Eventually the time came when some of the young Giffords were cutting themselves off from Bridget’s apron strings and being moved from the nursery to make way for newer arrivals. The games they played had become far more sophisticated than being carried around the nursery in the centre of a tablecloth. Now plays were being written and performed. Gabriel and Ada were the writers and produ-cers of these dramas, and Gabriel later admitted that they gave their sister, Nellie, a number of roles from which she sustained minor cuts and bruises. In one of these plays, The Vanishing Lady, Nellie, placed on the top of a wardrobe in a basket, unfortunately fell off. Writing to her in the 1950s, Gabriel asked if she still had the scar where molten lead shot out of a bullet had landed on her foot. There were toy theatres too, constructed by Gabriel, and plays written especially for their cast. These three, Gabriel, Ada and Nellie, near in age, formed a close trio.
From about five years of age the Gifford children were assigned to a tutor, usually a girl of limited education. This lack of education was not important, however, since the tutor’s presence was not so much educational as to free the nursery for the newer arrivals, to maintain the human assembly line, as it were, and, most of all, to keep the children occupied and out of their mother’s household routine. So long as the tutor was quiet and reasonably well spoken, the children would be left in his or her hands. Once an unfortunate young male student from Trinity College took on the job as holiday work and faced half a dozen scowling youngsters who resented summer lessons. One day, when they were at their most difficult, he put his head in his hands and fled from the room, never to return.
The next stage in the children’s early educational development was the choice of an establishment within easy walking distance of Temple Villas where the criterion for suitability was Isabella’s assessment of how much the chosen Protestant ladies needed a boost to their limited means. Their whereabouts and availability she discovered at meetings of the Church of Ireland Missionary Society. The charitable nature of the appointment seemed to be paramount, the children’s education perceived as an addendum.
The first such ‘school’ (they were all small private houses) consisted of the ‘female teacher’, her elderly father who had to be constrained in his garden chair with ropes and her alcoholic husband. Nellie described the teacher with compassion in later years as a ‘poverty-stricken, distracted wife’ who faced ‘the desperate catastrophe she had to call her life’.[1] Her four pupils were allotted a small junk room which contained an old trunk full of travel books; the more popular ones, eagerly perused, were illustrated. The pupils were required to be able to recite biblical texts, but prompting seemed to be acceptable.
Either the grandfather or the husband had served in the British army, and this gave them points, as far as Isabella was concerned. As for the grandfather, he was tied up only when in the garden on fine days, presumably lest he should fall. The children were afraid of him, and he, they admitted later, of them. They did not tease him but stood at the back door looking out fearfully and hoping that the ropes that bound him were sound. There was no point in communicating their fears to their mother; they would have been told that it was all in their imagination.
The next educational experiment, as it might be called, was run by two ladies called ‘the Miss Fitts’. Their house was about ten minutes’ walk from Temple Villas, and the younger and more presentable of the two sisters interviewed prospective clients. Her ‘aged’ sister (for eight-year-olds this could have been anything from fifty upwards) was responsible for the ‘teaching’. In this academy the children were locked in a room whose windows, overlooking the back garden, had heavy iron bars, leaving them no chance to get away. Their learning paraphernalia consisted of a few exercise books, a hymn book and a spelling book. In winter their room had a small, open fire on which the Miss Fitts occasionally boiled potatoes. When left alone, the children would ‘test’ the potatoes with the nibs of their pens. If the ink was not wholesome, at least it must not have been poisonous. There was, admittedly, an attempt at this school to teach ‘writing’, but the sad state of the older sister’s hand, crippled with arthritis, set wobbly headlines, and, with the heedless cruelty of the young, the children deliberately copied the wobbles. Ernest was often kept in for making such copies. The Gifford children were taught neither history nor arithmetic but were given history and ‘sums’ to learn themselves. Often left alone in the locked room, they were unaware of whether their mentors were in or out of the house, although they could frequently hear the mumblings of an unseen man overhead. The end of that educational experience came one day when the snow lay heavily on the ground and the time for them to be released from their prison to make their way home was long overdue. Their mother, becoming anxious, set out to fetch them, and when she saw where they were being taught, that was the end of the Miss Fitts.
