Chapter VIII

BOSTON, NEW YORK AND DALLAS

It looked for a while as though we should stay in Cambridge or Boston indefinitely, but how do plans of mortals change! The next morning after Class Day at Harvard, Paul went to work as a reporter on the Boston Post, serving under C. E. L. Wingate, Sunday editor, graduate of Harvard. Richard Grozier, son of E. A. Grozier, owner of the Boston Post, was also a recent Harvard alumnus.

Miriam spent her summers at the Sargent School Camp, near Mt. Monadnock, New Hampshire. When her school opened, she and I went to live at Mrs. Angell’s, on Trowbridge Street, and Paul found a room two doors away, so that we took most of our meals together. In the autumn of 1914 we took an apartment at 21 Ellery Street, occupying it for a year while the permanent tenants were in Europe. Among our guests there was a former Latin teacher of Paul’s in Central High School, Mr. M. A. Stapleton, who, following a period as a principal of Central, had gone east for a year before resuming his work as a teacher. He was studying Sanskrit at Harvard. Paul often had a visit with him. He has long since gone to his reward . . . so, one by one, we drop away like leaves in the fall. We were also friends of Mr. Stapleton’s sister, Miss Julia, long a teacher in St. Paul schools.

MIRIAM GRADUATES, ENTERS PLAYGROUND WORK

Another year rolled around and it was Miriam’s commencement day. Sargent was noted for its wonderful exhibitions in Boston. The Arena was crowded every time one was given. Now the commencement. Miriam took her part and did well. The diplomas were given and another milestone was passed, June, 1914. Miriam had secured a position as playground director in Troy, N. Y. at the end of her second year. They elected her again as she had done excellent work. The high recommendations from Troy won her a position in Dallas, Texas, for the year 1914-1915.

For two years Paul continued to interview the great and the near great who came to Boston and in every Sunday Post there appeared one or more articles by him, one generally being signed. William Howard Taft, Thomas Alva Edison, Henry Ford, John Burroughs, General Leonard Wood, under whom he was later to serve; and a hundred others of note, not to omit that grand old Bostonian, John L. Sullivan.

Meanwhile Paul took an interest in drama, and for a time was a member of the repertory company at the Toy theater, both when it was in a made-over stable on Lime Street, and later when it had a fine building of its own near Copley Square.

In the summer of 1915 Paul decided he must go to New York — the goal of newspaper men. Within a day after his arrival he had been offered work on the Journal, the Herald and the Telegram. He chose to work at [the] most abominable hours one could imagine — on the Telegram. He was at his typewriter at 3 o’clock in the morning and was through for the day at nine — a short but difficult “trick” as he called it. But he learned much of editing as well as writing, for, after he and his fellows had rewritten the principal “stories” from the morning editions putting on what was called a “second day lead,” they turned to, and, going to the copy desk, were handed stories of others for editing and writing of headlines.

SOMETHING FOR THE NEWSBOYS TO SHOUT

Their imaginations must have been in full play in those hours of the morning, for even on dull days they managed to find something or at least write it in such a way that the newsboys could shout as they displayed the Telegram’s “War Extra” edition to the crowds going to work.

We share an apartment of several rooms with Mrs. Reno, daughter-in-law of General Reno who was killed in the Custer massacre. Soon after nine o’clock Paul would come in and I was always glad to get his breakfast — or whatever one might call a meal after a day’s work is over — and to hear his cheery “Hello, mother!”

As I said, the hours were short, but abominable. Paul had to retire at about seven P.M. — and, oh how hard it was to do that in New York, with its lovely evenings, and the breezes soft over the Hudson along Riverside Drive near which we lived. And getting up at two a.m. is not so easy.

Thomas Huser, “Tom” as we always called him, was a young lawyer we had known as a student at Hamline. He and Paul found physical diversion playing golf at Van Courtland Park, N.Y. I went with them sometimes to watch their skill. But the evenings I spent sitting alone on a bench on Riverside Drive, as Paul had retired. It was interest watching human nature along the Drive, and the Hudson boats going up the river, past the Palisades to Albany. The boats went to Troy also, where Miriam had her playground. I took the “day trip” several times. They were beautiful boats and a good orchestra played.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” or woman either. It was decided that I go to Dallas with Miriam. She and her constant friend at Sargent, Bertha Schlicting, had visited us. One experience I cannot forget. When Miriam and I were about to start to Texas, I felt that I should have more cash and went into the “Corn Exchange” bank in lower Manhattan, as I remember it, and told the cashier the facts, and he said, “You look honest and I believe you are. I’ll cash it.” I recall the check was $60.00. That incident somehow increased my faith in human nature. It had always been high.

