Reno — a Book of Short Stories and Information

by Lilyan Stratton

PART 7

SONS OF THE SAGEBRUSH

To write of the "Sons of the Sagebrush" does not necessarily mean that they were born in the Sagebrush, or in the West. I was surprised to find that about seventy-five per cent, of the prominent citizens of Nevada had hailed from almost every State in the Union, from Carolina to California. The Good Book says that the wise men came from the East. From personal observation I should say that many of them settled in the West.

I am told that there are numerous cases in which mothers worry for fear their sons may be led astray by some fascinating "divorcee"; that he may be caught in her "selfish snare" and left with a smashed heart and lost youthful ideals, while the fair lady laughs and leaves; but if you will pardon a bit of slang, I should say that the Western youth is a "pretty wise guy," and that mother need not worry because he can look out for himself! However, "mother's advice" may not always have held good after a mint julep, or a stroll in the moonlight….. Hence the experience.

I do not mean that if a beautiful lady should whisper gently to one of the youthful sons of the Sagebrush: "I am afraid to go home in the dark," the gentleman would ring for a messenger boy as an escort, or call a taxi; and if she sighed for sympathy and a stroll by the Truckee, he would think that she needed a doctor, or a nerve specialist. …. The sons of the Sagebrush are not cold-hearted, nor are they lacking in courtesy of any sort, but to use a Western expression, they possess a large percentage of "horse sense!" Meaning, that they are not wearing their hearts on their sleeves these days….

One of the most interesting and unassuming gentlemen I met in the "big little city" was Mr. George Wingfield. I had made up my mind to that effect long before he was introduced to me because I had seen his beautiful home on the banks of the Truckee, and his beautiful bank building on the corner of Second and Virginia streets (the Reno National Bank, which I have described in Part 5), and had visited his ranch, and admired his string of thoroughbred horses and high-class stock. I had also been told how this gentleman had made his fortune almost over night, so to speak, during the big gold boom, and I liked him for staying right there and spending the gold in the State whence it came. He did not take his riches and go away, as so many of them have done, but he helped to build a beautiful city, and there it is that he made his home.

I was rather surprised to find that Mr. Wingfield was not a native son, but hailed from Arkansas: also, I was disappointed in this gentleman's appearance, having been told that he was a resident of the West, when the West was really "wild and woolly," and full of gold and other things…. I expected him to be a much older man, and have not quite forgiven him for not being at least six feet six, with cold steel-blue piercing eyes, gray hair at the temples and a face furrowed with strong character lines.

That was the sort of mental picture I had made of him when a friend told me of his experiences in the mining camp during a big strike of the miners. They were shooting up the town in real Western style, and many of them had been heard to swear that they would have Wingfield's life. He might well have taken his departure, but he did not: he was strong and relentless and knew no fear, though I am told he ate his meals in a restaurant where the walls were covered with mirrors, with his back to the wall, and a six-shooter on each side of his plate. Rather thrilling, to say the least.

So far, Mr. Wingfield has not found it necessary to take advantage of the liberal divorce laws of the State: his beautiful home, charming and accomplished wife, and lovely children account for that.

Somehow Mr. Wingfield's experience in Nevada and the gold mines brings to my mind a poem from Robert W. Service's "Spell of the Yukon," of which I am very fond:

"This is the law of the Yukon,
and ever she makes it plain;
Send not your foolish and feeble;
send me your strong and your sane—
Strong for the red rage of battle;
sane, for I harry them sore;
Send me men grit for the combat;
men who are grit to the core…."

It would be difficult to name a citizen of Nevada more popular with his fellow-men or enjoying to a greater degree the confidence and trust of those with whom he is associated than H. J. Gosse, proprietor and manager of the Riverside Hotel of Reno.

The colony has a real friend in H. J. Gosse, who is certainly an exponent of joy, giving optimism to the lonely wanderer who may find himself domiciled under the roof of the Riverside Hotel where the splendid personality of this old pioneer reigns supreme.

Mr. Gosse's parents crossed the plains with an ox-team from New
Orleans to California way back in '49. In 1862 the family moved to
Silver City, then a lively mining town.

[Illustration: Riverside Hotel, Nevada]

The subject of this sketch went to school in Virginia City and later attended the Golden Gate Academy in Oakland, California. Like other young men, he followed various vocations and in 1896 he purchased the Riverside Hotel, which he has successfully conducted ever since. Under his management the hotel has continued to be the leading hotel in the city, and in 1901 the present large brick structure was erected.

