I had read in the Indianapolis paper where the Messrs. C—, H— and C— had met with you for the palpable purpose of putting us down-trodden and foot-sore Democrats where we could do a minimum of harm, and so I went over yesterday—the State Committee was scheduled to meet—for the purpose of interviewing those delectable gentlemen to see if I were not scheduled as the ranking Democrat of the Committee on Sky Lights and Ventilation.
The sessions I was a member of the House, I was on the Ways and Means, Railroad and Banking Committees. . . My fitness for the above committees is striking. The expenditure of money always appealed to me, as I have had little of my own to expend, and naturally those of us in that class like to see the other fellow's go. As an authority on railroads, I met the 5 o'clock p.m. train at Russellville regularly for years and years; not that I expected guests, but it was the custom of the town, so I have an intimate knowledge of the stopping and starting of trains. I was "connected" with the Russellville Bank from the ages of 8 to about 18 ("Connected" has a variety of meanings. "Red" Purnell, now in Congress from the 9th District, and I roomed together during a part of our college careers at I.U. I heard much of his "girl" back at Veedersburg, whose father, Red freely confessed, was "connected" with the Cloverleaf Railroad. Some years later, I learned the good man was Section Boss at that point). My "connection" with Russellville Bank was spent principally in a janitorial capacity, and the balancing of pass books.
And so, in the full knowledge there are 33 of you and one of me, but that I have truth and justice on my side, and my trust is in the Lieutenant Governor, I must stay where you place me and be content, except that I do hope the Committee on Swamp Lands is full to overflowing . . . Very respectfully,
WAXING POETIC OVER FIRST LOVE
November 24, 1925
Ithaca Gun Company
Ithica, New York
Gentlemen,
I am sending you by parcel post the barrels of an Ithica hammerless shot gun, No. 29438, I must have bought 30 years ago or more when a very small boy. . .
It was the pride of my younger life. I have slept with it in sheer delight, and for fear it would be stolen. For years not a pin point of rust marred its gloriously shining barrels; the stock shone as does the throne of Allah from being gone over hundreds of times lovingly and tenderly with silk and wool, oil and polish. Its shooting prowess—it made the fur fly out of unsuspecting rabbits before Bryan built his crown of thorns and cross of gold; it sought the tender spots in ambitious fox squirrels when automobiles were as scarce as we Democrats are now; it has shot at everything from a beer bottle to a chicken- thief, and never failed or refused to respond.
The number of this gun was burned in my memory so unforgettably that today it came to me as doth the lamb the ewe. And while I do not know when the Magna Charta was wrung from King John, yet this numeral remains with me—yesterday, today and to the ages.
But evil days are come. The unrelenting grip of time has forced a fingerhold. Disintegration shows, for the first time, its hydra- head. When it happened, or how, I do not know, but only today, in removing it from its case preparatory to a hunt on the morrow, I found the rib split at the muzzle—and so, I must forego my biennial hunt.