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.

That, my friends, is the kind of heart throb we are gradually

learning to ignore in these days of financial struggles. There

are those among you, who by denying yourselves, have given your

wives, sons and daughters saddle horses, pianos, automobiles and

even farms--and at great sacrifice--and there are also those

among you who have given your families their first iron stove, a

candle mold, calico dresses, and perhaps a little straightback

wooden chair.

Therefore, today let us go back. Let us forget the things to

which we have applied ourselves too assiduously, the things that

modern conditions have forced us to adopt and strive for. For the

day, at least, let us turn back to the days when you were young

and this community was young: To the days when you courted and

were courted in the chinked log house before the stone fireplace;

back to the time when catnip, tansy and peppers hung from the

rafters; back to the days of the smoke-house with its pungent

tang of hickory bark and corn cobs; when tomatoes were grown for

ornament and thought to be poisonous. Let us again go down to the

spring house and get a bucket of water to set under the gourd on

the kitchen table. Let's stir up the fire in the fireplace, hang

the pot on the crane or test the heat in the Dutch oven; carry

the ashes out and put them in the hopper. Let's you and I and all

of us go up and see how the dried apples are holding out, and

then look the hams over to see if they have any worms in them.

Let us hie back to the days when all debts fell due at Christmas

time; when mortgages were useless and practically unknown, and

when every man's word was his bond. Let's eat a dinner of bacon,

corn bread, milk and honey, and other wholesome things of those

days, on the back porch or in the summer kitchen, while the

younger girls shoo the flies off the table and the chickens off

the porch. And then tonight, after supper, let's gather around

the candle on the table, with Mother in the little chair knitting

and mending with her hands, and rocking the cradle with her foot,

while Father takes down the family Bible and piously reads a

verse. Then, on our knees, and with heads bowed, let us hear that

hallowed voice of Father, from whose nerveless grasp have long

since dropped the working tools of life, rise in fervent prayer

to Almighty God to protect us and keep us all safe from harm.

GRANDPAP'S BOURBON COUNTY BILL

By Everett A. Mahrug

Pap took a pen name--his own rearranged in a "sort-of backwards"

fashion--to tell a story based on an ill-fated attempt by his

grandfather, Jacob Durham, to form a new county, with

Russellville as the county seat. According to family lore, Jacob

intended to place the court house on a parcel of land he owned in

the center of town, surrounded by other property he owned,

including a store. Years later, Frank Durham gained sole title to

the "courthouse" property and deeded it to the town.

Grandpap, Jacob Mahrug, had come from Kentucky in an "early day",

and located his new domicile equidistant from four surrounding

county-seat towns. He laid out a new town and named it "Mahrug."

In the center of his town plat he carelessly left a large

"Square."

As a boy back in Kentucky, Grandpap learned the blacksmith's

trade, and followed that vocation for a while. . . At his new

place of residence he started a general store, the first store in

Mahrug. Both he and it prospered. He sold lots in this coming

town. The town grew. He bought and cleared, and sold and rebought

farm lands roundabout. He became a "Squire," and administered

justice without fear, but probably with some favor. He journeyed

on horseback to Cincinnati and Philadelphia to buy goods,

transporting them overland by wagon from the closest navigable

point in the chain of rivers. His store came to be the trading

point and social center for miles around. He extended "store

credit" anywhere and everywhere, and it was universally

understood that Christmas Day was pay day. . .

In this environment, Grandpap started his family of four boys and

one girl. . . He had the first carriage and the first piano in

the county, even though Darter was the county seat and center of

culture and population.

His mother back in Kentucky signifying her desire to visit him in

his new home, he sent the carriage, the two older boys and three

"hands" back to bring her to Mahrug in State. The trip took over

two months, and she had to wait until the next summer to find

weather and roads suitable to make the return home. Back in

Kentucky, she advertised him and the new country so extensively

that two of her neighbors bought enough land of Grandpap that

Fall to make back to him all the expenses of her pilgrimage, and

then some.

In somewhat less than due time, considering his status as an

immigrant from another State, Grandpap got elected as a

Democratic member of the House, in the State Legislature. Early

in the first Session, he introduced a bill to substantially

increase the Governor's salary. . . By a mere coincidence, it was

referred to the Fees and Salary Committee, of which Grandpap was

a member. It was unanimously reported favorably to the House by

the Committee at its first meeting after introduction. Passing

the House and Senate intact, it was reluctantly signed by the

Governor, and became law.

At the next roll call, Grandpap introduced another bill which

came to be known as the "Bourbon County Bill." Its purpose was

aimed to accommodate the people around Mahrug with a nearer court

house and closer county seat. Without trace of partiality, it

would simply carve a new county out of the four existing

contiguous counties to Mahrug, make Mahrug the county seat

thereof, and give the new county the name of "Bourbon", (a name

most likely suggested by scenes from Grandpap's nativity). True,

it did provide for the bonding of the territory comprising the

new county to procure funds to acquire land for and construct the

court house, jail and other county buildings, and "other

necessary expenses," but these things were naturally incident to

the formation of any new county.

Through another coincidence, the Bourbon County Bill was referred

to the County and Township Business Committee, of which Grandpap

was Chairman. It was promptly reported favorably to the House by

the Committee. After some delay and a little explaining, it

passed the House by a very substantial majority and went to the

Senate for its action thereon. . . The Senate's County and

Township Business Committee in turn named a subcommittee to

"examine thoroughly into its merits" The subcommittee was

composed of two experienced and dependable members of the

Majority party and a Whig member who had a bill pending for a

separate judicial court for one of his counties. . .

Within the next two or three days, Grandpap's Bourbon County

Bill, in some mysterious way began to take on the ear marks of an

"Administration measure." Therefore, it was not lightly to be

cast aside. The subcommittee, in their earnest desire that

justice and fairness be done, sought first hand and unbiased

information and facts, wherever they could be found. . . and was

soon ready to report. However to make assurance doubly sure, it

was deemed advisable to finish its labors by interviewing the

Governor. . .