Outside of school, entrepreneurial skills began to emerge. The children had no chance, as children have nowadays, of offering to do gardening work or to deliver leaflets. But the human instinct to make money found expression, born of a chance remark made by their father. When he mentioned casually, ‘That might be worth a few pence to old Hickey,’ as he handled a book he had finished reading, he opened, to use Nellie’s words:
… the door of Aladdin’s Cave to us money-starved children. It was a heavenly idea, and so simple. When we had cleared out all the books we thought would not be missed, we turned our energies to other ‘lines of goods’ as the advertisements say. Our unpaid accomplices, the servants, thoroughly enjoyed it though ‘Yiz’ll be kilt’ was their firm conviction. They never gave us away, however, and we kept strictly within the law, never stepping past things quite useless.[2]
Books considered thus unwanted having dried up, and facing a penniless future, there ensued the adventures of the boots and pheasants’ feathers. Under the stairs in Temple Villas the footwear for all the family was housed. Discards were pushed towards the narrow end at the back and, thus ignored, accumulated a veneer of dust and even green mould. One of the young Gifford salespersons spotted an advertisement in a paper by somebody who actually wanted old boots and shoes. Their father sometimes received hampers of fruit or game from his country clients, and the children packed one of those hampers with the cleaned-up relics of abandoned footwear. The tram passed their door, but their entrepreneurial cunning showed itself in their decision to deceive any inquisitive observer as to what might be in the hamper. They stuck a few pheasant feathers into the wickerwork, leaving enough exposed to suggest that their burden contained game. Unfortunately, in those days, largish containers had to be left with the conductor. He was curious about the peculiar angles at which the feathers of these birds were protruding, so he pulled at one, and then another. They both came away far too easily. The young entrepreneurs took their hamper and dismounted at the next stop.
Christmas parties were sometimes given at Temple Villas for the children because Isabella considered that this was part of the required social pattern. One such party was recorded in detail by Nellie, partly because the guests included a little English boy and girl attending one of their schools, whose father was a ‘neat’ Englishman who was musically inclined. The Gifford children found their guests ‘harmless’, ‘strange’ and ‘juiceless’. In Isabella’s eyes, however, they were English and therefore beyond reproach. Her people had come to Ireland way back in the seventeenth century but, as far as she was concerned, to be English was a virtue in itself. It is interesting to see that, like their father’s puzzlement as to the way English was spoken in England, so too were the children aware of a great gap between their accents and perception of things, and those of the British children. It was the old dilemma of the Anglo-Irish: the Gifford parents were unionists but though the young Giffords had, as yet, no political views, they still felt a distinct apartness from their English guests.
Isabella’s flock was so extensive that her invitations were usually limited to children in the immediate neighbourhood. She excelled at preparing party dainties and even employed an entertainer. The piano being out of order on one occasion, she hired a music box with a handle so the children were all rather put out when the aforementioned little English girl, whose name was Nellie Watts, arrived with her violin and a musical score for a piano accompaniment by her father, who obviously intended to stay for the party. The children, who associated the piano with practising scales in a cold drawing room, were delighted with the music box, which required no skill, no respectful silence and no hypocritical applause. Everyone got a chance to turn the handle. It was a great success with all but the English father, who stood silently by. His daughter’s violin and music sheets were quietly set aside.
The huge table was laden with food, fine china and a bonbonnière, which, like the cutlery, was solid silver. Isabella used a cookery book for party novelties, due caution being exercised not to disturb the digestions of excited children. One of these surprise dishes was poached egg on toast. It was, in fact, half a peach in a little blancmange, nesting on a bed of Madeira cake. The offended Englishman, perhaps short-sighted, but certainly a square peg in a round hole at a children’s party, was at first taken in by the ‘egg’ and resented the children’s laughter at the success of their mother’s culinary ruse. A conjuror wound up the proceedings, and the violin went home with the little violinist, unused. Whatever about the guests, Nellie and her siblings enjoyed the well-planned evening, but Isabella had to pacify Mr Watts, who felt insulted by being offered a false poached egg. This was a new, more relaxed aspect of Isabella’s personality.
