By Donald L. Hafner

Imagine doing your errands on a Saturday in 1920, at the bustling center of business in South Lincoln near the railroad station. Perhaps you brought a tool to be mended at the blacksmith shop of Daniel MacAskill, an immigrant from Nova Scotia. Ahead of you in line, picking up an iron brake shoe for a wagon, is Manuel Silva from Portugal. Behind him with a harrow blade to be repaired is Paul Rickert from Germany.

Then off you go to get groceries at Henry Grimwood’s (England). Martin Sharkan (Russia) has just delivered fresh milk from his small dairy farm in north Lincoln. You chat a bit with Grace Danner (England), whose husband John (Estonia) is a U.S. Navy officer and away at sea. Outside, two horsemen from Henry Higginson’s estate are having a good-humored argument — except that Peter Nelsen (Denmark) occasionally has a puzzled look as he tries to understand Joseph Ragske (Poland). Nearby, three servant women—Bertha Dahlstrom (Sweden), Anna Poulson (Norway), and Felisata Margenelli (Italy) — are swapping gossip about their wealthy employers.

You used to hear Philip Harris’s wonderful Jamaican accent as he waited for the train to Boston. But Philip and his wife Ida Tyler moved away after all their children died in that horrible house fire. You miss chatting with Michael and Amelia Carraso (Italy), but with the anti-Italian prejudices stirred up by the Sacco-Vanzetti trial in Bridgewater, the Carrasos now keep to themselves.

Your last errand is at Marion L. Snelling’s Coal and Wood “near the Depot,” to schedule a delivery of fuel for your stove. Marion (England) doesn’t have the best prices, which is why the town buys from the Waltham Coal Company. But her shop is convenient. No need to get lamp oil from Marion, however, now that Lincoln has finally joined the 20th century, and Edison Electric is stringing wires for electricity in homes.

On your shopping trip, you might have heard the languages and accents of Lincoln residents from eighteen different countries. In 1920, foreign-born residents made up a third of Lincoln’s adult population. The largest number were from England, Scotland, and Ireland. But among them were also immigrants from places as remote as Chile, Croatia, and Lithuania. Add in the children of these immigrants, and the number of bilingual residents of Lincoln was impressive — all mingling and working together. The language rainbow was even more colorful on the days when immigrant craftsmen and laborers flowed into town for jobs at R.D. Donaldson’s construction firm or to work the fields and milk the cows on Lincoln’s farms.

Each of these new Americans had found a place in the economic life of Lincoln. Their children seemed to do well academically in school, although the school superintendent repeatedly expressed alarm that so many of Lincoln’s elementary students “had teeth in need of a dentist’s attention.” Yet in other ways, these new Americans lived lives apart in Lincoln. They had arrived in two waves of immigration around the turn of the century. Half of them arrived in the 1880s and 1890s, mostly from the British Isles. If they wished, they could become naturalized U.S. citizens within five years, yet almost half of them never applied.

The hundred-plus immigrants who arrived in Lincoln after 1900 were mainly from Central and Eastern Europe, and they were even less likely to become citizens. By 1920, virtually all of them had been in the country long enough to qualify for citizenship, yet only one in five had applied. One reason may be clear: alarmed by this wave of non-Anglo immigrants, Congress had tightened the citizenship requirements. Applicants had to be able to answer questions in English about U.S. history, culture, and government. But there were no standard questions they could study in advance. It fell to the whim of whatever the examining judge decided to ask.

Lincoln’s newest Americans in 1920 brought economic and cultural vitality to the town, yet many failed to find a comparable place in Lincoln’s civic life. Year after year, those elected to Lincoln’ multitude of public offices—from Selectman to The Measurer of Wood and Bark—all had family names drawn from the British Isles. Finally, in 1921, Fritz Cunnert was elected to the Cemetery Commission. Cunnert was a first-generation American, with parents born in Germany. There would not be another non-Anglo name in the list of Lincoln’s elected town officers until Albert Amiel Schaal (born in Wisconsin to American parents) became a Selectman in 1943.

Civic participation is not a natural instinct. Like any good habit, civic participation grows strong when it is rewarded. The best reward, of course, is being offered a chair at the table by those who already hold civic authority. Recall that when Lincoln’s women were first allowed to vote for President in 1920, a third of them stayed home. It took half a century before Lincoln elected the first woman to the town’s Select Board. Perhaps it was not coincidence that it was also half a century before the portion of women who voted matched that of men.

Throughout its history, Lincoln’s vitality has depended upon its ability to absorb new participants into its economic, cultural, and civic life. There is much to be pondered and learned from that history.

For more on Lincoln’s rich immigrant history, turn to Jack MacLean’s A Rich Harvest, especially chapter 16, and to the charming reminiscences of Lincoln in the early 20th century in Ruth Moulton Ragan’s Voiceprints of Lincoln: Memories of an Old Massachusetts Town. Both books are available from the Lincoln Historical Society.

“Lincoln’s History” is a biweekly column about aspects of Lincoln’s past by members of the Lincoln Historical Society.