In 1888 Mr. Gosse was united in marriage with Miss Josephine M. Mudd, a native of California. In politics Mr. Gosse is a Republican. He is a member of the Improved Order of Red Men, and has filled all the chairs in the local Tribe and is Past Grand Sachem of the State of Nevada. He is also a Mason, being a member of the lodge chapter, commandery and the shrine. He is an active member of the B.P.O.E. No. 597, of Reno, and was instrumental in organizing the Lodge. In recognition of his services, he has been made an honorary life member and is a member of the Grand Lodge of the United States.

Mr. Gosse's only son was among the first to answer his country's call when the United States entered into the World War in 1917; he died in his country's service a few months later….

No pictures of the picturesque West would be complete which did not depict in the foreground the fine, handsome figure of Nevada's erstwhile "Sentinel in Chief": former State Police Superintendent, Captain J. P. Donnelley.

The Captain and his wife were among the very first friends I made when I arrived in Reno. Since then we have become more and more intimate, and my admiration and appreciation of them both grow keener, if such is possible, the longer I know them.

Almost as interesting as the history of Nevada itself is the excited checkered career of this man, who at an early date left his native State of California where he had risen from the ranks of private to Adjutant of the 10th Battalion Infantry Guards and had sought in preference the dangers and hardships of rugged Nevada. Here he became deputy sheriff and chairman of the Republican Central Committee of Esmeralda County, to succeed Captain Cox as Superintendent of the State Police in 1911.

In the same year there was a spurt of unusual liveliness from the Indian quarter. Several white men were killed, and it was Captain Donnelley who was selected to head one of the posses and risk the brunt of the battle. The Captain's scrapbook, which he was kind enough to let me look over, revealed many an interesting incident, and one would never think when talking to him that this genial, humorous, kind faced man was every inch a soldier and a hero. The combination strikes me as wonderfully illustrative of what real culture and civilization can do for a man. He fights, not for the love of fighting, from a savage hankering after blood, but because it is for the good of humanity in general that he should fight, and therefore that he does well.

A large reward had been offered for the capture of those Indian desperadoes and of the several posses that had been sent out Captain Donnelley and his brave band were the only "lucky devils," and escaped with their scalps.

In appreciation of his fine work the citizens passed a resolution to send the following letter to the Captain:

"To the Nevada State Police and to Captain Donnelley, Privates Buck and Stone, and Sergeant Newgard: "Gentlemen:-

"As a Committee of One I am directed by the citizens of Surprise Valley, this county, by a resolution passed by the citizens last week, to express to you gentlemen the thanks we so deeply owe you for your efficient and loyal services rendered in the interest of public justice in the running down of the Indian renegade murderers of our citizens in Nevada.

"We cannot begin to express the same by words of tongue or pen and our feelings coming from the heart must be left to better speakers and writers than myself.

"Be assured of our great thanks, and should occasion require we will endeavor to make good in payment.

"Very sincerely yours,

"(Signed) H. E. SMITH, Sheriff."

[Illustration: Captain J. P. Donnelly Former State Police
Superintendent]

In 1912 there were some very serious disturbances in the copper mines in Ely. Martial law was declared; Captain Donnelley was delegated to go down to quell the disorder, and in a remarkably short time peace and order were restored. His success was due in a great measure to his magnetic personality, for the Captain is very popular and makes staunch friends wherever he goes.

One of the greatest assets a man can have is the right sort of a wife. Mrs. Donnelley, once a divorcee, is both charming and interesting. She is a woman of culture, has traveled extensively and is interested in all the social problems of the day. When the Red Cross Chapter was organized in Reno she was asked to take charge of the workroom, which originally started with two and now boasts of a working force of between thirty to forty ladies. Without her efficient aid, little progress would have been made.

Both the Captain and his wife are exceptionally fond of children and animals, and they tell the following amusing incident about one of the Captain's birthdays. One fine afternoon, out of a clear sky, seventeen youngsters of every conceivable size and shape, marched in upon Mrs. Donnelley, and announced the fact that they had come to celebrate Captain Donnelley's birthday. Thereupon they held aloft three monster cakes which they had brought along to demolish in case the Captain did not have birthday cakes any more. After the rather surprised lady of the house had ransacked the neighborhood for some fruit and ice cream to help the cake along and practically no vestige of the feast remained, the unsuspecting Captain came upon the scene. There was a rush and a scamper and a babel of voices shouted out, "Oh, Captain Donnelley, we're having such a good time at your birthday party!"

Orpheus and his lute, David and his harp, Donnelley and his dog! These are inseparable associations, and so fine and historic an animal is "Brownie" that the newspapers devote write-ups to him just as if he were a regular celebrity or something like that. He is now guarding the chicks on a ranch and is making a dandy truant officer, so the Captain tells me.