The Executive Chamber's heavily-upholstered, plush furniture and

cushions were done in deep red. The windows were heavily

curtained in the same color. Prismatic glass pendants featured

the oilburning lamp chandelier, with three circles of 8, 16 and

24-lamp capacity, the whole suspended from a liberally-adorned

ceiling ornament by a gilt rod of considerable tensile strength.

The walls were patriotically hung with pictures of former Chief

Executives in immense velvet-lined gilt frames of a uniform

character, arranged chronologically. The majority portrayed a

pioneer soul of stern and earnest demeanor. Some had struck a

Daniel Webster pose, thus straining and disguising themselves.

Others had cherubic countenances, and were men such as slept

o'nights. All wore magnificent whiskers. . .

The Governor's Secretary announced the Senate County and Township

Business Subcommittee, and discreetly retired from the Chamber.

His Excellency, that stalwart adherent to Jeffersonian

principles, slowly arose from his desk and greeted the

subcommittee with outstretched hands. Following the usual

formalities, they got down to business, and the subcommittee

chairman asked the Governor his opinion on the Bourbon County

Bill.

"Uh--m! Well, first let us see what your investigation disclosed.

What have you found out?"

"We find they're pretty much for it. I've talked to a good many,

and so have these other gentlemen here, and about all we talk to,

or see, want it. . ."

"Yes, I know! But is it geographically sound?" the Governor

queried.

"Why-y, yes! They've never had an earthquake anywhere's around

there that I . . . ."

"No. No!", interrupted His Excellency. "I mean do you find the

country around there needing a court house at that particular

place? Geographically speaking?"

"Oh--h, that way! Yes, I think it does. Mahrug is over 20 miles

from the nearest court house. And as luck would have it, there's

a 'Square' already laid out there in town, ready and waiting . . ."

"And what do you learn, Senator?" The Governor turned to the

other Majority member of the subcommittee.

"I find they're all for it down there. Mahrug is over 20 miles

from Darter, the county seat. Three big creeks separate them from

it. You can't ford them in high water. And one or the other of

them is nearly always high. They're all mud roads and hard enough

to get over in dry weather, and when it's wet or raining you have

to take to the sides. Nine months in the year you can't get over

them, only on a horse."

He paused. The Governor was leaning forward in his chair, beaming

at him.

"Go on, Senator!" the Governor urged. "You are stating some very

salient and important facts. Those are what I want to hear if I

am to be of any assistance. Facts that go to the very heart of

the question! Go right ahead!"

The Senator was both pleased and encouraged. He wanted the

Governor's good opinion. He desired to "stand in" with him. He

had a little bill up himself that his County Chairman was

interested in getting passed. And if it got past the Senate and

House he wanted the Governor's signature without any quibbling.

Governors sometimes vetoed bills. He had heard it said if you

knew a Governor rather intimately, there wasn't so much danger of

a veto. Governors were that way.

He cleared his throat and proceeded. "There is considerable

litigation over around Mahrug, from what they say, from horse

stealing on down. An apple jack still house down on Muskrat Creek

causes considerable trouble. Most of it is only hand and club

fighting amongst the boys and men there in the neighborhood, but

there's coming to be more cutting and shooting lately. The

authorities down at Darter are so far away they don't pay much

attention to it, or just don't care."

"They are coming in from Kentucky and other places, and land

trading is pretty brisk and on the boom, and every time they make

a trade they've got to go to the county seat to get the deeds

made. . . My investigation shows me the people down there want a

court house, they need it, they ought to have it, and I say give

it to them."

"That was a . . . most enlightening and instructive dissertation

on the very meat of the question," said the Governor. "And you

Senator?" He swung around a trifle to face the Minority member.

"Well," he began in a hesitating way, "Some say they need it and

some say they don't. . . Some of the boys on our side say there's

politics . . . ."

"We can't help what some of them say," interrupted the Governor

with a slight frown of annoyance. "What do you say."

". . .As I started to say, our Floor Leader is dead set against

it. The counties they're cutting this new county out of are

kicking like bay steers," (He noticed the Governor learning

forward) "but the people in the new county want it, no doubt

about that a-tall . . . ."

"There you are!" triumphantly exclaimed the Governor. "That's it

exactly! The people in the new county want it just like the

people in one of your counties want a separate court. And the

people in the counties it is being taken away from don't want it,

just like the people of your other counties, from which this new

court district would be carved, don't want your one county to

have it. Don't you see these two bills are alike? One is about

one thing and the other is about another, but the principle is

the same in both?"

A dawning sense of the similarity of the two bills swept the

otherwise expressionless face of the Minority member. The whole

thing unrolled like a scroll. He resumed, "As I was saying, the

people, down there want it. The community needs to be developed,

and those people want a court house of their own. They need it.

That's why I made up my mind so strong when we first started out

to help them get it. We're not up here for politics. The people

don't send us here for that. They sent us here to do the right

thing by them. I'm for the bill! Don't forget that! I'm strong

for the bill. I've done a lot of talking over on our side. They

can't bring politics in this thing while I'm around . . . ."

His Excellency arose majestically. He fondled his beard, adjusted

his waistcoat, cleared his throat and began, . . . "This

conference has been a mental stimulus for me. Your unerring logic

has been a revelation. Your arguments have convinced me beyond

the shadow of a doubt of the absolute merits of the bill. . . I

glory in your decision to push, er, I mean pass, this bill. It

must pass. You and I shall see to it. . . I am particularly

pleased with the fearless and unwavering stand on the bill your

Minority member has taken. As he has so well said, we are here

not as partisans, but solely as the representatives of the

people. God forbid that politics should ever enter Legislative

Halls, or the Executive Chambers during my Administration! . . ."

His Excellency excused himself momentarily, and returned with a

decanter and four ample glasses. Filling them generously, he

handed one to each of the conferees, raised his own and said,

"Let us drink in the old bourbon to the success of the new

Bourbon."

