Evening Star Newspaper, May 17, 1931, Page 77

PART 7. The Sundhyy Star Magasine WASHINGTON, D, C, MAY 17, 1931, T PLAYFUL DAYS AND EVENINGS Books | Features 20 PAGES.’ Memories From the Life of a Famous Novelist—The Wealthy Andrezw Carnegie Seeking Good Ways to Spend His Money—A Crippled Civil IWar Hero Enchanting With His Wit. A “We shared the baronial life of Carnegie’s castle for a week and be- wan to know each other.” N former years one of my best fireside friends was Gen. David B. Henderson, a Civil War hero and Speaker of the House of Repre- sentatives, Born in Scotland, he came with his parents when a young lad to a loncly part of Towa thereafter known as Hendersun Prairie. The boy grew up there, went to the war and served with distinguished valor until badly shot-up in a charge. Then he returned to his home, leaving a leg in the fleld hospital. Like most really brave men he never spoke of his war adventures. I met this big, merry, typical son of democ- racy at Andrew Carnegle’s Skibo Castle in ~Scotiand. He was one of a large house party and, early in our visit, I had only a speaking acquaintance with him, We shared the baronial life of the castle for a week and be- gan to know each other. One day we were out with the Laird of Skibo in his yacht. The sun shone, the day was warm, the sea in its mildest mood. For a long time I sat alone with the master in the bow while he told me of his first adventures in Am:rica—a poor Scotch lad trying to find his way. His first job in the New World was that of messenger for a telegraph company at $3 a week. He organized his task with such intel- Hlgence that he was guickly promoted. He loved to talk of the old times and its heroes, notably Tom Scott of the Pennsylvania Railroad, who geve him his first big boost. I have never known a kinder, keener-minded man than Carnegie. He had a playful humor. Often he was merry-hearted. It was a joy to hear and to see him sing “Jock Elliott.” He loved music and all the color and traditions of old Scotland. A plumed piper of great dignity, in kilts and black velvet jacket, led the pro- cession to dinner. Yet above all he lovad America and its democracy, in which he had found himself and his work rising from the humble task of messenger boy to a personal eminence almost unexampled. He asked me about my own boyhocd. I told him of the vii- Isge in which I had grown up and of my fond- ness for reading. “Its great need is a library,” I said “What should it cost?” “About $30,000.” “Are you sure that’s enough?” “I think it is.” “I'll build it,” he answered. “My great proo- #m is how to make a wise use of my money, I think that gcod reading is a great need of our people.” : SPOKE of one of my schoolmates who, after 20 years of teaching, had been injured in an accident. She was destitute and unable to work. “I think that such people who have givem A Kilted Piper Leading the Guests to Dinner. By Irving Bacheller, Author of “A Candle sn the Wilderness,” “A Man for the Ages,” “FEben Holden,” etc. their strength in real scrvice at a small salary may well be a factor in your problem,” I said. He agreed, and later she went on his pay roll. We returned to the party on deck. Gen. Henderson was reading a book. “General, why would you be reading a book when you can talk with me?” Carnegie asked in a jesting mood. “Well, you know, this book is good company,” was the laughing answer of the general. “Lis- ten to this—" To my embarrassment and suprise he read aloud a passage from my “Eben Holden.” It reminded me of another embarrassing but very different experience. I was in a parlor car on my way to Boston when the astonishing popularity of that tale was growing. A num- ber of people in the car were reading it. One of them was a man who sat next to my chair. By and by he turned to me with a weary look on his face and said: “I call this a bum book. Have you read it?” “Yes, and it nearly wore me out,” I answered, “It was a job for me to get to the end of it.” I rose and went to the smoking room and tried to comfort myself with those words of Emerson: “He charmed us by saying that he hated us.” “Indeed,” I sald to myself, “there are some men by whom it is a joy to be despised.” I have had my share of thumpings since then, and it has been good for me. Much depends on one's digestion and the condition of his liver and his intellect when he is reading a book. I have no serious regard for any of my humble efforts, but all authors may