← catalogue

Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana'

by Andrew Everett Durham · English · Gutenberg #2677 · 464,419 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana'
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ***
***     Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file.      ***


Title: Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana'

Author: Andrew Everett Durham

Compiler: J. Frank Durham

Editor: Douglas Hay


        
Release date: June 1, 2001 [eBook #2677]
                Most recently updated: September 5, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2677


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EPISTLES FROM PAP: LETTERS FROM THE MAN KNOWN AS 'THE WILL ROGERS OF INDIANA' ***

Title: Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will
Rogers of Indiana'

Author: Andrew E. Durham. Compiled by J. Frank Durham, Edited by
Douglas Hay. Copyright 1997. Permission granted to Project
Gutenberg to publish as a copyrighted etext April 10, 2000 by
JFD. Guild Press of Indiana, Carmel, Indiana, 1997.

**This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg Etext, Details Above**





EPISTLES FROM PAP: LETTERS FROM THE MAN KNOWN AS 'THE WILL ROGERS
OF INDIANA'

by Andrew E. Durham. Compiled by J. Frank Durham, edited by
Douglas Hay

Andrew Durham was a Hoosier attorney and state senator during the
twenties, Often covered in the papers, he was one of Indiana's
leading denmocratic politicians who served as minority leader in
the Indiana Senate in 1927. During 1925 he was instigator of the
famous "Runaway Democrats" episode in the Senate. Later, in the
thirties and forties, he continued his political career as a
lobbyist for the railroad industry. Most of all, he was a
fascinating and sought-after speaker and raconteur--a man both
newspapers and appreciative listeners to his speeches called "The
Will Rogers of Indiana" for his wit and incisive commentaries on
the passing scene. Durham left over five hundred letters which
reflect this interesting wit and commentary. "Pap's" son, Frank,
compiled them and they are presented here as a tribute to the
man--and an era which encouraged the writing of literate,
meaningful letters.

DEDICATION

To "Munny"--Aura May Sawyer--and "Pap"--Andrew Everett Durham--
small-time lawyer, farmer, Hoosier politician and father
extraordinaire of son J. Frank and daughters Mary Joanna, Sarah
Jane, Margaret, Ann Drew and Aura May.

INTRODUCTION

The writer of these letters, Andrew Everett Durham (1882-1954),
was a well-known figure in his day--an Indiana State Legislator,
railroad lobbyist, small town lawyer and banker, part-time farmer
and livestock-raiser, public orator, occasional newspaper
correspondent--and prolific writer of letters.

Andrew's son, J. Frank, still lives in Greencastle, Indiana, the
place where Andrew made his mark. For years Frank had wanted to
"do something with Pap's letters" in the way of publication, but,
as a practicing attorney and busy man in his own right, felt he
needed some help. He tried to enlist his sister, Joanna, once an
Associated Press feature writer, New York Bureau, who now resides
in Milford, Pennsylvania. She was one of my columnists when I was
editor of the weekly Pike County Dispatch, in Milford. However,
Joanna felt she could not take time from her own obligations to
assist on Frank's project, and asked me to help.

Frankly, I wondered at first whether Andrew E. Durham's letters
would arouse much interest in these days of globalization, the
Internet and a pop culture centered around sensational
audio/video special effects, but I agreed to at least look at a
few. Soon an Express Mail packet arrived with the first of
hundreds of pages of yellowed onion-skin copies of typewritten
correspondence, most of it dating from 1913 through 1954.

It wasn't long before I cracked my first smile over a clever turn
of phrase used to describe a domestic scene. The first good laugh
followed not long after that, upon reading how a former governor
colluded with a livestock speculator to run up the price of
breeding bulls. An account of a disastrous summer theater
production was downright hilarious. Then I found myself nodding
soberly in agreement over witty but forceful arguments about the
need to balance the budget and restore fiscal responsibility to
government an argument that could have keen made yesterday,
except that the deficits quoted were only in the millions, not
the billions. Finally, there was a story about an ill-fated love
affair of an old bachelor brother that produced a lump in my
throat.

I quickly discovered that Andrew Durham had a great wit, an
irrepressible sense of humor and untiring interest in his
surroundings--the people, the politics, the commerce of everyday
life--all of it studied thoroughly and recounted energetically
with a homespun irony akin to that of other humorists of his era,
such as George Ade, Mark Twain and Will Rogers.

In his day, Andrew was much in demand as a public speaker. A
brittle newspaper clipping included with the letters revealed
that at a reunion of his college fraternity, in 1929, he shared
the podium with legendary baseball manager Branch Rickey and
prominent Chicago attorney Roy O. West.

As demonstrated by his letters, Andrew was an irrepressible
storyteller who could not resist a jest even when ordering parts
for a stove. When writing in pursuit of a payment on an overdue
note at the bank, he would ease the bite by asking the debtor's
"help" in paying for a daughter's wedding. Andrew wrote
incessantly. I suppose everyone wrote more back then, when
telephone connections were often poor and always expensive, but
stamps cost only 2 cents. Letters were also a form of
entertainment in those pre-TV days.

Much of his correspondence was business-related, and Andrew was
evidently a very busy man. But he could still find time to type
out a five-page, single-spaced letter of advice to the son of an
old friend who had landed in jail. He had never even met the
young miscreant. In that and other instances, Andrew's prose took
on new energy, stressing the therapeutic value of character and
principles, as well as a good laugh.

Long before I stopped reading that first day, I was hooked. This
stuff is priceless. Some of it might appear exotic or dated,
particularly to nonagrarian folks who do not know what it is like
to live off the land or reside in small towns where everybody
knows everybody else--but even satisfied urbanites may be
interested in reading about a different way of life. And they
surely will see similarities to their own situations in the many
stories about eccentric relatives, surly waitresses, guileful
politicians, child-rearing and money woes. Far from being
outdated, I decided, much of Andrew's material has a timeless
quality--it addresses standards and values, family and community
foibles, human dignity and folly--universal themes that still
exist, even in our electronic age.

Editing the letters was the easy part. Frank and I never did
decide how to organize them for publication. His "Pap" had
corresponded with hundreds of people about a multitude of
personal and professional topics; several diverse activities and
interests would often be recounted in the same letter, sometimes
as they occurred but often in retrospect several years later. We
finally decided to present the correspondence in chronological
order, so as to best reflect the flow of Pap's life, including
his memories as well as his latest observations. I found it great
reading, and hope you do also.

Douglas N. Hay
Mill Rift, PA
April 22, 1997

SOME BACKGROUND ON 'PAP'

"Pap"--Andrew Everett Durham--was born May 3, 1882, the youngest
son of James V. Durham and Sarah A. (Black) Durham, of
Russellville, Indiana. His paternal grandfather, Jacob, had
emigrated from Kentucky to become one of the early settlers of
Russell Township--a farmer, store-keeper, state legislator and
mover and shaker in his own right, as described in one of Pap's
papers.

Pap's father was also active in local affairs, and supplemented
his farm income by starting a private bank in Russellville along
with Pap's older brother, Ernest. The Russellville Bank stayed in
family hands for about 70 years. Pap was fond of recounting how,
as a youth, he got his start in business there--as janitor, for
$2 a week. He eventually worked his way up to chairman of the
board. The bank survived the Depression in fine order and
declined to join the FDIC, which Pap publicly denounced as a sham
designed to subsidize poorly-run banks at the expense of well-run
ones, with the public footing the bill.

While maintaining their Russellville interests, Pap's parents
moved to nearby Greencastle in his youth. After graduating from
high school, he was sent to Western Military Academy, Alton,
Illinois, to "straighten out" after his strict Kentucky-bred
mother discovered that he had been hanging around the local pool
parlor. He graduated from the academy in 1899 with high honors,
and continued his education graduating from Indiana University in
1903 and from Indiana School of Law in 1906.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1910, he married Aura May Sawyer, of
Muscatine, Iowa. The wedding took place at the retirement home of
the bride's parents, in Milford, Pennsylvania. The union
eventually produced five daughters and one son.

Pap began his political career with election to the Indiana House
of Representatives in 1913, following in the footsteps of his
grandfather. His politics emphasized conservatism, low taxes and
self-reliance. He was re-elected to the House in 1915, and then
elected to the State Senate in 1917 and 1923. It is noteworthy
that all of his victories came as a Democrat, although most of
his constituents were registered Republican.

Pap was not only good at wooing Republican voters. He was also
generally effective in gaining bipartisan support for his
legislative undertakings. But he was not loath to take resolute
action, if required. When it appeared that a Republican
gerrymandering bill would succeed, Pap, as Minority Leader, had
his Democratic delegation go into "hiding" across the state line,
preventing action on the reapportionment bill by removing a
quorum. It also froze all other legislative activities. The
Republicans finally agreed to withdraw the objectionable bill,
and the "runaway" Democrats returned.

His growing family necessitated a larger income and after a
gubernatorial run failed to materialize, Pap retired from the
Senate, in 1929. He devoted more time to his law practice and
became a lobbyist for the Indiana Railroad Lobby Assn. In such
capacity, he continued to monitor his former peers, and had the
reputation of having attended every Legislative Session from 1913
to 1951.

Throughout his life, Russellville was a continuing source of
gratification to Pap, and also provided a wealth of material for
anecdotes of small-town life, which were incorporated into his
public-speaking and his voluminous correspondence.

The family farm just outside the village was also a valued source
of income, as well as sustenance, and Pap took a personal hand in
its operation, spending more and more time there as he grew
older.

Andrew E. Durham passed away at home in Greencastle, July 23,
1954.

GLOSSARY

Pap was an inveterate inventor of nicknames, applied mostly to
his family. Some of the letters in the collection contain the
following references:

"Annabelle Lee" (Mrs. Ralph Weinrichter of Menlo Park,
California) has a daughter, Kathryn, and a son, Ralph Weinrichter
II, also of Menlo Park.

Deceased daughter Sarah Jane (Mrs. Robert Anderson) had five
children: Heather (deceased) Scott, Roderick, Jennifer (now Mrs.
William Amon of Fairfax, Virginia) and Cathy (Mrs. Richard
Sandler, also of Fairfax.)

Joan's four include William McGaughey, Jr., and Andrew D. of
Minneapolis, Minnesota, David P. of Rochester, New York and
Margaret Durham McGaughey Isaacson of Brunswick, Maine.

In addition to the two sons mentioned by Frank (George and
Andrew) he has two daughters, Stephanie (Mrs. Stephanie D.
Burton, of Winter Haven, Florida) and Madeleine (Mrs. Keith
Thomas of Shelbyville, Indiana.)

Aunt Margaret -- sister, Margaret D. (married name, Bridges)

Franklin Pierce, a.k.a. Frankfurter -- son J. Frank

Francisco -- daughter-in-law Frances (nee Haberkorn)

Ira -- Ira Flauer, hired hand on the family's Russellville farm

Jane -- daughter Sarah Jane (married name, Anderson, now
deceased)

Joan, a.k.a. Jonie Bonie -- daughter Mary Joanna (married name,
McGaughey)

Margaretta -- daughter Margaret (deceased)

Munny, a.k.a. Munny-Bun -- wife Aura May (nee Sawyer)

The Old Brakeman -- Walter J. Behmer, retired Gen. Supt., The
Pennsylvania Railroad

"Red" Purnell -- Fred Purnell, Congressman from Indiana

Sugar Foot, a.k.a. Footser -- daughter Aura May

Uncle Ernest -- brother J. Ernest Durham

ABOUT THE CO-AUTHOR

J. Frank Durham, who compiled this anthology of his father's
letters, was born in Greencastle, Indiana, October 3, 1915. He
went to work early, as a newsboy carrying the Indianapolis News
and local paper, and then began his education at the legendary
Dan Beard's Boy Scout Camp, in Pike County, Pennsylvania. He was
subsequently a member of the Phillips Exeter Academy Class of
1934, obtained an AB degree from hometown DePauw University in
1937 and LLB from Indiana University in 1941.

Frank's budding law practice was interrupted by World War Two. He
enlisted in the U.S. Naval Reserve, graduating from bomb disposal
school and serving on Guadalcanal, where he received a field
promotion to the rank of ensign. After being released from active
duty, Frank chaired a committee that secured the only captured
German V-1 Rocket ever put on public display in the United
States. A unique war memorial, this "Buzz Bomb" rests atop a
solid limestone V-shaped base at the southwest corner of the
Putnam County Courthouse, in Greencastle.

In 1944, Frank married Frances M. Haberkorn of Detroit, Michigan.
They had four children, Andrew H., George B., Stephanie and
Madeleine. During a 1975 tour of the Pacific, Frances suffered a
fatal aneurysm. In 1979, Frank married Elaine Eide Moe, of
Sacramento, California, who is not only a gourmet cook but an
active jazz band pianist.

Although he never developed his father's intense interest in
politics, there are similarities. Frank was elected Prosecuting
Attorney of the 64th Judicial Circuit for two terms, and then
Greencastle City Judge for two more terms. He still practices
probate law; was a trust officer of the Russellville Bank for 25
years, and a former bank vice president.

For recreation, Frank runs a bulldozer and backhoe on the family
farm near Russellville, continuing to actively participate in its
management, like his "Pap" before him. The farm also has the
hangar and airstrip for Frank's Cessna, which he enjoys flying
when not engaged in his law practice or farming. He first soloed
in 1935. In 1971, he was a guest of the Canadian Government,
helping celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Northwest
Territory by flying with a small group down the Mackenzie River.
He has flown a small plane to Alaska and back seven times, and
was a guest writer in a published book by Loren McDonald, "A Very
Private Pilot." On another occasion, Frank and a friend took his
young sons on a float trip down Alaska's Porcupine River, using
kayaks they built themselves from kits in an Eskimo village.

At age 82, J. Frank Durham is a worthy scion of his very active
lineage.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Acknowledgments and thanks are long overdue to Elaine, my lovely
spouse, who is largely responsible for the success of our
marriage; my sister Aura May Durham, for all the proof-reading
and telephone-answering; my sister Ann (Mrs. Ralph Weinrichter of
Menlo Park, CA), for her research and help; my sister Joan (Mrs.
William McGaughey of Milford, PA), for her editorial assistance
and continued interest in this book; Indiana University
Chancellor Herman B. Wells, who steered me to Nancy Niblack
Baxter, president of Guild Press of Indiana, the book's
publisher; my lifelong friend Maurice Smith, former newspaper,
radio and TV pundit at Fairbanks, Alaska, for his practical and
constructive suggestions; my Delt fraternity brother Loren
Sylvester McDonald, who had a similar undertaking in his recently
published book "A Very Private Pilot"; my neighbors Jack and
Marian Cook, for their continued assistance, suggestions and
interest; and last but most noteworthy, the distinguished
writer-editor, Douglas N. Hay, of Mill Rift, PA, for
appropriately handling the epistles from Pap. Without his sure
and steady hand, they would probably have been permanently
entombed in trunks and boxes in Pennsylvania, Indiana and
California.

J. Frank Durham


CHAPTER I: EARLY YEARS--1899-1911

As a boy of 17, Pap was considered somewhat wayward by his strict
Kentucky-bred mother, after being caught hanging around the local
pool parlor. He was also out of favor with his father for daring
to criticize the latter's rather conservative attire. So to help
him "straighten out" and prepare to become a useful citizen, he
was sent to Western Military Academy, Upper Alton, Illinois, in
1899. He graduated from that institution with high grades, but
the endeavor to reform him was nevertheless only partly
successful. Enrolling at "Old Asbury" (DePauw University,
Greencastle), he promptly got in trouble with the Methodist
administration for organizing a dance at "The Delts," his
fraternity house. About to be suspended, he beat the
administration to the punch by transferring to Indiana
University, where he went on to undergraduate and law degrees.

