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Updated: June 12, 2025
From MRS. E. V. McConnell, of North Dakota, Lady Manager Two eggs, one tablespoon of cream or sweet milk, one cup oyster crackers rolled fine, one can or six ears of sweet corn scraped from the cob, pepper and salt to taste. Put tablespoon butter in frying pan, have it hot and drop in batter by spoonfuls. Fry brown and serve hot for breakfast.
The herders always brought the horses to camp every night, but the last two nights they had failed to bring the stock in, and this man McConnell had raised the crowd to hunt the stock, being satisfied that the two herders were killed and the stock driven away by the Indians.
McConnell is Postmaster-General of Chicago." Momma was grateful, too, though she expressed it somewhat more distantly. Momma has a great deal of manner with strangers; it sometimes completely disguises her real feeling toward them. I was also grateful, though I merely bowed, and kicked the Senator under the table.
There came to Congress from Alabama a roistering blade by the name of McConnell. He was something of a wit. During his brief sojourn in the national capital he made a noisy record for himself as an all-round, all-night man about town, a dare-devil and a spendthrift. His first encounter with Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia, used to be one of the standard local jokes.
Palmer has been a constantly rising man, until now he is on one or the other side of most of the important cases in our courts. His reputation as a criminal lawyer is especially high. In 1865, he prosecuted the celebrated Hughes murder case successfully. Two years afterwards he defended McConnell, the murderer, and in 1868, defended Mrs.
About five she retired to her severely simple apartments in the big brownstone office building devoted to physicians, corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue. Here she took tea, read a little, dined all alone, and retired about nine. This was the guileless but determined existence of Rosalind Hollis, M.D., according to McConnell, the detective assigned to observe her.
Such people as Temple Boyle and Vincent Beers, who had been his instructors in the past and who had heard of him in Chicago at the time of his success, Luke Severas, William McConnell, Oren Benedict, Hudson Dula, and others wondered what had become of him. Why did he not paint any more? He was never seen in the New York haunts of art!
Sergeant James R. McConnell, one of the Americans in the French flying corps, afterwards killed, tells of a day's service in his most readable book, Flying for France, in a way that gives some idea of the daily routine of an operator of an avion de chasse. Drawing forward out of line, you put on full power, race across the grass, and take the air.
Before he died he reached the deep water, and the swift current bore his body away. Other Feats of Personal Prowess About this time a hunter named McConnell was captured near Lexington by five Indians.
Colonel Dade was seated in the barroom of Brown's Hotel early one morning, waiting for someone to come in and invite him to drink. Presently McConnell arrived. It was his custom when he entered a saloon to ask the entire roomful, no matter how many, "to come up and licker," and, of course, he invited the solitary stranger.
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