The Captain is a thinker, too. A short time ago he wrote a series of articles for the Reno Gazette, dealing with psychology. I was particularly impressed with a fact which he made to stand out clearly above all others and which would vitally affect society as a whole if it were to be universally carried out. It is the substitution of an indeterminate sentence for the definite one which now prevails. "No judge can determine in advance when a prisoner is fit to return to the community," he says; and in the same way we release the inmates of an insane hospital as soon as we think them sufficiently recovered, he believes we should release the criminal as soon as experts pronounce him fit to resume his relations with society.

The following is a copy of the verses which the Captain thought would help his co-workers to do things right:

"Did you tackle the trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful,
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven heart and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it;
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it.

"You're beaten to earth; well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face,
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there-that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye.
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight, and why.

"And though you be done to death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you've played your part in the world of men,
Why, the critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?"

And now we come to a pure Sagebrush Son who first announced himself into the family midst only a few miles away from Virginia City, Judge Langdon. His father had been a true pioneer of the Comstock Lodge, and so Frank was born with a "golden" spoon in his mouth.

However that may be, he went to school at Gold Hill, thence to St. Mary's College and finally passed the bar examination in 1886. Then he came back to Nevada, post haste, and established a law office in Virginia City and there he is to this day. Not for long, however, did he remain a private practitioner. He soon became a member of the Assembly, and District Attorney of his home County and subsequently was elected Judge of the County of Storey. And thereby hangs a "story."

While the Judge was on the bench a felonious murder was committed. Preston and Smith were the criminals arraigned before the courts, and Frank P. Langdon their Judge. Originally the trial had come up in Hawthorne, Seat of Esmeralda County, and when in the midst of the case the County Seat was changed the case was naturally transferred. Feeling ran very high, for the prisoners had many friends, and several anonymous letters, bearing a fear-inspiring skull and cross-bones sketched in blood-red ink, did the young Judge handle: needless to say without any fear or trepidation! A son of the sagebrush knows no fear!

At last the day for the final decision came. Some of those I have met who were present in the court room tell me that the atmosphere was highly charged and that many expected to see the Judge get a rough deal. But calmly, in clear ringing tones, he boldly stated his convictions, irrespective of the direst results that might follow; yet nothing happened. The men were condemned and the Judge is still residing in Virginia City, happy with his wife and six lively children.

Not only through the popular ditty have the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia become famous: their own natural beauty is sufficient to render them beloved by all those who have had the opportunity to see them or live amongst them. But it is also under the blue shadows of those Virginia peaks that many a good man was born and it is therefore a great tribute to Nevada, I think, that Judge Sanders has permanently made his home under the purple and gray shadows of the Sagebrush slopes.

He had been deputy clerk and librarian of the Supreme Court of Virginia, and during this time had taken advantage of the lore with which he came in contact to study the ways and byways of the law. Like unto hosts of others, for him too the Comstock Lode had proved a magnet, and in 1904 he hit the trail for Virginia City, Nevada. Then he trailed on, attracted by the Manhattan boom, and finally landed in Tonopah, the great silver camp. By this time he had begun to be known as a "big fighter" in the law world. His famous speech on the "Prospector" attracted considerable attention, and Nevada's sons soon found out that they had a real man in their midst. He was elected District Attorney of Nye County, and there never was a man more free from political prejudice or more ready to give every applicant to the Courts of Justice a fair and square deal. Cattle rustlers quaked and trembled at the name of Sanders as did I. W. W.'s; surrounding States never felt so very kindly disposed toward the Judge, as it was he who in a great measure was responsible for exterminating this disturbing element, or rather dumping it into other States, since it proved inexterminable.

Judge Sanders is married to a Wisconsin girl and has his home at
Carson City, Nevada.

Dick Stoddard is a Reno boy through and through, and although his middle name is Cross, it certainly has nothing to do with his disposition, for he is most entertaining and genial. As a youth he attended the High School and the University, after a time taking the civil service. Then in the service of the railroad proper, he wandered around the coast for about four years.

Not content with this mission in life, he entered the law offices of a prominent firm of attorneys where he imbibed all the legal wisdom he could, supplementing his practical experience by theoretical study. In 1903, behold our Judge, a full-fledged advocate; in 1905 he was elected City Attorney for Reno. It was during his term that Reno's streets were first paved, the new City Hall built and the Truckee's banks spanned by the Virginia Street bridge.

A rather amusing story is told of how "they,"—his friends,—"put one over" on Dick, the "putting over," however, being to their mutual advantage.

