A few of our props and effects are worthy of mention: the lighthouse was built from four round old time banana shipping crates fastened end to end, with a lantern from the livery stable hanging cheerily in the top. . . David Henry Burton, local inventor, hooked up immense quantities of old baling wire to some sort of wooden structure representing the driftwood the heroine was to cling to so perilously, in such a way that when Jude Glover, concealed beneath the ocean, turned the handle of a lop sided grindstone, the "driftwood" and beautiful maiden clinging thereon would bob up and down. A hand cornsheller shelling corn into a tin bucket emitted most of the noises we thought an ocean would make on an occasion like that.
Shep Wilson, who could bark like a dog, and who, it was said, did go with a show one whole summer in that capacity, and who, concealed in the corn field out alongside Hebron School House, did scare the little girls almost into hysterics one afternoon, lent us generously of his caninal talents.
Eventually, we eventuated into the Big Scene—the maiden was adrift, the cry of alarm rang out.
"I will save her or lose my life," quoth Warner, in a voice that sounded like an auctioneer at a farm sale. Jerking off his coat, he plunged into the raging sea. Buffeted by the angry waves, he crawled to the fair maiden. He grasped her tenderly and started for the shore. Midst the noise of the corn-sheller, the barking of the dog, the efforts of the bucketeers and bellowsmen, and encouraging cries from on shore, his foot caught in a seam of the sheeting, ripping up about two yards of the ocean. The air we had so industriously pumped in, rushed out at the rent. The sea collapsed. The corn-sheller ceased shelling. The barking dog and frenzied shore cries were hushed. A dead silence fell until some sacrilegious individual in the audience whispered loudly, "It's a miracle boys; he's walking on the sea." . . . Some good Samaritan finally got the curtain down.
But what I started out to illustrate was the mistake we made—I mean the big mistake. We had advertised "Sea Drift" for two nights, thereby giving our second night's audience an opportunity to get ready for us—which they did in due and ancient form, as will be quickly sensed. A shame, since as a whole, the show probably progressed more smoothly the second night—up to the Big Scene—which was never finished.
Later on, the male part of the cast met on the bench in front of Sam Brown's meat market to talk it over, and inquire of Warner how he was getting along. His talk was short and much to the point: "Boys, we're not appreciated, and they needn't never ask me to put on a play in this town again. . . I didn't mind the tomatoes, or the potatoes much—or even the eggs—could see 'em coming and dodge 'em. But I would like to know the SOB who threw that china door knob."
I presume you see my point by this time concerning a second effort in Shelbyville—oratorically.
Seriously, I . . . shall have to refuse your very kind offer. My father-in-law has been very low for months. He lives in Pennsylvania. My wife was called to Pennsylvania by the family, who thought the end was about come. . .and I shall have to hold myself in readiness to go at any time. Respectfully,
SWAMPED
Greencastle, Indiana
Oct. 2, 1929
Mr. D. Ray Higgins
937 Illinois Building
Indianapolis, Indiana
Dear Sir, I have your very kind letter inviting me to make the talk before the Shrine Club. . . I should be delighted to make whatever talk I could, but the truth is I am sort of swamped in a small way with things of that nature. I am having some important cases tried this month, and I just must get ready for them. . . There must be an epidemic of Masonic meetings, or rather dinners, just at this time. I had a call yesterday from Terre Haute for a similar purpose, and last Saturday one from Logansport.
Now the truth is, and I told the other parties this same thing, I am more than rusty on Masonry. . . What talks I make are nearly always directed toward the Legislature, or some sort of politics, and are more in the nature of fun along those lines than serious stuff.
Mr. Cooper, whom you know, has very kindly put me on the program at a National Meeting of Insurance Men for the 10th, and the Lord knows I don't know anything about insurance, except to pay the premiums when I can get the money scraped together.
And so if you will kindly excuse me for the present, and then, after consulting . . . on my real inability to make an interesting Shrine talk, if you all still want me, perhaps we can get together at some other time. Respectfully,
ADVICE TO A YOUNG PRISONER
Greencastle, Indiana
Oct. 1, 1929
Mr. Harold M—, #6347
Washington State Reformatory
Monroe, Washington
My dear Harold, The writer of this letter may be unknown to you, although the chances are you know, or have heard of me. Anyway, your mother and I grew up together, girl and boy. I knew your grandfather and grandmother—fine, fine, old pioneer folks. . .
I am not only the boyhood friend of your mother, but have also probably done all her legal work here. And so, in view of all of this, and for other reasons, I am quite naturally interested in you and your welfare. . . I have tried to find out the facts in your case, and probably have them fairly straight. . .
Now, Harold, of course we both realize you have done wrong—very wrong in fact—and you are paying the penalty to society for that wrong doing. But do it like a good sport—like a good loser—and not be a whiner or welcher. . . Do not imagine that I am a maudlin and mouldy old lawyer, or that I am magnifying the error you made, because such is not the case. I come in contact with this sort of condition all the time. I realize that what you did will be done again and again in the future by others. What I insist is that it shall never again happen to you. I know there are those associated with you now who are fools enough to maintain an air of bravado about them, and pretend they have been wronged by society . . . and they go about here and there telling what they are going to do when they get out, and how they're never going to get caught again. That type is hopeless and utterly worthless, but their greatest trouble is that they lack brains. They prate about this and that rich man breaking the law and getting by with it; or this and that bootlegger or what not, has a pull, or has the authorities bought and paid for, or is too smooth to get caught. All of which is 90% bosh. Confirmed crooks are never smart. They invariably . . . get caught. Why? Because there are smarter and shrewder men after them than they are, and so, the smarter man wins.
And all the time, the crook is a restless and furtive fugitive, never feeling safe and secure . . . and never knowing what the next hour will bring; never having any peace of mind; and never having any respect for himself.
I am not talking about the boy who, due to youth and inexperience, or stress of circumstances, or in a spirit of half excitement, picks a pocket, or sells some hooch, or steals a watch. . . You come of the right stock. The big thing for you, or anyone else who has made a mistake, is to get the right mental attitude toward that mistake. When a fellow finds he is wrong, reverse then and there. Don't wait and don't try to "bull it through". . . and make friends, not enemies, of the reformatory authorities. You will be surprised, yes, amazed, to learn how badly they want to be friendly with you. . . Show by your actions and attitude that you realize your mistake, study hard to fit yourself for life after you get out, don't whine or complain, don't sulk or slight your work. Brighten and cheer up. And for God's sake, prove you're a man and not a coward, because all confirmed criminals are cowards, without exception. . .
For your information, and to play square with you, I think within the year I shall write your warden or someone, asking how you are getting along and what sort of young fellow you are, because he will know, and I hope and trust my good opinion of you will be verified.
And so, why is it, Harold, that I am taking my time away from my business, and writing you this long and rather rambling letter? Surely, I can have no motive of personal profit in it. No, it is to let you know that not only me but thousands of people all over this big, free country are interested in you and anxious for you and those others of you who have made a slip, all of us hoping and trusting and many praying for your welfare. So don't think you are friendless or forgotten, or ostracized. And each day and every hour and conscious moment, never lose sight of the fact that your coming away from there with the right attitude, the correct vision, and firm determination of rectitude of future conduct, depends solely on you.
