Haunted by Presentiment.
When Weelum passed away suddenly on April 1st four years ago, I was in Los Angeles, and could not sleep the previous night. There was a premonition of impending misfortune haunting me, so I hurried to the local C.P.R. office next morning where Polly—Mr. A. A. Polhamus—handed me two telegrams. While I am nearly as blind as a bat without spectacles, I hastily and distinctly read the despatches without glasses. One was from Charlie Foster, saying that Mr. Stitt was dangerously ill; the other of later sending was from my secretary, Bessie James, that he had died that morning in Captain Walsh’s office, adjoining mine. I was grief-stricken, and sadly walked over to where Alex. Calder and John McKechnie, two dear old Winnipeg friends of both Weelum and myself, were awaiting me, and wistfully whispered: “William Stitt is dead.” Their sorrowing downcast looks were pathetic. There was a sickening tugging of the heart-strings and tear-dimmed eyes, for we mourned as many another did over the passing away of one of the dearest souls God ever put life in.