Newspaper Articles
Meriwether County, Georgia






From the Collection of Margaret Partridge Evans.
Submitted by Stefani Evans

LAGRANGE REPORTER, 3 Oct 1873, p. 3
SHADY DELL GRANGE, 715 District, Meriwether county, was organized Sept. 19, 1873, by Jas. H. Fannin, with these officers:
W. H. Partridge--Master.
O. S. Florence--Overseer.
Jesse Partridge--Lecturer.
A. S. Harris--Steward.
John [...]
Jas. W. Thompson--Treasurer.
W.J.P. Trippe--Secretary.
Miss Odessa Thompson--Pomona.
Mrs. M. J. Partridge--Flora.
Mrs. M.A. Florence--Lady Ass't. Steward.
The following are the members: Wm. Evans, L.M. Harmon, J.C. Russell, J.R. Poren, W.T. Wilkinson, John A. Partridge, W.T. Florence, Wm. Florence, Jas. Maffett, Hezekiah Hall, Mrs. D.A. Evans, Mrs. M.A. Harmon, Mrs. James Strozier, Mrs. M.A. Florence, Sr., Miss Mattie Harmon, Miss Ida Trippe.



LAGRANGE REPORTER, 8 Jul 1904, p. 1 [Troup Co. Archives, LaGrange, GA]
BURNED TO THE GROUND.
RESIDENCE OF MR. W. H. PARTRIDGE STRUCK BY LIGHTENING
Odessadale, Ga., July 6--The residence of Mr. Wm. H. Partridge was struck by lightning during a thunder storm last night, and was burned to the ground in a short time.
The Partridge home was one of the most substantial and well kept of any country residence in this county. No one was injured; and a considerable portion of the contents of the lower story were removed, but damaged considerably. The loss was about $3000, with $800 insurance.



Undated poem by Ed Winn Partridge.

'It's the Southland We Love'

It's not the hills of the Southland
With their stately oaks and pines
Nor the fragrant perfume, of the honey-suckle bloom
That lingers ever in our mind.

It's not the song of the mocking bird
with their musical strains so rare,
nor the spasmodic shrill, of a calling whippoorwill
That makes us long to be there.

It's not the refrain of the ploughman
With the[sic] their plaintive songs of cheer,
Nor the ripples of the brook, in a distant nook
That we hold in mind so dear.

It's not the forest of the wild-flowers
That sparkle in the morning des[dew],
Nor the violet bed by the old wood shed
That we are longing most to view.

It's not the cry of the hound pack
On their nocturnal carousal for prey,
Nor the huntsman's call, through the crisp air of fall,
That beckons us there to stay.

It's not the voices of maidens
With willowly grace and charm,
Nor the love and appeal, their faces reveal,
That causes our hearts alarm.

It's not just one of the beauties
But all combined for man,
That makes it a place of happiness
And our home, our old Southland.




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