Write me sometime.
Sincerely,
A LONG WAY FROM HOME
July 17, 1930
Hon. Harry N. Quigley, General Counsel
C.C.C. & St. L. Railway Co.
230 E. 9th St.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Dear Sir: I was in Houston, Texas, about two months ago on some business with the Humble Oil Co. An old Chicago lawyer named Hait or Haut or something like that had business with the same company. . . It was the time Houston was celebrating the fact they had come to be the second city in size in the South—a gain of over 100% in ten years. Parades. Newspaper head lines. Everybody talking "Houston, Houston." We outsiders got a bit tired and bored with all the talk. One of the vice presidents of the company took us riding and to see his country home, all the way out talking up Houston, and occasionally giving the old man a little peck about Chicago lawlessness, racketeers and gunmen.
We saw the house and flower gardens and then went to see his bird collection. Our host took us to a big cage and pointed out a long-necked bird of brilliant plumage, and said: "That is a Bird of Paradise. What do you think of him?"
The old lawyer replied: "Well, I think he's a hell of a long ways from home."
It was a knockout.
Respectfully,
THE DEMOCRATIC 'STRIKE' OF 1925
One of the most colorful escapades in the political history of the Hoosier State took place in 1925. Pap, who represented Putnam and Montgomery Counties in the Indiana State Senate, was an enthusiastic and imaginative participant.
The spark was the proposed "Penrod Bill" (named for the Senator who introduced it) which, not unlike legislation offered from time to time even today, contained a hidden provision.
The bill (S.B. 300) proposed the transfer of a central Indiana county (Lawrence) from the Third U.S. Congressional District to the Second. The invention was to make sure there would be sufficient Republicans in that district—Senator Penrod's—to insure his election to Congress. Naturally, his good fortune would have come at the expense of the Democrats.
The Indiana State Senate in 1925 was almost totally controlled by the Republicans, but there was one small hitch. Unless a quorum was present, no votes could be taken and no legislation could be passed—not just the offending Penrod bill, but any business at all. And there were just enough Democrats to threaten such a "political blockade." As expected, the Republicans presented the Penrod Bill of Feb. 25.
The Democrats were prepared. Hastily, all fifteen of them who were present (two others were ill and absent) "bolted" their legal confines and took refuge in the neighboring state of Ohio. Most of the "bolters" made the trip in a bus rented ahead of time. They wound up in Dayton, where they took up residence in a hotel owned, curiously, by Hoosier Lieut. Gov. Van Orman, a Republican. In a "spirit of bipartisanship," the latter telegraphed the runaways to "be my guest."
Another Democrat, Senator Harrison, left the next day secluded in an Overland Moving Van. Pap's transit was courtesy of his railroad pass. The train deposited him in Cincinnati, and he went on to Dayton from there.
The Minority Leader, Senator Joseph M. Cravens of Madison, Indiana, halted the escape bus briefly on its way to Ohio to order a barrel of apples to be forwarded to the Indiana Senate, accompanied by a note—"Compliments of the Minority Members." The erudite Senator Cravens (known informally as "Uncle Joe") was the bachelor scion of perhaps the most distinguished and aristocratic families in Indiana at that time.
The Indianapolis Star and other newspapers had a field day covering the Democratic "bolt," which brought official undertakings to a complete halt. Photos of all the "strikers" were printed side by side almost as if they were fugitives in a rogues' gallery.
A poignant victim of the escapade was the official "Doorkeeper" of the Senate, one Jerome K. Brown, who was ordered by the Senate leadership to go to Ohio and serve warrants for the arrest and return of the vagrants. Poor Doorkeeper Brown protested against going it alone, but to no avail. He arrived in Dayton 11:45 PM on the 25th and served his warrants on the "bolters" in their rooms at the Gibbons Hotel. The warrants were ignored, but Brown was invited to join a poker game in progress.
The Ohio governor and attorney-general pronounced that Indiana arrest warrants were without official standing in Ohio (which coincidentally was under a Democrat administration at the time.) The governor furthermore invited the Hoosier "strikers" to stay on in Ohio "without being molested" as long as they wished.
Senator Cravens accepted the invitation "with great pleasure— until the Penrod Bill is withdrawn."
Senator Penrod countered firmly that nothing of that sort would take place.
Thereafter the shenanigans increased as the plot thickened.
The Republican Majority in the Indiana Senate set about trying to find a hale and hearty Democrat on Hoosier soil who could be legally compelled to resume his seat. Pap's eldest daughter was accosted on her way home from school in Greencastle by a friendly pair of men she had never seen before. She thought it a bit strange, but all Hoosiers were unrestrictedly friendlier those days. They got around to inquiring of Pap's whereabouts. When the fifteen-year-old reported the conversation later at home, her mother explained that Pap was "just hiding out somewhere with his Democratic friends."
Senator Cravens' adroit public comments expressed regret for the legislative drought, but noted, "The Democratic Minority in the Senate has from the beginning done its best to aid in the passage of every constructive and economic measure brought before that body. . . in the hope of benefitting the overburdened taxpayers of the state. Our only regret is that there have not been more measures of economic and constructive character to vote for. . ." He took the opportunity to expound on party grievances.
The Republicans threatened to call out the state militia and place the matter before the Marion County Grand Jury, which they said might fine the runaways $1,000 and imprison them. Such threats and the clumsy attempts to serve warrants or "kidnap" a Democrat backfired, however, and became targets of public hilarity.
The papers made light of the fact that the Marion County Horse Thief Detective Association was sworn in "to watch for Senators who might attempt to sneak back home to Indiana without being detected."
Faced with becoming a legislative laughing stock, the Republican Majority capitulated to the Democratic Minority, making a prophet out of Pap, who had predicated in a letter home that a "truce" would be arranged in a day or two.
The Indianapolis Times carried the banner headline: D.C.
STEPHENSON BEHIND MOVE WHICH BROUGHT 15 ABSENT SENATORS BACK;
REPUBLICAN POLITICAL BOSS ASSURES DEMOCRATIC FUGITIVES MEASURE
THEY ARE OPPOSED TO WILL BE DROPPED.
The runaways were also given promises of immunity from arrest and the quashing of any indictments against them. Thus, having thoroughly enjoyed their rest and recreation, they cheerfully returned to their seats on the afternoon of Feb 27.
The saga of the "Democrats who bolted" in order to make their political point perfectly clear (and effective) became an oft- told tale in Hoosier political circles.
And Pap received his just political reward.
Shortly thereafter, he was chosen as successor to "Uncle Joe"
Cravens as Minority Leader in the Indiana State Senate.
CHAPTER III: FAMILY YEARS, BULL BREEDING AND GOOD CREDIT—1930-1940
While continuing to attend legislative sessions, Pap did so in another capacity. He put his considerable oratorical and literary skills to work lobbying his former peers and Congressional representatives on behalf of some lucrative new clients—the railroads. The improved income situation also allowed him to devote more time to his growing family, and to write about the comedy and crises of domestic life: A relative's eccentric shipping practices, a daughter's distress at being blackballed by a sorority. As the decade progressed, the older children were flying the nest, going on to higher education and finding mates of their own.