Pap subsequently met and fell in love with Aura May Sawyer
(better known as "Munny" to the family). The couple eventually
married and Grandfather Sawyer gave them a generous start in life
by financing a house in Greencastle, but not before being
satisfied with Pap's credit-worthiness.


FIRST TASTE OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD

(Pap's earliest surviving letters were written at Western
Military Academy, Upper Alton, Illinois, the first to Mitch
Taylor, a Civil War veteran, the other to his mother.)

Upper Alton, Ill.
March 9, 1899

Dear Uncle Mitch,
I am over here in Illinois going to the Military Academy. This is
the damndest place I ever got into. They are terrible strict.
They make me get up at a certain time in the morning (6:30) and
have the meals at a certain time. They make us go to bed at 9:00
and have the lights out at a quarter after nine. If we do
anything wrong we have to carry guns and walk. For smoking the
penalty is five hours hard walking. If we wear a dirty collar we
have to walk an hour. They make us have our rooms unlocked so
that they can come in at any time. They require us to make our
own beds and if they are not just right they report us and that
means two hours walking. This is a damn sight harder than ground-
hog hunting. How I wish I was back. . .

Don't forget our spree down the creek next summer. While I was
writing just now I heard the whistle of the steamboat on the
Mississippi. We hear several every morning. . . From what I know
now I shall be home about June 7 or 8 and we will get right to
work on the boats.
Yours Truly,
Andrew E. Durham


Upper Alton, Ill.
April 6, 1899

Dear Mother,
After going to so much trouble to get a declamation it is not
going to do me any good. Instead of having a preliminary contest
in which we all could speak and then having some good
elocutionist decide those who were the best speakers, the
teachers here allowed each fellow to vote for anyone he pleased
and the three boys getting the highest number of votes were
elected to speak. . . And I cannot even get to try. . . There was
nothing fair about the thing at all. . . You see, all the
officers here work for each other. . . They just got up and
nominated each other and that was all there was to it. It is very
hard on me coming in at the middle of the year and have just
barely gotten acquainted. Nearly all of the Senior Class are
officers and I am a private, and being as there are so many
officers it is nearly impossible for a private to get anything.

But there is one thing that I didn't get left in and that was
Scholarship. They have here what they call the Upper Ten. That is
the ten students who have the highest grades in the whole school.
These ten get their names put in the school publication. I was
fourth on the list of ten out of 84 scholars, and first in the
senior class . . . My general average was 95 percent.

Are you taking care of my shotgun? Have you had it cleaned out?
Where is it? . . .


HELP THE KIDS START OUT BUT DON'T HURRY THEM

(Andrew and Aura May Sawyer had a prolonged engagement. The
reason becomes clearer upon reading this letter, written
surreptitiously by Pap's future father-in-law, F. P. Sawyer, of
Muscatine, Iowa, to Pap's father, James V. Durham, in
Greencastle. This is not one of Pap's own letters, but is
interesting nevertheless for what it says about family values).

Muscatine, Iowa
February 17, 1909
J.V. Durham
Greencastle, Ind.

Dear Sir:
I suppose as is quite natural, you are giving some thought to the
approaching happiness of Andrew, as we are to that of Aura May;
so you will understand my motive in writing you direct, and
without the knowledge of either Aura May or Andrew. . .

I think you probably know our suggestion as to building a
moderate house to rent to them, but as we have never boiled it
down to exact conditions (only the general idea), you may not
understand just what we contemplate.

You are unquestionably as mindful of what your son does, as we
are as to ours; but the boys are expected to "look out for
themselves" more than the girls; yet had it not been for my
father's help, both as to judgment and moderately financially in
the way of a gift at majority and loans to help me start (which I
later repaid) I would not have been able to succeed or don't
think I would--as I have. And the gift of $500 after the wedding
from my father-in-law was not without big appreciation on my
part. A few years later, when I was building a moderate home on a
lot bought with part of the $500, which my wife had not invested
in special furniture, and some I had saved, he gave us $2,000
more to help build the home. I certainly appreciated it, and put
the home all in her name. Later, after we moved and it was sold,
I returned the money to her and she still has it.

My own experience and observation convinces me that the best time
to help young people who show qualities . . . is when it will do
them the most good, which I think is when they are starting out,
and not after they have slaved along and shown their ability to
take care of themselves (though it does often bring out their
best qualities quicker, but they don't need the help so much
then). I don't mean that one should go so far as to lessen their
realization that they must "support themselves", but the first
three or four years are hard for young people who have to make it
all without some help.

But I don't believe in hurrying such a move. First, they should
wait to see if their love for each other promises to be what
should exist to insure the desired future, and secondly, 'til
they can feel fairly assured that they can be self-supporting or
are willing to live as the husband can reasonably afford.

In this generation, what were luxuries to us in younger days are
to a degree necessities to those who have been brought up with
them, so that the problem is not exactly as it was in the pioneer
days, when good health, no debts, a job at $1.25 per day, three
economically furnished rooms and enough to pay the preacher were
all that were required. . .

I explained to both Aura and Andrew a couple of conditions I
thought advisable before I could approve their setting the day.
First, satisfaction that they had not, or were not apt to change
their minds as to each other, and secondly, that he should have
demonstrated his ability to earn or have in sight an income of
$1,000 per year. I did not think this high, but wanted them to
know they must expect to live economically, and that I expected
them to depend on their own resources. The limitation I named was
more theoretical than arbitrary, though they both think I still
hold to that; but it depends on where they are to live whether
this is above or below what they would need for the first year or
so. They are becoming restless, and I don't blame them, and to
carry out my plans as to a house requires some little time if
they want it ready for their first home--as I would like to
arrange it if advisable.

This has led me to write you, feeling that you and Mrs. Durham
should be consulted, and know just what Mrs. Sawyer and I
contemplated, and to have your approval; also that you think they
are not taking an unwise step, from your point of view, as you
know much better what Greencastle presents as a permanent home
for them, and Andrew's present situation, and what he can
reasonably expect in the near future. Aura May has various pieces
of furniture which have been given her from time to time, and her
first piano, which she thinks will be all she needs for awhile.
. . so that it is not the original outlay that need perplex them.
As to the house, I will try and briefly explain.

I contemplate putting up a seven-room house, with . . . living
room.. . . dining room and kitchen for first floor; three bed
rooms and bathroom for second and one room finished in attic.
They would not furnish the smallest bedroom, but use it for
sewing room. . . I don't want to exceed $6,000, including ground,
as they don't want to carry a load, and I don't feel that I can
tap my estate too heavily when out of business and depending on
income only. . . I propose to rent this to them at the rate of
$200 for first year, payable monthly if they can do so, and 'til
they can from their income increase the rent to bring me equal to
3% per year and taxes and insurance, for a period of five years.
. . At the end of five years I would expect they would be able to
make it more if I or my estate needed it, or that they would buy
it at just what it had actually cost me.

If my estate will permit me to do so at that time, or any earlier
time if they wish to buy it, I would expect to give Aura May at
least $2,000 of the value. . . In case of my death I would so
arrange that the whole investment would go to Aura, as part of
her share in any of my estate. . .

I do not expect any guarantee beyond their own ability to do it.
So I am not referring the matter to you for any part in it; but
so that you may let me know if you feel the plan would be beyond
expectations from what you know of matters there, or probability
that his position is not calculated to develop so as to be able
to keep up his end or remain in Greencastle. I do not know how
much he is making now, or if you expect to aid him in any way,
and feel that such matters are, and should be, just as a father
may be willing, or can afford; and I always feel that parents
must first consider each other and the needs for advancing age,
no matter how kindly they feel toward their children. . .

But it occurred to me that it was certainly due you that if I
calculated on doing anything which might look as if it would
directly or indirectly put a burden on Andrew and overload him,
you should have an opportunity to judge. . .

Also that you should know what was intended before you might
approve such a step and possibly have in mind some plan for them
of your own, with which mine might conflict.

Or that perhaps you would advise something different, in which I
could cooperate with you. . .

There has been a little hope on their part that there could be a
June wedding; but I know they wish to be governed by your and my
approval. At least from Aura May's remarks from time to time, I
feel that they are perplexed as to whether they would be
considered rash or unwise to even set the time at all,
particularly as it appears they have not come up to my second
stipulation as to his income. I used it about 18 months ago, when
he asked for my consent to their engagement, and I have not been
asked to change, so I guess they placed more stress on it than I
intended; but before I modify it, if that is the greatest
barrier, I concluded to write you, as to your approval of my
plans, and your judgment.

As a matter of fact, we all know that what it costs a young
couple to live all depends on their health and their
inclinations. Aura May is exceptionally practical, and with no
heavier expense for rent than my plan contemplates I think if
Andrew has the prospects of moderate living expenses, it is
putting them to rather hard lines if they are waiting to meet my
early stipulations.

But I don't want to do anything to hurry them if you feel with
your knowledge of conditions there that my plan or their marriage
this summer sometime (perhaps as soon as a lot can be secured and
house built and ready for them) is not wise. . .

I have read the above to Mrs. Sawyer and she approves my sending
it and joins me in good wishes . . .
Very Sincerely,
F. P. Sawyer

(The reply made by Pap's father is not known, but the house was
not built that summer, and the wedding did not take place for
almost another two years)



CHAPTER II: THE WILL ROGERS OF HOOSIER POLITICS--1913-1930

Pap was developing a successful law practice, but this was not
enough to satisfy his extrovert nature. He decided to go into
politics. And it became a long-term commitment. Between 1913 and
1951, Pap attended every session of the Indiana Legislature,
either as a member or a lobbyist. He was elected to the House in
1913 and 1915, following with two six-year terms in the Senate.
In 1927, he was Minority Floor Speaker for the Senate. He was
never defeated in any of his races for the Legislature, which
spoke well for a Democrat running in a predominantly Republican
district. Pap's bipartisan equanimity as well as his developing
sense of humor was reflected in a letter of recommendation on
behalf of a young Republican who had the good sense to vote
Democratic.

Public speaking goes with politicking, and Pap developed a flair
for this too. He was much in demand as a speaker before service
clubs and other organizations, and his light-hearted, homespun
populist style was even compared to that of the great Will
Rogers. Anecdotes of life in small-town Russellville figured
large in his material. The letter titled, "Hazards of Trying a
Comeback" is an example--this lengthy epistle was by way of an
apology for not being able to appear in person before a group,
but a version of it was undoubtedly spun from a podium or two on
other occasions.

Pap's sense of humor, generously tinged with irony, found other
outlets as well, including a gibe at a company that was making a
big deal over a small bill. But he could also be serious, such as
when he wrote advice to the jailed son of an old friend.

As the years went by, Pap found politics and public speaking more
time-consuming and less-rewarding, particularly when faced with
the obligations--financial and otherwise--of raising a growing
family. He did not choose to seek re-election upon the expiration
of his second Senatorial term, in 1929.


PROOF OF FITNESS

Greencastle, Indiana
March 29, 1915
Honorable John W. Kern
Washington, D.C.

My dear Senator Kern:
In behalf of Joseph R. Lloyd, of this city, who informs me you
suggested that he get his Representative (among others) to
address you concerning his desires, I am taking this opportunity
to make a plea that you recommend him for admittance to the U.S.
Military School at West Point.

You know, Senator Kern, I sometimes wonder if a letter of
recommendation is a knock or a boost in these days of wholesale
recommendations, they have become so easy to obtain. . .

However that may be, there arise occasions where it is a real
pleasure to recommend deserving young men . . .

As proof conclusive he cannot go far wrong after setting himself
right this early in life in the face of adverse precept and
precedent, I can only say Mr. Lloyd comes from one of the largest
and most influential Republican families in Putnam County, and
yet, last Fall (his first vote), he voted the straight Democratic
ticket from top to bottom.

I am sure you will agree with me: If all the above be true, and
our young friend is unable to meet the full requirements of West
Point for admission .. . . the Academy should be abolished.


WHO'S WASTEFUL NOW?

August 13, 1917

My dear Mr. Sawyer:
. . . I am very much obliged for the invitation out, but I can't
get away. We will have a special Session of the Legislature, it
now seems almost certain. . . The coal situation is acute in this
State, and it is for relieving that situation the reason is given
for calling a special session. . . I'll venture a guess, it won't
be for the purpose of coal legislation, but on the other hand we
will have to fight out again Governor Goodrich's pet Excise Tax
Bill, and for additional appropriations for state institutions.
The former I'm opposed to; the latter I am not. Only the latter
comes with ill grace. Goodrich, in his opening campaign speech,
which was delivered in Greencastle, charged the Democrats with
criminal wastefulness of the state's money, especially in the
maintenance of the state institutions. And he made his whole
campaign on that one issue--Economy. Now I learn from Dr.
Edenharter, Superintendent of Central Hospital for Insane, that
for the first time in his experience as Superintendent during a
period of 26 years, there is a deficit--and a large one--in his
maintenance fund for that institution. The real reason is
obvious: things have advanced so in price. I forgot to say too,
that our appropriation this time for The Central Hospital was
larger than it ever was. All in all, our General Appropriation
Bill was $1,250,000 larger than it was two years ago, and our
Specific Appropriation was $250,000 larger. I know, because I was
on the Ways and Means Committee both years. It all goes to show
that what a fellow uses to get in on don't always turn out to be
just as he would have you believe. . .


SENATORIAL ASPIRANT

June 20, 1918
Mr. Sam D
Wingate, Ind.

Dear Sam:
Along with a vast concourse of other office seekers, I attended
the Democratic State Convention at Indianapolis yesterday, and
got my hide again saturated with Jeffersonian and Jacksonian
doctrine. . .

Of course, I called around on the Montgomery County Delegation to
allow them a chance to give the "once over" on what they were
reasonably expected to cast their franchises for State Senator
for this Fall. As I told you some time ago, I'm a candidate for
State Senator from Montgomery and Putnam Counties, and the Lord
knows I want it and need it. Want it even more than Noah T--
wanted to be J.P. at Veedersburg.

Some time when I'm over in your bailiwick, I want to look you up
and get a little advice if you won't mind giving it to me. Don't
suppose you'd mind doing that.

Every once in a while I make an inquiry about "Red" Purnell and
they all say he's doing fine. He sure is a mighty loyal friend.
His job never swelled him even so much as a urine ant bite would.
I want to go over to see him one of these times, and see just how
long it would take me to find the Capitol building.

He and I took our first trip to New York City together. We got
the roofs of our mouths sun burned. . .
As ever,


EMBARRASSING MOMENT

April 16, 1921
Chicago Tribune
Chicago, Illinois

Gentlemen:
It happened only recently during the warm spell. I was in St.
Louis, and by chance, met an old school friend who I had not seen
since we were boys in Military School together. With him were the
female members of his family, and a large part of their feminine
acquaintances it would seem. After introductions and
felicitations all around, it so happened another former cadet of
the same Correctional Institution was passing in an auto when my
friend hailed him and called my attention to the fact that a
brother Shriner whom I ought to know was approaching. Imbued with
the spirit of the Order, I stepped to the curb at the point of
highest visibility to my pedestrian party, and started a most
elaborate and obsequious salaam--when suddenly and without
warning, the posterior warp and woof of my trousers gave way into
a jagged 14-inch Maltese Cross with the suddenness of the dam at
the Johnstown Flood.