FAREWELL TO THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

We had lived those months so near the 5^th Avenue busses, but I more often took the surface cars, sometimes the subway, but there was much of interest right at hand — Columbia University, Grant’s tomb, with its purple light, that always suggested the resurrection morn to me; the Metropolitan Museum, Central Park and the Library — I must leave them all now. The great Statue of Liberty was to speak no more to me in its dumb way. We had gone to the top many times and in those days could look out, I believe through the eyes, and see those immense arms that seemed only the size of an ordinary arm from the street. “Liberty Enlightening the World.” Does it seem now to the newcomer as it did to Mary Anton? I wonder.

For some reason there comes to my mind a friend of Cambridge days, Miss Julina Hall. We had hunted birds together, had read Scott, had exchanged many things. She was at Mrs. Angel’s where Miriam and I had stayed a winter while Paul was plying his newspaper pen — or typewriter. Miss Hall was a sister of G. Stanley Hall, a great writer and educator, known better in the east than in the west.

Wasn’t it fine to become acquainted with those two cities, going directly from the great seat of culture to the commercial metropolis of this hemisphere, and I think of the world, excepting London. I stared when I discovered that the “Stock Exchange” is not on Wall Street, but on Broad Street. Paul had a leaning to the theatre. At the Toy theatre in Boston I had seen him play in “Across the Border” by Beulah Marie Dix, (Mrs. Flebbe), a forceful war play. We heard there for the first time, Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-Sharp. It was played as an overture to this war play.

Paul’s duties forbade his accompanying us to our train, which week took on the Jersey side, but Mr. Tom Huser saw us off. In the morning we were in Washington, D.C. We could see the Washington monument. We remained in the depot, as we had a short time till we must take a Baltimore and Ohio train. There was much of interest all the way. Going over the Cumberland Mountains there was a section called “the seventeen mile grade.” The conductor told us that during the Civil War — but can any war be civil? — the Confederates let trains loose to run down the grade, and thus damaged property of the Federals.

THE SHENANDOAH AND TABLETS TO JOHN BROWN

We passed the Shenandoah Valley and there were tablets to the memory of John Brown and his sons. We could read the inscriptions from the car window. Farther south we saw purple field, with which we were not familiar. The conductor told us it was cotton, which at a certain state is purple. The shacks and razor-back pigs were also new to us. While going through Shenandoah Valley, I had constantly in mind:

“Soft blew September’s breezes o’er the Shenandoah vale,

Bright o’er her azure skies, the crimson cloud-ships sail.”

I think it was a war poem; I recall only the two lines.

We were in St. Louis for an hour or two — where I was later to live. In Dallas we saw many colored folk. There was a “colored section” in the depot. Finally we reached the home of Miss Hockaday, which was also the home of the young teachers. A room was secured for me across the way on Live Oak Street. The live oak is a fine tree; and I think it is naturally more symmetrical that our northern oaks usually are.

Miriam fell into her work at Miss Hockaday’s School easily and naturally. I was reminded of her work at the playground at Troy. It had been an event, the opening session at Troy, when mayor, board members, and other important ones were present, including the playground chairman. There was a devotional note, the waving of Ole Glory, then the band and “America.” It was a propitious opening and continued till the end, as her re-election had proved. All was uncertain in the future now, but she had shown her metal and it rang true.

SHEPHERDING A FLOCK OF OIL KINGS’ DAUGHTERS

The students at Miss Hockaday’s were daughters of oil kings, rather spoiled girls. When Miriam accompanied them on a shopping tour, it was “How can I use this?” — never, “I need this.” Miriam’s duties were increased by the fact that some of the girls were about her own age. When they wanted to break away and meet the boys for a frolic, she found it difficult to convince them that it was wrong as long as Miss Hockaday had forbidden it, but being of an understanding mind, she usually won without much trouble. I remember once they tried to buy her to disregard Miss Hockaday’s wishes, but she did not yield. Miss Hockaday had assistants—the house mother, a diminutive person, and Miss Morgan. There were some other young teachers, and Miss Trent—the Dean and the English teacher. She discovered Miriam’s liking for Shakespeare and when she had to be absent from class asked her to substitute as teacher. The butler and maids and the handyman were all Negroes. When I called to see Miriam at the house, the butler might say: “I don’t guess Miss Bliss is in.” I noticed that white people, even the public school teachers, used a dialect that sounded odd to a northern ear.

Dallas we found to be a little New York with skyscrapers twenty-one stories high. It had good churches and public schools. The stores and streets were unusual for a city of its size — it was then less than 200,000. Dr. Truest was pastor of a Baptist church. He had been called the “Spurgeon of the South,” and it was noticeable how quickly his church filled. Many traveling men in nearby towns made their way to his church on Sunday mornings. A tragedy had come into his life that nearly caused the loss of his reason. He had always been a spiritual man, and, conquering his grief he because even more spiritual. The story was that while hunting with a member of his church, a policeman, his gun was accidentally discharged and the man was killed.

People of culture and wealth helped the year to be pleasant for Miriam. We were receiving fine letters from Paul. Miss Grace George gave him a part in “The New York Idea,” and “Major Barbara.” I always thought that his post-graduate work in English 47 with Professor Baker led just naturally to the stage. Then Miss Margaret Anglin employed him, and he went on a tour in “Taming of the Shrew.” We hoped Miss Anglin would bring her troupe to Dallas, but we were disappointed.

WHEN HENRY DRANK SOMETHING STOUTER THAN ADAM’S ALE

Miriam’s work in Dallas went on in a pleasant way most of the time. It was planned that she and I should look after the house for a few days at Christmas while Miss Hockaday, Miss Morgan and the housekeeper were gone. I shall never forget our hearing Henry, the man of all work, going around the house. He liked stronger drink than Adam’s ale, and Miriam made one bound to see that the door was securely bolted. Her agility did credit to her physical training. When Miss Hockaday returned, we were treated to grapefruit that she had shipped from her grapefruit orchard.

Dallas seemed quite a southern city to us. We went to a ballgame on Thanksgiving Day, in thin shirt waists. Christmas day a rose blossomed in the yard, though I think it snowed a short time later.

April finally came and with it my decision to go north and prepare the homestead in St. Paul for our occupancy later. There were banks of snow everywhere. I had work done in the house, and it was pleasant and homelike. They were urging Miriam to take the Troy playground again. In the meantime she and I missed each other very much. I stayed at my sister’s at night, and some of the time during the day after the house was in readiness. The phone rang, and answering I heard a dear, familiar voice. Miss Anglin had returned her company to New York and Paul could now be at home. I remember I said, “Truly, it seems like a voice from heaven.” He took a position on the Minneapolis Daily News of which Mr. W. C. Robertson was managing editor.

MIRIAM COMES HOME FROM DALLAS POSITION

It wasn’t very long before the school in Dallas closed, because of the heat. This was usual. We met Miriam at the Union Depot in St. Paul, a very tired girl. Besides the regular school duties, she had given a play, “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She spent a few days with us, and I assure you we were a happy family. Miriam was asked to take her position in Dallas for another year, but she declined.

My dear friend, Mrs. Sidney Horsley, formerly Mrs. Farmer, helped to make life pleasant for us. We appreciated this greatly. In the four years of absence, there had been great changes. Some had died, some had moved away. Mrs. Horsley’s daughter, Helen, had come from the east and she and Miriam had been good friends during the years. This acquaintance was resumed. Another daughter in the Horsley home, Josephine, was interesting to us. The Christian Moe family living across the way was always interesting — a thrifty Norwegian family with four children, two boys and two girls, all eager for an education. The Sandberg family, Scandinavians, were our friends. Mr. Sandberg was the contractor who built our Blair Street house.

RUMORS OF WAR PARTICIPATION BECOME MORE SUBSTANTIAL

We had heard mutterings of war while in the east, but now it sounded much more threatening. It looked as though President Wilson could not keep us out for long. I had been too young of course to remember the War of the Rebellion, but I recalled much of the Spanish-American. It called none of mine, but neighbors went. One boy I recall well, Herman Bartell, of Marshfield, Wisconsin. He did not get into the fighting, but contracted a fever and was brought home. I can hear the strains of Chopin’s Funeral March as they bore the dead soldier of the caisson through the little town of Marshfield. There is something that tugs at the heart strings when Old Glory is laid tenderly over one who is willing to die for his county.

Dr. John McIntyre, who had insistently sought Miriam, was at her friend’s house when she arrived in Boston. He had learned of her coming visit to Boston before going to Troy. He would soon be graduated from Harvard Medical School. Miriam promised to marry him. After graduation he practiced with a doctor in Davenport for the year. The wedding took place April 7^th, 1917, in St. Paul. It was a pretty wedding, and Miriam was a pretty bride. It had been decided that Dr. McIntyre [would] take care of practice in an office in Walcott, a little place a few miles from Davenport, Iowa.

I see in mind the happy bridal pair, Paul giving his sister away; Eugene Huebner, the ring bearer. I hear the Mendelssohn wedding march, see John’s devoted mother facing them. As in a dream I held the bouquet for Miriam during the ring service. Mr. Bates, our pastor, gave the final pronouncement, and we received friends. Martha Moe was glad to show the lovely gifts. The young pair left us, going to the new home, happy and joyous.

Paul and I had to adjust ourselves. The house seemed empty to us for a time, yet we were having joy in their joy.