The toast was enthusiastically drunk without the aid of water or

other pollutive non-essential. . .

Following the findings and advice of the subcommittee, a general

Committee Report recommending passage soon followed, and was

adopted by the full Senate, over a very scattered chorus of "No"

votes from the Whigs.

The bill had successfully hurdled its first major Senate hazard.

There still remained plenty of time for trouble. Second reading

was in the offing. It was then that bills were open for

amendments, which could, in one minute, absolutely undo almost a

whole Session's hard thought and planning. Just such an amendment

as the dour Minority Floor Leader had prepared. . .

The Bourbon County Bill was put in the direct and personal charge

of Senator Winker. . . He was a "steering committee" of one. . .

He thought and planned. He cogitated and mused. The Majority Whip

was a promising young fellow, a good mixer, and the Minority

Floor Leader had taken a liking to him for some reason. The two

had a habit of disappearing somewhere about the Spencer Tavern at

night.

Senator Winker was cognizant of his Whip's ability, and somewhat

familiar with his habits and associates. He sought him out and

had words with him. . . The Senator, having laid his plans and

fortified himself accordingly, determined to hazard the Bourbon

County Bill for second reading the next time that order of

business came around.

According to rules, the members called various House Bills

assigned to them during an alphabetical roll call of the

membership. . .

With his ear to the roll call, then approaching the S's, the

Majority Whip strolled casually past the Minority Floor Leader's

desk, and with a knowing wink, whispered to him, "Come out in the

corridor a minute. Four of your friends from over in the House

want to see you."

The Minority Floor Leader knew instinctively who they were and

what they wanted. He followed his young Judas into the long

corridor to face the four gentlemen he had expected to see. The

conference was merely to pledge a mutual presence at, and arrange

the minor details incident to, a friendly poker game in Room 232

of the Spencer Tavern at 8 o'clock that evening.

The whole thing took less than ten minutes, but the timing, with

reference to the specific thing to be accomplished, was perfect.

When the two gamesters returned to the Senate Chamber, the

Bourbon County Bill had passed second reading without amendment,

or offer of amendment, and the Senate was on another order of

business.

Thus, was the second major leg of the Bourbon County Bill's

flight negotiated safely. . .

The bill had been posted for third reading for more than two

weeks. The Session was nearing its close. Senator Winker had

purposely passed several calls wherein he could have had the bill

handed down for passage. The times had appeared inopportune. He

wanted to give the Governor and Administration authorities ample

time to work on the recalcitrants. The bill was known to have

stubborn opposition, and the Democrats a bare working majority.

Speaking generally, the Senate had shown itself in a surly mood

lately. Several sharp clashes among the Majority members had

accentuated that mood. They were not functioning smoothly. A wild

idea to license the sale of intoxicants had just been fought out

--and strange to relate, passed--leaving some serious political

scars in its wake. There was no personal liberty left any more.

The mere thought of a fool legislature trying to legislate what a

Sovereign People could eat and drink was showing what the State

was coming to. Many spoke of the "Oregon Country," where they

still had a little liberty left. And as always happens under such

circumstances, the Minority were all the closer knit and serene.

It was not their fight. They were not in the saddle. As a result

of all this, several near-Administration measures had been killed

summarily, and apparently for no particularly good reason. Just

another quirk the legislature had about it.

Eventually there were signs of a change. The Legislative

atmosphere cleared. The Solons became more tractable. . . The

time was ripe.

The bill was called. The roll began. Something was wrong!

Senators here and there, who had been counted on to vote

affirmatively were voting "no." The Minority member with the

separate court bill voted, "Aye." The rest of the Minority seemed

to be voting "no" solidly. Senator Winker glanced at the Minority

Floor Leader. He wore an inscrutable look. No, on second glance,

it was--sinister. Why? The Senator looked roundabout for the

answer. It slowly dawned there were several Democratic seats

vacant.

He rushed the Whip out to find and bring in the absentee

brethren. Some came. Others could not be found. They might be in

hiding. A tally was showing a considerably greater number of "no"

votes than "ayes". . .

A motion to "excuse the absentees" prevailed. . .

Grandpap's Bourbon County Bill was killed, by one vote. . .

Senator Winker plumbed the depths. Back of it all, he could not

forget the fact, he had nine good Majority votes unaccounted-for

in the tabulation--somewhere in the Legislative wilderness. . .

Next day the separate court bill met a similar fate--only more

directly. The Minority helped do that.

The death of the Bourbon County Bill was a crushing blow to

Mahrug's future and Grandpap's dream. But it did one thing. It

fixed, once and for all, his and our family politics, if by any

chance our politics needed any stabilization. It is true that

Uncle Ben turned to be a Republican during the Civil War. But

that was to preserve the Union, and incidentally a considerable

amount of U.S. Bonds he had acquired at most attractive

discounts. Thereafter Pap and Uncle Ben studiously avoided all

mention of politics until the first Cleveland campaign. By that

time all of Uncle Ben's evidences of Federal indebtedness had

been retired at par and accrued interest, and he was free to

return to his first political love. . .

STICK WITH THE ARTICLES

September 8, 1936

Curtis Publishing Company

Independence Square

Philadelphia, Penna.

Gentlemen:

Please let me congratulate you on this week's Post--what reading

the Sharkey, the Harding and the Dizzy Dean stories made!

I realize love stories must always have the big pull, but

speaking for one who has reasonably recovered from that phase of

life, surely there must be hundreds of thousands of your other

readers who sort of skip love stories for the ARTICLES.

As a staid country lawyer, I actually stayed at home Tuesday,

September 1st, until after the Post had come to the house in

order to finish the "The Way I Beat Joe Louis" story--and I've

never seen, or expect to see, a prize fight either. I liked the

unusual subject and the style of the telling of the tale.

