Tag: 1910s

Henry Amlung and the Motor Bandits: 4810 Baltimore Ave.

On February 11, 1919, the Philadelphia Inquirer’s front page headlined several important news stories. The first concerned world diplomacy relating to the end of World War I: “Drastic Terms Demanded for Armistice Renewal…” The second was about the failure of American women to get the right to vote: “Suffragists Lose Vote in Senate By One Vote,” and “Leading Suffragettes Denounce Senate Vote.” The third big story was about a new kind of technology, enabling a new kind of crime: “Motor Bandits Get Furs Worth $5000; Terrorize W. Phila.” The subhead continued: “Band in Limousine Loot Baltimore Avenue Store. Believed to Be Same Which Operated in Vicinity of Sixty-second and Race Streets.”

In a rapidly-changing world, the automobile made so many things possible: goods and services could be transported to places not reachable by train or horse carriage. People could travel to visit family and friends; they could explore new places and shop outside of the city; they could commute to jobs and to leisure activities. And, inevitably, there were those who saw other ways to exploit the new technology. The news story continued:

“Motor bandits — believed by the police to have been the same who were frustrated in an evident plot to hold up storekeepers in the vicinity of Sixty-second and Race Streets just as they were closing after midnight Sunday morning – made a $5000 haul just twenty-four hours later from the fur store of Henry T. Amlung at 4810 Baltimore avenue.
Discovery of the thieves in the very act of transferring furs from the store to a waiting automobile led to an alarm which saved the balance of the stock, valued at close to $50,000.
Fifteen minutes more of uninterrupted work, the police said, and the daring bandits would have entirely cleared out the store.
As it was, they worked with the utmost daring, apparently confident that they had little to fear from the police, who are supposed to be making such a thorough patrol of the streets both uniformed and in plain clothes.
The robbery occurred about one-thirty o’clock yesterday morning, heading a long list of others in practically all parts of the city, which Assistant Director Harry C. Davis, Superintendent of Police Robinson, and their subordinates were unable to keep quiet despite the rigid news censorship under which an effort is being made to hide the city-wide depredations.
Mrs. Letitia Hanganer, who occupies an apartment on the third floor of 4808 Baltimore Avenue, directly adjoining the Amlung establishment, first heard the robbers at work, but thought it was Amlung trying to enter his store and for a few moments returned to bed.
She had been attracted to her window by the noise of someone in the adjoining sideyard below. She thought Amlung had locked the store up leaving his key inside, and was trying to re-enter by the window.
A few minutes later she was again attracted by the same noise, this time accompanied by the subdued voices of men. She returned to the window and for a moment was struck speechless by witnessing one man tossing furs out of the window, and into the arms of an accomplice, who was putting them into a limousine automobile exactly resembling the description of that given of the car used the night before by supposed colored highwaymen, who hurried from the vicinity of Sixty-second and Race streets after an alarm had been given.
Mrs. Hanganer could not discern whether the men robbing Amlung’s place were white or colored.
However, she awakened William Brooke, who conducts a tailoring establishment on the first floor of 4808 Baltimore avenue, and he ran to a second-floor window, shouting at the thieves.
Without abandoning the bundle of furs they then had in their arms the men dashed for their car, clambered in and fled.
The police traced them no further than their route was known to a conductor and motorman, who said they saw the car drive east on Baltimore avenue as far as Forty-fifth street, at which point it might either have turned or continued on toward the central part of the city.”

The article went on to list a number of other recent crimes and thefts in the city, and suggested that the police were grossly ineffective, though, to be fair, they were on foot-patrol and the thieves had superior technology. The following day, February 12, 1919, the Philadelphia Inquirer reported another significant burglary, this time at “the tailoring establishment of Joseph Germano at 205 South Ninth street. Their loot, in bolts of cloth, amounted to a value of $1500…There were evidences, the police said, that this was but another depredation by the same gang of motor bandits which, on the preceding night, looted the fur stores of A. Amlung (sic) at 4810 Baltimore avenue.” Curiously, both victims were of German background; whether that was significant, just after the war, is unclear: Philadelphia had a lot of German immigrants.

