UC-NRLF 
 
 
 \sm 11 
 
 a. 
 
 AN 
 
 AMERICAN HOBO 
 
 IN EUROPE 
 
 BY 
 WINDY BILL 
 
 A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF A POOR 
 
 AMERICAN AT HOME 
 
 AND IN THE OLD 
 
 COUNTRY 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 THE CALKINS PUBLISHING HOUSE 
 
 24 Clay St. San Franc uco 
 
 IN PAPER 50 CENTS 
 
 CLOTH $1.50 
 
AN 
 
 AMERICAN HOBO 
 
 IN EUROPE 
 
 "v\ k* *> 
 
 By WINDY BILL 
 
 A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE ADVENTURES 
 
 OF A POOR AMERICAN AT HOME 
 
 AND IN THE OLD COUNTRY 
 
 PRESS OF THE CALKINS PUBLISHING HOUSE 
 SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. 
 
Copyright 1907 by B. Goodkind 
 
 - 
 
Contents 
 
 Chapter. Page. 
 
 I. Billy and Me 1 
 
 II. Frisco 41 
 
 III. The Journey Overland 85 
 
 IV. New York City 130 
 
 V. Them Bloomin ' Publishers 139 
 
 VI. The Ocean Voyage 148 
 
 VII. The Steerage 156 
 
 * VIII. Glasgow 171 
 
 IX. Getting a Square Meal .181 
 
 X. The Glasgow Green (or Common) . .188 
 
 XI. Hunting for a Furnished Room 193 
 
 XII. Dancing in the Green 202 
 
 XIII. Taking in a Glasgow Show 214 
 
 XIV. Robert Burns, the Poet. 224 
 
 XV. Sir Walter Scott 276 
 
 858581 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/americanhoboineuOOgoodrich 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 BILLY AND ME. 
 
 Stranger, will you please permit me 
 to give you an introduction to a particu- 
 lar friend of mine, little Billy. Little 
 Billy and I had long been friends and 
 had become so intimate that we were 
 more like brothers than friends. Some 
 brothers indeed do not stick to each 
 other as closely as Billy and I did for 
 w.e never quarreled and the worst that 
 ever happened between us was a little 
 growl which we soon got over. 
 
 Billy and I had been on the bum to- 
 gether a long while and had prospected 
 for gold and other things in Utah, Ne- 
 vada and California. The adventures 
 we had if I were to relate them would 
 fill several such volumes as this. And 
 many of them were worth relating, too, 
 but I will merely give a general outline 
 
of our experiences, for his experiences 
 
 were mostly mine. 
 
 • 9 : : \ WJijfe .hiking it along the railroad 
 
 : "'*6ne-day : bfetWeen Ogden and Salt Lake 
 
 ;;;^|t-^/JfhicMs a';distance of about thirty- 
 
 " # §eVeh Hiilfesj'we ran across a couple of 
 
 pretty Mormon girls about half a mile 
 
 from town and they made goo-goo eyes 
 
 at us. Billy, who is rather reserved 
 
 with strangers, was for moving on, but 
 
 I, who am a friendly and sociable cuss, 
 
 was in for having a little time with 
 
 them. 
 
 "What's the harm, Billy?" said I to 
 my chum; "let's see what kind of stuff 
 the girls are made of. 
 
 "Oh, what's the use, Windy," re- 
 sponded Billy; "we might get into 
 trouble." 
 
 "Trouble be blowed," said I; "they 
 ain't agoing to make any trouble so why 
 should we. Let's see what their game is 
 an v way." 
 
 We approached the ladies, tipped our 
 hats, and passed the compliments of the 
 day. They responded pleasantly 
 enough, entered into a conversation 
 with us and soon we all strolled fur- 
 
ther on from the town and sat down on 
 a viaduct spanning a rushing irrigation 
 ditch. Billy was as chipper as anyone 
 when once he got started and held his 
 end down in the conversation first class. 
 The girls were merry and talkative and 
 seemed to like to talk to the fellers. 
 They told us all about the Mormons, 
 how they live, act, and what they do, 
 and Billy wanted to know how Mormons 
 got married. 
 
 "Why don't you get married and find 
 out?" asked one of the girls. 
 
 "I ain't no Mormon," spoke up Billy. 
 
 "You can be if you want to," says 
 the girl, "religion is free." 
 
 "All right," says Billy, 'Til think it 
 over." 
 
 The girls were giving us a game I 
 thought, but we could stand it if they 
 could. We chinned away there for 
 hours until it began to grow late, when 
 the girls concluded they would have to 
 go. We were sorry to part from such 
 elegant company but it was a case of 
 have to. 
 
 After they had gone we wondered 
 what their little game was, whether it 
 
was merely a case of flirtation or 
 whether they were looking for converts 
 to their religion. Billy put the question 
 to me and I told him he could search 
 me; I didn't know. Anyway, neither of 
 us wanted to get married just then, so 
 after the girls left us we troubled our 
 heads no more about them. 
 
 We stopped in Ogden, Utah, a few 
 days, and then beat our way to Virginia 
 City, Nevada, where we did some labor- 
 ing work at the old Bonanza mines. 
 Neither of us were miners, although we 
 had prospected some without results. 
 We found the miners to be a good-hearted 
 set of fellows and liked to be among 
 them. Grub and booze could be had for 
 the asking in Virginia City when we 
 were broke, but handouts were more 
 plentiful than work. Not many stran- 
 gers wander to Virginia City these days, 
 for the town is off the main line and 
 no bums visit it. It is on the decay 
 order. Its streets are in ruins, ditto the 
 sidewalks and houses, and over the 
 whole place there is a musty odor. It 
 is away high up in the air about eight 
 thousand feet above sea level and the 
 
wealth that once was brought up from 
 several thousand feet below the surface 
 amounted to billions, not millions of dol- 
 lars. Today the big mill houses still 
 stand in their usual place in good order 
 but little mining is done there. 
 
 Some of the big plants, such as the 
 Ophir, Savage, Norcross and Hale, Con- 
 solidated Virginia and Best & Belcher 
 are still there, but where there were a 
 thousand miners working before there 
 are not ten working today. The place 
 is strictly on the bum, just like me and 
 my little pardner. Once there were 
 forty or fifty thousand people in Vir- 
 ginia City, but today there are not five 
 thousand, or anyways near that num- 
 ber and the ruins and scenes of desola- 
 tion make a fellow feel sad. The old 
 International Hotel where the nobs 
 used to stop and spent a fortune every 
 day, is now run by a Chinaman at a 
 cheap rate. There is plenty of fine scen- 
 ery around Virginia City, however, and 
 plenty of Piute Indians, but the Piutes 
 don't enhance the scenery any. They 
 are a dirty crowd and sit around on 
 decaying lumber piles and hillsides 
 
within the town, playing cards and 
 other gambling games. The miners are 
 mostly Cornishmen, Englishmen from 
 Cornwall, England, and as Billy is Eng- 
 lish he took to them very readily. 
 
 Carson was our next stopping place 
 and we found it to be a nice little town. 
 It isn't far from Virginia City and is 
 the capital of Nevada. It contains a few 
 thousand people, lots of tall poplar trees 
 which stand along the streets, sage- 
 brush and alkali covered hills and 
 plains, a large stone railroad round- 
 house, the State Capitol building (which 
 is enclosed in a park several acres in 
 extent), a U. S. mint and that's about 
 all. No work to speak of is going on 
 around there and as Billy and me could 
 not get anything to do we lived on hand- 
 outs mostly. One evening we saw a 
 hen wandering about rather aimlessly, 
 so to put her out of misery we caught 
 her, wrung her neck and took her out 
 of town where we roasted her over a 
 slow fire. We rubbed her while she was 
 cooking with a little sage to make us 
 think of Christmas and devoured her by 
 starlight Bill said she reminded him 
 
of home and felt kind of blue for a few 
 moments. But he munched away and 
 soon cheered up. 
 
 It may be the proper thing here to 
 give a short description of Billy. 
 
 Billy was a little fellow, about five 
 foot two, and was a Britisher, a native 
 of the city of York, in Yorkshire, after 
 which New York is named. He was 
 what you might call a strawberry 
 blonde, for he had light hair and a mous- 
 tache that was halfway between golden 
 and red. It wasn't one of your strag- 
 gly kind of moustaches with big hairs 
 sticking out all over it, but small, neat 
 and compact with just the cutest little 
 turned up spit-curls at each end of it 
 you ever saw. Maybe Billy wasn't 
 proud of that moustache ! He was dead 
 stuck on it and was nearly always fuss- 
 ing with it and fondling it. Quite often 
 he trimmed it with the aid of a little 
 looking glass which he carried in his kit. 
 Whenever the kit was unrolled Billy got 
 the glass and admired himself with it. 
 And yet I can't say the little cuss was 
 vain, for whenever he met females he 
 seemed indifferent to their charms and 
 
8 
 
 looked another way. His eyes were blue 
 and his hands and feet small. Taken all 
 together he wasn't a bad looking chap. 
 Billy had some folks in the old country, 
 a mother and two sisters but no father 
 or brothers, and they lived in old York. 
 Billy was born and raised in York and 
 at a very early age was apprenticed to 
 a harness-maker. His folks probably 
 thought that the sooner he got out and 
 rustled the better for himself and all 
 concerned. Apprentices don't get much 
 in old England, Billy told me, and have 
 to serve long years at their trade before 
 they can become a journeyman. Billy 
 worked seven or eight years for his 
 clothes and board and an occasional 
 ha-'penny with which he bought a meat 
 pie or lollipops. 
 
 One day the idea struck him that he 
 wasn't getting rich very fast. He had 
 been working a long time and hadn't a 
 bean to show for it, so he began to grow 
 dissatisfied. He had heard some tales 
 of how easy it is to get rich in America 
 and he thought that it might be a good 
 thing if he went there. His mother and 
 sisters didn't agree with his notions but 
 
Billy didn't seem to care for that. He 
 just laid low for awhile and said noth- 
 ing. But the more he thought things 
 over the more dissatisfied he became and 
 the more determined to flit. He slept 
 in the back room of his boss's shop and 
 had to arise early every morning to take 
 down the shutters, sweep out, dust off, 
 and get things in shape generally for 
 business. 
 
 One day the boss came down and 
 found the shutters still up, the place 
 unswept and no Billy. The boss prob- 
 ably wondered where little Billy was but 
 he had to take it out in wondering, for 
 Billy had flown the coop and was over 
 the hills and far away on his way to 
 London. The boss went to Billy's folks 
 and asked them if they knew where 
 Billy was, but they told him he could 
 search them. They didn't know any- 
 thing about Billy. The boss probably 
 did some pretty tall cussing just then 
 and made up his mind that something 
 would happen to Billy when he turned 
 up, but he never did turn up and never 
 will until he (Billy) gets rich. Then 
 he'll go back to visit his folks and set- 
 
10 
 
 tie with his master, he told me. Billy 
 says the boss don't owe him any money 
 and he don't owe the boss any, so it's a 
 standoff financially between them; but 
 Billy owes him a few years of service 
 which he says he is willing to put in if 
 the boss can catch him. Billy says he 
 had a hard time of it in London and 
 found it difficult to secure passage to 
 this country. Finally, after many 
 heart-breaking experiences he secured a 
 job as steward on an ocean liner by a 
 fluke, merely because another chap who 
 had previously been engaged failed to 
 show up. Billy was in luck, he thought. 
 He landed in New York with a little tip- 
 money, for the steamship company 
 would pay him no wages unless he made 
 the round trip according to an agree- 
 ment previously made in London and 
 with this small sum of money he man- 
 aged to live until he found work. He 
 secured a job as dishwasher in a res- 
 taurant and received five dollars a week 
 arid his chuck as wages. Out of this big 
 sum he paid room rent and managed to 
 save a little money which he sent home 
 to his mother. Compared with what he 
 
11 
 
 had been getting in the old country 
 Billy considered that he was on the road 
 to fortune and he felt elated. He held 
 down his job for some months but got 
 into a difficulty one day with his boss 
 over something or other and got fired. 
 He took his discharge much to heart and 
 concluded to leave New York. He made 
 his way to Philadelphia, about one hun- 
 dred miles west, and there secured work 
 in a small restaurant as a hashslinger. 
 When he left this place because of a lit- 
 tle argument with another waiter, he 
 concluded to go out West where he was 
 told the opportunities were great. I met 
 him in a camp seated at a fire one even- 
 ing surrounded by a lot of 'bos in 
 Wyoming. He didn't look wealthy just 
 then. We scraped up an acquaintance 
 and I took to the young fellow at the 
 first go-off as I saw he was not a pro- 
 fessional vag, and we joined forces and 
 have been together ever since. 
 
 Our trip from Carson in Nevada over 
 the mountains into California was a de- 
 lightful one. From Carson to Reno the 
 scenery is no great shakes (although it 
 was over hill and dale), for the hills 
 
12 
 
 Luked lone and barren. The crops had 
 just been gathered from these hills arid 
 dales. The leaves were turning color on 
 the trees and it was the melancholy sea- 
 son of the year when nature looks blue. 
 Me and Billy weren't melancholy, how- 
 ever, for we were good company to each 
 other and never felt lonely. At Reno 
 early one morning we crept into an un- 
 sealed boxcar and rode upward to the 
 high Sierras. The scenery when day 
 broke was so fine that we were enchant- 
 ed. No barren mountains were here 
 and no sage-brush covered plains, but 
 well-timbered mountains whereon grew 
 trees and bushes of all kinds. To us it 
 seemed like wakening from autumn to 
 spring. Billy and me couldn't under- 
 stand this. A few miles away were 
 leaves that were turning in their au- 
 tumn tints whilst here everything was 
 green and fresh like the dawning of life. 
 It astonished us but made us feel good 
 all over. We were both as happy and 
 joyous as if we were millionaires. Here 
 was a beautiful sheet of water with a 
 big paper-mill near it; further along 
 was a little railroad station entirely sur- 
 
13 
 
 rounded by hills. Nothing but lofty 
 mountains towered all around us, with 
 a canyon running through them, along 
 which we rode. Ice-ponds were there 
 with no ice in them just then, for it was 
 the wrong season for ice, but numerous 
 huge ice-houses were there, which 
 showed us what the ponds were for. The 
 iron horse wound around and around 
 these lofty mountains and the keen, 
 pure air made us feel as good as if tve 
 had been taking a nip. We sure felt 
 gay and happy as larks. By-and-by we 
 reached a place called Truckee which 
 seemed to be quite a town. We hopped 
 off to reconnoiter for we knew the 
 freight train would be there some little 
 time, and noticed that there was only 
 one street in the town, which contained 
 several stores, a butcher-shop or two, 
 several restaurants, two hotels and about 
 a dozen or more saloons. As we walked 
 along the street we noticed a sign over 
 a stairway leading into a cellar which 
 read, "Benny's Gray Mule." We started 
 to go down the steps but found that 
 "Benny's Gray Mule" was shut up 
 tight. Too bad ! A saloon with such a 
 
14 
 
 romantic name as that ought to thrive. 
 We went into another saloon and I or- 
 dered two beers and threw a dime upon 
 the counter in payment. "Come again," 
 said Mr. Barkeep, giving me an evil 
 glance. I hesitated. "Another dime, 
 pardner, all drinks are ten cents here," 
 says barkeep. "All right," says I, 
 "don't get huffy; I didn't know the 
 price." I laid down another dime and 
 this Mr. Barkeep swept into his till 
 nonchalantly. 
 
 The place seemed tough and so did the 
 barkeeper. Toward the rear of the large 
 room was a lunch counter where a 
 square meal could be had for two bits 
 (25 cents) , or coffee and hot cakes for fif- 
 teen cents; sandwiches for a dime each ; 
 a piece of pie and coffee, ten cents. In 
 convenient places were gambling lay- 
 outs where a fellow could shoot craps, 
 play roulette or stud-horse poker. It 
 was too early in the day for gambling 
 but a few tough-looking nuts were there 
 sitting around and waiting for a chance 
 to try their luck. We saw all we wanted 
 of this place and sloped. Truckee is the 
 last big town in California going east- 
 
15 
 
 ward, and it is a lumber camp, railroad 
 division and icing station (refrigerator 
 cars are iced there). A pretty rough 
 old place it is. Me and Billy bought a 
 couple of loaves of bread and some 
 cheese and then made tracks for our 
 box-car. We found it all right and 
 climbed aboard. Our train had done a 
 lot of switching at Truckee and a good 
 many cars had been added to the train. 
 Two big engines now were attached to 
 the train instead of one and soon with 
 a "toot toot" we were off. It was uphill 
 all the way and the locomotives seemed 
 to be having a hard time of it for their 
 coughs were loud and deep and the hiss- 
 ing of steam incessant. To Billy and 
 me the work was easy for all we had 
 to do was to listen to the laboring en- 
 gines and look out at the pretty scen- 
 ery. The scenery was fine and no mis- 
 take, for the higher we went the prettier 
 it got. Mountains we saw everywhere 
 with spruce, fir, pine and cedar trees 
 upon them. The views were ever chang- 
 ing but soon we came to a lot of snow- 
 sheds that partly shut off the views. 
 They must have been a hundred miles in 
 
16 
 
 length, for it took us an awful long time 
 to get through them. The sheds were 
 huge affairs of timber built over the 
 track to keep off the snow in winter, 
 and I felt like stopping and counting 
 how many pieces of timber were in each 
 shed. It must have taken a forest to 
 build these sheds. 
 
 Along in the afternoon we began to 
 get hungry, so we jumped off at a place 
 called Dutch Flat, to see what we could 
 scare up in the shape of a handout. The 
 outlook didn't seem promising to us for 
 all we could see of Dutch Flat was a lot 
 of Chinese shacks strung along one side 
 of the railroad track. 
 
 "Billy, I guess we're up against it 
 here," I remarked; "I don't see any 
 signs of a white man's house around. 
 Where can we get anything to eat?" 
 
 "Let's try the Chinks; we've got to 
 have something to eat, you know ;^ we 
 can't starve," ruefully responded Billy. 
 
 We were both pretty hungry by this 
 time for the bracing mountain air had 
 given us a hearty appetite. 
 
 I stepped up to the first hut we came 
 to, rapped at the door and when a chink 
 
1? 
 
 opened it told him we were very hungry 
 and would like something to eat. 
 
 "No sabee," says the chink, slamming 
 the door.' 
 
 I tried other huts with the same re- 
 sult. It was "no sabee" with all of 
 them. I told Billy that my errand was 
 a failure and his jaw dropped. 
 
 "How much money have you got, 
 Billy?" I asked. 
 
 Billy dug down and brought up a lone 
 nickel. I had a dime. I asked Billy to 
 give me his nickel and told him that as 
 we couldn't beg any grub maybe we 
 might be able to buy fifteen cents' worth 
 of something. With the fifteen cents 
 I strode forth to try my luck once more. 
 
 I saw a very old Chinaman in front 
 of his hut and asked him if he would 
 sell me fifteen cents worth of grub. 
 
 "No gotee anything; only law (raw) 
 meat " 
 
 "What kind of meat?" 
 
 "Pork chop," answered the old man, 
 briefly. 
 
 "All right, here's fifteen cents; give 
 me some meat." 
 
 I handed him the money and he went 
 
18 
 
 inside and brought out two fair sized 
 chops. 
 
 "You sabee cookee?" asked the aged 
 celestial. 
 
 "Heap sabee, you bet; me cookee be- 
 fore," remarked I. 
 
 "All lightee," said the celestial, giv- 
 ing me a little salt and pepper. 
 
 The country around Dutch Flat was 
 hilly so Billy and me hunted up some 
 secluded spot where we could eat our 
 chops in peace and quietness. We built 
 a rousing fire, for wood around there 
 was plentiful, and put the chops upon 
 long sticks which we hung over the fire. 
 The grass around our camp was pretty 
 dry and the first thing we knew the fire 
 began to spread all over the country. 
 When we stamped it out on one side it 
 made good headway on the other side, 
 and do all we could we couldn't stop it. 
 We got scared, dropped our meat and 
 sloped. It wasn't long before the China- 
 men saw the fire and then there was a 
 whole lot of loud talk in Chinese. The 
 whole village was out in a jiffy with 
 buckets, pails, empty oil cans and any 
 old thing that would hold water and at 
 
19 
 
 it they went, trying to put out the fire. 
 Not a few of the Chinamen procured 
 wet sacks with which they tried to beat 
 out the flames, but it was no go. Me 
 and Billy returned and grabbed a sack 
 each, wet it and aided all we could in 
 putting out the fire, but it had gained 
 too much headway and defied us all. I 
 concluded that it was going to burn 
 down all the Sierra mountains before it 
 got through. There was a laundry in 
 the Chinese village for I noticed a lot of 
 white man's underwear and white shirts 
 hanging on lines to dry, and nearby was 
 the washerman's horse tethered to a 
 stake. When the horse saw and smelt 
 the flames he became frantic and was 
 a hard horse to hold. His owner ran up 
 and yelled and shouted at him<in Chinese 
 but the horse either did not or would 
 not understand what was said to him for 
 he tried to kick the stuffing out of his 
 boss and everything else that came near 
 him. He kicked down every wash line 
 that he could, one after another, and did 
 his best to break loose from his halter, 
 but it was no go. He wouldn't let his 
 boss get anyway near him for his heels 
 
20 
 
 flew in every direction and it made us 
 laugh to hear the Chinamen swear in 
 Chinese. After the brute kicked down 
 every line within reach of his heels he 
 finally broke loose and galloped over the 
 hills at a breakneck pace. For all that 
 Billy and I know to the contrary he is 
 galloping yet. Billy and me concluded 
 that it was about time for us to skip 
 out, too, so we did so. We had done 
 all we could to help put out the fire and 
 lost our grub in the operation, so we felt 
 that we had done our duty. I have often 
 thought of that fire since and wondered 
 what the result was, whether it ended 
 in great damage to the country and the 
 destruction of the Chinese village, or 
 whether the horse had ever showed up 
 again. There is no rainfall in Califor- 
 nia during the summer months, I am 
 told, and in consequence the grass and 
 much of the vegetation dries up and one 
 has to be very careful where to light a 
 fire. We didn't know that, hence the 
 disaster. 
 
 We climbed into our car again, and 
 were ready to move on whenever the 
 train did. We lit our pipes, indulged in 
 
21 
 
 a smoke, and laughed over our recent 
 experience. We must have laughed 
 pretty loud, for a head was suddenly 
 thrust into the car doorway and a stern 
 visage confronted us. It was the brake- 
 man's. "What you fellers doin' there?" 
 asked Brakey. 
 
 "Only taking a ride," responded 
 Billy. 
 
 "Where to?" asked Brakey. 
 
 "Down the line a little way." 
 
 "What are you riding on?" asked Mr. 
 Brakeman. 
 
 "On a freight train," innocently an- 
 swered Billy. 
 
 "I guffawed, for I knew Billy had 
 given the wrong answer, but Brakey 
 never cracked a smile. 
 
 "Got any money or tickets?" asked 
 he, gravely. 
 
 "No," answered Billy. 
 
 "Get off then and be quick about it," 
 was the stern command. 
 
 Off we hopped and quite crestfallen, 
 too, for our journey for the time being 
 was ended. We wandered back to the 
 railroad station to ascertain when the 
 next train would leave. There would 
 
22 
 
 be nothing until early the next morning 
 we learned, so there was nothing for 
 us to do but to unroll our blankets and 
 lay off somewhere near by where we 
 could catch a train as it came by. We 
 were very hungry, but turned in sup- 
 perless, and chewed tobacco to satisfy 
 the cravings of our stomachs. We soon 
 fell asleep but kept one ear open to 
 catch the sound of any freight train 
 coming our way. Wayfarers are 
 wonderfully acute, even in their 
 sleep, as regards noticing the ap- 
 proach of trains. No matter how 
 sound their sleep may be, they will 
 wake up at the proper time to board a 
 train nine times out of ten, unless they 
 are too badly boozed. During the 
 early hours of the morning a long train 
 full of empty cars came our way and 
 we made it easily. It was mighty 
 chilly at that time of the day, but as we 
 had on heavy overcoats, our bodies did 
 not suffer much. Our feet, however, 
 did. Fellows who beat their way, 
 though, must put up with such little 
 inconveniences without kicking. It be- 
 longs to the business. They must bear 
 
23 
 
 hunger, cold, thirst, dust, dirt and 
 other trifles of that kind and get used 
 to it. Those who travel in Pullman and 
 tourist cars pay their money and sleep 
 on feathers, but we slept just as well 
 and nearly as warmly, wrapped in our 
 blankets in a box car. During our 
 wanderings we slept on the ground, in 
 old shacks, barns, sidetracked cars or 
 any old place and got along fairly well. 
 We didn't have washbasins to wash in, 
 but we carried soap, brushes and hand- 
 glasses with us, and could make our 
 toilet at any place where there was run- 
 ning water. Water was plentiful in 
 the Sierra mountains. 
 
 We nulled out of Dutch Flat when 
 the train got ready and flew down the 
 mountain side at great speed. We could 
 go as lively as the train could in our 
 car, however, and the speed was exhil- 
 arating, but the morning breeze was 
 mighty keen and cutting. We would 
 have given a great deal for a cup of 
 hot coffee just then, but of course it 
 wasn't to be had. 
 
 When we neared a place called Au- 
 burn we saw a grove of trees, the leaves 
 
24 
 
 of which were a deep green, and among 
 them hung little balls of golden yellow 
 fruit that looked good to us. 
 
 "Hi, Billy/' exclaimed I, "look at 
 them yellow balls hanging on the trees, 
 will you? Wonder what they are?" 
 
 Billy looked at them fixedly for quite 
 a while and then suddenly made a 
 shrewd guess. 
 
 "Them's oranges, Windy, as sure as 
 we're alive." 
 
 These were the first oranges Billy or 
 I had ever seen growing on trees and 
 they surely looked good to us. They 
 reminded us of Christmas trees. We 
 would liked to have jumped out to get 
 some oranges for breakfast, but they 
 were so near and yet so far that we 
 desisted. How tantalizing it was to 
 see a tempting breakfast before you 
 and not be able to eat it. But the train 
 didn't stop anywhere for refreshments, 
 so that let us out. When we got down 
 to a place called Roseville, which was 
 a junction, we noticed several orange 
 trees standing near the depot with 
 plenty of oranges hanging amid the 
 leaves, and oh, how we did long to make 
 
25 
 
 a rush for them. The train crew was 
 on that side of the train, however, and 
 there were plenty of people near the 
 depot so we dared not make the venture. 
 Oh, if this train would only stop twenty 
 minutes for refreshments maybe we 
 could get a handout, but it didn't stop, 
 so we had to go hungry till we reached 
 Sacramento. 
 
 We got to Sacramento, the Capital 
 of California, before noon, and jumped 
 off the train in the railroad yard, keep- 
 ing an eye on the bulls and fly-cops that 
 buzzed around there. No one got on 
 to us so we walked leisurely along with 
 our blankets slung over our shoulders. 
 The railroad yards were quite extensive 
 and it took us quite a while to traverse 
 them. In them were car shops, found- 
 ries and all kinds of buildings and 
 things pertaining to railroads. Sacra- 
 mento is a railroad division, the 
 first out of Frisco, I believe, and 
 we noticed a good deal doing in the 
 way of railroad manufacturing, but we 
 were too hungry to care for such things 
 just then. We got to the passenger 
 
26 
 
 train shed which was a large housed- 
 over building of glass and iron, and out- 
 side of it came upon a broad street which 
 led into the town. Alongside of this 
 street I noticed a slough with green 
 scum upon it which didn't look good to 
 me for swimming or any other purpose. 
 On the other side of this pond was a 
 big Chinatown and Billy and me 
 thought we might as well see what it 
 looked like. We entered it and saw a 
 young workingman come out of a ten- 
 cent restaurant. Billy stepped up to 
 him and boned him for the price of a 
 square meal. He listened to Billy's 
 hungry tale of woe and coughed up a 
 dime with which we bought two loaves 
 of bread. We then wandered through 
 the streets looking for a retired spot 
 where we could sit down and eat but 
 the streets in that locality were so filthy 
 and the Mongolians so plentiful that 
 we concluded to keep a moving. We 
 came to J and then to K Street, which 
 were broad business thoroughfares full 
 of stores and then we walked along K 
 Street until we saw a shady green park. 
 
27 
 
 To it we wandered and found a com- 
 fortable rustic seat under the shade of 
 a spreading oak tree. We threw our 
 blankets behind our seat and sat down 
 and blew off steam. We were tired, 
 hot, dusty and hungry. While eat- 
 ing we looked about us. The park 
 wasn't a large one but it was a trim one. 
 The lawns were shaved down close, the 
 winding walks were well-kept, there 
 were flowers to be seen, palm trees, 
 pampas-plume bushes and, oh ye gods! 
 orange trees with oranges on them. 
 
 "Say Billy," remarked I with my 
 mouth full of bread, "get on to the or- 
 ange trees, will you?" 
 
 "Where?" asked Billy, with wide- 
 staring eyes. 
 
 "Why, right along the walk up that 
 way," said I, pointing. 
 
 "Sure enough," says Billy, "keep an 
 eye on my grub, will you, while I get a 
 hatful," said he excitedly. 
 
 "Keep your eyes peeled for cops," ad- 
 monished I, as Billy rushed off. 
 
 Billy made the riffle all right and 
 came back with four or five nice looking 
 
28 
 
 oranges, which were all he could carry. 
 He remarked that they would do for 
 the present. After stowing the bread 
 and getting a drink of muddy water 
 from a fountain near by, we tackled 
 the oranges and found them dry and 
 tasteless and bitter as gall. 
 
 "Call them things oranges!" sneered 
 Billy, as he threw his portion away with 
 disgust ; why they're bitter as gall. I've 
 bought many a better orange than that 
 in the old country for a penny. 
 
 "I thought they raised good oranges 
 in California," said I, "but if they're 
 all like these, then I don't want any of 
 them," whereupon I threw mine over 
 my shoulder, too, into the shrubbery 
 behind me. Oh, weren't they bitter; 
 Boo! 
 
 "Billy, we've been misinformed," 
 said I, "the oranges in California are 
 N. G." 
 
 ( "Right you are, Windy, but as they 
 didn't cost us anything we oughtn't to 
 kick." 
 
 After eating and resting, we took in 
 thetown. We found Sacramento to be 
 a sizeable place, containing about fifty 
 
29 
 
 thousand people, and the people to us 
 seemed sociable, chatty and friendly. 
 We both liked the place first class, and 
 as we were broke, concluded to try our 
 luck there for awhile. We struck a 
 street cleaning job and held it down for 
 a week. The water used in Sacramento 
 comes from the Sacramento river, we 
 were told, and as it wasn't at all good, 
 we took to beer, as did many others. 
 We were told about a class of people in 
 Sacramento called Native Sons, who 
 monopolized all the good things in the 
 way of jobs. Native Sons are native 
 born Calif ornians who take a great deal 
 of pride in their state and have an or- 
 ganization which they call the Native 
 Sons of the Golden West. The aim of 
 this organization is to beautify Califor- 
 nia, plant trees, keep up the old mis- 
 sions, preserve the giant redwood trees, 
 forests, and the like. Lots of fellows 
 spoke ill of the Native Sons, but we 
 didn't, for they weren't hurting us any. 
 The native Californians we met in Sac- 
 ramento to us seemed a genial sort of 
 people who are willing to do strangers 
 or anyone a good turn, if they can. 
 
30 
 
 Lots of them were hustlers and full of 
 business and their city surely is a 
 snorter. There are several large parks 
 in Sacramento, fruit and vegetable 
 markets, and any number of swell sa- 
 loons where a schooner of beer and a 
 free lunch can be had for a nickel. Then 
 there is the Western Hotel, State House 
 and Capitol Hotels, all of which are big 
 ones, and any number of fine stores and 
 lots of broad, well-shaded residence 
 streets, traction cars, electric lights, 
 etc. The city is right up to date. 
 
 After we had been there about a 
 week, Billy suddenly got a severe attack 
 of the shakes and seemed in a bad way. 
 His lips turned blue, his eyes burned 
 with fever, his teeth rattled like clap- 
 pers, and his body shook as if he had 
 the jim-jams. I went to a dispensary 
 and had some dope fixed up for him, 
 but it didn't seem to do him any good. 
 I then bought a quart bottle of whiskey, 
 and poured the whole of it down his 
 throat. He took to it as naturally as a 
 kid does to its mother's milk, but every 
 day the poor little cuss got worse. 
 
31 
 
 "Let's hike out of this place, Billy," 
 said I; "the best cure for the shakes is 
 to go where there isn't any, for as long 
 as we stay here you'll be sick." 
 
 Billy, as usual, was willing to do as I 
 said (and I was always willing to do as 
 he said), so we made tracks out of Sac- 
 ramento in pretty short order. 
 
 We crossed the Sacramento river, 
 which is about a half a mile across, on 
 a wooden bridge, and it was all Billy 
 could do to walk across it. He was as 
 weak as a kitten and so groggy on his 
 pins that he could hardly stand up. 
 Some neople who saw him probably 
 thought he was boozed, but he wasn't, 
 any more than I was. I took hold of his 
 arm and led him alono\ but the little 
 cuss sat down on a string piece of the 
 bridge and told me to let him die in 
 peace. 
 
 "Die nothing, you silly little Brit- 
 isher: you ain't any nearer death than 
 I am," said I. "Sit down and rest your- 
 self and then we'll take another little 
 hike. We'll make a train somewherp 
 on the other side of the river, then ho! 
 for 'Frisco, where our troubles will 
 
32 
 
 soon be ended. Brace up, old man, 
 and never say die." 
 
 I jollied the little cuss along in that 
 way until we got to a little station 
 where we could catch a train and we 
 soon did catch one. 
 
 We rode on to Davis, which was a 
 junction, and close to the station I saw 
 a large vineyard. I pointed it out to 
 Billy. 
 
 "Stay where you are, Billy, and I'll 
 get you some grapes," said I. 
 
 Grapes were ripe just then. I jumped 
 over the fence and secured a big hatful 
 of fine big, flaming tokay grapes. They 
 were delicious and did Billy a world of 
 good. 
 
 We were now fairly on our way to 
 'Frisco, the Mecca of all bums. We 
 never saw a bum yet who hadn't been 
 in 'Frisco or who didn't know all about 
 the city. 
 
 Billy and me had heard about it, but 
 hadn't seen it, and though we were on 
 the tramp, didn't consider ourselves 
 bums. We worked when we could find 
 something to do, but when there was 
 nothing to do, of course we couldn't do 
 
33 
 
 it. Work is something a bum will never 
 do. Lots of the bums we met along the 
 road were criminals and some of them 
 pretty desperate ones at that. A few 
 were chaps who were merely traveling 
 to get somewhere and had no money to 
 pay their way. Others had money and 
 would not pay. Some were honest la- 
 boring men flitting from point to point 
 in search of work, and not a few were 
 unfortunates who had- held high posi- 
 tions and were down and out through 
 drink or misfortune of some sort. 
 There were all sorts beating their way, 
 and there always will be. The profes- 
 sional vag is a low down fellow who 
 has few redeeming qualities. He is 
 agreeable with his chums and that is 
 about all. Neither Billy nor I were 
 low, base born fellows, or criminals, 
 and our parents were respectable, so 
 that is why we took to each other. We 
 were fellow mortals in distress, that 
 is all. We did not think it very wrong 
 to take a chicken if we were very hun- 
 gry, but that was the extent of our evil 
 doing. We bought our own clothes, 
 blankets, etc., and never broke into a 
 
34 
 
 house to steal anything. One outfit that 
 we were with at one time in Utah, one 
 night stole a suit case that was stand- 
 ing on the platform of a railroad sta- 
 tion and they divided up its contents 
 among themselves. It consisted of a 
 coat, vest, pants, collars, ties, handker- 
 chiefs, brush, combs, etc., and had we 
 been caught the whole bunch of us 
 might have been pinched, but the gang 
 made tracks in a hurry and got as far 
 away from the scene of the robbery 
 as they could. Some of the characters 
 we met in our travels would have con- 
 taminated a saint almost, for their 
 looks, actions and words revealed their 
 disposition. The higher up in crime 
 some of these chaps were, and the abler 
 and more desperate, the more were they 
 admired by some of their fellows. This 
 kind of chaps were generally the cap- 
 tains of the camp, and gave orders that 
 were readily obeyed by the others. One 
 bum was generally commanded by the 
 captain to go and rustle up bread, an- 
 other was sent for meat, a third for 
 coffee, a fourth for suear, a fifth for 
 pepper and salt, etc. No matter how 
 
35 
 
 things were obtained, if they were ob- 
 tained no questions were asked. 
 
