In reminiscing one incident calls up another, and that one still another, and so on ad infinitum—and anything of the time and place is considered fair game, if you can capture it without maiming it, or without encumbering something else. In presenting the Strange Case of Mr. Henry, I shall try to ease it in without a jarring note. But, to do this, I must go back to the “circus” lot, grab onto one of my co-performers, and work up to it through a chain of co-incidental events. George Foreman was here at that time going to school, and learning telegraphy with his brother-in-law, L. C. (Cass) McVay. George was my closest boy friend. After graduating in telegraphy, he worked for the railroad company out on the west end of the Central Branch—and later blossomed out as a fullblown lawyer in a finely appointed Denver office, all his own. When I called on him there he laughingly remarked, “Here I am, a big lawyer in a big city—with no clients.” In later years I saw him up at Blackhawk doing assay work for a Colorado mining company. This time he aid, “I’ve found out that I am a better assayer than I ever *was a lawyer.” He went from there to Butte, Montana, still following the assay business. He never married. His sister, Alice Foreman-McVay, with whom George made his home, came here from a highly cultured community over by the river in Doniphan county, as the bride of Cass McVay. And, being a refined lady with a fine show of modesty, notably out-classing the common herd, got the unearned name of being a “stuck-up.” But she lived that down nicely, simply by carrying on in her own sweet way oblivious to it all. Alice McVay had the happy faculty of attending strictly to her own knitting—and letting the world go by. She was, in truth, the town’s most gracious and beloved woman. And had she aspired to it, she could have been nominated as the outstanding model of social perfection, displacing one who had held that distinction from the town’s beginning. Up to this time, our people had not been what one might call connoisseurs in the art of classifying the townfolk. In the old days, social standing was largely measured by wealth — even make-believe wealth. For example, Eliza Morris, (Mrs. Bill), as the leading merchant’s wife—and a big hearted woman—was looked upon as the leader in society, one who set the pattern. The fact that she said “bekase” for because, with many another outmoded expression, did not disqualify her—but she lost caste when she sallied forth to church wearing her new Easter bonnet wrong-side-to. But, let it be remembered, she had a way with the youngsters about town that was taking.