palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room
and listen to the talk. But one day he over-
took me on the street and clapped me on the
shoulder.

"Jim," he said, "I am good friends with
you and I always like to see you. But you
know how the church people think about
saloons. Your grandpa has always treated me
fine, and I don't like to have you come into
my place, because I know he don't like it, and
it puts me in bad with him."

So I was shut out of that.

One could hang about the drug-store, and
listen to the old men who sat there every
evening, talking politics and telling raw sto-
ries. One could go to the cigar factory and chat
with the old German who raised canaries for
sale, and look at his stuffed birds. But what-
ever you began with him, the talk went back
to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course;
I often went down to see the night train
come in, and afterward sat awhile with the
disconsolate telegrapher who was always hop-
ing to be transferred to Omaha or Denver,
"where there was some life." He was sure
to bring out his pictures of actresses and
dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons,

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