The Judge, or rather Attorney, as he was then, had one of those "off" spells that all of us have at times. He had sniffed his fill of musty legal parchment for the time, and he decided that he would prefer a sniff of the sea-weed and brine; that he needed a tonic arid that no better could be found than "Ozone." So he packed his grip, gave his friends the "slip," as one might say, and skipped off to a California resort. And while this revered City Attorney was vigorously breasting the Pacific billows, and enjoying cooling breezes that brought in their wake reminiscences of Honolulu, and other lands that enchant the senses, his friends at home saw to it that Dick Stoddard got the title of "General" hitched onto his title of Attorney.

During his generalship there were several interesting "spats" between the Inter-state Commerce Commission and the railroads, but Attorney- General Stoddard was the right man at the right time, and I assure you that the State didn't have to suffer.

Judge Moran is another original son of Erin who has adopted Nevada and has been adopted by her. One could hardly say that he was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, for "Barney" Moran had anything but the "life of Riley" in his early years. Up and up he has moved along the checker-board, however, until now he has become a "knight," a real knight, for many a human being would still be in sore distress were it not for the Judge's kind heart and sympathetic understanding in the divorce court. Some have dubbed him "Papa" Moran; he is so fatherly they say. And as of course it is no sin to kiss a father, it has happened that some of the highly strung victims have ventured to embrace Papa after he pronounced those all-meaning words, "judgment for the plaintiff."

When he was only ten years of age, both his parents passed away and so about four years afterwards he crossed the "herring pond" in quest of a life of adventure. As far as variety is concerned, he had plenty of it, and some to spare, and it is all those hard knocks that have helped him to understand human nature as he does. Over in Cleveland he attended night school while working during the day as a machine-shop apprentice. Not finding this "job" quite to his liking, he tried tending the "traps" or doors underground in some of the coal mines. Soon his fancy changed again, and we find him engaged as a water boy on one of the railroads. "Tick, tick;-tick tick-tick," signaled the telegraph, and it was not long before young Moran became proficient enough to take a job as an operator.

Now why the nickname "Barney," you will ask. Thereby hangs a tale!

While working in the telegraph office, Tom Morau became infused with some of the electricity which charged the instruments, or so it seemed anyway. Now there were no less than four boys in that office who answered to the name of "Tom." So you may imagine, can't you, what, stampede there was every time the chief operator called "Tom." But don't imagine our Tom ever let anyone else get ahead of him. Although he was the youngest and probably the least in requisition, he was always "Johnny on the spot" before any of the Toms. To solve this dilemma which was first considered a joke but later developed into an unmitigated nuisance, the chief operator eventually said to Moran, "Say, Tom, in future you're Barney."

Under the tutelage of Thomas L. Bellam, who took a great interest in him, he did three years of general study. This whetted his appetite for more, and he consequently landed in Chicago and took a course at the Chicago College of Law. But not till several years later did he take his final degree and start practicing. Now our wandering little Irish boy is District Judge of Washoe County.

How seldom it is that we find anyone whose name is a real symbol of his temperament or profession. Often Mr. Stone will be a weak mollycoddle; Mr. Sharp, a phlegmatic butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth sort of individual, or Mr. Strong, an "acute dyspeptic."

Somehow, the gentleman in question, August Frohlich, seems to have been a little more fortunate in that respect, for Frohlich in German means "merry," and I have yet to find a man who is more devil-may-care or happy-go-lucky, in spite of all his family responsibilities, than Mr. August Frohlich.

He was born in California, and at the age of seventeen found himself the sole supporter of himself and his mother. Since then he has held in turn almost every known variety of commercial position. Acting first as a fruit rancher, he then developed a passion for mining, at the same time pursuing a business course. When next we see him, he is exchanging smiles and general goods over the counter, his popularity winning for him afterwards the position of Postmaster and agent for Wells Fargo & Company at Crescent Mills. But he was young and restless, like so many of us have been, in one way or another, and two years are a long time. After running a stage line, doing a little bookkeeping and a few other odd jobs of the kind, he came to Reno and settled down for another two years to study at the University. And so on. The scene kept changing with kaleidoscopic rapidity until finally he found a congenial position in the Washoe County Bank, with the position of Receiving Teller. Political ambitions then began to take possession of this ever-progressive man, and he—was elected a Republican member of the 25th Legislature from Washoe County, receiving the highest vote of any of the twenty-seven candidates. In recognition of his ability, he was elected Speaker of the Assembly which was evenly divided, there being twenty-four Republicans and twenty-four Democrats, with one Independent. In his campaign for Speaker, the only promise he made was for a square deal. The proof that he had redeemed his promise was evidenced by his being re-elected Speaker of the Special Session which was held the following year. He was Director of the Reno Commercial Club, and surely the club spirit must be strong within him when you stop to think that he is a Mason, Elk, Moose, Druid, Woodman, and is active in the Y.M.C.A. At the present compilation, Mr. Frohlich is the owner of the Commercial Steel Company.