Therefore: as a member of the probable great and unwashed

minority, I trust you will increase the ARTICLES, although I'll

be glad when the Election is over, and Mrs. Republican and Mrs.

Democrat can stop, and political stuff generally, although the

recent Allen (or White) story on Landon was a masterpiece of

shrewd political propaganda--and I'm no Republican, or

Progressive, or Coughlinite, or Landonite, or much of a New Deal

Democrat, by a hell of a sight.

Very Respectfully,

IN THE WILD WEST

May 1, 1937

Mr. Henry H. Miller, Atty.

Title & Trust Building

Phoenix, Arizona

My dear Mr. and Mrs. Miller:

Back home again in Indiana, after a considerable of a sojourn for

a Hoosier. The unsuspecting Public, viewing me as I flow up and

down the main thoroughfare of Greencastle, little suspects that

only lately have I reveled in orange blossoms, irrigated yards,

camel-back mountains, Pima Indians, featherweight grapefruit,

rattlesnake Pioneers and OVER-STUFFED lemonades. Said Public is

not cognizant I have dined (and wined) at the Arizona Club with

the flower of Phoenix Society, made a complete and minute survey

of the entire northeast section of Phoenix and contended with a

western sirloin at the Sip and Bite grand piano table,

semisurrounded with nasal singers and aesthetic dancers who would

find their acts uncomfortably chilly on an open air platform in

the environs of, say, Duluth. And further, it does not know I

have met the Great and Only S--, and been permitted in his

office, from whence emanates 80% of the Arizona corporations,

about all of which have probably lost money for the gullible

investors.

After leaving Phoenix, my first stop was Los Angeles. Thence to

San Francisco via "The Daylight," a beautifully-appointed train

but woefully short in the extreme speed. Thence to Grant's Pass,

Oregon, and two days with my erstwhile Putnam County political

advisor, Dr. W A. Moser--his son, Dr. C. J. Moser and wife and

three boys, about 7, 9 and 11, go to Tahiti for deep sea fishing

in June; the young Doc showed me his fishing outfit, with reels

about the size of the reel on my John Deere corn planter--Thence

to Portland. Then Seattle, where my old "frater" at Indiana 32

years ago, Adam Beeler, has just gone off the Supreme bench of

Washington (thanks to the Democratic uprising)--Adam drives a '37

Packard (which petered out on us about 30 miles from town), his

wife sings all over the Northwest (exclusive of Democratic

Conventions), his daughter is divorced, and none of them seems to

be on relief--Thence to Spokane, to Wallace, Idaho, etcs., etcs,

home. . .

Very Respectfully,

AND SHE'S GOOD LOOKING TOO

June 5, 1937

To Tri Kappa State Scholarship Committee

Subject: Betty Broadstreet

Members of the Committee:

Careless politicians and businessmen of easy integrity have

tended to bring the present-day letter of recommendation into the

class of questionable literature, but at rare intervals each of

us has an opportunity to make a recommendation whole-heartedly,

and without the slightest mental reservation. Such is the subject

of this letter, and I am happy to recommend Betty Broadstreet of

Greencastle, Indiana, for the Tri Kappa State Scholarship. I do

this freely and with the knowledge that I can forever remain at

peace with my own conscience.

Your Committee wants facts. Upon investigation, I find from

authoritative sources that Betty led her Class all the time she

was in High School. This school year she had sufficient credits

for graduation at, or about, Christmas. Much to her credit she

dropped out and got a job, to help continue her education in

College. Last Friday night she graduated here.

I have known this splendid young woman since early childhood. She

has about all the qualifications any young American girl can have

--honesty, health, ambition, modesty, neatness, gentility,

industry and a mind that absolutely qualifies her to take a

College education. All these are pretty hard to find combined in

one person, but Betty, in addition, is positively a stunningly

beautiful girl.

And so, in my opinion, she is exactly the type and character any

father would be proud to say of her, "She is my daughter, that

red-headed one over there with the blue eyes."

I therefore recommend her most earnestly for your serious

consideration.

Respectfully,

MISTAKEN FOR DILLINGER

Greencastle, Indiana

August 27, 1937

Mr. George E. Pitts

United Paperboard Company

171 Madison Avenue

New York, NY

My dear Judge:

The writer is the fellow who was in your office about three weeks

ago consulting you concerning the transfer of some Paperboard

stock, and for whom you so kindly and generously prepared an

affidavit for the surviving widow to execute.

I thought you might be interested in the trials and tribulations

of a hill-billy clean out of his environment, trying to make his

way about town with a minimum of errors.

After inquiring of about every policeman in New York where 171

Madison Avenue was, my trusty grip and I eventually came to your

door. . . And say! You folks aren't wasting the stockholders'

money on any elaborate waiting-room. There she was, 6 by 12,

three chairs, one settee, one high-up electric fan doing a noble

job stirring up that hot 7th floor atmosphere, three Sawmill

journals and a 2 x 2 peep-hole, like the ticket window of the B&O

R.R. here at Russellville, my old home town. The grip and I both

got in, but every place I tried to set it down it looked like it

would take up the space for a second customer if he happened to

come in just then.

A girl looked through the ticket window at us--especially the

grip--and I realized my mistake. I had the knowledge that John

Dillinger was raised about 30 miles southeast of here, and that

he had sometimes carried grips, and that maybe she had gotten us

confused. She asked what I wanted. I told her I wanted to

transfer some stock and wanted to see the head of the Legal

Department. She told me she could take care of the stock

transfer. I started to explain, and she started to explain, so we

both explained. Finally, either due to the altitude or the heat,

or something, I was supplementing the fan with the new $7.50

panama I had just bought at Macy's in order to get a New York

label to show my admiring friends when I got home, and I begged

her to just let me see some official of the Company. She

relented, and a first class fellow came forth, not to the peep-

hole, but right to where the grip and I were. I started to

explain, and he started to explain, so we both explained. By that

time I had the hat synchronized with the fan. Eventually, he got

my idea--but the President was out, the Vice-Presidents were on

vacation, and the attorney might get in around 3:30 p.m. or he

might not, and would I wait or go out and come back later. If so,

he would do his best to get a conference for me. I told him if I

got out, I'd never find my way back, and that I would wait.