 One fellow returned to camp with 
 a quarter of a lamb one night and 
 boastfully told how he had got it. It 
 had hung up outside a butcher shop 
 and he stole it. The captain mumbled 
 his approval in low tones, for he was 
 too mighty to praise loudly or in many 
 words. 
 
 The ways of hobos are various, and 
 it would take up a great deal of space 
 to describe them in detail. 
 
 It was along toward sundown when 
 we made a train out of Davis, Davis, 
 like Sacramento, was a pretty hard 
 town to get out of, and the best we 
 could do was to ride the rods. That 
 was easy enough, even for Billy, who 
 was rather delicate at that time. The 
 rods under some freight cars are many 
 and well arranged for riding purposes. 
 They are fairly thick bars of iron set 
 close together, stretching from one 
 side of the car to the other, underneath 
 the body of the car, and though not 
 very often soft, when an overcoat is 
 strung across them, with rolled up 
 
36 
 
 blankets for a pillow, they are the next 
 best thing to a berth in a Pullman car. 
 When one side of our body ached, we 
 just turned over to the other side, and 
 it beat riding on the bumpers or brake- 
 beams all hollow. A berth in a Pull- 
 man costs about five dollars per night, 
 fare extra, so we were saving lots of 
 money. Beating our way on a railroad 
 we considered no crime at all, for to 
 judge from what I can read in the 
 newspapers, the railroads rob the peo- 
 ple, so why shouldn't the people rob 
 them? That's a good argument, 
 ain't it? 
 
 The measly old train must have been 
 a way-freight, for she made long stops 
 at every little excuse of a town she 
 came to. About, ten o'clock at night 
 she came to a place called Benicia, and 
 there the train was cut in two, so I 
 hopped off to see what the difficulty 
 was. On both sides and ahead of us 
 was water. I rushed back to Billy and 
 told him to get off in a hurry. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Billy. 
 
 "There's water all around us, and I 
 guess they're going to carry the cars 
 
37 
 
 over on a ferry boat. I suppose our 
 journey for the night will end here." 
 
 "Not much, Windy," replied Billy; 
 "I want to get to 'Frisco tonight and 
 maybe we can pay our way across on 
 the boat." 
 
 We walked boldly on a boat that we 
 saw the cars being pulled onto by a 
 locomotive, and when we got near a 
 cabin a ship's officer stepped up to us 
 and wanted to know where we were 
 going. 
 
 "To 'Frisco," said I. 
 
 "To 'Frisco?" said he with a grin. 
 "Well, you'll have to pay your way 
 across the ferry on this boat." 
 
 "What's the fare?" asked Billy. 
 
 "Seeing that you two are good-look- 
 ing fellows, I'll only charge you ten 
 cents apiece," said the captain, or offi- 
 cer, jokingly. 
 
 We both drew a long breath of relief, 
 for we thought the boat was going to 
 'Frisco and that we'd have to pay a big 
 price. I handed the good-natured offi- 
 cer two dimes for us both and we felt 
 happy once more. The boat wasn't 
 long making the trip, only about ten 
 
38 
 
 minutes or so, and on the other side we 
 found no difficulty in making our train 
 again, after she was made up. We held 
 her down until she reached Oakland, 
 which is opposite 'Frisco. There we 
 learned there was one more ferry to 
 cross before we could get into 'Frisco, 
 so Billy and I decided to remain where 
 we were for the night, for it was late. 
 We prowled around until we found an 
 open freight car, and turned in for a 
 snooze. 
 
 The next morning was a beautiful 
 one, and we were up and out by day- 
 light. The weather wasn't cold, the sun 
 was bright and cheery, but over 
 'Frisco we could see a sort of fog hang- 
 ing. It was easy enough to see across 
 the bay of San Francisco, for the dis- 
 tance is only about five miles, but the 
 length of the bay we could not deter- 
 mine, for it stretched further than the 
 eye could reach. We noticed an island 
 in the bay not far from Oakland, and 
 from Oakland a long wharf extended 
 far out into the harbor, maybe a mile 
 or so. We walked along this wharf un- 
 til we came to a big train-shed and 
 
39 
 
 ferry house combined, where we 
 coughed up two more dimes and got 
 upon a large ferry-boat. As it was 
 very early in the morning, very few 
 passengers were on the boat. We 
 walked to the front of the boat and 
 drank in the delicious morning breeze. 
 The ferry-boat was as large and fine a 
 one as I had ever seen. It was a double- 
 decker with large cabins below and 
 aloft, and with runways for vehicles 
 between. The cabins were very spa- 
 cious and handsomely fitted up. 
 
 At about half past five the boat 
 started on her way across, and now we 
 were making a straight shoot for 
 'Frisco. Talking of 'Frisco, by the 
 way, permit me to say a word about 
 the name. The people of San Fran- 
 cisco don't like to have their city called 
 'Frisco, but prefer to have it called by 
 its full title. They think the abbrevia- 
 tion is a slur. I can't see it in that 
 light. 'Frisco is short and sweet and 
 fills the bill; life is too short to call it 
 San Francisco. 
 
 The ride across the bay was fine and 
 lasted about half an hour. We passed 
 
40 
 
 an island which someone told us was 
 Goat Island, and Billy and me won- 
 dered whether there were any billies or 
 nannies on it. We didn't get close 
 enough to see any. Further on we saw 
 another island which was hilly like 
 Goat Island. It was called Alcatraz. 
 It contained an army post and was 
 fortified. It looked formidable, we 
 thought. Not very far away, and 
 straight out, was the Golden Gate, 
 which had no gates near it that we 
 could see, but just two headlands about 
 a mile or so apart. Outside of the 
 Golden Gate is the Pacific Ocean. 
 
 We were now nearing 'Frisco, which 
 lay right ahead of us. Nothing but 
 steep hills could we see. They were 
 built up compactly with houses. As we 
 got close to the shore we saw plenty of 
 level streets and wharves, and along- 
 side of the wharves, ships. We steered 
 straight for a tall tower on which there 
 was a huge clock, which told us the 
 time — six o'clock. We entered the ferry 
 slip, moored fast and soon set foot in 
 'Frisco. 
 
41 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 'FRISCO. 
 
 Our first glimpse of 'Frisco made us 
 like the place. Near the ferry slip were 
 eating joints by the bushel, more sa- 
 loons than you could shake a stick at, 
 sailors' boarding houses, fruit stands 
 containing fruit that made our teeth 
 water; oyster-houses, lodging-houses — 
 in fact there was everything there to 
 make a fellow feel right at home. 
 'Frisco is all right and everyone who 
 has been there will tell you so. What 
 she ain't got ain't worth having. Every 
 bum that I ever saw spoke well of the 
 town and gave it a good name. It is a 
 paradise for grafters. You can get as 
 good a meal there for ten cents as you 
 will have to pay double for anywhere 
 else. Fruit is fine, plentiful and cheap ; 
 vegetables are enormous in size and 
 don't cost anything, hardly; any and 
 every kind of fish is there; meats are 
 wonderful to behold, and not dear ; and 
 say, it's an all-around paradise, sure 
 enough. Every kind of people can be 
 
42 
 
 found there — Greasers, Greeks, Scan- 
 dinavians , Spanish, Turks, Armenians, 
 Hebrews, Italians, Germans, Chinese, 
 Japanese, negroes and all sorts. It is 
 a vast international city. 
 
 Bums are there in unlimited quanti- 
 ties, any number of criminals, bunco- 
 men, "chippies" till you can't rest, 
 highbinders by the score up in China- 
 town, and lots of bad people. The town 
 is noted for being pretty lively. It sure- 
 ly is wide open and you can sit in a 
 little game at any time. Californians 
 in particular and Westerners general- 
 ly take to gambling as naturally as a 
 darky does to watermelons and pork 
 chops. The 'Frisco gambling* houses 
 are never closed. Efforts have been 
 made to close them but they were futile. 
 Might as well try to sweep back the 
 ocean with a broom. There are lots of 
 good people in 'Frisco, but the bad ones 
 are more than numerous. I think 
 'Frisco is about the liveliest, dizziest 
 place on the continent today, of its size. 
 It has more restaurants, saloons, the- 
 aters, dance halls, pull-in-and-drag-out 
 places, groceries with saloon attach- 
 
43 
 
 ments to them, than any place I ever 
 struck. Money is plentiful, easy to ob- 
 tain and is spent lavishly. A dollar 
 seems less to a Californian than a dime 
 to an Easterner. He will let it go 
 quicker and think less of it. If he goes 
 into a restaurant or saloon and buys a 
 drink or meal which does not suit him, 
 he pays the price and makes no kick, 
 but don't go there again. He don't be- 
 lieve in kicking. He was not brought 
 up that way. He will lose his money 
 at the races arid try his luck again. 
 "Better luck next time," says he, and 
 his friends to him. He will take his 
 girl out and blow in his money for her 
 on the very best of everything. The 
 best theater, the best wine supper are 
 none too good for his girl. What if he 
 does go broke, there's plenty more 
 money to be had. Money is no object 
 to a 'Friscoite. Billy and I weren't in 
 'Frisco long before we got onto these 
 things. Calif ornians are sociable and 
 will talk to anyone. Billy concluded to 
 live and die there, the place suited him 
 so well. Work was plentiful, wages 
 were high, and the working hours few. 
 
44 
 
 Billy said it beat the old country all 
 hollow. Ha'-pennies or tup-pennies 
 didn't go here; the least money used 
 was nickels and dimes. Nothing could 
 be purchased for less than a nickel (five 
 cents) for even a newspaper of any 
 kind cost that much. No wonder the 
 newsboys could shoot craps or play the 
 races. Even the servant girls gam- 
 bled in something or other. 'Frisco is 
 all right. Bet your sweet life! The 
 rest of America ain't in it with her. 
 Lots of Britishers live there, too ; that 
 is why Billy liked it so well. Every- 
 one who ain't sick or got the belly ache, 
 or some other trouble, likes 'Frisco. As 
 regards climate! They have it in 
 'Frisco. About sixty degrees by the 
 thermometer all the year round. No 
 snow, ice, cyclones or mosquitoes; but 
 bed-bugs, fleas, earthquakes and fogs. 
 As for fleas, they are thick in 'Frisco 
 and mighty troublesome. When you 
 see a lady or gent pinch his or her leg 
 that means a bite — flea. As 'Frisco is 
 built on a sandy peninsula, that may be 
 the reason why fleas are so plentiful, 
 for it is said they like sandy spots. 
 
45 
 
 Billy and I had a little money which 
 we earned in Sacramento, so we con- 
 cluded that the first thing to do was to 
 get a square meal. We sought out a 
 likely looking restaurant along the 
 water front where a good meal could be 
 had for ten cents and in we went. I 
 ordered a steak and Billy ordered mut- 
 ton chops ; Billy wanted tea and I want- 
 ed coffee. Each of us had a bowl of 
 mush first, then potatoes, bread and 
 butter, hot cakes, tea or coffee, and 
 meat. More than we could eat was put 
 before us and I had a horse-like appe- 
 tite. Billy was a little off his feed. The 
 meal was as good as it was cheap. The 
 next thing to be done was to hunt up a 
 lodging place. There were any number 
 of them in the vicinity, and we soon 
 found a joint where the two of us could 
 room together for a dollar and a half 
 per week. The place was over a saloon, 
 and though it wasn't high-toned, it 
 seemed neat enough. 
 
 The next event on the program 
 was sight-seeing. We left our things 
 under lock and key in our room and 
 leisurely strolled along the water front 
 
46 
 
 to see what we could see. While stroll- 
 ing along the street facing the wharves, 
 we were passing a clothing store when 
 a Hebrew gentleman stepped out and 
 asked us if we wanted to buy a suit of 
 clothes. We told him no, but he didn't 
 seem to want to take "no" for an an- 
 swer. 
 
 "Shentlemens, I got some mighty fine 
 clothes inside and I'll sell them very 
 cheap." 
 
 "Ain't got no money, today," said I, 
 as we tried to pass on. 
 
 "Don't be in der hurry," said the 
 Hebrew gentleman; come in and take a 
 look, it won't cost you noddings." 
 
 I was for moving on, but Billy said, 
 "What's the harm? Let's go in and 
 see what he's got." 
 
 In we went, slowly and cautiously, 
 but we knew the old Jew couldn't rob 
 us in open daylight. 
 
 "What size do you wear?" asked he 
 of Billy. 
 
 "Damfino," says Billy; "I didn't 
 come in to buy any clothes today." 
 
 "Let me measure you," says the Is- 
 raelite, "I got some clothes here that 
 
47 
 
 will make your eyes water when you 
 see dem." 
 
 Billy stood up and let his measure 
 be taken. This done, the vender of 
 clothes made an inspection of the cloth- 
 ing-piles, calling out to Jakie in a back 
 room to come forth and assist. Jakie 
 appeared, and seemed a husky chap of 
 twenty-five or so. Jakie had been eat- 
 ing his breakfast. The two storekeep- 
 ers went through the clothing piles. 
 
 "Aha!" triumphantly exclaimed the 
 old Hebrew. "I've got a fine suit here. 
 Dey'll make you look like a gentleman. 
 Try 'em on," turning to Billy. 
 
 He brought forth the clothes where 
 Billy could examine them, but after ex- 
 amination Billy shook his head. 
 
 "You don't like 'em?" exclaimed the 
 old gent; "what's de matter with 'em?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't fancy that kind of 
 cloth," said Billy. 
 
 It looked like gray blotting paper. 
 
 "What kind do you like?" asked the 
 Hebrew, rather aggressively. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," answered Billy. 
 
 The Jew was getting mad, but he 
 
48 
 
 brought forth another suit after a short 
 search. 
 
 "Here is something fine; you kin 
 wear 'em for efery day or Sunday." 
 
 Billy examined the clothes, but shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Dry 'em on! Dry 'em on! You'll see 
 they'll fid you like der paper on der 
 vail!" 
 
 "What's the use trying 'em on?" said 
 Billy, quietly; "I don't like 'em and 
 they wouldn't fit me anyway." 
 
 "Not like 'em!" exclaimed the now 
 thoroughly enraged clothing merchant; 
 "I don't think you want to buy no 
 clothes at all; you couldn't get a finer 
 suit of clothes in San Francisco, and 
 look at der price, too ; only ten dollars, 
 so hellup me Isaac!" 
 
 "The price is all right, but I don't 
 like the cut of the clothes," said Billy. 
 
 "You don't like der style?" 
 
 The angry man now got the thought 
 through his noddle that Billy wasn't 
 going to buy any clothes, whereupon he 
 grew furious. 
 
 "What you come in here for, you 
 
49 
 
 dirty tramp. Get out of here, or I trow 
 you out." 
 
 Here I stepped up and told the mis- 
 erable duffer what I thought of him. 
 I expected there was going to be a 
 knock down and drag out scene, but as 
 there were two of us, the two Israelites 
 thought better of it than to tackle us. 
 The young feller hadn't said a word, 
 but the old man was mad clear through. 
 If he had been younger I would have 
 swiped him one just for luck. We got 
 out of the place all right, the old man 
 and I telling each other pretty loud 
 what we thought of each other. I told 
 Billy he ought not to have gone in there 
 at all for he didn't intend to buy any 
 clothes. 
 
 "He wanted me to go in, didn't he, 
 whether I wanted to or not?" asked 
 Billy. 
 
 t "Of course, he did. You should have 
 given him a kick in the rump and 
 skipped out. That's what I would have 
 done." 
 
 "I'm glad it didn't end in a row. We 
 might have got into trouble," concluded 
 Billy. 
 
50 
 
 We strolled along the wharves to see 
 the shipping. The ferry-house at the 
 foot of Market Street is a huge gran- 
 ite building (with a lofty clock-tower 
 on top) wherein are to be found the 
 various ticket offices of the Southern 
 Pacific, Santa Fe, the North Shore, 
 California & North Western and other 
 railroads. Up stairs in the second story 
 is an extensive horticultural exhibit, 
 where are displayed the products of 
 California ; there are the offices of vari- 
 ous railroad and other officials, there, 
 too. To take a train on any railroad 
 one must cross the bay on a ferry-boat. 
 Each railroad line has its own line of 
 ferry-boats and slips. One line of 
 boats crosses to Oakland, Alameda and 
 Berkeley; another to Tiburon; a third 
 to Sausalito; a fourth to Point Rich- 
 mond, etc. Every boat is a fine one 
 and those of the Santa Fe Railroad 
 plying to Point Richmond are all paint- 
 ed yellow. The traffic at the ferry 
 building is considerable at all hours of 
 the day and night. 
 
 The next wharf, which is also a cov- 
 ered one like the ferry-house, is the 
 
51 
 
 landing-place of the Stockton steam- 
 boats. There are two lines of these 
 boats plying between 'Frisco and Stock- 
 ton, and they are rivals. The distance 
 between Stockton and 'Frisco by water 
 is about one hundred miles, yet the fare 
 is only fifty cents. There are sleeping 
 berths aboard, if one cares to use them, 
 at fifty cents each, and meals may be 
 had for twenty-five cents. Fifty cents 
 in Western lingo is called four bits, and 
 twenty-five cents, two bits. A dime is 
 a short bit and fifteen cents a long bit ; 
 six bits is seventy-five cents, and a dol- 
 lar is simply called a dollar. 
 
 A few of the wharves we noticed 
 were roofed over, but some were not. 
 The Folsom Street Wharf is devoted to 
 the United States Army transport ser- 
 vice, and a huge transport ship going 
 to Manila and other eastern countries 
 can be seen there at any time, almost. 
 No one is allowed on this wharf, except 
 on business. As we hadn't any particu- 
 lar business on this wharf we didn't 
 care to go upon it. There was a watch- 
 man at the gate. At a wharf or two 
 from this one all the whaling vessels 
 
52 
 
 dock, and ' Frisco today is the greatest 
 whaling port in America, we were told. 
 There was one whaling vessel there at 
 the time, but she didn't look good to us. 
 She was short, squat, black and grimy, 
 and smelled loudly of oil. Billy and I 
 concluded we wouldn't care to sail in 
 such a ship for a hundred dollars per 
 month. Near by was a long uncovered 
 wharf which extended quite a way out 
 into the water. At either side of it 
 were moored big deep-sea going vessels. 
 One was the Dumbarton, of Glasgow, 
 another the Selkirk, a third the Necker 
 — all foreigners. The Selkirk was 
 British, and Billy's heart warmed to 
 her. When he saw an English flag fly- 
 ing on one of the masts tears came to 
 his eyes and he got homesick. He 
 walked up the gang-plank and wanted 
 to go on board, but a sailor on deck told 
 him there was no admittance. Billy 
 marched down again much crestfallen. 
 There are lots of evil characters in 
 9 Frisco, so that is why the mariners are 
 wary. 
 
 We slowly sauntered along the 
 wharf, and at a string piece at the end 
 
53 
 
 of it we came across other idlers, sev- 
 eral of whom were engaged in fishing. 
 We saw several young sharks pulled up 
 and several other kinds of fish that we 
 didn't know the names of. After watch- 
 ing the fishing for a while we moved 
 on and went into some of the side 
 streets. They were full of saloons, some 
 of which were fitted up very handsome- 
 ly with plate-glass, fine woodwork, 
 marble floors and elaborate bars with 
 free lunch counter. Other saloons were 
 mere groggeries in which we could see 
 and hear sailors and longshoremen 
 singing and dancing. Steam beer and 
 lager was five cents a glass and whiskey 
 ten cents. Sailors' boarding-houses 
 were numerous in these localities, as 
 were hotels, stores of all kinds, ship- 
 outfitting shops, lumber yards, coal 
 offices, foundries, iron works and the 
 like. 
 
 We now strolled up Market Street, 
 which is the main thoroughfare of 
 'Frisco. It is a broad street, flanked 
 on either side by wholesale and retail 
 commercial establishments, high-toned 
 saloons and restaurants. Many street 
 
54 
 
 car lines traverse this street by means 
 of cables, and there are one or two 
 horse-car lines. 
 
 The street was a lively one, and 
 thronged with people and vehicles. Billy 
 and I had heard a great deal about the 
 Golden Gate Park, the Cliff House, the 
 Seal Rocks and the Sutro Baths, so we 
 concluded to take a little jaunt out that 
 way to see what those places were like. 
 . The first things we wanted to see 
 were the seals. 
 
 We boarded a street-car running out 
 to the Cliff House, and found the ride 
 a long and interesting one. The dis- 
 tance was many miles and the fare only 
 five cents. There was much to be seen. 
 Long stretches of unfamiliar streets 
 rolled by, residence and business sec- 
 tions, strange looking houses, hills and 
 valleys, and the like. The air was won- 
 derfully balmy and bracing and not 
 a bit cold. The car whirled us along 
 very rapidly and revealed to us a great 
 deal of Golden Gate Park, and further 
 on lofty tree-covered hills, bare sand 
 hills, and a very extensive public build- 
 ing of some sort whfch was perched on 
 
55 
 
 a tree clad hillside, and then it skimmed 
 along parallel with the ocean. We saw 
 no ships on the ocean, but it was a grand 
 sight nevertheless. We rushed by a 
 life-saving station at railroad speed, 
 which we regretted, for we should like 
 to have seen more of it, and after rid- 
 ing about a mile or so more, finally- 
 stopped alongside a shed, which was the 
 end of the car line. Here we hopped 
 off with the rest of the crowd, and 
 walked along a wooden sidewalk which 
 was laid over the sands. Two or three 
 restaurants and saloons were to be seen 
 in the vicinity, and about a half dozen 
 booths. There was a picture gallery or 
 two, and fruit and peanut stands. 
 
 We bought some candy and peanuts 
 to keep from getting hungry, and then 
 followed the crowd to the beach. We 
 walked along the beach and then up a 
 hill leading to the Cliff House. The 
 views along this road were fine. We 
 came to the Cliff House and saw it was 
 nothing more nor less than a large hotel 
 built on a cliff. It looked pretty high- 
 toned to us, so me and Billy hesitated 
 about going in. 
 
56 
 
 "They'll soak us when we get in 
 there, Windy," warned Billy. 
 
 "Nary time, Billy," retorted I. 
 "We'll go in and if they try to hold us 
 up we'll skip." 
 
 "All right, then ; let's try our luck," 
 said Billy. 
 
 In we went, and saw a barroom, 
 which we didn't enter. Further on was 
 a glass covered porch, along which 
 were disposed tables and chairs, and 
 which invited us to sit down and have 
 something. We were not hungry or 
 thirsty just then, so we kept a- walking, 
 and through an open window facing 
 the sea we saw some tall rocks in the 
 water, about a quarter of a mile dis- 
 tant, upon which were a whole lot of 
 seals that were barking to beat the 
 band. 
 
 "There's the seals, Billy, large as 
 life, sure enough," remarked I. Billy 
 stared. 
 
 "I'll be blowed if they ain't cheeky 
 beggars," said he, with a face full of 
 astonishment. "It's a wonder they'd 
 come so near to the shore." 
 
 Some of the animals were snoozing 
 
57 
 
 on the rocks, others were crawling up 
 the rocky sides of the islet, a few were 
 bellowing, and the whole place seemed 
 covered with them. A wonderful sight 
 it was ! We looked until we grew tired, 
 and I wanted to drag Billy away, but he 
 didn't seem to want to go. 
 
 "There's other things to be seen, 
 Billy," said I; "we can't stay here all 
 day." 
 
 Billy tore himself away reluctantly 
 and then we wandered over to the Sutro 
 Heights, which is a tall hill with fine 
 and extensive gardens upon it. From 
 this hill a fine view of the ocean may 
 be obtained. There are fine drives in 
 these gardens bordered with flowers, 
 shady walks, statues, fountains, rustic 
 arbors and seats, cosy niches where one 
 could sit and view the ocean, roads built 
 terrace-like upon the cliffs, and other 
 very pretty features. A lovely spot in- 
 deed, it was. It was built by Mr. 
 Adolph Sutro, a millionaire. It was 
 free to all. We walked in the gardens 
 until we grew tired, and then sat 
 down and contemplated the ocean. Af- 
 terward we strolled toward Golden 
 
58 
 
 Gate Park and inspected it. It was 
 close by and we found it a very exten- 
 sive one. It seemed endless, indeed, to 
 us, for long before we reached an en- 
 trance where we could take a car, we 
 were dead tired. We took another 
 route going cityward, for we wanted to 
 see as much of the city as we could. 
 The more we saw of 'Frisco, the better 
 we liked it. It must be seen to be ap- 
 preciated. We reached Market Street 
 all right, and then we knew where we 
 were. We strolled down toward the 
 ferry-house, near which we knew our 
 lodging-house to be, and after having a 
 good supper, we went to our room to 
 lay off until evening, when there would 
 be more sight-seeing. 
 
 "What do you think of 'Frisco, 
 Windy?" asked Billy. 
 
 "Suits me to a T, Billy. Believe I'll 
 camp here for a while." 
 
 "Same here, Windy. I never struck 
 a place I like better. I think a fellow 
 can get on here. I'm going to try it, 
 anyway." 
 
 "I'm with you, Billy," said I. 
 "Where'll we go this evening?" 
 
59 
 
 "I've heard a lot about Chiney town. 
 Suppose we go there." 
 
 "Good idea ! Let's take it in." 
 Accordingly, about eight o'clock that 
 evening we strolled forth, bent on see- 
 ing 'Frisco by gaslight. The streets 
 were well lighted and we found no diffi- 
 culty in moving about. By making in- 
 quiries we readily found our way to the 
 Mongolian district. What we saw there 
 filled us with amazement. Street after 
 street we saw (and long ones at that) 
 inhabited solely by slanty-eyed* Asiat- 
 ics. There were thousands of them, 
 and it seemed to us that we were trans- 
 planted into a Chinese city. All kinds 
 of Chinese establishments were located 
 in this quarter; barber shops, drug 
 stores, furnishing goods stores, butcher 
 shops, cigar manufacturing establish- 
 ments, restaurants (chop suey) , temples, 
 theaters, opium joints in back alleys 
 and basements, street venders who sold 
 fruits, street cobblers, open air fortune 
 tellers, newspapers, bookbinderies, veg- 
 etable stores, and not a few high-class 
 curio establishments. Any number of 
 Chinese children were noisily playing 
 
60 
 
 in the streets, Chinese women were 
 walking about the streets and all over 
 the quarter was an oriental atmos- 
 phere. It made us feel mighty foreign- 
 like. Billy wanted to know whether he 
 was in Asia or America, and I told him 
 Asia. The Chinese women and children 
 interested us considerably. The women 
 were habited in loose flowing robes and 
 trousers, arid their lips and faces were 
 painted scarlet. Their hair was done 
 up in thick folds, with long golden pins 
 stuck through them. They were mighty 
 gaudy, I thought. The kids were noisy 
 but interesting. They played all kinds 
 of games like white children. Of course 
 the games they played were Chinese, 
 and what kind of games they were, I 
 don't know. The articles of food and 
 wear displayed were very curious. So 
 were the books, photographs, etc. 
 
 Billy and I took in the sights, and 
 felt mighty interested in it all. It was 
 better than a circus to us. At about 
 ten o'clock we meandered homeward. 
 
 We talked late that night about what 
 we had seen, and it was after midnight 
 before we fell asleep. Billy was unac- 
 
61 
 
 countably restless that night and kept 
 a-tossing and a-rolling. He kept this 
 up so long that finally I got huffy and 
 asked him what the trouble was. He 
 kept quiet for a while but suddenly he 
 
 rose up and said he'd be — if he 
 
 didn't think there were bugs in the bed. 
 I felt a bite or two myself, but didn't 
 mind it. 
 
 "I'm going to get up and see what's 
 in this bed," said Billy. 
 
 He got up, lit a candle, and I hopped 
 out too, so as to give him a chance to 
 examine things. Billy threw back the 
 clothes and saw three or four good-sized 
 fleas hopping about and trying to es- 
 cape to a safe shelter. We both went 
 for them bodily, but they were too swift 
 for us. We did a pile of cussing and 
 swearing just then, but the fleas were 
 probably laughing at us from some safe 
 retreat. We couldn't catch a one of 
 them. We went to bed again and I slept 
 soundly, but Billy put in a bad night. 
 I told Billy the next morning he ought- 
 n't to mind such trifling things as fleas. 
 
 "Trifles, are they?" snorted he, and 
 showed me his bare white skin, which 
 
62 
 
 was all eaten up. "Look at that; call 
 them trifles?" 
 
 "What are you going to do about it, 
 Billy?" inquired I. 
 
 "Do?" retorted he, with disgust, 
 "why, grin and bear it, of course ; what 
 else can I do; but those bites itch like 
 blazes." 
 
 Billy had to do what all 'Frisco peo- 
 ple do when they are bitten — grin and 
 bear it, or cuss and scratch. The 
 'Frisco fleas sure are lively, and the 
 best way to catch them is to wet your 
 finger and bear down on them sudden- 
 ly. They'll wiggle away from a dry 
 finger. 
 
 The next morning was a fine one, 
 balmy and sunny. We arose, dressed, 
 breakfasted, and then felt happy. 
 
 "How are we going to put in the day, 
 Windy?" asked Billy, after we emerged 
 from a restaurant and stood picking 
 our teeth in front of the place. 
 
 "Blest if I know," responded I. "Sup- 
 pose we put it in sight-seeing?" 
 
 "I'll go you," said Billy. "We have- 
 n't seen much of 'Frisco yet. Suppose 
 we take a stroll up Market Street and 
 
63 
 
 see what there is to see up that way." 
 • Accordingly, up Market Street we 
 leisurely strolled, taking in the sights 
 by the wayside. 
 
 Market Street, as I said before, is the 
 main thoroughfare of 'Frisco, and is a 
 broad one. The sidewalks are wide 
 enough for a dozen or more people to 
 walk abreast along them and the drive- 
 way in the middle of the street contains 
 tw r o or three sets of street-car tracks, 
 and sufficient room on either side for 
 vehicles. The lower portion of the 
 street, toward the ferry-house, is taken 
 up with wholesale business establish- 
 ments, and the upper portion toward 
 which we were now walking contains 
 retail shops, high-class saloons, restau- 
 rants, newspaper buildings, sky-scrap- 
 ers, banks, department stores, etc. We 
 came to Market and Third Street, and 
 turned down Third Street. It, too, was 
 rather a broad thoroughfare, but not 
 nearly so wide as Market Street. It 
 wasn't high-toned like Market Street, 
 nor were the buildings on it of a. high 
 class, for they were mostly of frame, 
 one and two stories in height. The 
 
64 
 
 ground floors of these buildings were 
 used as stores and the upper portions 
 as dwellings. Fruit, fish and vegetable 
 stores abounded, and saloons were more 
 than numerous. The size and varieties 
 of the fruit, fish and vegetables in the 
 stores pleased the eye. Fine crabs and 
 clams were there, but the California 
 oysters seemed small. We stepped into 
 a saloon called "The Whale," where a 
 fine free lunch was set out on a side 
 table. There were huge dishes of cheese 
 on the table, tripe, various kinds of 
 sausage sliced up thin, pickled tongue, 
 radishes, cold slaw, pickles, sliced to- 
 matoes and big trays of bread of vari- 
 ous kinds. The layout was generous. 
 Having had breakfast but a short time 
 before, all these dan ties, did not tempt 
 us, but we sat down for awhile and in- 
 dulged in a smoke, in the meanwhile 
 observing the ways of the patrons of 
 the place. Some seedy looking bums 
 were lined up against the bar chinning 
 whilst others were sipping beer and 
 paying their best respects to the lunch 
 counter. They were a dirty lot, and 
 if some of them weren't hobos, I miss 
 
65 
 
 my guess. We didn't remain in the 
 place long, but strolled into a similar 
 establishment further on. In one sa- 
 loon we noticed a sign over the lunch 
 counter which informed the hungry one 
 to— 
 
 "Please regulate your appetite ac- 
 cording to your thirst; this is not a res- 
 taurant." 
 
 Notwithstanding the gentle hint con- 
 veyed on the sign, the place did a roar- 
 ing trade, for the liquids as well as the 
 solids were excellent. 
 
 Beginning from Market and run- 
 ning parallel with Market were Mis- 
 sion, Howard, Folsom, Bryant, Bran- 
 nan, Bluxome, Townsend, Channel and 
 other streets. Nearly all of them were 
 broad, but a few were narrow, such as 
 Stevenson, Jessie, Minna, Natoma, Te- 
 hama, etc., being hardly more than al- 
 leys. This was the poorer residence 
 section, inhabited by the working 
 classes. Some of the alleys were tough 
 and contained cheap lodging-houses 
 wherein dwelt many a hard case and 
 criminal. 
 
66 
 
 We walked down Third Street as far 
 as the railroad depot and saw lots of 
 things to interest us. ■ All the goods dis- 
 played in the store windows seemed dirt 
 cheap. How they did tempt us, but as 
 we were not overburdened with wealth 
 just then we didn't feel like buying. 
 Silk pocket handkerchiefs, dandy hats 3 
 elegant trousers, mouth harmonicas, 
 pistols, knives, razors, accordions were 
 there in great variety. Why were we 
 born poor? Had we been rich we would 
 have blowed ourselves for faii;. The 
 display was too tempting. We walked 
 to Fourth Street, which is the next one 
 to Third, and then slowly sauntered up 
 toward Market aeain. The blocks along 
 Third and Fourth Streets were long 
 ones, and from Market Street down to 
 the railroad depot the distance is a mile 
 or more. But we were not tired, so on 
 we kent. Fourth Street was about like 
 Third Street, and afforded many inter- 
 esting sights. Billy and me liked every- 
 thing we saw. When we finally reached 
 Market Street again we crossed it and 
 took in another quarter of the city. 
 Where we had been was called south of 
 
67 
 
 Market; so this must be north of Mar- 
 ket. We didn't like it half as well as 
 we did south of Market. Here were 
 pretentious shops and restaurants, and 
 a fine class of dwellings, but even here 
 the buildings were all of wood and 
 hardly two were alike. In this quarter 
 is located what is called "The Tender- 
 loin/' which means gambling joints, 
 fast houses and the like. We, being 
 strangers, could not locate them. It was 
 now nearing noon and as we had be- 
 come hungry, we concluded to step into 
 a saloon to have a beer and a free 
 lunch, but the free lunch establishments 
 in that neighborhood seemed few and 
 far between. Some saloons had signs 
 on them which stated that free clam 
 chowder, beef stew, roasted clams, or 
 a ham sandwich with every drink was 
 to be had today, but those were not the 
 kind of a place we were after. We were 
 looking for some place like "The 
 Whale," but couldn't find one. We 
 finally got tired of hunting for such a 
 place, and stepped into a ten-cent res- 
 taurant, where we had a bum meal. 
 After dining we strolled back to our 
 
6$ 
 
 lodging-house, where we laid off the 
 rest of the day. 
 
 "What'll it be tonight; a ten-cent 
 show or Chinatown once more?" 
 
 "A ten-cent show," answered Billy; 
 "we did Chinatown last night, and can 
 do it again some other night, so let's 
 take in a show." 
 
 Accordingly we went to a fine big 
 theater that evening where the prices 
 ranged from ten to fifty cents, and 
 went up to "nigger heaven" (price ten 
 cents), from whence we saw a pretty 
 fair variety show. The show consisted 
 of singing, dancing, moving pictures, a 
 vaudeville play, negro act, monologue 
 speaker and an acrobatic act. The per- 
 formance lasted about two hours. The 
 negro act made Billy laugh until he 
 nearly grew sick, and we both enjoyed 
 ourselves hugely. One singer, an Aus- 
 tralian gentleman, sang the "Holy City," 
 and he sang it so well that he was re- 
 called many times. The little vaude- 
 ville play was good, and so were the 
 moving pictures. It was about ten 
 o'clock when the play let out, and it 
 
69 
 
 was after midnight when Billy and I 
 turned in. 
 
 We continued our sightseeing tour 
 about a week and saw about all worth 
 seeing of 'Frisco, and then as funds be- 
 gan to run low, we concluded it was 
 about time for us to look for work. I 
 struck a job as helper in a foundry the 
 very next day, but Billy was not so for- 
 tunate. He did not find a job for sev- 
 eral days. Of course I went "snucks" 
 with him when he wasn't working, and 
 saw to it that he had a bed to sleep in 
 and something to eat, for he would have 
 done as much for me. 
 
