Copyright^ \<]ZZ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
The Portfolio of 
 Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
This edition is limited 
 
 to 100 copies of which 
 
 this is number 
 
 74 
 
The Portfolio of 
 Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Published by his family for liis friends. 
 Youngstown, Ohio, 
 
 1922 
 

 I^S/cL 
 
 Oo-|a^4 
 
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 Copyright 1922, by / 
 S. G. McClure V 
 
 Youngstown, Ohio 
 
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FOREWORD 
 
 A few words may not be amiss in giving to the 
 friends of the young author, whose tragic death 
 touched all who knew him so deeply, these frag- 
 mentary products of a pen that was just learning 
 to respond to the mastery of his mind. 
 
 His childhood and youth had been that of a real 
 boy, care-free, fond of sports and all outdoor life, 
 in love with nature, to whom study and books were 
 secondary to the joyous realities of living. Much 
 the same spirit pervaded his years preparing for 
 college and his first year at Yale. 
 
 In his second year began an awakening to the 
 beauties of literature and with it a desire for expres- 
 sion. Few, except two or three of his intimate 
 college friends, knew of his ambition or of the ef- 
 forts he made to achieve it. The discovery of 
 what he had done, which is set forth in this little 
 volume, came after his death and was a surprise 
 even to the members of his family. 
 
 It was in keeping with his modest and sensitive 
 spirit that this should be the case. He was singu- 
 larly free from every trace of egotism and was mod- 
 est and diffident in appraising his own ability. He 
 rarely talked of himself or his efforts or ambitions. 
 His disposition was naturally retiring; not in the 
 sense that he shrank from human contacts; quite 
 the contrary; but he usually was more interested in 
 
 VII 
 
the happiness and success of his friends than in 
 narrating his own experiences or expressing his 
 opinions. 
 
 He had prepared for Sheffield Scientific School 
 and entered there, after the armistice in January, 
 1919. He had consented to this course on the 
 advice of his father, but soon felt that it was not 
 what he wanted. In the autumn of 1919, he trans- 
 ferred and began the academic course at Yale. 
 
 The war had stirred him deeply and had also 
 seriously interrupted his preparatory studies. 
 While in the senior class at Taft School, in the 
 early months of 1918, in company with several of 
 his classmates, he left the school to enter the serv- 
 ice of his country. He was persuaded by his 
 family to forego his desire to join the aviation 
 forces because his elder and only brother at that 
 time was in France. Later he entered the Naval 
 Training School, with headquarters at Yale, con- 
 tinuing in it till that force was mustered out after 
 the armistice. He was disappointed not to have 
 seen real service, as were thousands of other Ameri- 
 can boys, but he gave up his ambitions out of regard 
 for his parents in a fine spirit. 
 
 While at Taft School he had been a member of 
 the football eleven, a team that made the rather 
 remarkable record, not only of not losing a single 
 game, but of not being scored against. When he 
 entered Yale he was naturally ambitious to make 
 the University team and it was one of the "failures" 
 he refers to in these intimate writings of his, that 
 he did not. He was fond of all forms of athletic 
 sports and an exceptionally fine swimmer. His 
 
 VIII 
 
tragic death was due, not to his failure as a swim- 
 mer but to a blow on the temple which he received 
 in the water, probably by an oar which he kept 
 near him in the thought that if any members of 
 the party became exhausted it would be of value 
 in getting them to shore. That oar, driven by 
 the force of the waves, struck him on the temple and 
 undoubtedly so injured him that he became un- 
 conscious after bearing one of the young ladies of 
 the party to shoal water. 
 
 "He saved others, himself he could not save." 
 
 This brief record of a fine life has led those who 
 loved him most dearly to publish this little volume. 
 It is done, not with the thought of exhibiting a talent 
 for self-expression which was beginning to develop, 
 but that those who also loved him might, through 
 his writings, witness the beautiful unfolding and de- 
 velopment of his mind as he grew into manhood. 
 
 Usually this opening of the soul to fuller life 
 is so hidden by modesty and diffidence that few 
 are permitted to get even a glimpse of the marvel- 
 lous process by which God helps the strivings of 
 youth for expression. It was so with Samuel G. 
 McClure, Jr. 
 
 His work falls naturally into two classes, that 
 written as possible contributions to college publica- 
 tions, and the others for his own pleasure arising 
 out of the need for self expression following some 
 experience of significance to him. Naturally 
 the latter class is peculiarly intimate and self- 
 revelatory, showing a delicacy and sensitiveness of 
 feeling which would have shrank from publication. 
 There was nothing of the sentimental school-boy 
 
 IX 
 
type of poet in him. Although his verse was often 
 imperfect and youthful in subject-matter and in 
 ability to master technical difficulties of form, it 
 was honestly written, and at its best it transcended 
 all difficulties in its outpouring of a fine and gener- 
 ous nature. 
 