Aside from domestic duties, his law practice and lobbyist activities, Pap became more involved running the family farm and in other agrarian pursuits, including the purchase of Hereford bulls. The livestock provided grist for his pen on more than one occasion, including a memorable account of some thoroughbred price-fixing. Pap even started thinking like a bull (or as he imagined one of his prize studs would feel after the animal was struck by a train).
He also found time to champion small and solvent independent banks like the family-owned Russellville institution against onerous government "reform" regulations during the Depression; to promote his old alma mater, Western Military Academy; and suggest a hospital tighten up its security after he fell victim to thievery.
Pap wrote some family history—a poignant account of a chair that was an heirloom, and a satirical account of his grandfather's attempt to create a new county with Russellville as its seat of government. That effort may have failed, but Russellville still wound up with good credit at the Waldorf-Astoria during daughter Joan's wedding.
OUTRAGED OVER SORORITY POWER
Excerpt from a letter Pap wrote to his mother-in-law, Mrs.
Sawyer, sometime in 1930.
. . . Joan has triumphed overwhelmingly and unequivocally.
A college sorority in my way of looking at it is a very small matter. In college circles, it is a thing of momentous magnitude. It is ridiculous—utterly ridiculous—that sororities should have the hold they have and should wield the power they do . . . and the heartbreaks they cause or bring about. . . This letter is to be read by you and by no one else. And then it is to be destroyed, and its contents divulged to no one. Because I am actually ashamed that my daughter could be so influenced so permanently by so small a thing as anybody's college sorority. . .
It happened at the time Joan entered college. As is customary, at high school graduating time, the sororities look over the girl graduates with a view to bidding them admission to the several sororities. Joan was invited to a great many—among them Kappa Alpha Theta. Kappa Alpha Theta was founded at DePauw probably 50 years ago. It was among the first of all sororities. I had a cousin, now long since dead, who was one of the founders. In fact, I think she was probably the most active of all of those founders. All of my people, except Sister Margaret D. Bridges and one cousin, were naturally Thetas. Mrs. Bridges did not go to Depauw, but went to a girls school, Oxford, where they did not have sororities, so that let her out. . .
Joan asked me which was the best of all. . . I told her that Theta was best, and I felt sure she would get a proposition from them, . . . that if I were she, I would belong to Theta or nothing. And of course I meant it, and for that matter mean it now. Well, that sort of talk fortified her to refuse others, and therefore I was to blame indirectly for what happened afterwards, because I am inclined to think if I had said nothing that she would have joined another. . . And I did not know what heartbreaks were in store for her. The Thetas invited her to their "rushee" party, and things looked well. Then something happened. I do not know what it was, but she was dropped and never bidden into Theta . . . and so she became a barb—that is a non-sorority girl. She was ignored so far as parties were concerned. She did not get into the social life of the college scarcely at all. The fraternity to which I had belonged invited her to two or three things, and then sort of dropped her because she had no sorority to reciprocate with. . .
In spite of this social handicap she began in a small way to make herself felt in college circles. It became noised about by the faculty what a fine scholar and girl generally she was. It came to me from a thousand sources—or almost a thousand. Some of the other and lesser sororities came to her and asked if she would consider a proposition. By that time, she had her back up, and she declined universally. But many is the night during these two years when she was studying in the dining room that she would say that this one and that sorority or fraternity were having a big dance, or something along social lines. Blue, of course she was blue. And discouraged and humiliated. But she is a thoroughbred. She never disclosed it away from home. Just went about her daily college business. Kept her scholarship and head up, however she might be hurting inside. . .
Last Tuesday the lightning hit. The Thetas called the house . . . and they asked her to come to the Theta House for supper. And after supper, they asked her to join. And she did. And that night came home with the colors on. She is a happy, happy girl. Things have changed overnight. The leading college man, or at least one of them, called the Thetas and openly congratulated them on getting her. Hundreds have congratulated her, and all this makes her very happy.
I have told you all this to sort of try to explain what she had undergone. It makes me hot under the collar to write it, and to even think about it. To think that a thing of that character could so get hold of a college and of college students to make them or break them at the whim of this or that fraternity or sorority is an outrage. But it is a fact nevertheless. And so I am glad for her eventual triumph. But at the same time, I am humiliated to think that such things exist in a free country. And the more so because membership in any organization of that character is not based on ability or scholarship but is based, on a large measure, on the whim of the individuals who happen to belong in the organization at the time the individual is proposed.
I must stop, or you will not get this all read.
PLEASE DESTROY IT AT ONCE. . .
As Ever,
Andrew
DAUGHTERS ADORNED LIKE UNTO CLEOPATRA
Greencastle, Indiana
Nov. 17, 1930
Dear Sister Margaret: Joan and Sarah Jane went to the Theta big party last Saturday night, and I'll tell you they both looked mighty pretty, at least they did to me. "Not because they are my daughters," as Charlie McWethy says, and all that sort of thing. But I'll say this, they looked mighty pretty to me. Sarah Jane had her hair waived and screwed on some ear rings that hung on small chains about six inches long, and I'll be dad burned if she didn't look like the advertisements you see for perfumes and things of that sort in the Ladies Home Journal. She was so highly colored by reason of the excitement she didn't need any artificial color. Her necklace I think was Joan's, maybe one that Grandma Sawyer gave Joan— looks something like an old fashioned hammock in shape, made of brilliants or imitation diamonds set in black, and she walked out looking like Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish's favorite daughter. And Joan looked just as well, all trigged up for the occasion. Her greeting to the boys when they came was that of a young woman perfectly confident in herself. No stammering or anything of that sort. Sarah Jane was not so free in her conversation, but she'll get over that. She is a great deal like Ma, only she has more nerve in speaking out. . . Both of them had their hands and nails smoothed up and shined up and tapered down like unto Cleopatra herself.
That night they got home shortly after midnight. The boys just brought them to the front door and about a minute after the door closed I heard the shoes flying here and there. I heard both of them say their feet and legs ached so bad they were numb. They talked it all over and I went to sleep. Andrew
CHRISTMAS CHAOS AND AMAZING FREIGHT
Greencastle, Indiana
Dec. 26, 1930
Dear Sister Margaret: Yesterday was Christmas Day. Of course we had far too much of everything: two big crocks of oysters, about 150 biscuits, a 24- pound turkey, and so on—you know how Aura does thing—so we will have a hard time getting things eaten before they get too old and dry.
We spent the day mostly at home. The children all got a good many presents. Grandma Sawyer has been sending things for the past month or two. She has the world beat. She actually sent about a peck of apples all rolled up in a mattress, or feather tick. First we get a head and foot board of a bed; then she finds out she forgot the rails, and they come separately; then in a few days the slats come on independent; then we find they are the wrong slats, and also that one of the rails sent belongs to another bed back there. . . She sent a sort of tea wagon—that is she first sent the frame part with the glass imbedded in it—it was one she had in one of the houses and one fine morning decided that Aura should have a tea wagon. That came through in enough crating to make kindling for two or three months. In about two weeks, here came another crate with the greater part of the balance of said tea wagon. But on careful investigation and splicing, we found one wheel gone and also one handle. She had retained the one wheel to get it fixed, so in due time, it came. Later the missing handle was located and sent. And all the time, these various parts and pieces come by parcel post, freight and express, as the spirit moves her. By some strange coincidence the freight invariably comes over different railroads. We will get the main parts, say via Big 4, the slats via Monon and the rails by way of the Pennsylvania; then a "cunning" little dinky that Grandma saw in a shop in Middletown and figured would match the wheels of the tea wagon so nicely, will come by parcel post, and so it goes. The freight men at the various depots have come to look on me and my consignments of freight in amazement. . .