“Motor bandit” crimes became an issue that continued to plague the city through 1920, but the term quickly lost its uniqueness and its capitalization, as it was recognized as a new class of crime, committed by ever growing numbers of criminals, large and small. The police invested in new crimefighting equipment in order to keep up. On December 23, 1920 the Inquirer reported that

“Philadelphia’s Christmas presents for motor bandits are ready. Here they are:
One hundred and fifty armed motorcycles, most of them with sidecars.
Six fast automobiles for bandit-chasing owned by the city and a fleet of privately owned automobiles at the call of the police.
A stack of short-range sawed-off shotguns, each pumping six shells of buck shot in rapid succession…”

The sawed-off shotguns were thought to be a kinder and gentler approach to crimefighting than the submachine guns proposed in New York City to deal with its similar automotive crime wave.

Apparently, the public still needed to be convinced that new police equipment was justified. In November 1923, the Philadelphia Inquirer reported: “Value of an automobile in the hands of the police in combatting raids by automobile bandits was conclusively proven last night,” when motor bandits attempted to rob the house of John Lafferty at 5026 Master Street, but police, using a car loaned by William Brennan of 4835 Lancaster Avenue, were able to give chase. The bandits had a faster, larger vehicle, and got away around 51^st and Lancaster Ave., but the effort was considered a success, as a crime was prevented. Another article on the same page reported on a conference with police and mayor: “An interesting development of the day was the loan to the police of the station at Fifty-fifth and Pine streets of two fast automobiles for the purpose of waging war upon the motor bandits who have been particularly active in the Forty-sixth ward. Owners of garages made the loan and other cars will be available if the police need them.”

At this point, one might wonder about some of the thefts, which seemed a little bulky: furs might be disposable, but why steal bolts of cloth? In an age when people did a lot of sewing, and readymade clothing was a luxury, cloth was an important household item. The North Western Christian Advocate, Chicago, Illinois, December 31, 1919, offered some editorial insight on a similar cloth-related crime wave, in that large city:

“Chicago is passing through a ‘crime wave’ of tidal proportions. Formerly burglars confined themselves to loot that could be hastily cast into a bag and carried away on their own. But the automobile and auto truck have made it practical to steal anything up to a department store and get away with it. Consequently, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of furs, dress goods, bolts of cloth, etc., are constantly being carted off, day as well as night. These partial stocks are brought back to the market and sold with evidently no devices in operation to discover the crime. Who buys this stolen stock? Here is an evident weakness in our system of crime detection. It should be made so difficult, if not impossible, to dispose of stocks that cannot be properly accounted for that such burglaries would automatically cease. If the burglar can’t be caught, break down his ‘fence.’”

A 1920 criminal case in Chicago offers further insight. The story is lengthy and convoluted, but the gist is that bolts of a distinctive silk cloth were thought to have been stolen from a train car during a stop. Two immigrant Lithuanian train servicemen were arrested after some of the material was found in their homes. Their wives claimed to have purchased the silk, cheaply, on a street in Chicago, known for its fabric stores. The court reported that trade on that street “is mostly with foreigners. Peddlars sell cloth on the street, and the Polish people buy more than they need when it is cheap and hold it.” The accused ultimately were released after it turned out no one ever verified that the cloth was actually loaded onto the train at its point of origin! Looking down the tunnel of history, such crime stories are laden with suspicion of indiscriminately-labeled immigrants buying and selling, informally, in foreign languages, on street corners; and racism.

So, in an unsettled age, during recovery after a world war, and with different groups struggling for rights and acceptance, we have the advent of new technology – the motor car – which has many benefits, but also provides temptation for anyone with a criminal mind, driving ability, and access to a vehicle. Motor vehicle theft became a recognized issue a little later. Law enforcement was slow to appreciate the scope of the problems and slow to budget for the equipment needed to keep up with the more enterprising criminals – even before Prohibition was passed and whole new areas of illegal activity opened up!

Getting Schooled: 4224-4226 Baltimore Avenue

Not much remains to mark the site of a long experimental educational saga on the south side of Baltimore Avenue, between 42^nd and 43^rd Streets.

Part 1: The Phillips Brooks School

Part one begins with the question: What does a favorite Christmas Carol have to do with the perennial rivalry between Boston and Philadelphia?

Though peripheral to the story of 4224-4226 Baltimore Avenue, it’s still significant. Phillips Brooks was a famous Episcopalian clergyman. Born in Boston, he built the magnificent Trinity Church in Boston in the 1870s. He became a Bishop of Massachusetts in 1891, died there in 1893, and was buried “like a king” at Boston’s Mount Auburn Cemetery. But today he is best remembered as the author of the beloved Christmas hymn, “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” which he wrote in Philadelphia in 1868, and which was put to music by the organist of The Church of the Holy Trinity at 1904 Walnut Street, where he was rector for a few years from 1862 to 1869.