 The growth it manifests in his Junior year at 
 Yale seems to us to be worthy of this tribute; 
 though if he had lived, he would have been the 
 last to consent to the publication of what he would 
 have regarded as very incomplete, imperfect and 
 fragmentary. It is only because he gave his life 
 to save others that his family has felt these revela- 
 tions of his inner life with its sincerity, its high 
 ideals, its grave and earnest questionings, and its 
 silent ambition and striving might be circulated 
 among those who knew him, as a memorial and a 
 remembrance. 
 
 His literary work falls into three parts by his 
 own classification. The first in point of time he 
 recorded in a little red leather notebook, whose fly 
 leaf bears this inscription: 
 
 "A collection of all sorts which appeal either in 
 theme, words or rhyme. 
 
 x 
 
Dedicated to 
 
 Robert C. Bates and Prof. Eddie Reed 
 
 who both opened my eyes to enjoy the poetical 
 
 beauty around us. 
 
 Begun Sunday, January 9, 1921. 
 
 This collection, therefore dates from the middle 
 of his Sophomore year. Robert C. Bates, of New 
 York City, was a classmate and very dear friend. 
 Of that friendship, Mr. Bates writes: 
 
 "When first I knew Sam, I wondered at his 
 quietness and was puzzled often to know what 
 went on behind his blue eyes. They always 
 seemed laughing and very deep. As our intimacy 
 increased, I slowly began to find out — he was 
 dreaming of many and often beautiful things. 
 And as he let me in, little by little, into that inner 
 life of his, I gloried more and more in the strength 
 of his friendship. And we dreamt of the future, 
 and planned, and wrote together. I think some 
 of the happiest moments of my life I have spent 
 with him. In his moments of discouragement 
 and in his moments of elation, I have been with 
 him, and his moods were merely the little clouds 
 in the blue sky of friendship, all along the course 
 of which, for two years and more, I watched him 
 grow more content and happy in the opening up 
 of new fields of interest: books, writing, music at 
 
 XI 
 
times and the contemplation of much that is 
 beauty." 
 
 Not all that he attempted in the collection in 
 the little red note book is published. But the 
 selections made show his early earnest strivings 
 for expression. Many of them bear a date and it 
 is thereby possible to arrange his verse nearly 
 chronologically. So far as may be done, the 
 order of time has been followed in the arrange- 
 ment of each of the three divisions: — verse, prose 
 and drama. 
 
 Samuel G. McClure. 
 
 xii 
 
SAMUEL GRANT McCLURE Jr. 
 
 Born in Columbus, Ohio, March 7, 1900. Re- 
 moved with his parents to Youngstown, Ohio, in 
 August, 1906. Received his grade school train- 
 ing in the Youngstown public schools. Spent one 
 year at Blair Academy, Blairstown, N. J. En- 
 tered Taft School, Watertown, Conn., in 1916, 
 Class of 1918. Left Taft in February, 1918 to 
 enter the aviation service but was dissuaded by 
 his parents. Entered the Naval Reserve Train- 
 ing Corps in June, 1918 as a member of the Yale 
 Naval Training Unit. Began his work as Fresh- 
 man in Sheffield Scientific School, January, 1919. 
 Became a member of Vernon Hall, the Sheffield 
 Chapter of Phi Gamma Delta fraternity, to which 
 his father belonged. Entered the academic de- 
 partment, Yale College, September, 1919, Class 
 of 1923. 
 
 Died, July 25, 1922, from drowning in Lake Erie, 
 near Madison-on-the-Lake, Ohio, after having 
 directed his four young companions to safety and 
 after having personally borne one of the young 
 ladies in an exhausted condition, to shoal water. 
 
 "Greater love hath no man than this, 
 
 that a man lay down his life for his friends/' 
 
 XIII 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 [In 1881, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote the 
 following beautiful verses in memory of F. A. S., 
 a young man who had died in his early manhood. 
 They are so appropriate here that we quote the 
 poem entire.] 
 
 Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O, remember 
 How of human days he lived the better part. 
 April came to bloom and never dim December 
 Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. 
 
 Doomed to know not winter, only Spring, a being 
 Trod the flowery April blythely for a while, 
 Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing 
 Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to 
 smile. 
 
 Came and stayed and went, and now when all is 
 
 finished, 
 You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, 
 Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished 
 Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. 
 
 All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, 
 Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name, 
 Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing 
 
 season 
 And ere the day of sorrow, departed as he came. 
 
 XV 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 SONNET a la SPENSER. 
 
 All my life I've looked for her whose smile 
 Would make me turn from foolish wanderings 
 In sin; and still I seek in vain — meanwhile 
 The gods force me to strive with meager things 
 And, all alone, I fight failure's sharp stings. 
 Why give up hope? Perhaps all unaware 
 In some still grove where leafy tendrils cling 
 I'll find her where rain-clouds have cleared the air 
 If I do not yield now to temp tings of despair. 
 
 January, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 TO I—. 
 
 Dearest, if from my grace you seem to slip 
 Don't think that I have ceased to care or crave 
 Your fiery love; my own, 'twill warm my grave. 
 But now, sunk deep in fellowship 
 And in the art of making good, the drip 
 Of wine in pewter mugs, the boasts so brave 
 That shout supremacy with drunken lip, 
 Are done. But when my days of work are o'er, 
 I'll woo your love again with haste that springs 
 To gain the precious moments lost. It soothes 
 My soul to look ahead — so soon, once more, 
 Will we entwine our hearts — and now, greetings, 
 My love, we have to face life's ugly truths. 
 