 Billy struck a job a few days after- 
 ward and it was one that seemed to 
 please him mightily. It was in a swell 
 hotel run by an Englishman and Billy 
 was installed as pantryman. His duties 
 were to take good care of and clean the 
 glassware and silverware. The job 
 was an easy one, with the pay fairly 
 good. Billy said it was like getting 
 money from home. He worked from 
 seven o'clock in the morning until eight 
 at night, and had three hours off in the 
 afternoon. The waiters took a shine to 
 
70 
 
 him, for they, like himself, were Eng- 
 lish, and brought him all kinds of good 
 things to eat in the pantry, which was 
 his headquarters. 
 
 They brought him oysters, roast fowl 
 of various kinds, game, ice cream, 
 water ices, plum pudding, the choicest 
 of wines, etc., and were sociable enough 
 to help Billy eat and drink these things. 
 No one molested them so long as they 
 did their work, for the cast-off victuals 
 would have gone into the swill-barrel, 
 anyway. Billy was in clover and had 
 the best opportunity in the world to 
 grow stout on "the fat of the land." I 
 was glad to know that he was getting 
 along so well for he sure was a true and 
 steady little pard. 
 
 One night, several weeks after this, 
 when we were in our room chinning, I 
 remarked to Billy: "Say, Billy, you 
 have told me so much about the old 
 country that I've a notion to go there." 
 
 Billy looked at me keenly to see if I 
 was joking, but I wasn't. "I mean it, 
 Billy," said I. "I've always had a no- 
 tion that I'd like to see the old country, 
 
71 
 
 and if you can get along here I guess 
 I can get along over there." 
 
 "You're way off, Windy," replied 
 Billy, "the old country is different from 
 this, in every way." 
 
 "In what way." 
 
 "Why, you can't beat your way over 
 there as you can here, and you couldn't 
 earn as much there in a week as you 
 can here in a day. And the ways of 
 people are different, too. Stay where 
 you are, Windy; that's my advice to 
 you." 
 
 "You say I can't beat my way in the 
 old country, Billy; why not?" asked I. 
 
 "You'll get pinched the first thing, if 
 you try it. In the first place there are no 
 railroad trains running across to Eu- 
 rope, so how are you going to cross the 
 little duck pond; swim across?" 
 
 "How do others cross it; can't I ride 
 over in a boat?" 
 
 "Of course you can but it will cost 
 you lots of money, and where are you 
 going to get it?" 
 
 "What's the matter with earning it 
 or getting a job on a steamer; didn't 
 you do it?" 
 
72 
 
 "Of course I did; but the steamship 
 companies hire their help on the other 
 side of the ocean, not on this side." 
 
 "Go on, Billy; you are giving me a 
 fairy tale." 
 
 "No, I'm not," earnestly responded 
 Billy; "it's true as preaching." 
 
 I doubted just the same. 
 
 "You say I can't beat my way when 
 I get across to Europe; why not?" 
 
 "Because they won't let you. The 
 towns are close together, for the coun- 
 try is small, and if you beat your way 
 on a train you'd be spotted before you 
 traveled ten miles. And another thing, 
 there are no brake-beams on the other 
 side, no blind baggage and no bumpers, 
 so where are you going to ride? And 
 another thing, too; the railway cars 
 over there are totally different from 
 those here. The coaches are different, 
 the engines are different, the freight 
 cars are different ; everything is so dif- 
 ferent," said Billy with a reminiscent 
 smile. 
 
 "Go on, Billy; you're only talking to 
 hear yourself talk," said I, thinking he 
 was romancing. 
 
73 
 
 "You say, Billy," continued I, "that 
 the ways of the people are different over 
 there; in what way?" 
 
 "In every way. I couldn't begin to 
 explain it all to you, if I tried six 
 months." 
 
 "They talk English over there, don't 
 they? Can't I talk English?" 
 
 "Of course you can," laughed Billy; 
 "but their language is different from 
 yours and so are their ways. Their 
 victuals are different; their dress, their 
 politics — " 
 
 "Cut out the politics, Billy; I ain't 
 going over there to run for office. They 
 must be a queer lot on the other side of 
 the pond to judge from what you say." 
 
 "Not a bit queer," warmly responded 
 Billy. "They are just different, that is 
 all. We will suppose you are over there, 
 Windy. What will you do?" 
 
 "Do the Britishers, of course; what 
 else?" 
 
 "Better stay at home and do your 
 own countrymen. You'll find it easier," 
 gravely admonished Billy. "You are on 
 your own ground and know the coun- 
 try and the ways of the people. You'd 
 
74 
 
 have a hard time of it over there ; mind 
 now, I'm giving it to you straight. I 
 don't think you're serious about going." 
 
 "Serious and sober as a judge, Billy. 
 I've been thinking about this thing for 
 a long time. Let me tell you something 
 else, Billy, that I haven't told you be- 
 fore. I intend to keep a diary when I 
 get on the other side and write down 
 everything I see worth noting." 
 
 "The hell you are," profanely re- 
 sponded Billy; "what are you going to 
 do with it after it is written down?" 
 
 "Have it printed in a book," calmly 
 responded I. 
 
 Billy regarded me intently, as a dog 
 does a human being whom he is trying 
 to understand and cannot, and then 
 when the full force of my revelation 
 struck him he dropped on the bed and 
 lauehed and laughed until I thought 
 he'd split his sides. 
 
 "What's tickling you, Billy?" asked 
 I, grinning, for his antics made me 
 laugh. 
 
 "You — you — " here he went off into 
 another fit. "You write a book? Say, 
 Windy, I've been traveling with you a 
 
75 
 
 long while but I never suspected you 
 were touched in the upper story." 
 
 -"No more touched than you are, 
 Billy," said I indignantly. Billy rose 
 up. 
 
 "So you're going to write a book, 
 eh?" asked Billy, stiHl laughing. "Do you 
 know anything about grammar, geog- 
 raphy or composition?" 
 
 "You bet I do, Billy; I was pretty 
 fair at composition when I was at 
 school, but I always hated grammar 
 and don't know much about it." 
 
 "That settles it," said Billy. "How 
 could you write a book if you don't 
 know anything about grammar?" 
 
 "That stumps me, Billy, but I guess 
 the printer can help me out." 
 
 "The printer ain't paid for doing 
 that sort of thing; he won't help you 
 out." 
 
 "The h he won't," responded I, 
 
 angrily; "that's what he's paid for, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "I don't think," said Billy. "Say, 
 Windy, you're clean off. Better turn in 
 and sleep over it." 
 
 "Sleep over nothing," quickly re- 
 
76 
 
 torted I ; "am I the first man who ever 
 wrote a book?" 
 
 "No, you ain't the first, nor the last 
 damn fool who has tried it." 
 
 "Now, see here, Billy," said I, get- 
 ting heated, "let me tell you something. 
 I've read a whole lot of books in my 
 time, and a good many of them weren't 
 worth hell room. I've read detective 
 stories that were written by. fellows 
 that didn't know anything about the 
 detective business. Look at all the 
 biood-and-thunder novels will you, that 
 are turned out every year by the hun- 
 dred. Not a word in them is true, yet 
 lots of people read them. Why? Be- 
 cause they like them. See what kids 
 read, will you? All about cowboys, 
 Indians, scalping, buffalo hunting, the 
 Wild West, etc. After the kids read 
 such books they get loony and want to 
 go on scalping expeditions themselves, 
 so they steal money, run away from 
 home, buy scalping knives, pistols and 
 ammunition, and play hell generally. 
 My book ain't that kind. When I write 
 a book it will contain the truth, the 
 whole truth and nothing but the truth." 
 
-'So help you -," irreverently put 
 
 in Billy. 
 
 "No foolishness, Billy; I'm serious." 
 
 "Oh, you are, are you?" answered 
 Billy; "well, let's hear something seri- 
 ous, then." 
 
 "Did you ever read the life of the 
 James boys, Billy?" 
 
 "No, I never did? Who were they?" 
 
 "They were outlaws and robbers, 
 and the book I read about them was the 
 most interesting one I ever read. It was 
 all facts, solid facts, and no nonsense 
 about it. That's what I want to write, 
 solid facts." 
 
 "About the James boys?" 
 
 "No, you little ignoramus; about 
 what I see in the old country." 
 
 "There are many smarter men than 
 you are that have written books about 
 the old country, Windy, and some of 
 these writers were English and some 
 were American. Are you going to go 
 in opposition to them?" 
 
 "Opposition your grandmother ! 
 Haven't I got as good a right to write 
 a book as anyone else?" 
 
 "Who says you haven't? After you 
 
78 
 
 get the book printed who's going to sell 
 
 it for you; going around peddling it?" 
 
 "No, I expect the printer to print 
 
 what I write, and buy the book from 
 
 me." 
 
 "Who gets all the money from the 
 sale of the book?" asked Billy, with a 
 huge grin on his face. 
 
 "Why, I expect that the printer and 
 me'U go snucks. He gets half for print- 
 ing it, and I get half for writing it." 
 
 "Oh, that's the game, is it? I think 
 you'll have a sweet time of it finding a 
 printer on that sort of a deal." 
 
 "Don't you think that would be a fair 
 divvy?" 
 
 "No, the printer is taking all the 
 chances and you're taking none. He 
 puts up the dough and what do you put 
 up?" 
 
 "My time and ability." 
 
 "Your ability!" shouted Billy as he 
 went off into a spasm ; "well, you've 
 got lots of time, but I never know'd you 
 had any ability." 
 
 "Laugh away, old boy," said I, con- 
 siderably nettled; "it takes ability to 
 write a book." 
 
"Of course it does," said Billy, mean- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Maybe you think I ain't got any?" 
 
 "Maybe you have, but you'll have to 
 show me." 
 
 "Well, Billy," said I, "we've dis- 
 cussed this matter long enough; sup- 
 pose we go to bed." 
 
 Nothing more was said on the sub- 
 ject that night. The next morning we 
 went to our separate jobs as usual, and 
 I did a good deal of thinking during 
 the day over some of the information 
 Billy had given me about the old coun- 
 try. It made me waver at times about 
 going, but at other times it did not. 
 That night, after we came home from 
 work, Billy and me took a stroll as 
 usual through Chinatown, and every 
 time we went through it we found 
 something new to see. The streets were 
 always thronged with celestials and 
 sightseers, the stores of the Chinese and 
 Japanese were all lit up, the queer goods 
 in the windows still riveted our atten- 
 tion and the ways of the orientals 
 proved a source of never-ending inter- 
 est to us. There were several Chinese 
 
80 
 
 theaters in the quarter, too, in which 
 the beating of gongs and the "high- 
 toned" singing could plainly be heard 
 by us, but as the admission fees to these 
 theaters to the "Melican man" was 
 fifty cents, we didn't go in. Some of 
 the plays lasted about six weeks. 
 
 We were strolling along quietly en- 
 joying ourselves, when suddenly Billy 
 banteringly remarked: "By the way, 
 Windy, when are you going to take that 
 little flier across the duck-pond?" 
 
 "Don't know, Billy; haven't decided 
 
 yet." 
 
 "What are you going to do with all 
 the money you make out of that book 
 of yourn?" 
 
 "Never you mind, Billy; I'm going to 
 write the book just the same; don't you 
 worry about that." 
 
 "I suppose you'll get rich some day, 
 and cut me the first thing. Fellers who 
 write books make lots of money. I sup- 
 pose you'll buy a mansion on Nob Hill, 
 have a coach and four with a coachman 
 in livery on the box and the regulation 
 flunkey behind. Maybe you'll drive 
 
81 
 
 tandem and handle the ribbons your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Stop roasting me, Billy; let up!" 
 
 But Billy continued mercilessly; "Of 
 course you'll have a box at the opera, 
 wear a claw hammer coat and a plug 
 hat, put on white kids and take your 
 lady-love to a little supper after the 
 play is over. Be lots of champagne 
 flowing about that time, eh?" 
 
 "Let up, you darned little Britisher," 
 said I laughing. "Greater things than 
 that have come to pass. I'll cut you, 
 the first thing, Billy." 
 
 "I knew it. Rich people ain't got 
 any use for their poor friends or rela- 
 tions. 
 
 "Which bank will you put your 
 money in?" 
 
 "Haven't decided yet: ain't going to 
 let that worry me." 
 
 "Maybe you'll fall in love with some 
 girl and get married. When a feller 
 has money he'll do fool things." 
 
 "The girl I marry will have to be a 
 pretty good looker, and will have to 
 have a little money of her own," re- 
 sponded I. 
 
82 
 
 "Of course, Windy; I'm glad to see 
 you've got some sense. After that old 
 country trip yarn of yours I didn't 
 think you had any." 
 
 "No yarn about it, Billy; I'm going." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "To the old country." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Oh, you're asking me too many ques- 
 tions. Better go to the old country with 
 me, Billy." 
 
 "Not I, Windy; I've been there and 
 know what it is. I'll never return to it 
 until I'm rich." 
 
 "Hope that'll be soon, Billy." 
 
 "So do I, Windy; but it don't look 
 that way now." 
 
 "Can you blame me for trying to 
 make a stake?" asked I. 
 
 "Blame you, no; but you'll never 
 make a stake writing a book." 
 
 "Faint heart never won a fair lady, 
 m Y boy, and I'm going to try it, if it 
 takes a leg off." 
 
 "I believe you are serious, Windy; I 
 thought you were kiddin' !" 
 
 "Kiddin' nothing; I was serious from 
 the go-off." i j 
 
83 
 
 "Well, Windy, old pard, I wish you 
 luck but it don't look to me as if you'd 
 make it. Too big a contract." 
 
 "Time will tell." 
 
 We had many another talk on the 
 subject, Billy bantering me every time, 
 for he either couldn't or wouldn't be- 
 lieve I was serious. We had been to- 
 gether so long, that he was loath to be- 
 lieve I would desert him. 
 
 One evening when I came home from 
 work I informed Billy that I had made 
 up my mind positively to start out on 
 my trip at the end of the week. You 
 should have seen him when I told him 
 this. At first he argued, then, seeing 
 that did no good, he called me all kinds 
 of a fool, and cursed and fumed. He 
 finally told me to go to hades if I wished, 
 for he had no strings on me. He didn't 
 care a tinker's damn how soon I went, or 
 what became of me. He hoped I'd get 
 drowned, or, if not that, then pinched 
 as soon as I set foot on British soil. The 
 little fellow was badly wrought up. I 
 informed him it was my intention to 
 beat my way to New York and that 
 when I got that far, I would plan the 
 
84 
 
 next move. I told him also that I didn't 
 believe in crossing a river until I got to 
 it, and that I would find some means of 
 crossing the ocean. He sarcastically ad- 
 vised me again to swim across, but I 
 took no heed. We parted the next morn- 
 ing and I knew Billy felt sore, but he 
 didn't show it. He told me that he should 
 remain in 'Frisco, and that I would find 
 him there when I came back, that is, if 
 " I ever came back. 
 
 "Oh, I'll come back, my boy; never 
 fear." 
 
 "And mind what I told you about my 
 folks. If you go to London they live only 
 a short way from there, and if you see 
 them tell them all about me." 
 
 "I'll do it, old pard, and write you 
 everything," responded I. 
 
 "Good-bye, then, Windy, and don't 
 take in any bad money while you're 
 gone," was Billy's parting bit of advice. 
 
 I felt bad, too, but didn't show it. I 
 was leaving the true-heartedest little 
 fellow that ever lived, but the best of 
 friends must part sometimes. 
 
85 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE JOURNEY OVERLAND. 
 
 The distance from 'Frisco to New 
 York overland, is over three thousand 
 miles, and by water it is much more 
 than that, but such little trips are a 
 trifle to me, as they are to every well- 
 conditioned wayfarer. I started out 
 happily enough one fine day at dawn to 
 make the long journey and though I did 
 feel a qualm or two the first few days 
 after leaving Billy, the feeling soon 
 wore off. I chose the central route, 
 which is the shortest via Sacramento, 
 Reno, Ogden, Omaha, Chicago, Niagara 
 Falls and New York, and I anticipated 
 having lots of fun along the way. I was 
 out for sight-seeing and adventure and 
 believed I would have a good time. I 
 didn't have any money to speak of, for, 
 though I had worked several months I 
 had saved nothing. Anyway, it wasn't 
 safe to travel hobo style with money, for 
 if anyone suspects you have any, it may 
 be possible that you'll get knocked on 
 the head or murdered outright for it. 
 
86 
 
 Such things are a common occurrence. 
 
 I got as far as Sacramento in good 
 shape and when the freight train I was 
 riding on got to Newcastle, which is a 
 town in the foothills of the Sierra moun- 
 tains, a long halt was made to attach a 
 number of refrigerator cars to it. 
 These cars were laden with fruit. Had 
 I wished I could have crawled into one 
 of them and made the journey east in 
 ten days, or less, for they are laden with 
 perishable goods and travel as fast, al- 
 most, as a passenger train, but I didn't 
 care to travel that way, for the reason 
 that I didn't like it. These refrigerator 
 cars have heavy air-tight doors at the 
 sides which are hermetically sealed 
 when the cars are loaded, making the 
 cars as dark as a pocket. When in them 
 one can't see anything and can hardly 
 turn around. There are no conven- 
 iences whatever. One must take a suffi- 
 ciency of supplies with him to last dur- 
 ing the trip in the shape of food and 
 water, and one must go unwashed and 
 unkempt during the journey. Lots of 
 hobos travel that way, and think noth- 
 ing of it, but I didn't care to do so. It 
 
87 
 
 is almost as bad, if not worse, than 
 being in jail, for one can take little or 
 no exercise, and the only light and ven- 
 tilation afforded is from the roof, where 
 there is an aperture about two feet 
 wide, over which there is a sliding door. 
 This can be shoved up or down, but it 
 rs usually locked when the train is en 
 route. The cars must be kept at an even 
 temperature always, and must not be 
 too hot or too cold. A certain number 
 of tons of ice is put into a compartment 
 at either end of the car, which keeps 
 the temperature even. The side doors, 
 as I said, are hermetically closed and 
 sealed. Thus the fruits, meats, vege- 
 tables or whatever the car mav contain, 
 are kept fresh and sweet. I slipped into 
 one of these loaded cars and had a look 
 around, but one survey was enough for 
 me. I didn't like the prospect at all. 
 Ten days of imprisonment was too 
 much. 
 
 Any hobo may ride over the Sierra 
 Nevada Mountains as far as Reno 
 without being molested, for it is a 
 rule of the Southern Pacific Railroad 
 Company not to incur their ill- 
 
will. Some hobos have been known 
 to set fire to the snow sheds in re- 
 venge for being put off a train in the 
 lonely mountains. Fires occur in the 
 snow-sheds every year, but of course it 
 is hard to tell who or what starts a fire. 
 The sheds are of wood and have always 
 had to be rebuilt, for without them th.e 
 road would be blocked every winter and 
 traffic stopped. There are miles of them 
 and wonderful creations they are. They 
 are roofed over and very strongly built. 
 I held down the freight train until we 
 reached Reno, where I was glad to hop 
 off for rest and refreshment. Refresh- 
 ments of all kinds are plentiful in Reno. 
 The railroad runs through the main 
 street of the town and the town is a 
 wide open one. Across the track along 
 the main street are restaurants, sa- 
 loons and gambling houses. The gam- 
 bling is not done secretly for it is li- 
 censed and anyone may play who 
 wishes. One may step into, at least, one 
 of these places from the street, for the 
 gambling room is on the ground floor. 
 It is a handsomely appointed apart- 
 ment. The floors are of marble, the 
 
89 
 
 drinking bar is elaborate, the fittings 
 superb. In front, as you enter, is the 
 bar and behind it a back bar with the 
 finest of glassware. The liquors are of 
 excellent quality. Opposite the bar, near 
 the wall, are faro and crap tables. At 
 the rear of the long apartment is a 
 horseshoe shaped lunch counter, where 
 the best the market affords can be had 
 at reasonable rates. The bar and res- 
 taurant are patronized by gamblers and 
 by outsiders who never gamble. Any- 
 one over the age of twenty-one may 
 step inside and play, and no questions 
 are asked. The crap game is interest- 
 ing. It is played with dice and anyone 
 may throw the dice. The way some fel- 
 lows throw them would make a horse 
 laugh. Some throw them with a run- 
 ning fire of conversation, their eyes 
 blazing with excitement. Others, like 
 the coons, keep a saying as they throw 
 the dice, "Come seben, come eleben!" 
 "What you doin' dar?" "Roll right dis 
 time for me you son of — " etc., etc. It 
 is interesting to watch the players. 
 Many refined men visit these places and 
 sometimes take a little flyer. These 
 
90 
 
 men are qijiet, open-handed fellows, 
 who seem to regard their little indul- 
 gence in the play as a joke, whether 
 they win or lose. They seem to have 
 plenty of money and don't care — at 
 least one would judge so from their 
 manner. While observing them I 
 thought it must be a fine thing to have 
 plenty of money, so as not to care 
 whether you win or lose. 
 
 Westerners, as a rule, are free and 
 generous, and seem to be just as ready 
 to spend their money as they are to 
 earn it. 
 
 Bootblacks, waiters, cooks, newsboys 
 and all sorts of men are always ready 
 and willing to take a chance in the 
 games. Sometimes they win and some- 
 times they lose, but win or lose they are 
 always ready to try their luck again. 
 
 Another gaming place I went into 
 was situated on the first floor above the 
 street in a building facing the railroad, 
 and it, too, was palatial. On the 
 ground floor was the saloon and above 
 were the gambling rooms. A pretty 
 tough crowd was in them at the time 
 of my visit and the crowd was so dense 
 
91 
 
 it was rather difficult to move about. I 
 was jostled considerably and found it 
 difficult to get near the gaming tables. 
 Craps and roulette were the main 
 games here, too. 
 
 Fights and shooting scrapes are com- 
 mon in the gambling places, but the 
 Reno officers are alert and fearless, and 
 soon put obstreperous people where the 
 dogs won't bite them. 
 
 Notwithstanding its gambling and 
 recklessness, Reno is a good business 
 town, and full of orderly, respectable 
 people. There are many wholesale and 
 retail establishments in the town; ice 
 plants, machine shops, breweries, ore 
 reduction works and lumber yards. Be- 
 sides, it is a great cattle shipping center. 
 
 Many of the streets are broad and 
 well-shaded, and the Truckee River, 
 in which are any number of speckled 
 beauties in the shape of mountain trout, 
 flows through the town. Surrounding 
 Reno are tall mountains which form a 
 part of the Sierra Nevada range, but 
 they seem bare and lonely. 
 
 I landed in Reno during the after- 
 noon and steered straight for the 
 
92 
 
 Truckee River, as I needed a bath. I 
 quickly espied a sequestered nook under 
 a wagon-bridge on the outskirts of the 
 town, and from the looks of things in 
 the vicinity could tell that it was a hobo 
 camping place. Old tin cans were 
 strewn about, and down the bank near 
 the water was a fireplace made of 
 stones. One lone Wandering Willie was 
 in camp and he greeted me as effusively 
 as if I were a long-lost brother. A hobo 
 can tell another hobo at a glance. 
 
 "Hello, pardner; how's tricks?" was 
 the greeting of my fellow wayfarer. 
 
 "Fair to middlin'," responded I. 
 
 "Where you bound for?" 
 
 "Just got to Reno; and I am going to 
 hold the town down for a while," said I. 
 I was cautious and didn't want this 
 chance acquaintance to know too much 
 about my affairs. 
 
 "Where'd you come from?" in- 
 quired I. 
 
 Me? Oh, I've been hittin' the line 
 all the way from Bloomington, Illinoi', 
 and I'm going to take a flier to the 
 Coast. 
 
93 
 
 "You are, hey? I just came from 
 there." 
 
 "The hell you did; how's things out 
 that way?" 
 
 "Fine and dandy; ever been there?" 
 
 "No," laconically answered the chap 
 and began to question me about the 
 Coast. 
 
 I gave him all the information I could 
 and then told him I was going to take 
 a wash-down. He had just done the 
 same and as he seemed anxious to go 
 to town he soon left me. I stripped and 
 had a glorious bath in the cool, swift- 
 flowing river. The river was neither 
 broad nor very deep but so clear that I 
 could see every stone at the bottom of it. 
 Not a fish could I see but doubtless they 
 were plentiful. After the clean-up I 
 leisurely strolled along the railroad 
 track into town and steered for a res- 
 taurant, where I had a good supper for 
 twenty-five cents. I then lit my pipe 
 and strolled about taking in the sights. 
 
 I remained in Reno a day or two, and 
 did not find time hanging heavy on my 
 hands. There -are extensive cattle cor- 
 rals about half a mile from the town 
 
94 
 
 where I put in a whole afternoon watch- 
 ing the loading of cattle into cars. 
 
 It was better than seeing a circus. A 
 chute ran from the corral to the car to 
 be loaded $nd the animals were made 
 to walk the plank in great shape. No 
 harm was done them unless they grew 
 obstreperous, in which case there was a 
 great deal of tail twisting done, punch- 
 ing in the ribs with long poles, yelling 
 and shouting, which soon brought a 
 refractory animal to terms. 
 
 The railroad depot in Reno is a live- 
 ly spot, too. 
 
 The S. P. R. R. trains and the Vir- 
 ginia & Truckee Railroad use the same 
 depot, and at train times there is al- 
 ways a sizeable crowd on hand. The 
 Virginia & Truckee road, which goes 
 from Reno to Virginia City, a distance 
 of about sixty miles, is said to be the 
 crookedest road in the country. It winds 
 around bare mountain sides to a great 
 height and is continually going upward. 
 It was built in the early Bonanza min- 
 ing days when times were flush and is 
 said to have cost a lot of *money. It has 
 paid for itself many times over and was 
 
95 
 
 a great help to Gold Hill, Carson and 
 Virginia City. Although it has been in 
 existence over a quarter of a century 
 and though it winds over almost inac- 
 cessible mountain peaks, not a human 
 life up to the writing of this book 
 (1907) has ever been lost on this road. 
 
 Indians may ride on the road free, 
 and as they are aware of the fact, hard- 
 ly a day passes but they may be seen 
 in the smoking car or on the platform 
 of a car taking a little flier to Carson, 
 Virginia City, Washoe, Steamboat 
 Springs or any other place along the 
 line they care to go to. There is a State 
 law in Nevada which permits any In- 
 dian to ride free on any railroad. What 
 the object of this law is, I don't know. 
 
 I noticed that the passenger trains 
 going eastward over the S. P. R. R. 
 leave Reno between eight and nine 
 o'clock at night, so I concluded to beat 
 my way out of town on one of them. I 
 noticed that others did it and that it was 
 easy. All a fellow had to do was to let 
 the train eet a good move on, then swing 
 underneath to the rods, or jump the 
 blind baggage. 
 
96 
 
 "The blind baggage is good enough 
 for you, Windy, " says I to myself. Ac- 
 cordingly, one very fine evening I per- 
 mitted a passenger train to get a good 
 move on, and then boarded her a little 
 way out, before she began to go too fast. 
 I was onto my job pretty well. I made 
 it all right, but as soon as I swung onto 
 the steps of the blind baggage I found 
 I wasn't the only pebble on the beach 
 for a number of other non-paying pas- 
 sengers were there who must have got 
 on before the train pulled ..out. There 
 were just seven deadheads on the car, 
 excluding myself, and they were not a 
 bit glad to see me. Seven on the plat- 
 form of a car is a good many, but eight 
 is one too many ; so my fellow voyagers 
 assured me by black looks. They were 
 greasers, every one of them, and cow 
 punchers at that, most likely. I was an 
 American. There was no welcome for 
 me. The greasers jabbered among 
 themselves about me, but what they said 
 I could not understand, for I don't un- 
 derstand Spanish. 
 
 Finally one of them said to me in 
 
97 
 
 fairly good English: "It's too much 
 crowded here; you better jump off." 
 
 "Jump off while the train is going 
 like this ; not much ! Jump off yourself 
 and see how you like it," said I angrily. 
 
 Not only was I angry but apprehen- 
 sive, for I felt there was going to be 
 trouble. I was not armed and had only 
 a pocket knife with me. Even had I 
 been armed what could I have done 
 against seven men in close quarters? 
 Nothing was said to me for quite a while 
 after that and the train clattered along 
 at a great rate. 
 
 The cold, swift-rushing night wind 
 blew keenly against us, making the 
 teeth of some of the greasers chatter. 
 They could stand any amount of heat 
 but a little cold made them feel like 
 hunting their holes. After riding along 
 for an hour or so through the bare, 
 cheerless plains of Nevada, the engine 
 whistle blew for the town. The cow- 
 puncher who had addressed me before 
 spoke up and said: "It is more better 
 you get off at the next station." 
 
 "No, I won't; get off yourself," said I. 
 
 Before I knew what had happened 
 
98 
 
 two of the greasers grabbed me around 
 the throat so I couldn't holler, and two 
 others pulled off my coat, which they 
 threw from the train. The fellow who 
 had spoken to me told me that if I didn't 
 jump off the train as soon as she slacked 
 up they'd throw me off. I knew they 
 would do so when opportunity offered, 
 so off I hopped, mad as blazes. As I 
 didn't want to lose my coat I walked 
 back to get it and I had to walk a mile 
 or so to do so. Luckily, I found' my coat 
 not far from the track and after put- 
 ting it on, I faced eastward again to- 
 ward the station. It is no joke to hike 
 through an unfamiliar wilderness at 
 night with no habitation or human be- 
 ing in sight or anyways near. 
 
 The night was a fine one, clear, cold 
 and star-lit, so I managed to walk 
 along the ties without. serious mishap. 
 In the sage brush, as I walked along, I 
 could hear the sudden whirr of birds as 
 they flew off startled, and the sudden- 
 ness of the noise startled me at first for 
 I didn't know what inade the noise. But 
 I quickly caught on. 
 
 In the distance I could hear the mel- 
 
99 
 
 ancholy yelp of a coyote which was 
 quickly answered from all points by 
 other animals of the same species. One 
 or two coyotes can make more noise 
 than a pack of wolves or dogs. They 
 are animals of the wolf species and are 
 death to poultry, sheep, little pigs and 
 small animals generally. 
 
 I got to the little town safe and sound 
 but it must have been after midnight 
 when I reached it, for there wasn't a 
 soul to be seen in the streets and all was 
 quiet. The town was Wadsworth. 
 
 I walked to the pump-house of the 
 railroad, which was situated along the 
 tracks and where I could hear the pump 
 throbbing, and talked to the engineer, 
 who didn't seem averse to a chat. His 
 vigil was a lonely one, and anything to 
 him was agreeable to vary the monot- 
 ony. During the course of the conversa- 
 tion I learned that an eastbound freight 
 would be along in a few hours. 
 
 I made the freight all right by riding 
 the brakes. The train was made up of 
 closed box-cars and there was no other 
 way to ride except on the bumpers. I 
 preferred the brakes. 
 
100 
 
 It was pretty cold riding during the 
 early morning hours, but luckily I had 
 my overcoat with me once more, which 
 helped to keep me warm. 
 
 Beating one's way is a picnic some- 
 times, but not always. During the sum- 
 mer time there is dust and heat to con- 
 tend with, according to how one rides, 
 and in winter time there are cold winds, 
 snow and frost. 
 
 I rode the brakes all night and was 
 glad when day broke. I was quite 
 numbed. 
 
 The scenery was still the same- 
 plains and alkali. At Lovelock I had 
 time to get a bite of breakfast and a cup 
 of hot coffee, and then the train was off 
 for Humboldt. The distances between 
 towns were great, about a hundred 
 miles or so. 
 
 Finally the train stopped at Winne- 
 mucca, a town which, for short and 
 sweet, is called "Winnemuck" by the 
 knowing ones. At this place I concluded 
 to hop off for a rest. Winnemucca is 
 quite a sizeable town, and is the county 
 seat of some county. It contains about 
 two thousand inhabitants, and used to 
 
101 
 
 be as wild and woolly a place as any in 
 the West, but it has tamed down^some 
 since. Saloons are plentiful aftd all 
 drinks are ten cents straight, with no 
 discount for quantity. A pretty* good 
 meal can be had for two bits, but short 
 orders and such things as life preserv- 
 ers, sinkers, or a bit of "mystery" with 
 coffee, are all the same price — two bits. 
 I found no place where I could get any- 
 thing for less. 
 
 There was a river or creek at the 
 further end of town wherein I wished 
 to bathe, but the water was so intoler- 
 ably filthy that I deemed it wise to wait 
 until I found a more suitable place 
 along the route. 
 
 I noticed a bank in Winnemucca and 
 was informed that it had been robbed 
 recently of many thousands of dollars 
 by bandits. Soon after the robbery a 
 trellis-work of structural iron was put 
 up from the money-counters clear to 
 the ceiling with mere slots for the re- 
 ceiving and paying out of money, so 
 that the next set of bandits who call 
 there will have to crawl through mighty 
 small holes to make a raise. 
 
102 
 
 The next town along the line which 
 .amounted, to anything was Elko*and I 
 "made 4 1 that same day on a freight. I 
 ffjund: it a; pretBy little town with good 
 people for it,' who treated me well. I 
 learned there were some wonderful nat- 
 ural hot springs about a mile or so from 
 town, so that afternoon I hiked out to 
 see them. I shall never regret having 
 seen them for they are one of nature's 
 wonders. 
 
 Out in the wilderness, near where 
 they were situated, I came upon an 
 amphitheater of hills, at the base of 
 which was a little lake about 100 yards 
 in diameter. The hills were bare and 
 lonely and near them was no house or 
 habitation. All was wild, lone, still. 
 
 I climbed down one of these hills to 
 the lake and had a good survey of it. 
 The water was clear and pure as crystal 
 but near the banks were sulphur 
 springs which bubbled up now and then. 
 The water was so hot it was impossible 
 to put a finger in it. 
 
 I walked around the banks and at one 
 end of the lake there was a hole so deep 
 I couldn't see bottom. This is a crater- 
 
103 
 
 hole so deep that bottom has never been 
 found, although it has been sounded to 
 a depth of several thousand feet. The 
 entire place looks like the crater of an 
 extinct volcano. A single glance would 
 lead anyone to suppose so. 
 
 Indian men, women, boys and girls go 
 to the lake during the warm seasons to 
 bathe, and many a daring buck who has 
 swum across the crater was drowned in 
 it and his body has never been recov- 
 ered. I needed a bath myself so I dis- 
 robed and plunged in. The water was 
 neither too hot nor too cold but half way 
 between the two. It was just right. 
 Where I swam was not in the crater but 
 near it. The water there was part crater 
 water and part sulphur water from the 
 springs. The bath was delicious. 
 
 The ride eastward from Elko was un- 
 eventful. There was nothing to see but 
 bare plains and mountains and a few 
 border towns. The towns were very 
 small, and hardly more than railroad 
 stations. They were composed of a gen- 
 eral store or two, several saloons, a 
 blacksmith shop, drug store, bakery, 
 butchershop, barbershop, and that is all. 
 
104 
 
 I boarded a freight train at Wells and 
 rode the brakes through the Lucin Cut- 
 off to Ogden. The trains used to run 
 around Salt Lake, but now a trestle has 
 been built through it, which saves many 
 miles. The trestle is forty or fifty miles 
 long, I should judge, and as I clung 
 tightly to my perch on the brakebeam 
 and looked down into the clear blue 
 water through the ties I got kind of diz- 
 zy, but met with no disaster. 
 
 After a long and tedious ride of sev- 
 eral hours I reached Ogden, the end of 
 the S. P. line. As funds were low I 
 remained in Ogden several days and 
 went to work. 
 
 Ogden is in Utah and full of Mor- 
 mons. It is a beautiful city, surround- 
 ed by lofty mountains, the Wasatch 
 range, and contains about 50,000 peo- 
 ple. It has a Mormon tabernacle, tithe- 
 house, broad streets, fine stores, elegant 
 public buildings and is quite a railroad 
 center. 
 