By that time my curiosity was at a maximum and I was wild to get

on the other side of that ticket window, because I knew the place

had to be lousy with red leather chairs, air-conditioning, ice

water bottles, Chinese rugs and baled-up currency.

All things must come to an end. In due course I passed the

forbidding door and was ushered into your office--after first

having my grip taken away from me and deposited at the peep-hole

girl's desk. And that grip is an inoffensive grip. In fact, it

was given me by the members of the Legislature one time when I

was the alleged Floor-Leader of what was then God's Chosen

Minority--the Senate Democrats. Since I left, they--the

Democrats--have perked-up and now have a big majority themselves.

But, to be serious, I want to thank you for the way you handled

my case. You certainly know how to size up a situation quickly. I

realize big Corporations must use all reasonable precautions when

it comes to transferring stock, etcs., but there's reason in all

things. You have been almost more than fair in your demands. You

are not our conception of what a New Yorker is, and especially a

New York attorney. Why, my-God, man! We've always been taught to

first come to a full stop before going up the ramp at Grand

Central Station, and sew our modest currency rolls on the inside

of our underwear.

I hereby extend you an invitation to come out and rabbit hunt

with me this Fall, with the reservation that you furnish your own

blister medicine and liniment. I'll furnish all board, bed, guns,

dogs and ammunition.

Again, I thank you.

Very Respectfully

THE HOSPITAL NEEDS A CHECK-UP.

The following two letters relate to Pap's experience at losing

more money than he had counted on during a visit to the hospital.

August 10, 1939

My dear Mr. & Mrs. Cunningham:

You are probably slightly interested in knowing how I came out in

my run-in with the Methodist Hospital over my hospital bill and

some money I lost. I am therefore enclosing Benson's letter to me

and a copy of one I just mailed him.

George, I want to thank you for being willing to say just what

you knew and saw about my having any money on me at the time of

the accident, because by reason of what you saw and knew, I just

had to have two $1 bills and some other money in a bill or bills.

Those facts helped write the enclosed letter to Benson. Then too,

you know how a jury goes in a hotel run-in with somebody who

isn't worth much, or anything. You don't have a chance. Same way

with a hospital or a railroad. It's too bad it is that way, but

it is.

And now Mrs. Cunningham.. . . I don't know what was the matter

with my mental processes last Tuesday noon when I was in the

hotel and called you. I knew I was going straight in to eat with

Ike--I'd much rather have eaten with you--but I never thought of

asking you to come along and break bread with me. And now listen

how I thereby missed an opportunity to advance my social

standing. When I got in, there was our Labor-loving Democratic

State Chairman feeding his brother and some other "loyal

Democratic worker" off of our famous 2% Club money, over on one

side, and John Frenzel over in the corner feeding himself off of

usurious interest money he had wrangled out of some unfortunate

borrower. We'll cut out the Organized Labor-loving State Chairman

and get to Frenzel, who is somebody--as a man and every other way

including a whale of a good Banker with a whale of a good Bank.

Now just suppose I had been escorting you into the dining

room--you and your stately and dignified walk and manner, and

Frenzel had looked up through a cigarette smoke fog. He wouldn't

have believed his eyes. He'd have said to himself: "My G--, that

can't be her with Andy Durham from that little jerk water bank

down in Russellville. Yes it is, sure as I'm of German

extraction! W-e-l-l, next time he comes in my place I'll not have

the police lead him out like I wanted to do last time he was in.

I'll bring him right back behind the rail to my desk and get

better acquainted with him. He just has to be somebody--although

he sure doesn't look it, and I'd never have guessed it."

See what an opportunity I missed if I could have had you along

I'll never do it again, even if I have to pay for a rum sour or

whatever it is you get to go with your meals.

As ever,

August 10, 1939

John C. Benson, Superintendent

Methodist Episcopal Hospital

Indianapolis, Indiana

My dear John:

. . . Your adjustment offer on my hospital bill, under the

circumstances, would seem fair to any disinterested person. You

offered to reduce the bill by $24.35, and I insisted my loss was

either $27 or $32, not knowing which myself--which looks rather

bad on its face, for me.

But John, as sure as Meharry Hall is in the middle campus, and

the Democrats are God's chosen, some low fellow (I'd ordinarily

use a four-word combination we use and thoroughly understand over

at Russellville to characterize certain men folks) there at your

hospital rifled my clothes--and got either $27 or $32 in bills.

The last thing I did before leaving Mooresville the night of the

accident was to pull out my modest roll and give Doc White a $5

bill, and he gave me back two $1 bills, that I folded with the

others and then put in my little watch, or ticket pocket, in the

upper front part of my britches. Mr. George Cunningham, manager

of the Claypool Hotel, saw that, and so did Doc White of

Mooresville, I think. Then Mr. Cunningham and his wife and I got

in his car, Mr. Cunningham in the front seat driving, and Mrs.

Cunningham and I in back, and went direct to your place. Mr.

Cunningham couldn't have robbed me, and wouldn't have if he could

(there's some wording for you); it would be heresy to think Mrs.

C. would (if you know her); anybody would have to be a hell of a

sight worse off than I was to go broadcasting $1 bills enroute to

a place like yours, knowing full well if he had any sense at all

that if he stayed there a week he'd have to mortgage the back 40

to get paid out. So that last theory is plumb out. And all that

remains is the aforesaid "low fellow."

