The Oregon daily journal., November 21, 1915, Page 50, Image 50

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THE OREGON SUNDAY JOURNAL, PORTLAND, SUNDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 21.' -1918
again to blank and again ha milked his
beard.
'It's got to be done, he said, thumping
his bludgeon upon the floor. "I'm not
through yet. I atill hare some days In of
fice, and in those -days I can raise well, 1
can do many things. I don't say that I will,
mind you, but I can. You know, there are
many who are anticipating the coming of
1916 who will never see him; there are
many whoXcorn me that would kiss the
meanest hair of my old head If they knew
now what I had done for them and what my
successors awafV them with; a hundred
million babies owe me their existence; a
A. Reporter Meets Straoge People in Un
usual Places, But the Blase Scribe
Who Faired Forth on a Dreary Errand
Was Startled By An Uncanny Char
acter Who Insisted on "Giving Out a
Statement to the Newspapers"
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. in. ll - .T
44 1 9 1 S" AN ODD TALE OF AM ODD EXPERIENCE"
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By Jack Lait.
(Copyright, 1916, bjr J. Klr)
GO out," said the city editor, "and ask
some of the leading ministers what
they are going to do about the all
night drinking next New Year's eve."
"Somewhat early, isn't it?" asked the
reporter. "It's not even December.
"It ofttimes takes your kind of a re
porter two months to get a story," said
the city editor. "Furthermore, since when
are you given to editing my editing? I
wish to know in November what the clergy
is going to do late In December."
"Would you Kke to know who will win
the pennant next spring?" asked the re
porter. "No," said the city editor, "but I should
like to know where you are going to get
a Job if you don't get on your way'
"May I stop and have my dinner first?"
asked the reporter.
"You may not," said the city editor.
So the reporter went to dinner.
He made straight for the little German
place around the corner where he could
shake the telegraph editor for" the steak,
and usually win. But his adversary was
not on hand, so the reporter dined alone.
The noodle soup was divine. The noo
dles were long and as pliable as rubber,
yet as melting as nougat. Fie upon a chef
who makes noodles short by heavens, it
is like cutting spaghetti with a fork.
Then came there a steak. Sizzling on
a platter, its crust as brown and brittle as
a macaroon, a monitor in a navigable sea
of gravy, it was borne triumphantly before
the conquering epicure by the bowlegged
waiter. The reporter stabbed it to its
heart, cut it to thick and sapid ribbons and
turned a perfect steak into a perfect mem
ory. Then came the waiter with the strudel.
Strudel Is not for profane hands to touch
or describe. It is the apotheosis of dough,
rolled and stretched until it has the fragile
texture of a cobweb, filled in interlarded
layer rolls with nuts and apples gently
tickled with cinnamon.
And with the strudel ame the purring,
winking coffee, black as the depths of a
houri's eyes, hot as the breath of her lov
er's vows. Some coffee! And, after it, a
cigar the cigar from which he sucked
the lethargic languor of Its tropic home.
The clouds rose thick and deep, dull gray.
Then they faded and grew misty. The re
porter's head listed onto his shoulder and
a snore as low and gentle as the cooing
of frightened turkey made known that he
had surrendered to the most potent man
conceived opiate a good dinner.
The waiter presented, the check, but the
reporter knew nothing. The waiter went
to the proprietor and pointed back with
thumb over shoulder, saying:
"Das reporter feller, he shnores again."
"Let him alone," said the proprietor.
"Poor boy what with filling columns all
Huge Mushroom In Beaumont Basement
Shaggy Mane of
Unusual Size
Is Found
THE months of October and November
constitute the opei season for mush
rooms in Portland. No mushroom
hunters are more ardent in their quest than
those of Rossmere, Beaumont and contigu
ous subdivisions of the city. The edible
varieties are becoming more abundant year
by year and are spreading to new ground.
