Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 February 1910 — MAGOON'S PAIR OF BOOTS. [ARTICLE]

MAGOON'S PAIR OF BOOTS.

RTerlutlnß Footwear Should Repone At Lut In National Mainm,. A moment of time and an inch or two of space for a modern strophe In praise of the Hon. Gregory Magoon of Upper New York state, and his incomparable pair of boots, the Bath Sun says. Mr. Magoon, who is an American of the austere Jacksonian school, bought the boots in the fall of 1857, and they still adorn and glorify his wardrobe, like twin diamonds in a royal crown. They are yet noble and serviceable boots, answering the call of duty daily, no matter what the weather. They have had no less than sixteen pairs of Boles and innumerable straps, lining and greasings, hut the uppers remain as tough, as sightly and as impervious to moisture now as they were on that memorable day when they left the studio of the forgotten master who built them. Par Mons in footgear have changed scores of time since ’57, but Mr. Magoon has never wavered in his fidelity to his unrivaled boots. When the craze was for oxfords with needle toes he still stalked the hinterland of Oneida county in his boots. When yellow shoes with red buttons had the call he remained booted and oontent. Against the insidious wiles of gum Bhoes, goloshes, dancing pumps, carpet slippers, arctics and high French heels he has constantly set his face. Not once has a foppish Impulse risen within him to seduce him from his first love. He came to manhood in Chose boots; they accompanied hiin down the primrose path of middle age, and they are his solace and comfort today, when the shadows of antiquity begin to cover him. Mr. Magoon, unluckily, cannot hope to live forever, and so the time must come, soon or late, sos his boots to be laid aside. Let us hope that the melancholy event will not lead to their sale, barter or destruction. It would be a crime to give them to a passing peddler, and it would be no less a crime to cut them into harness. Their logical destination, it is plain, is the National Museum at Washington, where they may rest until the republic dies, in that case which shelters Thomas Jefferson’s corncob pipe, Benjamin Franklin’s eating knife and the medicated flannels of Martin Van Buren. Their exhibition will immortalize the name of Magoon, and it will serve, too, to keep before the Americans of unborn generations those ideals of sturdy simplicity which stirred the souls of the fathers.