Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 212, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 September 1915 — $10,000 JOB ON FARM GIVEN TO STENOGRAPHER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

$10,000 JOB ON FARM GIVEN TO STENOGRAPHER

Mary Smith of Chicago, BlueEyed Orphan, Selected for the Pankhursts. GLAD SHE’S FOUND HOME Declare* Fact She Will Have Someone to Care for Her Count* More Than Money—Get* Warm Welcome on th* Farm. ' Chicago.—Mary Smith wanted a' home. She came to Chicago six years ago from Wisconsin. She was eighteen then and an orphan. She went to the Wendell Phillips high school for two years and because she was unusually good looking and more serious minded than the average girl of her age she made many friends —but she found no home. And then she left school and went to work. Every morning for four years she rode downtown from her boarding house at 6350 Kimbark avenue, dusted her typewriter, straightened her hair that remained golden even in the city and smiled good morning to her various bosses. But she had no home. There was no one who cared how well she sang or played the piano or how tired she was or what her dreams were made of. “I was Just a sort of a cog in a vast automaton known as the city,” said Mary Smith, smiling with bright eyes. “And I made sl2 a week.” Click-click-click went the cameras. Mary Smith laughed. She swung her heels from the edge of the table bn which she sat, looked out through the window into Wabash avenue and laughed again. For Mary Smith had found a home, a real one. She was going away from her typewriter that needed dusting every morning, her bosses who needed smiles and the vast automaton that needed nothing and in which her typewriter keys were like cogs that clicked away forever. Out of the thousands of girls who answered “Uncle Jimmy” Pankhurst’s application for a girl to be “a daughter to him and inherit SIO,OOO when he died,” Mary Pmith was the one selected. She Is Tired of the City. “I don’t know why they took me,” she said. “Maybe it’s because I wanted to go more than all the others. I’m tired. It gats tiresome in the city. Every day is the same. And there’s nobody that matters. Why am I

going? No, it’s not the SIO,OOO. I don’t care very much about that. In fact I would rather not sign that contract It might give me a mercenary view of the situation. I don’t want money. I’m leaving a sl2 job in the city that I fought four years to get and Mr. Pankhurst is going to pay only three dollars a week. “But think —I’ll have somebody to look on me as a daughter and somObody to look upon as my parents. I’ll work for them. Certainly, I can wash dishes and scrub and cook, and I love horses. I’ll do all that gladly. And I’ll get up early." ■ “Five o’clock,” prompted a young woman reporter who had herself applied for the job. “Then I’ll be able to see the sun rise,” smiled Mary Smith. Again she laughed, this time with a catch in her voice. She looked as she sat on the table in the immigration office as if she had just stepped off Michigan' avenue. A pellow waist, a black dress and a black cape and a black and white toque completed her attire. Her small feet were Incased In tiny pumps and altogether .she weighed at a guess about 120 pounds. Fond of Golfing, Too. "Oh, I'm not sick of the city,” she said of her own accord. “It really seems strange that* IshOUld talk so

freely to you—but I’m so happy. The hard work? Oh, look at my hands.” She showed two miniature palms that were slightly calloused. “Golfing,” she smiled. “I love to golf. I know I won’t golf in the country—but I won’t mind that a bit.” She stopped talking suddenly. A reporter asked the question: "Are you engaged?” Mary Smith answer for a moment. Then she smiled again and said, "Perhaps.” A volley of questions followed. “What about him?” “‘What will he say?” “Will you be able to leave him?” To all of which Mary Smith said, “No. He won’t mind. He’ll wait—perhaps. I don’t want to get married. A girl shouldn’t marry until she is twenty-eight, I think.” “Perhaps you are leaving because of this romance,’’ was suggested. But Mary Smith smiled again. “Perhaps I have a romance,” she said, her eyes gazing intently at her questioner. “But there is no romance like home. To have a home to go to —" “What about one of ydbr own?” “I was saying,” persisted Mary Smith, "to have a home —and two people in the world happy because you are there—that’s the greatest romance.” They’ll Like Her, Say* Official. Mark Crawford of the United States Immigration bureau beckoned her aside. “They’ll like you all right,” he said. Mary Smith stopped in the door of the office. “I’m not beaten,” she said. "I could go on working forever at my typewriter and riding downtown every morning. The city isn’t horrible —if you live in it with people you love — .but I’ve always wanted a home.” She laughed in a quick, happy voice. "And now I’ve got one.” She vanished through the door. “I bet she’s got a broken heart,” said one of the attendants. ‘T bet it’s because of some man,” said another. And Mark Crawford sat down to write in the records —Miss Mary Smith, orphan, twenty-four years old; blue eyes, yellow hair; sound physical condition; excellent spirits; good voice; likes horses; willing to work — provided with a home by the United States government” Off for the Farm. A night or two later a girl with a green veil tied under chin and a white sweater drawn tightly about her frail self, peered expectantly from a C„ B. & Q. train. Her only luggage was a bulging paper box held together with a leather strap. She was Miss Mary Smith, “Aunt Louisa’s girl.” She came to take up her duties as daughter to Mr. and Mrs. James W. Pankhurst. F. N. Vaughan, the mayor of Amboy, who also Is the president of the First National bank, and his wife were waiting In their automobile to take Miss Smith to her new home, upon the request of Mr. Pankhurst. She handed the mayor a letter of Introduction along with her paper box, “I hurried off without any trunk,” she said, "to avoid reporters.” Reporter* an Trail. A reporter Just then climbed into the car as a guest. "I believe yet two reporters are behind us,” said Miss Smith. “I was very disgusted with what Some of the reporters made me say. I like the fresh country air again.” Six miles to Temperance Hill, however, were traversed without enthusiasm, but there was plenty of it at the home, of the Pankhursts. The shades were up, and there was a light in every room. Supper was ready on the table for her home coming. Aunt Louisa’s white apron stood out in the darkness, the only spot of color, fol-

lowed by “Uncle Jimmy’s” plump shadow. “This is Miss Smith,” said the mayor to Mrs. Pankhurst. “How do you, Miss Smith?" said Aunt Louisa. Grandmother Off to Bed. "You are the feller,” said Uncle Jimmy, with a twisting handshake and a hearty smile. Grandmother Anna was not at the welcoming party at 8:30 o’clock, for it was past her bedtime when the train was due and she had been sent protestingly to bed. Aunt Louisa helped the girl untie her green veil and helped her out of her white sweater. Then she dropped into an armchair. “How do you like your home?” a reporter asked Miss Smith. “Oh, I’m enraptured with it,” she said. “I hope you have system in housekeeping. I like system,” she said to Aunt Louisa. “I have,” said Aunt Louisa. “There is a pie day, a bread day and a wash day.” Nasturtiums were on the white table and there were two kinds of cookies. Raspberry tarts and cherry pies at each plate. A plate was laid for the reporter, too. If there is one thing Aunt Louisa enjoys it is doing something for somebody, and she had well prepared for her girl. When the visitors left the new family gathered about the table for their first meal together. Miss Mary looked like a real prodigal. “She made a favorable impression. I believe she’ll make good,” said the mayor, as he turned the wheel of the automobile down the lane frpm Temperance Hill to Amboy.

Miss Mary Smith on the Job.