They are found in parkings, in vacant lots
and even in lawns. Many a stock of do-,
mestically preserved stores has been en
riched this year with mushrooms, Jars of
which stand aristocraticlly beside those
filled with ordinary things that grow on
mere trees and vines. The housewives of
those delightful residence districts are very
discriminating, and no toadstool masquer
ading as a safe and sane sort of Agaricus
campestris need apply. However, of the
four or five varieties harvested, it seldom
happens that any given harvester ventures
to use more than two. All depends upon
what vouchers the users are able to assem
ble. But, whatever dubiety may exist as to
other forms, one and all without question
pluck up and eat the "shaggy mane," which
comes up out of the earth looking like a
turkey egg, and at maturity Is seen In the
likeness of a folded umbrella, its stem, of a
silvery whiteness, corresponding to the um
brella's handle. The "shaggy mane" of
Rossmere and Beaumont seldom attains a
v height In excess of six inches. The major
ity of them are even less. So that the
mushroom shown in the accompanying il
lustration is to be considered exceedingly
remarkable, Its. height being 15 inches,
diameter of top two and one-half Inches and
of stem at base one and threee-fourths
inches. . Quite as extraordinary is the fact
that It grew, self-sown, in the basement of
a house, the residence of George Boring,
at 5 S3 East Thirty-ninth street north, in
what is locally called "Lower Beaumont."
'At a certain point the thin cement floor
of the. basement had been shattered, and
there, amid the fragments, sufficient organic
matter had lodged to give the mushroom Its
necessary food. With this monster grew 1 7
others, some of them of the ordinary size,
but from that down to the size of a marble.
The child in the picture is Mr. Boring's
daughter .Janet, 5 years old.
day and filling flushes all night, he has a .
hard time of it."
So the reporter slept on.
And as he slept there entered through ;
the door a tottering old man of evil visage.'
From his chin hung whiskers to his knees,!
gnarled, brambled whiskers of the gray of:
auto tires. He limped on a devilish blud-;
geon and his toothless Jaws rattled one !
against the other with decrepitude. The;
ancient duffer crossed the room and ,sat -him
on the other chair at the reporter's;
table. i
"So, hissed he, as though one could hiss;
though toothless. "So you are worrying ;
about New Year's eve, are you?" - t
"Who are you, you broken-down old;
undertakers' delight?" barked the reporter.
"I am 1915," said the old geezer.
"Oh, you are? Well,. I wouldn't brag
about it. Thanks to the good old calen
dar, which keeps on working slowly butt
with daily precision, you will soon be in
the hellbox with the rest of the pied type
of the long ago."
"Don't get fresh," said 191 5. "I am!
a baby scarce 300 days old. But I bave!
lived 500,000,000 lives, and when I go 1
will go where neither vyou nor the piffling
twaddle that you write will ever enter."
"And where is that, old Hasbeen?"
"Into 'history," said 19 1 5, stroking his!
whiskers.
"You bet you will," said the reporter.;
"You'll go into history the most hated year '
since the crucifixion. The story of your;
life will be the blackest leaf in the diary of,
civilized mankind. What have you given
us? War, disasters, failure, rotten weath--er,
a pennant for Boston and the insuffer-:
ble hyphen."
"Have I?" said 191 5. '"I have brought ;
a world to a realization of the horrors of:
strife. I have kept this country at peace j
yes, even more, I have given it peaceful;
victory. I have brought your president i"
bride, I have put Geraldine Farrar into mo-j
tion pictures and 1 have closed the saloon t
of Chicago on Sundays." t
"Another year of such benefits and the
country will need a benefit," said the re
porter. "You have been a rotten year and
I'm glad you're trembling at your dodder
ing knees and I will drink your swan song
with wine, no matter how much it costs
my girl's father."
"Wait a minute," said the poor old Year.
"Let's be reasonable. I see Just how 1
stand with you, but let me point out a few
more things. You wished me in with Just
the same amount of eclat and abandon with
which you will float out to meet my baby
brother, 1916, didn't you? You thought
my older brother, 1914 may his soul rest
In peace If possible was a bad boy, and
you kissed my baby forehead and said now
everything would be different. Isn't it a
sort of a fact that one of our family is no
sooner in office than, before the popping of
the inaugural ceremonies has died out of
.v ..-.v.vc-w.. x-::-
Jaact Boriag, daughter of Mr mad Mn.
I1CIIL fmnul Ik kaiMunt iJ.lou. '
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the echoes, you are already crying for the
next crown prince? Isn't it the same old
'drink in the new, souse out the old' sys
tem every winter?"
"Well, the wine agents must live," said
the reporter.
"Too true. But why not toast a two
fisted, upstanding year like trie in July or
in Octoberor now? Why don't you buy
me a drink now? I have a,fine chance.
You toasted me in bubbles and sucker
water when I was a' baby and needed a
nursing bottle. But now that my bones
are aged and my appetite sharp and edu
cated, you wouldn't offer me a bum mar
tini. Why was I such a hit with you and
the rest of the humans before I had made
good? And, now that I have yeared around
about as well and decently as most years,
the printers are breaking their brains try
ing to devise new and gaudy designs for
the menu cards of the big night of my
funeral."
"Say," said the reporter. "Don't take on
so. Many a champ has taken the count
before a younger and better man."
"That's Just it will he be a better roan?
Of course, to a small . extent every year
grows better. But that's evolution, not suc
cession. Take it by and large, I've been a
pretty good fellow. I haven't been so
worse to you, have I?"
'
"No," said the reporter. ,
"No, of course not. Think back. I've
been pretty sweet to you. You still have
your health; you have a Job; a regular new&r
paper lets you write in it; your wife andN
kiddies are all right, and from the looks of
the wreck-strewn platters about you, J note
that you still dine kind of well. Now, how
about it? Have I been on the level with
you or haven't I?"
"It might have been worse," admitted the
reporter.
"Of course. I know it hasn't been
gravy every minute, mere never was a
year like that. But I've been as good to
you as any. And now I'll tell you what I
want and why I came here."
"Speak," said the reporter. "You're a
frowsy old cuss, but I'm beginning to like
you in spite of your frozen mug and your
Ostermoor curtains.
"It's this way," said 1915, leaning for
ward. "Now, I like the things you write
and the way you write them. And I want
you to write my obituary.' Now, you know
the theory of an obit it starts by saying
he was born of poOr but honest parents and
finishes by saying 'Here was a man; I shall
not look upon his like again.' "
"Impossible, old nineteen-fif," said the
reporter. "The paper would never stand
for it. It's not done. Whoever heard of
blessing the old year out? You remember
how it was with you why, we Jeered at
the dying old goat, 1914, kicked him in the
coffin and danced on his grave."
The old man lit up for a moment at the
recollection; then his spent eyes went down
t
y.4.
Coorg Boring, with "haggy man" muh-
r,
Wlio Are
hundred million happy brides and grooms
owe me each other; a hundred million say,
I'm some peanuts, when it's looked at the
right way. Come now how about the
obit?"
"I'll do it the best I know how if the city
editor will stand for It," responded the re
porter. "You don't know that man. When
he gets a notion "
"Pish, tush," said 1915. "Why, I'm the
best copy in the world, until Jan. 1, any
way. My name has appeared on every page
of every Issue of your paper since I was
born. I have had more publicity than Teddy
Roosevelt, Kaiser Bill and Charlie Chaplin
put together.'
"Well, toiaybe," began the reporter.
"Certainly," said the fading year. "Now,
you go in and write one of those 'A place
is vacant In our home things for your old
Uncle Dudley, and some time when you're
broke you'll fjnd a silver dollar with my
print on It and maybe you'll bless my old
memory."
"What do you want jne to say?" asked
the reporter.
"Say was born at an early age and that
my arrival was celebrated with the cus
tomary foolishness. Father Time and
Mother Earth, who gave me birth, were
congratulated on having delivered such a
healthy and stout young offspring. I
started in from the barrier to show speed.
I looked all the world over and picked Amer
ica for my home. And 1 was loyal. When
the rest of the world was scrapping and
bleeding I stuck to the U. S. and never
stumbled over x hyphen or made you vio-,
late brotherhood and neutrality. For your
-country I never struck a blow, yet I was the
most potent factor for civilization on the
globe. I made your nation the white sheep
of a nasty flock.
"Tell them that I inherited from my
older brother, 1914, war and hard times.
Tell them that I battled to improve the sad
conditions that were handed down to me,
and that by my lights and within my
strength I did so. Tell them that I give
with ;ny annual crown and bequeath, to my
young and fiery successor a breath toward
universal peace, a gleam of prosperity upon
the horizon, a wave toward righteousness,
freedom and power for women, an awakened
national consciousness and an awakening In
ternational conscience. Tell them, my
young friend, tell them I I wasn't such a
bad sort, after all, won't you, old man," and
the blithering old codger began to whimper
and a tear rolled down his months-beaten
nose and shied off into the muff.
The reporter was affected himself. He
reached across the table to grip the super
annuated cove's withering hand, when
hello! He was gone. He had vanished.
The reporter rubbed his eyes.
"Where's the ," he began.
"Right here," said the waiter, offering
the check. '
The reporter looked around him, shook
himself, paid the bill, picked himself up,
looked at the clock, took his hat' and went
out.
"Well?" said! the city editor. "Did you
get that New Year's story?"
"Sure," saidj the reporter. "Ministers
will make the usual protest and sensible
folks will get lushed the same as usual, ush
ering la 191, kicking out 1915 .
You, Old Undertaker'. Delight?
Lost In the
William Morgan, Brownsville banter, who
bis son-in-law, Carson Kendig.
By Everett Eatle Steward.
B BROWNSVILLE, Or. During the last
week in October a party left Browns
ville and ascended the swift-flowing
Calapooia river into the Cascade mountains
to make one last search for William Morgan,
who, three years ago, was swallowed up by
the mighty Cascades, and has never been
heard of since this search, as, others which
have preceded it, was fruitless and snowfall
compelled the abandonment of the hunt.
In October, 1912, Morgan, who lived at
Brownsville, went into the foothills of the
Cascades for a deer hunt. He was accom
panied by his son-in-laW, Carson Kendig,
and the latter son George. All three were
native hunters and experienced mountain
eers, Morgan being a sturdy woodsman of
the pioneer type. The party proceeded to
Barret's, cabin upon the upper (Jalapooia,
and there made camp.
During the first two or three days the
hunters kept together; but as Morgan pre
ferred to hunt by himself, one morning the
party divided. The pioneer proceeded to
hunt the south or Mohawk ridge of a spur
of the mountains. His fellows advanced east
ward, parallel along the north or Calapooia
side of the ridge. The understanding was
that at nightfall the three should meet on
the crest of this ridge at a spot Selected.
Mr. Kendig and son arrived at this place t
good while before dark. They waited ao4
m to m sis wxf
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Reporter
Mountains
disappeared three years ago (at. right) and
waited, but no one appeared. This did not
alarm them, however, as Morgan frequently
spent the night away from camp. He had
always before shown that he was quite able
to take care of himself.
"He will come in tomorrow," said the
elder Kendig to the son. But with the mor
row jio belated hunter arrived. The snow
began to fall thickly, and the two watchers
became alarmed. They went Into the hills
and began to search for clues and traces of
the missing man. This was the first of a
long search which was continued off and on
up to the present day.
Other men and parties of men have been
lost for days and weeks in the wild canyons
and ridges of these Cascade slopes; but in
the majority of cases, sooner or later, the
mysteries of those disappearances have been
cleared up. Joseph Crabtree, old hunter
and mountaineeer, was twice lost and given
up for dead, but each time, more dead than
alive, he staggered back to civilization.,
Carl Brown and Ed Garoutte, two hunters
from Brownsville, also became lost upon the
slopes of the Upper Calapooia mountains.
After days of wandering, they came out at
Mable, a little town situated miles and miles
away from the Calapooia basin upon the Mo
hawk or opposite side of the ridge. One,
Buckman of Harrisburg, a number of years
ago became separated from his hunting com
panion In the region, of Lost Lake and, Ilk
William Morgan, was never, Jieard of again, ;
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