All of this happened long before the Baltimore Avenue story, but it gave Philadelphia an opportunity to claim him as one of its own, so that in 1904, an Episcopalian private academy, the Phillips Brooks School opened in his memory. The school was listed as a “day school for boys on novel lines,” arranged with three sessions: “one for play, one for recitations, and one for study, all work is performed in school, thus doing away with home study.” The first principal was John S. White, who had previously founded a memorial school to the Rev. Frederic Brooks, the brother of Phillips Brooks, in Cleveland Ohio in 1874. (We don’t know what was his relationship to the Brooks brothers). The Baltimore Avenue school was noted for its musical evenings. The 1907 Commencement exercises also merited a mention in the Inquirer, as including “two graduates engaged in a debate on the subject: ‘Which country benefited more by the recent Russo-Japanese War?’ Other features of the exercises were a military drill, accompanied by a fife and drum crops (sic), and the rendition of the tent scene from Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar.’”

Despite, or perhaps because of its “novel” curriculum, the school was sold to its creditors, including parents of the boys enrolled at the school, in 1908. The property at the time included “the lot, which has a frontage of 100 feet on the south side of Baltimore avenue and a depth on the east side of Forty-third street of about 150 feet, and a three-story and mansard dwelling which has been altered for use as the main building of the school. In the rear is a large brick gymnasium, but recently finished.” (The gym was designed by architects Cope and Stewardson in 1906). A new headmaster was installed, and the school continued to operate for a few more years.

***

In 1917, the property was purchased by a Masonic group — the Eastern Travelers of West Philadelphia — and quietly slipped into the obscurity of the Secret Societies for the next three years.

***

Part 2: The Burd School for Orphan Girls

Meanwhile, across the city at 63rd and Market, another Episcopal school encountered difficulties, and needed to move to a new site. This was the Burd School for Orphan Girls (initially built as a “refuge for the daughters of dead Episcopal clergymen;” later opened to all fatherless girls) conducted by St. Stephen’s Church at 10^th and Market.

The school, named after the Burd family, was the project of Mrs. Eliza Burd, whose husband, Edward Shippen Burd was an Ambassador to France, and whose family were charter members of St. Stephens. She donated 38 acres of land and paid for the construction of the school at 63^rd and Market Street in 1861. It was an extravagant gift: “the buildings were so large that there had to be built a small railroad to carry the meals from the kitchen to the dining room.” Sadly, surrounded by luxury, in a magnificent Gothic pile, “the fund left for the work amounted to $300,00,” which was not enough of an endowment – even in those days — to maintain the massive property and the fifty pupils, so they had to leave. In July,1920, St. Stephens purchased the “Old Phillips Brooks School” on Baltimore Avenue and the Burd School for Orphan Girls prepared to move.

The former boys’ school first had to be refurbished to suit girls’ needs: the gym would be “remodeled and used for the dining room and assembly room, while the entire school will undergo renovation. A vacant lot next door has also been purchased and will be used as a playground for the pupils.”

The money for the renovations came from the sale of the antiques in the old school: “the personal effects of the Burds, gathered from all over the world,” were catalogued and sold at the American Art Galleries in New York. “The collection formerly was kept in a large room in the old school…” and included “a beautiful and valuable suite of twelve arm chairs and a sofa of the period of Louis XVI, covered with silk tapestry. Tradition among the older pupils is that at one time this suite was the property of Marie Antoinette, but the trustees have not been able to substantiate this.” The collection was expected to raise about $30,000, to be used “to furnish the new school with modern equipment.”

Life at the school (loosely termed: the pupils attended local public schools and resided at Burd) appears to have been fairly tranquil, except for one dramatic moment in 1922, when two bats “found their way into one of the dormitories in which fifty girls were sleeping. Cries of ‘murder’ attracted persons who notified the police of the Thirty-second street and Woodland avenue station,” who arrived with riot guns, but ended up spending an hour chasing bats with brooms.

In 1926, the school was called “exemplary,” in a story about orphan asylums in Philadelphia, because of patroness Eliza Burd, who established it, and the forward-thinking policies of longtime principal Margaret Tappen who set up the routine that: “the pupils here are sent to public schools, given training in the fine arts, and in the 70 years of its existence the school can point with pride at the success attained by various graduates who started life under handicaps.” Tappen, a native of Argentina, was named Principal of the Burd School in 1917, and stayed until her retirement in 1942. It was noted that “while working with the school, Miss Tappen formed and led one of the first Girl Scout troops in Philadelphia.”