If the remuneration for submitting this is in proportion to the
humiliation and mental pain and anguish suffered, the Tribune
Corporation will pass its next quarterly dividend.
Respectfully,


THE 75 CENT MYSTERY BILL

March 3, 1922
The W. H. Anderson Co.
524 Main Street
Cincinnati, Ohio

Gentlemen:
I am just in receipt from you of a statement for 75 cents
prefixed with "Balance as per Last Statement", and underneath and
to one side of the figures is a sort of Odd Fellows hand with
thumb extended parallel to the open fingers, and "if you please"
inscribed on the palm thereof.

For the life of me I don't know what that balance is for. The
only thing I can remember having bought from you was away back
there about the first time Bryan ran, it seems to me. I ordered,
and paid cash at the time of purchase, a set of Watson's Works
Practice and Forms. Part of the set was to be delivered at once
(and it was) and the balance in a short time thereafter. Well,
time wore on, the horse was supplanted by the automobile,
congress shoes were relegated to the attic. . . Sometime during
this time, which we will call the "Elizabethan Period" of this
transaction, to my utter consternation, I received another volume
of this important Work. I was delighted, as the clear and fresh
blue of the volume brightened up the general drab of those other
volumes that had come to me long before. . .

Again, time wore on. Grover Cleveland and his Memorial Day
fishing trips were discussed less and less by adverse
politicians, . . . telephones came into universal use, Cole
Younger was released from the Stillwater Prison; . . . George
Blake, one of our local inventive geniuses, set in motion in his
downtown basement his perpetual motion machine, that when once
got in motion was only stilled when it disintegrated and tore out
his east brick wall and scattered cogs, wheels and shafts over a
radius of two blocks; . . . when, lo!--another and last volume
made its appearance, making my set . . . complete. What more
could I ask, except to fervently regret that they all did not get
here before mine eyes were dimmed, mine step halting, and my hand
palsied?

But, I see I have become reminiscent, as old men will. . .

What I wanted to ask in this letter is for information about what
this bill is for? If it had been a REMITTANCE OF 75 CENTS, I
would presume it was accumulated interest at 2 cents per decade
on my original investment in the set paid years ago, and that you
had relented and were quietly paying me off in a depreciated
currency, with the hope I would accept it and say nothing.

But it is a demand, and I am therefore at complete loss to
account for it. It might be for the postage on that set extending
through all these years. On the other hand I do not believe it is
that for two reasons: I dimly recall when I bought the set, and
paid cash in advance, that covered all charges; and second, if it
were for postage, the accumulated interest I would owe you by
lapse of time would be in an amount far in excess of the 75 cents
demanded.

Please enlighten me.
Respectfully,


TO THE COMMITTEE ON SKY LIGHTS?

December 6, 1922
Honorable Emmett E. Branch
Lieutenant Governor
Martinsville, Indiana

My dear Governor,
I have your "epistle to the Corinthians" of recent date
concerning committee assignments for the coming session of the
Legislature, and desire to thank you for the opportunity of
suggesting my preference.

I had read in the Indianapolis paper where the Messrs. C--, H--
and C-- had met with you for the palpable purpose of putting us
down-trodden and foot-sore Democrats where we could do a minimum
of harm, and so I went over yesterday--the State Committee was
scheduled to meet--for the purpose of interviewing those
delectable gentlemen to see if I were not scheduled as the
ranking Democrat of the Committee on Sky Lights and Ventilation.

The sessions I was a member of the House, I was on the Ways and
Means, Railroad and Banking Committees. . . My fitness for the
above committees is striking. The expenditure of money always
appealed to me, as I have had little of my own to expend, and
naturally those of us in that class like to see the other
fellow's go. As an authority on railroads, I met the 5 o'clock
p.m. train at Russellville regularly for years and years; not
that I expected guests, but it was the custom of the town, so I
have an intimate knowledge of the stopping and starting of
trains. I was "connected" with the Russellville Bank from the
ages of 8 to about 18 ("Connected" has a variety of meanings.
"Red" Purnell, now in Congress from the 9th District, and I
roomed together during a part of our college careers at I.U. I
heard much of his "girl" back at Veedersburg, whose father, Red
freely confessed, was "connected" with the Cloverleaf Railroad.
Some years later, I learned the good man was Section Boss at that
point). My "connection" with Russellville Bank was spent
principally in a janitorial capacity, and the balancing of pass
books.

And so, in the full knowledge there are 33 of you and one of me,
but that I have truth and justice on my side, and my trust is in
the Lieutenant Governor, I must stay where you place me and be
content, except that I do hope the Committee on Swamp Lands is
full to overflowing . . .
Very respectfully,


WAXING POETIC OVER FIRST LOVE

November 24, 1925
Ithaca Gun Company
Ithica, New York

Gentlemen,

I am sending you by parcel post the barrels of an Ithica
hammerless shot gun, No. 29438, I must have bought 30 years ago
or more when a very small boy. . .

It was the pride of my younger life. I have slept with it in
sheer delight, and for fear it would be stolen. For years not a
pin point of rust marred its gloriously shining barrels; the
stock shone as does the throne of Allah from being gone over
hundreds of times lovingly and tenderly with silk and wool, oil
and polish. Its shooting prowess--it made the fur fly out of
unsuspecting rabbits before Bryan built his crown of thorns and
cross of gold; it sought the tender spots in ambitious fox
squirrels when automobiles were as scarce as we Democrats are
now; it has shot at everything from a beer bottle to a chicken-
thief, and never failed or refused to respond.

The number of this gun was burned in my memory so unforgettably
that today it came to me as doth the lamb the ewe. And while I do
not know when the Magna Charta was wrung from King John, yet this
numeral remains with me--yesterday, today and to the ages.

But evil days are come. The unrelenting grip of time has forced a
fingerhold. Disintegration shows, for the first time, its hydra-
head. When it happened, or how, I do not know, but only today, in
removing it from its case preparatory to a hunt on the morrow, I
found the rib split at the muzzle--and so, I must forego my
biennial hunt.

Look it over and fix it up. You will probably have a bill for
services. Send it on and if I haven't gone into bankruptcy
keeping kool with Coolidge during these most damnably hard times,
I'll try to splice enough money together to meet your demands. . .
Respectfully,


ADVICE IN A CUSTODY BATTLE

May 19, 1926
Mr. J----,
Hot Springs, Arkansas

Dear Sir,
I have given the matter of the custody and control of your boy
some thought. . . In Indiana the general rule of law is that the
father of a minor is entitled to the custody of his child or
children . . . even as against the child's legal guardian--which
happens to be the fact in your case. As I understand it, Mr. A--
was appointed guardian of your boy in this court. Your letter
pretty positively asserts that you never at any time, either
verbally or in writing, released such right.

I find that the courts have pretty generally taken the view that
the welfare of the child is the paramount matter. If it can be
shown that the father is not a fit or suitable person or not able
financially to support such child, then the courts will step in.
As I understand the situation, neither of these affect you
adversely. . . To me it seems, under the circumstances, most
deplorable, or rather unfortunate that the A--s have taken such a
fancy to the boy, and are unwilling now to give him up. He is a
very fine boy, I am told, and will make a fine man. But I cannot
see their position, and fail to get their angle.

In the event that you determine to bring a writ of habeas corpus
proceeding for your boy, you must make good preparations in
advance. You must be prepared to show the court most forcibly
that you are a fit person to keep him; that your wife is anxious
to have him, that you are amply able to support and school him;
that you are not financially cramped, and all that sort of thing.
It will take witnesses, and good ones. . . As a tip I might say
that Mr. H-- of this city is somewhere in Hot Springs now, in one
of the hotels or sanitariums, I presume. I would say absolutely
nothing to him about the trouble over the boy, but I would make a
special effort to have him out to the house and let it get to him
that your people are good people and financially able, and that
you have a good home, and favorable surroundings, etc. Make a
friend of him, and later we might use him advantageously. The B--
s go down there in Arkansas somewhere. Keep an eye for the
Greencastle people, and if convenient let them all see how you
are fixed. You know what I mean.

I sympathize with you in your trouble. If such a condition came
to me I would be fighting mad. But we must absolutely refrain
from showing any anger. That weakens a man's case.
Respectfully,


NO CHARGE

Greencastle, Indiana
March 16, 1927
Honorable E. Harold Van Orman
Lieutenant Governor of Indiana Evansville, Indiana

My dear Van:
I am just in receipt of a copy of your "epistle". . .

I want to move that the latter part of your fifth paragraph be
made more specific--that part pertaining to the extension of the
hospitality of your hotel. Does that mean with or without
remuneration? And whether or not it means the invitee's family? A
favorable construction on your part might lead to the culmination
of our going en masse next Summer on a pilgrimage . . .

Finally, I would advise you that we are safely ensconced at 309
E. Seminary Street, this city, and in your seeking the Primary
suffrages of the Putnam County and Greencastle constituency for
Gubernatorial preferences, we would urgently convey the knowledge
that our palatial home is in the exact center of the City and a
house to house canvass can be most advantageously made, using our
manse as a radius--with our compliments (Meaning, in the
vernacular, "no charge").
As ever,


THE COSTS OF PUBLIC OFFICE

December 21, 1927
Mr. James D. Wilson
New Richmond, Indiana

My dear Mr. Wilson:
I am in receipt of your very considerate letter. . .

It is a satisfaction to hear now and then that one has the
approval and support of the people who gave him his job--
especially in a legislative way. . . It is so much harder to
oppose money spending than it is to support it--so much more
difficult to fight the creation of new boards, commissions and
bureaus than it is to aid in bringing them into existence. And
the crowd or lobby or whatever you call it who are fostering
these expenditures always on hand during the Session to make it
hot and unpleasant for anyone who opposes them, while the people
who have to pay most of the bill are back home so busily engaged
fighting clods, weather and pests, in order to get enough money
ahead to pay these additional taxes, they haven't time to be
loafing around a Legislative Session. . .

As to my being a candidate for re-election again, I doubt it,
although I most sincerely appreciate your offer of support. That
is what elected me--Republican support. But the truth is, as much
as I like Legislative work .. . . if I continue in politics, I
ought to try for an office that pays more money. I am in very
moderate circumstances, financially; have a family of six
children, five of them girls, and the oldest a girl ready for
college next year, and you probably know what that means. Some
think I was grandstanding and getting ready to run again, when I
sent that $292 back to the State. But it wasn't at all. I sent it
back simply because it was absolutely and unqualifiedly un-
Constitutional, regardless of what our State Supreme Court says;
and for the further reasons that I was elected knowing my salary
would be $6 per day, that I had opposed salary increases during
the term of office all my legislative career and could see no
good excuse for exempting myself from that rule, and for the
further reason that our agricultural interests were in such a
deplorable condition they couldn't be asked to stand any salary
increase--however much I needed, or would have liked to have it
myself. And I hear that by reason of my having sent the excess
salary back I have incurred the displeasure of a considerable
number of my Democratic colleagues, who expect to try to see to
it that I am not re-elected Dem. Floor Leader next Session. And
so it goes. . .
Most Respectfully,


HIS OPINIONS CARRY WEIGHT

(Excerpt from a letter sent by Indiana State Forester R. F.
Wilcox to Charles Barnaby, of Greencastle, March 11, 1929)

The Senate passed our LaFuze Bill which appropriates $100,000 a
year to this Department for our nursery program and acquiring
land for state forests. This means great things for the future
lumber industries of the state, and of course all of the citizens
of Indiana. . .

During the discussion, when the boys were getting away off the
track, pro and con, Senator Durham demanded the floor and made a
statement which carried more weight than all the other arguments
put together. He said that Charlie Barnaby had been in the lumber
business for 40 years and probably knew more about hardwood trees
than anyone else in the country. . . He said you wrote him that
this positively was a good bill and they had better take your
advice and pass it. Senator Durham discriminates very closely, I
have noticed, in the matter of legislation. . . and I have
noticed that the other members of the Senate give his opinions
serious consideration. You are to be congratulated on having such
a splendid man to represent you.


AS GOOD AS WILL ROGERS

(Excerpt from the Service Club Grenade, newsletter of the Service
Club of Indianapolis, Feb. 16, 1929)

We confess our inability to make even a pretense of reporting the
talk given the club last Monday by Senator Durham. It was
understood that the senator hailed from Greencastle, but this was
an error. His home is in Russellville, where according to his own
admission, there "ain't a golf ball or a pair of pajamas in the
whole damn town."

Senator Durham is one of "God's Chosen Minority," as he himself
admits. Invitations to speak before this club and that led him to
believe for a while that he was an orator, but he finally came to
the conclusion that demands for his public appearance were made
because, as a Democrat, he was quite a curiosity.

Give Senator Durham a wad of gum and a rope, and he would be as
good as his fellow Democrat, Will Rogers. He entertained the
club, had everybody in an uproar, for a full half hour with his
tales about the characters in his home town.

Those who stayed away Monday missed one of the most enjoyable
meetings we have had in a long time, even if the Lincoln Hotel
lost no money on the lunch.


THE HAZARDS OF TRYING A COME-BACK

Greencastle, Indiana
July 2, 1930
Mr. Claud E. Fix
Shelbyville, Indiana

My dear Mr. Fix:
I received your very kind letter of May 30th, relative to a
proposed oratorical "come back" on my part before a Shelbyville
audience. I say "come back" because I was the alleged speaker of
the evening with the Shelbyville Rotary Club in May of this year.
It may happen you have heard of that disaster, and are charitably
giving me an opportunity to redeem myself in the eyes of
Shelbyville people. Your surname indicates such. . .

Experience has taught me a repetition is generally more dangerous
even than a first offense. It is in law, and it generally is in
other things. Let me illustrate from my own experience.

Years ago, my home town, Russellville, Indiana, had a home talent
company. In fact, we have had many of them. The town and
community was surfeited with them. The epidemic would break out,
die down, and then break out afresh. Warner Kinkead was the cause
of most of it. Warner was our self-imposed "leading man" on all
and every occasion. For one thing, he was a bit older, but his
principal claim to "stardom" was due to the fact he had spent two
years away from Russellville, and was therefore more
sophisticated and worldly-wise. The rest of us had ventured no
farther than an annual pilgrimage to Crawfordsville for the
County Fair. . .

Warner's parents had emigrated to Kansas. The second year the
grasshoppers "took them," with the result they all came back to
Russellville, and along with Warner came a "make-up" box which he
had in some manner acquired, together with a yearning for a
theatrical career. Therefore, he was an actor, none could
successfully dispute. He had the evidence. Warner put on many
home talents, advertised under the auspices of the Rathbon's
Sisters, the Mt. Pisgah Aid Society or other neighborhood
organizations.

From a comparatively modest beginning, we aspired to greater
things--harder plays and more cast. Warner soon learned the more
there were in the cast, the more doting fathers and mothers,
aunts and uncles, would turn out in the audience to see and
admire his uncanny histrionic abilities.

Eventually, we assayed a tragedy--an unavailing struggle against
fate. "Sea Drift" was the name of our first--and last--tragedy.
The climax was to come in the 8th or 9th Scene of the 10th or
12th Act, when in point of actual time it would be after midnight
and our remaining audience (those who, of necessity, had to stay
to take 95% of the cast home in time to help with breakfast or
the milking) either somnolent or clear "gone."

The script went like this: The heroine is stranded on a bit of
driftwood far out on the storm-tossed sea. From the lighthouse
the startling cry rings out: "A fair maiden in dire peril in the
sea beyond the breakers! Oh, Oh! Who will save her?"

