206

Buffalo Bill.
Sharon, Pa., Nov. 5th, 1879.
Editor Nebraskian:

Thinking that a letter
upon general topics would interest
your many readers, I forward you a few
lines, commencing with things dramatic
as a starter.

Opening my theatrical season Sept. 1st
in Davenport, Iowa, my old boyhood
home, and around which many sad and
pleasant memories cling, I at once started
upon the highway to what has proven the
most successful business I have ever
known.

In Davenport, I was received in a manner
that touched me deeply, and proved
that time had not obliterated the kindly
feeling feel for my name there, and, that
any reputation I have won in border warfare,
and as actor and writer, was more
than appreciated.

Driving out to my father's old home, I
grieved to see that the homestead no
longer met the eye, but had passed away,
as many of those who dwelt there in the
long ago have done. But the "homes of
the dead" remained, and in the little
country burying ground I sought for, and
found the grave of my brother Samuel,
who met his death twenty-seven years
ago, having been killed by a vicious horse
while we were out riding together. My
wild ride for my father and the doctor,
my brother's death, and the day we laid
him in his last resting place came before
me in all its vividness, and I went backward
from manhood to childhood, as I
stood by the lonely grave, and gazed
down upon the little marble headstone,
and moralizing as one must, who has
often met death face to face and been
spared, while others, the nearest, the
dearest and the best have been cut down
by his side.

But I must see moralizing and write
of matters of a more general interest.

Davenport is a pleasant little city resting
upon the banks of the Mississippi,
and Rock Island. Immediately opposite
is another thriving town that welcomed
me with a rousing house, proving that its
citizens are enthusiastic theatre goers.

Running through Iowa, I met the same
success at Clinton, Dubuque, Cedar Rapids,
Iowa City, Des Moines, and Keokuk,
until I struck Illinois at Galesburg everywhere
my dramas receiving the highest
praise from the press, with the exception
of Clinton, where a column was devoted
to criticising a play which it was evident
the reporter had not seen, having doubt
in their lives, yet there are bogus people
in all trades and professions. Others,
mostly "kids," as the boys are called
east, are often short a few cents, and ask
to be let in for their stock of wealth in
hand, which by the way, for some keep for
safety in their mouths, and blow it out at
the ticket seller, tobacco, taffy, or peanuts
and all, for these "kids" are inevitable
chewers of something.

At one place two youths of thirteen,
ragged dirty and saucy, walked up to the
door-keeper, and with all the sang froid
of the bona file personages they pretended
to represent, one of them introduced
has companion as the "editor of the
Journal," and that individual so introduced
blandly remarked: "and this is
one of my reporters, I suppose the press
are welcome?" Of course they went in,
and were given good scats too.

Another urchin, with one eye purposely
closed, asked to be admitted for half
price as he could "see but half the
show."

At St. Louis we did a tremendous
week's business, and, at the close of my
week's engagement at Cincinnati, the
management of the Opera House presented
me with a handsome silver cup, for
having played to the largest houses ever
known there. And here I may as well say
that we had to play there both Sunday
afternoon and evening, both performances
drawing the largest audiences and the
most fashionable.

In one place, Jacksonville, Ills. we played
against a Methodist conference, walking
the town up with a parade and "sweet
bye and bye" by the band. That night,
"no more standing room" was announced
early.

In Cleveland, we had an amusing incident
as we were stopping at the same hotel
with a Pinaforce company, one of whose
members was an Englishman "just over,"
and wholly green as to American ways,
Indians, and such like. His room-mate, a
practical joker, persuaded one of my
men, C.A. Burgers, of Nebraska, to
"play Injun," and come into the room
that night. Charlie Burgers consented
and putting on the toggery and blanket
of an Indian, he cautiously entered the
room after the two had gone to bed, and,
the victim was sweetly sleeping. His
room-mate soon woke him up with the
startling information in a whisper, that
some one was in the room, and the next
instant the long hair of Burgers swept
the Englishman's face, and his beaded
blanket pressed against him.

"It is one of those d--l Injuns!"
of murder! help! murder! rang from the
Englishman's lips, arousing the entire
inmates of the hotel.

"Will never play Pinafore no more?"
cried Burgers
"Never!"
"What, never?"
"Hardly ever."
"Where my tomahawk?" shouted Burgers,
and the tenor of the Englishman becoming
so great, the jokers were alarmed
and Burgers fled from the room, leaving
his tomahawk in the hands of the terrified
man, but he took the joke kindly after all,
though he changed his room-mate.

But I fear I have already tespassed too

Buffalo Bill.
Sharon, Pa., Nov. 5th, 1879.
Editor Nebraskian:

Thinking that a letter upon general topics would interest your many readers, I forward you a few lines, commencing with things dramatic as a starter.

Opening my theatrical season Sept. 1st in Davenport, Iowa, my old boyhood home, and around which many sad and pleasant memories cling, I at once started upon the highway to what has proven the most successful business I have ever known.

In Davenport, I was received in a manner that touched me deeply, and proved that time had not obliterated the kindly feeling feel for my name there, and, that any reputation I have won in border warfare, and as actor and writer, was more than appreciated.

Driving out to my father's old home, I grieved to see that the homestead no longer met the eye, but had passed away, as many of those who dwelt there in the long ago have done. But the "homes of the dead" remained, and in the little country burying ground I sought for, and found the grave of my brother Samuel, who met his death twenty-seven years ago, having been killed by a vicious horse while we were out riding together. My wild ride for my father and the doctor my brother's death, and the day we laid him in his last resting place came before me in all its vividness, and I went backward from manhood to childhood, as I stood by the lonely grave, and gazed down upon the little marble headstone, and moralizing as one must, who has often met death face to face and been spared, while others, the nearest, the dearest and the best have been cut down by his side.

But I must see moralizing and write of matters of a more general interest.

Davenport is a pleasant little city resting upon the banks of the Mississippi, and Rock Island. Immediately opposite is another thriving town that welcomed me with a rousing house, proving that its citizens are enthusiastic theatre goers.

Running through Iowa, I met the same success at Clinton, Dubuque, Cedar Rapids, Iowa City, Des Moines, and Keokuk, until I struck Illinois at Galesburg everywhere my dramas receiving the highest praise from the press, with the exception of Clinton, where a column was devoted to criticising a play which it was evident the reporter had not seen, having doubt in their lives, yet there are bogus people in all trades and professions. Others, mostly "kids," as the boys are called east, are often short a few cents, and ask to be let in for their stock of wealth in hand, which by the way, for some keep for safety in their mouths, and blow it out at the ticket seller, tobacco, taffy, or peanuts and all, for these "kids" are inevitable chewers of something.

At one place two youths of thirteen, ragged dirty and saucy, walked up to the door-keeper, and with all the sang froid of the bona file personages they pretended to represent, one of them introduced has companion as the "editor of the Journal," and that individual so introduced blandly remarked: "and this is one of my reporters, I suppose the press are welcome?" Of course they went in, and were given good scats too.

Another urchin, with one eye purposely closed, asked to be admitted for half price as he could "see but half the show."

At St. Louis we did a tremendous week's business, and, at the close of my week's engagement at Cincinnati, the management of the Opera House presented me with a handsome silver cup, for having played to the largest houses ever known there. And here I may as well say that we had to play there both Sunday afternoon and evening, both performances drawing the largest audiences and the most fashionable.

In one place, Jacksonville, Ills. we played against a Methodist conference, walking the town up with a parade and "sweet bye and bye" by the band. That night, "no more standing room" was announced early.

In Cleveland, we had an amusing incident as we were stopping at the same hotel with a Pinaforce company, one of whose members was an Englishman "just over," and wholly green as to American ways, Indians, and such like. His room-mate, a practical joker, persuaded one of my men, C.A. Burgers, of Nebraska, to "play Injun," and come into the room that night. Charlie Burgers consented and putting on the toggery and blanket of an Indian, he cautiously entered the room after the two had gone to bed, and, the victim was sweetly sleeping. His room-mate soon woke him up with the startling information in a whisper, that some one was in the room, and the next instant the long hair of Burgers swept the Englishman's face, and his beaded blanket pressed against him.

"It is one of those d--l Injuns!" of murder! help! murder! rang from the Englishman's lips, arousing the entire inmates of the hotel.

"Will never play Pinafore no more?" cried Burgers
"Never!"
"What, never?"
"Hardly ever."
"Where my tomahawk?" shouted Burgers, and the tenor of the Englishman becoming so great, the jokers were alarmed and Burgers fled from the room, leaving his tomahawk in the hands of the terrified man, but he took the joke kindly after all, though he changed his room-mate.

But I fear I have already tespassed too