We had a terrible time getting to sleep last night. Since Frank has been home, things have been going along pretty smoothly. The girls were glad to see him, and he to see the girls. But it couldn't last. I saw Jane and Joan getting their heads together a good deal yesterday afternoon, and finally Schweet Babe got in it. Frank and I were playing casino. The girls were upstairs, then went out to a picture show or something. Frank was a little nervous. Finally he went upstairs and came back after a long absence and said that Joan had put soap chips all through his bed. He had cleaned it out, and had filled Joan's bed full of nut shells. Then she came home looking suspiciously, eased upstairs evidently to learn if Frank had found out what had happened to his bed. She found hers and had to take everything off and shake the covers, and then it started. No great noise, but much shutting of doors, running here and there, low whispering, giggling—and everything except going to bed. I stayed out of it, and in the wee small hours of the night, the house settled down and everybody this morning was too sleepy to get up for breakfast. So that is the way it goes. Andrew
NAME CHANGE NEEDED
Greencastle, Indiana
July 13, 1931
Mr. J.P. Austin 1005 White Bldg. Seattle, Washington
My dear Pony, I needs must forego your wonderful party. . .There is nowhere on Earth I'd rather be—not even in Hoover's shoes. . . Not long since, I was in Russellville, my old home town northwest of here— the town where all the good folks come from, and a town I have consistently and persistently advertised in the local legislature for the past 15 years. We were reading where Hoover had, among other places, visited the Virgin Islands. George Potter, our local wit, was listening to the account. Finally George commented thus:
"If Hoover did to them islands what he's been doing to us people
out around here, they'll have to change the name of the islands
to something else" . . .
As ever,
TAKING CHANCES
Greencastle, Indiana
Dec. 14, 1931
Mr. R. W. Buckworth,
Crawfordsville, Indiana
My dear Mr. Buckworth: Several days ago I received a very kind and thoughtful letter from you concerning a proposed forensic effort on my part to be attempted before the Crawfordsville Rotary Club. . . I realize the Stock Market is undergoing a terrific upheaval and people are taking chances who otherwise and under other conditions, wouldn't think of such a thing, but for you to take a chance on me appearing satisfactorily before your Rotary Club is the wildest gamble I have heard of to date. Nothing more hazardous comes to me just now, except, perhaps for the public to take a chance on Democratic Party next year. Then, anything can happen.
And so, in half-keeping only with Senator Watson's classic on his "sugar" speculations—in explaining his having given his note for the stock, he dismissed the whole subject with: "The stock is no good, neither is my note. Therefore the whole transaction is now even"—I therefore here and now accept your invitation before you have to rescind it—and may God give you all strength to hear me out. Very Respectfully,
PLIGHT OF THE RAILROADS
March 11, 1932
Mr. Courtland C. Gillen
Member of Congress
Washington, D.C.
Honored Congressman: I was just about to preface this, my first epistle to you, with "Honored Congressmen," because, for what reason I know not, an all-wise, beneficent and just Providence has seen fit to inflict me with not one, but two, Congressmen—you and Red Purnell—thus causing me to bear a double cross. Please catch the awful potentiality of those last two words, "govern yourself accordingly and look to the southwest" as Thomas Taggart of hallowed memory would say. . .
I want to call your attention to the railroad situation. As you have long known, I am what might in a spirit of braggadocio be called "of counsel for the Big Four," carrying with it a pass to Indianapolis and return, and elsewhere about the lodge as the worshipful train-master may direct. You also know I was in several sessions of the Indiana Legislature—now also of hallowed memory. I have seen railroads kicked and cuffed by legislative bodies, and I have seen their securities descend from the highest point in the way of safe, sound investments to about the lowest. . . Railroads are in a hell of a fix. And it is not the fault of the railroads by a long shot. Among the principal reasons for their present condition is the unfair competition in interstate hauling being indulged in by busses and trucks. There are bills now pending in Congress designed to regulate this unfair bus and truck competition, and I think Senator Couzens of Michigan has one. . .
Railroads, being of a public character, should be regulated reasonably, but it seems to me they are just about regulated to death. That probably accounts in part for their present condition. Did you know the B&O couldn't run an excursion from Chrisman to the Russellville Horse Show without the permission of the Interstate Commerce Commission, at a round trip fare to be fixed or approved by the Commission, and not until after giving notice? . . .
Above in this letter I have used the words "unfair competition" when speaking about busses and trucks. Let me illustrate. Considerably over a year ago a contract was let in Chicago for additions to the Field Museum, I think it was. The contract called for the use of Indiana Limestone running into over 100 cars. Mr. Curry was instrumental in getting the contract for a contractor friend. No sooner had the contract been let than an independent hauler living in Chicago approached this contractor and offered to deliver the stone from the Bloomington and Bedford districts on the job as it was needed, for exactly the Interstate Commerce Commission's fixed railroad freight rates from the various sources along the Monon to the Chicago terminal—thus saving the contractor the haul bill from the terminal to the job, a sum running into a considerable figure. It was all that everybody concerned from the Monon's view point could do to keep that contractor from accepting the independent hauler's offer.
Now let's suppose that contractor had accepted the offer. What would have happened? That independent hauler would have manned his fleet of Illinois trucks with Illinois drivers; they would have had their trucks overhauled by Illinois mechanics before starting; they would have filled their enormous tanks with Illinois gas so as to have made the round-trip without having to stop for gas; the drivers would have taken their Illinois-filled dinner buckets; and down concrete State Road No. 41 they would have probably come. Turning east on No. 36 at Rockville, they would have intercepted a barred rock hen and 11 chickens in front of Ab Shalley's at Bellmore to the utter annihilation of the interceptees. In an unguarded moment some driver would have removed Zephus Burkett's mail box and distributed it and its contents consisting of a Kitselman Brothers Fence Catalog, the Farm and Fireside, and a pamphlet telling how to make hens lay between there and Hanna's Crossroads, where they would or would not have made the turn safely down No. 43. Frank Hathaway's thoroughbred calf would have been "out" at his place and heard of no more; Paul Tucker's bay mare been soon describing a parabola with a radius of three miles. And the left hind wheel and end gate of Professor Ogg's spring wagon would have been removed quickly and efficiently directly in front of your house at Bloomington and Walnut.
On to Stinesville, Bloomington or Bedford they would have trekked their stately way, probably taking more than a good half of the highway. Loaded up, they would have made the return over Indiana paid-for concrete highways in impressive massed procession, just fast enough to keep Indiana taxpayers from passing them. . .