 I happened to discover a Mormon 
 lady who had a wood-pile in her back 
 yard and she was needing a man to chop 
 the wood, so we struck a bargain. I was 
 
105 
 
 to receive a dollar and a half per day 
 and my board for my work and was 
 given a room in an outhouse to bunk in. 
 The terms suited me. The board was 
 plentiful and good, and the sleeping 
 quarters comfortable. I never saw a 
 man about the place and wondered 
 whether the lady was married or not. 
 She was old enough to be. I knew she 
 was a Mormon because she told me so, 
 and possibly she was the plural wife of 
 some rich old Mormon. I didn't like to 
 ask too many questions for I might 
 have got fired for being too nosy. The 
 lady was sociable and kind-hearted and 
 treated me well. 
 
 The Mormons like apples, cider and 
 ladies, and they are an industrious peo- 
 ple. The Bible says they can have all 
 the wives they want, but the United 
 States law says they can't have 'em, so 
 what are the poor fellows to do? Sh! 
 They have 'em on the sly. Don't give me 
 away. Can you blame a rich old Mor- 
 mon for having a big bunch of wives if 
 he can support them ? If I had the price 
 I'd have two, at least, one for week days 
 and one for Sundays, but if the mother- 
 
106 
 
 in-law is thrown in, I pass. One good 
 healthy mother-in-law of the right sort 
 can make it mighty interesting for a fel- 
 low, but a bunch of them; whew! Ex- 
 cuse me! During my stay in Ogden I 
 didn't see any funny business going on, 
 and wouldn't have suspected there was 
 any, but from what I could learn on the 
 outside, there was something doing. I 
 saw lots of rosy-cheeked Mormon girls 
 in the tabernacle one day when I was 
 there, but they behaved just like other 
 girls. The tabernacle is a church and it 
 ain't. It is an immense egg-shaped 
 building arranged very peculiarly, yet it 
 is snug and cosy inside. It can hold 
 thousands of people. It must be seen 
 to be appreciated. I liked Ogden very 
 much and would like to linger there 
 longer but I deemed it best to keep a 
 moving. 
 
 After leaving Ogden the scenery be- 
 came interesting. The country is moun- 
 tainous going eastward, and we struck 
 a place called Weber Canyon, which 
 is a narrow pass between high moun- 
 tains through which the railroad winds. 
 The mountains were pretty well wood- 
 
107 
 
 ed. In one spot I saw a place called the 
 Devil's Slide, which was made by nature 
 and consists of two long narrow ledges 
 of rocks that begin high up on a moun- 
 tain side and run down almost to the 
 bottom of the mountain where the car 
 tracks are. These rocks form two con- 
 tinuous lines that run down side by side 
 with a space of several feet between 
 them, and they are rough and raggedy 
 on top. Imagine two rails with about 
 four or five feet of space between them 
 running down a mountain side several 
 hundred feet and then you will have 
 some idea of the formation of the slide. 
 How in the devil the devil rode it, gets 
 me. He must have been pretty broad 
 in the beam, and I would like to have 
 seen him when he performed the act. 
 He must have come down a-flying, for 
 the slide is nearly perpendicular. 
 
 This kind of scenery, though wild, 
 was a relief from the bare and "lonely 
 plains of Nevada, and I appreciated it. 
 A little variety is the spice of life, they 
 say, and after seeing dullness it is nice 
 to see beauty. 
 
 I was now on the Union Pacific Rail- 
 
108 
 
 road and was in an empty cattle car, 
 through the slats of which I could see 
 the scenery on both sides of me. Dur- 
 ing the daytime it was nice, but at night 
 the weather grew cold and the long 
 watches of the night were dreary, A 
 companion then would have been agree- 
 able. I missed little Billy. At a small sta- 
 tion in Wyoming called Rock Creek, I 
 was put off the train one afternoon and 
 as I hadn't a dime left, I felt it was 
 incumbent on me to go to work. I saw 
 a bunch of cattle in a corral near the 
 railroad station that had probably been 
 unloaded from a train, and as there 
 were some bull-whackers with them I 
 struck them for a job. 
 
 "Kin you ride?" asked a chap who 
 looked like the boss. 
 
 "Ride anything with hair on," re- 
 plied I. 
 
 "Ever herd cattle?" asked the boss. 
 
 "I'm an old hand at the business," 
 answered I. 
 
 "Where'd you do your herding?" 
 
 "In California." 
 
 I never herded cattle in my life, but 
 I could ride all right, and as I didn't 
 
109 
 
 consider bull-whacking much of a job, 
 I thought I could hold it down easily. 
 The boss hired me then and there at 
 twenty dollars per month and chuck, 
 and while on the range my bedroom was 
 to be a large one — all Wyoming. It 
 didn't take the cowboys long to get on 
 to the fact that I was a tenderfoot, but 
 as I was a good rider they said nothing. 
 They were a whole-souled, rollicking, 
 devil-may-care set of fellows, and the 
 best they had was none too good for me. 
 They treated me like a lord. 
 
 They knew, and the boss soon found 
 out that I didn't know any more about 
 roping a steer than a baby did, but as 
 they were not branding cattle just then, 
 that didn't matter so much. I got on to 
 their way of herding quickly enough, 
 and that was all that was necessary just 
 then. I didn't ask where the outfit was 
 bound for, nor did I care much, for all 
 I was after was to earn a few dollars. 
 
 There were a good many hundred 
 head of cattle in the bunch and many of 
 the them were steers, but there were 
 also many dried-up cows among them 
 and some yearlings. They had all to be 
 
110 
 
 herded carefully so they wouldn't stray 
 away, and to accomplish this we had to 
 keep riding around them all day long. 
 At night after feeding, the cattle rest- 
 ed. On dark nights they generally 
 squatted down contentedly and chewed 
 the cud, but on a moonlit night they 
 would keep on their feet and feed. The 
 very first moonlit night I was put on 
 watch I got into trouble. The cattle 
 arose to feed, and do what I would, I 
 could not keep them together. When 
 riding along on one side of the herd to 
 keep them in, a few ignorant brutes on 
 the other side would wander away and 
 at such times some hard riding had to 
 be done to keep them in. I could do it, 
 but I couldn't ride everywhere at once. 
 I did some pretty fast riding and kept 
 yelling and hallooing at the cattle, but 
 one of the brutes got so far away from 
 me that when he saw me coming he 
 raised his tail and bolted outright. By 
 the time I got him in others were scat- 
 tered far and wide. I now saw that I 
 was helpless, so I went to camp and 
 aroused the sleeping cowboys. They 
 knew instinctively what the trouble was 
 
Ill 
 
 and got out of their warm blankets cuss- 
 ing to beat the band. They mounted 
 their ponies and off we all rode to 
 gather the scattered herd. It was no 
 picnic. There were four of us, and as 
 the cattle had strayed off in all direc- 
 tions, it is easy to imagine what our 
 task was. One of the boys and myself 
 traveled together in one direction and 
 made for an ornery brute that shook 
 his head when we gently told him to 
 "git in there." Off he shot like a rocket 
 with a bellow of defiance, and his tail in 
 the air. 
 
 "I'll fix the ugly son of — !" yelled 
 my comrade, as he uncoiled his rope 
 from his saddle and got it ready for a 
 throw. His pony was after the steer like 
 a shot, for it knew its business, and got 
 in range in a jiffy. Out flew the rope 
 and settled around the steer's neck. 
 Quick as a flash the steer flew in the air, 
 turned a complete somersault and land- 
 ed on the turf with a jar that shook the 
 earth. 
 
 "You will run away, you !" ex- 
 claimed the irate cowboy. "I guess you 
 
112 
 
 won't do it in a hurry again, gol darn 
 your ugly hide." 
 
 The animal got up meek as a lamb, 
 trembled in every limb, shook his head 
 in a dazed way, and probably wondered 
 what had struck him. We had no trou- 
 ble with him after that, and made off 
 after the rest. It was long after mid- 
 night before all the cattle were rounded 
 up. The boss was mad clear through. 
 The next day he politely told me that I 
 didn't understand my business; that I 
 didn't know any more about herding 
 cattle than a kid; that I had lied to him 
 about being a cowboy and that I had 
 better skip. He cursed me up and down 
 and kept up his abuse so long that I 
 finally got tired of it and fired back. 
 That made matters worse. We soon 
 were at it, tooth and nail. He struck 
 me with his fist and it was a hard blow. 
 I was taller and longer in the reach than 
 he and kept him off from me. The first 
 blow was the only one he struck me, but 
 it was a good one and dazed me for a 
 moment. "I knowed you was a Greas- 
 er," yelled he as he danced around me, 
 
113 
 
 'and I'm going to put you out of busi- 
 
 ness." 
 
 "Come on, you — ," yelled I. 
 
 He wasn't in the mix-up at all. I was 
 younger, stronger and longer in the 
 reach than he, and one of the blows I 
 put in was a tremendous one, for it 
 knocked him down and he lay still for 
 awhile. When he got up I knocked him 
 down again. I saw he was my meat. 
 
 "Now, pay me off, you — , and I'll 
 get out of here pretty darn quick; if 
 you don't, Til beat the life out of you," 
 yelled I. The cowboys stood by and 
 said nothing. It wasn't their funeral. 
 
 The boss paid me off and I got out. 
 
 At Cheyenne, Wyoming, I ran across 
 a gassy little red-headed Hebrew who 
 put me on to a good, money-making 
 scheme. He had a lot of paste-board 
 signs with him on which were neatly 
 printed such things as: "Our trusting 
 department is on the roof ; take the ele- 
 vator"; "Every time you take a drink 
 things look different" ; "In God we trust ; 
 all others must pay cash"; "We lead; 
 others follow"; "Razors put in order 
 good as new," etc., etc. The young fel- 
 
114 
 
 low told me that he was beating his way 
 to the Coast and that he sold enough 
 of these signs to pay expenses. He told 
 me also that the signs by the quantity 
 cost him only five cents each, and that 
 he sold them readily for twenty-five 
 cents each. 
 
 I thought the little chap was lying for 
 I didn't think anyone would pay twen- 
 ty-five cents for such a sign, but he sol- 
 emnly assured me on his word of honor 
 that he had no trouble selling them at 
 the price. He further told me that he 
 would sell me a hundred of the signs 
 at cost price, adding that if I bought 
 a hundred of them, he would give me 
 the address of the wholesaler in Omaha 
 where I could obtain all the signs I 
 wanted. The little scheme looked good 
 to me but unfortunately I had only two 
 dollars in my possession. This I offered 
 him for forty signs with the name of 
 the wholesaler thrown in. He accepted. 
 I soon found that the little Israelite had 
 told me the truth, for the signs sold 
 readily for two bits each, though in some 
 places I had to do a deal of talkine to 
 sell a sign, and in other places they 
 
115 
 
 laughed at me, when I told them the 
 price was twenty-five cents, and offered 
 me ten cents. As I wasn't sure whether 
 I could purchase any more signs at the 
 price I paid for them, I was loath to 
 sell them for ten cents each. 
 
 When I reached Omaha I found the 
 address of the sign man, and learned 
 that I could buy all the signs I wanted 
 in hundred lots at three cents each. The 
 little cuss had done me after all. 
 
 I bought a hundred signs and now felt 
 that I had struck a good thing, for I 
 would have to do no more hard work. 
 I sold many of the signs in small towns 
 and cities, and found little difficulty 
 in doing so. No more handouts for 
 yours truly, no more wood-chopping, no 
 more cow-punching. I was a full- 
 fledged merchant and able to hold my 
 own with any of them. It was easier 
 sailing now. 
 
 The trip from Omaha to Chicago was 
 interesting, but uneventful. At Omaha 
 I crossed the muddy-looking Missouri 
 River on a bridge while riding the 
 bumpers of a freight, but was detected 
 
116 
 
 and put off on the other side of the 
 river. 
 
 That night I did rather a daring 
 thing. Along toward nine o'clock there 
 came along a passenger train and as 
 I had made up my mind to get on to 
 Chicago as fast as I could, I stepped 
 upon the platform of one of the passen- 
 ger coaches and climbed upon the roof 
 of the car, where I rode along for many 
 a mile. Bye-and-bye, however, the wind 
 became so keen, cold and cutting, and 
 the rush of air so strong, that I be- 
 came numbed and was obliged to climb 
 down for warmth. I walked boldly 
 into the passenger coach and sat down 
 in a vacant seat near the door. I knew 
 the conductor would not be round again 
 for some time, for he had made his 
 round, so for the present I felt safe. 
 
 When taking up tickets the con- 
 ductor of a train usually starts at the 
 front end and moves along to the rear. 
 After his work is ended he will rarely 
 sit down in any of the middle coaches, 
 especially if every seat has an occupant, 
 but he and the brakeman usually go 
 to the smoker and sit down there. I 
 
117 
 
 was in the coach next to the smoker, 
 and later on, I saw the conductor com- 
 ing around again for tickets, I leisurely 
 strolled to the rear platform of the car 
 I was in and climbed on top again. I 
 watched the conductor and waited until 
 he had made his rounds, and then I 
 returned to my seat in the coach. 
 
 In this way I traveled a long dis- 
 tance. I kept up these tactics for hours, 
 but bye-and-bye I noticed a young 
 woman who was traveling with her 
 husband (a young fellow of about 
 twenty-five), watch me suspiciously. 
 She put her husband on to my little 
 racket, and he, most likely, told the con- 
 ductor, who laid a cute little trap to 
 catch me. After he had been through 
 all the coaches on his next round he 
 went to the smoker, as usual, but when 
 he came to the rear coach I was in he 
 locked the rear door behind him. It 
 was through this door I had been mak- 
 ing my exit. He then passed slowly 
 through the train again from the front 
 looking at the hat checks. When I saw 
 him coming and the brakeman follow- 
 ing in the rear I tried the usual tactics 
 
118 
 
 but found the door locked. I was 
 trapped. The conductor came up to 
 me and seeing no hat-check asked me 
 for my ticket. I pretended to look for 
 it, but couldn't find it. The conductor 
 eyed me coldly and told me to follow 
 him to the baggage car. The brakeman 
 acted as a rear guard. When we 
 stepped into the baggage car the con- 
 ductor asked me a few questions which 
 to him did not seem satisfactory, where- 
 upon he sternly warned me to get off at 
 the next station. "If I catch you on here 
 again, I'll throw you off," threatened 
 he. 
 
 I knew he dared not legally throw 
 me off a train while it was in motion, 
 and that he was bluffing, but I got off 
 at the next station just the same. I 
 concluded I had ridden far enough that 
 night, anyway. My journey to Chicago 
 was soon completed. 
 
 I remained in Chicago several days 
 selling the signs for a living but found 
 it difficult work. The sign that seemed 
 to sell best in Chicago was the one read- 
 ing: "Every Time You Take a Drink, 
 Things Look Different," and it made 
 
119 
 
 quite a hit in the saloons, but I could 
 only get ten cents for it. The Chicago 
 saloon keepers wanted all the money to 
 come their way. In the smaller towns 
 this sign sold readily for twenty-five 
 cents, and no questions asked. I con- 
 cluded to shake the dust of Chicago off 
 my feet in a hurry, for the grafting was 
 too hard for me. I had got onto it that 
 there were easier places. 
 
 It was the Michigan Central that had 
 the honor to yank me out of Chicago 
 and a hard old road she was to beat. 
 Spotters were everywhere — fly cops and 
 bulls — and they gave me a run for my 
 money. I gave some of them a cock-and- 
 bull story about trying to get to a sick 
 relative in New York City, and showed 
 them the signs I was selling to help pay 
 expenses. Some laughed, and told me 
 to "git," but one or two sternly told me 
 they had a mind to run me in. They 
 didn't, though. I got along all right as 
 far as Detroit, where I crossed over to 
 Windsor, Canada, on a boat which fer- 
 ried the whole train over at once. I was 
 now in a foreign country, but every- 
 thing there looked pretty much as it did 
 
120 
 
 in the United States. The Michigan 
 Central took me clear through Canada 
 to Niagara Falls, where I concluded to 
 remain a few days, for much as I had 
 heard of the Falls, I had never seen 
 them. 
 
 I found that there is a big city of 
 about 25,000 people at the Falls called 
 "Niagara Falls," and it is a beautiful 
 place. 
 
 On the Canadian side there is a little 
 city, too, the name of which I forget. It 
 is not nearly so large as the city on the 
 American side, but it is a quaint and 
 pretty little place. 
 
 Niagara Falls City is something like 
 Coney Island, only it is on an all-the- 
 year-round scale. Ordinary electric 
 cars run through the place, electric 
 tourist cars that will take one over the 
 Gorge Route for a dollar are there, and 
 so are hotels, boarding and rooming 
 houses, plenty of stores, an extensive 
 government reservation called Prospect 
 Park, a Ferris Wheel, Shoot-the-Chutes, 
 candy and ice cream booths, a hot 
 frankfurter booth, picture galleries, 
 beer gardens, etc. The place is lively 
 
121 
 
 and pretty, but full of grafters. Why 
 wouldn't it be, when suckers by the 
 million flock there every year from all 
 over the world? 
 
 I got to like the place so well that I 
 remained there nearly a week and 
 learned a whole lot of things. 
 
 I wasn't a sucker and didn't get 
 catched for I wasn't worth catching. 
 Small fry ain't wanted. Did I see the 
 .Falls? Did I? Well, you can bet your 
 sweet life I did. I saw them early, late 
 and often, and every time I saw them 
 they made my hair rise higher and 
 higher. They are stupendous, tremen- 
 dous — well, I can't say all I feel. They 
 will awe anyone and fill him chock full 
 of all kinds of thoughts. I'll try to give 
 you an idea of them. 
 
 Niagara River is a stream about half 
 a mile wide and about a hundred miles 
 long. It connects Lake Erie with Lake 
 Ontario, and as the waters of these 
 great lakes form the river, the volume 
 of its waters is great. About twenty- 
 five miles from Buffalo the Niagara 
 River enters rocky canyons, which are 
 formed by Goat Island, and which di- 
 
122 
 
 vide the river. The rushing, roaring 
 and leaping of the waters on either side 
 of the island is tremendous. These 
 rushing, roaring waters are called the 
 Upper Rapids. The waters rush along 
 at cannon-ball speed almost until they 
 reach a hill about 165 feet in height. 
 Down this they tumble. That consti- 
 tutes the Falls. 
 
 The river, as I said, is divided by 
 Goat Island, so that one part of the 
 stream shoots along the American shore 
 and the other part along the Canadian. 
 
 By far the greater part of the river 
 rushes along the Canadian side, hence 
 the falls on that side are much greater 
 than on the American. In fact, the 
 American falls ain't a marker to the 
 Canadian. I saw the falls from both 
 sides, and when viewed from the Cana- 
 dian side they are indescribably grand. 
 No words of mine can describe them. 
 You can hear the thunder of the rush- 
 ing, roaring, falling waters a mile off, 
 and the spray that arises from the 
 depths below after the fallen waters 
 have struck the rocks can be seen at a 
 great distance. 
 
123 
 
 While the great lakes flow and the 
 Niagara River runs, this scene of rush- 
 ing, roaring, tumbling waters will 
 never cease. After the waters take 
 their tumble they flow on placidly 
 enough until they strike another nar- 
 row gorge or canyon, about a mile below 
 the falls, which is called the Lower 
 Rapids. In them may be seen a wicked 
 whirlpool, the Devil's Hole, and other 
 uncanny things. 
 
 Niagara is great, but the grafters 
 who are there are greater. They will 
 fool the stranger who goes there so slick 
 t^at he won't know he has been fooled. 
 The majority of visitors don't care, for 
 they go there to s^end their money, any- 
 way. Some do care, however, for their 
 means are limited. The grafters, who 
 are not only hackmen, but storekeepers 
 and others, lie awake nights studying 
 how to "do" you. It is their business 
 to make money, but how they make it 
 don't worry them. If you go to the 
 Falls, beware of them. 
 
 People from every nation under the 
 sun flock to the Falls every year, as I 
 
124 
 
 said, and a million visitors a year is a 
 low estimate, I am sure. 
 
 There are some people who believe 
 that this great work of nature ought to 
 be preserved intact, but there are others 
 who do not think so. The latter think 
 the Falls were created for their benefit, 
 so they can make money. I am not now 
 speaking of the grafters, but the manu- 
 facturers who have established factor- 
 ies along the banks of the Niagara 
 River and utilize its waters for running 
 their machinery, etc. These people 
 would drain the river dry were they 
 permitted to do so, and were doing so 
 until stopped by the Government. I 
 make no comments on this but simply 
 state the facts and let others do the 
 commenting. 
 
 After I had done the Falls pretty 
 thoroughly I concluded to go to Buffalo, 
 the beautiful city by the lake (Erie). 
 It can be reached in several ways from 
 Niagara Falls by trolley and by several 
 lines of railroads. It cannot be reached 
 by water, however, for the reason that 
 the Upper Rapids in the river extend a 
 mile or so from the Falls toward Buf- 
 
125 
 
 falo, rendering navigation impractica- 
 ble. The trolley line running from 
 Buffalo to the Falls is one of the best 
 patronized roads in the country, and is 
 crowded every day and overcrowded on 
 holidays and Sundays. The fare is fifty 
 cents the round trip and the scenery, 
 through which a part of the road passes, 
 is very fine. The road runs pretty close 
 to the Niagara River for quite a dis- 
 tance, and along the banks of the river 
 may be seen manufacturing establish- 
 ments, such as cyanide plants, paper 
 mills, chemical works, etc., nearly all of 
 which empty their refuse into the 
 stream, polluting its waters consider- 
 ably. All of these establishments can 
 easily be seen near the river as you ride 
 along in the trolley. 
 
 In the town of Niagara Falls itself 
 are quite a number of very large manu- 
 facturing plants, which use the waters 
 of the river for their purposes. 
 
 Buffalo is one of the handsomest 
 cities in the United States, to my no- 
 tion. Its water front along the business 
 section of the town is pretty punky, for 
 there is a vile-smelling canal in the 
 
126 
 
 vicinity, and malodorous streets and 
 alleys, but otherwise the town is away 
 up in G. She's a beaut, and no mistake. 
 Delaware Avenue is a corker. Imagine 
 a thoroughfare about 150 to 200 feet 
 wide, with driveways in the center 
 shaded by fine old trees, and ample side- 
 walks also shaded by fine trees. Along 
 the sidewalks, but set far back, are 
 roomy mansions that are set in ample 
 gardens, and then you will have a faint 
 idea of the beauty of Delaware Avenue. 
 And there are many other streets in 
 the vicinity of Delaware Avenue that 
 are just as beautiful. Boulevards and 
 fine streets abound in this fair city. 
 
 The people of Buffalo are quite like 
 the Westerners in disposition, for they 
 are sociable and free, and not too busy 
 or too proud to talk to you. They are 
 like their city, lovely, and I speak of 
 them as I found them. There are many 
 Canadians in the city (for Canada is 
 only across the Niagara River and can 
 be reached by ferry-boat) and I think 
 they are a very desirable class of citi- 
 zens. There are all sorts among them, 
 
127 
 
 of course, as is the case with Ameri- 
 cans. 
 
 My signs went well in Buffalo, es- 
 pecially the one reading, "Every Time 
 You Take a Drink, etc." It went well 
 in the saloons along the water front and 
 on Main Street, the leading thorough- 
 fare. Lots of people laughed when they 
 read it and said it was a good one. There 
 is nothing like a laugh to put people in 
 good humor. 
 
 I liked some of the Canadians very 
 well and loved to listen to their queer 
 accent. It i? nothing like the American, 
 but peculiarly their own. I thought 
 some of the Canadian ladies were very 
 nice. 
 
 I liked Buffalo so well that I conclud- 
 ed to remain there until I grew tired 
 of it. After I had been there a day or 
 so I became acquainted with a young 
 girl whose front name was Rose. She 
 was of an auburn type and very artless. 
 She had a decided penchant for milk 
 chocolates. 
 
 She was as pretty as a rose and it 
 was awful hard for me to resist her. 
 She was a poor, but good, honest, hard- 
 
128 
 
 working girl. She had been hurt in a 
 street car collision and was just recov- 
 ering from its effects. She craved choc- 
 olates but was too poor to buy them her- 
 self. I pitied her. She told me in her 
 frank and artless way that she had 
 thought a great deal of a certain young 
 fellow, but he was in another city at 
 present, working, and that she hadn't 
 seen him for a long time. She didn't 
 know whether she ever would see him 
 again, but she hoped to, for he was a 
 very sweet fellow, she said. 
 
 "If he thinks anything of me don't 
 you think he'll come back to me?" she 
 asked, turning up her soulful blue eyes 
 at me. 
 
 "He would be a brute if he didn't, 
 Rose," responded I, with considerable 
 warmth. The girl surely loved him. 
 
 "Why don't he write to me?" 
 
 "Maybe he hasn't got the time or 
 ain't much of a writer," said I. "Some 
 people don't like to write." 
 
 "I guess that's true," said she, sadly. 
 
 Though she had a sneaking regard 
 for the young fellow, she didn't object 
 to me buying milk chocolates for her, 
 
129 
 
 nor to going to a show with me, nor to 
 taking a ride to Crescent Beach on a 
 cosy little lake steamer. In fact, Rosie 
 was out for a good time, and evidently 
 wasn't particular who furnished the 
 funds. As I fancied the poor girl I was 
 not averse to giving her a good time. 
 We went to Delaware Park and spent 
 several whole afternoons rowing on the 
 little lake. We fed the ducks, walked in 
 shady groves, and the time flew swiftly 
 by in her company. During the morn- 
 ing I sold signs and in the afternoon I 
 went with Rosie. I put in a whole lot 
 of time in Buffalo with her, more than 
 I should have done. One day I told her 
 that I would have to go and then there 
 was a kick. She wouldn't have it. She 
 could not and she would not let me go, 
 she said. I argued the case with her, 
 but she wasn't open to argument. She 
 was one of these kind of girls who are 
 apt to forget the absent one when the 
 present charmer is nigh. It was the 
 hardest job in the world for me to leave 
 her, but I finally did so. Rosie, fare- 
 well; and if forever, then forever, fare 
 thee well. 
 
130 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 NEW YORK CITY. 
 
 I have heard it stated that "a great 
 city is a great solitude," and so it is if 
 you are a stranger. New York seemed 
 a big solitude to me, for I didn't know 
 anyone and no one knew me. I landed 
 in the Grand Central Depot in a swell 
 quarter of the city one day, and felt 
 utterly lost, for I didn't know which 
 way to turn. As I was poor, that swell 
 neighborhood was no place for me, but 
 where was I to find a poorer locality? 
 I concluded to walk and find one. I 
 kept a walking and a walking and 
 a walking, but the more I walked the 
 more high-toned did the streets seem. 
 Nothing but fine houses and well-paved 
 streets met my view and they made me 
 tired. 
 
 I did not like to address any of the 
 people walking along these streets for 
 they seemed hurried, cold and distant. 
 
 Says I to myself: "Windy, you've 
 struck a cold place. Chicago was bad, 
 but this place is worse. If you are go- 
 
131 
 
 ing to Europe, this will have to be your 
 headquarters for awhile, though." 
 
 Bye-and-bye I struck a street called 
 Eighth Avenue, which was a long and 
 wide one. It was full of people and 
 stores. The sidewalks were so crowded 
 that locomotion was difficult, and I saw 
 more coons there than I had ever seen 
 in my life before. They were dressed up 
 to kill and considered they owned the 
 town. From their manner one would 
 suppose they had no use for white trash. 
 
 I had walked so much that I was 
 pretty well tired out, and I also was 
 hungry and thirsty. I concluded I 
 would seek some saloon where I could 
 obtain a rest, a drink and a free lunch, 
 all for a nickel. There are such places 
 everywhere in the cities, plenty of them, 
 and all you have to do is to find them. 
 I walked along and kept my eyes peeled 
 for one. I saw lots of stylishly fitted- 
 up stores along the avenue, and as there 
 was so much style I thought there ought 
 to be lots of money. Everyone I met 
 was dressed to kill, and it seemed to 
 me that no one was poor. Finally I 
 came to a saloon which was bejeweled 
 
132 
 
 and be-cut-glassed outside, and swell in- 
 side, having marble floors and fancy 
 fixtures. Into this saloon I stepped and 
 strode up to the bar, where I ordered a 
 schooner of beer. I laid down a nickel 
 on the bar and then leisurely strolled 
 over to the lunch counter, which con- 
 tained a pretty good spread of free 
 lunch. I tackled a fistful of bread and 
 cheese, and then wound up with .bo- 
 logna, pickles, crackers and pickled 
 tripe. I ordered another schooner and 
 hit the free lunch again real hard. No 
 one said anything to me. After a good 
 long rest I hit the "Avenue" again to 
 see the sights. There was plenty to be 
 seen for the avenue was jammed with 
 people, trolley cars and trucks. The 
 buildings were of brick, as a rule, and 
 old-fashioned in appearance. On the 
 ground floor were stores and over head 
 dwellings. 
 
 Everyone was a hustling and a bust- 
 ling and didn't seem to have much time 
 for anything except to sell you some- 
 thing. No one knew me or seemed to 
 care a cuss for me. I felt lonely. The 
 din was so great and the crowd so dense 
 
133 
 
 that I couldn't hear myself think. I was 
 swept along with the crowd and kept 
 my eyes and ears open. The stores were 
 very fine, and the signs upon them hand- 
 some. Though Eighth Avenue is by no 
 means in a rich section of the city, it 
 seemed to me that there was a whole lot 
 of wealth and style there. I felt quite 
 out of place for I wasn't well dressed. 
 
 Some of the free lunch I had eaten — 
 I believe it was the bologna — had given 
 me a thirst, so I stepped into an ice 
 cream saloon and had a "schooner" of 
 ice cream soda, which quenched my 
 thirst admirably. Things were cheap 
 and good in New York, I quickly 
 learned, and if one only had the price, 
 one could live well there. One could 
 have all kinds of fun, too, for there are 
 so many people. The city is like an 
 overgrown bee-hive — it more than 
 swarms with people. I believe that 
 New York City today has over four 
 millions of people, with more a coming 
 every year — thousands of them. 
 
 I had heard a great deal about the 
 Bowery in New York, so I concluded to 
 
134 
 
 see it. I knew the song about it, the 
 chorus of which was : 
 
 The Bowery, the Bowery, 
 They say such things, and they do such 
 things, 
 
 On the Bowery, the Bowery- — 
 Oh ! I'll never go there any more. 
 
 And I was wondering what kind of 
 things they said there and what they 
 did. 
 
 Well, they didn't say much when I 
 struck it and there was nothing doing 
 to speak of, except people rushing along 
 minding their own business. It may 
 have been wicked, but it isn't now. It 
 is a business street and that is all. There 
 is an "Elevated" over the street, which 
 makes noise enough to raise the dead, 
 and a lot of cheap-looking stores and 
 restaurants. There is any number of 
 "hat-blocking" establishments run by 
 Hebrews, and the whole street in fact, 
 seems like a section of Jerusalem. Jews 
 till you can't rest. There may be some 
 knock-down-and-drag-out places, but 
 these are not confined to the Bowery. 
 There are other streets far worse. 
 
135 
 
 No, the Bowery today is a peaceful, 
 quiet street, and there isn't "anything 
 doing" worth speaking about. 
 
 New York has some fine streets, such 
 as Broadway, Fifth Avenue, Madison 
 Square, Twenty-third Street, Four- 
 teenth Street, etc. Broadway is the 
 main business street and begins at 
 Bowling Green and runs up to Central 
 Park and thence beyond. It is several 
 miles long, its lower portion from Bowl- 
 ing Green to Fourteenth Street being 
 lined on either side by many sky-scrap- 
 ers and massive wholesale business es- 
 tablishments, and from Fourteenth 
 Street up, by retail stores. Rents are 
 high on this street and the buildings 
 fine. Fifth Avenue is not so long as 
 Broadway and contains the residences 
 of many millionaires and less rich peo- 
 ple. There is lots of style and wealth 
 on that street. 
 
 The Central Park is a beautiful spot. 
 It runs from Fifty-ninth Street to One 
 Hundred and Tenth Street, and from 
 Fifth to Eighth Avenue. It is two and 
 a half miles long by about two miles 
 wide, and isn't big enough sometimes 
 
136 
 
 to contain the crowds of people that 
 flock into it. It contains shady walks 
 and trees, lawns, baseball grounds, 
 lakes, casinos, stately malls ( avenues), 
 a large zoological collection, a great art 
 gallery, an immense natural history 
 building, extensive drives, secluded 
 nooks for love-making, and lots of other 
 nice things. Around its grand entrance 
 at Fifth Avenue are some of the largest 
 and swellest hotels in New York. 
 
 As everyone knows, of course, New 
 York is the largest city in the country 
 and the most cosmopolitan. It is the 
 center of art, trade and finance, and 
 its population is composed of all sorts. 
 There are as many Irish as in the larg- 
 est city in Ireland, as many Germans, 
 almost, as in Hamburg, as many Jews 
 as in Jerusalem, and a big crowd of 
 almost every nationality under the sun. 
 The main part of the city is situated on 
 Manhattan Island, and it is overcrowd- 
 ed, compelling the overplus to seek the 
 suburbs and other near-by localities. 
 Even these are becoming too well popu- 
 lated. Jersey City, Newark, Brooklyn, 
 Paterson, Kearney, Harrison, Staten 
 
137 
 
 Island, Coney Island, etc., are increas- 
 ing in population all too rapidly. New 
 York is one of the "step lively" towns, 
 and you are expected to hustle there, 
 whether you want to or not. It is all 
 your life is worth sometimes to cross a 
 street, and a car won't stop long 
 enough to enable you to get on or off. 
 The tenement sections are studies in 
 human life, and malodorous ones at 
 that. The throngs are wonderful to 
 behold. 
 
 If you have plenty of money New 
 York is an interesting place to live in. 
 You will never feel dull there. You can 
 live in some pretty suburb and go back 
 and forth every morning and evening, 
 as thousands do ; or you can live in the 
 city and ride out into the country every 
 day by carriage, train or boat. In the 
 good old summer time, if you live in the 
 city, you can go to Manhattan or 
 Brighton Beach, Coney Island, North 
 Beach, South Beach, Rockaway, Fire 
 Island, Long Branch, the Highlands, 
 Shrewsbury River and a thousand and 
 one other resorts in the vicinity. There 
 
138 
 
 is no lack of amusement or pleasure 
 places. 
 
 Even the very poor can find lots of 
 pleasant places to go, around New 
 York, for the fares are low. For ten 
 cents one can ride from New York to 
 Coney Island, a distance of over twenty 
 miles; to Fort George for five cents, 
 fifteen miles or more; to Manhattan 
 Beach, South Beach, Staten Island, 
 Newark, up the Hudson, and lots of 
 other places. In the city itself, and 
 free for all, are the Aquarium, Art Gal- 
 leries, Public Squares, Parks, Roof Gar- 
 dens along the two rivers (the Hudson 
 and East Rivers), the animals in Bronx 
 and Central Parks, the museums and 
 other things. There is always something 
 to hear and see in New York City at all 
 hours of the day and night. 
 
 ■ New York surely is quite a sizeable 
 village, and to judge from the way it 
 has been growing, ten years from now 
 it will extend a hundred miles or more 
 up the Hudson, to Albany, maybe. 
 
139 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THEM BLOOMIN' PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Before I say much more about New 
 York I want to say a word about the 
 book publishers of that city, for I got to 
 know a little something about them. I 
 will relate my experiences among them, 
 which will enable others to judge what 
 they are like. I wanted to find a pub- 
 lisher for this book, and was told that 
 New York is the proper place to do 
 business of that kind. 
 
 The first publisher I attempted to do 
 business with has a large establishment 
 on Vandewater Street, which is not far 
 from the Brooklyn Bridge. I asked an 
 elevator man who stood in the hallway 
 of this building where I could find the 
 boss. 
 
 "Which boss?" asked he, with a huge 
 grin, for he probably deemed me some 
 country jay looking for a job. My ap- 
 pearance was not very respect-inspir- 
 ing, to say the truth ; not for New York, 
 anyway. 
 
140 
 
 "The head of this establishment/' an- 
 swered I, placidly. 
 
 "What do you want to see him 
 about? Are you looking for a job?" 
 
 "No, I'm not; I want to have some 
 printing done." 
 
 "Oh, that's the ticket, is it? The 
 superintendent is the man you want to 
 see. He's on the top-floor. Come with 
 me and I'll take you up to him." 
 
 I stepped into the elevator and up we 
 shot. We never stopped until we struck 
 the top landing, where a door confront- 
 ed us which opened into a huge apart- 
 ment that was full of type-stands, 
 presses, paper-cutters and printing ma- 
 chinery of all sorts. At the furthest 
 end of this huge apartment were some 
 offices. 
 
