The Patent That Shocked Washington
In the summer of 1907, Samuel Morrison thought he had discovered the ultimate business opportunity. The Chicago fabric merchant had been watching the growing market for patriotic merchandise—flags, bunting, ribbons adorned with stars and stripes—and decided he wanted to control it all.
What happened next nearly made displaying the American flag a trademark violation.
A Loophole Nobody Saw Coming
Morrison's strategy was audaciously simple. Rather than trademarking specific flag designs or particular arrangements of stars and stripes, he filed for protection of what his application called "any decorative use of stars in conjunction with stripes in the colors red, white, and blue."
The U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, established just 27 years earlier, was still developing its procedures for handling complex applications. The clerk who reviewed Morrison's filing saw it as protection for a specific fabric pattern, not realizing the sweeping implications of the language.
On August 15, 1907, Trademark No. 62,869 was granted to Samuel Morrison of Chicago, Illinois.
The First Legal Challenge
Morrison wasted no time putting his new legal weapon to work. Within weeks, he began sending cease-and-desist letters to flag manufacturers across the Midwest. His first major target was the Wisconsin Flag Company, which had been producing American flags for Fourth of July celebrations.
"Mr. Morrison claimed that every flag we made violated his exclusive rights," recalled company owner Heinrich Weber in a 1912 newspaper interview. "He demanded we pay him a licensing fee for each flag, or he would take us to court."
Weber decided to fight, setting up what would become a landmark case in American trademark law. But Morrison had done his homework—his trademark application had been carefully crafted by one of Chicago's most expensive patent attorneys.
When Patriotism Became Piracy
The legal implications of Morrison's trademark became clear during the first court hearing. Judge William Kenyon of the Northern District of Illinois read the trademark language aloud in his courtroom, then looked up with obvious bewilderment.
"If this trademark is valid as written," Judge Kenyon observed, "then every American flag currently flying is technically in violation of Mr. Morrison's exclusive rights."
The courtroom erupted. Morrison's attorney argued that the trademark only applied to commercial use, not government displays, but the judge pointed out that the language made no such distinction. By the letter of the law, Morrison could theoretically demand licensing fees from anyone who sold, displayed, or manufactured items bearing stars and stripes.
News of the case spread quickly through Washington. Suddenly, members of Congress realized that their own campaign materials—covered in patriotic imagery—might be illegal.
The Federal Scramble
The Morrison trademark case created panic in the halls of government. The Department of Commerce, which oversaw the Patent Office, launched an emergency review of how such a broad trademark had been approved. Meanwhile, the Justice Department began researching whether the federal government could invalidate a trademark that interfered with national symbols.
Senator Albert Beveridge of Indiana introduced emergency legislation that would have exempted all government use of patriotic imagery from trademark restrictions, but legal scholars pointed out that this wouldn't help private businesses or individuals who wanted to sell or display American flags.
The situation became even more complicated when Morrison began licensing his trademark to select manufacturers—for a substantial fee, of course. This created a bizarre two-tier system where some companies could legally produce American flags while others could not.
The Courtroom Circus
The Wisconsin Flag Company case became a media sensation. Newspapers across the country followed the proceedings with headlines like "Is Old Glory For Sale?" and "Chicago Man Claims to Own America's Colors."
Morrison himself became a reluctant celebrity, though not the kind he had hoped for. He received thousands of angry letters from veterans' groups and patriotic organizations. Several state legislatures passed resolutions condemning his trademark claim, though these had no legal weight.
During the trial, Morrison's attorney made the case that his client was simply protecting his business investment in patriotic designs. But the prosecution, led by a team of lawyers funded by flag manufacturers nationwide, argued that no individual could claim exclusive rights to national symbols.
The Unexpected Resolution
The case took an surprising turn when researchers discovered that Morrison's trademark application contained a critical error. In his haste to file the broadest possible claim, Morrison had described his trademark as applying to "any decorative use" of stars and stripes—but the actual American flag wasn't decorative. It was official.
Judge Kenyon ruled that Morrison's trademark could not apply to official government flags or exact reproductions of them, only to "decorative interpretations" of the stars and stripes pattern. This still left Morrison with significant commercial rights, but it eliminated the most absurd implications of his claim.
The ruling was appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, which in 1910 issued a narrow decision that upheld Morrison's trademark rights for clearly decorative uses while carving out broad exceptions for "patriotic expression" and official government symbols.
The Law That Changed Everything
Morrison's legal victory, even in its limited form, prompted Congress to pass the Flag Protection Act of 1912, which specifically prohibited anyone from claiming trademark rights over the American flag design. The law also established clear guidelines for what constituted "official" versus "decorative" use of national symbols.
Samuel Morrison continued to collect licensing fees from his trademark until 1923, when changing fashion trends made patriotic fabric patterns less commercially viable. He died in 1931, having earned an estimated $2.3 million from his controversial trademark—equivalent to about $35 million today.
A Legacy of Legal Caution
The Morrison case fundamentally changed how the Patent and Trademark Office handles applications involving national symbols. Today, multiple layers of review prevent any individual from claiming exclusive rights to patriotic imagery, no matter how cleverly their application is worded.
Legal scholars still study the case as an example of how seemingly minor bureaucratic oversights can have enormous unintended consequences. Morrison's trademark was technically valid under the laws of his time—it just happened to threaten one of America's most cherished symbols.
The story serves as a reminder that in a nation built on laws and legal procedures, even patriotism isn't immune to the fine print.