I have recently been told by a lady who is prominent in social affairs that his great function when a benefit of any kind is given in town, is to try to drown the unmelodious clatter of the dishwashing with his fine vibrant tenor.

Mr. Frohlich certainly enjoys popularity; his good humor and pleasing personality account for that, and thus Reno can surely be proud of such a bachelor, who all these years has defied lassoing.

"Railroad Day," the big day when Reno was put on the map, was also Norcross Day, for the day when the first Pacific train passed through this town was the one when little Frank Norcross passed into our mundane existence to take his place—with the rest of us mortals: when so to say little Frank was "put on the map." His parents had come out to California as far back as 1850, Norcross' father being engaged in mining, lumbering and farming.

Frank Norcross had his preliminary education at Huffakers, and had early evinced a literary turn of mind when as a comparative youth he received the degree of Bachelor of Arts. Twenty years later the University conferred upon him the honorary degree of Doctor of Law. He served a full term as County Surveyor of Washoe County and attended to Reno's old-fashioned lights, trimming them as he went along, no matter how severe the cold. One consolation he probably had was that unlike the other pedestrians he had an opportunity to warm those frozen finger tips. No mean advantage, I should judge, when the mercury sinks to zero and lower.

He taught in a local school for a year or so, then did some newspaper work for the Journal and Gazette and finally ended by practicing law, having graduated from the University of Georgetown in 1894. After that, promotion came easily. When he had been in succession District Attorney of Washoe County and Supreme Judge, he served for two years as Chief Justice, and so great was his popularity that he was re- elected without any opposition.

A very interesting fact about the Judge is that he won a thousand dollar cash prize offered by the "National Magazine" of Boston, for the best article in support of Colonel Roosevelt for a second elective term. But then, he was a great friend and admirer of the Colonel's and it evidently came to him easily.

It was mainly through his efforts that the Reno Free Library was established, for he had always been interested in educational opportunities. Apparently he had some difficulty, too, in persuading Andrew Carnegie that Reno was actually an inhabited town, and habitable at that. "Andy," like so many other Easterners, was a little skeptical on that score, thinking probably that the divorcees would not want a free library, and surely according to fame or rather notoriety, there was nothing else of any note or significance in Reno but divorcees, with the exception perhaps of the lawyers, and they no doubt had all the law books they needed!

Besides being a great lawyer, the Judge is also a good patriot, for he was a captain of the National Guard and took considerable interest in the State Militia affairs.

Judge Norcross is a member of several brotherhoods and societies, among them the Nevada State Council of the National Civic Federation of which he is chairman, and the Committee of One Hundred of the New York University "Hall of Fame," the business of which it is to decide upon those who are to wake up over night and find themselves famous.

Among the prominent Nevada citizens of the early mining days, are "Lucky Baldwin," C. C. Goodwin, James G. Fair, John W. Mackay, Marcus Daly and Mark Twain. Those who have not already done so would, I am sure, enjoy reading Mark Twain's "Roughing It." In this book he tells many interesting and amusing stories of his experiences in Nevada mining camps. I quote him as follows: "I went to Humboldt District when it was new; I became largely interested in the 'Alba Neuva' and other claims with gorgeous names, and was rich again in prospect. I owned vast mining property there. I would not have sold out for less than $400,000 at that time, but I will now. Finally I walked home—200 miles—partly for exercise, and partly because stage fare was expensive."

Again he says: "Perhaps you remember that celebrated 'North Ophir.' I bought that mine. You could take it out in lumps as large as a filbert, but when it was discovered that those lumps were melted half dollars, and hardly melted at that, a painful case of 'salting' was apparent, and the undersigned journeyed to the poorhouse again."

The following is one of the tragic incidents in the mining game. I think it must have been such an instance that caused the origin of the Western slang phrase-"Out of Luck."

"I paid assessments on 'Hale and Norcross' until they sold me out, and I had to take in washing for a living, and the next month the infamous stock went up to $7- a foot.

"I own millions and millions of feet of affluent leads in Nevada, in fact the entire under crust of that country nearly, and if Congress would move that State off my property so that I could get at it, I would be wealthy yet. But no, there she squats—and here am I. Failing health persuades me to sell. If you know of anyone desiring a permanent investment I can furnish one that will have the virtue of being eternal."

I think "Roughing It" was written about 1851.

If you knew Senator Huskey as I do, you would agree with me that the Senator is indeed Huskey by name and "husky" by nature. A more complete parcel of huskiness you never did see, nor a jollier, more cordial and better hearted could you ever wish to meet, for he has never allowed the musty parchment to dry up the finer faculties of his sentiments, and he can appreciate a beautiful sunset, a fine verse, and in fact all Nature's beauties, and yet be the big man and the great lawyer he is.