 Upon my entrance into the large 
 apartment a man stepped up to me and 
 wanted to know what I wanted. 
 
 "I'd like to see the superintendent." 
 
 "Looking for a job, cully?" asked this 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Well, hardly," responded I. "I want 
 to have some printing done." 
 
 "Oh, you do, eh? You'll find the 
 
141 
 
 super in the rear office; away in the 
 back/' and he waved his hand toward 
 the rear. 
 
 I walked toward the rear and was 
 met by a small boy, who came out of an 
 office and wanted to know my business. 
 
 "I want to see the superintendent, 
 sonny," said I. 
 
 "What do you want to see him 
 about?" asked the kid. 
 
 "Never you mind ; I want to see him." 
 
 "Will you please let me have your 
 card?" 
 
 "My card? What do you want my 
 card for?" 
 
 "So as to let the boss know who you 
 are." 
 
 "He don't know me; anyway, I 
 haven't got a card." 
 
 "Will you please write your name 
 and the nature of your business on this 
 tablet? and I'll take it to him," said 
 the boy, handing me a writing tablet 
 and pencil. 
 
 I didn't understand this method of 
 doing business but I did as requested. 
 The boy took the card in and presently 
 
142 
 
 the superintendent appeared. His name 
 was Axtell. 
 
 "What can I do for you?" promptly 
 asked Mr. Axtell, without any prelimi- 
 naries. Probably he was a busy man. 
 
 "I have written a book, sir, and I 
 want to have it printed." 
 
 The gent looked at me contemplative- 
 ly. What his thoughts were I don't 
 know. 
 
 "What kind of a book is it you've 
 written? History, travel, poetry, novel 
 or what?" 
 
 I told him it was a novel. 
 
 "How many pages will the book con- 
 tain?" asked the superintendent. 
 
 "There will be four or five hundred 
 pages, I guess, as near as I can figure 
 it," responded I. 
 
 "How many copies will you want?" 
 
 "I'll leave that to you, sir, for you 
 know best. This is my first book, and 
 though I don't think it is going to set 
 the world on fire," said I modestly, "I 
 think a first edition of about ten thou- 
 sand copies would be the thing. Don't 
 you think that would do for a starter?" 
 
 "It might," said he contemplatively. 
 
143 
 
 "Excuse me," continued he as he sat 
 down at his desk and began to do some 
 figuring. When he got through he turned 
 to me and said: "Ten thousand copies 
 of the book in paper cover will cost you 
 in the neighborhood of $1000." 
 
 "Cost me $1000," almost shrieked I. 
 "I wanted to know what you'll give me 
 for the manuscript and print it your- 
 self." 
 
 A cold glare froze in the gent's eye. 
 "We only print 'reprint' here ; we do not 
 buy manuscripts." I did not under- 
 stand, and the gent judged so from my 
 demeanor, for he added : "You want to 
 see a publisher. Go up to Twenty-third 
 Street; you'll find lots of them up that 
 way." 
 
 I did not know the difference between 
 a printer and a publisher at that time, 
 so that is how I came to make the mis- 
 take. 
 
 Up Twenty-third Street way I went. 
 Twenty-third Street was a pretty swell 
 one, far too swell for rather a seedy- 
 looking chap like me. 
 
 I came upon the establishment of 
 Messrs. Graham & Sons, which was one 
 
144 
 
 of the swellest on the street. It was con- 
 tained in a six-story marble building, 
 all ornaments and furbelows in front, 
 and it was so swell that it made me feel 
 small. The store must have been at 
 least 200 feet long and nearly as wide 
 as it was long. A small part of this 
 vast space was divided off into offices, 
 but by far the greater portion was de- 
 voted to the exposure of books. Books 
 were piled around till you couldn't rest 
 — on counters, shelves, in elaborate 
 glass cases, and on the floor, even. All 
 were handsomely bound and good to 
 look at. When I saw the conglomeration 
 my heart sank. 
 
 "Look at all this array, Windy," said 
 I to myself; "where are you going to 
 get off at? You want to add another 
 book to this little pile, do you? You 
 are all kinds of a fool." 
 
 For a few moments I was discour- 
 aged, but the feeling did not last long. 
 I am an optimist, a fellow who never 
 gets discouraged. Instantly I mustered 
 courage and walked up to a white- 
 haired old gentleman whom I told that 
 I would like to see the proprietor. The 
 
145 
 
 old gentleman told me that he was in his 
 office on the top floor of the building. Up 
 I went to see him. When I reached the 
 top floor, which was a sort of literary 
 symposium and printing office com- 
 bined, a small boy came forward and 
 asked me my business. I told him, 
 whereupon he asked me for my card. As 
 I hadn't any, I wrote my name and the 
 nature of my business on a tablet, and 
 the boy took it into an office. A well- 
 groomed and handsome young gentle- 
 man came forward and asked me to be 
 seated. It was in an outer, not walled- 
 in office, but even the furniture in it 
 was swell. 
 
 After exchanging airy compliments 
 and discussing the weather a bit, the 
 gentleman remarked en passant, "You 
 have written a book?" 
 
 That broke the ice. I told him I had 
 and then we proceeded to business. He 
 wanted to know the nature of the book 
 and such other things as were well for 
 him to know. I then asked a few ques- 
 tions myself. • 
 
 "What do you pay authors for their 
 books, Mr. Graham?" 
 
146 
 
 "That depends," replied he. "We 
 usually pay a royalty of $500 down and 
 ten per cent on every book sold, after 
 that." 
 
 I thought that was a pretty fair rat- 
 tle out of the box. I concluded to leave 
 my writings with Mr. Graham on those 
 terms and he consented to receive them. 
 I knew he had but to read to accept. I 
 always was optimistic, as I said before. 
 Mr. Graham requested me to leave my 
 address, so he could communicate with 
 me. He informed me I would hear from 
 him in a few days. I did. In a few 
 days I got a note from him in a high- 
 toned, crested envelope, which stated 
 that "the first reader" of the house had 
 read the book and found good points in 
 it, but that "the second reader" was 
 dubious. To make sure he, Mr. Graham, 
 had read the book himself and wasn't 
 certain whether there was any money 
 in it. Under these circumstances he 
 was constrained to forego the pleasure 
 of publication, etc., etc., etc. These 
 were not his exact words,* but their sub- 
 stance. After reading the kind note I 
 concluded to jump off the Brooklyn 
 
147 
 
 Bridge, but thought better of it. 
 Messrs. Graham & Sons were not the 
 only pebbles on the beach, so why not 
 see what I could do elsewhere. That's 
 what I did — tried my luck elsewhere. 
 There were other publishers on Twenty- 
 third Street and if Graham & Sons did 
 not know a good thing when they saw it, 
 others might. 
 
 On the same block, only a few doors 
 distant, was another large firm. To 
 them I went. A small little man with a 
 Scotch accent sat in the ante-room and 
 asked me what I was after. He wanted 
 my card, too, but didn't get it. He went 
 in to see Mr. Phillips, the editor of the 
 publishing house, and this gentleman 
 turned me down in short order. He told 
 me that there are too many books pub- 
 lished nowadays, and that books of 
 travel were a drug on the market. The 
 cuss told me everything in the world to 
 discourage me, but he couldn't do it. 
 I just went around to see some of the 
 other publishers, but none of them 
 would "touch" the story at any price 
 and each one had a different reason for 
 refusing. I was unknown, poor and 
 
148 
 
 obscure, and that settled it. There was 
 no show there for me. To get along one 
 must be rich or have "a pull." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE OCEAN VOYAGE. 
 
 I put in the winter in New York 
 working at Berry's, one of the swellest 
 catering houses in the city. It is situ- 
 ated on Fifth Avenue and is a rival of 
 the great Delmonico establishments. 
 The nobs of New York, when they want 
 to give a little dinner or supper at 
 home, see Berry, who furnishes all the 
 fine grub, cooks, waiters, dishes, plates, 
 etc., or if they want to eat at his place 
 they can do so, for he has private din- 
 ing-rooms, ball-rooms, etc., where they 
 can have anything they want, providing 
 they have the price to pay for it. He 
 employs a lot of people in his establish- 
 ment, in the shape of a housekeeper, 
 chambermaids, male chefs and assist- 
 ants, waiters, omnibuses, porters, head- 
 waiters, superintendents and a window- 
 
149 
 
 cleaner. I was the window-cleaner. It 
 was the softest snap I had ever struck. 
 I worked from 8 in the morning until 
 about dusk, and all I had to do was to 
 keep every window in the house as 
 bright and shiny as a new dollar. The 
 building is a large one and the windows 
 are many, but it was no trick at all to 
 keep them clean. I cleaned a few win- 
 dows every day and put in a whole lot 
 of unnecessary time at it. 
 
 I got twenty-five dollars a month for 
 the job with board thrown in. The 
 board was extra fine. Roast goose and 
 chicken for dinner every day (left over 
 victuals, of course), crab, shrimp and 
 potato salads, oysters in any style, rich 
 puddings, pies and cakes, wines of all 
 vintages — say, sonny, we lived there 
 and no mistake. I had struck a home. 
 I held the job down all winter and 
 saved a little money. 
 
 I told some of my fellow-workers, 
 both male and female, that I intended to 
 take a little flyer to the old country in 
 the spring, and they laughed at me and 
 guyed me unmercifully. 
 
 One fine spring day "when fancy 
 
150 
 
 lightly turns to thoughts of love" as I 
 once saw it stated in a novel, I strolled 
 down Bowling Green where the steam- 
 ship offices are located and got pointers 
 for my little trip. I learned that I could 
 go to London direct, to Amsterdam, 
 Rotterdam and several other dams; to 
 Hamburg, Southampton, Liverpool, 
 Havre, Glasgow and to so many other 
 places that I grew bewildered. 
 
 As I stood in front of the Cunard line 
 office a young fellow stepped up to me 
 and asked: 
 
 "Say, mister, are you thinking of 
 going to Yurrup?" 
 
 I didn't think it was any of his busi- 
 ness, so I said : 
 
 "What do you want to know for?" 
 
 "Who, me?" replied he, taking time 
 to gather his wits. "I'm connected with 
 a ticket agency around on Greenwich 
 Street, and if you want a ticket cheap, 
 come with me and HI get you one." 
 
 "How cheap?" asked I. 
 
 "That'll depend on where you want 
 to g*o to. We sell tickets to all places 
 mio-hty cheap. Where do you want to 
 go? 
 
 >?" 
 
151 
 
 "Don't know yet; haven't decided." 
 
 "Let me sell you a ticket to Glasgow 
 on the Anchor line. That line will take 
 you to Ireland and Scotland and is the 
 finest trip in the world." 
 
 "What's the fare?" inquired I. 
 
 "Only thirty dollars," answered he, 
 "and you will get your money's worth." 
 
 I didn't think I'd see much of Ireland 
 or Scotland if I bought a ticket from 
 him, so I told him I'd see him later. 
 
 I wandered into the Anchor Line 
 office and asked the ticket agent what 
 the price of a ticket to Glasgow would 
 be. 
 
 "Cabin or steerage?" inquired he. 
 
 "Steerage, of course ; I'm no Vander- 
 bilt." 
 
 The agent looked at me quizzingly 
 and then remarked: "From twenty- 
 seven dollars upward, according to ac- 
 commodation." 
 
 I didn't know what he meant by "ac- 
 commodation" but I thought twenty- 
 seven dollars was enough for me. 
 
 "Do you want a ticket?" asked the 
 agent, as if he were in a hurry. 
 
152 
 
 "I haven't the price with me now," 
 said I. 
 
 "What did you come here for then/' 
 snapped he. 
 
 "For information," snapped I. 
 
 He saw that I was getting huffy so 
 he pulled in his horns and said: "We 
 can take you to Scotland in pretty good 
 shape for twenty-seven dollars. You will 
 have a good berth and the best of food, 
 and we'll land you in Glasgow in less 
 than ten days from the time you leave 
 here. What do you say ; shall I give you 
 a ticket?" 
 
 I " cogitated. The prospect looked 
 good to me. 
 
 "Yes," said I impulsively, "give me 
 a ticket!" 
 
 I gave him my name, as he requested, 
 answered all the questions he put to me, 
 and in a jiffy he had the ticket made 
 out for me. 
 
 "What's the name of the ship I'm go- 
 ing to sail on?" asked I. 
 
 "The Furnessia," answered he, add- 
 ing, "she will leave from the foot of 
 West Twenty-fourth Street on Satur- 
 
153 
 
 day morning at nine o'clock sharp. Be 
 on hand at that time, or you'll get left." 
 
 "Don't you worry about me getting 
 left," retorted I ; "I'll be there all right." 
 
 Was I happy after I bought the 
 ticket? I can't say that I was, for I 
 wasn't at all positive whether I had bet- 
 ter go. I didn't know what the old coun- 
 try would be like, so that visions of all 
 kinds of trouble floated through my nod- 
 dle, but faint heart never won a fair 
 lady. I might as well be found dead in 
 Europe as in any other place. What's 
 the dif ? 
 
 This was Thursday and the ship was 
 to sail on Saturday. It seemed to me a 
 long time to wait for when I go any- 
 where I like to go in a hurry. 
 
 Saturday morning came and I arose 
 brieht and early. I slept very little that 
 ni^ht, for I was thinking, thinking, 
 thinking. After arising and hav- 
 ing a cup of coffee I took my time 
 strolling down toward the steam- 
 ship pier. After I arrived there I was 
 about to enter the long covered shed, 
 when an official strode up to me and 
 asked me where I was going. I carried 
 
154 
 
 no baggage of any sort and didn't think 
 I needed any. I am too old a traveler 
 to encumber myself with baggage. All 
 I carried was on my person. I told the 
 official I was bound for Europe on the 
 Furnessia and showed him my ticket. 
 He looked at it and let me pass. I went 
 on board. 
 
 When I reached the deck a young man 
 dressed in a white jacket and peaked 
 cap asked me if I were a married man. 
 
 I didn't think it was any of his busi- 
 ness, so I asked him what he wanted to 
 know for. 
 
 The young fellow frowned and ex- 
 claimed: "Don't give me no language, 
 young feller; I want to know if yer 
 married or single." I told him I was a 
 single man, whereupon he said: "You 
 go forward to the quarters for single 
 men !" 
 
 "Where's that?" queried I. 
 
 "For'ard of the main hatch," re- 
 sponded he. I didn't know the difference 
 between a main hatch and a chicken 
 hatch, but I went up to the front part 
 of the vessel where I saw several sail- 
 ors slinging trunks down a hole by 
 
155 
 
 means of a rope. I walked up to them 
 and asked one of them who wasn't too 
 busy to answer a question, where the 
 main hatch was. 
 
 "It's in the fo'-castle," says Jack, 
 with a wink at his mates; do you want 
 it?" 
 
 "No," said I. "I don't; where's the 
 quarters for the single men. 
 
 "Oh, that's what you're after, is it? 
 You follows your nose till you gets to 
 the bows, and then you'll see a compan- 
 ionway down which you goes." 
 
 "All right," says I; "thank you." 
 The directions weren't clear, .but I 
 guessed I could find my way. I went 
 forward through rows of boxes, trunks, 
 valises, ropes and other impediments, 
 and finally came to a stairway over 
 which was a hood or sliding cover. This 
 stairway was almost straight up and 
 down, with rough brass plates on each 
 step to prevent one from slipping. At 
 either side of it was a rope in lieu of a 
 balustrade. 
 
 That stairway did not look good to 
 me. 
 
156 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE STEERAGE. 
 
 As soon as I tried to go down the 
 stairway there was trouble, trouble of 
 the worst kind. I could get down all 
 right, but when I got down a few steps 
 an odor came up that made me pause. 
 The odor was not of stale onions, a rot- 
 ting steer or anything like that, but 
 an indefinable one. I never smelt any- 
 thing like it before and it conquered 
 me at once. It caught me right in the 
 throat and though I tried to swallow 
 I couldn't do so to save my life. I be- 
 gan to chew as if I were chewing to- 
 bacco, and the lump rose in my throat 
 and wouldn't go up nor down. I hadn't 
 drunk a drop that morning excepting a 
 cup of coffee, so it couldn't have been 
 liquor that upset me. It must have 
 been the smell and nothing else. I 
 stood on a step holding to the side rope 
 to steady myself and hesitated about 
 going down. I grew dizzy and thought 
 I was going to fall but held on like grim 
 death. 
 
157 
 
 "Come Windy," says I to myself, 
 "your bunk is below, and you'll have 
 to go down to it or someone else will 
 get it. This won't do." 
 
 I went down slowly and the further 
 down I got the stronger the smell be- 
 came. Suddenly I got very sick. I felt 
 like giving up the enterprise right then 
 and there but as my friends would have 
 had the laugh on me if I did so, I con- 
 cluded to see the thing out. 
 
 I had to go down the stairway, 
 though, there was no getting around 
 that; I had to select a berth, and to do 
 that I had to go below. I kind of fooled 
 around and hesitated to make the 
 plunge but finally I mustered courage 
 and made the attempt once more. I 
 went down very slowly, holding my 
 hand over my nose and mouth. I got 
 down a few steps and then I stopped 
 again. I just couldn't. I just laid down 
 where I was and fired away like a good 
 fellow. I was more than willing to die. 
 
 As I lay there a jacky suddenly came 
 down, airy-fairy fashion, as if he were 
 dancing on eggs, and in his hands he 
 carried a long, black tin pan in which 
 
158 
 
 was his mate's breakfast, consisting of 
 meat, gravy and potatoes. 
 
 I caught a whiff of the mess and oh 
 mercy! When jacky got down to the 
 bottom and saw me sitting there and 
 the muss I had made he became very 
 indignant and wanted to know what 
 I meant by mussing up the ship like 
 that. 
 
 "Why don't you go on deck if you 
 want to be sick?" said he. 
 
 Had I been well I would have swiped 
 the heartless cuss one just for luck, but 
 I was too weak to speak, even. I fired 
 away again and seeing this, Jacky flew 
 away as if the devil was after him. 
 
 After a good long time I got down 
 in the steerage and saw the steerage 
 steward who was a Scotchman with a 
 broad accent, and he gave me a berth. 
 He noticed that I had been sick and 
 advised me to go upstairs and get all the 
 fresh air I could. 
 
 I acted on his advice and made my 
 wav up the stairway again as quickly 
 as I could, but that wasn't very quick. 
 
 When I got on deck the fresh air re- 
 vived me somewhat, but it seemed to 
 
159 
 
 me as if my stomach were all gone. 
 There was an "all gone" feeling there, 
 sure enough. 
 
 The ship was getting ready to start 
 by this time. An officer mounted a 
 raised deck over the forecastle and gave 
 orders to heave the hawsers off. The 
 captain, who stood on the bridge, sig- 
 nalled to the engineer below to let her 
 go, and off we were. 
 
 Slowly we moved out from the pier, 
 to the farewells of the multitudes on 
 shore and on deck. Some blubbered, 
 but ne'er a blubber from me. I wasn't 
 caring whether school kept or not. 
 
 The vessel's prow after she got out 
 of her dock was turned down the Hud- 
 son toward the Battery, and she went 
 well out into the middle of the stream. 
 
 This afforded us a good view of the 
 river. On one side was the New York 
 shore, and on the other, the Jersey. 
 Panoramas of houses and docks on 
 either side swept by us as we moved 
 along, and sky-scrapers loomed up 
 prominently. 
 
 We passed pretty close to the Goddess 
 of Liberty, and saw plainly Governor's 
 
160 
 
 Island, Ellis Island, Fort Hamilton, 
 Fort Wordsworth, Bath Beach, Staten 
 Island and Coney Island. Quickly 
 enough we were abreast of Sandy Hook, 
 which was the last point of land we 
 would see until we reached Europe. 
 Straight ahead of us was nothing but 
 sky and water. 
 
 It was now nearly noon. I had eaten 
 nothing that morning and what I had 
 eaten yesterday was mostly downstairs 
 in the hallway. The fresh sea-breeze 
 had revived me a little and now I felt 
 that I could eat something. None of 
 the passengers had eaten anything 
 since they came on board, and prob- 
 ably they, too, must have been hungry, 
 for when the dinner bell rang there was 
 a mighty stampede. Some of them 
 didn't take time to rush downstairs, 
 they just dropped down. 
 
 The dinner was good. There was 
 plenty of nourishing soup on hand, a 
 liberal allowance of meat, vegetables, 
 bread, butter and coffee. No one need 
 have gone hungry. All the other meals 
 were satisfactory, though an occasional 
 one was punky. Of course there were 
 
161 
 
 kickers, but those kind of people will 
 be found everywhere. 
 
 The second day out was Sunday, and 
 it was a fine spring day, but on Monday 
 morning clouds began to gather and 
 tried to work up a storm. They suc- 
 ceeded all too speedily. The sky be- 
 came black, the wind roared up aloft, 
 the masts hummed, timbers creaked, 
 the ship rolled from side to side and then 
 rose and fell; the cordage whipped 
 against the masts and everything 
 looked lovely for a first-class storm. I 
 got scared. I hated to die so young, 
 but what's the odds? The waves were 
 high as mountains and to me seemed 
 about as mean looking as anything I 
 ever saw. They were white on top and 
 made straight for us. We could not 
 run away from them. I was on deck 
 waiting to see the storm out, for what 
 was the use going below and being 
 drowned there? If I was to die I 
 would die game and at the front. It 
 didn't seem to me that anything built 
 by human hands could withstand the 
 buffeting of those waves. The force 
 of the sky-scraping billows was awful. 
 
162 
 
 They kind of made me wilt when I 
 looked at them. 
 
 I survived that storm or I wouldn't 
 be writing this. If you catch me on 
 the sea again though, you'll have to be 
 a fast runner. 
 
 I was told that we would see land 
 again by the following Sunday and I 
 was sort of pining to see it. It was 
 a wait of several long days, but I didn't 
 have much else to do than wait. There 
 was nothing to do on board except to 
 eat, sleep and wait. I got pretty badly 
 drenched during the storm. A huge 
 comber made a leap for me and broke 
 right over me, spilling a few tons of 
 water on top of me. It was a soaker, 
 sure enough, and I didn't dry out until 
 several days afterward. I had only one 
 suit of clothes with me and they were 
 on my back so they had no chance to 
 dry. I slept in them to keep them 
 warm. 
 
 A life on the ocean wave is a gay 
 thing. It is awful nice to be spun 
 around like a cork and then see-sawed 
 up and down with a possibility of touch- 
 ing bottom. The heel over from side to 
 
163 
 
 side is also very funny, for there is a 
 good chance of being shot overboard 
 when the ship jams suddenly away over. 
 You hold on wondering whether the 
 ship is going to right herself or not. If 
 she does, you're in luck, and if she 
 don't it's good-bye Lisa Jane. How 
 many ships do tip over? Several 
 thousand of them every year. Luckily, 
 the Furnessia wasn't one of the unlucky 
 ones this trip. The worst that hap- 
 pened to me was a bad scare and a 
 shower-bath. Maybe the water wasn't 
 cold when that wave struck me ! Ugh ! 
 It knocked the wind out of me for a 
 moment and I didn't know where I was 
 at. I dripped like a drowned rat and 
 when my fellow passengers saw me 
 they roared. 
 
 On Tuesday morning of the second 
 week we saw the shores of Europe. We 
 had now been out about ten days. I 
 have read that Columbus and his crew 
 felt pretty good when they saw land 
 again after their eventful voyage but 
 I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut they 
 didn't feel half as good as I felt when I 
 saw land again. I was more than pin- 
 
164 
 
 ing to see it. Ten days of sloppi- 
 ness was a whole lot for me. If there is 
 any fun wandering around with one's 
 clothing sticking to one's back I fail to 
 see it. I was feeling all right and my 
 general health was good, but the lack 
 of sleep and the fetid odors down below 
 helped to daze me. I was in a sort of 
 pipe dream and hardly knew whether I 
 was afoot or on horseback. 
 
 There was land ahead, though, and I 
 felt like shouting. 
 
 The land ahead of us was the coast 
 of Ireland and it looked good to me. 
 The name of Ireland was familiar to 
 me since my boyhood days, and I had 
 seen Irishmen on the stage and off it, 
 had heard songs sung about it and had 
 heard it spoken of a million times. 
 Here was the real thing right before 
 me. I became mightily interested in 
 it as did almost everyone else. The 
 Irish passengers aboard, and there 
 were plenty of them, became frantic 
 with joy. Ireland surely is a beautiful 
 country. Rocky headlands we saw, 
 capes, bays, towering mountains in the 
 background, green trees and farms. An 
 
165 
 
 air of romance seemed to hang over 
 the place and the blue skies of the 
 spring above looked down on it kindly. 
 We steered straight in for the shore and 
 then sailed northward along the coast. 
 We kept off shore only a few miles. 
 When we got to Tory Island we steamed 
 between it and the mainland, and had 
 a close view of this little islet. It was 
 only a mile or two long with a quaint 
 looking light-house at one end of it and 
 a vegetable garden in bloom near by. 
 Those green things growing, how they 
 did entrance me! 
 
 At the other end of the isle were 
 rocks that towered up higher than the 
 masts of our ship, and they were 
 scarred, seamed and causewayed by 
 the elements. They had taken the 
 strangest shapes imaginable. 
 
 We steamed through the strait be- 
 tween the island and the mainland 
 swiftly, for though the strait was nar- 
 row the channel was deep; then we 
 skirted southward along the east coast 
 of Ireland until we came to a broad 
 bay, where we anchored. This bay 
 was shallow close in to the shore, so 
 
166 
 
 we anchored far out. On the shore 
 was the town of Moville, where the 
 Irish passengers were to disembark for 
 points in Ireland. A little tender came 
 steaming up and when she was loaded 
 with baggage and passengers, there 
 was hardly room enough to swing a 
 cat in but as the Irish passengers were 
 happy, we had no kick coming. The 
 warm-hearted Irish, bade us farewell 
 with many a thrown kiss and handker- 
 chief flutter. They were off. 
 
 So we were soon, for Scotland. The 
 scenes along the east coast of Ireland 
 were no whit inferior to those on the 
 west coast. 
 
 It did not take us long to reach Scot- 
 land, where the scenery was enchant- 
 ing. Words are entirely inadequate to 
 give one a proper idea of it. To be ap- 
 preciated it must be seen and felt, for 
 reading about it don't do much good. 
 
 Here, right before us, were the High- 
 lands of Scotland and many a place 
 famous in song and story. 
 
 In due course of time we reached the 
 Firth of Clyde and anchored off Green- 
 ock. This was the disembarking point 
 
167 
 
 for all the passengers. A little steamer 
 shot out from Greenock and landed us, 
 bag and baggage, at the Princess Pier, 
 which reminded me somewhat of a Mis- 
 sissippi levee, for it was stone paved 
 and sloping. On the pier cabbies stood 
 about, touching their hats respectfully, 
 but saying never a word. They were 
 seeking "fares," and giving us the tip 
 noiselessly. Newsboys were there, too, 
 yelling in strange accents, "Morning 
 Nip!" "Daily Bladder," etc., and some 
 of them when they got on to my pres- 
 ence and saw that I was a greenhorn, 
 made loud uncomplimentary remarks 
 about me in language that I couldn't 
 understand. This rather embarrassed 
 me, for I didn't like to be made a show 
 of. Them kids ought to have got a kick 
 in the pants for their freshness but the 
 more you fool with some kids the worse 
 they get, so I just walked on minding 
 my business and said nothing. 
 
 All we third-raters were steered into 
 the custom house where the baggage 
 was to be examined. It didn't take the 
 authorities long to examine mine. A 
 quiet, lynx-eyed official asked me where 
 
168 
 
 m y baggage was and when I told him 
 I hadn't any, he jerked his head upward 
 and backward, giving me a quiet hint to 
 skip. I waited a few moments and then 
 followed some of the other passengers 
 to the railroad station, which was close 
 by. Our destination was Glasgow, and 
 Greenock was twenty-five miles distant, 
 so we were compelled to make the rest 
 of the journey by rail. 
 
 When I entered the railroad station I 
 stood stock still for a moment and 
 stared. On one side of the station was 
 a blank wall and on the other a "buffet/' 
 waiting-room, ticket office, "luggage" 
 room and telegraph office. What 
 stumped me was the cars and locomo- 
 tive. The cars were stage-coaches 
 strung on wheels with no bumpers to 
 speak of; no blind baggage, no brake- 
 beams, no nothing. Where was a fel- 
 low to ride when he was beating his 
 way? One couldn't beat it in any shape, 
 form or manner. To say that I was dis- 
 appointed won't express my feelings. I 
 was totally discouraged. I felt like go- 
 ing back home again on the return trip 
 of the Furnessia but I didn't have the 
 
169 
 
 price. I had less than fifteen dollars in 
 my possession and was up against it. I 
 had no idea how big a country Scotland 
 was or how the walking would be, so I 
 did some pretty lively thinking. I now 
 remembered what Little Billy had told 
 me and found out that he had told me 
 the truth. No, there was no way of 
 "beating it" on those kind of cars. 
 
 I mixed in with the push on the plat- 
 form and began looking for a comfort- 
 able seat in a car. There were only two 
 seats in a car, facing each other, and 
 each seat was capable of holding four 
 persons. Thus when there were eight 
 persons in a coach it was full. I made 
 a rush for a seat where I could view 
 the scenery comfortably, and after the 
 coaches were all filled and "all set," the 
 doors were slammed shut, somebody 
 outside blew a tin-horn and with a rat- 
 like squeak from the engine we were 
 off. The engine had seemed like a toy 
 to me but she was speedy and powerful 
 and could go like a streak. Away we 
 clattered through tunnels, past fields 
 and meadows, villages and towns. The 
 scenery looked mighty foreign-looking 
 
170 
 
 to me and I was uneasy. I sure felt that 
 I wasn't at home. On our right hand 
 side as we sped up to Glasgow were the 
 fields and meadows I just spoke of, and 
 on the other side was a bare prairie 
 through which wound the river Clyde. 
 Along the banks of the Clyde were ship- 
 yards which are famous the world over. 
 I believe these shipyards are so famous 
 because ships can be built cheaper and 
 better there than anywhere else. To be 
 a Clyde-built ship is usually a recom- 
 mendation. The scenery was interest- 
 ing and would have been more so had 
 I been happier. I was still half-dazed 
 from the want of sleep during ten 
 nights on board ship, my clothes didn't 
 feel right on me from the soaking they 
 had got and then the disappointment of 
 not being able to "beat it," affected me, 
 too. But it was all in the game, so I 
 had no kick coming. After journeying 
 about an hour we came upon the town 
 of Paisley, which has been famous for 
 centuries for the manufacture of "Pais- 
 ley shawls." Large spool-cotton fac- 
 tories we could see in the place too, and 
 
171 
 
 it seemed to be a city of some size and 
 consequence. 
 
 In a little while after that we rushed 
 into St. Enoch's station, Glasgow. This 
 was our jumping-off place. The station 
 was a very large and fine one, almost 
 as much so as the Grand Central Sta- 
 tion in New York. To judge from the 
 station, Glasgow must be a sizeable 
 place, for it was first-class in every re- 
 spect and right up to date. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 GLASGOW. 
 
 "All out for Glasgow," was the cry r 
 so out we tumbled. 
 
 I made my way out of the station and 
 soon found myself upon the street, 
 where I stood perplexed and bewildered. 
 It seemed to me I had landed in some 
 other world. Everything was so differ- 
 ent — the houses, the stores, the streets, 
 the sidewalks, the driveways, the peo- 
 ple, the vehicles, the dogs, the horses, the 
 skies, the clouds, everything. How or 
 
172 
 
 where will I begin to describe these 
 things? I have a pretty big contract 
 on my hands, one that I am unequal to. 
 I had never seen so many Scotch peo- 
 ple in a bunch before and had no idea 
 there were so many alive. There were 
 thousands of them, tens of thousands 
 of them. If Glasgow hasn't got a mil- 
 lion of people then I miss my guess sad- 
 ly. Scotchmen till you can't rest, any- 
 where and everywhere. Even the names 
 on all the stores were Scotch. There 
 was MacPherson and Blair, MacTevish, 
 MacDonald, Brown, Alexander, Mac- 
 Feely. Shetland ponies came trotting 
 by that were about knee-high to a grass- 
 hopper and though so small they 
 dragged after them carriages in which 
 were seated grown persons. Why, a 
 grown man could have picked up pony, 
 rig and all, and carried them. I felt 
 like telling the people in those rigs to 
 get out and walk, and not disgrace 
 themselves by making such a little crea- 
 ture in the shape of a horse drag them 
 about. Oh, my! Oh, my! What queer 
 things a fellow can see. 
 
173 
 
 Here came a two-wheeled cart clat- 
 tering along which was hauled by a 
 melancholy-looking little donkey and it 
 was called a "sweet-milk cart." I kept 
 my eyes peeled to see if a "sour-milk" 
 cart would come along, but I didn't see 
 any. 
 
 They designate their stores in a curi- 
 ous way. A butcher shop is called a 
 "flesher's," a furnishing goods store is 
 called a "haberdashery," a dry goods 
 store a "draper's," etc., etc. 
 
 Say, pardner, pinch me, will you? I 
 wonder whether I am alive. 
 
 By this time I had stopped gazing 
 standing still, and walked along, for 
 the people were getting on to the fact 
 that I was a greenhorn. My dress and 
 appearance, and the way I stared gave 
 me away. As I walked along unsteadily, 
 still feeling that the ship was under me, 
 I saw things. The houses were of gray 
 stone several stories in height, with tall 
 chimney tiles on top all in a cluster; 
 stores on the ground floor and dwellings 
 overhead. Nearly all of them had man- 
 sard roofs. They were nearly all alike 
 and their exterior seemed plain and dull 
 
174 
 
 to me. But the stores riveted and held 
 my attention. They were rather dingy, 
 but the show windows were fitted up 
 fine. Here was a fish store in the win- 
 dow of which were displayed salmon, 
 grilse, lemons, plaice, megrins, haddock, 
 cod, herrings; labels upon the platters 
 designating what they were. In a 
 candy store I saw toffie balls, chocolate 
 bouncers, pomfret cakes, voice pastiles, 
 and frosty nailrods. I laughed and 
 wondered if they had any railroad 
 spikes and rails. Frosty nailrods and 
 bouncers, hey! Well, I was getting a 
 pretty good show for my money. I 
 looked into a tobacco store and there 
 I saw a vast array of cigars, tobacco 
 and smokers' articles. The brands of 
 tobacco had curious names, such as 
 Baillie Nicol Jarvey, Starboard Navy, 
 Tarn O'Shanter, Aromatic Mixture, 
 English Birdseye and many others. The 
 tobacco and cigars were dear, tobacco 
 being eight cents an ounce, and funny- 
 looking cigars four cents each. In the 
 clothing store windows I noticed clothes 
 made of excellent cloth in all varieties, 
 that sold for eight and ten dollars the 
 
175 
 
 suit. They were fine and made me feel 
 sad, for I hadn't the price to buy one, 
 though I needed a suit badly. Shoes, too, 
 were cheap and good. The windows of 
 all the stores were heaped to profusion 
 with goods, and it seemed to me there 
 was more stock in the windows than 
 there was in the stores. The wares were 
 displayed very temptingly with a price 
 tag on everything. The jewelry dis- 
 played was more than tasteful, I 
 thought; I wanted a few diamonds aw- 
 ful bad. 
 
 I wandered along Argyle street, 
 which seemed a broad and busy thor- 
 oughfare. The sidewalks were jammed 
 and so was the roadway. I sauntered 
 along slowly, taking in the circus, for 
 it was better than a circus to me. It 
 was a continuous performance. Lots of 
 people gazed at me, nudged each other 
 and made remarks, but I couldn't catch 
 what they said. Probably they took me 
 for some animal that had escaped from 
 a menagerie. I wasn't caring, though, 
 what they thought. I was having as 
 much fun out of them as they were hav- 
 ing out of me. I saw so many queer 
 
176 
 
 sights that I couldn't describe a tithe of 
 them. Many fine people drove by in 
 fine rigs, and some of these wealthy ones 
 were probably out on shopping expedi- 
 tions. There were grand ladies and 
 gentlemen in multitudes, and I figured 
 it out that wealth and nobility must be 
 pretty prevalent in Scotland. Many of 
 the ladies were beauties of the blond 
 type and the gentlemen were well- 
 dressed and elegant in appearance. 
 They carried theftiselves nobly and 
 proudly and seemed stern yet manly. 
 The ladies surely were engaging and I 
 noticed several of them alight from mov- 
 ing street cars gracefully. They didn't 
 wait for the car to stop, but swung off, 
 alighting in the right direction every 
 time. Had they been American ladies 
 it is more than likely they would have 
 landed on top of their heads. The Glas- 
 gow ladies have mastered the trick, all 
 right, and mastered it well, for you 
 can't down them, nohow. 
 