A little further along the road to maturity came the advent of The Magazine. This private endeavour appeared periodically, its editions governed by such eventualities, all unpleasant, as days too wet to go out, or measles, or some other catastrophe keeping them housebound. Once under way, however, even when the sun shone again or the spots vanished, the publication was completed. Its riches were written in old exercise books, and every edition had a new name. Ada was the genius behind their inception, with Gabriel as assistant editor. Only one edition survived into Nellie’s middle years, and she describes it as bearing the proud name of The Barrel Organ. Isabella had contributed a poem to one edition, and John B. Yeats and his sons were often pursued, when they dropped in for a chat with Frederick Gifford, to contribute ‘stuff’. To the children, stuff was stuff, and they had no way of knowing that these contributions embraced one of Ireland’s greatest painters and, many would argue, its greatest poet. These editorial gems contained poems, pictures, short stories, caricatures, ‘jokes’ and a serial that picked up the threads in each issue with the curious, unchanging words ‘Now abaht that snake …’ There were lampoons on neighbours and visiting tradesmen, but never anything like that about the servants; they were family. The Barrel Organ, which eventually disappeared, had a sketch of the head and shoulders of an Aran islander wearing a cap and signed by Jack B. Yeats. Yeats wrote the name ‘Mícháil’ under it.[3] A radio commentator in later years reflected during a programme that John Millington Synge, who went to the Aran Islands on W. B. Yeats’ advice, learned Gaelic from an islander called Mícháil. Had she sold this little impromptu sketch, drawn from memory, the world of art would have had another small masterpiece and Nellie some much-needed cash during some of her poorer years.
The sons of Frederick and Isabella, when they had graduated, if such is the word, from the various impecunious ladies’ establishments, went on to more conventional academies. A Mrs Harden’s Dames School on Ormond Road is mentioned by Gabriel. He refers also to St Andrew’s School and seems to have preferred it to the High School, which was then in Harcourt Street, on the site of what is now An Garda Síochána headquarters.
Claude, Gerald Vere and Gabriel are listed in the High School address book. They were among the earliest pupils at the school, which opened in 1870. One of Gerald’s classmates was W. B. Yeats.[4] Gabriel reflected, in later years, that although he found the Irish Protestant schools ‘slovenly’ (he meant, presumably, rather loosely organised) they had distinct advantages over the British system and the Irish Catholic system, both of which ‘moulded’ the pupils too much for his liking. Moreover, his Protestant Irish schools did not insist on compulsory games, which was apparently a bonus for him because he wore glasses. In fact, despite the pejorative adjective he used in his correspondence with Nellie, he made a spirited defence of the Anglo-Irish Protestant community which their educational system produced and cited names such as Hamilton, Boyle, Berkeley, Burke and Wellington. What he did not observe, however, was that most Irish Protestant schoolboys in those days were almost guaranteed careers in a commerce which was almost exclusively in the hands of their co-religionists. This was also the case with state offices under the Crown, which were the prerogative of the same elite. The Catholic schools, whose students he saw being ‘moulded’, were trying to retrieve their people from the scholastic barrenness of the Penal Laws.
Kate, perhaps because she was the oldest girl, was the only one of the Gifford daughters to receive a full third-level education. She went to Alexandra College, which, in 1880, was the first women’s college to prepare its girls for degrees at the Royal University, where she took an Honours BA in languages. The Catholic girls’ colleges later followed this development. Kate mixed socially with her peers at venues such as the tennis club, but her sisters, who followed her to Alexandra, never settled happily there. Nellie described it as ‘the gilt-edged Alexandra School in Earlsfort Terrace’.[5] It was, in fact, where the gilt-edged Hilton Hotel now stands, opposite what was then the Royal College and which until recently housed some departments of University College, Dublin, and is now the National Concert Hall. The school was, Nellie says, run on ‘the conventional pattern of topnotch schools’, but to Nellie and her sisters, Sidney and Ada, it was ‘a seat of misery’.[6] Ada did not make a big impression because, Nellie defensively argues, she was not ‘a pretty little thing’, but she was, nevertheless, even in adolescence, witty, a cartoonist and a clever storyteller. She was not dressed ‘tastefully’, and that did not help on her first day. What’s more, being a year apart in age, the sisters were separated, so they were no support for one another. The only subject in which they seemed to shine was poetry, where their father’s Gilbertian love of rhyme had been transmitted to them, as well as their mother’s poetic prowess.
