of his bed and be lonesome. Nobody knows what ran through his head as he gripped the bottle of poison. He had decided to kill himself. Nobody knows exactly why as he had nobody in whom to confide and because he couldn’t write his farewell - the hand that could grip the bottle of deadly poison, the hand that could guide death to his mouth, couldn’t pen a word of lonesome farewell. So, he drained that bottle of poison. That must have been about 8:30 o’clock in the morning. Something of the presence of death must have permeated that hotel that had been the lonesome home of George Baty. For at 10 o’clock, a clerk, impelled by a “hunch” he could not explain, went to the old man’s room and opened the unlocked door. George Baty, who had been an old man and lonesome, lay slumped on the edge of the bed. His right hand gripped the bottle of deadly poison. His mouth was seared with the fatal stuff. He was dead. There were dried tears in his eyes. Tears, possibly from the agony of the deadly stuff. Tears, possibly from the last hurt that the last spring could cause George Baty. They called the coroner. Suicide, he said. Autopsy unnecessary. Inquest superfluous. Why had he killed himself? Nobody knows. Nothing left to tell. No note. No last gesture. Nothing much in the room but an old man dead of his own hand in the springtime. They’ll take his body home today, home to Sparta, where this afternoon at 2:30 o’clock there will be funeral services. A brother John lives at Sparta. He was once probate judge of Christian county and still is a prominent citizen. There is another brother, William, who lives in Springfield. They couldn’t explain. It was spring and George was an old man and solitary. And he was always sick in the springtime.
[Note: Son of ? & Malinda (McDaniel) Baty - brother Abraham Lincoln Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as John L.; brother William Baty’s MO DC gave father’s name as George, both agreed on mother’s maiden name]
Former Citizen Died In Springfield
Death of George Baty Reported This Week - Burial Took Place At Sparta
The death of George Baty, a former citizen of Christian county, is reported by the Springfield Daily News, of Monday, April 2nd, as follows: Nobody knows why George Baty committed suicide, because George Baty had no means of telling anybody. George Baty was 69 years old and he could not read or write. Almost the only companions he knew were the phantoms that shared with him the duty of night watching White City baseball park. He was 69 years old and he had been a farmer most of his life and he had never married. And he was lonesome. Spring always made him lonesome. Spring made him sick. That much he told a scant acquaintance. Even on a farm when spring came round and things would be growing, he would be sick - with a strange lonesome sickness he could not understand nor explain. Three years ago, he came to Springfield from his home at Sparta. He could not read nor write and that seemed to be an awful handicap to an old man looking for a job. But he was hired as a night watchman at the baseball park. Nights of lonesomeness and days of sleep. Ghosts for comrades in his working hours and restless dreams in his sleeping hours. Two spring seasons ripped through his lonesome soul, and George Baty made his lonesome rounds of the lonesome park in the night. A few days ago, the arrival of the ball players told him a third spring was here - a third year of solitary night watching. So yesterday morning, when the sun was high, George Baty went “home” to the room that he had occupied for many lonesome springs at the New Central hotel, on Boonville Street. He sat on the edge of his bed and took stock of the situation. He was 69 years old. He had never married. He couldn’t read and he couldn’t write. That, acquaintance told, had bothered him much. And he was lonesome. Sick. Sick with the lonesomeness that spring brings to an old man. Half an hour of such contemplation and George Baty went for a walk. Walked to a nearby drug store and casually purchased a bottle of deadly poison. Back “home”, then, to his little hotel room. To sit again on the edge of his bed and be lonesome. Nobody knows what ran through his head as he gripped the bottle of poison. He had decided to kill himself. Nobody knows exactly why as he had nobody in whom to confide and because he couldn’t write his farewell - the hand that could grip the bottle of deadly poison, the hand that could guide death to his mouth, couldn’t pen a word of lonesome farewell. So, he drained that bottle of poison. That must have been about 8:30 o’clock in the morning. Something of the presence of death must have permeated that hotel that had been the lonesome home of George Baty. For at 10 o’clock, a clerk, impelled by a “hunch” he could not explain, went to the old man’s room and opened the unlocked door. George Baty, who had been an old man and lonesome, lay slumped on the edge of the bed. His right hand gripped the bottle of deadly poison. His mouth was seared with the fatal stuff. He was dead. There were dried tears in his eyes. Tears, possibly from the agony of the deadly stuff. Tears, possibly from the last hurt that the last spring could cause George Baty. They called the coroner. Suicide, he said. Autopsy unnecessary. Inquest superfluous. Why had he killed himself? Nobody knows. Nothing left to tell. No note. No last gesture. Nothing much in the room but an old man dead of his own hand in the springtime. They’ll take his body home today, home to Sparta, where this afternoon at 2:30 o’clock there will be funeral services. A brother John lives at Sparta. He was once probate judge of Christian county and still is a prominent citizen. There is another brother, William, who lives in Springfield. They couldn’t explain. It was spring and George was an old man and solitary. And he was always sick in the springtime.
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