"I will save her, or lose my life!" responds the hero (Warner),
who thereupon hurls himself into the angry waves from a beetling
cliff. A fearful struggle ensues between man and watery elements
(ably aided and abetted by several bucketsful of real water from
the wings). The maiden is rescued and brought to shore, but for
some reason known only to the author the effort is too much for
the hero. With a choked and exhausted murmur, "Call her Sea
Drift. She is God's gift from the sea," he then and there expires
from overexertion and exposure.

This called for an ocean scene--a considerable of an ocean scene--
and none of us had ever seen it. But we had read geographies and
seen pictures, and Uncle Bud Nichols had several stereopticon
views of the ocean at its worst. The Clodfelter girls sewed long
strips of sheeting together and Jess Carrington, our local barn
painter, painted the result of their labors to look like what he,
in his artistic mind, thought the sea ought to look like. We
borrowed two hand-power blacksmith's bellows from Fred Fink's
blacksmith shop to put at either wing, and under the loosely-laid
sheeting. The bellows pumped air underneath, thus causing
undulation after undulation, making what we though was a most
realistic semblance of the ocean in active operation. My
particular part, among others, in this theatrical venture, was to
operate one of these bellows, and operate it like "hell," as
Warner said, at the proper time.

A few of our props and effects are worthy of mention: the
lighthouse was built from four round old time banana shipping
crates fastened end to end, with a lantern from the livery stable
hanging cheerily in the top. . . David Henry Burton, local
inventor, hooked up immense quantities of old baling wire to some
sort of wooden structure representing the driftwood the heroine
was to cling to so perilously, in such a way that when Jude
Glover, concealed beneath the ocean, turned the handle of a lop
sided grindstone, the "driftwood" and beautiful maiden clinging
thereon would bob up and down. A hand cornsheller shelling corn
into a tin bucket emitted most of the noises we thought an ocean
would make on an occasion like that.

Shep Wilson, who could bark like a dog, and who, it was said, did
go with a show one whole summer in that capacity, and who,
concealed in the corn field out alongside Hebron School House,
did scare the little girls almost into hysterics one afternoon,
lent us generously of his caninal talents.

Eventually, we eventuated into the Big Scene--the maiden was
adrift, the cry of alarm rang out.

"I will save her or lose my life," quoth Warner, in a voice that
sounded like an auctioneer at a farm sale. Jerking off his coat,
he plunged into the raging sea. Buffeted by the angry waves, he
crawled to the fair maiden. He grasped her tenderly and started
for the shore. Midst the noise of the corn-sheller, the barking
of the dog, the efforts of the bucketeers and bellowsmen, and
encouraging cries from on shore, his foot caught in a seam of the
sheeting, ripping up about two yards of the ocean. The air we had
so industriously pumped in, rushed out at the rent. The sea
collapsed. The corn-sheller ceased shelling. The barking dog and
frenzied shore cries were hushed. A dead silence fell until some
sacrilegious individual in the audience whispered loudly, "It's a
miracle boys; he's walking on the sea." . . . Some good Samaritan
finally got the curtain down.

But what I started out to illustrate was the mistake we made--I
mean the big mistake. We had advertised "Sea Drift" for two
nights, thereby giving our second night's audience an opportunity
to get ready for us--which they did in due and ancient form, as
will be quickly sensed. A shame, since as a whole, the show
probably progressed more smoothly the second night--up to the Big
Scene--which was never finished.

Later on, the male part of the cast met on the bench in front of
Sam Brown's meat market to talk it over, and inquire of Warner
how he was getting along. His talk was short and much to the
point: "Boys, we're not appreciated, and they needn't never ask
me to put on a play in this town again. . . I didn't mind the
tomatoes, or the potatoes much--or even the eggs--could see 'em
coming and dodge 'em. But I would like to know the SOB who threw
that china door knob."

I presume you see my point by this time concerning a second
effort in Shelbyville--oratorically.

Seriously, I . . . shall have to refuse your very kind offer. My
father-in-law has been very low for months. He lives in
Pennsylvania. My wife was called to Pennsylvania by the family,
who thought the end was about come. . .and I shall have to hold
myself in readiness to go at any time.
Respectfully,


SWAMPED

Greencastle, Indiana
Oct. 2, 1929
Mr. D. Ray Higgins
937 Illinois Building
Indianapolis, Indiana

Dear Sir,
I have your very kind letter inviting me to make the talk before
the Shrine Club. . . I should be delighted to make whatever talk
I could, but the truth is I am sort of swamped in a small way
with things of that nature. I am having some important cases
tried this month, and I just must get ready for them. . . There
must be an epidemic of Masonic meetings, or rather dinners, just
at this time. I had a call yesterday from Terre Haute for a
similar purpose, and last Saturday one from Logansport.

Now the truth is, and I told the other parties this same thing, I
am more than rusty on Masonry. . . What talks I make are nearly
always directed toward the Legislature, or some sort of politics,
and are more in the nature of fun along those lines than serious
stuff.

Mr. Cooper, whom you know, has very kindly put me on the program
at a National Meeting of Insurance Men for the 10th, and the Lord
knows I don't know anything about insurance, except to pay the
premiums when I can get the money scraped together.

And so if you will kindly excuse me for the present, and then,
after consulting . . . on my real inability to make an
interesting Shrine talk, if you all still want me, perhaps we can
get together at some other time.
Respectfully,


ADVICE TO A YOUNG PRISONER

Greencastle, Indiana
Oct. 1, 1929
Mr. Harold M--, #6347
Washington State Reformatory
Monroe, Washington

My dear Harold,
The writer of this letter may be unknown to you, although the
chances are you know, or have heard of me. Anyway, your mother
and I grew up together, girl and boy. I knew your grandfather and
grandmother--fine, fine, old pioneer folks. . .

I am not only the boyhood friend of your mother, but have also
probably done all her legal work here. And so, in view of all of
this, and for other reasons, I am quite naturally interested in
you and your welfare. . . I have tried to find out the facts in
your case, and probably have them fairly straight. . .

Now, Harold, of course we both realize you have done wrong--very
wrong in fact--and you are paying the penalty to society for that
wrong doing. But do it like a good sport--like a good loser--and
not be a whiner or welcher. . . Do not imagine that I am a
maudlin and mouldy old lawyer, or that I am magnifying the error
you made, because such is not the case. I come in contact with
this sort of condition all the time. I realize that what you did
will be done again and again in the future by others. What I
insist is that it shall never again happen to you. I know there
are those associated with you now who are fools enough to
maintain an air of bravado about them, and pretend they have been
wronged by society . . . and they go about here and there telling
what they are going to do when they get out, and how they're
never going to get caught again. That type is hopeless and
utterly worthless, but their greatest trouble is that they lack
brains. They prate about this and that rich man breaking the law
and getting by with it; or this and that bootlegger or what not,
has a pull, or has the authorities bought and paid for, or is too
smooth to get caught. All of which is 90% bosh. Confirmed crooks
are never smart. They invariably . . . get caught. Why? Because
there are smarter and shrewder men after them than they are, and
so, the smarter man wins.

And all the time, the crook is a restless and furtive fugitive,
never feeling safe and secure . . . and never knowing what the
next hour will bring; never having any peace of mind; and never
having any respect for himself.

I am not talking about the boy who, due to youth and
inexperience, or stress of circumstances, or in a spirit of half
excitement, picks a pocket, or sells some hooch, or steals a
watch. . . You come of the right stock. The big thing for you, or
anyone else who has made a mistake, is to get the right mental
attitude toward that mistake. When a fellow finds he is wrong,
reverse then and there. Don't wait and don't try to "bull it
through". . . and make friends, not enemies, of the reformatory
authorities. You will be surprised, yes, amazed, to learn how
badly they want to be friendly with you. . . Show by your actions
and attitude that you realize your mistake, study hard to fit
yourself for life after you get out, don't whine or complain,
don't sulk or slight your work. Brighten and cheer up. And for
God's sake, prove you're a man and not a coward, because all
confirmed criminals are cowards, without exception. . .

For your information, and to play square with you, I think within
the year I shall write your warden or someone, asking how you are
getting along and what sort of young fellow you are, because he
will know, and I hope and trust my good opinion of you will be
verified.

And so, why is it, Harold, that I am taking my time away from my
business, and writing you this long and rather rambling letter?
Surely, I can have no motive of personal profit in it. No, it is
to let you know that not only me but thousands of people all over
this big, free country are interested in you and anxious for you
and those others of you who have made a slip, all of us hoping
and trusting and many praying for your welfare. So don't think
you are friendless or forgotten, or ostracized. And each day and
every hour and conscious moment, never lose sight of the fact
that your coming away from there with the right attitude, the
correct vision, and firm determination of rectitude of future
conduct, depends solely on you.

Write me sometime.
Sincerely,


A LONG WAY FROM HOME

July 17, 1930
Hon. Harry N. Quigley, General Counsel
C.C.C. & St. L. Railway Co.
230 E. 9th St.
Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Sir:
I was in Houston, Texas, about two months ago on some business
with the Humble Oil Co. An old Chicago lawyer named Hait or Haut
or something like that had business with the same company. . . It
was the time Houston was celebrating the fact they had come to be
the second city in size in the South--a gain of over 100% in ten
years. Parades. Newspaper head lines. Everybody talking "Houston,
Houston." We outsiders got a bit tired and bored with all the
talk. One of the vice presidents of the company took us riding
and to see his country home, all the way out talking up Houston,
and occasionally giving the old man a little peck about Chicago
lawlessness, racketeers and gunmen.

We saw the house and flower gardens and then went to see his bird
collection. Our host took us to a big cage and pointed out a
long-necked bird of brilliant plumage, and said: "That is a Bird
of Paradise. What do you think of him?"

The old lawyer replied: "Well, I think he's a hell of a long ways
from home."

It was a knockout.
Respectfully,


THE DEMOCRATIC 'STRIKE' OF 1925

One of the most colorful escapades in the political history of
the Hoosier State took place in 1925. Pap, who represented Putnam
and Montgomery Counties in the Indiana State Senate, was an
enthusiastic and imaginative participant.

The spark was the proposed "Penrod Bill" (named for the Senator
who introduced it) which, not unlike legislation offered from
time to time even today, contained a hidden provision.

The bill (S.B. 300) proposed the transfer of a central Indiana
county (Lawrence) from the Third U.S. Congressional District to
the Second. The invention was to make sure there would be
sufficient Republicans in that district--Senator Penrod's--to
insure his election to Congress. Naturally, his good fortune
would have come at the expense of the Democrats.

The Indiana State Senate in 1925 was almost totally controlled by
the Republicans, but there was one small hitch. Unless a quorum
was present, no votes could be taken and no legislation could be
passed--not just the offending Penrod bill, but any business at
all. And there were just enough Democrats to threaten such a
"political blockade." As expected, the Republicans presented the
Penrod Bill of Feb. 25.

The Democrats were prepared. Hastily, all fifteen of them who
were present (two others were ill and absent) "bolted" their
legal confines and took refuge in the neighboring state of Ohio.
Most of the "bolters" made the trip in a bus rented ahead of
time. They wound up in Dayton, where they took up residence in a
hotel owned, curiously, by Hoosier Lieut. Gov. Van Orman, a
Republican. In a "spirit of bipartisanship," the latter
telegraphed the runaways to "be my guest."

Another Democrat, Senator Harrison, left the next day secluded in
an Overland Moving Van. Pap's transit was courtesy of his
railroad pass. The train deposited him in Cincinnati, and he went
on to Dayton from there.

The Minority Leader, Senator Joseph M. Cravens of Madison,
Indiana, halted the escape bus briefly on its way to Ohio to
order a barrel of apples to be forwarded to the Indiana Senate,
accompanied by a note--"Compliments of the Minority Members." The
erudite Senator Cravens (known informally as "Uncle Joe") was the
bachelor scion of perhaps the most distinguished and aristocratic
families in Indiana at that time.

The Indianapolis Star and other newspapers had a field day
covering the Democratic "bolt," which brought official
undertakings to a complete halt. Photos of all the "strikers"
were printed side by side almost as if they were fugitives in a
rogues' gallery.

A poignant victim of the escapade was the official "Doorkeeper"
of the Senate, one Jerome K. Brown, who was ordered by the Senate
leadership to go to Ohio and serve warrants for the arrest and
return of the vagrants. Poor Doorkeeper Brown protested against
going it alone, but to no avail. He arrived in Dayton 11:45 PM on
the 25th and served his warrants on the "bolters" in their rooms
at the Gibbons Hotel. The warrants were ignored, but Brown was
invited to join a poker game in progress.

The Ohio governor and attorney-general pronounced that Indiana
arrest warrants were without official standing in Ohio (which
coincidentally was under a Democrat administration at the time.)
The governor furthermore invited the Hoosier "strikers" to stay
on in Ohio "without being molested" as long as they wished.

Senator Cravens accepted the invitation "with great pleasure--
until the Penrod Bill is withdrawn."

Senator Penrod countered firmly that nothing of that sort would
take place.

Thereafter the shenanigans increased as the plot thickened.

The Republican Majority in the Indiana Senate set about trying to
find a hale and hearty Democrat on Hoosier soil who could be
legally compelled to resume his seat. Pap's eldest daughter was
accosted on her way home from school in Greencastle by a friendly
pair of men she had never seen before. She thought it a bit
strange, but all Hoosiers were unrestrictedly friendlier those
days. They got around to inquiring of Pap's whereabouts. When the
fifteen-year-old reported the conversation later at home, her
mother explained that Pap was "just hiding out somewhere with his
Democratic friends."

Senator Cravens' adroit public comments expressed regret for the
legislative drought, but noted, "The Democratic Minority in the
Senate has from the beginning done its best to aid in the passage
of every constructive and economic measure brought before that
body. . . in the hope of benefitting the overburdened taxpayers
of the state. Our only regret is that there have not been more
measures of economic and constructive character to vote for. . ."
He took the opportunity to expound on party grievances.

The Republicans threatened to call out the state militia and
place the matter before the Marion County Grand Jury, which they
said might fine the runaways $1,000 and imprison them. Such
threats and the clumsy attempts to serve warrants or "kidnap" a
Democrat backfired, however, and became targets of public
hilarity.

The papers made light of the fact that the Marion County Horse
Thief Detective Association was sworn in "to watch for Senators
who might attempt to sneak back home to Indiana without being
detected."

Faced with becoming a legislative laughing stock, the Republican
Majority capitulated to the Democratic Minority, making a prophet
out of Pap, who had predicated in a letter home that a "truce"
would be arranged in a day or two.

The Indianapolis Times carried the banner headline: D.C.
STEPHENSON BEHIND MOVE WHICH BROUGHT 15 ABSENT SENATORS BACK;
REPUBLICAN POLITICAL BOSS ASSURES DEMOCRATIC FUGITIVES MEASURE
THEY ARE OPPOSED TO WILL BE DROPPED.

The runaways were also given promises of immunity from arrest and
the quashing of any indictments against them. Thus, having
thoroughly enjoyed their rest and recreation, they cheerfully
returned to their seats on the afternoon of Feb 27.

The saga of the "Democrats who bolted" in order to make their
political point perfectly clear (and effective) became an oft-
told tale in Hoosier political circles.

And Pap received his just political reward.

Shortly thereafter, he was chosen as successor to "Uncle Joe"
Cravens as Minority Leader in the Indiana State Senate.