 As I sauntered along slowly, two 
 young girls came along with plaid 
 shawls thrown over their shoulders and 
 when they got near me one of the girls 
 
177 
 
 collapsed and fell on the sidewalk. None 
 of the crowd stopped, whereat I won- 
 dered, but I stopped to see what the 
 trouble was. If the girl wasn't as full 
 as a goat you may smother me. She 
 must have been imbibing too much hot 
 Scotch. The girl was in her teens, and 
 quite pretty, and so was her companion. 
 I felt sorry that so young and pretty 
 a girl would make a spectacle of herself, 
 so I strode up and asked if I could be 
 of any assistance. The fallen one glared 
 at me and the one standing on her feet 
 trying to help her companion stared at 
 me. My American accent may have 
 been too much for her for she made no 
 reply. I remained standing there, 
 whereupon the sober one got angry and 
 turned on me with the remark: "Did 
 yer never see ah lassie fou?" 
 
 From her indignant tones and man- 
 ner I saw that she was huffy, so I made 
 tracks in a hurry, for I wasn't looking 
 for trouble. 
 
 After seeing as much as I wanted to 
 of Argyle Street, I walked toward the 
 embankment of the Clyde River, which 
 I could see not far away, and had a 
 
178 
 
 look at the shipping. The ships were 
 as curious to me as everything else I saw 
 in Glasgow, for they were distinctly for- 
 eign-looking and odd. Glasgow seemed 
 a great port, for there were ships of all 
 nations there. The banks along the 
 water front were high and walled up 
 with stone, forming fine promenades. 
 Quite a number of very fine bridges 
 spanned the stream and they must have 
 cost a lot of money. They were of stone, 
 iron and wood, and were equal to struc- 
 tures of their kind anywhere. I no- 
 ticed that the water was of a dark choc- 
 olate color, which means — mud. The 
 stream isn't very broad, but it is deep. 
 I was speaking of the vessels! Well, 
 they took my time. I had read of low, 
 black-hulled, rakish crafts in pirate 
 stories and these looked like them. Won- 
 der if they were pirates? I didn't go 
 aboard any of them to investigate. 
 
 Along the water front street opposite 
 the embankment were hotels, stores, 
 lodging-houses, ship-outfitting estab- 
 lishments, taverns, inns, and all manner 
 of places catering to seafaring men. All 
 of them seemed curiosity shops to me. 
 
179 
 
 My little pen isn't able to describe them. 
 What's the use of trying? 
 
 I came upon a spot called for short 
 and sweet "The Broomielaw," which 
 was a section of the water front given 
 up to the landing of "up-country" 
 steamboats, which came down the vari- 
 ous lochs, rivers, bays, "the Minch," 
 and other waters of northern Scotland, 
 and it was more than interesting to 
 observe the little steamers when they 
 came in. They were laden with cattle 
 and people from the Highlands and else- 
 where, and with produce and merchan- 
 dise. Many of the people were dressed 
 in togs that I never saw outside of a 
 comic opera show and when cattle were 
 unloaded from these long, narrow pirat- 
 ical-looking craft I had more fun watch- 
 ing them than I ever had in my life 
 before. The cattle were mostly black 
 like the ships, and a whole lot of tail- 
 twisting and Scotch language had to be 
 used before they would take the hint and 
 go ashore. They didn't like the looks 
 of things and bucked. The sights of the 
 city bewildered them, no doubt, for they 
 were used to quieter scenes. The cow- 
 
180 
 
 boys had on Tarn O'Shanter caps and 
 wore not describable togs. They 
 punched the cattle, twisted their tails 
 and shouted words that the cattle may- 
 be could understand, but I couldn't 
 Highland Scotch was too high for my 
 nut. 
 
 Excursion boats came to the Broomie- 
 law and dumped their passengers on the 
 landing from the Harris, Skye, Storm- 
 away, Fladda, the Dutchman and all 
 the other places so renowned in Scot- 
 tish stories. After dumping one lot of 
 passengers and freight they took an- 
 other load back to the same places. Had 
 I had the price I would have gone up 
 country sure, for there are a whole lot 
 of things to be seen up that way. But 
 by this time it was nearing noon and I 
 was getting hungry, so I concluded that 
 a good, square meal would do me good. 
 The Broomielaw and the other places 
 weren't going to run away, and I would 
 have plenty of opportunities of seeing 
 them. 
 
181 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GETTING A SQUARE MEAL. 
 
 I drifted along Salt Market Street 
 and then came upon a street which, for 
 want of a better name, was called San- 
 chiehall Street, in the neighborhood of 
 which I saw a restaurant called the 
 "Workingman's Restaurant," on the 
 side-wall of which was painted in large 
 letters the following bill of fare : 
 
 Tea, 2 cents. 
 
 Coffee, 2 cents. 
 
 Porridge and milk, 2 cents. 
 
 Sandwiches, 2 and 4 cents. 
 
 Eggs, 2 cents. 
 
 Ham and eggs, 16 cents. 
 
 Broth, 2 cents. 
 
 Pea soup, 2 cents. 
 
 Potato soup, 2 cents. 
 
 Beefsteak pudding, 4 cents. . 
 
 Sausage, 2 cents. 
 
 Collops, 4 and 6 cents. 
 
 Dessert puddings, 2 cents. 
 
 Fish suppers, 8 and 12 cents. 
 
 Tripe suppers, 8 and 12 cents. 
 
182 
 
 The bill of fare and the prices looked 
 good to me and I concluded that this 
 would be my dining place. 
 
 In front of the restaurant were two 
 large show windows in one of which was 
 displayed all kinds of bakery goods, 
 such as large flapjacks, big as elephant 
 ears, labeled "scones." They looked like 
 flapjacks to me, but were bigger and 
 thicker, and could be had for two cents 
 each. One of them was enough for a 
 square meal. I wanted something bet- 
 ter than that, though, just then. There 
 were big biscuits in the window, too, 
 cakes of various kinds, tarts, etc. In 
 the other window were huge joints of 
 beef and mutton, meat pies, hog-meat in 
 various shapes and styles, and other 
 dainties. My teeth began to water as 
 I eyed the display and a drop trickled 
 down my chin. 
 
 "Lemme see, now; what'll I tackle?" 
 says I to myself. 
 
 Some of the hog meat looked good 
 to me and so did the beef and mutton. 
 I was willing to spend two bits or so for 
 a good square meal. While I stood gaz- 
 ing and deliberating a young girl with 
 
183 
 
 a shawl around her shoulders came up 
 to me and addressed me : 
 
 "Hoo air ye?" asked she. 
 
 I thought she had made a mistake 
 and had taken me for someone she knew, 
 so I asked her if she wasn't mistaken 
 in the person. Either she did not under- 
 stand pure English or else she did not 
 want to, for she kept up the conversa- 
 tion. It didn't take me long to catch on 
 to the fact that she was bent on making 
 a mash. She didn't know me from 
 Adam, nor I her. She was light haired 
 and pretty, and had a slight, graceful 
 figure, which was not well hidden by a 
 shawl, which she kept opening and clos- 
 ing in front of her. I concluded that I 
 was in for joy the first thing. To tell 
 the real, honest truth, I wasn't hanker- 
 ing for fun just then, for I was too 
 hungry, but of course it wouldn't do to 
 be discourteous to a stranger, and a 
 pretty one at that. To her inquiry how 
 I was, I told her "Tiptop," which she 
 didn't seem to understand. She did 
 catch on to it, though, that I was a 
 stranger. 
 
 "Where'd ye come from, the noo?" 
 
184 
 
 "The noo, the noo," thinks I. "What 
 does she mean by that?" I caught on 
 suddenly. "Oh, I just landed this morn- 
 ing from New York. 
 
 "Ho, yer a Yankee, then?" says she. 
 
 "No, I'm not," answered I. "I'm a 
 Westerner." 
 
 "Ooh eye, ooh eye," repeated she 
 twice, as if she didn't understand. 
 
 "What air ye going to do in Glesgie?" 
 asked she in clear, bell-like accents. She 
 came up pretty close to me and now I 
 could detect from her breath that she 
 had been indulging in Scotch bug-juice. 
 This displeased me. I gave her a hint 
 that I had had no dinner and that I was 
 pretty hungry, but it was evident that 
 something stronger than a hint would 
 be needed to cut me loose from her. She 
 began to coax and then suddenly she 
 called me a bully. That got me off. I 
 told her in pretty plain language that 
 she was a trifle fresh and that I hadn't 
 said or done anything to warrant her 
 in calling me names. She didn't under- 
 stand what I said, but I guess she could 
 tell from my manner that I was angry, 
 so her soft eyes gazed down to the 
 
185 
 
 ground sadly. I excused myself, left 
 her and went into the restaurant. The 
 unexpected interview had agitated me 
 somewhat, but I soon got over it. 
 
 The front part of the restaurant was 
 a sort of store, where .edibles were dis- 
 played on counters and which could be 
 bought and carried away, or eaten on 
 the premises, as one chose. The rest of 
 the apartment was divided off into cab- 
 inets having sliding doors to them. In 
 each cabinet was a rough wooden table 
 with backless, wooden benches, close up 
 to it, and on either side of it. The cabi- 
 net wasn't big enough to turn around 
 in, but it served the purpose for which 
 it was built. 
 
 A young waitress came to the cabinet 
 I had chosen as my retreat and asked 
 me what I would have. When she heard 
 my foreign accent it was all she could 
 do to keep from sniggering. I asked for 
 pea soup for the first course. It was 
 brought to me and it was nice. While 
 eating it, the door slid back quietly, and 
 who do you think entered it? Guess! Til 
 bet you never could guess. Why, it was 
 no one else than the young girl who had 
 
186 
 
 addressed me outside the restaurant. 
 She had probably watched from the out- 
 side and seen in which cabinet I had 
 gone and there she was, large as life. 
 Tell me Scotch girls aren't cute. For a 
 moment I was so flabbergasted you 
 could have knocked me down with a 
 feather, but I soon recovered my 
 equanimity. 
 
 The girl asked me if she might sit 
 down beside me. What could I say? Of 
 course, I said yes. I kept on eating my 
 soup and cogitated. If this was the cus- 
 tom of the country I didn't like it. 
 Where I came from strangers were not 
 in the habit of inviting themselves to 
 dinner. The lassie (that's what girls 
 are called in Scotland) chinned away to 
 me, but I didn't understand her, nor did 
 I care to very much just then. After 
 the pea soup had disappeared I asked 
 the lassie if she was hungry and she 
 gave me to understand that she was not. 
 Probably she had only come in for a 
 social chat. 
 
 The waitress soon came in again and 
 sniffed scornfully when she saw my 
 companion there. She probably took me 
 
187 
 
 for a naughty man. All this goes to 
 show how a poor, innocent fellow can 
 get into trouble when he isn't looking 
 for it. 
 
 I next ordered some roast mutton, 
 potatoes and bread and butter. To the 
 waitress's inquiry what I would drink I 
 said "Water." The lassie looked at me 
 reproachfully. I divined that -she 
 wouldn't have ordered water. While I 
 ate the lassie chinned and seemed to 
 stick to me as faithfully as a Dutch 
 uncle to a rich relative. I don't think 
 that she was fully aware of what she 
 was doing or saying. 
 
 After I had finished the second 
 course, the waitress made her appear- 
 ance again and wanted to know what 
 further would be wanted. I told her, 
 nothing, whereupon she began to gather 
 up the dishes and her manner pro- 
 claimed that the cabinet might be want- 
 ed for the next customer. I took the 
 hint and withdrew and- the lassie fol- 
 lowed me out. Outside of the restaurant 
 the lassie gave me a gentle hint that she 
 knew of a snug place where we could 
 have "a little smile" together, but I 
 
188 
 
 wasn't drinking just then and told her 
 so. I was leery of her, in fact. How did 
 I know who she was or what her little 
 game was. I didn't know the language 
 of the country, the laws, the customs 
 or anything, so I proposed to proceed 
 carefully. I shook the lassie firmly but 
 politely as soon as I could and went my 
 way. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GLASGOW GREEN (or Common.) 
 
 I concluded to go down toward the 
 Clyde again but had some difficulty find- 
 ing my way, for the streets were tortu- 
 ous and winding, though quaint and old- 
 fashioned. I had seen pictures of such 
 streets on the stage and in plays. After 
 much walking I came upon a thorough- 
 fare called Stockwell Street which led 
 direct to the quays. I walked to the 
 Albert Bridge and contemplated its 
 strength and solidity, and then walked 
 in the direction of a park which I saw 
 not far distant. I was informed by 
 
189 
 
 someone whom I asked that this was 
 the Glasgow Common, or Green. The 
 park, I should judge, is about two miles 
 long by about half a mile wide, and is 
 almost destitute of trees or plants. It 
 is, in fact, nothing more than a bare 
 public playground fitted up with tennis 
 courts, cricket grounds, apparatus for 
 gymnastic exercises, swings, a music- 
 stand, etc. It surely is an interesting 
 spot. The walks are long and numer- 
 ous, resting-places are plentiful and 
 near the river is a building used by the 
 Humane Society — a hospital, most like- 
 ly. A little way in from the entrance 
 is a fountain that is worth describing. 
 The "Glesgie" people seem to have a 
 grudge against it for some reason or 
 other, but it is a nice and elaborate 
 work of art for all that. It is a large 
 structure with a broad basin and many 
 other basins that diminish in diameter 
 as they near the top. The top basin is 
 quite small. Around the largest basin 
 are groups of life-sized figures repre- 
 senting the various races of man, such 
 as Africans, Asiatics, Europeans, Aus- 
 tralians and Americans. The figures 
 
190 
 
 are exceedingly well done. On the top- 
 most pinnacle of the fountain is a heroic 
 image of Lord Nelson, the great English 
 Admiral. I thought the whole work was 
 a most elaborate and fine one. 
 
 Being tired, I sat down on a bench to 
 rest. There were not very many people 
 in the park just then and I had a good 
 view of everything. 
 
 Clear over on the other side of the 
 park there wasn't a single person to be 
 seen except a couple that sat on a bench 
 making love in strenuous fashion. It 
 was a workingman and a lassie. Did 
 you ever watch a calf when it sucks its 
 mother, how it makes a grab for a teat, 
 rest awhile, then make another grab? 
 That is the way that man made love. 
 Suddenly he would throw his arm 
 around the girl's waist, press her to him, 
 then let go and take a breathing spell. 
 The lassie sat quiet taking it all in and 
 saying never a word. In a few minutes 
 the man would make another grab, take 
 a fresh hold and then let go again. It 
 was a queer way of making love, I 
 thought. The couple wasn't bashful a 
 bit and evidently didn't care who saw 
 
191 
 
 them. I thought to myself that I wouk 
 have to find some lassie to give me a f ew 
 lessons in the art of making love in 
 Scotch fashion, for I wasn't on to the 
 game at all. 
 
 After a good long rest I strolled 
 through the city to see some more of it. 
 It was quiet in the park just then and 
 nothing doing. 
 
 I came upon the old Glasgow Cathe- 
 dral which is by far the oldest structure 
 in the city and the most thought of by 
 Glasgowites, but I was not much im- 
 pressed by it. It is a thousand years 
 old or more, is great in extent, is sur- 
 rounded by ample grounds and is made 
 of stone. It contains flying buttresses 
 and some other gim-crackery but the 
 whole thing is rather plain, black and 
 dull. Sir Walter Scott in one of his 
 novels describes it faithfully, and if any 
 one wants to know more about it I 
 politely request them to look up Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott. I ain't equal to the task of 
 describing architecture in detail and 
 such things. 
 
 Not far from the Cathedral is the 
 Necropolis, a very ancient burial 
 
192 
 
 ground right in the heart of the city, 
 almost. It is as ancient as the Cathe- 
 dral; maybe. It is a pretty spot and I 
 went all through it. It is built around 
 a hillside and is of considerable extent. 
 Along the street level are walks bor- 
 dered by trees, shrubs and flowers, and 
 as you ascend the hillside you will see 
 elaborate tombs, monuments, shady 
 nooks and bosky bowers. On the high- 
 est portion of the rather steep and lofty 
 hill a fine view of Glasgow may be had, 
 and here lies buried, beneath a fine mon- 
 ument, John Knox, the Reformer. The 
 Scotch think a heap about Mr. Knox, 
 but as I don't know much about him I 
 can't say much. He must have been a 
 wonderful man and he surely lies buried 
 in a grand spot. As a rule I don't like 
 to wander about in bone-yards, but as 
 this one was so pretty I was impelled 
 to do so. 
 
 Let me say a few words about Glas- 
 gow in a general way before I continue 
 my story. 
 
 Glasgow is the commercial metropo- 
 lis of Scotland. It contains about 800,- 
 000 people, and in most respects is a 
 
193 
 
 modern city. It is the center of art, 
 finance and trade, and what New York 
 is to the United States, Glasgow is to 
 Scotland. There is much wealth, style 
 and fashion there, the people are work- 
 ers and full of business. Wholesale and 
 retail establishments abound, ship- 
 building yards are numerous, as are 
 foundries and manufacturing shops of 
 many kinds. Chief of all the great in- 
 dustries in Glasgow is the ship-building. 
 The business of the port of Glasgow is 
 great and the volume of the shipping 
 immense. These few pointers will re- 
 veal to you that Glasgow is not a jay 
 town by any means. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HUNTING FOR A FURNISHED 
 ROOM. 
 
 As I said before, when I landed in 
 Glasgow I had only a few dollars in my 
 possession, therefore I deemed it wise to 
 make them go as far as possible, for I 
 didn't know what I was up against or 
 
194 
 
 how I would get along. The country 
 was strange and new to me, I didn't 
 know a soul this side the water, I knew 
 nothing of the ways of the country or the 
 people, and hadn't the faintest idea as 
 yet how I was going to get through the 
 country. That I could not beat my way 
 I had already learned, and as I am not 
 very partial to hiking it over long dis- 
 tances, I cogitated. But what was the 
 use of thinking or worrying? Didn't I 
 have some money in my inside pocket? 
 Of course I had, and it was time enough 
 to worry when I was broke. "Sufficient 
 unto the day is the evil thereof," has 
 always been my motto, and I had been 
 on the turf long enough to know that 
 there is always some way out of a scrape 
 when one gets into it. 
 
 What was the next event on the pro- 
 gram? I had dined and seen consid- 
 erable of the city and it was "more bet- 
 ter" that I go and look up a furnished 
 room. I had to have some place to sleep 
 and the cheapest and most comfortable 
 way, I thought, was to rent a room in a 
 private family. I have slept in lodging 
 houses time without number but they 
 
195 
 
 are too public and sometimes too noisy. 
 For a good, honest sleep give me a pri- 
 vate dwelling. I knew that I was look- 
 ing shabby but good clean money looks 
 good to a whole lot of people. 
 
 I wandered through Buchanan and 
 Argyle Streets, the Trougate and Gal- 
 lowgate Street, but couldn't find a "To 
 Let" sign anywhere. This kind of 
 stumped me. I asked some one if there 
 were no furnished rooms to let in Glas- 
 gow and he informed me that there were 
 lots of them but that I would have to 
 look in the upper stories of the houses 
 for the signs. I did so but saw very 
 few of them. I tackled the first place 
 where I saw one. It was in a three-story 
 building along the Trougate and the 
 structure didn't look good to me. There 
 was a narrow, stone-paved hallway 
 leading through the building and at the 
 rear of it was a cork-screw-like stair- 
 way that wound upward. The hallway 
 was as dim and dark as a dungeon and 
 made me feel funny. But I was there 
 for a purpose so there was no use get- 
 ting scared of bugaboos. Up, the stair- 
 way I went, slowly and cautiously, keep- 
 
196 
 
 ing my eyes peeled for obstructions. I 
 came to the first landing, where there 
 was a single strongly made wooden 
 door. I saw a knocker on the door and 
 rapped at it rather faintly for admit- 
 tance. An elderly woman came to the 
 door and demanded to know what 1 
 wanted. I told her I was looking for a 
 furnished room. From my accent she 
 gathered that I was a foreigner for she 
 asked at once: 
 
 "Yer a furriner, ain't ye?" 
 
 I can't describe the Scotch accent just 
 right for it ain't my language, but I will 
 try to set down what the lady said to 
 me as well as I can. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said I; "I arrived 
 from New York today." 
 
 "Yer a Yankee, I believe." 
 
 "No, ma'am," responded I, "I'm a 
 •Westerner." 
 
 This evidently puzzled the lady for 
 she murmured "Ooh eye! ooh eye!" in 
 the same tone somewhat as the boozy 
 lassie at the Workingman's Restaurant 
 had done. 
 
 "What, will ye be doin' in Glasgie?" 
 asked the lady. 
 
197 
 
 I was stumped for a moment. I as- 
 sured her I was going to look for a job. 
 
 "What's yer trade?" 
 
 "Oh, I work at anything," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Ah, then yer jack of all trades and 
 maister of none." 
 
 I assured the lady that was about the 
 size of it and she then asked me how 
 much I wanted to pay for a room. I 
 told her about a dollar a week. As 
 things were cheaper on this side of the 
 water than on the other side, I figured it 
 out that I ought to get things at about 
 half price. Evidently the lady didn't 
 think so, for she scanned me scornfully 
 and wanted to know if I took her place 
 for a tramp's lodging house. That was 
 putting it rather plain which caused me 
 to kind of wilt. I assured the landlady 
 I had no such idea. I asked her what 
 she charged for a room and she said two 
 dollars and a half per week. Too much 
 for yours truly, I thought, and told her 
 so. We couldn't make a deal so I groped 
 my way down stairs and tried my luck 
 elsewhere. Rents probably were high in 
 that part of the city so I crossed the 
 
198 
 
 Clyde and wandered into the Gorbals 
 district. This is a section of the city 
 inhabited by the poorer classes of work- 
 ing people and I had my eye on it while 
 wandering along the Broomielaw. I saw 
 warehouses along the waterfront over 
 there and stone-paved streets full of 
 houses. The houses were ancient-look- 
 ing and grimy but I would probably 
 find what I sought there. 
 
 The first house I entered in that dis- 
 trict had the same kind of a hallway 
 with a spiral stairway at the end of it 
 as the house I had been in on the other 
 side of the river, and when I rapped at 
 the door on the first floor a lady an- 
 swered the summons. When I told her 
 that I wanted a furnished room she 
 wanted to know how much I was willing 
 to pay. She did not tell me her price 
 but wanted to size up my pile. Her little 
 racket wouldn't work. I told her that if 
 she had a room that suited me and if 
 the price was right we could make a 
 deal, otherwise not. Whereupon she 
 opened her hall door, let me in and led 
 me to a fair-sized room and asked me 
 how I liked it. It contained a table, sofa 
 
199 
 
 and two chairs, but nothing else. I told 
 her I wanted a bed-room, not a sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "This is a bed-room/' said she, open- 
 ing a closet in the room in which was 
 a bunk. 
 
 Holy Jerusalem ! What did the lady 
 take me for ; a Chinaman, to put me in 
 a china closet? Nay, nay, Pauline! 
 I'm no Chinaman. Here was another 
 case where the deal fell through. I like 
 plenty of fresh air and light where I 
 sleep when I can get it, and enough 
 room to kick in. Here there was none 
 of these things. 
 
 I kept a-moving. I came to a house 
 opposite a theater where I met two 
 young ladies who occupied a flat and 
 had a spare room. I believe they were 
 actresses. They told me that their va- 
 cant room was rented by an actor who 
 was now making a tour of the cities and 
 that they didn't know just when he 
 would be home. In the meanwhile I 
 could occupy his room if I wished and 
 when the actor returned I could share 
 the room with him. I did not feel as 
 if I would like to sleep with an actor, for 
 
200 
 
 he might have been a snorer or a high 
 kicker, and I didn't know when he 
 would be back anyway. That sort of 
 an arrangement did not suit me. No 
 deal was made here, either. 
 
 The next place I went to and where 
 I finally located, was a flat occupied by 
 an old man and his daughter. The father 
 was over seventy years of age and the 
 daughter about thirty. They rented me 
 a neat room for one dollar a week which 
 contained an ample bed, chairs, rocker, 
 a wash-stand, soap, towel, a window, 
 lace curtains and a shade. My patience 
 and perseverance had been rewarded at 
 last. As soon as my landlady left me 
 I stripped and took a wash from head 
 to foot, the first good clean-up I had 
 since I left New York. It was great. I 
 rented the room for a week and con- 
 cluded to hike out of town when the 
 week was up. During the week that I 
 remained in this house I became quite 
 well acquainted with the old man and 
 his daughter and learned that he was 
 from the north of Ireland and that his 
 wife who was dead had been Scotch. 
 The daughter, therefore, was half-and- 
 
201 
 
 half. She was an amiable, good-tem- 
 pered young woman, though far from 
 pretty, and the devotion she showed to 
 her father astonished me. He wasn't in 
 the best of health and often was crabbed 
 and cross, but no matter how crusty he 
 was the daughter petted and humored 
 him, and crowed and goo-ed and gaa-ed 
 to him and never got out of patience. 
 She treated him as a mother does her 
 child and never wearied of soothing 
 him. The old man didn't seem to ap- 
 preciate these attentions for his daugh- 
 ter got no thanks from him and not 
 even a kind word. One day when the 
 daughter had gone out on an errand the 
 father suspected that she was in my 
 room, so he rushed into my room, looked 
 under the bed and into the corners to 
 see if she were there. The old man had 
 not the slightest reason or cause to sus- 
 pect his daughter and I watched his 
 maneuvers with anger but said nothing. 
 He deserved a good tongue-lashing and 
 I felt like giving it to him but his great 
 age held me back. Had he been a 
 younger man I would have told him 
 what I thought of him in short order. 
 
202 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 DANCING IN THE GREEN. 
 
 I slept well that night, better than I 
 had slept since I left New York, for 
 there was nothing to disturb me. A 
 good rub down and a good night's rest 
 had done me a world of good. Those 
 who have traveled know what my feel- 
 ings were. After a cheap breakfast in 
 a Municipal Restaurant, where I had 
 two big, thick slices of bread with ex- 
 cellent butter and a cup of good coffee 
 for two cents, I bummed around the 
 Clyde again, taking in the sights. I 
 liked Glasgow first rate. The people 
 were as friendly and sociable as they 
 were out West, and their accent and 
 ways were a never-ending source of in- 
 terest to me. Everything that I saw in- 
 terested me, for it was all so new and 
 strange. No one can have .the faintest 
 idea what there is to be seen abroad un- 
 less he or she goes there and hears and 
 sees for himself. Word-pictures are in- 
 adequate to give one a proper idea, for 
 there is something even in a foreign at- 
 
203 
 
 mosphere that must be felt before it can 
 be appreciated. 
 
 I bought a morning paper and sat 
 down on a bench along the embankment 
 to read it. It was interesting from 
 start to finish with nothing "yellow" 
 about it. The articles were written in 
 an able, scholarly way, and besides giv- 
 ing the news there were columns devot- 
 ed to giving useful hints, such as "Mas- 
 ter and Man/' "Husbands and Wives/' 
 and such like things, that were well to 
 know. They were in the shape of "An- 
 swers and Queries/' somewhat. Even 
 the advertisements were interesting to 
 me but "The Want" ads were mostly 
 incomprehensible, for there were too 
 many Scotch colloquialisms in them. I 
 saw an announcement in the paper stat- 
 ing that there would be dancing in the 
 Green that afternoon, and I concluded 
 instantly that I would take it in. It was 
 to be a free show and when there is any- 
 thing of that sort going on you may 
 count me in, every time. 
 
 In the meanwhile I just loafed around 
 the banks of the Clyde, watching them 
 load and unload vessels, taking in the 
 
204 
 
 foreigners' ways of doing things, peer- 
 ing into the shop-windows along the 
 water-front, etc. The time passed quick- 
 ly enough. I wasn't homesick a -bit but 
 felt right at home. There was some- 
 thing about the people and the place 
 that made me feel quite at home. 
 
 After dinner, at about two o'clock, I 
 strolled into the Green. People were 
 slowly sauntering into it in groups, and 
 walking up toward the music stand 
 where the dancing was to be done. The 
 music stand was about half a mile from 
 the park entrance. It was early, so I 
 sat down on a bench and made myself 
 comfortable. Little boys came along 
 handing out programs and I secured 
 one of them. Here is what it said : 
 
 Glasgow Green. 
 
 No. 1 — March ; Glendaurel Highland- 
 ers. 
 
 No. 2 — Strathspey ; Marquis of Hunt- 
 ley. 
 
 No. 3— Reel; The Auld Wife Ayont 
 the Fire. 
 
 No. 4 — March ; Brian Boru. 
 
 No. 5 — Strathspey ; Sandy King. 
 
205 
 
 No. 6 — Reel; Abercairney High- 
 landers. 
 
 No: 7 — Dance; Reel o' Tullock. 
 
 No. 8— Waltz; The Pride of Scotland. 
 
 No. 9 — Highland Fling. 
 
 No. 10 — March; Loch Katrine High- 
 landers. 
 
 No. 11 — Strathspey; When You Go 
 to the Hill. 
 
 No. 12 — Reel; Over the Isles to 
 America. 
 
 No. 13 — Dance; Sword Dance. 
 
 No. 14— March; 93d's Farewell to 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 No. 15 — Strathspey; Kessock Ferry. 
 
 No. 16— Reel; Mrs. McLeod's. 
 
 No. 17 — Slow March; Lord Leven. 
 
 Choir. 
 
 No. 1 — Glee; Hail, Smiling Morn. 
 
 No. 2— Part Song; Rhine Raft Song. 
 
 No. 3 — Part Song ; Maggie Lauder. 
 
 No. 4— Part Song; Let the Hills Re- 
 sound. 
 
 No. 5 — Scottish Medley, introducing 
 favorite airs. 
 
 No. 6— We'll Hae Nane But Hielan 
 Bonnets Here. 
 
206 
 
 No. 7— Part Song; Hail to the Chief. 
 
 No. 8— Part Song; The Auld Man. 
 
 No. 9 — Part Song ; Awake Aeolian 
 Lyre. 
 
 No. 10 — Part Song; Night, Lovely 
 Night. 
 
 No. 11 — God Save the King. 
 
 The program was a good long one 
 and sure looked good to me. I imagined 
 there would be something doing. 
 
 At about half past two there was a 
 big crowd congregated about the music 
 stand but as there were few seats near 
 it most of the people had to stand. 
 
 As I wanted to see all I could I min- 
 gled with the throng and patiently wait- 
 ed for the performance to begin. The 
 band hadn't made its appearance yet 
 and there was no one on the band stand. 
 To relieve the tedium some of the young 
 fellows who were in the crowd began 
 to chaff some of the lassies in a flirty 
 way. Three pretty girls in a group 
 were the especial tareet of the laddies. 
 If I could only get oif the Scotch right 
 I would jot down some of their badinage 
 for it was very amusing, to me, at least, 
 but I couldn't do the theme justice. 
 
207 
 
 After what to me seemed an inter- 
 minable long wait we heard some yell- 
 ing and snarling away down toward the 
 entrance of the park I took to be dog- 
 fighting. Too bad it was so far away, 
 for anything would have been agreeable 
 just then to relieve the monotony, even 
 a dog-fight. I noticed the people near 
 the entrance scattering to either side of 
 the walk and forming a lane through 
 which to give the dogs a show. The 
 yelping and snarling came nearer and 
 finally I perceived that it was a band 
 of men approaching dressed in High- 
 land costume and playing the bagpipes. 
 I had heard the bagpipes played many 
 a time and knew what they were but 
 I had never heard a whole lot of them 
 played at once. I now knew that it 
 wasn't a dog-fight that had caused the 
 noise. The bag-pipers came along 
 quickly with long strides, their heads 
 erect, stern of visage with petticoats 
 flying from side to side like those of a 
 canteen-girl when she marches with her 
 regiment. The men were husky fel- 
 lows, broad-shouldered, lithe and ac- 
 tive, but they wore no pants. Th<* 
 
208 
 
 whole lot of them were bare-legged 
 and upon their heads was perched a 
 little plaid cap with a feather in it, 
 and over their shoulders was thrown 
 a plaid shawl. Stockings came up 
 to their knees, but their legs a 
 little way further up beyond the 
 stockings were entirely bare. Al- 
 though there were lots of the girls pres- 
 ent I didn't notice any of them blush 
 at this exposure of the person. Maybe 
 they were used to such spectacles. 
 What tune do you think these High- 
 landers were playing as they marched 
 along? Nothing more nor less than — 
 " Where, oh where has my little dog 
 
 gone, 
 Where, oh where can he be? 
 With his hair cut short and his tail cut 
 long, 
 Where, oh where can he be?" 
 This was a mighty nice little tune 
 and I had heard it before, but I had 
 never heard it played by such instru- 
 ments.. The people liked the tune and 
 seemed to like the Highlanders too, for 
 when they went by, the people closed in 
 after them in a solid body, and marched 
 
209 
 
 behind them, a pushing, elbowing, 
 struggling mass. 
 
 When the music stand was reached 
 the band did not go upon it but marched 
 around it playing that same little old 
 tune. I wondered why they didn't 
 change it and play something else but 
 as the crowd didn't kick there was no 
 use of me kicking. They kept a march- 
 ing and a marching around the stand 
 for quite a little while but the tune 
 never changed. The musicians took a 
 good fresh hold on the air every min- 
 ute or two, some note rising a little 
 shriller than the others but that is all 
 the variation there was. Do you want 
 to know the honest truth? Well I 
 wasn't stuck on the tune or the bag- 
 pipes either. The noise they made 
 would have made a dog howl. It was 
 nothing but a shrieking, yelling, and 
 squeaking. Call that music? From 
 the pleased faces of the people you 
 would have judged it was fine. 
 
 After what seemed a coon's age the 
 band quit playing and marching, and 
 mounted the platform, upon which 
 
210 
 
 they had been preceded by a lot of boys 
 and girls who formed the choir. 
 
 Number one on the program was 
 a march, the Glendaurel Highlanders. 
 I couldn't see anything in it except more 
 marching to a different tune. The 
 crowd seemed to like it and applauded 
 frantically. There was a whole lot of 
 pushing and shoving by the crowd in 
 my neighborhood and I wasn't com- 
 fortable at all. A sturdy dame behind 
 me made herself especially obnoxious 
 by wanting to get right up front and 
 she didn't seem to care how she got 
 there or who she shoved out of the way 
 to accomplish her purpose. 
 
 She dug her elbow into my side in no 
 gentle fashion, and was bent on getting 
 in front of me, whether I was agree- 
 able or not. Well, she didn't make 
 the riffle. I planted my elbow in her 
 rib to see how she liked it. She scut- 
 tled away from me then quickly 
 enough. 
 
 Number two on the program was 
 Marquis of Huntley. I didn't know who 
 the Marquis of Huntley was but evi- 
 dently the crowd did for they went wild 
 
211 
 
 over the tune and dancing. The danc- 
 ing was fine, tip-top, but I can't say as 
 much for the tune. The way them 
 Highlanders could dance was a caution, 
 for they were graceful and supple as 
 eels. No flies on them. 
 
 Number three was a corker, a reel 
 called "The Auld Wife Ayont the 
 Fire." There was something doing this 
 time. The Highlanders turned them- 
 selves loose and they hopped, skipped, 
 jumped and yelled like a tribe of Sioux 
 Indians on the war path. How they 
 did carry on and how the crowd 
 whooped it up in sympathy ! The whole 
 push was frantic, Highlanders and all. 
 My hair riz but I don't know why. If 
 any one tells me that those bare-legged 
 Highlanders can't dance I will surely 
 tell them they are mistaken. They were 
 artists and no mistake, every one of 
 them. 
 
 Brian Boru was the next event on 
 the program, a march. I was getting 
 tired of marches but the mob wasn't. 
 They applauded the Brian Boru wildly 
 and saw a whole lot in it that I couldn't 
 see. 
 
