Noticing her excellent work and needing still more help, Mr. Cowan asked the young Jewess if she knew of any more girls of her race that would like to go to work.
“Oh, yes,” replied Henrietta, “I know many,” and in a few days there was quite a sprinkling of young women of the Semitic race in the office.
Passing into the elevator one day Mr. Cowan overheard a couple of Jewesses in close conversation.
“How is it,” asked one, “that so many of our kind of people get jobs here?“
“Ah, don’t you know?” was the reply. “Well, I’ll tell you. Don’t you know A. B. Cohen (Cowan), chief operator?”
[He Knew a Good Thing.]
Some years ago a fine looking, elderly gentleman could be seen hob-nobbing with such old timers on Front Street as Wm. Wadhams, Sylvester Farrell, Thomas Guinean and others of that generation, and he was always attentively listened to. There was so much of benevolence and philanthropy in his countenance that one involuntarily took a second look at him.
His name was Jim Winters, and he lived on a little farm down the river, where he did a little cultivation of the soil, but spent much of his time acting as a fire warden, protecting the forests from careless hunters.
One day Winters appeared in Portland and announced that he was going to quit the country and would make California his future home, and much regret was expressed by his friends over his decision.