CHAPTER III: FAMILY YEARS, BULL BREEDING AND GOOD
CREDIT--1930-1940

While continuing to attend legislative sessions, Pap did so in
another capacity. He put his considerable oratorical and literary
skills to work lobbying his former peers and Congressional
representatives on behalf of some lucrative new clients--the
railroads. The improved income situation also allowed him to
devote more time to his growing family, and to write about the
comedy and crises of domestic life: A relative's eccentric
shipping practices, a daughter's distress at being blackballed by
a sorority. As the decade progressed, the older children were
flying the nest, going on to higher education and finding mates
of their own.

Aside from domestic duties, his law practice and lobbyist
activities, Pap became more involved running the family farm and
in other agrarian pursuits, including the purchase of Hereford
bulls. The livestock provided grist for his pen on more than one
occasion, including a memorable account of some thoroughbred
price-fixing. Pap even started thinking like a bull (or as he
imagined one of his prize studs would feel after the animal was
struck by a train).

He also found time to champion small and solvent independent
banks like the family-owned Russellville institution against
onerous government "reform" regulations during the Depression; to
promote his old alma mater, Western Military Academy; and suggest
a hospital tighten up its security after he fell victim to
thievery.

Pap wrote some family history--a poignant account of a chair that
was an heirloom, and a satirical account of his grandfather's
attempt to create a new county with Russellville as its seat of
government. That effort may have failed, but Russellville still
wound up with good credit at the Waldorf-Astoria during daughter
Joan's wedding.


OUTRAGED OVER SORORITY POWER

Excerpt from a letter Pap wrote to his mother-in-law, Mrs.
Sawyer, sometime in 1930.

. . . Joan has triumphed overwhelmingly and unequivocally.

A college sorority in my way of looking at it is a very small
matter. In college circles, it is a thing of momentous magnitude.
It is ridiculous--utterly ridiculous--that sororities should have
the hold they have and should wield the power they do . . . and
the heartbreaks they cause or bring about. . . This letter is to
be read by you and by no one else. And then it is to be
destroyed, and its contents divulged to no one. Because I am
actually ashamed that my daughter could be so influenced so
permanently by so small a thing as anybody's college sorority. . .

It happened at the time Joan entered college. As is customary, at
high school graduating time, the sororities look over the girl
graduates with a view to bidding them admission to the several
sororities. Joan was invited to a great many--among them Kappa
Alpha Theta. Kappa Alpha Theta was founded at DePauw probably 50
years ago. It was among the first of all sororities. I had a
cousin, now long since dead, who was one of the founders. In
fact, I think she was probably the most active of all of those
founders. All of my people, except Sister Margaret D. Bridges and
one cousin, were naturally Thetas. Mrs. Bridges did not go to
Depauw, but went to a girls school, Oxford, where they did not
have sororities, so that let her out. . .

Joan asked me which was the best of all. . . I told her that
Theta was best, and I felt sure she would get a proposition from
them, . . . that if I were she, I would belong to Theta or
nothing. And of course I meant it, and for that matter mean it
now. Well, that sort of talk fortified her to refuse others, and
therefore I was to blame indirectly for what happened afterwards,
because I am inclined to think if I had said nothing that she
would have joined another. . . And I did not know what
heartbreaks were in store for her. The Thetas invited her to
their "rushee" party, and things looked well. Then something
happened. I do not know what it was, but she was dropped and
never bidden into Theta . . . and so she became a barb--that is a
non-sorority girl. She was ignored so far as parties were
concerned. She did not get into the social life of the college
scarcely at all. The fraternity to which I had belonged invited
her to two or three things, and then sort of dropped her because
she had no sorority to reciprocate with. . .

In spite of this social handicap she began in a small way to make
herself felt in college circles. It became noised about by the
faculty what a fine scholar and girl generally she was. It came
to me from a thousand sources--or almost a thousand. Some of the
other and lesser sororities came to her and asked if she would
consider a proposition. By that time, she had her back up, and
she declined universally. But many is the night during these two
years when she was studying in the dining room that she would say
that this one and that sorority or fraternity were having a big
dance, or something along social lines. Blue, of course she was
blue. And discouraged and humiliated. But she is a thoroughbred.
She never disclosed it away from home. Just went about her daily
college business. Kept her scholarship and head up, however she
might be hurting inside. . .

Last Tuesday the lightning hit. The Thetas called the house . . .
and they asked her to come to the Theta House for supper. And
after supper, they asked her to join. And she did. And that night
came home with the colors on. She is a happy, happy girl. Things
have changed overnight. The leading college man, or at least one
of them, called the Thetas and openly congratulated them on
getting her. Hundreds have congratulated her, and all this makes
her very happy.

I have told you all this to sort of try to explain what she had
undergone. It makes me hot under the collar to write it, and to
even think about it. To think that a thing of that character
could so get hold of a college and of college students to make
them or break them at the whim of this or that fraternity or
sorority is an outrage. But it is a fact nevertheless. And so I
am glad for her eventual triumph. But at the same time, I am
humiliated to think that such things exist in a free country. And
the more so because membership in any organization of that
character is not based on ability or scholarship but is based, on
a large measure, on the whim of the individuals who happen to
belong in the organization at the time the individual is
proposed.

I must stop, or you will not get this all read.

PLEASE DESTROY IT AT ONCE. . .
As Ever,
Andrew


DAUGHTERS ADORNED LIKE UNTO CLEOPATRA

Greencastle, Indiana
Nov. 17, 1930

Dear Sister Margaret:
Joan and Sarah Jane went to the Theta big party last Saturday
night, and I'll tell you they both looked mighty pretty, at least
they did to me. "Not because they are my daughters," as Charlie
McWethy says, and all that sort of thing. But I'll say this, they
looked mighty pretty to me. Sarah Jane had her hair waived and
screwed on some ear rings that hung on small chains about six
inches long, and I'll be dad burned if she didn't look like the
advertisements you see for perfumes and things of that sort in
the Ladies Home Journal. She was so highly colored by reason of
the excitement she didn't need any artificial color. Her necklace
I think was Joan's, maybe one that Grandma Sawyer gave Joan--
looks something like an old fashioned hammock in shape, made of
brilliants or imitation diamonds set in black, and she walked out
looking like Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish's favorite daughter. And Joan
looked just as well, all trigged up for the occasion. Her
greeting to the boys when they came was that of a young woman
perfectly confident in herself. No stammering or anything of that
sort. Sarah Jane was not so free in her conversation, but she'll
get over that. She is a great deal like Ma, only she has more
nerve in speaking out. . . Both of them had their hands and nails
smoothed up and shined up and tapered down like unto Cleopatra
herself.

That night they got home shortly after midnight. The boys just
brought them to the front door and about a minute after the door
closed I heard the shoes flying here and there. I heard both of
them say their feet and legs ached so bad they were numb. They
talked it all over and I went to sleep.
Andrew


CHRISTMAS CHAOS AND AMAZING FREIGHT

Greencastle, Indiana
Dec. 26, 1930

Dear Sister Margaret:
Yesterday was Christmas Day. Of course we had far too much of
everything: two big crocks of oysters, about 150 biscuits, a 24-
pound turkey, and so on--you know how Aura does thing--so we will
have a hard time getting things eaten before they get too old and
dry.

We spent the day mostly at home. The children all got a good many
presents. Grandma Sawyer has been sending things for the past
month or two. She has the world beat. She actually sent about a
peck of apples all rolled up in a mattress, or feather tick.
First we get a head and foot board of a bed; then she finds out
she forgot the rails, and they come separately; then in a few
days the slats come on independent; then we find they are the
wrong slats, and also that one of the rails sent belongs to
another bed back there. . . She sent a sort of tea wagon--that is
she first sent the frame part with the glass imbedded in it--it
was one she had in one of the houses and one fine morning decided
that Aura should have a tea wagon. That came through in enough
crating to make kindling for two or three months. In about two
weeks, here came another crate with the greater part of the
balance of said tea wagon. But on careful investigation and
splicing, we found one wheel gone and also one handle. She had
retained the one wheel to get it fixed, so in due time, it came.
Later the missing handle was located and sent. And all the time,
these various parts and pieces come by parcel post, freight and
express, as the spirit moves her. By some strange coincidence the
freight invariably comes over different railroads. We will get
the main parts, say via Big 4, the slats via Monon and the rails
by way of the Pennsylvania; then a "cunning" little dinky that
Grandma saw in a shop in Middletown and figured would match the
wheels of the tea wagon so nicely, will come by parcel post, and
so it goes. The freight men at the various depots have come to
look on me and my consignments of freight in amazement. . .

We had a terrible time getting to sleep last night. Since Frank
has been home, things have been going along pretty smoothly. The
girls were glad to see him, and he to see the girls. But it
couldn't last. I saw Jane and Joan getting their heads together a
good deal yesterday afternoon, and finally Schweet Babe got in
it. Frank and I were playing casino. The girls were upstairs,
then went out to a picture show or something. Frank was a little
nervous. Finally he went upstairs and came back after a long
absence and said that Joan had put soap chips all through his
bed. He had cleaned it out, and had filled Joan's bed full of nut
shells. Then she came home looking suspiciously, eased upstairs
evidently to learn if Frank had found out what had happened to
his bed. She found hers and had to take everything off and shake
the covers, and then it started. No great noise, but much
shutting of doors, running here and there, low whispering,
giggling--and everything except going to bed. I stayed out of it,
and in the wee small hours of the night, the house settled down
and everybody this morning was too sleepy to get up for
breakfast. So that is the way it goes.
Andrew


NAME CHANGE NEEDED

Greencastle, Indiana
July 13, 1931

Mr. J.P. Austin
1005 White Bldg.
Seattle, Washington

My dear Pony,
I needs must forego your wonderful party. . .There is nowhere on
Earth I'd rather be--not even in Hoover's shoes. . . Not long
since, I was in Russellville, my old home town northwest of here--
the town where all the good folks come from, and a town I have
consistently and persistently advertised in the local legislature
for the past 15 years. We were reading where Hoover had, among
other places, visited the Virgin Islands. George Potter, our
local wit, was listening to the account. Finally George commented
thus:

"If Hoover did to them islands what he's been doing to us people
out around here, they'll have to change the name of the islands
to something else" . . .
As ever,


TAKING CHANCES

Greencastle, Indiana
Dec. 14, 1931
Mr. R. W. Buckworth,
Crawfordsville, Indiana

My dear Mr. Buckworth:
Several days ago I received a very kind and thoughtful letter
from you concerning a proposed forensic effort on my part to be
attempted before the Crawfordsville Rotary Club. . . I realize
the Stock Market is undergoing a terrific upheaval and people are
taking chances who otherwise and under other conditions, wouldn't
think of such a thing, but for you to take a chance on me
appearing satisfactorily before your Rotary Club is the wildest
gamble I have heard of to date. Nothing more hazardous comes to
me just now, except, perhaps for the public to take a chance on
Democratic Party next year. Then, anything can happen.

And so, in half-keeping only with Senator Watson's classic on his
"sugar" speculations--in explaining his having given his note for
the stock, he dismissed the whole subject with: "The stock is no
good, neither is my note. Therefore the whole transaction is now
even"--I therefore here and now accept your invitation before you
have to rescind it--and may God give you all strength to hear me
out.
Very Respectfully,


PLIGHT OF THE RAILROADS

March 11, 1932
Mr. Courtland C. Gillen
Member of Congress
Washington, D.C.

Honored Congressman:
I was just about to preface this, my first epistle to you, with
"Honored Congressmen," because, for what reason I know not, an
all-wise, beneficent and just Providence has seen fit to inflict
me with not one, but two, Congressmen--you and Red Purnell--thus
causing me to bear a double cross. Please catch the awful
potentiality of those last two words, "govern yourself
accordingly and look to the southwest" as Thomas Taggart of
hallowed memory would say. . .

I want to call your attention to the railroad situation. As you
have long known, I am what might in a spirit of braggadocio be
called "of counsel for the Big Four," carrying with it a pass to
Indianapolis and return, and elsewhere about the lodge as the
worshipful train-master may direct. You also know I was in
several sessions of the Indiana Legislature--now also of hallowed
memory. I have seen railroads kicked and cuffed by legislative
bodies, and I have seen their securities descend from the highest
point in the way of safe, sound investments to about the lowest.
. . Railroads are in a hell of a fix. And it is not the fault of
the railroads by a long shot. Among the principal reasons for
their present condition is the unfair competition in interstate
hauling being indulged in by busses and trucks. There are bills
now pending in Congress designed to regulate this unfair bus and
truck competition, and I think Senator Couzens of Michigan has
one. . .

Railroads, being of a public character, should be regulated
reasonably, but it seems to me they are just about regulated to
death. That probably accounts in part for their present
condition. Did you know the B&O couldn't run an excursion from
Chrisman to the Russellville Horse Show without the permission of
the Interstate Commerce Commission, at a round trip fare to be
fixed or approved by the Commission, and not until after giving
notice? . . .

Above in this letter I have used the words "unfair competition"
when speaking about busses and trucks. Let me illustrate.
Considerably over a year ago a contract was let in Chicago for
additions to the Field Museum, I think it was. The contract
called for the use of Indiana Limestone running into over 100
cars. Mr. Curry was instrumental in getting the contract for a
contractor friend. No sooner had the contract been let than an
independent hauler living in Chicago approached this contractor
and offered to deliver the stone from the Bloomington and Bedford
districts on the job as it was needed, for exactly the Interstate
Commerce Commission's fixed railroad freight rates from the
various sources along the Monon to the Chicago terminal--thus
saving the contractor the haul bill from the terminal to the job,
a sum running into a considerable figure. It was all that
everybody concerned from the Monon's view point could do to keep
that contractor from accepting the independent hauler's offer.

Now let's suppose that contractor had accepted the offer. What
would have happened? That independent hauler would have manned
his fleet of Illinois trucks with Illinois drivers; they would
have had their trucks overhauled by Illinois mechanics before
starting; they would have filled their enormous tanks with
Illinois gas so as to have made the round-trip without having to
stop for gas; the drivers would have taken their Illinois-filled
dinner buckets; and down concrete State Road No. 41 they would
have probably come. Turning east on No. 36 at Rockville, they
would have intercepted a barred rock hen and 11 chickens in front
of Ab Shalley's at Bellmore to the utter annihilation of the
interceptees. In an unguarded moment some driver would have
removed Zephus Burkett's mail box and distributed it and its
contents consisting of a Kitselman Brothers Fence Catalog, the
Farm and Fireside, and a pamphlet telling how to make hens lay
between there and Hanna's Crossroads, where they would or would
not have made the turn safely down No. 43. Frank Hathaway's
thoroughbred calf would have been "out" at his place and heard of
no more; Paul Tucker's bay mare been soon describing a parabola
with a radius of three miles. And the left hind wheel and end
gate of Professor Ogg's spring wagon would have been removed
quickly and efficiently directly in front of your house at
Bloomington and Walnut.

On to Stinesville, Bloomington or Bedford they would have trekked
their stately way, probably taking more than a good half of the
highway. Loaded up, they would have made the return over Indiana
paid-for concrete highways in impressive massed procession, just
fast enough to keep Indiana taxpayers from passing them. . .

What would Indiana or Indiana people have got out of this all-
summer cavalcade for the use of its highways, or for the
sustenance of its citizens? Unless there had been a breakdown too
serious for roadside repairs, or a truck had accidentally run out
of oil or gas, or some driver had seen fit to buy a Babe Ruth for
his sweet tooth, Indiana and Indiana people would not have
received a damn cent for the use of their $60,000 per mile
concrete highways.

