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I used to live in New Jersey when I was young, in a place called
Lopatcong Mills. I was workin in the mills. There was two other fellers
workin there with me and we was about the same age, size and build, as
you might say.
One of the fellers was Sam Harkness and the other Enos Kerber. Enos was
all for gittin married. He was e’enamost crazy about gals, and I guess
he pestered ’em some. Anyhow he didn’t seem to get along very fast
gittin married.
I aint very keen about gals myself, and I wasn’t then; but, as I said,
Enos liked to be with ’em. He spent most all his wages buyin ice cream
fer ’em. He said he kinda liked to see ’em lickin it up like nice little
pussy cats.
“Yes,” I says, “I guess you would like to be a mouse,” says I, “and
listen to what they says.”
“No,” says he, “but they use me like the cat would a mouse.”
Well, he was always talkin about the gals and about gittin married ’till
I got e’enamost worn out. So one day I says: “Enos,” says I, “why don’t
you advertise?”
“Advertise fer what?” says he.
“Why, fer a wife,” says I.
“Sure,” says he, “where can I do it?”
Sam Harkness and me put our heads together, as you might say, and we
wrote an “ad” like this:
“Advertiser wants to marry nice-looking girl about 20. Address with
photo, Box 28, Phillipsburg, N. J.”
We sent this with $5.00 to a paper in Chicago that we had seen, and
pretty soon Enos began to git letters and photos. The photos was all
good lookin; and to some of the best lookers Enos sent hisn. Now, hisn
was what you might call a side face, kinda sickly smilin, as if the man
that took it had said: “Now look smilin!”
Enos wasn’t a bad looker, himself, nor he wasn’t no beauty neither.
One day I took the bosses wife to the train; and I was standin on the
platform, when a middle aged female comes up to me and flung her arms
around me.
“Hello! Sandy,” says she, “here I am. Aint ye glad? Why,” she says,
“you’re better lookin than yer picture. I just took _such_ a fancy to it
that I got right on the train and come right on, and here I am.”
“Who are you lookin fer?” says I, gittin flustered, “I don’t know
nothing about this. What do you mean, anyhow?”
“Young man,” says she, “is this you? and is this your handwritin?” so
sayin, she pulls out a picture of me and a letter which I had written
fer Enos in lead pencil; but his name was rubbed out and mine signed.
“Well, that’s my picture,” says I, “but that letter’s a forgery, as you
might say.”
Well, she bust out a cryin and a crowd begun to form, so I put her in
the wagon and took her to the mill fer dinner. Then I brought her back
and put her on the train, her crying most of the time. I paid her fare
both ways and she said I was real kind and must come to see her, but I
aint been yet.
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