Then too, the Senator is an enthusiastic sportsman and plays a splendid game of hand-ball. I have known him, for hours on end, to pound at the ball at the Y.M.C.A. as if his very life depended upon whether he had hit it a hundred or a thousand times in an afternoon; as if he would be shot at sunrise if he fell below the mark. But in college days, his strength ran to his feet. He was known as a powerful kicker, and woe betide the man who would try and act as a buffer between his feet and the ball.

And now let me tell you about the Senator's early life. He started his career on the farm, for his father was a school teacher, and you will agree that—a family of fourteen is a rather expensive kind of brood to rear. And so, some of those fourteen chicks had to hustle and fence for themselves as soon as they could. Among the little Huskeys was Walter. It is thus he graphically describes some of his reminiscences:

"I was a cracker jack at cutting corn. Father and brothers could beat me at husking, but somehow or other I was good at cutting. And some days I could cut as high as twenty-six shock in a half day. Finally I had accumulated a little fund and decided to brace myself for a talk with the college professor in charge. I was the greenest thing you ever saw, and they called me 'Lengthy,' for at that time I weighed only one hundred and thirty pounds."

The title of "Senator" has since done its historical duty, for the once "bony laddie" now turns the scales at 250 pounds…..

After that, the college professor paid young Huskey's parents a surprise visit, as a result of which we find the boy at work at a preparatory course in the Wesleyan University, Kansas. Within two years, through assiduous perseverance and keen enthusiasm for his work, he was able to teach in the country districts. For a decade he taught the younger generations how to shoot, and thus eked out a fairly moderate living, for the pay was not staggering by any means, nor was it like Huskey to forget the folks at home.

In La Porte, Texas, whither by this time he had wandered, they offered him the principalship of the High School. "They gave me," I heard him say one day, "one hundred dollars a month, and I thought it was the biggest salary in the world."

[Illustration: Senator H. Walter Huskey]

Then he realized that it was almost impossible to convert a mint of knowledge into a mint of money, even as a principal, so he struck out vigorously for law, took a special course at Stanford University and received second highest honors. Shortly after he landed in the "big little city" of Reno and entered into partnership with Charles R. Lewers, who had strangely enough been His professor at Stanford University and who evidently held his erstwhile pupil in very high esteem, in thus throwing in his lot with him.

In 1906 Huskey was elected by the Assembly of Nevada, and in 1914 by a very flattering majority was sent up as State Senator for Washoe County. As a law maker, he had proven his worth on more than one occasion, for not only is he a Senator with a brain, but also a man with a heart. The passing of the Employers' Liability Act was due directly to the Senator's spirited persistence. He lost the Southern Pacific contracts through it, but he did not care.

One of the real romances of the divorce world is the Senator's second marriage, and the present Mrs. Huskey is exceedingly charming and interesting, and a splendid horse woman.

An amusing incident is told of a little political difference of opinion between the Senator and the suffragettes about a remark which this worthy gentleman let forth in an unguarded moment. You should have seen the sparks fly and the fire flame up! In fact, it gave me considerable pleasure to be able to announce at the moment of writing that Senator Huskey's golden crop of curls was not singed beyond recognition and that his eyes were still steel blue and not black. This is how the conflagration started:

At a conference in Carson City between the City Council and the Washoe delegation, the Senator, who put in a rather tardy appearance, is reported to have said to the other members: "All the ladies who came to Carson on The Cat Special' are waiting for you upstairs. I'm going to a show. Anything you do is all right for me."

Miss Anne Martin, the president of the Women's League, did her best to put a favorable interpretation upon this very questionable term of endearment by saying that probably the Senator meant that they were as undrownable as cats, who are reputed to have nine lives, and that this persistence was getting what they wanted. That was all very well for the "mild" cats, but the spit-fiery ones were not so easily satisfied. One of them sent him a letter addressed, "Mr. H. W. Meow Huskey, Senate Chamber, Carson City." Others still more vindictive pasted a picture of a large tomcat, hunched of back and bristling of hair, right next to the Senator's campaign picture which already decorated the middle of the Truckee. Under it was written as large as life, "THE HUSKEY TOMCAT." Needless to say the whole town of Reno turned out the next day to enjoy the joke, and among them was the Senator, who enjoyed it as much as anyone.

There is a strong rumor abroad that the Senator is to be a likely candidate for Governor: I certainly wish him every success. If a comprehensive knowledge of the law, a vigorous prosecution of the principles of Justice and a big heart are attributes that count, then the Senator stands the greatest chance to win the fight.