In her reminiscences, Nellie recalls that there were some really attractive girls at Alexandra but that:
… bone of their bone was the strongest snobbery I have ever come across. It was kneaded into them from their earliest days … They surrounded you the first day asking ‘what’s your father?’ If he had a profession, then you were accepted and since ours was a lawyer, we passed that hurdle. Not so lucky were the very nicely-dressed children of a fashionable draper of Grafton Street, and others, also drapers, of Georges Street.[7]
The Lord Lieutenant’s children attended the school and were, Nellie recalled, ‘the recipients of the slavish attention of the headmistress’.[8] However, when one of the drapers’ children indulged in trivial horseplay and was being corrected in front of the other children, a reference was made to ‘little shopkeepers’ children’, with an added comment that such was all you could expect from them. The next day their mother told the headmistress what she thought of such denigration and withdrew her children from the school.
Even worse was Nellie’s description of the ‘Clergymen’s Daughters’ School’. In retrospect, their treatment angered Nellie more than that of the drapers’ daughters, perhaps because of her maternal grandfather, the Rev. Robert Nathaniel Burton. She observed that they came from warm, rural backgrounds but that after a few months at this offshoot of Alexandra College they showed an obvious deterioration in their appearance. Their grooming worsened, and chapped hands told of an unsuitable diet or poor heating, or both. They were accommodated in a large grey house next to the school, paid for by some form of subsidy. Even their food and the way it was served was demeaning:
Their luncheon consisted of thick chunks of white bakers loaf. This was thrown in an open laundry basket and dumped in the hall. The children came and just took a piece and went to the playground to eat it, as other children displayed dainties beside them. I always felt sorry for them and noted that they herded together looking shabbily dressed and unloved.[9]
It might be thought that Nellie and Ada took a rather subjective, sour view of this educational experience, but Sidney, who came after them, is equally graphic and condemnatory. She described scathingly the very moulding that Gabriel abhorred:
There the children were not educated at all – they were just processed so as to manufacture English children of the upper classes. You were trained to look down upon the people of Ireland and all other countries as ‘natives’. Every language but English was ‘a jargon’ and so you spoke all foreign languages with a Mayfair accent to show how much you held them in contempt … History was ‘a rubber stamp’ whose chief or only content was lists of English monarchs, along with their battles, conquests, dates of birth and dates of death. As for Irish history – whenever I hear anyone saying ‘Who Fears to Speak of ’98?’ I feel that a great many of our generation could have answered that question by saying ‘Every single teacher in the school where I was taught.’ It was a well-kept secret in my school that we lived in Ireland, or had any history of our own at all.[10]
A particularly unpleasant aspect of the college for Sidney was the snobbery of both staff and pupils. She reiterates what Nellie also despised. On her first day she was subjected to the customary interrogation by her classmates to gauge her admissibility to their elite companionship. There were three determining criteria: her father’s profession, where she lived and where she spent her holidays. The legal profession and Temple Villas passed muster. Greystones was suitably select and suggested no lack of wealth, which would have been the kiss of death, socially speaking. Pulling down the blinds and retreating to the back of the house would have merited a very low grade with these strict social judges. The final requirement of the inquisition was to describe one’s coat of arms. Having vaulted the other hurdles, Sidney went along with this ‘test’, while despising it. She would not be patronised. Deciding that ‘coat of arms’ probably meant ‘family crest’, she described an embossed design on the doors of a safe in her father’s office. ‘Ours is a lion and a unicorn,’ she said. Other past pupils have spoken of this aspect of Alexandra, but not Kate, perhaps because she was more scholarly than her sisters.
Nellie was removed from Alexandra College in her early teens and promoted within the household to a rank equivalent to Junior Assistant Housekeeper, given such tasks as supervising the larder and helping to host both her mother’s formal ‘at homes’ and her father’s much less formal entertainment of his evening guests. There were three pantries at Temple Villas: one off the scullery for the servants, one for the family’s food (for which Nellie possessed the key) and one for the fine china and cut glass.
One of Nellie’s duties was to ‘cut the rashers’. Each morning, she laid the side of bacon, skin side down, on the table to carve out the ribs and slices. These rashers were then given to Essie, the cook. Nellie also had to make the coffee, called ‘drip’ coffee – and it was slow to prepare. Ground coffee was packed into a strainer in the lid of the coffee pot. Boiling water was then poured onto the coffee, and it was left standing on the great kitchen range to keep it warm. She also made the butter pats and graduated into cake-making and desserts. She loved the friendly atmosphere in the kitchen and happily, for the time being, settled into her post, the purpose of which seemed to be to lighten Essie’s load.