What would Indiana or Indiana people have got out of this all- summer cavalcade for the use of its highways, or for the sustenance of its citizens? Unless there had been a breakdown too serious for roadside repairs, or a truck had accidentally run out of oil or gas, or some driver had seen fit to buy a Babe Ruth for his sweet tooth, Indiana and Indiana people would not have received a damn cent for the use of their $60,000 per mile concrete highways.
Now what would the Monon—the largest purely Indiana Railroad have received, or paid, or how would it have fared in the deal? It would not have received the job of hauling that stone because its rate was fixed by law and it couldn't hack prices; it would have continued paying its men, upkeep, expenses and taxes just the same. . . It owns and maintains its own right of way; also all rolling stock and equipment of all kinds and character, and pays taxes on same—regularly. It stands there ready and anxious to receive all business it can get, not only for today but for tomorrow, next month and next year. It can't crank up, call the dog and leave jurisdiction and unpaid debts at 3:01 a.m. on any given day. It does not ask a monopoly. It only asks fair treatment, and that bus and truck competitors be put on a competitive basis by being required to pay a fair return for the use of the public highways, or else buy, build, and maintain those of their own; that they shall maintain regular scheduled routes, rates, and service in winter and summer, sunshine and rain, fog and clear weather; and otherwise submit and qualify for regular continuing business, just as railroads are now required to submit and qualify.
Now, in return for this splendid thesis, I want to ask my Congressman some favors. Will you please look into bills now pending before you on this subject, and tell me wherein you favor or disfavor them—and why? Perhaps I am wrong in the attitude I take. If I am, I want to get right, and I know of no one better able, or more willing, to inform me than my own Congressman. Respectfully,
WET, DRY OR MOIST?
Greencastle, Indiana
April 11, 1932
Mr. James G. Smith
Alamo, Indiana
My dear Mr. Smith: I have your inquiry about Court Gillen, and I shall answer to the best of my ability . . . . He is a man of ability, a lawyer, a decent man and surely is entitled to another chance in Congress. . . I do not know that he is particularly dry. I do not know that he is particularly wet. . . He may be a trifle moist, and he may not be. He has never been known as a radical on anything, within my knowledge. I have heard some criticism against him on his so-called dry vote, but I have also heard that anyone with any sense, under the same circumstance, would have voted exactly as he did.
For that matter, he will not be beaten by the "lady candidate". If my information is correct, she got into this race simply and solely on account of the one vote Gillen made on the Prohibition question. . . Now, if that is the case, she might be characterized as a radical "wet", obsessed on that one question, and forgetful and more or less incompetent on everything else. And I am saying to you right here and now that there are other important questions pending except "wet" and "dry". . .
You know, it is a very easy thing to sit or stand around and "cuss" those in a legislative body for what they did or did not do. . . If everybody had all the information, and had given a question the same study and attention as the one who did the voting, there would be less criticism than there is. . .
Let me illustrate how these things go. I was nominated as Representative from Putnam County in 1912. I was young and inexperienced. A day or two after my nomination, Colonel Matson, who had been in Congress for years, and was a lawyer here at the time and almost retired, gave me some advice: "Find out where the coat racks are, where your seat is, and when the Legislature assembles take your seat and keep still. There will be times when you will think that you have the exact solution for whatever is being debated. When you feel this coming on you, get up and get your hat and walk around the State House, then come back and sit down and keep still. If you will do that, they will not find out how ignorant you are. . . I don't want to hear of you taking any part in the debates your whole first term, I don't want you to introduce any bills. I just want you to be on the job every day and every hour, and attend your Committees, and above all else, keep still."
I followed that advice, I think absolutely, or nearly so.
But there was another side to the matter. . . After the Session was over, I met a farmer friend who had worked hard for me, and I asked him if he were pleased with the way I had conducted myself. He was not. He said: "I thought if we sent a mouthy young lawyer to the Legislature, he would get some laws through, and we would hear from him, and he'd be up there doing something. I never saw where you even made a speech."
Time went on. I served in 1915. Then I went to the Senate in 1917 from Montgomery and Putnam, and again in 1923. Some time shortly after either the 1925 or 1927 Session, I met this man on the streets here in Greencastle. He came up to me beaming, and said: "I'll take it all back. You are the best Senator we ever had. . . I can't pick up the papers without seeing your name strung all over it. . ."
People jump at conclusions, and sometimes they jump wrong unless they know all the circumstances. . . Cordially,
A DAMAGED BULL STORY
The following exchange of correspondence occurred after a prize bull on the Durham farm near Russellville was struck by a railroad train.
May 31, 1933
Mr. Andrew E. Durham,
Greencastle, Indiana
Dear Mr. Durham, Our mutual friend, Mr. Byers, has sent me your most touching letter of May 27th, relating to the unfortunate usurpation of the B&O right of way by your pet bull. Fortunately, however, the incident does not—at least so I assume—extinguish your "line". Naturally, the distinguished bull was a thoroughbred, and in this respect he has nothing on our train, as it is also a thoroughbred, and when thoroughbred meets thoroughbred something must happen. . .
It may be necessary to have our representative call upon you and the bull to ascertain your respective incapacities as a result of the collision. I regret, however, that under the laws of the great State of Indiana, your own mental pain and anguish is not an element of damage and, so far as I know, there is no way of proving that of the bull other than by hearsay, which of course is incompetent. Very truly, Frank J. Goebel Assistant General Solicitor
THE REPLY OF "THE BULL."
June 3, 1933
Honorable Frank J. Goebel,
Asst. Gen. Solicitor
Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Company
Cincinnati, Ohio
Dear Sir: I am told I am a Hereford bull. . .I was supreme on the Durham farm, and lord of all I surveyed—that is, until recently. . .
For years I had noticed some sort of animal or monster wend its way shrieking and rumbling across our land, always going along the same trail without variation. In daytime its head emitted black smoke and a terrific noise with its rattling body trailing back, slender and long like a snake. At night it had an enormously bright eye in the center of its mammoth head, and belched forth fire sometimes. . . We got used to it, and finding it to be totally unsociable, we adopted the wise policy of ignoring it—that is, until recently. . .
I was grazing along what my owner says Ring Lardner would laughingly call a fence, and just stepped through, or on, or over, it to where the grass looked greener. And then I went on and up to where there was less grass and more gravel, and some ties and rails. . . Then something happened, and I went winding down and down. Oh, the pain!
My owner . . . has said more nice things about me and my good qualities and worth since I got hurt than he ever said in all the years gone before. . . He said to some men who came out to see me after I was damn near killed: "Did you ever in your life see so good an individual bull, any where, any time? Look at that head. Imagine what it looked like before he got hit. . . I wouldn't have taken a thousand dollars for him before he was hurt. No. I wouldn't have taken two thousand dollars, nor there isn't a man among you who would have taken five thousand for him if he had been yours". . . Then my owner said: "It's confidential, of course, and I know you men well enough to know you'll keep it to yourselves. Ex-Governor Warren McCray had a man down here secretly to buy him at $10,000—to head his herd."
"Now," my owner says, "what would you appraise him at? I want to be fair with the railroad. . . You and I are farmers, and everybody knows a farmer has a hard time, and all farmers should stand together, but at the same time be fair, of course, to the railroads. Naturally we all know that railroads are not fair, and are big rich corporations, paying great high salaries to presidents and lawyers, especially lawyers, for sitting around in swivel chairs, milking the public, fixing mythical valuations to base freight rates on, and then eternally asking for rate increases when they are so high now nobody can ship anything over them . . . . .