Maurice Joseph Sullivan, Lieut.-Governor: No mining, no teaching, no law! This sketch is of a thoroughbred business man, who after graduating from the Polytechnic High School in San Francisco, joined a large wholesale hardware firm as a start in his career. Here he got some pretty "hard wear": those preliminary knocks that rub off all the rough edges and take with them some of the glamour of life….. However, Maurice Sullivan didn't have as many rough edges as most young fellows. He was good looking, popular and unspoilt—a phenomenon rarely come upon—and being ambitious it was not long before he had set up in Goldfield under the style of the Wood-Sullivan Hardware Co., selling hardware with lightning rapidity, just as if it were the easiest ware in the world to dispose of.

Then one fine day Sullivan developed into a full-blown philanthropist. Each little baby visitor born into the camp of Goldfield was donated a big silver dollar, by way of encouragement to stay. And they surely did stay, those "Dollar Babies."

In 1914 he was elected to the Lieutenant-Governorship, and an amusing anecdote is told of how he became "peeved" when he discovered that several of the house members were playing "hookey" in order to avoid voting on a bill, and sent the State police after them. How many of the culprits were collared and brought back I was not told, but I am inclined to think that it was the good round figure "nought," for the bill was scratched and the Lieut.-Governor fumed in vain.

Mr. Sullivan was Lieut.-Governor during my stay in Nevada.

Senator Morehouse…. One does not often in a lifetime meet a person born on April Fool's Day, and, usually when one happens to come across such a butt for mirth he will probably try to pass it off by telling you that the day of his birth is the last day of March, or something similar. I have known scores of people born on the 28th or even the 29th of February, but Senator Morehouse is the first one I have met who has the courage to face the world, and boldly announce the fact that he is an April Fool's child. But then, the joke is on the original April Fool, for the Senator has fooled him by being one of the brightest men of the State, and certainly its most gifted orator— the Demosthenes of Nevada, in fact. Surely a true son of April Fool should stutter and stumble, and stammer and shy in the most pitiful manner. Well, anyway, the Senator can always have the consolation that he has "put one over" on Father April Fool.

Way back, in the days of "Mobile Bay", young Harry Morehouse, then only a lad of seventeen, fought for his side until he could fight no more. Then the Sisters of Mercy had to mend the ravages of that unnatural fight, and for seven months Harry had a little holiday lying on his back. No sooner recovered, the rover spirit seized his feet and round he came to California, by way of the Isthmus, where he acted as "a sort of reporter," until he had eked out enough knowledge to teach in the grade school. Thence he started on the law path, from which he emerged most triumphantly, and after practicing in California struck out Renowards in 1913, where he was associated with the late Judge James G. Sweeney, who but recently passed away.

By nature the Senator is mild and gentle, and always ready to lend a helping hand to a fellow traveller. I have had the pleasure of meeting him in private life, and have always felt impressed with those perfect manners, that pleasant voice and those kindly words. Although one of the newer Sons of the Sagebrush, he is surely one of the most acceptable.

Governor Emmet D. Boyle has the distinction of being the youngest governor into whose hands Nevada ever thought it safe to entrust her well-being. He is none of your gray-beards, stolid of thought and sluggish of action, but a young politician (his real profession is mining engineering) with a wealth of experience, and plenty of good common "horse sense."

His mother was a literary woman, and from her he learned to find a friend in books. As for his father, he was one of the most prominent mining men of the Comstock, and as a lad the governor-to-be had already acquired an extensive knowledge of mining, surveying, assaying and milling.

At sixteen he joined the University and became a member of that most select of fraternities, with that weird-sounding name, Phi Kappa Kappa. He had specialized in mining at college, and upon graduation left the State, and engaged in several mining enterprises in British Columbia and Mexico. Then when his father passed away, he returned to Nevada and was offered a position as State Engineer.

In 1915 he was made Nevada's Tax Commissioner and he traveled the
State far and wide, gaining both fame and popularity.

At college the Governor had distinguished himself considerably in the sporting arena, and he was known to be a particularly strong man when it came to kicking the ball.

"Once a sport, always a sport!" If this spirit does not have the opportunity to show itself in active practice on the field of sport, it will nevertheless make itself felt in one's relations with men on the field of life, and so we have in Emmet D. Boyle a practical man with a vast knowledge about Nevada's foremost sources of success, with a true appreciation of the booklore of our ancestors, a keen eye and the love of fair play of the true sportsman.

[Illustration: Governor Emmett D. Boyle Of Nevada]

That he has a kind and humane heart can be judged from the fact that it was he who was responsible for the re-introducing of the six months residence law. Why should two people be forced to live together in distrust and misery any longer than was absolutely necessary? And so he worked as best he could to shorten that time, as much as the statute would permit. He succeeded, and thanks to him, several people have had their happiness given back to them…..

