Let me say here that Alice Stowell was an attentive little type-setter when she worked for me after I had bought The Spectator—and that Coral Hutchison still was a frequent and most welcome caller. Also, they had learned that it was important that visitors be seen and not heard on press days. Coral continued her visits to the office long after Alice Stowell had married Marsh Younkman, and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—and after Myrtle Mercer had taken Alice’s place in the printing office. Coral seemed to like the smell of printer’s ink—and she continued her regular visits long after she married Charley Locknane. While still quite young, Coral Hutchison was the town’s top pianist and singer, a distinction she held throughout the years against all comers. She even competed favorably, in song, with the girls from the Colony, whose reputation as singers was widespread. The younger generation of Colonists were superb entertainers, anxious at all times to compete against or team up with the young people from town, at their lyceums held in the Wolfley school house. Wetmore had a “literary” society, which gave entertainments, usually charging twenty-five cents admission—while the Colonists always gave their shows for free. Then, the time came when they combined in one big show, an epochal achievement, at Wetmore—drawing two of the cast from the Colony. Ted Fish was a specialty man, singing comical songs. His favorite rendition had to do with the loan of a friend’s girl, the refrain running, “Hand ‘e wounted me to tike ‘is plice and do the best I cooud.” I’d heard him sing it several times before at their lyceums. Coral Hutchison was also a specialty singer—on a much higher and more pleasing musical plane, however. John Stowell, long removed from the Colony, blacked his face, rattled the bones—and played the concertina. Bill Dutch, of the Colony, was leading man — and a mighty good one too. Our own Miss Jane Thomas was leading lady—equally good. The play was a “heavy” drama. I might say the whole cast except myself, was exceptionally good. As to my own part, you shall be the judge. It was not a speaking part. Months before this, I had blundered in a speaking part on the stage—carelessly called a word what, by all the ethics of decency, it should not have been called. It provoked uproarious laughter—at my expense. And on a subsequent appearance upon the literary stage I drew a concerted giggle before I even had time to open my mouth. It completely unnerved me—for all time. I was so “befuddled” that I couldn’t say a word, and I didn’t have the gumption to graciously bow myself off the stage. I bolted off. And that’s how I became a writer. It’s safest, anyhow. When you blunder, you can always—if smart enough to detect it—scratch it out. But spoken words, once said, can never be recalled.