"Still, I want you men to be absolutely fair with the railroad . . . . ."
I don't know what happened after that because they moved off toward the house. . . They say the chances are that I will live, but I wish I were dead. . . Pain, pain, ever since. My head is swollen to double, my sight in one eye may be gone. I still bleed at the nose. . .My mental anguish is unbearable. I know that which I had in abundance and have ample living proof of is gone from me, never to return. I have lost my social standing in the community in which I reside and my wimmen folks are laughing at me and at this time of the year. . . Oh, grave, where is thy sting. . .
If you care to apologize for your hasty remarks about bull mental
pain and anguish, you may address me as:
Respectfully,
The Bull
STAMP OUT SMALL BANKS?
June 3, 1933
Honorable Virginia Jenckes
Member of Congress
Washington, D.C.
My dear Madam:
I should appreciate your sending me a copy of H.B. #5661, (the
Steagell Bill) as re-written by the Senate. I am informed the
Senate struck everything out of this bill after the enacting
clause, and substituted a bill of their own—probably the Glass
Bill, with some amendments.
If the bill as passed by the Senate reads as I am informed it does, I am very much opposed. . . It would drive all small country banks out of business at least for the one reason that it requires a capital of not less than $50,000. Small country banks cannot stand a capitalization of $50,000 and pay dividends on any such amount. Small banks have small ways, limited deposits, limited territory—and consequently limited earning powers. . .
I desire to say I have been connected in one way or another with a small country bank, the Russellville Bank, of Russellville, Putnam County, Indiana, since childhood. I was sort of raised in that bank. I own the majority stock in it. I worked in it for years. It represents the life work of an older brother, now dead. It has a capital of $15,000 and a surplus of $47,500. . .
In times like these, all proposed bank legislation should be carefully considered—to say the least. There are not so many of us left, and those that remain deserve some consideration for having weathered what we have.
I am cognizant of the fact that something serious ails, or has ailed, the banking business. . . I am also aware that banking, with its attending care, custody and handling of other people's money, takes on a public nature that some other businesses do not have. . . And please do not form the opinion that I, in the slightest degree, desire to block sound, reasonable, safe and sane banking legislation. Absolutely the contrary. But . . . I insist that a small community is entitled to a small bank for its small business in the same arithmetical ratio that a large or populous community is entitled to a large bank. . . Viewed from the angle the Senate seems to have, I should think it would be better to fix a minimum of capital and surplus combined (for as far as security to depositors is concerned, there is no difference between capital and surplus) for a maximum of deposits.
Suffice to say, I am utterly and unqualifiedly opposed to an arbitrary fixed minimum capitalization of $50,000 for small banks. . . To me it means mighty, mighty few banks in towns of less than 2,000 people.
If that is the intention, then the bill is perfect—in that
respect.
Very Respectfully
A FAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL
July 8, 1933
Mr. Lee Tracy
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios
Hollywood, California
My dear fellow Cadet: This is not a "fan" letter. . . I probably recognize ten or fifteen actors and actresses at sight. Yesterday I saw a movie magazine. You were telling about yourself. I saw the name "Western Military Academy" in print and that galvanized me. I read the article from start to finish. I was tremendously pleased at the kindly treatment you gave "Western." Hence, this letter—the first I ever wrote an actor or actress. My God! Mother taught me a theater was the Devil's work-shop.
I graduated Western in 1899. . . I had arrived at the age where I was reluctantly permitting the "old folks" to reside in our home. The local high school eventually granted me a diploma in order to make room for students. "Western" was father's answer. . .
Everybody has a hobby. Some good, some not. After about 30 years of worldly experience, "Western" and its welfare is probably mine. There was where I first learned a small town banker's son might later on in life meet some noticeable competition. . .
"Western" needs favorable advertising and plenty of it. I cheerfully do what I can, but of course my field is tremendously limited. Just what you said in your magazine article about yourself is what "Western" needs. Only more of it. Last evening and today I learn you are one of the best known men of your profession. You evidently have thousands of admirers. Some time, some where, some how, some of them will have a boy here and there of the proper school age. And the fact those parents hold you as they do, if they can only know you went to Western, will be the deciding factor where those boys will go to school. Get me?
I am not a sentimentalist. I don't ask any one, and especially a stranger, to spend either time or money on me and my hobby for me alone. Honestly I don't. I'm pretty tight myself. Maybe I have to be, and I'm that way by nature anyway. But without any expense of course to you, if you would drop the hint to the Metro folks that you have an idea a newsreel of an up-to-the-minute Military school, at say, Commencement time, would have an appeal to the public, and especially to the younger feminine public, and that "Western" is the school to "shoot", or whatever it is you call it, and Metro would agree, then we might get somewhere with publicity for Western. . .
I do not ask or expect a reply. I think I know what you are up against in the way of correspondence. I was in the Legislature for 16 years. We have Legislative "cranks" here, just like you have movie "fans" there—only not so much so. Now I'm a railroad lobbyist whenever the Session meets. Furthermore I'm a Democrat. As a waggish local constituent puts it, I've "gone from bad to Hell."
Be that as it may, if sometime I should learn a newsreel was showing W.M.A. in all its glory of flags, pennants, brass buttons, and an inset of Lee Tracy as its most distinguished alumnus, I can assure you I'll dismiss the help, unbait the trap, lock the door, call a frightened and bewildered family, and hie us away to Indianapolis, or wherever it may be showing, there to carefully explain to disgusted adjacent seat holders, that I—I the erstwhile conservative country lawyer—am also an alumnus of that greatest of the great boys schools, and thus get a bit of reflected glory. . . Respectfully,
PS. To whoever reads this. Please give me a break and show this letter to Mr. Tracy. I've never bothered him or you before, and I promise I'll never bother again.
CONSIDERABLE DIFFERENCE
January 22, 1934
In re: Estate of Charles A. D—
Hon. Isaac Kane Parks
Inheritance Tax Administrator
231 State House
Indianapolis, Indiana
Dear Sir: I have your letter of direction concerning the above inheritance tax matter. . .
I am a trifle confused . . . on whether you want an exact copy of the federal estate tax return as we filed it, or whether you desire a copy of the return as was finally accepted by the government. . .
"There was considerable difference."
The above quotation happened years ago at Russellville (my home town) when Bill Goodwin was section boss on the I.D.&W, and Milt Kinder, a pretty good old man—but terrifically profane—worked on the section under Bill. The crew was laying rails down west of town near Brumfield's trestle. Milt was driving spikes and missed one and hit his foot and the air was blue, and it looked like Indian Summer down that way. They rushed Milt to a doctor and patched him up.
In due course, a long four-page questionnaire came to Bill from the main office in Cincinnati: "Full name of injured employee? Age? Years of service? How did the accident happen? When? Where? Who saw the accident?" etc. etc. And on the last page, about two thirds of the way down, was this one word. "Remarks?", the rest of the page left blank.