I had the honor to meet the Governor on a number of occasions and
always found him so simple and unassuming that I could hardly realize
I was conversing with the man holding the highest position in the
State, as if I had known him for years.

The leading man of the State should have a charming wife! The Capitol would indeed be a desolate place without a hostess to entertain the Governor's colleagues, and apparently Governor Boyle has made a remarkably good choice in Miss Veda McClure, for she is extremely popular and takes a great interest in the Red Cross work, which is making such splendid strides all over the State.

Let me here relate to you a most amusing incident which occurred to the Governor some little time ago.

It was a State function and the dinner was scheduled for eight o'clock sharp; but it was not on time, and you shall hear why. At a quarter to eight, when his dress suit had not yet put in an appearance from the tailor's, the Governor sent a search party after it and waited, as patiently as circumstances would permit, for the delinquent "fine feathers" to blow in. By eight, he was a little more than uneasy, but it didn't help any. Suddenly, on the domestic horizon appeared a weird-looking creature! A human being, apparently in a state of frenzy over some terrible catastrophe. It was the tailor! "Here," he whispered, almost in tears, as he handed something to the outraged head of the State, "these ain't yours, but you'll have to wear 'em; yours someone else is wearing."

[Illustration: Governor's at Carson City]

And he wore them…. But, the tale runs, the Governor looked——He certainly did establish a precedent at that dinner. Mockers say that Judge Pat McCarran ran a close second, because his Excellency is lean and lank, while Judge McCarran would make two of him one way, and almost half of him the other, and because what happened to Governor Boyle had also happened to Judge McCarran that very night.

Fred, de Longchamps… As a youngster, when playing amongst the rabbits and brush on the south side of the river Truckee, Fred, de Longchamps, like most youngsters, built many a castle in the air. Later, those castles descended literally from the air to the earth, for little Fred became a great architect, and now I am not surprised when I think how often I have admired those beautiful villas, which are strewn in such profusion all over Reno.

When at Reno University, de Longchamps did the pen and ink work and other illustrating for the "Artemesai," the University publication. Mining, too, seemed to have a certain fascination for him, and in addition to his course in building, he gained considerable experience in mining operations. Then came the toss-up. Mining won, but wasn't strong enough to hold out, and thereupon, behold him returned to his old love.

Do you see that fine modern looking structure over yonder? It is the Court House, without which Reno would not be Reno, and it was Mr. Fred, de Longchamps who conceived and built it. The Y. M. C. A. Building, The Nixon Bank Building, all these and more, are the splendid achievements of this brilliant young architect, who has helped in such a great measure to make the City of Reno as attractive as it is.

It might also interest you to know that the Nevada Buildings at the
San Francisco Exposition were erected "on the originality" of Fred, de
Longchamps, and though their cost was comparatively small, they
compared favorably with any State buildings on the grounds.

Senator Nixon…. Although a native of Texas, Senator Nixon's life is essentially a Nevada Romance. He started on his career as a simple telegraph operator, and then migrated with all the Nevada immigrants in the boomy days of the goldfields. It wasn't exactly "open Sesame" and then a fortune. It was perseverance that "did the trick." But it made a mighty good job of it, for at the time of his decease in 1912, the Senator was worth several millions, and his beautiful residence situated at the top of a hill on the outskirts of Reno is said to have cost no less than $200,000. It does seem a pity, however, that as soon as a moderate sum of wealth is accumulated-with but few exceptions- there is a hankering to desert the State of Nevada in favor of some more populated, but surely not sunnier clime. And so young Nixon took his father's millions to the adjoining State of California, and Nevada knows not of them.

Often I have felt that there was an analogy to the generous, self- sacrificing Mother Earth who gives all of her life and energy to nourish her sons, and who in reward receives little but slights and neglect.

Frank Golden….. While writing of the Sons of the Sagebrush, we must not forget Frank Golden, Jr., who is a native son of Nevada, and one of the youngest hotel managers in the West, having become manager of the Golden Hotel at Reno when he was about nineteen. Mr. Golden's father built the Golden Hotel in 1901. He died in 1911, at which time the management was taken over by his son. The hotel was burned down in 1916 and reconstructed under the supervision of Frank, Jr., with the result that it is now perhaps the most beautifully equipped, best run and most modern European hotel in Reno, or in the State of Nevada, for that matter.

Apart from being one of the youngest hotel managers in the West, he is also one of the most popular.

Frank Golden was among the first to answer his country's call and served in France.

[Illustration: Frank Golden, Jr.]