212 
 
 Number five was another strathspey, 
 Sandy King. I was wondering who 
 Sandy was and if he were a king, but I 
 didn't like to ask questions. No use let- 
 ting the "hoi-polloi" get on to it that I 
 was a greenhorn. There might have 
 been something doing had they known 
 it, for it takes but a little thing to set a 
 mob a-going. 
 
 Next came a reel, Abercairney High- 
 landers. I wondered how many differ- 
 ent clans of Highlanders there were in 
 Scotland. The woods seemed full of 
 them. This was another wild Indian 
 affair, worse than the first reel. Them 
 chaps were good yellers and jumpers, 
 and I think could hold their own with 
 any wild Indian, no matter what tribe- 
 he belonged to. Their lungs were 
 leathery, their limbs tireless, and their 
 wind excellent. 
 
 The Reel of Tullock came next and 
 then a waltz, "The Pride of Scotland." 
 Both were excellent. 
 
 Number nine was a Highland Fling. 
 That was a great number. It aroused 
 everyone to enthusiasm. I could not 
 help but admire the grace of the danc- 
 
213 
 
 ers. So quick they were, so unerring. 
 Their wind was so good that I felt I 
 would have hated to tackle any one of 
 them in a scrap. 
 
 Number thirteen was a sword-dance, 
 danced by one man only. Crossed 
 swords were laid on the platform and 
 the highlander danced between them 
 slowly, rapidly, any old way, and never 
 touched. He never looked down while 
 dancing, and how he managed to avoid 
 these swords was a marvel to me. The 
 sword blades were placed close together 
 and the dance was kept up a long time. 
 That chap was an artist of a high class, 
 and could have made a whole lot of 
 money on the stage had he chosen to do 
 so. Maybe he was a celebrity in Glas- 
 gow and Scotland. He never touched a 
 sword. His dancing was marvelous. 
 It was evident these Highlanders could 
 do something besides squeezing wind 
 out of a bag and playing "where, oh 
 where." Yes, they were all right. 
 Their performance was a good one and 
 Worth anyone's while to see. When I re- 
 turned to mv lodgings that evening I 
 told my landlady that I had attended 
 
214 
 
 the dance in the Green and she wanted 
 to know how I liked it. I told her truly 
 that it was the best I had ever seen. 
 And it was, by long odds. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 TAKING IN A GLASGOW SHOW. 
 
 The evening of my second day's stay 
 in Glasgow I put in by taking in a show 
 at the theater. It was the Gayety The- 
 ater I intended to go to, where vaude- 
 ville plays were given, but as the the- 
 ater was a long distance from the Gor- 
 bals District, I had some trouble finding 
 it. The theatrical performances in 
 Glasgow begin early, some at half-past 
 five and some at six o'clock, and let out 
 at about nine o'clock, which gives those 
 so inclined a chance to go to bed early. 
 The days were long at that season of 
 the year, so that I arrived in front of 
 the theater while the evening sun was 
 still high in the heavens. The theater 
 building was an immense one of stone 
 and very lofty. In front of it was a 
 
215 
 
 long line of people waiting to make a 
 rush for good seats in the gallery, and I 
 joined the throng. There was a good 
 deal of rough horse-play among some of 
 the fellows waiting there and a whole 
 lot of chaffing. A chap behind me gave 
 me a kick in the rump and tipped my 
 hat over my eyes, which he deemed a 
 very good joke. I didn't think it was 
 and told him not to get too gay, where- 
 upon he roared with laughter. He told 
 his neighbors that they had a greenhorn 
 among them, whereupon many in the 
 crowd made life a burden for me for a 
 while. They made all kinds of chaffing 
 remarks, they jeered me, they hooted 
 me and groaned. They were having a 
 whole lot of fun at my expense but I 
 never said another word, for what was 
 the use? I was mad clear through, 
 though. Had I only had a gang with 
 me there might have been a different 
 tale to tell. I was alone and friendless. 
 A fellow thinks all kinds of things when 
 a crowd gets after him. 
 
 The line was growing longer rapidly, 
 and before the doors were opened a 
 couple of hundred people must have 
 
216 
 
 been on the street waiting. As soon as 
 the doors were opened there was a 
 grand rush and scramble to secure tick- 
 ets. I held my own in the push, though 
 I was nearly suffocated and squeezed 
 flat, but managed to secure a ticket 
 after a little while, for which I paid 
 twelve cents — six pence. Cheap enough 
 if the show is any good. I rushed up 
 the spiral stairway after the crowd, but 
 before I got half way up I was obliged 
 to stop and blow off steam. The steps 
 were many and winding. I did not no- 
 tice anyone else stopping for a breather 
 which led me to conclude that the 
 Scots are a long-winded race. Two or 
 three times did I have to stop before I 
 reached nigger-heaven, my destination. 
 The gallery was so high up and so close 
 to the ceiling that I could have touched 
 the ceiling with my hand when standing 
 up. Below, clear to the orchestra 
 seats, or "pit," as it is called, was gal- 
 lery after gallery. Some of these were 
 divided off into queer contrivances 
 called "stalls." To me the stalls seemed 
 like huge dry-goods boxes, with the part 
 facing outward, toward the stage, open, 
 
217 
 
 from the middle to the top. The lower 
 part was boarded in. They were queer- 
 looking contrivances, and the people in 
 them looked as if they were caged. The 
 stalls were supposed to be private and 
 exclusive — in a word, private boxes. 
 
 Some little boys in livery were wan- 
 dering about on the various floors cry- 
 ing out "Program" with the accent on 
 the first syllable, and as I wanted one, I 
 hailed a boy who gave me one and 
 charged me a penny for it (two cents). 
 Printing must be dear in Glasgow, I 
 thought, to charge a fellow two cents 
 for a printed piece of paper. I said 
 nothing but scanned the program. Here 
 is what it said : 
 
 No. 1 — La Pnits d 'Amour, Ralfe; Band. 
 
 No, 2 — Mr. John Robertson, Baritone Vocalist. 
 
 No. 3 — Drew and Richards in their specialty act, 
 Old Fashioned Times. 
 
 No. 4 — Mr. Billy Ford, Negro Comedian. 
 
 No. 5 — The Alaskas — Ben and Frank — Comic Hori- 
 zontal Bar Experts. 
 
 No. 6 — Mr. Edward Harris, London Comedian. 
 
 No. 7 — Miss Josie Trimmer. Child Actress, and the 
 Forget-me-nots, Vocalists and Dancers. 
 
218 
 
 No. 8 — Selection, Yoeman of the Guard. 
 
 No. 9 — Sallie Adams, American Serpentine Dancer. 
 
 No. 10 — The Gees, in their Musical Oddity, Inven- 
 tion. 
 
 No. 11 — Collins and Dickens, in their Refined 
 Specialty act. 
 
 No. 12 — Mr. Charles Russell, Comedian and descrip- 
 tive Vocalist. 
 
 No. 13 — National Anthem. 
 
 Quite a lengthy program this and it 
 looked to me as if it might be good, es- 
 pecially the Serpentine Dancer, who 
 was a countrywoman of mine, and the 
 darkies, who were probably country- 
 men. 
 
 After a moderate wait the lights 
 were turned up, the orchestra tuned up 
 and soon the band gave us a selection 
 by Balfe called "La Puits d' Amour." I 
 didn't know what "La Puits d' Amour" 
 was but it didn't make any difference 
 to me. It was some kind of music. The 
 selection was a long one and the band 
 sawed away at it as if they were never 
 going to stop. It was so long drawn out 
 in fact that my wits went a wool gather- 
 
219 
 
 ing and I nearly fell asleep, for tedious 
 music is apt to make me snooze. When 
 the music stopped I woke up and was 
 ready for business. 
 
 The first event on the program was 
 Mr. John Robertson, Baritone Vocalist. 
 
 The band played a preliminary flour- 
 ish when out walked Mr. Robertson 
 dressed in a spike-tail coat, black vest 
 and biled shirt. Hanging in front of his 
 vest was a long, thick watch-chain 
 which must have been a valuable one, 
 for it looked like gold. Mr. Robertson 
 sang a song and kept a hold on his 
 watch chain. The song was hum-drum 
 and so was Mr. Robertson's voice. Mr. 
 Robertson made no great hit and when 
 he left us he took his chain with him. 
 
 Number two was Drew and Richards 
 in their specialty act, "Old Fashioned 
 Times." 
 
 A lady and gent came upon the stage 
 dressed in very old-fashioned garb, and 
 sang. Just as soon as the lady opened 
 her mouth to sing I knew she was a 
 gentleman and she couldn't sing any 
 more like a lady than I could. I have 
 seen female impersonators on the stage 
 
220 
 
 many a time and they carried out the 
 illusion perfectly, but this chap wasn't 
 in it at all. He gave me a pain. I 
 wasn't sorry when this couple made 
 their exit. 
 
 Mr. Billy Ford, the Negro Comedian, 
 next came to the front. Now there'll be 
 a little something doing, anyway, 
 thought I. 
 
 Mr. Billy Ford was not a negro at 
 all but a Britisher with a cockney ac- 
 cent. Mavbe I wasn't astonished ! Holy 
 Smoke ! He sang out bold as you please 
 just as if he were singing like a darkey 
 and the gallery gods went into ecstacies 
 over him. They laughed, roared, and 
 chirruped. They seemed to think a heap 
 of Mr. Ford, but I felt like going some- 
 where to lay off and die. A nigger with 
 a cockney accent! Oh my! Oh my! 
 Will wonders never cease? 
 
 The comic horizontal bar experts, the 
 Alaskas, were very tame turners, and 
 to my view, anything but funny. I had 
 seen better stunts than they performed 
 in free shows on the Bowery at Coney 
 Island. 
 
22 L 
 
 The sixth number on the program 
 was Mr. Edward Harris, London Com- 
 edian. Here at last was someone who 
 could sing and act. Mr. Harris was 
 from the London Music Halls and was 
 evidently a favorite, for he was given 
 a great reception. He was greeted with 
 roars of welcome and shouts and calls 
 from the gallery gods that seemed un- 
 familiar and queer to me. Even the 
 people in the pit and stalls applauded 
 loudly. Mr. Harris turned himself loose 
 and impersonated London characters in 
 a way that brought forth the wildest 
 enthusiasm. Some of the gods nearly 
 died laughing at his comicalities and a 
 man away down in the pit laughed out 
 loud in such a way that it made me 
 think of a dream I once had when I saw 
 ghosts playing leap-frog over a grave- 
 yard fence and having an elegant time 
 of it. The noise this man made was a 
 hieh sepulchral shriek like theirs. It 
 was wild and weird. 
 
 The comedian was first class and the 
 audience was loath to let him go. They 
 recalled him several times and he re- 
 sponded. 
 
222 
 
 Number seven was Miss Josie Trim- 
 mer, child actress, and the two Forget- 
 Me-Nots, vocalists and dancers. This 
 was another tame affair for the two 
 Forget-Me-Nots were Scottish lassies 
 who got off coon songs with a Scotch 
 accent and had acquired an improper 
 idea of coon dancing. Their act was a 
 caricature and a — well, never mind. It 
 isn't right to be too critical. They were 
 doing the best they could and were ap- 
 preciated by the audience, so it may be 
 well for me not to say too much. 
 
 The next number was a selection by 
 the band, " Yeoman of the Guard/' 
 which was played after a long intermis- 
 sion. I was getting rather weary by 
 this time and had half a mind to go 
 home, but I wanted to see the serpentine 
 dancer, Sallie Adams, who was a coun- 
 trywoman of mine. It seemed to me I 
 hadn't seen a countryman or country- 
 woman for a coon's a^e, and T felt as if 
 I just couldn't fo until I saw Sallie. 
 
 When the time came for Mis 5 ? Adams 
 to appear on the stage, all the lights in 
 the theater were turned out and a 
 strong calcium light was thrown upon 
 
223 
 
 the stage. Sallie hopped into view 
 chipper as you please, never caring a 
 whoop who saw her, countryman or for- 
 eigner, and she began to throw diaph- 
 anous folds of cheese-cloth all over her- 
 self and around herself. Different col- 
 ored lights were thrown upon her drap- 
 eries as she danced, and the effect was 
 thrilling and made my hair stand up. 
 Sallie was all right. She was onto her 
 job in good shape. Maybe I didn't ap- 
 p ] aud? I roared, I stamped and whis- 
 tled, and my neighbors must have 
 thought I was clean off. The gorgeous 
 spectacle reminded me of the Fourth 
 of July at home, when sky-rockets go 
 up with a hiss and a roar, Roman can- 
 dles color the black skies, sissers chase 
 through the air like snakes, bombs ex- 
 plode and fall in stars of all colors. 
 Siss! Boom! Ah! 
 
 When Sallie made her exit I made 
 mine, for I had got rny money's worth 
 and was satisfied. 
 
224 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 MR. ROBERT BURNS, THE POET. 
 
 One thing that struck me very forc- 
 ibly before I had been in Glasgow any 
 length of time was the fact that the 
 people thought a great deal of Mr. 
 Burns, the poet. Streets and lanes were 
 named after him, inns and taverns, 
 shoes, hats, caps, clothing, tobacco, 
 bum-looking cigars, bad whiskey, in 
 fact his name was attached to all kinds 
 of articles to make them sell, and in 
 some cases merely as a mark of respect 
 or affection. 
 
 It was plain to the most casual ob- 
 server that Mr. Burns was thought a 
 great deal of. He had been dead a hun- 
 dred years or more, yet his personality 
 pervaded the place, and his picture was 
 to be seen on signs, posters, in the 
 stores and elsewhere. For Mr. Burns 
 most Scotchmen will die, Scotch ladies 
 sieh, Scotch babies cry, Scotch dogs 
 ki-yi. He was a good-looking chap, and 
 highly lifted, but the Door fellow died 
 before he had reached his thirty-eighth 
 
225 
 
 year, which was a national calamity. 
 Had he lived there is no telling what he 
 might have accomplished, for during 
 the short span of his life he did won- 
 derful things. He took the old Scotch 
 songs that had been written before his 
 day and gave them a twist of his own 
 which improved them vastly, and made 
 them immortal; he portrayed Scottish 
 life in a way that no poet has ever imi- 
 tated or will imitate maybe, and he 
 loved his country deeply and fervently. 
 His father was a rancher, and a pov- 
 erty-stricken one at that, and the poet 
 was born in a shack on the farm. The 
 house was a little old one of stone, and 
 a rich man of the day would have used 
 it for a chicken house. In this house 
 and in a china closet in the kitchen was 
 born the greatest poet Scotland ever 
 produced. When Bobbie grew up the 
 old man set him a-plowing, and while 
 at this work the boy composed rhymes 
 which were so good that some of his 
 friends induced him to print them. Old 
 man Burns didn't see any good in the 
 verses, for he knew more about poultry 
 than he did about poetry, and told his 
 
226 
 
 son to cut it out. Bobbie couldn't, for 
 it just came natural. 
 
 Before he was twenty-one the boy 
 had written lots of good poetry and it 
 was put in book form and printed at 
 Kilmarnock, a town not far from his 
 birthplace. The birthplace of the poet 
 was on the farm near the town of Ayr, 
 in Ayrshire, and that whole county (or 
 shire) is now called "The Burns Coun- 
 try/' because it was the poet's stamp- 
 ing-ground. The poet knew lots of peo- 
 ple throughout the county and his writ- 
 ings have immortalized many a place in 
 it. After his book had been printed he 
 sprang into fame at once and was made 
 much of by man, woman and child. Be- 
 ing a good-looking chap, the girls began 
 to run after him, and poor Burnsie had 
 the time of his life. He wanted to steer 
 clear of 'em, but he couldn't, for the 
 girls liked and admired him too much. 
 The result was that a few of them got 
 into trouble, and soon some wild-eyed 
 fathers and brothers went gunning for 
 him. The fault was not the poet's 
 wholly, for he couldn't have kept these 
 girls away from him with a cannon. 
 
227 
 
 To avoid such troubles in the future he 
 finally married a blond, buxom young 
 lassie called Jean Armour, by whom he 
 had twins, the first rattle out of the 
 box. Not long after that he had two at 
 a throw again. Bobbie could do some- 
 thing besides write poetry, evidently. 
 He was a thoroughbred any way you 
 took him, though the people at that time 
 did not know it and did, not fully appre- 
 ciate his great qualities. It was only 
 after he had been dead a long time that 
 the world fully realized his worth. At 
 the present day they estimate him prop- 
 erly and their affection and reverence 
 for him are boundless. Some of his 
 countrymen call him simply Burns, 
 others call him Rabbie, and still others, 
 "puir Rabbie," puir meaning poor. 
 
 The country that he lived in, Ayrshire, 
 is visited by a million strangers or more 
 every year, who visit the shack he was 
 born in and the places he made im- 
 mortal by his writings. The shack has 
 been fixed up and improved somewhat 
 since he lived in it, and is now a sort of 
 museum where are displayed various 
 editions of the books, manuscripts and 
 
228 
 
 other things, that once were his. Among 
 the things is a walking-cane that a New 
 York lawyer named Kennedy somehow 
 got hold of. How Kennedy got the cane 
 I don't know, but he returned it to the 
 Burns collection in the cottage. Mr. 
 Kennedy is a rare exception to New 
 York lawyers in general, for they rare- 
 ly return anything that they once get 
 their hands on. Mr. Kennedy must 
 have had a whole lot of regard for the 
 great poet. 
 
 Lots of people have never read any 
 of Burns' poems. I wonder would they 
 appreciate it if I showed them a few 
 samples? I will not print the long ones, 
 but only the shorter ones, for even they 
 will show, I am sure, the greatness of 
 "Puir Rabbie." 
 
 As I said in a previous chapter, when 
 I first set foot in Scotland it was at 
 Greenock, about 25 miles from Glas- 
 gow, where a tender took us ashore 
 from the Furnessia. Greenock is quite 
 a city, for it contains a good many fac- 
 tories and other establishments, but the 
 city has become famous the world over 
 just because of one little circumstance 
 
229 
 
 connected with the great poet, namely : 
 A young girl named Highland Mary 
 lived there who loved, and was beloved 
 by the poet, and they were engaged to 
 be married. Sad to relate, the young 
 girl died while she was engaged to the 
 poet, which saddened him considerably. 
 Years afterward he married Jean Ar- 
 mour. The poet wrote some lines to the 
 memory of Highland Mary which al- 
 most any Scotchman or Scotch lady can 
 recite by heart. Here they are : 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The Castle o' Montgomery, 
 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie; 
 
 There Summer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 
 For there I took the last farewell 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
230 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk 
 How rich the hawthorn 's blossom ! 
 As, underneath their fragrant shade 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angels' wings 
 Flew o 'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 
 And pledging oft to meet again 
 
 We tore oursels asunder; 
 
 But, 0! fell Death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 
 Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary. 
 
 pale, pale now those rosy lips 
 
 1 oft ha'e kissed sae fondly! 
 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 
231 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 Was there anything ever written 
 more sad, pathetic and sweet? 
 
 Following is a little poem written in 
 a different vein which may serve as a 
 sort of temperance lesson to some hus- 
 bands who stay out late at night hav- 
 ing a good time. The recreant hus- 
 band's name in the poem is Mr. Jo, 
 and Mrs. Jo sends it in to him good and 
 hard. Says Mr. Jo: 
 
 O let me in this ae night, 
 This ae, ae, ae night ; 
 For pity's sake this ae night, 
 O rise and let me in, Jo ! 
 
 Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet; 
 Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet. 
 
232 
 
 Tak' pity on my weary feet, 
 And shield me frae the rain, Jo. 
 
 The bitter blast that 'round me blaws 
 Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
 The cauldness o' thine heart's the cause 
 Of a' my grief and pain, Jo. 
 
 O let me in this ae, ae night, 
 This ae, ae, ae night; 
 For pity's sake this ae night, 
 rise and let me in, Joe. 
 
 Mr. Jo's pleadings were in vain, to 
 judge from Mrs. Jo's answer, which is 
 as follows : 
 
 tell na me o ' wind and rain ! 
 Upbraid na me wi' eauld disdain! 
 Gae back the gate ye came again — 
 
 1 winna let you in, Jo. 
 
 I haven't the least idea where Jo 
 spent the night, but it surely wasn't 
 
233 
 
 with Mrs. Jo. There are lots of hus- 
 bands who get full and don't know when 
 to go home. Let them paste this poem 
 in their hats. It may do them good. 
 
 Here is an old song revised by Puir 
 Rabbie, whose magic touch has made it 
 better and more famous than it ever 
 was before. It is entitled : "Will ye go 
 to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay ?" 
 
 Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, 
 Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me? 
 
 Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, 
 My pride and my darling to be? 
 
 To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir, 
 I dinna ken how that may be; 
 
 For I ken na the land that ye live in, 
 Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'. 
 
 Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little, 
 If sae that ye dinna ken me ; 
 
234 
 
 My name is Lord Ronald McDonald, 
 A chieftain o' high degree. 
 
 She has kilted her coats o ' green satin, 
 She has kilted them np to the knee ; 
 
 And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonald 
 His bride and his darling to be. 
 
 A whole lot of human nature about 
 this little poem and a fine swing to it. 
 Burns had a touch that no one has ever 
 imitated or ever can imitate. It is a 
 twist, which for want of a better name, 
 I would call "a French Twist." Imi- 
 tate it, ye who can ! 
 
 Everyone knows "Auld Lang Syne." 
 It is an old song that didn't amount to 
 much until Burns got a hold of it and 
 put his twist to it. Here it is : 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to min'? 
 
235 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
 
 And days o' auld lang syne? 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 Well tak' a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa ha'e run about the braes 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine; 
 But we've wandered many a weary foot 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne; 
 We two ha'e paid It i' the burn 
 
 Frae mornin ' sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd - 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fren, 
 
 And gie us a hand o' thine; 
 And we'll take a right good wallie-waught 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
236 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 And surely ye '11 be your pint stoup, 
 
 And surely I'll be mine; 
 And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 Following is a composition that is 
 famous the world over and is used as a 
 recitation, not only in this country but 
 in every other English-speaking coun- 
 try. It is entitled: "Bruce at Bannock- 
 burn" : 
 
 BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Scots, wha ha 'e wi ' Wallace bled ; 
 Scots, whom Bruce has often led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to glorious victorie ! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
 See the front o' battle lower; 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Edward! chains and slaverie! 
 
237 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ! 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave? 
 
 Traitor! Coward! turn and flee. 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Freemen stand or freemen fa', 
 Caledonian! on wi' me! 
 
 By oppression 's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 
 But they shall— they shall be free! 
 
 Lay the proud usurper low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe! 
 Liberty's in every blow! 
 
 Forward ! Let us do or die. 
 
 Here is a love song to Jennie, en- 
 titled, "Come, Let Me Take Thee!" 
 
238 
 COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 
 
 Come, let me take thee to my breast 
 
 And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
 And I shall spurn as vilest dust 
 
 The world's wealth and grandeur; 
 And do I hear my Jennie own 
 
 That equal transports move her"? 
 I ask for dearest life alone 
 
 That I may live to love her. 
 
 Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
 
 I clasp my countless treasure ; 
 111 seek nae mair o' heaven to share 
 
 Than sic a moment's pleasure; 
 And by thy een sae bonnie blue 
 
 I swear I 'm thine forever ! 
 And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
 
 And break it I shall never. 
 
 One day Burns was called upon for 
 a toast during a dinner which was given 
 by the Dumfries Volunteers, in honor 
 
239 
 
 of their anniversary. The poet got up 
 and spoke the following lines extem- 
 pore: 
 
 Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 
 
 Here is the memory of those on the 12th that 
 we lost ! 
 
 That we lost, did I say ; nay, by heaven, that we 
 found ; 
 
 For their fame it shall last while the world 
 goes around. 
 
 The next in succession 111 give you— the King! 
 
 Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 
 swing ! 
 
 And here's the grand fabric, our Free Consti- 
 tution, 
 
 As built on the base of the great Eevolution. 
 
 And longer with politics not to be crammed, 
 
 Be anarchy cursed and be tyranny damned ; 
 
 And who would to Liberty e'er be disloyal, 
 
 May his son be a hangman and he his first trial. 
 
240 
 
 A GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 
 
 Some ha'e meat and canna eat it, 
 And some wad eat that want it; 
 But we ha'e meat and we can eat, 
 And sae the Lord be thankit. 
 
 TO A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 
 
 As father Adam first was fooled, 
 A case that's still too common, 
 Here lies a man a woman ruled— 
 The devil .ruled the woman. 
 
 The poet's father, William Burness, 
 lies buried in a graveyard at Alloway. 
 The following lines were written by his 
 son to his memory : 
 
 LINES TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
 Draw near with pious reverence and attend. 
 
241 
 
 Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
 The tender father and the generous friend. 
 
 The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 
 The dauntless heart that feared no human 
 
 pride ; 
 The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 
 "For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 
 
 I believe there are some husbands who 
 grow tired of the married state after 
 they have been in it a while. They came 
 to find out that it isn't all "beer and 
 skittles/' as they first imagined it 
 would be. Even "Puir Rabbie" had 
 troubles of his own, as the following 
 will show, for it is written about him- 
 self : 
 
 "Oh, that I had n'er been married! 
 I would never had nae eare ; 
 Now I Ve gotten wife and bairns, 
 And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair; 
 
242 
 
 Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 
 Three times crowdie in a day; 
 Gin ye crowdie ony mair, 
 Ye '11 crowdie a ' my meal away. 
 
 Waefu' want and hunger fley me, 
 Glowrin ■ by the hallan en ' ; 
 Sair I feeht them at the door, 
 Bat aye I'm eerie the come ben." 
 
 The poet had lots of cronies and 
 friends, and he was as loyal to some 
 of them as they were to him. He was 
 a good boon companion and liked "a wee 
 drappie" (nip) himself as well as any- 
 one. Many an alehouse proudly pro- 
 claims that he visited it and preserves 
 the chair or bench that he sat on, the 
 glass he drank out of or the table he 
 sat at, to this day, and any and every 
 thing that is familiar with his presence 
 is sacred and treasured. William Muir 
 
243 
 
 of Tarbolton is the friend to whom the 
 following lines were written : 
 
 ON A FRIEND. 
 
 An honest man here lies at rest, 
 As e'er God with his image blest; 
 The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
 The friend of age, the guide of youth ; 
 Few hearts like his with virtue warmed, 
 Few heads with knowledge so informed; 
 If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
 If there is none he made the best of this. 
 
 Mr. John Dove kept an inn at Mauch- 
 line called the "Whiteford Arms/' and 
 the poet pays his respects to him in the 
 following fashion: 
 
 ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER. 
 
 Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 
 What was his religion? 
 
 Whae'er desires to ken, 
 
244 
 
 IY> some other warl' 
 Maun follow the carl, 
 
 For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane. 
 
 Strong ale was ablution — 
 Small beer persecution — 
 
 A dram was momento mori ; 
 But a full flowing bowl 
 Was the saving his soul, 
 
 And port was celestial glory. 
 
 To judge from the following, the poet 
 did not have a great respect for all rul- 
 ing elders of the church. Souter Hood 
 was a miserly one. 
 
 TO A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 
 
 Here Souter Hood in death doth sleep ; 
 To hell, if he's gone thither; 
 Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 
 Hell haud it weel thegither. 
 
245 
 TO ANOTHER HEN-PECKED HUSBAND. 
 
 Death, hadst thou but spared his life 
 
 Whom we this day lament, 
 We freely wad exchanged the wife 
 
 An' a' been weel content. 
 
 The poet was hospitably entertained 
 at a place one day called for short and 
 sweet Dahna Cardoch. In appreciation 
 he got off the following : 
 
 When death 's dark stream I ferry o 'er, 
 
 A time that surely shall come — 
 In heaven itself 111 ask no more 
 
 Than just a Highland Welcome. 
 
 One Sunday while in the northern 
 part of Scotland with Nicol, a friend of 
 his, he visited the Carron Works which 
 they had traveled some distance to see. 
 There was a sign on the gate : "No Ad- 
 mittance to Strangers/' which barred 
 
246 
 
 the poet and his friend. Here is an 
 apostrophe by Burns in regard to the 
 matter : 
 
 NO ADMITTANCE TO STRANGERS. 
 
 We earn' na here to view your warks 
 
 In hopes to be mair wise, 
 But only, lest we gang to hell, 
 
 It may be nae surprise ; 
 
 But when we tirled at your door, 
 
 Your porter dought na hear us; 
 Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
 
 Your billy Satan serve us. 
 
 LORD GREGORY. 
 
 0, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 
 
 And loud the tempest roar; 
 A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower — 
 
 Lord Gregory, ope the door. 
 
 An exile frae her father's ha', 
 And a' for loving thee; 
 
247 
 
 At least some pity on me show, 
 If love it may na be. 
 
 Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 
 
 By bonnie Irwine side, 
 Where first I owned that virgin love 
 
 I lang, lang had denied! 
 
 How often didst thou pledge and vow 
 
 Thou wad for aye be mine; 
 And my fond heart, itself sae true, 
 
 It ne'er mistrusted thine. 
 
 Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 
 
 And flinty is thy breast — 
 Thou dart of heaven that flashed by, 
 0, wilt thou give me rest! 
 
 Ye mustering thunders from above, 
 
 Your willing victim see! 
 But spare and pardon my fause love 
 
 His wrangs to Heaven and me ! 
 
248 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 0, Mary, at thy window be, 
 
 It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 
 That makes the miser's treasure poor. 
 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
 
 Could I the rich reward secure — 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Jestreen, when to the trembling string 
 
 The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing — 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
 
 And you the toast of a' the town, 
 I sighed and said amang them a' 
 
 "Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ; 
 
249 
 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his 
 
 Whose only faut is loving thee? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gi 'e 
 
 At least be pity to me shown, 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 TO A LAIRD. 
 
 When deceased to the devil went down 
 
 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's 
 
 own crown ; 
 Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 
 
 wear never, 
 Grant thou'rt wicked but not quite so clever. 
 
 OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, 0! 
 
 0, open the door some pity to show, 
 
 0, open the door to me, 0! 
 Though thou has been fause, I'll ever prove 
 true, 
 
 0, open the door to me, ! 
 
250 
 
 Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
 
 But caulder thy love for me, ! 
 The frost that freezes the life at my heart 
 
 Is naught to my pains frae thee, ! 
 The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
 
 And time is setting with me, 0! 
 False friends, false love, farewell! for mair 
 
 I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, 0! 
 She has opened the door, she has opened it 
 wide; 
 
 She sees his pale corse on the plain, 0! 
 My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his 
 side 
 
 Never to rise again, ! 
 
 TO CARDONESS. 
 
 Bless the Eedeemer, Cardoness, 
 With grateful lifted eyes; 
 Who said that not the soul alone 
 But body, too, must rise. 
 
251 
 
 For had he said, "The soul alone 
 From death I shall deliver," 
 Alas! alas! O Cardoness, 
 Then thou hadst slept forever. 
 
 YOUNG JESSIE. 
 
 True hearted was he, the said swain o' the 
 Yarrow, 
 
 And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
 Ayr, 
 But by the sweet side of the Nith's winding 
 river 
 
 Are lovers- as faithful and maidens as fair ; 
 To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over, 
 
 To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
 Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
 
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 0, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning, 
 And sweet is the lily at evening close; 
 But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie 
 
 Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
 
252 
 
 Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring. 
 Enthroned in her een, he delivers his law; 
 
 And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 
 Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 
 
 DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 
 
 As down the bnrn they took their way 
 
 And thro' the flowery dale, 
 His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
 
 And love was aye the tale. 
 ■ ' 0, Mary, when shall we return 
 
 Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
 Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn, 
 
 And aye shall follow you." 
 
 A BIT OF ADVICE. 
 
 Deluded swain, the pleasure 
 
 The fickle Fair can give thee 
 Is but a fairy treasure — 
 
 Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 
 
253 
 
 The, billows on the ocean, 
 
 The breezes idly roaming, 
 The clouds' uncertain motion — 
 
 They are but types of women. 
 0! art thou not ashamed 
 
 To doat upon a feature ? 
 If man thou wouldst be named, 
 
 Despise the silly creature. 
 <&o, find an honest fellow — 
 
 Good claret set before thee — 
 Hold on till thou'rt mellow — 
 
 And then to bed in glory. 
 
 MY SPOUSE NANCY. 
 
 Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
 
 No longer idly rave, sir; 
 Though I am your wedded wife, 
 
 Yet I am not your slave, sir. 
 "One of two must still obey, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy; 
 Is it man or woman, say? 
 
 My spouse Nancy !" 
 
254 
 
 "If it is still the lordly word, 
 
 Service and obedience ; 
 111 desert my sovereign lord — ■ 
 
 And so, good by, allegiance !" 
 "Sad will I be, so bereft; 
 
 Nancy, Nancy! 
 Yet I'll try to make a shift, 
 
 My spouse Nancy ! " 
 "My poor heart, then break it must, 
 
 My last hour I am near it ; 
 When you lay me in the dust, 
 
 Think, think how you will bear it." 
 
 0, CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS? 
 
 0, can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets, 
 And can ye sing bal-lu-loo when the bairn 
 greets f 
 
 And hee and baw birdie, and hee and baw lamb ! 
 
 And hee and baw birdie, my bonnie wee lamb ! 
 Hee, 0, wee ! O, what would I do wi ' you ; 
 Black is the life that I lead wi ' you ! 
 
 Money o ' you — little for to gie you ! 
 
 Hee, 0, wee! O, what would I do wi' you? 
 
255 
 WOMAN, COMPLAIN NOT! 
 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 
 Of inconstancy in love ; 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 
 Fickle man is apt to rove. 
 
 Look abroad through Nature's range- 
 Nature's mighty law is change; 
 
 Ladies, would it not be strange, 
 
 Man should then a monster prove? 
 
 Mark the winds and mark the skies, 
 Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; 
 
 Sun and moon but set to rise — 
 Round and round the seasons go. 
 
 Why, then, ask of silly man 
 To oppose great Nature's plan? 
 "We'll be constant while we can — 
 You can be no more, you know. 
 
256 
 JENNIE. 
 
 The following was written to Jean 
 Jeffrey, daughter of a minister, who 
 afterward became Mrs. Renwick, and 
 emigrated to New York with her hus- 
 band: 
 
 When first I saw fair Jennie's face 
 
 I couldna tell what ailed me; 
 My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat — 
 
 My een, they almost failed me. 
 She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight 
 
 All grace does 'round her hover, 
 Ae look deprived me o' my heart 
 
 And I became a lover. 
 
 Had I Dundas' whole estate 
 
 Or Hopetown's wealth to shine in — 
 
 Did warlike laurels crown my brow 
 Or humbler bays entwining — 
 
 I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet, 
 Could I but hope to move her 
 
257 
 
 And prouder than a belted knight, 
 
 I 'd be my Jennie 's lover. 
 But sair I fear some happier swain 
 
 Has gained sweet Jennie's favor; 
 If so, may every bliss be hers, 
 
 Tho' I maun never have her. 
 But gang she east or gang she west, 
 
 Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
 While men have eyes, or ears, or taste 
 
 She '11 always find a lover. 
 
 The poet one day was taking a ride 
 through the country on horseback and 
 when he got to the town of Carlisle be- 
 came thirsty and stopped at a tavern 
 for a drink. He tethered his horse out- 
 side in the village green where it was 
 espied by the poundmaster, who took it 
 to the pound. When Burnsie came out 
 he was mad clear through and this is 
 what he wrote : 
 
 Was e'er puir poet sae befitted? 
 
 The maister drunk — the horse committed, 
 
258 
 
 Puir harmless beast, tak thee nae care, 
 
 Thou 'It be a horse when he's nae mair (mare). 
 
 Andrew Turner was not highly ap- 
 preciated by the poet, if we may judge 
 from the following: 
 
 In seventeen hundred and forty-nine 
 Satan took stuff to make a swine 
 
 And cuist ft in a corner ; 
 But wilely he changed his plan 
 And shaped it something like a man 
 
 And called it Andrew Turner. 
 
 A MOTHER'S ADDRESS TO HER INFANT. 
 
 My blessing upon thy sweet wee lippie, 
 My blessing upon thy bonnie e 'e brie ! 
 
 Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie 
 Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me. 
 
 NATIONAL THANKSGIVING ON A NAVAL 
 VICTORY. 
 
 Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks, 
 To murder men and gi'e God thanks? 
 
259 
 
 For shame gi'e o'er! proceed no further — 
 God won't accept your thanks for murther. 
 
 TO FOLLY. 
 