In 1936, the Burd Orphan Asylum changed its name to the Burd School, and celebrated its 80^th anniversary with “exercises and tableaus in the school building.” Photographs of the event appeared in the newspaper. At that time, it was said that “since its beginning the school has cared for 414 girls, providing college education for many, and sent them out into the world equipped to earn their living. Age of the present enrollment range from 4 to 18.” Meanwhile, in 1937, the magnificent old Burd School building at 63^rd and Market was demolished: “vacant for nearly two decades, the building had been condemned earlier in the year following the collapse of a floor.”

Principal Margaret Tappen retired in 1942 and died in Massachusetts in 1980 at age 98 (another Massachusetts connection!). The Burd School considered moving to the suburbs in 1946, but the Lower Merion School District and local civic groups there opposed the zoning variance that would have been needed to purchase the Lane estate at Lancaster and Morris Roads in Ardmore. The Burd School eventually disappeared from the news, sometime after the 1950s, when it “became a project of Episcopal Community Services.”

***

Part 3: The West Philadelphia Community Free School

The Philadelphia School Board acquired the Baltimore Avenue property in 1971, and in 1972, the “West Philadelphia Community Free School at 3833 Walnut Street, 3500 Lancaster ave., and 4226 Baltimore ave. for 450 students” was reported to be “an excellent model to relieve overcrowding and provide an alternative program for academically-oriented students.” A 1973 newsbyte elaborated: the West Philadelphia Community Free School “was begun in 1970 by the Philadelphia Board of Education in cooperation with the University of Pennsylvania as a means of diversifying inner-city education by offering a wider curriculum and innovative teaching formats and to relieve the overload at West Philadelphia High School. Today approximately 485 students attend the school at three different locations…”

A report from the UPenn West Philadelphia Collaborative History Project fills in some of the details:

“For the curriculum, each house would offer a “basic program” that included developmentally appropriate intellectual activities and content in literature, social studies, math, and foreign languages. A salient component of the curriculum was the “outside courses”—student internships in businesses, institutions, and agencies around the city, with options ranging from “violin instruction to astronomy with a Penn professor, to anesthesiology taught by a staff member at Children’s Hospital, to clerical training at local banks.” The “family group” was another important feature of Eriksen’s plan. Each teacher would have responsibility for 12 to 15 students, provide a family-like home base for each student, and create “a cohesive group structure for interpersonal relations to grow.” Free time for students was another component. “

The school was a bold experiment — a precusor to the charter school movement — but unfortunately, each of the three partner groups had different and contradictory goals. The University of Pennsylvania, which supplied young, idealistic teachers through its education program, wanted to try out new educational ideas while reducing the tension between the University and the surrounding neighborhoods. The principal at West Philadelphia High School saw a way to relieve overcrowding at his building by moving troubled students into the program. Meanwhile, the Community Board “wanted a ‘new kind of school’ that would inspire young people to aspire to a college degree and give them the tools to achieve that goal.” In the end, the three different approaches proved to be incompatible.

The branch of the school at 4226 Baltimore was known as “House 3” and it was the last to close: in 1974-1975, it had ly seven teachers and 150 students. The school closed in 1977 or 1978.

***

By the 1980s, the building was known locally as a shelter for battered women, and the part of the lot nearest 43^rd street was a flourishing community garden.

The building was torn down long ago, but the property remains undeveloped. Why have there been so many issues with building on the lot? A look at an old map reveals one possible answer: Mill Creek runs under half of the property.

On July 12, 2021, westphillylocal.com reported: “Here’s a quick update on our last month’s post regarding the development of a 132-unit residential complex at 43rd and Baltimore (4224 Baltimore Ave) across from Clark Park. Developers announced in June that they were finally moving forward with the construction. The work began promptly after the announcement. Street parking around the construction area was closed and trees were removed, which made the site much more open and unrecognizable. Some excavation work has also begun. Zoning approval for the project was granted in June 2015 and building permit was issued in May 2019.”

Cherry Tree Inn: 4630 Baltimore Avenue

Legend said that the ancient cherry tree that gave the Cherry Tree Inn its name, was a slip of the very same mythical tree that George Washington cut down in his youth, but there is no evidence to support either tale!

The old yellow clapboard Cherry Tree Inn once stood on Baltimore Avenue, between 46^th and 47^th Streets – where the Aksum Restaurant is now. In its day, as a rest stop on the well-travelled Baltimore Pike, it witnessed a lot of history and was known, especially, as a rest stop for those returning from funerals at Fernwood and Holy Cross cemeteries.