Now what would the Monon--the largest purely Indiana Railroad
have received, or paid, or how would it have fared in the deal?
It would not have received the job of hauling that stone because
its rate was fixed by law and it couldn't hack prices; it would
have continued paying its men, upkeep, expenses and taxes just
the same. . . It owns and maintains its own right of way; also
all rolling stock and equipment of all kinds and character, and
pays taxes on same--regularly. It stands there ready and anxious
to receive all business it can get, not only for today but for
tomorrow, next month and next year. It can't crank up, call the
dog and leave jurisdiction and unpaid debts at 3:01 a.m. on any
given day. It does not ask a monopoly. It only asks fair
treatment, and that bus and truck competitors be put on a
competitive basis by being required to pay a fair return for the
use of the public highways, or else buy, build, and maintain
those of their own; that they shall maintain regular scheduled
routes, rates, and service in winter and summer, sunshine and
rain, fog and clear weather; and otherwise submit and qualify for
regular continuing business, just as railroads are now required
to submit and qualify.

Now, in return for this splendid thesis, I want to ask my
Congressman some favors. Will you please look into bills now
pending before you on this subject, and tell me wherein you favor
or disfavor them--and why? Perhaps I am wrong in the attitude I
take. If I am, I want to get right, and I know of no one better
able, or more willing, to inform me than my own Congressman.
Respectfully,


WET, DRY OR MOIST?

Greencastle, Indiana
April 11, 1932
Mr. James G. Smith
Alamo, Indiana

My dear Mr. Smith:
I have your inquiry about Court Gillen, and I shall answer to the
best of my ability . . . . He is a man of ability, a lawyer, a
decent man and surely is entitled to another chance in Congress.
. . I do not know that he is particularly dry. I do not know that
he is particularly wet. . . He may be a trifle moist, and he may
not be. He has never been known as a radical on anything, within
my knowledge. I have heard some criticism against him on his
so-called dry vote, but I have also heard that anyone with any
sense, under the same circumstance, would have voted exactly as
he did.

For that matter, he will not be beaten by the "lady candidate".
If my information is correct, she got into this race simply and
solely on account of the one vote Gillen made on the Prohibition
question. . . Now, if that is the case, she might be
characterized as a radical "wet", obsessed on that one question,
and forgetful and more or less incompetent on everything else.
And I am saying to you right here and now that there are other
important questions pending except "wet" and "dry". . .

You know, it is a very easy thing to sit or stand around and
"cuss" those in a legislative body for what they did or did not
do. . . If everybody had all the information, and had given a
question the same study and attention as the one who did the
voting, there would be less criticism than there is. . .

Let me illustrate how these things go. I was nominated as
Representative from Putnam County in 1912. I was young and
inexperienced. A day or two after my nomination, Colonel Matson,
who had been in Congress for years, and was a lawyer here at the
time and almost retired, gave me some advice: "Find out where the
coat racks are, where your seat is, and when the Legislature
assembles take your seat and keep still. There will be times when
you will think that you have the exact solution for whatever is
being debated. When you feel this coming on you, get up and get
your hat and walk around the State House, then come back and sit
down and keep still. If you will do that, they will not find out
how ignorant you are. . . I don't want to hear of you taking any
part in the debates your whole first term, I don't want you to
introduce any bills. I just want you to be on the job every day
and every hour, and attend your Committees, and above all else,
keep still."

I followed that advice, I think absolutely, or nearly so.

But there was another side to the matter. . . After the Session
was over, I met a farmer friend who had worked hard for me, and I
asked him if he were pleased with the way I had conducted myself.
He was not. He said: "I thought if we sent a mouthy young lawyer
to the Legislature, he would get some laws through, and we would
hear from him, and he'd be up there doing something. I never saw
where you even made a speech."

Time went on. I served in 1915. Then I went to the Senate in 1917
from Montgomery and Putnam, and again in 1923. Some time shortly
after either the 1925 or 1927 Session, I met this man on the
streets here in Greencastle. He came up to me beaming, and said:
"I'll take it all back. You are the best Senator we ever had. . .
I can't pick up the papers without seeing your name strung all
over it. . ."

People jump at conclusions, and sometimes they jump wrong unless
they know all the circumstances. . .
Cordially,


A DAMAGED BULL STORY

The following exchange of correspondence occurred after a prize
bull on the Durham farm near Russellville was struck by a
railroad train.

May 31, 1933
Mr. Andrew E. Durham,
Greencastle, Indiana

Dear Mr. Durham,
Our mutual friend, Mr. Byers, has sent me your most touching
letter of May 27th, relating to the unfortunate usurpation of the
B&O right of way by your pet bull. Fortunately, however, the
incident does not--at least so I assume--extinguish your "line".
Naturally, the distinguished bull was a thoroughbred, and in this
respect he has nothing on our train, as it is also a
thoroughbred, and when thoroughbred meets thoroughbred something
must happen. . .

It may be necessary to have our representative call upon you and
the bull to ascertain your respective incapacities as a result of
the collision. I regret, however, that under the laws of the
great State of Indiana, your own mental pain and anguish is not
an element of damage and, so far as I know, there is no way of
proving that of the bull other than by hearsay, which of course
is incompetent.
Very truly,
Frank J. Goebel
Assistant General Solicitor


THE REPLY OF "THE BULL."

June 3, 1933
Honorable Frank J. Goebel,
Asst. Gen. Solicitor
Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Company
Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Sir:
I am told I am a Hereford bull. . .I was supreme on the Durham
farm, and lord of all I surveyed--that is, until recently. . .

For years I had noticed some sort of animal or monster wend its
way shrieking and rumbling across our land, always going along
the same trail without variation. In daytime its head emitted
black smoke and a terrific noise with its rattling body trailing
back, slender and long like a snake. At night it had an
enormously bright eye in the center of its mammoth head, and
belched forth fire sometimes. . . We got used to it, and finding
it to be totally unsociable, we adopted the wise policy of
ignoring it--that is, until recently. . .

I was grazing along what my owner says Ring Lardner would
laughingly call a fence, and just stepped through, or on, or
over, it to where the grass looked greener. And then I went on
and up to where there was less grass and more gravel, and some
ties and rails. . . Then something happened, and I went winding
down and down. Oh, the pain!

My owner . . . has said more nice things about me and my good
qualities and worth since I got hurt than he ever said in all the
years gone before. . . He said to some men who came out to see me
after I was damn near killed: "Did you ever in your life see so
good an individual bull, any where, any time? Look at that head.
Imagine what it looked like before he got hit. . . I wouldn't
have taken a thousand dollars for him before he was hurt. No. I
wouldn't have taken two thousand dollars, nor there isn't a man
among you who would have taken five thousand for him if he had
been yours". . . Then my owner said: "It's confidential, of
course, and I know you men well enough to know you'll keep it to
yourselves. Ex-Governor Warren McCray had a man down here
secretly to buy him at $10,000--to head his herd."

"Now," my owner says, "what would you appraise him at? I want to
be fair with the railroad. . . You and I are farmers, and
everybody knows a farmer has a hard time, and all farmers should
stand together, but at the same time be fair, of course, to the
railroads. Naturally we all know that railroads are not fair, and
are big rich corporations, paying great high salaries to
presidents and lawyers, especially lawyers, for sitting around in
swivel chairs, milking the public, fixing mythical valuations to
base freight rates on, and then eternally asking for rate
increases when they are so high now nobody can ship anything over
them . . . . .

"Still, I want you men to be absolutely fair with the railroad . .
. . ."

I don't know what happened after that because they moved off
toward the house. . . They say the chances are that I will live,
but I wish I were dead. . . Pain, pain, ever since. My head is
swollen to double, my sight in one eye may be gone. I still bleed
at the nose. . .My mental anguish is unbearable. I know that
which I had in abundance and have ample living proof of is gone
from me, never to return. I have lost my social standing in the
community in which I reside and my wimmen folks are laughing at
me and at this time of the year. . . Oh, grave, where is thy
sting. . .

If you care to apologize for your hasty remarks about bull mental
pain and anguish, you may address me as:
Respectfully,
The Bull


STAMP OUT SMALL BANKS?

June 3, 1933
Honorable Virginia Jenckes
Member of Congress
Washington, D.C.

My dear Madam:
I should appreciate your sending me a copy of H.B. #5661, (the
Steagell Bill) as re-written by the Senate. I am informed the
Senate struck everything out of this bill after the enacting
clause, and substituted a bill of their own--probably the Glass
Bill, with some amendments.

If the bill as passed by the Senate reads as I am informed it
does, I am very much opposed. . . It would drive all small
country banks out of business at least for the one reason that it
requires a capital of not less than $50,000. Small country banks
cannot stand a capitalization of $50,000 and pay dividends on any
such amount. Small banks have small ways, limited deposits,
limited territory--and consequently limited earning powers. . .

I desire to say I have been connected in one way or another with
a small country bank, the Russellville Bank, of Russellville,
Putnam County, Indiana, since childhood. I was sort of raised in
that bank. I own the majority stock in it. I worked in it for
years. It represents the life work of an older brother, now dead.
It has a capital of $15,000 and a surplus of $47,500. . .

In times like these, all proposed bank legislation should be
carefully considered--to say the least. There are not so many of
us left, and those that remain deserve some consideration for
having weathered what we have.

I am cognizant of the fact that something serious ails, or has
ailed, the banking business. . . I am also aware that banking,
with its attending care, custody and handling of other people's
money, takes on a public nature that some other businesses do not
have. . . And please do not form the opinion that I, in the
slightest degree, desire to block sound, reasonable, safe and
sane banking legislation. Absolutely the contrary. But . . . I
insist that a small community is entitled to a small bank for its
small business in the same arithmetical ratio that a large or
populous community is entitled to a large bank. . . Viewed from
the angle the Senate seems to have, I should think it would be
better to fix a minimum of capital and surplus combined (for as
far as security to depositors is concerned, there is no
difference between capital and surplus) for a maximum of
deposits.

Suffice to say, I am utterly and unqualifiedly opposed to an
arbitrary fixed minimum capitalization of $50,000 for small
banks. . . To me it means mighty, mighty few banks in towns of
less than 2,000 people.

If that is the intention, then the bill is perfect--in that
respect.
Very Respectfully


A FAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

July 8, 1933
Mr. Lee Tracy
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios
Hollywood, California

My dear fellow Cadet:
This is not a "fan" letter. . . I probably recognize ten or
fifteen actors and actresses at sight. Yesterday I saw a movie
magazine. You were telling about yourself. I saw the name
"Western Military Academy" in print and that galvanized me. I
read the article from start to finish. I was tremendously pleased
at the kindly treatment you gave "Western." Hence, this
letter--the first I ever wrote an actor or actress. My God!
Mother taught me a theater was the Devil's work-shop.

I graduated Western in 1899. . . I had arrived at the age where I
was reluctantly permitting the "old folks" to reside in our home.
The local high school eventually granted me a diploma in order to
make room for students. "Western" was father's answer. . .

Everybody has a hobby. Some good, some not. After about 30 years
of worldly experience, "Western" and its welfare is probably
mine. There was where I first learned a small town banker's son
might later on in life meet some noticeable competition. . .

"Western" needs favorable advertising and plenty of it. I
cheerfully do what I can, but of course my field is tremendously
limited. Just what you said in your magazine article about
yourself is what "Western" needs. Only more of it. Last evening
and today I learn you are one of the best known men of your
profession. You evidently have thousands of admirers. Some time,
some where, some how, some of them will have a boy here and there
of the proper school age. And the fact those parents hold you as
they do, if they can only know you went to Western, will be the
deciding factor where those boys will go to school. Get me?

I am not a sentimentalist. I don't ask any one, and especially a
stranger, to spend either time or money on me and my hobby for me
alone. Honestly I don't. I'm pretty tight myself. Maybe I have to
be, and I'm that way by nature anyway. But without any expense of
course to you, if you would drop the hint to the Metro folks that
you have an idea a newsreel of an up-to-the-minute Military
school, at say, Commencement time, would have an appeal to the
public, and especially to the younger feminine public, and that
"Western" is the school to "shoot", or whatever it is you call
it, and Metro would agree, then we might get somewhere with
publicity for Western. . .

I do not ask or expect a reply. I think I know what you are up
against in the way of correspondence. I was in the Legislature
for 16 years. We have Legislative "cranks" here, just like you
have movie "fans" there--only not so much so. Now I'm a railroad
lobbyist whenever the Session meets. Furthermore I'm a Democrat.
As a waggish local constituent puts it, I've "gone from bad to
Hell."

Be that as it may, if sometime I should learn a newsreel was
showing W.M.A. in all its glory of flags, pennants, brass
buttons, and an inset of Lee Tracy as its most distinguished
alumnus, I can assure you I'll dismiss the help, unbait the trap,
lock the door, call a frightened and bewildered family, and hie
us away to Indianapolis, or wherever it may be showing, there to
carefully explain to disgusted adjacent seat holders, that I--I
the erstwhile conservative country lawyer--am also an alumnus of
that greatest of the great boys schools, and thus get a bit of
reflected glory. . .
Respectfully,

PS. To whoever reads this. Please give me a break and show this
letter to Mr. Tracy. I've never bothered him or you before, and I
promise I'll never bother again.


CONSIDERABLE DIFFERENCE

January 22, 1934
In re: Estate of Charles A. D--
Hon. Isaac Kane Parks
Inheritance Tax Administrator
231 State House
Indianapolis, Indiana

Dear Sir:
I have your letter of direction concerning the above inheritance
tax matter. . .

I am a trifle confused . . . on whether you want an exact copy of
the federal estate tax return as we filed it, or whether you
desire a copy of the return as was finally accepted by the
government. . .

"There was considerable difference."

The above quotation happened years ago at Russellville (my home
town) when Bill Goodwin was section boss on the I.D.&W, and Milt
Kinder, a pretty good old man--but terrifically profane--worked
on the section under Bill. The crew was laying rails down west of
town near Brumfield's trestle. Milt was driving spikes and missed
one and hit his foot and the air was blue, and it looked like
Indian Summer down that way. They rushed Milt to a doctor and
patched him up.

In due course, a long four-page questionnaire came to Bill from
the main office in Cincinnati: "Full name of injured employee?
Age? Years of service? How did the accident happen? When? Where?
Who saw the accident?" etc. etc. And on the last page, about two
thirds of the way down, was this one word. "Remarks?", the rest
of the page left blank.

Bill, the section boss, sat up about all night making it out--
painfully and laboriously. At last he came to the "Remarks". He
was puzzled and confused (something like I am about the return
you ask for).

Finally, under that heading he wrote the following: "Now about
them 'remarks'. Do you mean Milt's, or do you mean mine? There
was considerable difference."
Respectfully,


COLUMBIA NO PLACE TO GO TO SCHOOL

June 8, 1934
Hon. Frank L. Littleton, Atty.
Big Four Building
Indianapolis, Indiana

Dear Sir,
I have just returned from New York and Joan's graduation in
Columbia. . . My Gosh, but that is a big school! On Tuesday they
gave out between 4,000 and 5,000 diplomas. Had the exercises
outdoors in front of the library. Must have been 15,000 or 20,000
or more people there. The crowd looked a bit like the Speedway
races. . . Between my seat on some bleachers and where the
diplomas were given out were numerous flights of steps, a sort of
sunken garden, some four or five tennis courts, a wide
blocked-off street, and a football field the short way. And
between were the graduates and visitors, in camp chairs and on
bleachers as thick as they could be packed. They had loud
speakers, but not enough of them for me to hear from the seat I
occupied. It took over an hour for the graduates and faculty to
march in from four entrances. There surely must be over a
thousand in the faculty. Anyway, I made up my mind then and there
that Columbia was no place for an undergraduate to go to school.
It is too big. The students have practically no campus life. A
great part of them are from the City of New York and surrounding
cities, and they room all the way from the Battery to the Bronx.
Endless numbers of them never see or know one another. . .
As Ever,


RICHARD FAIRFAX--A BULL STORY WITHOUT PEER

July 20, 1936
Mr. B.C. Byers
Macatawa, Mich.