Bill, the section boss, sat up about all night making it out— painfully and laboriously. At last he came to the "Remarks". He was puzzled and confused (something like I am about the return you ask for).
Finally, under that heading he wrote the following: "Now about them 'remarks'. Do you mean Milt's, or do you mean mine? There was considerable difference." Respectfully,
COLUMBIA NO PLACE TO GO TO SCHOOL
June 8, 1934
Hon. Frank L. Littleton, Atty.
Big Four Building
Indianapolis, Indiana
Dear Sir, I have just returned from New York and Joan's graduation in Columbia. . . My Gosh, but that is a big school! On Tuesday they gave out between 4,000 and 5,000 diplomas. Had the exercises outdoors in front of the library. Must have been 15,000 or 20,000 or more people there. The crowd looked a bit like the Speedway races. . . Between my seat on some bleachers and where the diplomas were given out were numerous flights of steps, a sort of sunken garden, some four or five tennis courts, a wide blocked-off street, and a football field the short way. And between were the graduates and visitors, in camp chairs and on bleachers as thick as they could be packed. They had loud speakers, but not enough of them for me to hear from the seat I occupied. It took over an hour for the graduates and faculty to march in from four entrances. There surely must be over a thousand in the faculty. Anyway, I made up my mind then and there that Columbia was no place for an undergraduate to go to school. It is too big. The students have practically no campus life. A great part of them are from the City of New York and surrounding cities, and they room all the way from the Battery to the Bronx. Endless numbers of them never see or know one another. . . As Ever,
RICHARD FAIRFAX—A BULL STORY WITHOUT PEER
July 20, 1936
Mr. B.C. Byers
Macatawa, Mich.
My dear Mr. Byers: I haven't been in Indianapolis since I started the two little girls up into Maine to a girls camp, so unless I succeed in cooking up something, this letter will be a fizzle for news.
In May I bought a 16-months old Hereford bull, Hugh Fairfax by name, at the McCray Sale at Kentland. Since that time I bought a McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford bull from a Mr. Dillman at Waveland, and also traded an old Woodford Hereford bull to the Indiana State Farm for another McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford. So you see I am slightly in the bull business.
For your information, you knowing nothing about anything except railroading and good looking women, Mr. Warren T. McCray got his big start in Herefords after he acquired Perfection Fairfax, a Hereford bull that afterwards won the International Championship, and was acknowledged generally to be the greatest sire of his day. He started the "Fairfax" fashion.
In getting the pedigrees of these last two bulls straightened out, I made four trips to Kentland. The trip prior to the last one found the ex-Governor in a petulant frame of mind. He called me "Senator" very formally, was easily irritated and gave this and that as an excuse for the delay. The truth is, I think, that his herd books have been kept in about the same condition as Joe C— kept his desk in the Senate Chamber.
But my last trip was different. When I got there the old boy was in his office selling a Hereford to some young fellow from the north part of the state—I hope Lake County, because anybody from Lake County needs a trimming. I stayed outside and eventually they came out.
"Why, hello, Mr. Andy," said Warren T. "How are you this fine day?"
It was hotter than Tom B— ever got in a poker game.
I knew the old fellow had had a good breakfast, and that he had no doubt spliced me up a pair of pedigrees of some sort or other. I just sort of imagine that when a herd book gets slightly mixed up, or time has elapsed and a given bull's heredity sort of lost in the hazy past, that those fellows quietly sit down and whittle out a pedigree that sounds about right. . .
Let me tell you a bull story about as he related it to me last
Friday. This is Warren T. speaking:
"About 1902 or 1903, I wanted to branch out bigger, buy more land and become a Hereford leader for sure. . . Mr. — was showing Herefords in Indianapolis. He had by far the best bull I had seen or heard of. His name was Perfection Fairfax, and he had a pedigree that read like the Lees of Virginia. . . The only way his owner would part with him would be to sell his whole herd of 37 cows too—for $17,000 cash. I brought him home to Kentland. He won the International Championship and we both became famous in the Hereford world. The Fairfax strain took the country by storm. His sons and daughters were sensations. He lived until he was past 17 years old, and was a virile breeder to the day of his death."
"Look up yonder on the knoll past the machine shop and the big barn. See that cement column up there? The boys here at the farm erected that monument, and old Perfection Fairfax lies right under it. He died in 1918. Old Perfection made breeders millions of dollars. Look up there on the wall to my right. See that oil painting? That is Perfection Fairfax. I had a famous artist paint that. See that long picture over there on the wall east of old Perfection? That is a picture of 32 of his sons I sold at one time to one breeder down in the Argentine. We had that picture taken the day they left the farm. They made me some money."
"What is the highest price, Governor, that you ever got for a bull?" I asked.
"The highest price I ever got was $25,000."
"Holy Nellie," said I. "Isn't that the highest price anybody ever got?"
"No," he said. "Do you want me to tell you about that? . . .It's a pretty long story but interesting. Along about 1915 Perfection Fairfax was getting old, and I decided I'd go out again and buy the best young Hereford bull on Earth. As I traveled and asked, I kept hearing about a Richard Fairfax, one of old Perfection's calves—a calf I had raised, and still owned his mother. He had been sold at one of my sales and wound up in Dakota—and it was always the same tale that he was not for sale at any price, whatsoever. Absolutely."
"I made up my mind I'd just take his owner off his feet the first shot. I'd paralyze him with an offer he'd not refuse. I didn't want to take a long wild goose chase for nothing away up there in Dakota. If he wasn't for sale at any price I'd soon know it. So I wrote a short letter to his owner. I wrote, 'I know there is no use sending bird shot after big game. If I come up and look at Richard Fairfax and like him, and find him to be everything I've heard about him, will you take $25,000 cash for him?' I figured that would bring him to his milk."
"Very much to my surprise a prompt letter informed me that my offer did not interest his owner in the least. Richard Fairfax was not for sale at any price."
"So I looked elsewhere and forgot Richard. That was along, say in November. The following February, Johnny —, from Minnesota, came down to see me. He was a young breeder who had great faith in me and my judgment of Herefords, and had bought quite a bit of my stuff. Johnny was to stay all night and go home next morning on the 7 o'clock train. I noticed Johnny was listless as he looked over my herd, and I knew something was wrong—he wasn't there to buy."
"After supper we went into the library and talked Herefords and everything else from the weather to politics. Finally I looked at my watch and said: 'Johnny, I'm getting sleepy. You leave in the morning at 7, and it's 1 o'clock now. Let's go to bed.'"
"Warren," he said. "I've got something pretty big on my mind. I want your advice. It's Richard Fairfax. I know all about your offer. I know the whole story. But I'm about to pay $50,000 cash for him, and what I want to know is if you think I am crazy trying to buy him at $50,000?"
"Well, Johnny! You're the greatest Hereford booster I ever heard of. You sure are! I don't want to discourage you, and God knows I don't want to throw cold water on the Hereford business, but now that you've asked me, all I can say is that I quit at $25,000. That's a terrible risk. Why, the bull might lie down and die tomorrow. $50,000 is a pile of money in Government Bonds, but it's an ocean full of money tied up in a Hereford bull."