*****

One of the Cherry Tree’s more alarming moments occurred on January 14, 1872, when a rowdy crowd began to gather at the Inn, starting around 11 PM, with intent to hold a series of illegal boxing matches in the parking lot (probably about where St. Francis de Sales School is today) the next day: two “scrubs” (easy fights) and one “according to the rules of the ring, at $50 a side.” The role of the first arrivals, was to intimidate the proprietor and other residents of the Inn, and keep them from notifying authorities of the plans. James Cocker, who ran the hotel at the time, was already having a bad day, “considering the fact that there was a small-pox corpse in the house, and another person lying at the point of death with the same disease…” Despite this, the crowd continued to gather at the Inn, through the night, until about 300 rowdy spectators were present.

Word did get out to the police, somehow, and they arrived at daybreak, in time to stop the fight, disperse the crowd, take four men into custody, and confiscate “two hundred feet of new rope, a bucket, an axe, and a bottle of whiskey, the sponge being carried off by the seconds.” The Inquirer noted: “It is supposed that the fight will be proceeded with on the New Jersey side of the river to-day.” We don’t know if there was any spread of smallpox contagion as a result of exposure at the Inn.

*****

The Inn was a polling place for voters for many years, and temporary home to the Wayland West Philadelphia Republicans, but it did attract its share of controversy as the temperance movement gained the momentum that would eventually lead to Prohibition. In 1889, a neighbor, Dr. Twaddell, was called as a witness when the inn applied for a new liquor license: “He said the saloon and the stables on the premises were a convenience to travelers,” though a year later, in 1890, “twenty-two citizens signed a protest against the granting of a retail license” to the Cherry Tree Inn because “it would be a damage to the neighborhood, leading to the waste of wages, the unhappiness of families and the demoralization of the young.”

*****

Presumably, the Inn still got its license, since, a few years later, in 1895, it played a part in a dramatic tale reported in the Inquirer of “A BLACK HORSE IN A MUD PUDDLE,” highlighting the physical perils of the developing neighborhood.

The Inquirer noted on October 13, 1895, that

“about five weeks ago, the Gas Bureau laid a 16-inch main along Baltimore Avenue, from Forty-second street west to Fifty-first. It wasn’t a neat job. The workmen dug up the brick sidewalk and the nice brick and Belgian block pavement… When the pipe was laid the earth was put back in the trench carelessly and a big hump was left two feet above the sidewalk level, which spread all over the bricks and blew six ways for Saturday…”

The dust was a nuisance until a day when heavy rains came so suddenly so that “in one hour the ditch was full of a yellow mass of water and clay of the consistency of pea soup.” Just at that point, “the handsome wagon of a Market Street grocer came up Forty-seventh street, drawn by a beautiful black horse…The intention was to turn from Forty-seventh street into Baltimore Avenue…” but in the bucketing rain, only the front end of the horse made the turn: his “hind legs went down into the pea soup until his haunches were under the mud and only his head and fore feet were above ground. It is hard to tell which was more surprised, the horse or the driver.”

The driver managed to scramble out of the wagon, but the horse was stuck. Various means were tried to pull him out of the mud: the “ice man,” with a crowd of helpers, tried using a plank of wood to pry him loose, but the plank broke. Don Walling, who was, by then, the proprietor of the Cherry Tree Inn, called for more volunteers (probably those sitting in his saloon), who attempted to pull the horse out by his tail, but that was “disastrous.” Finally, Walling and his men managed to slide the broken plank under the horse “so that the horse sat astride of it, with his legs still in the mud.” He was rolled over on one side, and a rope fastened to one leg, then he was pulled this way and that, got halfway out, fell back in again, and, finally, “a dozen men…rolled him out onto his back as if he were a hogsehad of molasses. A more disgusted horse would have been hard to find as he lay on the pavement...” He was led off to be washed down at the Cherry Tree, while the “strong men…took a drink.”

It was observed that among the spectators was “a noted woman suffrage leader from Denver, who viewed the efforts of the men with contempt and offered to rescue the animal unaided, except that it might spoil her new balloon sleeves – just from Paris.” This was probably Ellis Meredith, known as “the Susan B. Anthony of Colorado.” In addition to advocating for women’s voting rights, she strongly supported the Temperance movement against alcohol, and would likely have disapproved of any efforts by patrons of a saloon!