My dear Mr. Byers:
I haven't been in Indianapolis since I started the two little
girls up into Maine to a girls camp, so unless I succeed in
cooking up something, this letter will be a fizzle for news.

In May I bought a 16-months old Hereford bull, Hugh Fairfax by
name, at the McCray Sale at Kentland. Since that time I bought a
McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford bull from a Mr. Dillman at Waveland,
and also traded an old Woodford Hereford bull to the Indiana
State Farm for another McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford. So you see I
am slightly in the bull business.

For your information, you knowing nothing about anything except
railroading and good looking women, Mr. Warren T. McCray got his
big start in Herefords after he acquired Perfection Fairfax, a
Hereford bull that afterwards won the International Championship,
and was acknowledged generally to be the greatest sire of his
day. He started the "Fairfax" fashion.

In getting the pedigrees of these last two bulls straightened
out, I made four trips to Kentland. The trip prior to the last
one found the ex-Governor in a petulant frame of mind. He called
me "Senator" very formally, was easily irritated and gave this
and that as an excuse for the delay. The truth is, I think, that
his herd books have been kept in about the same condition as Joe
C-- kept his desk in the Senate Chamber.

But my last trip was different. When I got there the old boy was
in his office selling a Hereford to some young fellow from the
north part of the state--I hope Lake County, because anybody from
Lake County needs a trimming. I stayed outside and eventually
they came out.

"Why, hello, Mr. Andy," said Warren T. "How are you this fine
day?"

It was hotter than Tom B-- ever got in a poker game.

I knew the old fellow had had a good breakfast, and that he had
no doubt spliced me up a pair of pedigrees of some sort or other.
I just sort of imagine that when a herd book gets slightly mixed
up, or time has elapsed and a given bull's heredity sort of lost
in the hazy past, that those fellows quietly sit down and whittle
out a pedigree that sounds about right. . .

Let me tell you a bull story about as he related it to me last
Friday. This is Warren T. speaking:

"About 1902 or 1903, I wanted to branch out bigger, buy more land
and become a Hereford leader for sure. . . Mr. -- was showing
Herefords in Indianapolis. He had by far the best bull I had seen
or heard of. His name was Perfection Fairfax, and he had a
pedigree that read like the Lees of Virginia. . . The only way
his owner would part with him would be to sell his whole herd of
37 cows too--for $17,000 cash. I brought him home to Kentland. He
won the International Championship and we both became famous in
the Hereford world. The Fairfax strain took the country by storm.
His sons and daughters were sensations. He lived until he was
past 17 years old, and was a virile breeder to the day of his
death."

"Look up yonder on the knoll past the machine shop and the big
barn. See that cement column up there? The boys here at the farm
erected that monument, and old Perfection Fairfax lies right
under it. He died in 1918. Old Perfection made breeders millions
of dollars. Look up there on the wall to my right. See that oil
painting? That is Perfection Fairfax. I had a famous artist paint
that. See that long picture over there on the wall east of old
Perfection? That is a picture of 32 of his sons I sold at one
time to one breeder down in the Argentine. We had that picture
taken the day they left the farm. They made me some money."

"What is the highest price, Governor, that you ever got for a
bull?" I asked.

"The highest price I ever got was $25,000."

"Holy Nellie," said I. "Isn't that the highest price anybody ever
got?"

"No," he said. "Do you want me to tell you about that? . . .It's
a pretty long story but interesting. Along about 1915 Perfection
Fairfax was getting old, and I decided I'd go out again and buy
the best young Hereford bull on Earth. As I traveled and asked, I
kept hearing about a Richard Fairfax, one of old Perfection's
calves--a calf I had raised, and still owned his mother. He had
been sold at one of my sales and wound up in Dakota--and it was
always the same tale that he was not for sale at any price,
whatsoever. Absolutely."

"I made up my mind I'd just take his owner off his feet the first
shot. I'd paralyze him with an offer he'd not refuse. I didn't
want to take a long wild goose chase for nothing away up there in
Dakota. If he wasn't for sale at any price I'd soon know it. So I
wrote a short letter to his owner. I wrote, 'I know there is no
use sending bird shot after big game. If I come up and look at
Richard Fairfax and like him, and find him to be everything I've
heard about him, will you take $25,000 cash for him?' I figured
that would bring him to his milk."

"Very much to my surprise a prompt letter informed me that my
offer did not interest his owner in the least. Richard Fairfax
was not for sale at any price."

"So I looked elsewhere and forgot Richard. That was along, say in
November. The following February, Johnny --, from Minnesota, came
down to see me. He was a young breeder who had great faith in me
and my judgment of Herefords, and had bought quite a bit of my
stuff. Johnny was to stay all night and go home next morning on
the 7 o'clock train. I noticed Johnny was listless as he looked
over my herd, and I knew something was wrong--he wasn't there to
buy."

"After supper we went into the library and talked Herefords and
everything else from the weather to politics. Finally I looked at
my watch and said: 'Johnny, I'm getting sleepy. You leave in the
morning at 7, and it's 1 o'clock now. Let's go to bed.'"

"Warren," he said. "I've got something pretty big on my mind. I
want your advice. It's Richard Fairfax. I know all about your
offer. I know the whole story. But I'm about to pay $50,000 cash
for him, and what I want to know is if you think I am crazy
trying to buy him at $50,000?"

"Well, Johnny! You're the greatest Hereford booster I ever heard
of. You sure are! I don't want to discourage you, and God knows I
don't want to throw cold water on the Hereford business, but now
that you've asked me, all I can say is that I quit at $25,000.
That's a terrible risk. Why, the bull might lie down and die
tomorrow. $50,000 is a pile of money in Government Bonds, but
it's an ocean full of money tied up in a Hereford bull."

"Well, don't throw up your hands until I get through, Warren.
I've been thinking about this thing for a long time and been
getting ready for it. I can get him insured for a maximum of
$25,000--everybody says Richard is the best young bull in the
country, and remember he's out of your grand old Perfection. I've
been quietly buying up all his sons and daughters I can lay my
hands on. I own 65 daughters and 20-odd sons, so I'd be pretty
well fixed for a June sale of sons and daughters of a $50,000
bull. I figure that the advertising a $50,000 buy would give is a
big thing. The more I think, the bigger it gets: the highest price
the world has ever known for a bull. No other price has even
approached that figure. Every big newspaper from New York on west
will carry it on the front page, and a picture of Richard and me
along with the story. I'll get more free advertising out of that
than I would with 50 years of paid advertisements in all the Live
Stock Journals published. And I'll see to it that 'Bred by Warren
T. McCray, Kentland, Indiana' goes under Richard's picture. You
are going to have a sale in May. You bred Richard Fairfax. About
everything you own is close kin to him. How would a $50,000 bull
that you calved help your May sale?"

"Well, Johnny, I see the enormous possibilities. Still, $50,000
is SOME bull money."

"I'm not through yet, my good friend in need," Johnny said. "And
here is where I have to have your cooperation if the deal goes. I
only have $20,000 cash to put in Richard now. I figure that in an
ordinarily good sale of Richard's sons and daughters, they would
probably average $500 apiece. If I pay $50,000 for their sire and
get the advertising I think I'll get, the 80-odd head really
ought to double that amount--I'm trying to be conservative--But I
can't go to my bankers and say, 'Gentlemen, I'm paying $50,000
cash for a bull, I have $20,000 and want to borrow the balance
from you.' They would say I was plumb crazy, try to get a
guardian for me and collect all I owe them, right now. You know
bankers. There is no place in the wide world I can borrow that
sort of money, except from you. You know that."

"Johnny, let's go to bed. I'll let you have an answer before the
train goes."

Mr. McCray said he thought until 6 o'clock, then got up and got a
hurried breakfast into Johnny and took him to the station. When
the train got within about two miles of town, he said, "Johnny,
go to Dakota and look Richard over. Examine him as you never
examined a bull before. Find all about him--whether he has been
exposed to any diseases; have three vets go over him piece by
piece--Then go off and think for 24 hours. If you decide to buy,
send me a telegram saying, 'The Republicans will win easily next
election.' Buy him, get the $25,000 insurance, render up a short
prayer and draw on me for $30,000--and the draft will be
honored."

Within a week or 10 days, McCray told me, he got the prearranged
telegram, then advertised his May sale as he never had before. He
played up the $50,000 Richard Fairfax sale to the limit. The free
advertising the sale got was far beyond his wildest thoughts.
Virtually all the big papers carried it both here and abroad.
Miss Busch, his secretary when he was Governor, and who was in
Paris at the time, sent him a front page of one of the large
Paris papers carrying the picture of Richard and Johnny.

McCray sold 120 head in his May sale. They averaged $3,636--the
world's record for sales. He sold a full brother of Richard for
$23,000 and a half-brother for $7,500. He figured the brother and
half-brother didn't stand him out over $500, so if Johnny never
was able to pay a cent of the $30,000 loan, he was still even, to
say nothing of the additional prices the remaining 118 head
brought.

Let the old ex-Governor close:

"In June, I went to Johnny's sale. Instead of $1,000, they
averaged $1,750. Next day I came back with a $30,000 draft, plus
interest."

How is that for a bull story?
Good luck to you,
"Bull" Durham

THE PLAIN WOODEN CHAIR

"Old Settlers Day" address delivered at an annual celebration,
undated.

Mr. Chairman, Revered Old Settlers and Visitors:

. . . Primitive man lived in trees, where he rushed to safety at
the approach of danger. Directly, he learned to use a club and
climbed down from the trees and fought his way to caves for
shelter. From these caves he would sally forth . . . Eventually,
men began to congregate and to band together, first as a family,
then a tribe or clan and later as a nation, and in so doing they
put in practice that great fundamental truth on which is based
all progress: "In Union there is strength," exemplified in modern
times by the bundle of sticks, so well known to some of us. . .

Our early Pioneers in Putnam County followed the rules of conduct
prescribed by their predecessors in frontier life in Kentucky,
Virginia and Ohio, and followed the lines of least travel
resistance, generally along watercourses--by way of Eel River, up
Big Walnut and Deer Creeks--and thus throughout the County. Once
located, and having few and distant neighbors, and with
communication more or less difficult, a barn-raising, log-
rolling, quilting bee or spelling match was an event of some
moment and not of such common experience as to be ignored.

As time wore on, roads were established; settlements became
thicker; mercantile trade followed barter, and money began to
circulate and to be offered and accepted in payment; wagons and
buggies replaced saddles and saddle bags; railroads were built;
newspapers and postal service became more numerous and easier;
the telegraph and later the telephone annihilated distance;
churches and school houses sprung up; the regular preacher took
the place of the circuit rider; factory-made shoes drove out the
"pair of fine boots"; power looms and hole-proof socks (in name
only) routed knitting needles; and so on, until now Sears-Roebuck
is trying to rout everybody and everything.

All these and many, many, more advances have been inaugurated
within the memories of many of you here today. Those among the
oldest of you have had the extreme good fortune of living within
the period of the last 75 years or more, when greater progress
along scientific lines has been made than was achieved in the
4,000 years preceding your time. Think of it my friends! . . .
What great good fortune has been yours!

What progress the future has in store I cannot know. Time only
can tell, and time goes on, while you and I dwell here for
comparatively only a day. And yet, if I were required to hazard
my judgment, I should be compelled to admit I firmly believe you
have seen more beneficial progress than will fall to the lot of
any individual to be born in the future. . .

To you Old Settlers this day has been set apart by the folks of
this community for your enjoyment and retrospection, and for our
education and benefit. . . And when those of us here on the
programme have finished, we want to hear you, by word of mouth,
recall those early experiences that will forever be lost unless
you impart them, that we, in turn, may hand them down to the
generations yet to come. They will soon be most valued
traditions. Books, paper, diaries and records have a most useful
place, but some of the things of greatest human interest are not
set down in the books or records--those little touches of color
and everyday heart interest, those daily privations and
abstinences--they never break into chronicle, and yet furnish a
large part of our romantic history.

I have at home a chair--a plain, hand-made wooden chair with a
wooden seat, with rectangular and cross red stripes, and on one
panel in the back is a hand-painted bouquet of flowers in colors--
all showing the hand of a careful, neat and skilled workman.
Underneath the seat is a faded and torn paper label on which is
printed "Black and Sons, Chair Makers, Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania."

Just a plain straightback wooden chair. A more elaborate one
could probably be bought now for $2. And yet, my grandfather
brought that chair to my grandmother for her parlor on horseback
from Philadelphia to Russellville, in this County, some 80-odd
years ago, piled high on top of a big horseback load of goods.
Think of the effort it took! Think of the space it took away from
profitable calico! Think of the many, many times on that
thousand-mile horseback ride that grandfather looked back and
felt to see if it were coming along with the balance of the load.
Think of the many times it slipped to one side or the other and
had to be retied. Think of the many nights it had to be unloaded,
and the many mornings it had to be tied back on again. And
lastly, my good folks, think of the joy it gave that little old
woman up at Russellville--how she showed it to the neighbors; the
care that was subsequently given it; the wonderful pleasure it
gave her; and the proud feeling it secretly gave him. . . It was
she who told their children the story of that little chair.

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,



CHAPTER IV: THE WAR YEARS--1942-1945

Pap was way too old for active involvement in World War Two. He
had to be content watching his children play their parts (Frank
and Margaret both joined the Armed Service, although the latter
had to be consoled after being initially turned down for a
commission). Pap's sideline role did not deter him from making
wry observations about professed patriotism on the part of the
legislature ("political hooey") and the effects of war on the
home front (shortages, black market activity, travel restrictions
and inflation).

He also kept in touch through the mail with his scattered
children and his wife. Despite the difficulties of wartime
transportation, "Munny" insisted upon making her annual summer
excursions to Milford, Pennsylvania, to attend to property
inherited from her parents. This caused Pap a bit of anxiety, as
he feared for her comfort but did not wish to take undue
advantage of his railroad pass perquisites. He also felt lonely
at home alone, as his youngest daughter, Aura May, left for
college. In some of his strongest letters, he expressed concern,
usually with humor but sometimes quite poignantly, that family
members should not interfere with each other's pending marital
plans.

Otherwise, Pap tended to the farm, his lobbyist duties, and wrote
a newspaper ad celebrating the 50th anniversary of the
Russellville Bank.


NOT TRYING IS WORSE

Advice to a daughter turned down for a naval commission.

Sept. 3, 1942

Dear Margaret:
I was sorry to hear you hadn't made the grade and didn't get what
you want, but I would have been much sorrier if you hadn't tried.
That's what gets me--this not trying. And while you may be quite
a bit disappointed, you tried all the same, and that is the thing
that counts much, much more.

Of all things, I never thought I would have a daughter in the
Army or Navy, but now that things have happened as they have, and
women are going into the War, why, I'm getting used to most
anything. . .