find comfort in the fact that there are times when the best book tastes like the best dinner when a man's diges- tion is out of order. Besides, I like to think of what a wise man said to me the day I gradu- ated: “Remember that all praise is subject to a discount of about 50 per cent. Criticlsm is more likely to be sincere, but often it, too, dis- counted liberality.” After that day on the yacht I saw much of this jolly old general. He got the habit of call- ing me “Old Eb.” He was the same in all com- pany. Certain gentlemen in the party went down with him to Edinburgh. There the lord and lady provost gave him a dinner. It was a formal function. The stiffest members of the Scottish aristocracy were at the table. The speaker had no company manners. In cot or palace he was the same merry old general, He stumped along with the lady provost on his arm at the head of the procession, laughing and joking as they entered the banquet hall. When they were seated he touched her lady- ship’s shoulder and said: *“My dear girl, I am very proud and happy to be with you.” Many stared at him in cold astonishment. Soon his wit and kindly good nature broke the ice. Before the dinner ended every one under- stood and liked the jolly old Scot who had been transplanted in his boyhood. They enjoyed his stories of Henderson Prairie and the - pioneer days. He came often to my house in the years that followed. FTEN good people came to dine with us and spend ‘the night. Those were rare evenings in the chimney corner with the A. Barton Hepburns, the Archer Browns, the Thompson Setons, the Garlands, the Rose Mercier Montgomerys and other happy folk. Always the first request of the general would be that I sing “Loch-Lomond.” All would join heartily in the chorus. T am what may be called a sunrise singer. I belong to the lark family. I am the household alarm clock. I like to sing with a razor in my hand and the bath water running. My friends caution me lest I slip and fall in my careless abandon to the mood of song. (I know a dis- tinguished managing editor who went crazy with the notion that he was a great t2nor, so that his friends had to put him under restraint.) The worst fall I know of is falling in love with one’s own voice. I am not what is known s a “nut.” 8Still, when my friends want me to sing I do my best. Almost every one sings who ~ comes into my house. I hope it may always be so. When this ordeal was passed, the general would sing some of the little known folk sengs of old Scotland, notably—“Sir James—th¢ Rose,” “Janet Macgregor” and “She Had o Sow.” Seton would give us the Indian chantd he had heard among the wild red men. Then Garland and I would enter upom ene of our famous song tournaments. We botlk knew many snatches from the old ballads of the ploneer times in America. I would presend one and he ancther of these quaint relies of the lonely life of the scattered settlers, We came to that peanut-candy period &l mid-Victorian sentimentality, “Silver Threads Among the Gold!” It was rather sad and gummy dissipation, but in the main wholesome, with here and there the glow of real poetry. Bed as it may have been, it was far above the jazz of today. When this chocolate caramel spirit was in the hands of a shallow image ination trying to mix # with religion th@ effect was comic. It achieved a climax which led to reaction. Think of a healthy young intellect being forced to take this kind cf porridge: (I give the words as I remember them.) *Twas whispered one morning in Heaven How the little child angel May Stood ever beside the portal Sorrowing night and day. How she said t6 the stately warden, He of the golden key: ~0 angel, bright angel of Heaven, Let the beautiful gates ajar Only a little I pray thee, Let the beautiful gates ajar.” Archer Brown, one of the handsomest and most delightful friends who have helped to cheer my way, had a trained volce. He sang for us a quaint old hymn tune of the Methodist ploneers. It was a gem in its way—a thing so precious that I give its words the perpetuation they may find here: Good morning, brother traveler, Pray tell me, what’s your mame And where it is you're going to Likewise from whence you came? “Oh, my name it is Bold Pilgrim For Can-a-an I am bound I'm just from the howling wilderness For that enchanted ground.” “What quavers and semiquavers they to express their righteousness and their lo for the Promised Land!” said the “The loneliness of the littie cabin and