*****

The escapade, reported at length in the newspaper, may have come to the attention of City Hall. Or perhaps the recent installation of the electric trolley fuelled road improvement. The following year, in 1896, when the newspaper reported on changes at the Cherry Tree Hotel, it noted that the inn was known as “a consolation to the thirsty hackmen and mourners homeward bound on the perilous surface of this old (but now excellent) road to Fernwood and Holy Cross cemeteries.”

What were the changes reported at the Cherry Tree?

“Among the latest victims of the ‘improver’ is the little Cherry Tree Hotel…In keeping with the fine streets and houses all about there is to be, according to rumor, a modern ‘Cherry Tree’ and the old affair, sacred to the memory of ward primaries, elections, and old-fashioned good cheer, is going the way of all vanities.” The “ancient yellow clapboards of the ‘Cherry Tree,’” it was reported, “will be entirely demolished and a handsome new brick building, three stories, 54 x 47.6 feet, erected.”

The new brick construction was only the beginning. In 1898, the Inquirer reported that “Don Willing’s (sic) place…known as the Cherry Tree Hotel, was wanted by his nephew, Frank E. Byerly, and Walling wanted him to have it, so the Court permitted the transfer.” Byerly, apparently, had grand ideas: in July, 1907, the paper noted that

“C.E. Schermerhorn, architect, has prepared plans for extensive alterations and additions to the Cherry Tree…for Mr. Frank E. Byerly. The drawings provide for a large ladies’ cafe, stag room, new toilet facilities, serving rooms, bath rooms, enlarged kitchen, a laundry and store room and apartments on the third floor. The heating and lighting plants will be enlarged to meet the new requirements. The specifications call for the extensive use of tile and mosaic work, parquetry flooring, dumb waiters, cement and cut stone work, plumbing, etc.” A few weeks later, it was noted that “William K. Erb has been granted a permit for the extensive alterations to the Cherry Tree, one of the oldest hotels in West Philadelphia…The hotel…was once an old road house, but was later enlarged and altered. The present work will consist of a front addition, 24 x 6 feet, and two rear additions measuring 13 x 7.9 feet and 22 x 10 feet. The additions will all be one story high and the work will cost about $3000.”

Were the renovations too ambitious? Or did Prohibition change the landscape? The 18^th Amendment was passed on January 16, 1919 and the nation went “dry” in 1920. Two years later, in April 1922, the Cherry Tree was sold to “a client who will convert the property into stores and apartments. The site and the contemplated improvements represent an investment approximating $40,000.” A few months later, in July, the Inquirer advertised “High class mahogany bar and fixtures, plate glass mirrors. No. 400 (quality). Hotel gas range, 6 burner, broiler, toaster, large hood. 13 restaurant tables, 42 inch top, cast iron bottom; all in good condition; make offer, Cherry Tree Inn, 4624 Baltimore avenue.”

Address numbers changed several times as the neighborhood developed, but the distinctive odd-shaped land parcel remained on the map. The 1926 St. Francis de Sales Parish Monthly Bulletin features ads for twin businesses on the property: Mellon’s Pure Food Shop at 4626 Baltimore Ave (Chili’s today) and Silver’s Fruit and Produce Market next door at 4632 (Aksum).

Ads from 1926 SFDS Parish Monthly Bulletin

The original Cherry Tree Inn was long gone, when, in 1933, its name returned to Baltimore Avenue, with a liquor license awarded to an apparently new business called The Cherry Tree Inn at 4540 Baltimore Avenue. This bar, which became a neighborhood fixture for a long time, eventually inspired its own namesake: in the early 1970s, when a group of folk musicians “used to hang out at a seedy little bar called the ‘Cherry Tree Inn’ on the 4500 block of Baltimore Avenue and got drunk on 15-cent beers…Here the idea of a club formed….Eventually it would bear the local bar’s name,” though the Cherry Tree Co-Op actually met and performed at 3916 Locust Walk into the early 1980s. Eventually, the Cherry Tree Inn on Baltimore Avenue disappeared, and the Gojo Bar and Restaurant, an Ethiopian eatery, took over the spot.

Incidentally, the site of the original Cherry Tree Inn may be prone to legendary status. That first Cherry Tree Inn claimed an association with the cherry tree of George Washington – a beloved piece of American folklore. The restaurant currently on the site is named Aksum, recalling a legendary ancient kingdom in Ethiopia – an area of once fabled wealth, with claims of being home to the Ark of the Covenant of Biblical fame.