 The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his 
 
 treasures — 
 Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
 Grant him calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures 
 But Folly has raptures to give. 
 
 TO LORD GALLOWAY. 
 
 What dost thou in that mansion fair? 
 
 Flit, Galloway, and find 
 Some narrow, dirty dungeon cave, 
 
 The picture of thy mind ! 
 
 No Stewart art thou, Galloway — 
 
 The Stewarts all were brave ; 
 Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
 
 Not one of them a knave. 
 
260 
 
 Bright ran thy line, Galloway ! 
 
 Through many a far-famed sire; 
 So ran the far-famed Roman way — 
 
 So ended — in a mire I 
 
 Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway — 
 
 In quiet let me live ; 
 I ask no kindness at thy hand, 
 
 For thou hast none to give. 
 
 The poet subscribed for a paper 
 which he didn't receive regularly, so he 
 told the editor about it in this fashion : 
 
 Dear Peter, dear Peter, 
 We poor sons of meter 
 
 Are aften negleckit, ye ken; 
 
 For instance, your sheet, man, 
 Tho' glad I'm to see it, man, 
 
 I get no ae day in ten. 
 
261 
 
 HONEST POVERTY. 
 
 Is there for honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs its head and a' that; 
 The coward slave, we pass him by, 
 
 "We dare be poor for a' that; 
 For a' that and a' that! 
 
 Our toil's obscure and a' that, 
 The rank is but the guinea 's stamp 
 
 The man 's the gowd for a ' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine 
 
 Wear hoddin grey and a ' that ; 
 Give fools their silks and knaves their wine 
 
 A man 's a man for a ' that ! 
 For a ' that and a ' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show and a ' that ; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that! 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha' struts and stares and a' that? 
 
 Though hundreds worship at his word, 
 He's but a coof for a' that; 
 
262 
 
 For a' that and a' that; 
 
 His riband, star and a' that, 
 The man of independent mind 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that ! 
 
 A prince can mak' a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke and a' that; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might — 
 
 Guid faith he maunna fa' that; 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 
 Their dignities and a' that. 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 
 As come it will for a' that, 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that! 
 For a' that arid a' that 
 
 It's coming yet for a' that, 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
263 
 
 Here are a few facts concerning the 
 personal and family history of the poet : 
 
 His father's name was William Bur- 
 ness, and was born November 11, 1721, 
 at Clockenhill, Scotland. I suppose that 
 Burness was the old-fashioned way of 
 spelling Burns, hence the difference in 
 the names of the son and father. The 
 poet's name was Robert Burns and the 
 father's William Burness, or Burns. 
 
 His mother's name was Agnes Brown 
 and she was born in the Carrick dis- 
 trict, Scotland, March 17, 1732. 
 
 Robert Burns, the great poet, was 
 born January 25, 1759, and died July 
 21, 1796, being therefore not thirty- 
 eight years of age at the time of his 
 death. He was the eldest of seven chil- 
 dren who were named consecutively 
 Robert, Gilbert, Agnes, Arabella, Wil- 
 liam, John and Isabel. 
 
 The wife of the poet, as I have pre- 
 
264 
 
 viously stated in this volume, was Jean 
 Armour, and she was born at Mauch- 
 line in 1763 and died at Dumfries in 
 1834. She survived the poet many 
 years and died at the ripe old age of 
 71. She was a national character and 
 was made much of, as was everyone 
 else intimately or even remotely con- 
 nected with the National Bard. This 
 is the reward of greatness, and thus any 
 man or woman who achieves honorable 
 greatness, leaves distinction behind 
 them and throws a halo of glory over 
 those with whom they have been con- 
 nected or associated. 
 
 The following children were born to 
 the great poet and his wife : 
 
 Twins in 1786. The boy, Robert, 
 lived, but the girl died in infancy. 
 
 Twins in 1788. Both died in infancy. 
 
 Francis Wallace died at the age of 
 14. 
 
 William Nicol, born in 1791. 
 
265 
 
 Elizabeth Riddell, born in 1792. Died 
 at the age of two years. 
 
 James Glencairne, born in 1794, died 
 in 1865. 
 
 Maxwell, born in 1796, died at the 
 age of two. 
 
 It will be seen that the poet was the 
 father of quite a number of children, 
 some of whom lived to a ripe old age. 
 Whether he was the father of any more 
 children I am sure I don't know. If 
 he was, almost any Scot will know it 
 and can tell you more about it than I 
 can. Bobbie was a very handsome man 
 and was greatly admired by almost 
 everyone, including the ladies. Some of 
 his poems would lead one to believe that, 
 like Byron, 
 
 He was unskilled to cozen, 
 
 And shared his love among a dozen. 
 
 but that may be mere poetic license. 
 
266 
 
 Poets, you know, have an eye for the 
 beautiful, whether it be in landscape 
 scenery, flowers, architecture, painting, 
 statuary, the human form or what not. 
 At any rate "Puir Rabbie" was the dad- 
 dy of the children whose names I have 
 given, for that is a matter of history. 
 To show that the poet loved a joke him- 
 self, no matter on what subject, I here 
 quote a little rhyme of his gotten off on 
 a friend named James Smith who lived 
 at Mauchline : 
 
 Lament him, Mauchline husbands a' 
 
 He aften did assist ye; 
 For had ye stayed whole weeks awa' 
 
 Your w T ives they n'er had missed ye. 
 
 In my short career I have run up 
 against lots of folks who cannot take a 
 joke or see the point of one and these 
 poor people I pity, but do not blame, for 
 they were born that way. I have always 
 been poor but never proud and could 
 
267 
 
 take a joke — that is, when I could see 
 the point of it. When I couldn't see the 
 point of it I did not get angry. 
 
 Burnsie was a farmer and lived on 
 ranches the most of his life. He was a 
 hayseed from way back but as soon as 
 he got celebrated high society began to 
 run after him and the poor fellow could- 
 n't keep away from it if he tried. It 
 didn't take him long to learn how to 
 make a bow without upsetting the table, 
 but he was out of his element among 
 the grand folks. Did he need polish to 
 make him shine? I trow not. Wasn't 
 his genius just as great before he struck 
 society? Sure ! But just to please folks 
 he hobnobbed with them though he was 
 as much out of his element as a fish 
 when out of water. No doubt he wore 
 a biled shirt and black claw-hammer 
 coat and made his coat tails fly around 
 pretty lively as he skipped around in a 
 
268 
 
 dance, but as society wanted him it got 
 him. Had he lived long enough he 
 might have been a baron, marquis, duke 
 or count. Who can tell? While a plow- 
 man he scorned titles, but I wonder 
 whether he would have rejected a pat- 
 ent of nobility had it been tendered him. 
 Genius is a complex quality. Samuel 
 Smiles in his great work, "Self Help," 
 says that genius is nothing more nor 
 less than a capacity for taking infinite 
 pains, and the world in general seems 
 to have accepted his definition or ex- 
 planation, but I, Windy Bill, an un- 
 tutored savage from the Wild West, beg 
 to differ wholly from Sam and I will 
 "show you" why, and permit you to 
 judge for yourself. Had Samuel de- 
 fined art instead of genius as "an in- 
 finite capacity for taking pains" he 
 might have been nearer the truth. Let 
 us take the case of Burns. While plow- 
 
269 
 
 ing he wrote rhymes, but as he knew 
 little or nothing of the art of versifica- 
 tion he set his thoughts in mellifluous 
 language of his own. Was it his 
 thoughts or their setting that captivat- 
 ed people? His thoughts, of course, 
 though the jingle made them more har- 
 monious. Genius is the thought; art 
 the setting. Tell me then that genius 
 is a capacity for taking pains. Nary 
 time. It comes forth spontaneous, nat- 
 ural, can't help itself. It is a God-given 
 quality which lots of people possess to 
 a greater or less degree. Musicians 
 have it, as have painters, architects, 
 writers, sculptors and people in all 
 walks of life. Lots of poets in Scotland 
 had genius long before our great friend 
 Rabbie was born, and lots since them 
 have had more or less of a share of the 
 "divine afflatus," as some writers call 
 it, but were any of them gifted as high- 
 
270 
 
 ly as Puir Rabbie? Not a one. Will 
 another like him arise? Search me! 
 There hasn't yet. 
 
 Notwithstanding that Rabbie was so 
 highly gifted, he didn't know it. Don't 
 you believe me? If you don't you needn't 
 take my word for it, for I have evidence 
 here that will prove it. I quote the pre- 
 face that he wrote to the first book of 
 his that ever was printed. Here it is : 
 
 "The following trifles are not the production of 
 the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned 
 art and perhaps amid the elegancies and idleness 
 of upper life looks clown for a rural theme with an 
 eye to Theocritus or Virgil. Unacquainted with the 
 necessary requisites for commencing poetry by rule. 
 he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and 
 saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, 
 in his and their native language. Though a rhymer 
 from his earlier years it was not till very lately that 
 the applause (perhaps the partiality) of friend- 
 ship awakened his vanity so as to make him think 
 anything of his worth showing, for none of the 
 poems were composed with a view to the press. 
 To amuse himself with the little creations of his 
 
271 
 
 own fancy amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious 
 life, these were his motives for courting the muses. 
 Now that he appeal's in the public character of an 
 author, he does it with fear and trembling. So 
 dear is fame to the rhyming tribe that even he, 
 an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the 
 thought of being branded as an impertinent block- 
 head, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and 
 because he can make shift to jingle a few doggerel 
 Scottish rhymes together, looking upon himself as 
 a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! If any 
 critic catches at the word Genius, the author tells 
 him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon him- 
 self as possessed of some poetic abilities, other- 
 wise the publishing, in the manner he has done,* 
 would be a maneuver below the worst character his 
 worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius 
 of an Allan Ramsay or a Robert Ferguson he has 
 not the least pretension, nor ever had, even in his 
 highest pulse of vanity. These two justly ad- 
 mired Scottish poets he has often had in his eye 
 but rather to kindle in their flame than for servile 
 imitation. 
 
 "To his subscribers the author returns his most 
 sincere thanks — not the mercenary bow over a 
 counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the 
 bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence 
 and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves 
 
272 
 
 it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to 
 be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly 
 the learned and the polite who may honor him with 
 a perusal, that they will make every allowance for 
 education and circumstances of life; but if, after 
 a fair, candid and impartial criticism he shall 
 stand convicted of dullness and nonsense let him 
 be done by as he would in that case do by others — 
 let him be condemned without mercy, to contempt 
 and oblivion.' ' 
 
 It is a queer fact that those mortals 
 who possessed the greatest genius were 
 always the most simple and diffident, 
 and dubious about their own powers. 
 They had a feeling in them that they 
 were born to soar but they were hesitat- 
 ing, doubtful and did not know their 
 very simplicity was a part of their 
 greatness. They didn't appreciate their 
 own capacities at first any more than 
 are their capabilities appreciated by 
 less gifted mortals. Before Burns' time 
 Allan Ramsay and Robert Ferguson 
 were looked upon as the greatest poets 
 
273 
 
 Scotland nad ever produced, and so 
 great were they that even Burns looked 
 upon them with awe ; and yet, unknown 
 to himself, he was far greater than 
 they. His generation may not have 
 known it, but this generation does. Was 
 Shakespeare appreciated in his genera- 
 tion? He was not. Was any truly great 
 man? Hardly. 
 
 The earliest book of Burns that ever 
 was put in print consisted of his minor 
 poems which were written while he was 
 •in the fields plowing. 
 
 Of course he wasn't plowing always, 
 so some were written while he was out- 
 doors, here, there and everywhere in the 
 vicinity of his country home. They were 
 put into book-form by the advice of his 
 friends and John Wilson at Kilmar- 
 nock, was the man who volunteered to 
 do the printing. The book was a thin 
 one, about half as thick as the ordinary 
 
274 
 
 novel of to-day, and it was agreed that 
 only 612 books be struck off as a first 
 edition. Mr. John Wilson was a long- 
 headed printer and would not agree to 
 print a single volume until at least 300 
 of the books had been subscribed for be- 
 forehand. He figured it out this way : 
 "Suppose the book fails, where do I get 
 off at? I set it up in type, do the bind- 
 ing, furnish the paper, pay the devil and 
 the compositors, do the press work, 
 make-up and all, so can I afford to take 
 all the chances of getting any money out 
 of this blooming poetry?" Mr. Wilson 
 was a canny Scot and didn't propose to 
 take any chances. He surely didn't lose 
 anything in this venture, but whether 
 he made anything I am unable to say. 
 
 Now, all of this is a very imperfect 
 sketch of my old pard Burnsie, and if 
 you care to know more about him I can 
 refer you to quite a few biographies 
 
275 
 
 that have been written about him and 
 are still being written about him by the 
 score to this day. No less a personage 
 than Sir Walter Scott has written a life 
 history of him and so has the poet's own 
 brother, Gilbert. Here is a list you can 
 choose from : 
 
 Appeared 
 
 1. Robert Heron (Life of Burns) 1797 
 
 2. Dr. James Currie (Life and Works, 4 vols. 1800 
 Works and Sketch of Life) 1804 
 
 3. James Stover and John Grieg (Illustrated) 
 
 4. Robert Hartley Cromek (Reliques of 
 Burns) - 1808 
 
 5. Lord Francis Jeffrey (Edinburgh Review) .1808 
 (3. Sir Walter Scott (Quarterly Review) 1808 
 
 7. Dr. David Irving (Life of Burns) 1810 
 
 8. Prof. Josiah Walker (Life and Poems, 
 
 2 vols) 1811 
 
 9. Rev. Hamilton Paul (Life and Poems) .. .1819 
 
 10. Gilbert Burns 1820 
 
 11. Hugh Ainslie (Pilgrimage to the Land 
 
 of Burns) 1822 
 
 12. Archibald Constable (Life and Works, 
 
 3 vols) ...1823 
 
276 
 
 13. Alex. Peterkin (Life and Works, 4 vols) . .1824 
 
 14. John G. Lockhart (Life of Burns) 1828 
 
 15. Thomas Carlyle (Edinburgh Review) 1828 
 
 16. Allan Cunningham (Life and Works, 
 
 8 vols) , 1834 
 
 17. James Hogg and William Motherwell 
 (Memiors and Works, 5 vols.) 1854 
 
 18.— Prof. John Wilson (Essay on Genius) ... .1840 
 
 19. W. C. McLehose (Correspondence) 1843 
 
 20. Samuel Tyler (Burns as a Poet and Man) .1849 
 
 21. Robert Chambers (Life and Works) 1851 
 
 22. George Gilfillan (Memoirs and Works, 
 
 2 vols) 1856 
 
 23. Rev. James White (Burns and Scott) 1858 
 
 24. Rev. P. H. Waddell (Life and Works) . . . .1859 
 
 25. William Michael (Life and Works) 1871 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 Although Robert Burns is the idol of 
 the Scotch people nowadays, it must not 
 be supposed that he is the only one wor- 
 shipped, for there is another man who is 
 
277 
 
 greatly revered, honored and loved. 
 This man is Sir Walter Scott. The 
 Scotch people affectionately call him Sir 
 Walter and he did as much for his coun- 
 try as did Puir Rabbie. Both were 
 Scotch to the backbone and loved their 
 country as fondly and devotedly as any 
 patriot can, but in their work they were 
 totally dissimilar. Sir Walter started 
 out as a writer of ballads, and chose for 
 his themes historical subjects, mainly 
 those connected with the ancient and 
 modern history of his country. Burns, 
 as I said before, remodeled and im- 
 proved the old Scotch folk songs and in 
 his democratic way described life 
 around him in tuneful periods. Had he 
 not been cut off in the flower of his 
 prime he, too, might have been a great 
 novelist for his great genius was capable 
 of anything. He sprang from the 
 masses and his heart was with the 
 
278 
 
 masses, but Sir Walter, who came from 
 the classes had a heart for all, and de- 
 scribed the lowly and humble as well as 
 the great. Sir Walter's delineations of 
 human character stand unrivalled to- 
 day. He surely was proud of the fact 
 that he was of gentle birth, which well 
 he might have been, for that was no 
 disgrace to him, any more than it is dis- 
 graceful to be of lowly birth, although 
 in the old country blood counts for 
 something. To show what Sir Walter 
 thought of himself I here quote an ex- 
 tract from one of his works which he 
 wrote himself: 
 
 "My birth was neither distinguished nor sordid. 
 According' to the prejudices of my country, it was 
 esteemed gentle, as I am connected, thoug'h re- 
 motely, with ancient families both by my father's 
 and mother's side. My father's grandfather was 
 Walter Scott, well known by the name of Beardie. 
 He was the second son of Walter Scott, first lord 
 of Raeburn, who was the third son of Sir Walter 
 
279 
 
 Scott and the grandson of Walter Scott, commonly 
 called in tradition Auld Watt of Harden. I am 
 therefore lineally descended from that chieftain, 
 whose name I have made to ring in many a ditty, 
 and from his fair dame, the Flower of Yarrow, no 
 bad genealogy for a Border Minstrel." 
 
 Well, my poor friend Rabbie didn't 
 spring from any border minstrel, but he 
 was a born minstrel himself and could 
 concoct a tune with the best of them. 
 Mind you, I am not decrying Sir Wal- 
 ter, for that would be sacrilege, but 
 Burnsie had nothing to brag of in the 
 way of ancestry. Would Sir Walter 
 have been less great had he sprung from 
 common stock or would Robbie have 
 been greater had he been blue-blooded? 
 I am an American, an ex-member of 
 Coxey's unwashed army, so I don't want 
 to say yes or nay to this question. Let 
 others decide. 
 
 Sir Walter's earliest success as a 
 writer was won by discarding the con- 
 
280 
 
 ventionalities of art and creating a 
 style of art his own. It takes a 
 genius to do that. His style 
 was simple, plain, and direct and 
 won followers very quickly because it 
 gained favor. This goes to show that if 
 one has anything to s^y it is not neces- 
 sary to say it in involved language, but 
 just simply. Sir Walter's good common 
 sense told him this was the fact and he 
 acted accordingly. To say the honest 
 truth some of Sir Walter's novels here 
 and there are a little prolix, but there 
 was a reason for it. Sir Walter 
 was getting paid for space-writ- 
 ing. You don't believe me? I'll 
 prove it. He went broke and to 
 pay his debts — or rather those of the 
 publishing house he unfortunately was 
 connected with — he ground out "copy" 
 as fast as he could, for every word of 
 his was worth money. He begged his 
 
281 
 
 financial friends not to treat him like "a 
 milch cow" but like a man, but as he 
 was a money-maker they staid with him 
 until all his money and property were 
 gone and all he could earn until he died 
 was swallowed up, too. His was another 
 case like General Ulysses Simpson 
 Grant. 
 
 Sir Walter was the ninth child in a 
 very large family. His father was a 
 methodical and industrious lawyer, and 
 his mother a woman of much culture, 
 refinement and imagination. 
 
 Of delicate health and lame from his 
 second year, Sir Walter spent much of 
 his childhood in the co.untry with his 
 relatives. At the fireside of neighbors 
 he listened to the old ballads and stories 
 of border warfare, which caused him at 
 a very early age to acquire a taste for 
 reading ancient history and to become 
 imbued with a love for antiquarian re- 
 
282 
 
 search. When seven years of age he 
 entered the High School of Edinburgh 
 and attended it until twelve. When 
 thirteen he entered the University of 
 Edinburgh and decided on the profes- 
 sion of law. At the age of 21 he was 
 admitted to the bar. He didn't like his 
 profession, however, and spent much of 
 his time in antiquarian research. When 
 about 26 years of age he married Char- 
 lotte Margaret Carpenter, the daughter 
 of a French Royalist, whose family af- 
 ter the death of the father had removed 
 to England. Sir Walter and his wife 
 lived first at Edinburgh and three years 
 later rented a cottage at Lasswade. 
 They remained at Lasswade six years 
 and then took up their abode at Ashes- 
 tiel. In 1799, when about 28 years of 
 age, Sir Walter was made Deputy Sher- 
 iff of Selkirkshire to which was at- 
 tached a salary of $1,500 per annum, 
 
283 
 
 and seven years afterward he was ap- 
 pointed a Clerk of Session with a salary 
 of $3,500. He held down both jobs for 
 25 years, which proved he was a stayer. 
 As his income was $5000 for 25 years 
 it can be figured out about how much 
 he earned. But Sir Walter wasn't a 
 money-saver; he was a spender and a 
 good provider. He kept open house and 
 anyone who called received an old-fash- 
 ioned Scotch welcome, and I know from 
 my sojourn in Scotland what that 
 means. It means you're welcome to 
 stay or welcome to go, but while you do 
 stay the best is none too good for you. 
 Sir Walter's hospitality was of that sort 
 and while holding down both jobs he 
 was doing a little literary work on the 
 side. First came ballads, then poems 
 of romance and later novels. He was 
 getting along first rate financially so he 
 concluded to take up his residence at 
 
284 
 
 Abbottsford, a palatial mansion. By 
 this time he had already gained fame 
 and much lucre and was run after by 
 the "hoi-polloi," the "would-be could- 
 be's" and the Great. The doors of Ab- 
 bottsford opened wide for all. Even the 
 poor were given "a hand-out" of some 
 kind. Too bad Billy and me wasn't alive 
 then. But this was before our time, 
 about a hundred years or so. Oh what 
 a place for grafters Abbottsford must 
 have been! Sir Walter was easy. So 
 easy was he, in fact, that the publishing 
 house of Ballantyne & Co., which roped 
 him in as a side partner, went flewy 
 and left Sir Walter to foot all the bills. 
 Sir Walter was an honorable man and 
 prized honor above wealth, so he turned 
 over everything he had, including Ab- 
 bottsford, to the alleged creditors, but 
 there was not enough to satisfy claims. 
 The debt amounted to several hundred 
 
285 
 
 thousand dollars. Thereupon he contin- 
 ued writing novels and wrote as he 
 never wrote before. He ground out ten 
 novels in six years and had paid up 
 about $200,000, when his health began 
 to fail. The pace was too swift for a 
 man sixty years of age, which he was 
 then. The creditors were insatiable and 
 were greedy for the last farthing. Busi- 
 ness is business, said they. 
 
 When a little over sixty years of age 
 Sir Walter had a stroke of paralysis 
 caused by overwork and worry, and was 
 recommended by his physicians to take 
 a sea voyage. He embarked for Italy in 
 a frigate which was placed at his dis- 
 posal by the English government, but 
 sad to relate, the trip benefited him but 
 little. He visited Rome, Venice and 
 other places, but came home a few 
 months afterward to die. "Man's in- 
 humanity to man" killed Sir Walter be- 
 fore his time. 
 
286 
 
 Sir Walter's manner was that of a 
 gentleman and he was amiable, unaf- 
 fected and polished. He was simple and 
 kindly and approachable by all. Much 
 of his literary work was done at Ashes- 
 tiel, but more at Abbottsford. He kept 
 open house everywhere. He arose at 
 five o'clock in the morning and wrote 
 until eight o'clock. He then breakfast- 
 ed with his family and after putting in 
 an hour or so with them returned to 
 his writings. He worked until noon and 
 then was his own man, to do as he liked. 
 During the afternoon he put in some 
 time with his guests, gave reporters in- 
 terviews, was snap-shotted by cameras, 
 saw that the dogs got enough to eat, 
 gave orders to the servants that if too 
 many 'bos came around to sick the dogs 
 on them and then he went a horseback 
 or a carriage riding. In the evening 
 there was some social chat, after which 
 
287 
 
 Sir Walter retired early. That was the 
 routine. 
 
 This master in the art of novel writ- 
 ing was fully six feet in height, well 
 proportioned and well built with the 
 exception of a slight deformity in the 
 ankle, which I have alluded to before. 
 His face was of a Scotch cast, heavy 
 and full; the forehead was high and 
 broad, the head lofty, the nose short, 
 the upper lip long, and the expression of 
 his features kindly. I have seen dead 
 loads of pictures, images and statues of 
 Sir Walter, yet hardly two of them were 
 alike. I consider Sir Walter a hand- 
 some man and to me there seems to be 
 something grand and noble in the cast 
 of his countenance. I know the light of 
 genius was there, and maybe that is 
 why he so impresses me, but with it all 
 his features have a noble cast. He is 
 goodly to look upon, surely. 
 
288 
 
 To tell the truth, I don't read much 
 poetry, but some competent critic who 
 has read Sir Walter's has this to say 
 of it: 
 
 "The distinctive features of the poetry of Scott 
 are ease, rapidity of movement, a spirited flow of 
 narrative that holds our attention, an out-of-door 
 atmosphere and power of natural description, an 
 occasional intrusion of a gentle personal sadness 
 and but little more. The subtle and mystic ele- 
 ment so characteristic of the poetry of Wordsworth 
 and Coleridge is not to be found in that of Scott, 
 while in lyrical power he does not approach 
 Shelley. We find instead an intense sense of 
 reality in all his natural descriptions ; it surrounds 
 them with an indefinable atmosphere, because they 
 are so transparently true. Scott's first impulse in 
 the direction of poetry was given to him from the 
 study of the German ballads, especially Burger's 
 Lenore, of which he made a translation. As his 
 ideas widened, he wished to do for Scottish Border 
 life what Goethe had done for the ancient feuda- 
 lism of the Rhine. He was at first undecided 
 whether to choose prose or verse as the medium; 
 but a legend was sent him by the Countess of Dal- 
 keith with a request that he would put it in ballad 
 
289 
 
 form. Having thus the framework for his purpose, 
 he went to work, and "The Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel " was the result. The battle scene in Marmion 
 has been called the most Homeric passage in modern 
 literature, and his description of the Battle of 
 Beal au Duine from "The Lady of the Lake" is an 
 exquisite piece of narration from the gleam of the 
 spears in the thicket to the death of Roderick Dhu 
 at its close. In the deepest sense Scott is one with 
 the spirit of his time in his grasp of fact, in that 
 steadily looking at the object which Wordsworth 
 had fought for in poetry, which Carlyle had ad- 
 vocated in philosophy. He is allied, too, to that 
 broad sympathy for man which lay closest to the 
 heart of the age's literary expression. Words- 
 worth's part is to inspire an interest in the lives 
 of men and women about us; Scott's to enlarge 
 the bounds of our sympathy beyond the present, 
 and to people the silent centuries. Shelley's in- 
 spiration is hope for the future; Scott's is rever- 
 ence for the past." 
 
 I have read a few of Sir Walter's 
 novels, and some of them several times, 
 and every time I read them it is with 
 renewed interest. His delineation of 
 human character is so true to nature 
 
290 
 
 and so graphic that I feel the living, 
 s :eaking person before me as I read.. If 
 that ain't writing I would like to know 
 what is. Whether it be peasant, ser- 
 vant, knight, esquire, king, lord, iady 
 or girl, all are shown up on the screen 
 so plainly that I take it all as a matter 
 of course and say nothing. It is all so 
 plain and simple that there is nothing 
 to say. That is art and the highest form 
 of it. It is next to nature. 
 
 Art and genius are closely allied. It 
 is not everyone who loves the "alto- 
 gether" or the "realistic," which may 
 be well. Were it not so, many poets, 
 painters, sculptors, musicians and other 
 handicraftsmen would be left out in the 
 cold, witEnone to do him reverence. All 
 tastes happily are catered to, so every- 
 one is happy. 
 
 As I am neither a critic nor a biog- 
 rapher I shall endeavor to give my read- 
 
291 
 
 ers an idea what Sir Walter was 
 thought of by others and will quote the 
 language they used. 
 
 George Tichnor, the author, says that 
 Scott repeated to him the English trans- 
 lations of two long Spanish ballads 
 which he had never seen, but which had 
 been read to him twice. 
 
 Scott's college friend, John Irving, in 
 writing of himself and Scott, says: 
 "The number of books we thus devoured 
 was very great. I forgot a great part 
 of what I read ; but my friend, notwith- 
 standing he read with such rapidity, re- 
 mained, to my surprise, master of it all, 
 and could even, weeks and months af- 
 terwards, repeat a whole page in which 
 anything had particularly struck him at 
 the moment,' ' 
 
 Washington Irving remarked : "Dur- 
 ing the time of my visit he inclined to 
 the comic rather than to the grave in his 
 
292 
 
 anecdotes and stories; and such, I was 
 told, was his general inclination. He 
 relished a joke or a trait of humor in 
 social intercourse, and laughed with 
 
 right good will His humor 
 
 in conversation, as in his works, was 
 genial and free from causticity. He had 
 a quick perception of faults and foibles, 
 but he looked upon human nature with 
 an indulgent eye, relishing what was 
 good and pleasant, tolerating what was 
 frail and pitying what was evil. . . . 
 I do not recollect a sneer throughout his 
 conversation, any more than there is 
 throughout his works." 
 
 Lord Byron said : "I think that Scott 
 is the only very successful genius that 
 could be cited as being as generally be- 
 loved as a man as he is admired as an 
 author ; and I must add, he deserves it, 
 for he is so thoroughly good-natured, 
 sincere and honest, that he disarms the 
 
293 
 
 envy and jealousy his extraordinary 
 genius must excite." 
 
 Leslie Stephen remarked: "Scott 
 could never see an old tower, or a bank, 
 or a rush of a stream without instantly 
 recalling a boundless collection of ap- 
 propriate anecdotes. He might be quot- 
 ed as a case in point by those who would 
 explain all poetical imagination by the 
 power of associating ideas. He is the 
 poet of association." 
 
 Lockhart, who married the daughter 
 of Sir Walter and who was therefore his 
 son-in-law, wrote a biography of his 
 father-in-law wherein he says that: 
 "The love of his country became indeed 
 a passion ; no knight ever tilted for his 
 mistress more willingly than he would 
 have bled and died to preserve even the 
 airiest surviving nothing of her antique 
 pretensions for Scotland. But the Scot- 
 
294 
 
 land of his affections had the clan Scott 
 for her kernel." 
 
 I believe the son-in-law is inclined to 
 be facetious, but is he just to his immor- 
 tal father-in-law? I don't believe he is 
 — therefore his criticisms are not worth 
 a whoop. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle, the cynical philoso- 
 pher and mugwump, condescended to 
 give Sir Walter a sort of recommenda- 
 tion of character, which it renders me 
 extremely happy to quote. Here it is. 
 Read it carefully and ponder : 
 
 "The surliest critic must allow that 
 Scott was a genuine man, which itself is 
 a great matter. No affectation, fantas- 
 ticality or distortion dwelt in him; no 
 shadow of cant. Nay, withal, was he 
 not a right brave and strong man ac- 
 cording to his kind? What a load of 
 toil, what a measure of felicity he quiet- 
 ly bore along with him! With what 
 
295 
 
 quiet strength he both worked on this 
 earth and enjoyed in it, invincible to 
 evil fortune and to good!" 
 
 This cynic, this philosopher, this mug- 
 wump says Sir Walter was a genuine 
 man. Good for Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 Everyone was proud to call Sir Wal- 
 ter "friend," and he was just great 
 enough to be happy to call those who 
 wera worthy, his friend. Among his 
 great friends were the following : 
 
 John Irving, who was an intimate 
 college friend. I have quoted him in 
 regard to the number of books read by 
 Sir Walter. 
 
 Robert Burns came to Edinburgh 
 when Sir Walter was fifteen years of 
 age, and Sir, Walter's boyish admira- 
 tion for the National Bard was great. 
 . In after life, when Sir Walter became 
 great, he wrote a great deal concerning 
 Puir Rabbie. And it is worth reading. 
 
296 
 
 James Ballantyne, Sir Walter's part- 
 ner in the publishing business, was a 
 good friend. 
 
 So was James Hogg, the poet peasant, 
 sometimes called "The Ettrick Shep- 
 herd." 
 
 And so was Thomas Campbell, the 
 poet, author of "The Pleasures of 
 Hope." 
 
 The poet William Wordsworth was a 
 lifelong friend. 
 
 Robert Southey, the poet, visited Sir 
 Walter at Ashestiel and was admired 
 by him greatly. 
 
 Joanna Baillie, the poetess, was a 
 warm friend. 
 
 So was Lord Byron. 
 
 Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher, 
 visited Sir Walter and was well liked 
 by him. 
 
 Goethe, the German poet, was a warm 
 admirer and friend of Sir Walter. 
 
297 
 
 So was Henry Hallam, the historian ; 
 Crabbe, the poet; Maria Edgeworth, 
 the novelist; George Ticknor, the 
 author; Dugald Stewart, Archibald Ali- 
 son, Sydney Smith, Lord Brougham, 
 Lord Jeffrey, Thomas Erskine, William 
 Clerk, Sir William Hamilton, etc., etc. 
 
 Last but not least among those who 
 regarded Sir Walter as a friend and 
 who were so regarded by him was our 
 own countryman, Washington Irving. 
 Our own "Washy" was an author, too, 
 and one not to be sneezed at. Sir Wal- 
 ter regarded him highly and Washy 
 dropped in on him, casual like, at Ab- 
 bottsford. Washy had written some 
 good things himself, but had found it 
 difficult to win recognition. Sir Walter 
 stood sponsor for him and told the 
 world it ought to be ashamed of itself 
 not to recognize merit of so high an 
 order. Thereupon the world promptly 
 
298 
 
 did recognize our Washy. Did our 
 Washy need a sponsor? Well, hardly. 
 No American ever lived who was an 
 abler or more polished writer than he. 
 Will you please show me a man who can 
 beat our Washy. You can't do it. Smile 
 at me if you will, but I doubt if even 
 Sir Walter himself was so much supe- 
 rior to him. Have you read Irving' s 
 Astoria, a true and lifelike history of 
 the Northwest? or his Rip Van Winkle, 
 or his sketches, the Alhambra, etc.? 
 Irving's is another case where a great 
 man failed of appreciation at first. 
 
 Well, my countrymen, our Washy is 
 dead, but we appreciate him now just 
 the same. The United States never 
 produced a writer more polished and 
 able than he, and it is rather humiliat- 
 ing to think that a great foreigner had 
 to apprise us of his merits. 
 "To wind up this chapter on Sir Wal- 
 
299 
 
 ter Scott I will give you a list of his 
 writings, arranged in chronological or- 
 der: 
 
 BALLADS. 
 Gfenfinlas, 1799. 
 Eve of St. John, 1799. 
 The Grey Brothers, 1799. 
 Border Minstrelsy, 1802-1803. 
 Cadyow Castle, 1810. 
 English Minstrelsy, 1810. 
 Tin- Battle of Sempach, 1818. 
 The Noble Moringer, 1819. 
 The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805. 
 Marmion, 1808. 
 The Lady of the Lake, 1810. 
 Vision of Don Roderick, 1811. 
 Rokeby, 1812. 
 
 The Bridal of Triermain, 1813. 
 The Lord of the Isles, 1815. 
 
 PROSE WORKS. 
 
 AVaverley, 1814. 
 Guy Mannering, 1815. 
 The Antiquary, 1816. 
 The Black Dwarf, 1816. 
 Old Mortality, 1816. 
 
300 
 
 Rob Roy, 1818. 
 
 The Heart of Mid-Lothian, 1818. 
 
 The Bride of Lammermoor, 1819. 
 
 The Legend of Montrose, 1819. 
 
 Ivanhoe, 1820, 
 
 The Monastery, 1820. 
 
 The Abbott, 1820. 
 
 Kenilworth, 1821. 
 
 The Pirate, 1822. 
 
 The Fortunes of Nigel, 1822. 
 
 Peveril of the Peak, 1823. 
 
 Quentin Durward, 1823. 
 
 St. Ronan's Well, 1824. 
 
 Red Gauntlet, 1824. 
 
 The Betrothed, 1825. 
 
 The Talisman, 1825. 
 
 Woodstock, 1826. 
 
 The Two Drovers, 1827. 
 
 The Highland Widow, 1827. 
 
 The Surgeon's Daughter, 1827. 
 
 The Fair Maid of Perth, 1828. 
 
 Anne of Geierstein, 1829. 
 
 Count Robert of Paris, 1831. 
 
 Castle Dangerous, 1831. 
 
RETURN 
 TO—* 
 
 MAIN CIRCULATION 
 
 ALL BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO RECALL 
 RENEW BOOKS BY CALLING 642-3405 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 SENT ON ILL 
 
 
 
 JUN 1 4 199 
 
 > 
 
 
 U. C. BERKELE 
 
 Y 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 FORM NO. DD6 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKF 
 BERKELEY, CA 94720 
 
YB 12776 
 
 858581 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY