Image provided by: Deschutes County Historical Society; Bend, OR
About Cloverdale courier. (Cloverdale, Tillamook County, Or.) 190?-19?? | View Entire Issue (June 29, 1916)
<£nc0anfei> (profife (Continued trom first page) behind me. I didn't look around, be cause I make from $18 to $20 a week, and 1 didn’t have to. “ That evening nt knocking off time she sends for me to come up to her apartment 1 expected to have to type write about 2,<>00 words of notes of hand, liens and contracts with a 10 cent tip In sight, but 1 went. Well, man, I was certainly surprised. Old Maggie Brown bad turned human. “ ‘Child.’ soys she, ’you’re the most beautiful creature 1 ever saw in my life. I want you to quit your work I've noticed you give me i pretty good other kind* optical inspection from time to time.’ “ But say, man, do you know what “ Won have n face.’ she says, ’exact ' Aunt Maggie did? She got cold feet! ly like a dear friend o f mine—the best She bustled me out o f that Hotel Bon- friend I ever had. But I like you for ton at 9 the next morning. W e went yourself, child, too,' she says. i to a rooming house on the lower west “ And say. man. what do you suppose side. She rented one room that had she did? Loosened up like a Marcel water on the floor below and light on wave In the surf at Coney. She took the floor above. A fter we got moved me to a swell dressmaker and gave her all you could see In the room was a la cart? to fit me out—money no ob about $1,500 worth o f new swell ject. They were rush orders, and dresses and a one burner gas stove. madam locked the front door and put "Aunt Maggie had had a sudden at the whole force to work. tack o f the hedges. I guess every “ Then we moved to—where do you body has got to go on a spree once in think? No; guess again. That’s right their life. A man spends his on high —the Hotel Bouton. W e had a six balls, and a woman gets woozy on room apartment, and It cost $100 a clothes. But with $40.000,000—say. I ’d day. I saw the bill. I began to love like to have a picture o f—but, speak H>nt old lady. ing o f pictures, did you ever run “ And then. man. when my dresses ; across a newspaper artist named Lath- began to come in—oh. I won't tell you | rop, a tall—oh. 4 asked you that be- about ’em! You couldn’t understand. ! fore, didn't I? He was mighty nice to And I began to call her Aunt Maggie. me at the dinner. His voice just suit You’ ve read about. Cinderella, o f course. ed me. I guess he must have thought Well, what Cinderella said when the I was to inherit some o f Aunt Mag- prim e fitted that A on her foot j gie’s money. w as a hard luck story compared to the “ Well, Mr. Man. three days o f that things I told myself | light housekeeping was plenty for me. “ Then Aunt Maggie says she Is going Aunt Maggie was affectionate as ever. to give mo a coming out banquet In the Bouton that’ll make moving vans o f She’d hardly let me get out o f her nil the old Dutch families on Fifth I sight. But, let me tell you. she was a I hedger from Iledgersville. Hedger avenue. “ ‘I ’ve been out before. Aunt Maggie,’ I county. Seventy-five cents a day was says I. ‘But I’ ll come out again. But the limit she set. W e cooked our own you know.’ says I ’that this is one o f j meals in the room There I was with the swellest hotels in the city. And you know— pardon me—that It’s hard to got a bunch o f notables together tin less you’ve trained for It.’ “ ‘ Don’ t fret about that, child.’ says Aunt Maggie. ’1 don’t send out invl tatlons— I Issue orders. I’ll have fifty guests here that couldn’t be brought together again at any reception unless it were given by a king or a trust busting district attorney. They are men Of course, and all o f ’em either owe me money or Intend to. Some o f their wives won’t come, but a good many will.’ j and come and live with me. I ’ve no kith or kln,’ says she, ‘except a hus band and a son or two, and I hold no communication with any o f ’em. They are extravagant burdens on a hard working woman. 1 want you to bo a daughter to me. They say I ’m stingy and mean, and the papers print lies about my doing my own cooking and washing. It’s a lie,’ she goes on. T put my washing out, except the hand kerchiefs a ml stockings and petticoats and collars and light stuff like that. I ’ve got $10,0(MI,0(H» in cash and stocks ami bonds that are as negotiable ns Standard o il preferred at a church fair. I ’ m a lonely old woman, and 1 need companionship. You're the most beau tiful human being I ever saw,’ says she. ‘ Will you come and live with me? i'll show ’em whether I can spend mon ey or not,’ she says. “ Well, man, what would you have done? Of course I fell to it. And. to tell the truth, 1 began to like old Mag gle. It wasn't all on account o f the forty millions and what she could do for me. I w as kind of lonesome In the world too. everybody's got to have somebody they can explain to about the pain In their left shoulder and how fast patent leather shoes wear out when they begin to crack. And you can't talk about such things to men you moot In hotels; they're looking for Just such openings. “ So I gave up my Job In the hotel and went with Mrs. ltrown. I certain Iy scorned to have a mash on her. Slic’d look nt me for half an hour at a time when 1 was sitting, reading or looking nt the magazines. "One time l says to her: 'IV* I re mind you o f some deceased relative or friend of vour childhood. Mrs llrown? “ W ell, I wish you could have been at that banquet The dinner service was nil gold and cut glass. There were about forty men and eight ladies pres ent besides Aunt Maggie and I. You'd never have known the third richest woman in the world. She bad on a new black silk dress with so much pas sementerie on It that it sounded exactly like a hailstorm I heard once when I was staying all night with a girl that lived In a top tloor studio. “ And my dress! Say. man, I can't waste the words on you. It was all hand made lace— where there was any of it at all—and It cost $300. 1 saw the bill. Tlic men were all baldheaded or white sldewhlskered. and they kept up a running fire o f light repartee about 3 per cents and Bryan and tlie cotton crop. “ On the loft o f me was something that talked like a banker, and on my right was a young fellow who said he ; was a newspaper artist. lie was the only- well, I was g g to tell you. “ A fter the dinner was over Mrs. Brown and 1 went up to the apart ment. IVe had to squeeze our way through a mob o f reporters all the way through the halls. That’s one of the things money does for you. Say, do you happen to know a newspaper artist named Lathrop—a tall man with nice eyes and an easy way o f talking? N’ “ . I don't remember what paper be works on. Well, all right. “ When we got upstairs Mrs. Brown telephones for the bill right away. It came, and it was $000. 1 saw the bill. Aunt Maggie fainted. I got her on a lounge an 1 opened the beadwork. “ ’t'lilld.’ says she when she got back to the world, ’what was It—a raise of rent or an Income tax?’ "M ust a little dinner.’ says 1. ‘Noth ing to worry about—hardly a drop In the buckets!.op. Sit up and take no tice—a dispossess notice. If there’s no ter.’ says l 'They say you’ ve got $40- 000.000— well, you'll never have any less. And I was beginning to like you. too.’ says I. “ W ell, the late Aunt Maggie kicks till the tears flow. She offers to move into a swell room with a two burner stove and running water. •“ I ’ ve spent an awful lot of money, child,’ says she. ‘ W e'll have to econo mize for a while. You're the most beautiful creature 1 ever laid eyes on.' she says, ‘and I don't want you to leave me.' “ Well, you see me. don't you? I walked straight to the Acropolis and asked for my job back and 1 got it. H ow did you say your writings were getting along? I know you’ ve lost out some bynot having me to typewrite 'em. Do you ever have 'em illustrated? And, by the way. did you ever bappeu to know a newspaper artist -oh. shut up! I know I asked you before. I wouder what paper he works on? It's funny, but I couldn't help thinking that be wasn’t thinking about the money he might have been thinking I was think- I’d get from old Maggie Brown. If 1 only knew some o f the newspaper editors I ’d“ — The sound o f an easy footstep came from the doorway Ida Bates saw who it was with her back Lair comb. I saw her turn pink, perfect statue that she was—a miracle that I share with Pygmalion only. “ Am 1 excusable"“ she said to me— adorable petitioner that she became. “ It's—it’s Mr. Lathrop. 1 wonder if it really wasn't the money—1 wonder, if after all. he” — O f course, I was Invited to the wed ding, A fte r the ceremony I dragged Lathrop aside. “ You an artist.” said I, “ and haven't figured out why M aggie Brown con ceived such a strong liking for Miss Bates—that was? Let me show you.” The bride wore a simple white dress as beautifully draped as the costumes o f the ancient Greeks. I took some leaves from one o f the decorative wreaths in the little parlor and made a chaplet o f them and placed them on nee Bates’ shining chestnut hair and made her turn her profile to her hus band. “ By jingo!” said he. “ Isn't Ida’s a dead ringer for the lady’s bead on the silver dollar?” AN INNOCENT VICTIM. The “ I a m no w o r s h i p e r of m o n e y , ’’ s a y s I. a thousand dollars' worth o f the latest things in clothes doing stunts over a one burner gas stove "A s I say. on tlie third day 1 flew the coop. I couldn't stand for throw ing together a fifteen cent kidney stew while wearing at tho-sanu time a $150 house dress with Valenciennes lace in sertion. So 1 goes into the closet and puts on «he cheapest dress Mrs. Brown had bought for me. It's the one I've got on now. Not so bad for $75, Is It? I'd left all my own clothes in my sis ter's flat in Brooklyn. “ 'Mrs. Brown, formerly “ Aunt Mag gie." ' says I to her, ’ 1 am going to ex tend my feet alternately, one after the other, in such a manner and direction that this tenement will recede from me In the quickest possible time 1 am no worshiper o f money.’ says I. ‘but there are some things I can't stand I <an stand the fabulous mon ster that I’ ve read about that blows hot birds and cold bottles with the s.ntne breath, but 1 can't stand a quit Original of Squeors Died of a Broken Heart. The grossest injury which Dickens ever inflicted on a fellow being was i his too accurate portrait o f an inno cent man in his Squeers. That York shire school masters were, as a rule, ] cruel and wicked enough it is true, but the particular schoolmaster who was recognized and who recognized him self ns the original Squeers seems to have been an exception to the rule. It will be remembered that Dickens and his illustrator traveled together to the north o f England for the pur pose o f collecting material for "Nick- leby” and especially for the Dothe- boys episode. A t Greta Bridge they ' ¡sited a boarding school known as Bowes academy. The master. William Shaw, received the strangers with some hauteur and did not as much as withdraw his eyes from the operation of penmaking during the interview. Phiz sketched him in the act: Dick ens described the act. The personal peculiarities o f W illiam Shaw were recognized In Squeers. Shaw became a butt o f popular ridicule, lost his pu pils and finally died o f a broken heart. Yet there Is abundant evidence to prove that he was a really excellent and kind hearted man. who was made to suffer for the misdeeds o f his ueigb- bors.—Exchange.