The weak spot in my whole story is expecting the other fellow to

believe me, and me alone as to just how much I had in money. I

don't like to be in that position. I wouldn't want the other

fellow to expect me to take his word for what he had. That's

something like our railroad troubles. I've been attorney here for

the New York Central since about 1916. In all that time we've

never killed any live stock that wasn't a thoroughbred. All

railroad attorneys get used to that and expect it. So four or

five years ago the Springfield, Ill., Division of the B & O that

runs through my farm at Russellville (and whose trains on that

particular division run more by the compass than on the rails)

killed my registered Hereford bull with one of its passenger

trains. I knew their General Attorney at Cincinnati quite well,

so I wrote him the facts and ended by saying, "and as is usual in

railroad cases, he was a thoroughbred." Right back came his

answer: "Your thoroughbred bull has nothing on us. We want you to

distinctly understand ours is a thoroughbred train". But he paid

me on a thoroughbred basis.

As the man on the farm says when he starts to give me advice:

"Now, I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but I'd

do so and so", so now in like manner I want to urgently request

that you check up on everybody who handled my clothes from the

time they took them from me in the X-ray room, or whatever it

was, until the clothes got back in my room, and keep a watch on

him or them. . . Whoever did it to me will try it again.

And now, I do have a request to make, and it's for my own

benefit. Please call Mr. Cunningham at the Claypool and see if my

story about the money is in fact true insofar as he knows. Then

question Doc White next time he comes in. . . Anybody who is

anybody would want to furnish as much outside proof as he might

be able to get. Now John, don't come back at me by saying you

don't have to ask Mr. Cunningham and Doc White because you

believe everything I say, like Mr. Hess did over the telephone.

Somehow that sort of nettled me. Mr. Hess doesn't know me from Al

Capone. I'm serious in what I ask, and I'm going to check-up on

you, old timer . . .

Respectfully,

Andrew Durham

ASKING HELP WITH MONEY

September 25, 1939

Mr. Wilbur O. C--,

Lebanon, Indiana

My Dear Wib:

I was in Lebanon the other day and called you, but your good wife

said you were in Lafayette.

Wib, here is what I wanted to see you about. Frank is in Law

School and needs new clothes. I am in need of some money badly,

and want you to help me out all you can. I am enclosing a copy of

your note, with all the credits on the back. I am also enclosing

a blank note. I had Ward Mayhall, down at Central National Bank

figure out the balance of principal and interest as of Sept. 21,

1939--$157.55 on that date. So please send me a check for all you

possibly can, and if you can't pay all, then please date the

blank note, make it payable in thirty days like the old one, and

for such sum as is the difference between what your check amounts

to and the sum of $157.55; sign and send to me along with the

check, and I will be greatly obliged. The old note is simply

covered with Intangible Stamps, with no room to put on any more

credits. . .

Cordially,

October 30, 1939

Mr. Wilbur O. C.

Rochester, Indiana

Care of Barrett Hotel

My Dear Wib:

I am enclosing the note dated October 1, 1939 which you sent me

some weeks ago, for the reason it does not seem to be drawn

properly. The figures show the amount to be $160, but the writing

shows an even $100. The former seems to be right.

I have been getting ready for Joan's wedding in New York next

month, and have not had time to make this explanation and get a

letter off to you until now. And anyway, it has been a month now

and perhaps you can send me a check for something at the same

time you execute the enclosed new note and send it back to me.

The Lord knows I am in need of cash at this time--in fact I have

been needing cash about all my life it would appear. . .

When I get the new note back in the correct amount, I will cancel

the old one that is all gummed-up with Intangibles.

Respectfully,

IT'S NO PICNIC

November 15, 1939

My dear Miss Robbins:

About the time you are perusing this tender missive, we and our

oversized family will be on the "Southwestern" en route New York

City and Joan's wedding, which latter will occur at St.

Bartholomew's at 4 p.m. on the afternoon of the eve of Lord's Day

next.

Let me tell you about another trip on the same Southwestern that

happened about 14 years ago. Joan was 13 and Sugar Foot still

getting regular eye doses of boric acid, and Ann Drew just out of

the boric acid period, and so on up the line, when the Fair

Calantha, as was her custom from time immemorial, started on

safari via New York to Milford, Penna. She had passes--but what

passes! Not good on Number this, and not good on No. that. In

desperation I went to the General Superintendent, good old B.C.

Byers, told him my troubles, and asked if he would make them good

on the Knickerbocker. He looked at the passes, then at me, and

said: "Why, you've only got walking passes." He thought a minute,

then: "A woman with six little children has no business getting

into New York City at 3 or 4 p.m.--then across town and the ferry

to Jersey City, then by Erie to Port Jervis, N.Y., and then by

auto into the mountains. Give me those passes. I'll make them

good on No. 12. I'll make your reservations, and I'll have No. 12

stop at Greencastle and pick them up." All the which he did.

The train stopped, and old man Keith happened to be the

conductor. He was in a huff about having to stop his long heavy

train at any town like Greencastle. He stood to one side and the

patrons started climbing up the steps: Mother, nurse, kids,

boxes, suit cases, bird cages, more kids, grips, violin cases,

dolls, milk, kids, a kitten, lunch boxes and more kids. He turned

to me and asked, "Is this a picnic or a family?"

I said: "It's a family--and they're no picnic by a d-- sight."

Yours,

AUNT MARGARET'S SPLASH IN JOURNALISM

December 3, 1939

My dear Julia and Anna:

I saw a couple of "features" written by Joan and published in

today's Indianapolis Sunday Star, so I clipped them, and here

they are. One uses her own by-line, and the other "Betty Clarke."

If I get the story right, some Betty Clarke wrote for the

Associated Press on cosmetics, etc. Her successors have used that

same name in turn. When Joan writes on foods, she uses a by-line

of a "Mrs." somebody--I don't know the name--because a younger

unmarried woman now-a-days knows practically nothing about foods

and wouldn't be believed, or taken seriously. . .

Well, as you know, Joan was married in St. Bartholomew's Church

(Episcopal) in New York City Nov. 18 last. She married a William

H. (Taft) McGaughey, as you may already know if you read Walter

Winchell's column of Nov. 5th, I think it was. "Bill" is a former

DePauw boy, a Phi Gam., graduated here about 1932. Was a reporter

for the Indianapolis News after leaving school, then to the New

York Herald-Tribune, I think it was; then on the Wall Street

Journal, and now is Editor of the American Automobile

Manufacturers Association Magazine, or some such name. Heretofore

it has been edited in New York, but after January 1st next, they

move him and the magazine, and Joan, etc., to Detroit, Mich.,

where the magazine will continue to be published. Therefore, if I

understand it right, Joan will lose her job with A.P, and become

a housewife--Good Gosh A'mighty!!--Giving up a job like that to

become anybody's housewife--I don't care who, or where he comes

from--and just when she had struck her stride. Understand I'm not

kicking--he's a fine young fellow and alright in every

particular, so far as I know and can learn. I'm just thinking out

loud. . .

We were all at the wedding--the whole family, including Aunt

Margaret, Sarah Jane and her husband. We stayed at the Waldorf-

Astoria, just across the street from St. Bartholomew's . . . and

otherwise disported ourselves as Russellville blue-bloods. And

that reminds me of Aunt Margaret's splurge in the realm of

journalism (Aunt Margaret lives at Russellville). Well, when Aunt

M. learned Joan was to be married, she wrote Joan a real homey

letter about it, including therein a recital of what she did in

preparation for her own wedding years and years ago; that she

began preparations a year ahead, made towels, spreads, dish

cloths, muslin garments (I don't know what she meant by that)

etc., saying she had some of them yet and about as good as new.

You know the secret, if it was that--Aunt M. tried to "learn" the

girls to be economical. . . She went on to say she hoped Joan and

her husband would be well and happy, and would try to make home

their chief object in life. And so on, in that sort of vein.

What do you suppose Joan did with that letter? She turned it over

to another A.P Feature writer, and he sent it out over the whole

world about as follows: "A very charming young woman I know here

in New York is about to be married. Her old-fashioned aunt out in

Russellville, Indiana, wrote her a letter about marriage, which

in view of the present day stress and strain and disregard of

marriage vows, we think deserves a wider publicity. Here it is."

Then he quoted the letter. The Greencastle paper got hold of the

release and printed it. Aunt Margaret got hold of the Greencastle

paper and almost swooned. When she got to New York for the

wedding, she found she was a famous writer and almost swooned

again. Then she got sort of tickled and concluded it might make

some of these young persons think, and eventually do some good. I

have no copy, or I would send it. At the time, I was so busy

rigging up my own treasseau, or however you spell it, I didn't

take time to save any copy.

I think I should tell you about my wedding-clothes troubles.

Joan's was my third wedding. When Sarah Jane married two years

ago she wanted an evening wedding at Gobin Memorial Church here.

That called for a dress suit for the old man. Mine was of the

1910 vintage. I thought that wasn't so terrible bad, but when I

got it separated from the moth balls and camphor, I found that

one or the other of them, or both, had tended to shrink it

tremendously. Whatever it was seemed to have centered the attack

on the waist band of the pants. Then too, some "low comedian"

here at the house said the lapels looked like those of an "end

man" in a Russellville home talent minstrel, and another said the

tails were too short and seemed blunt and worn off, like an old

feather duster. Now that couldn't be, because practically the

last time I wore it was at my own wedding. I had put a telegram

in an inside pocket--and there it was: "Veedersburg, Indiana,

November 24, 1910. Sorry we can't be there but we're with you to

a man. Congratulations. Fred S. Purnell." Well, we wound up in a

one-sided compromise--a new dress suit from Bro. McMurray, 201

Board of Trade Bldg., Indpls, Ind.

Along came Joan wanting a 4 p.m. St. Bartholomew's wedding. That

called for a "cut-away." So again I went to interview Bro.

McMurray. He was delighted and thoroughly in favor. When I went

up for a try-on, while Bro. McMurray was chalk-marking here and

there, I took a hurried look in the glass, and Holy Nellie! What

I saw took me back instantly to "Old Prince" at Russellville. Old

Prince is a 26-year-old faded-out black work horse I own,

spavined, two splints and stiff as Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish. In that

cutaway, I looked like Old Prince in a set of track harness.

I hope Margaret marries before the Japanese take the country, and

that Ann doesn't decide on a grass dress.

Somehow, somewhere, sometime, this family will have to go into a

huddle on these wedding signals, or I'm going to find myself with

a lot of uniforms--and no clothes.

Yours for more clothes and fewer costumes,

RUSSELLVILLE HAS GOOD CREDIT AT THE WALDORF

March 17, 1940

Mr. B. C. Byers

1150 Oakwood Ave.

Dayton, Ohio

My dear B.C.:

Well! Well! Well! I'm threatening to do a thing I've been

threatening for about a year--write you a letter. . .

Joan was married Nov. 18th, 1939 in St. Bartholomew's Church

(Episcopal), corner 51st and Park Avenue, New York City, across

the street from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Her parental father

and his family retinue, large and small, married and unmarried,

were hosteled on the 12th floor of the Waldorf. And you can

imagine what a stir among the employees we simple country folks

made. They had seen nothing like us in that place since its

corner stone was laid, and they haven't since. . .

Dr. Oxnam's (now Bishop Oxnam, stationed at Boston) wife and

daughter were to be our guests at the Hotel in our suite of rooms

count them, 8 of them. The Bishop was to have been present to

give a prayer--Joan had graduated at De Pauw when he was

President there--but old St. Bartholomew said: "No. No Methodist,

or other cult, can pray at an Episcopal Church wedding. We run

the Church, and incidentally the wedding, and what praying is

done, we'll do." So the Bishop got sort of miffed and went on to

Arizona ahead of time.

The wedding was at 4 p.m., the reception immediately following.

Joan was a feature writer on the Associated Press in New York

City--a splendid job. Naturally her associates were newspaper

folks and writers, mostly men, who knew Kentucky Tavern from

Coca-Cola. The wedding reception was to be held in the New York

Newspaper Women's Club in the Midston House (hotel near

Rockefeller Center). It had a bar, and Joan somehow got the silly

idea it was the duty of the bride's father, for this occasion, to

stock that bar with tools having an alcoholic content. . . So we

brought along the main feature of the reception refreshments: 8

quarts in my grips, 8 in Frank's, 4 in Munny's, 4 in Margaret's,

and Sir Walter Scott Behmer brought 3.

Mrs. Oxnam was to know nothing about it. She didn't--until she

stepped into the Club rooms. Then anyone would know it, unless he

had spent a lifetime refereeing skunk-squirting contests.

Old man Thomas, I think his name is, formerly Editor of the New

York Times, now a sort of newspaperman head of the Pulitzer

School of Journalism, and who had Joan in his classes when she

went to that school, got tight and went all around telling the

guests his great grandpappy was half Indian. His good old wife

stayed sober, and as a result sprained an ankle on the scuffed-up

rug. The woman Editor of Vogue, or else one of its principal

writers, kissed me because she said I looked like her cousin who

had his leg shot off in the Spanish-American War. In the

excitement I kissed Mary Beth Plummer--top woman writer on the

Associated Press and incidentally about the best looking--just to

show my good taste.

Early in the game, Munny saw what was coming. So she shepherded

Mrs. Oxnam and daughter away early. They put the daughter to bed.

Then went out on their own, and in some unaccountable manner got

into the bar of the Hotel, saw what they had done--and ordered

lemonade. All Munny needed to complete the picture was a basket

of eggs on one arm and a fresh dressed chicken under the other.

My Gosh! But we had a time.

What with buying extra booze, taxi-cabbing everybody all over

Hell's Half Acre, eating in the "Cert Room," which was named for

some famous Spanish painter, or paperhanger, and tipping hundreds

(it seemed), I thought I might run low in cash. So I slipped

quietly around to a room labeled "Credit Manager," walked in and

saw this woman sitting in the big chair. She saw the surprise on

my face, smiled and said: "I am the Credit Manager. Are you

looking for me?"

"My name is Durham. I live in Indiana, and they're taking it away

from me around here faster than they do back home on Thursdays at

the main gate of our County Fair. I may run out of money, and I

want to know how I'd go about getting a draft cashed, if I had

to."

"May I see the draft?"

I pulled out the bill fold, fetched out a $50 draft, and sure

enough there it was in big letters, RUSSELLVILLE BANK, payable to

me.

She looked at it, then at me quizzically, and said: "Are you the

father of Joan Durham, the Feature Writer who was married

yesterday over at St. Bartholomew's. I read her AP features."

"Yes mam," I said proudly, "I'm her Pap."

"Have you any sort of identification card, letter, driver's

license, or something to identify you?"

"Yes, mam. I have a bad note on Peter M-- back at Russellville

for $20 I wish somebody would collect, a membership card in the

Putnam County Farm Bureau and a New York Central pass"--

cautiously saving the best for the last.

"The pass will be sufficient." She looked at it and then at me

and said: "We will cash the draft any time you want it cashed--

now, if you want it."

"No," I said, "but if that won't run me, is there any way to cash

checks?"

We talked quite a bit--about Russellville (which she never heard

of), the wedding, the Hotel, farming, cattle and hogs, etc.

Eventually she said: "We'll cash checks for you up to $1,000, Mr.

Durham."

Well. By that time she was far, far ahead of me, so I tried to

catch up. "Miss", I said, "how long have you been Credit Manager

here?"

"About six years", she said. "Why?"

"Because you won't be Credit Manager very much longer, giving out

credit that way."

Then she did throw the witty bombshell. She said:

"Well, Mr. Durham, no one from Russellville ever gave this hotel

a bad check yet."

And after a little more talk, in which she bragged, for my

benefit, how she could tell people who wouldn't give bad checks,

I left and went upstairs and bragged to Munny how Morgan, Loeb

and I could cash checks at the Waldorf--just like that. . .

Yours,

HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD A RADIO?

March 19, 1940

My dear Mrs. Cunningham:

After the very kind and considerate treatment received from you,

Harlan and his wife during my rather short stay in Miami, you

must be thinking I am an ingrate for not writing sooner, but the

fact is, I've blamed near been sick all the time since leaving

there. Coming home I was a trifle dizzy for a day or so, but I

attribute all that to those two singers who broadcasted from your

music room that Sunday night. Good old Walter sized up my trouble

in his efficient way, and knowing my background, realized those

girls coupled with Miami's metropolitan hours and night life

would make any native of Russellville dizzy. And so, he drove

practically all the way home. . .

Passing through Jonesville, a town about like Waverly, Walter saw

a sign, "Home Cooking." Of course we stopped and went in. A

hill-billying radio in the kitchen made the dining room hideous

with its squawking. The Old Brakeman asked for grits, fish and

sea food. He got boiled side-pork, boiled cabbage, boiled beans

and corn bread. And later he was to get what was advertised as

pie, but looked like unto no pie I had seen in my 58 years of

active pie viewing.

I asked the waitress: "Where is that terrible noise coming from?"

With a puzzled expression, she answered: "Why that's the radio."

Then something dawned, her face lighted and she asked: "Haven't

you ever heard a radio before?"

"Is it a bird or an animal," I asked.

"Neither one," said she. "It's a little box you turn on and the

music comes out. Ain't you ever seen one? We turn it on of a

mornin' and it plays all day."

"No. But if we came this way again and brought company, would you

turn it off while we're eating?"

"I shore will," she said--and she meant it.

The foregoing was among the lesser highlights of our trip

straight home. . .

Was in Detroit last week. Saw Joannie, husband and apartment. The

husband is as big as the apartment is small. It's an up and

downstairs affair. Little stairway from living room upstairs. The

whole thing is about the size of a smallish hen-house, the upper

floor representing the roosts.

As ever,