Nellie ruefully reflected over the years that she was taken from school sooner than the others because she was considered to have less ability. The remembered remark of one of the servants, possibly trying to echo Isabella, was ‘Miss Nellie, you’re very dull of apprehension.’[11] It rankled. Nellie argued that she gave her attention only to what attracted her, and that approach does not, admittedly, lead to a rounded education. There were certainly no sighs from her when she said goodbye to Alexandra as she had found its class consciousness particularly unacceptable and recalled that the students were not so much taught there as allotted material to learn themselves.
Nellie has left us a detailed description of her mother’s afternoon receptions. The drawing room was locked except on visiting days and held the grandest furnishings of the house. The Gifford children had rarely, if ever, been inside the sanctum of the drawing room until their teenage years. The missionaries of the Church of Ireland, where the Giffords had their pew, brought back from their missions beautiful treasures of fine workmanship, carved and painted figurines, which stood on the mantelpiece and on a small table inside the door. The treasured ornaments had been bought by Isabella at missionary sales, and the mantelpiece and table containing them were dusted only by Nellie.
There was a silver salver in the hall on which callers placed their visiting cards. On these were embossed their names and addresses and, in a lower corner, the hours and days on which they would be ‘at home’ – usually 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. An order would have been sent up to the nursery forbidding ‘games’ during these hours and asking that the children be kept quiet. The receptions were held twice a month in winter but less often in summer. Bridget kept the nursery as quiet as possible on these occasions. The children could not see the hall from the high landing, but they could hear the knocks on the door and knew that the maid was dressed up for the occasion in black, with a white cap, apron and cuffs. Each caller, almost all matrons with grown-up, or growing-up, offspring, were representatives of their families. Their own visiting card was carried in a neat, often valuable, card case. They also deposited a separate card for each grown-up member of their family.
The guests knew the protocol. They stayed just long enough, as a rule, to sip a cup of tea, with a small slice of cake or a scone. The conversation had to do with their private affairs, mostly about their children and especially about their young sons. The room in which they chatted was a display area, swept and cleaned by the servants after their departure for the next visiting day and then locked.
Nellie’s other duty was to hand round tea to the guests, a task, she argued, not as simple as it sounded. Victorian dresses covered even the instep, and these heavy, flowing skirts had to be negotiated carefully. A minute cup of tea was brought to the visitor, and she was offered the options of cream and lump sugar, the latter supplied with a pair of tongs. On a second trip the choice of cake or scone was made.
The guests were usually dressed in dolmans, short, padded capes which reached below the waist and were decorated with jet beads. There was a slit on each side for the arms. A de rigueur bonnet was perched on top of the head, held by narrow ribbons and festooned with a veil, through which Nellie was often kissed. She was not expected to converse with the guests unless spoken to. However, she did hear snippets of conversation which obviously intrigued her, and one, which she found appalling, helped to shape her attitude to life. A visitor was describing where her teenage son had been drafted with his regiment: ‘It’s called The White Man’s Grave.’ To Nellie, the woman seemed to say this with a smirk, as if she were describing a trip to the circus. Nellie knew the lad, because he had been at school with one of her brothers. She remembered him as pleasant, socially easy, a singer of Percy French’s songs. He was tall and well built, with just a little of the shyness of youth. Why, she thought, should a young lad just finished school have to face death in some outlandish place? He did, in fact, find his death in service, but even before that Nellie resolved that, if ever she could, she would prevent such a fate in a far-off land for her young contemporaries. She was realistic enough, however, to realise her relative powerlessness to change things.
Other similar conversations irked her. Everyone seemed to have someone at war. Some of the boys saw getting away from the High School, St Andrew’s and the other boys’ schools as an adventure. Such schools were supplying likely crops of recruits for the officer class. One particular description of training especially nauseated her. The training yard, she was told, was flooded with blood – or what looked like blood – to condition the young men to war.
A cousin returned from the Boer War regaled them with war stories in a conversational way. His family was not poor, but neither were they very well off, and this, rather than any empirical zeal, was often the reason why young men enlisted. Nellie found it difficult to accept his descriptions of cold-blooded deeds, including the brutal killing of defenceless people. She was particularly horrified at the killing of an old woman at her home: she had not been taught at Alexandra College that, just as you cannot make omelettes without cracking eggs, so you do not build an empire without cracking heads. Tudor and Cromwellian savagery in Ireland had not been on the school curriculum. Nellie knew, however, that this young man was telling the truth. He had been given orders, and those orders could not be questioned. Nellie made a vow that no one would ever make her stand idly by if someone’s home, or their life, was threatened.