I'm not saying that you should be in the Navy, not at all, but if
I were you and I wanted in, I'd keep pecking away until I got in.
. . . You said something about them wanting you to try for
something like a job as a "private" in the Army. I am rather
inclined to think you did right in not accepting that offer. You
have an education, and better still, you have an ability that
should rate you better than that of a private. It is true all of
us can't be "Generals," but with your ability, your common sense
and a world of other good qualities, you, if you want to, and
will stick with it, will be able to get in WAVE, or whatever it
is, from some other State--Indiana, for instance. There is a lot
of bologna in this War, like all others, and I am told on good
authority that it takes a political set-up to get the best. . .
Honestly, when I heard you were trying Pennsylvania, I rather
thought you would not be in the running. It just don't make sense
for an Indiana girl to get a job like you wanted in the face of
women (natives) in the second most populous State in the Union. .
. Now above all things, don't repeat what I have said, and by no
means give such as an excuse for missing the boat at
Philadelphia, just keep mum, keep your own counsel, profit by
your experience and keep on trying in every way you can. If I get
a chance I'll get to Indianapolis and try to learn what WAVE is
doing in Indiana, if anything. I have been so busy, I haven't had
time to go any place or do anything except keep the farms going,
which is a big job.
Let me hear from you.
Pap


HELPING THE WAR EFFORT

Aug. 2, 1942

Dear Frank:
There is not much news to tell you. We are more than busy at the
farm. . .

I should tell you about an experience I had yesterday. The rain
stopped us combining oats on No. 43 shortly after dinner. I came
home early in the afternoon. Stopped in the Post Office to see if
there was any mail. Doc. Sigler the Veterinarian was in there.
Maybe you know him. If not, then you should. He is windy, used to
run a saloon here years and years ago, and therefore is an
authority as he thinks on all things alcoholic. Doc was in a
talkative mood. "Have you tried the new beer, Durm?" he asked. I
said I had not, and what was it. Then he proceeded to tell me. It
is really old time keg beer put up in bottles--half gallon
bottles. It is unpasteurized, and it saves caps and thus helps
win the War. He was insistent that I try just one bottle. It was
to be had at Robert Hoffman's storage plant--this unpasteurized
beer has to be kept cold.

Naturally I wanted to help win the War, so I went outside, got in
the Mercury and headed for Hoffman's storage plant on North
Indiana Street. There was Robert and his helper, Jim Allen. . . I
asked their opinion, and they both agreed it was the Wonder of
the Age.

If one bottle was good, then more would be better, so I bought
three. Then, as a sort of hedge, and to be on the safe side, and
being that I was already there, I bought a case of Cook pints, as
I knew what they were, and came home, put the case on the kitchen
radiator and the three half gallon bottles of Doc
Sigler-recommended, unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer in the
ice box and awaited developments.

Later I went to the Lincoln for supper, then tarried downtown a
bit and started home. Pearl O'Hair was on her front porch and
called to me. I went down and courted her until after dark, then
thought of my Champagne-Velvet Doc. Sigler-recommended
unpasteurized beer in half gallon bottles that help win the War,
and came home. I reached in where we used to keep milk, pulled
one out and it looked bigger than a blockbusting bomb. I got the
biggest glass in the house and poured it full. It tasted rather
alright, so I took another sample. Then others. The bottle stood
the drain unusually well. Then I found a rubber stopper, inserted
it, put the bottle back in the ice box and came in the front room
to read the News. Then back to the half gallon bottle of
unpasteurized amber fluid. That bottle "gave down" like a six-
year-old Holstein with a new calf. . . Another round or so and we
called "recess" for me to go out on the front porch for air. But
duty called me back to the bottle. By that time I could see I was
gaining slightly, and would eventually win if I kept up my
morale. But it was a horse race with bets about even. Then back
to the front porch for more air, then back to the half gallon
bottle of unpasteurized that helps win the War. On one of these
trips to the front porch I noticed the Electric Light people had
inserted a bigger light bulb while I had been gone. But my
patriotic duty called me back to the pantry and the
rubber-stoppered half gallon bottle. In desperation I again went
to the front porch to bring in help, any kind of help, but the
streets were empty. Then back to the kitchen, and then to the
front porch where I was seized with a desire to go calling,
anywhere, and anybody who could talk, or rather listen, because
at this time the gods were unfolding to me a quick and brilliant
scheme in which I was to outshine MacArthur and tip the balance
to win the war--just like that. The plan was simple and should
have been thought of before now. It was to furnish all enemy
soldiers with half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended
unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer, make them drink it and thus
cause internal drowning. Simple, isn't it? But suddenly it became
unnecessary, because back at the bottle and just as I was
draining the last drop, there came through the ether, the short
wave fuzzy joint and unconditional surrender of Hitler, Sitting
Bull and the Pennsylvania Whiskey Rebellion.
As Ever,


AVOIDING A STATE OF NATURE

Aug. 4, 1942

My dear Aura May: (then visiting in Worcester, MA)
. . . I took time off today to go to Reiner's at Indianapolis to
test out fur coat prices. They are high, but nonetheless, my
offer stands provided you want one at this time. Your letter
rather indicated you would as soon wait a year or so. That is
sensible and also thoughtful, and it might be a year in College
and an opportunity to look around and sort of study fur coats
might be better than to jump in and buy one hastily. . .

Sarah Jane has her sights raised too high, I think. She says
$419, exclusive of fur coat, undergear, socks and I don't
remember what else she excepted. . . You are fine looking, well
made and therefore can wear grass dresses, sarongs and Russian
Sable with equal grace. In other words, clothes don't have to
make you. And thank God they don't have to pinchhit for your
scholarship. Still, you should have good clothes, and you are
going to get them. Sarah Jane must have smuggled you into
Worcester after dark, because, according to one of her letters,
you were naked, or practically so, when she took you to Canada. I
hope your ears were clean.

However and nevertheless, Sarah Jane is doing her level best to
help us all out in these, your clothes troubles. She is taking
her time and effort, and all for the good of the cause, so let's
all be appreciative. She thinks we are losing time, back tracking
and creating a state of confusion--which we are. . .

I am therefore enclosing a draft for $300 and telling you you are
free to do as you please in the selection of your clothes. After
all, you will have to wear them, you are 18, an exceptional
scholar, and you should be pleased and satisfied. This is not all
the money you are to get for clothes, etc., this year, but God
knows I think it is enough for you to start out on this Fall and
Winter. If not, then we'll sell some shoats . . . and rustle up
some more.

Ann has to have a few duds, you know. Margaret is in a state of
nature as to clothes, and . . . Munny surely needs a new bustle
and pair of arch-supporter shoes by now . . . .What I'll be
needing is a pair of new corrugated rubber-soled shoes and plenty
of cinders .. . .

"Pap"


CROSSING THE RAILROADS

March 17, 1943

Dear Chilluns:
Back from the Legislative Wars, pretty well battered but
gradually recovering. We took one bad licking. Under present law,
generally speaking, municipalities and county commissioners may
. . . "order in" grade crossing warning devices or watchmen . . .
whether the railroads think them necessary or not . . . all at
the cost of the railroads. . . We tried to change the law so the
unit so ordering them in would have to pay 50% of installation,
repair and maintenance. . . But the Senate voted us down 26 to
about 18. The mayors got in their work.

There was absolutely nothing unfair about the bill in my opinion.
It just would have stopped a lot of grafting mayors and city
councils. For instance, a councilman in Anderson last summer
introduced an ordinance requiring 44 crossing lights in Anderson.
The ordinance was so worded . . . that only one manufacturer
could fill the specifications. A brother-in-law of the
introducing councilman was the agent for that factory. It was so
raw the ordinance failed to pass, but it took a lot of lawyers
and time and expense to run all that down. Just such things as
that happen all the time. Some "worthy party workers" start a
manufacturing plant up in Lake County on a shoe string. Maybe
they can't get a site on the right-of-way. But they start. Then
come to the railroads and want a switch put in to the factory. . .
The railroad investigates--the set-up doesn't look permanent--
and declines to extend a switch. Then, the "workers" go to the
mayor and council with the tale the railroad is stifling business
in that town, and so on. A big howl goes up. . . The railroad
makes another check and refuses. Then the mayor sends word they
will be wanting some more crossing devices in that town, to
"protect the children," and there you are again. Those crossing
devices cost an average of $2,500 per set. Maintenance averages
$50 per year. These are only two of a hundred rackets worked on
railroads. . .


NOT IN THE FDIC AND PROUD OF IT

On the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank, in 1943, Pap,
as Chairman of the Board, took out a sizable advertisement in the
July 30 edition of The Daily Banner (motto: "It Waves For All")
of Greencastle. The ad proclaimed in large bold type that the
venerable Russellville institution was "A Private Bank, not a
member of F.D.I.C." The "Old Bank", as it was referred to, had
been started in 1893 by some 30 citizens of Russellville,
including Pap's father, James, and older brother, J. Ernest
Durham, and had grown to have capital stock of $15,000 and a
surplus of $50,000, according to the ad. Excerpts follow.

TYPE OF BANK

Russellville Bank is a Private Bank. It is UN-incorporated.
Therefore the individual liability of its stockholders for its
debts (and your deposits are its principal liability) is not
limited merely to the extent of the value of the stock owned in
the bank--whatever that value may be--as is the case in Banks
incorporated under Indiana law. Incorporation, among other
things, means limitation of liability for debts. . .

DEPOSIT GUARANTY

We are NOT a Member of Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation
(F.D.I.C.). We were invited to join. We declined, and, being an
"A" Bank, were not compelled to join. We have been asked why we
declined. Here is the answer: Many of you have been told the
Federal Government guarantees all deposits up to $5,000 made in
Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. If that were the case, we would
probably have our application in for membership in the morning.
But nothing is farther from the truth. The Federal Government
does NOT guarantee one cent of anybody's deposit in ANY bank--
National, State or Private, anywhere, anytime--whether a member
of F D.I.C. or not. But it does require ALL Banks belonging to
F.D.I.C. to guarantee one another's depositors' deposits up to
$5,000 for each depositor--A SORT OF MUTUAL INSURANCE. We are a
small Bank, but mighty for our inches in a financial way. And we
want to put all the force of all of our resources solely back of
the deposits of our own depositors. Therefore, we thought then,
and still think, it would be unfair to our depositors for
Russellville Bank, with its comparatively overwhelmingly superior
resources, to join-up and guarantee the depositors of a bank in
the Rockies, about which it knows nothing and over whose
management it has no control. So, excluding all other Private
Banks, we assert we have proportionately more resources for the
payment of every dollar of our deposits and other liabilities
than any F.D.I.C. Bank in the State of Indiana has in proportion
to its deposits and other liabilities. This is no idle boast. We
mean just what we say.

CONSERVATISM

In our 50 years of banking we have bought millions of dollars
worth of securities for ourselves and our customers without loss
of a single penny of Principal or Interest. However, during and
following the "Bank Holidays", in a few issues--three we think,
"to keep the record straight"--some bonds and some coupons were
not paid promptly at maturity, although eventually all were paid.

OUR CUSTOMERS

Our customers are the salt of the Earth. Some have been with us
during all, or practically all, of our existence (In that time we
have, to be sure, lost some good customers, and we sincerely
regret those losses.) During the April, 1943, drive for the sale
of 2nd War Loan Bonds, the patriotism of our customers was
immediately evident. The amount of approximately $29,000 was sold
in and credited to Russell Township (our township), and of this
the amount of $23,218.75 was subscribed by our customers and paid
for with funds in Russellville Bank. We are proud of our
customers in their War efforts. If peace should be dictated by
the Axis Powers, it might conceivably happen our 50 years of
careful, conscientious banking would all go for naught and that
Russellville Bank, in spite of its enormous resources considering
its size, might not be worth the price of this advertisement. It
pays to be patriotic.


ORDERING STOVE PARTS

April 2, 1943
Cribben & Sexton Company
700 N. Sacramento Blvd.
Chicago, Illinois

Gentlemen,
I am herewith enclosing check for $2.75 for two oven door
springs, two pastry door springs, three black door handles, two
simmer buttons and ttmx (whatever the devil that is), all as per
enclosed card.

Mrs. Durham has gone to Pennsylvania, and the children inform me
she eventually was able to find the "number" of our gas stove so
the above repairs could be identified by you. Where she found
that number or identification on our stove is still a profound
mystery to me. She had looked, I had peered, the children had
searched, gas men and plumbers had examined and thumped, and
outside the "Strand Universal" toward the lower right hand
corner, the job was as smooth as an undertaker's conversation
when showing caskets and gently murmuring prices therefor to the
bereaved family. Incidentally, your modest demand for the above
gadgets is as "chicken feed" to theirs. You must be an honest and
upright firm, for Chicago. Congratulations.

In conclusion, let it be known no Nazi spy will ever be able to
report back to whoever he reports to the elusive number on our
trusty gas stove.
Very respectfully,


LAND AWAY FROM HOME

October 23, 1943

Mr. Eugene M. Anderson
20061 Hull
Detroit, Michigan

My dear Eugene:
Enclosed find Russellville Bank draft. . . for $550 . . . in full
payment of the balance owed by Ared Shaw and wife to you for the
27 acres plus north of the N.Y. Central station here in Putnam
County. I am also enclosing a receipt for $1 from Central
National Bank, which . . . charged each of you the sum for
holding the papers.

I tried to peddle your contract but the chiselers had this excuse
and that for wanting you to discount it. This is no time for
discounting, and everybody knows it. Banks are glad to get good
loans at straight 6% mighty glad. I took it up with Russellville
Bank and they wanted it. So they got it. . .

I expect you are glad to get the matter off your hands. It is no
fun to own land a long ways from home. I have tried it--in fact I
am trying it all the time--have land in Kansas and Texas I can't
get rid of, and it's a nuisance. The southwest Kansas land is 160
acres, flat as a pancake--you could make baseball diamonds all
over it--and never had a plow in it. Father traded a horse and
buggy for it in 1893 or 94. Never saw it. It is in dry country.
We have just paid taxes (very small) all these years until about
five years ago I leased it for oil to the Standard Co. at $1 per
acre. They have never drilled a well, but keep it for
speculation, and each year pay $160. So, if that keeps up, we'll
have our money back come 20 years more, or more or less. . .
Very respectfully,


LET THE BRIDE CALL THE TUNE

Advice to an only son who has become a prospective groom. Note:
The future bride's name was Frances Haberkorn, but Pap, who
nicknamed everyone, called her "Francisco." (Undated)

My dear Frank,
From your letter, matters matrimonial in our family seem on a
most decided up-swing. I didn't realize you had gone so far, but
right now, once and for always, you can rest assured the "old
man" is with you 200%. Wife and husband choosing is for the
individuals themselves. Outsiders should look on, keep out, keep
mum--and worry to themselves all they want to. I did a mighty
good job of picking, and I'm perfectly willing to accord the rest
of you the same privilege.

Your letter said Francisco would be down to have a final say in
the matter--or words to that effect. That's right. That is the
way it should be. You'll find a groom is the most unnecessary
necessity modern society ever inveigled an unsuspecting public
into. He bears about the same relation to a first class wedding
that a dust cap does to a 12-cylindered, leather upholstered
Packard.

Perhaps by now you know more about when and where. Naturally, the
balance of us would like to know something about that
too--especially if any are expected to be "among those present".
. . . If I am expected to be present, I'll have to arrange for
somebody to do t

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2677