"Well, don't throw up your hands until I get through, Warren. I've been thinking about this thing for a long time and been getting ready for it. I can get him insured for a maximum of $25,000—everybody says Richard is the best young bull in the country, and remember he's out of your grand old Perfection. I've been quietly buying up all his sons and daughters I can lay my hands on. I own 65 daughters and 20-odd sons, so I'd be pretty well fixed for a June sale of sons and daughters of a $50,000 bull. I figure that the advertising a $50,000 buy would give is a big thing. The more I think, the bigger it gets: the highest price the world has ever known for a bull. No other price has even approached that figure. Every big newspaper from New York on west will carry it on the front page, and a picture of Richard and me along with the story. I'll get more free advertising out of that than I would with 50 years of paid advertisements in all the Live Stock Journals published. And I'll see to it that 'Bred by Warren T. McCray, Kentland, Indiana' goes under Richard's picture. You are going to have a sale in May. You bred Richard Fairfax. About everything you own is close kin to him. How would a $50,000 bull that you calved help your May sale?"
"Well, Johnny, I see the enormous possibilities. Still, $50,000 is SOME bull money."
"I'm not through yet, my good friend in need," Johnny said. "And here is where I have to have your cooperation if the deal goes. I only have $20,000 cash to put in Richard now. I figure that in an ordinarily good sale of Richard's sons and daughters, they would probably average $500 apiece. If I pay $50,000 for their sire and get the advertising I think I'll get, the 80-odd head really ought to double that amount—I'm trying to be conservative—But I can't go to my bankers and say, 'Gentlemen, I'm paying $50,000 cash for a bull, I have $20,000 and want to borrow the balance from you.' They would say I was plumb crazy, try to get a guardian for me and collect all I owe them, right now. You know bankers. There is no place in the wide world I can borrow that sort of money, except from you. You know that."
"Johnny, let's go to bed. I'll let you have an answer before the train goes."
Mr. McCray said he thought until 6 o'clock, then got up and got a hurried breakfast into Johnny and took him to the station. When the train got within about two miles of town, he said, "Johnny, go to Dakota and look Richard over. Examine him as you never examined a bull before. Find all about him—whether he has been exposed to any diseases; have three vets go over him piece by piece—Then go off and think for 24 hours. If you decide to buy, send me a telegram saying, 'The Republicans will win easily next election.' Buy him, get the $25,000 insurance, render up a short prayer and draw on me for $30,000—and the draft will be honored."
Within a week or 10 days, McCray told me, he got the prearranged telegram, then advertised his May sale as he never had before. He played up the $50,000 Richard Fairfax sale to the limit. The free advertising the sale got was far beyond his wildest thoughts. Virtually all the big papers carried it both here and abroad. Miss Busch, his secretary when he was Governor, and who was in Paris at the time, sent him a front page of one of the large Paris papers carrying the picture of Richard and Johnny.
McCray sold 120 head in his May sale. They averaged $3,636—the world's record for sales. He sold a full brother of Richard for $23,000 and a half-brother for $7,500. He figured the brother and half-brother didn't stand him out over $500, so if Johnny never was able to pay a cent of the $30,000 loan, he was still even, to say nothing of the additional prices the remaining 118 head brought.
Let the old ex-Governor close:
"In June, I went to Johnny's sale. Instead of $1,000, they averaged $1,750. Next day I came back with a $30,000 draft, plus interest."
How is that for a bull story?
Good luck to you,
"Bull" Durham
THE PLAIN WOODEN CHAIR
"Old Settlers Day" address delivered at an annual celebration, undated.
Mr. Chairman, Revered Old Settlers and Visitors:
. . . Primitive man lived in trees, where he rushed to safety at the approach of danger. Directly, he learned to use a club and climbed down from the trees and fought his way to caves for shelter. From these caves he would sally forth . . . Eventually, men began to congregate and to band together, first as a family, then a tribe or clan and later as a nation, and in so doing they put in practice that great fundamental truth on which is based all progress: "In Union there is strength," exemplified in modern times by the bundle of sticks, so well known to some of us. . .
Our early Pioneers in Putnam County followed the rules of conduct prescribed by their predecessors in frontier life in Kentucky, Virginia and Ohio, and followed the lines of least travel resistance, generally along watercourses—by way of Eel River, up Big Walnut and Deer Creeks—and thus throughout the County. Once located, and having few and distant neighbors, and with communication more or less difficult, a barn-raising, log- rolling, quilting bee or spelling match was an event of some moment and not of such common experience as to be ignored.
As time wore on, roads were established; settlements became thicker; mercantile trade followed barter, and money began to circulate and to be offered and accepted in payment; wagons and buggies replaced saddles and saddle bags; railroads were built; newspapers and postal service became more numerous and easier; the telegraph and later the telephone annihilated distance; churches and school houses sprung up; the regular preacher took the place of the circuit rider; factory-made shoes drove out the "pair of fine boots"; power looms and hole-proof socks (in name only) routed knitting needles; and so on, until now Sears-Roebuck is trying to rout everybody and everything.
All these and many, many, more advances have been inaugurated within the memories of many of you here today. Those among the oldest of you have had the extreme good fortune of living within the period of the last 75 years or more, when greater progress along scientific lines has been made than was achieved in the 4,000 years preceding your time. Think of it my friends! . . . What great good fortune has been yours!
What progress the future has in store I cannot know. Time only can tell, and time goes on, while you and I dwell here for comparatively only a day. And yet, if I were required to hazard my judgment, I should be compelled to admit I firmly believe you have seen more beneficial progress than will fall to the lot of any individual to be born in the future. . .
To you Old Settlers this day has been set apart by the folks of this community for your enjoyment and retrospection, and for our education and benefit. . . And when those of us here on the programme have finished, we want to hear you, by word of mouth, recall those early experiences that will forever be lost unless you impart them, that we, in turn, may hand them down to the generations yet to come. They will soon be most valued traditions. Books, paper, diaries and records have a most useful place, but some of the things of greatest human interest are not set down in the books or records—those little touches of color and everyday heart interest, those daily privations and abstinences—they never break into chronicle, and yet furnish a large part of our romantic history.
I have at home a chair—a plain, hand-made wooden chair with a wooden seat, with rectangular and cross red stripes, and on one panel in the back is a hand-painted bouquet of flowers in colors— all showing the hand of a careful, neat and skilled workman. Underneath the seat is a faded and torn paper label on which is printed "Black and Sons, Chair Makers, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."
Just a plain straightback wooden chair. A more elaborate one could probably be bought now for $2. And yet, my grandfather brought that chair to my grandmother for her parlor on horseback from Philadelphia to Russellville, in this County, some 80-odd years ago, piled high on top of a big horseback load of goods. Think of the effort it took! Think of the space it took away from profitable calico! Think of the many, many times on that thousand-mile horseback ride that grandfather looked back and felt to see if it were coming along with the balance of the load. Think of the many times it slipped to one side or the other and had to be retied. Think of the many nights it had to be unloaded, and the many mornings it had to be tied back on again. And lastly, my good folks, think of the joy it gave that little old woman up at Russellville—how she showed it to the neighbors; the care that was subsequently given it; the wonderful pleasure it gave her; and the proud feeling it secretly gave him. . . It was she who told their children the story of that little chair.