In a much lighter vein were the visits of the Yeats family to Frederick Gifford. John B. Yeats had been a barrister but enjoyed little success and instead explored his artistic gifts. He took a studio on the South Circular Road, and Temple Villas was a halfway house between the studio and the Yeats’ residence in Dundrum. They visited frequently; sometimes John B. was on his own and sometimes he was accompanied by one of his sons, Jack or William, or by both of them. They were entertained in the dining room and, though this room was not as precious as Isabella’s drawing room, nevertheless the number of the children allowed to fraternise with these visitors was controlled.
Nellie paints a cosy scene: the two senior men are smoking pipes. There is a warm coal fire and a decanter of whiskey on the table. Because it is winter, she has brought lemon and boiling water to make ‘hot toddy’. She puts a spoon in each of the big cut-glass tumblers so that the hot water will not crack the crystal, and she has provided scones and small cakes. The lawyer and the artist have both law and art in common. They swap memories of legal incidents. Frederick rises to fill his guests’ glasses, and Willie wanders over to the sideboard to take some grapes. Nellie, meanwhile, waits for her chance to ask Jack for a contribution to the magazine produced by the young Giffords. He never refuses. But she gets more than that for her culinary care of them. She is about to learn the art of back-scratching and that corruption lurks everywhere: as well as their magazine, the accomplished Giffords also ran the family Bedlam Sketching Club and invited the Yeats visitors to judge their competitions. Nellie’s unique approach to this activity, given that she had no talent, was to cover her blank paper with pencil, then smudging it all over with her thumb to produce large areas of differing greys, finally taking a rubber to create curved shapes here and there; the resulting whirls of grey and white she would call Sunset on the Lake or something equally vague. She knew she was the least accomplished artist in the family. Why, then, was she awarded a prize by these, her talented judges? Sultana scones and hot toddy are the answer. Her brothers and sisters, fellow competitors in the Bedlam Sketching Club, withdrew, and it collapsed. They could sketch, they said, but they could not bake. When Sidney Gifford met John B. Yeats years afterwards in New York where he had settled, he enquired after ‘the cook’. She thought at first he meant Essie, but it turned out that he was still remembering Nellie and her scones.[12]
Sidney also recalled her father’s visitors and remembered John B. Yeats as a brilliant conversationalist, with charm and kindliness lighting up the flow of words in his pleasant speaking voice. She remembered too his absent-mindedness, thinking he was in his own house and stuffing keys left lying about into his pockets.[13] Frederick must have missed this agreeable companionship when John B. went to America in 1908.
The young people had their visitors also. Gerald Vere, who was studying law, sometimes brought Eustace and Ambrose Lane, Lady Gregory’s nephews, home to dinner. They might stay the night at Temple Villas because even if they were only a little late, their mother would lock them out – despite their both being delicate. Their brother, Hugh Lane, was away in London, they said, collecting pictures to sell. Their Gifford friends were unimpressed: painting pictures would have interested them, but not buying and selling them. Their visitors quickly realised that telling funny stories would make them popular at Temple Villas, and one of them, feeling inadequate at this social grace, kept a notebook of jokes which he consulted discreetly. Muriel, going through a tomboy stage, grabbed the notebook as the unfortunate amateur comic was scanning it under the table. It contained a list of his friends and, opposite their names, ‘suitable’ jokes. It was an obvious precaution given that Isabella was so conservative. Another contemporary of her brothers wrote poems to Nellie, but they too disappeared in time.
The children loved the ‘downstairs’ visitors, their father’s as well as their own. Their mother’s drawing-room dolman-gowned guests were less loved than endured.[14]
Notes
[1] NGDPs.
[2] NGDPs.
[3] NGDPs
[4] Pupils Address Book, 1877–1908 (The High School), ref. MS 9b/12; material from David Edwards, archivist to the Erasmus Smith Trust.
[5] NGDPs
[6] NGDPs
[7] NGDPs
[8] NGDPs
[9] NGDPs
[10] Gifford-Czira, The Years Flew By, pp. 10–11.
[11] NGDPs
[12] NGDPs.
[13] Gifford-Czira, The Years Flew By, p. 9.
[14] NGDPs.