 January, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 In cities, far from rocks and glens, 
 
 A thousand girls lead playful lives. 
 
 They practise arts unknown to men 
 
 Their ways are strange, they would be wives 
 
 Could they ensnare rich fools who, then, 
 
 Would keep them in their paradise. 
 
 I know one such and she is coy 
 And worldly wise, though innocent,— 
 A most incongruous alloy: — 
 Pure gold, cheap tin, with adamant. 
 A mystic force to this queer toy 
 Attracts me when I would resent. 
 
 What fiery blasts has she gone through 
 What scorching molds that did not burn 
 What hands have helped to shape her, too, 
 Into a fine but empty urn? 
 Could not love's crucible anew 
 Refine this gold? In vain I yearn. 
 
 February 9, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 The following tribute of one friend to another is 
 dated March 4, 1921 and bears the initials R. C. B. 
 It was written by Robert C. Bates to Samuel G. 
 McClure Jr. 
 
 R. C. B. to S. G. M., Jr. 
 
 Then to thee, great friend — thanks — and again 
 Thanks. All of life's best moments are when 
 
 pain 
 Is stifled by a little gleam of sun 
 Or by the kindly nurtured thoughts begun 
 In me and given you. Do not enhance 
 The gift — it came, a God-given circumstance. 
 
 March 4, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 ORANGES AND APPLES. 
 
 Two rooms I know, each different 
 Yet both essentially the same. 
 The one is occupied by three 
 The other harbors but one name. 
 
 The first deranged and much confused 
 
 With furniture incongruous, 
 
 Its men like liquor, love and song 
 
 "Rag," "Blues" and "Jazz" that's monstrous. 
 
 And in that room I live and grow 
 Bitter and stale, unused to work. 
 I hate their life, their joys, their pains — 
 In oranges oft sour juices lurk. 
 
 The other room, a haven of rest 
 Is furnished in good taste and plain, 
 And there I often wend my way 
 From those whose empty lives are vain. 
 
 An atmosphere of peace pervades 
 
 This room. Though men should call him queer 
 
 And literary, I find there 
 
 Sweet meat of apples, precious, dear. 
 
 April, 1921 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 TO DAD — A TELEGRAM. 
 
 Off probation: feeling pretty fine 
 
 Lowest mark 66 t highest 89 
 
 Roommate means good deal to me this term 
 
 Am bitten by ambition's deadly germ. 
 
 No more smoking nor wasting time, 
 
 Hoping for track or class nine. 
 
 I'm broke — spending my last dime — 
 
 Bacon's thoughts on liberality are mine. 
 
 May, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 DREAMS ON READING LAMB. 
 
 If I could only write a bit and write that little bit 
 
 well, 
 If my work were only in demand — if it would only 
 
 sell, 
 Then I'd be free my way to go, independent of my 
 
 dad, 
 I'd marry, settle down abroad, and then I would 
 
 be glad. 
 For I'd be living out my dream of childhood once 
 
 again, 
 And in some English manor house I'd get away 
 
 from men. 
 I'd spend my time in reading or write in stately 
 
 vein 
 And I would raise a family there in simple life 
 
 mundane. 
 I know the girl I'd pick to share those quiet joys 
 She's roguish — playful — often bad, but she'd like 
 
 lots of boys 
 And I would let her be as wild as she has longed to 
 
 be 
 Yet in a harmless natural way within my bound- 
 aries. 
 And all day long she'd play in gardens overgrown, 
 With fruit trees climbing high stone walls, where 
 
 all might eat unknown 
 Through which, between green mossy banks, 
 
 would run a stream for trout 
 And none should touch these golden things as long 
 
 as she's about. April, 1921. 
 
 7 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 TO AN OPEN WOOD FIRE 
 
 To you who have helped great thinkers 
 Poets and authors — without end, 
 I sing my praise; pleading aid 
 Toward all my ambitions' trend. 
 
 Oh, lend to my feeble endeavors 
 The Divine spark of immortal flame, 
 Impart to my work the beauty 
 Your red-gold ashes claim. 
 
 From nondescript heaps of hewn logs 
 Green and young, your glory lies. 
 Do I presume if I ask thy breath 
 Transform my weary sighs? 
 
 May, 1921, 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 [Six months intervene between his early work 
 and the following, to which he had given no title, 
 but which shows what progress had been made 
 during the first year of his struggle for expression.] 
 
 I know tonight I love you dear 
 For it was forced on me terrificly. 
 I had been playing with a girl, 
 A town girl with a wicked lure, 
 
 And as I watched her writhe and shake 
 And twist in the contortion of the dance 
 
 Shocked was I at how cheap a thing 
 Was she. How thin her dress and soul! 
 
 And what an awful dance it was! 
 I saw in that mad, painted crowd 
 
 Faces of cheaper, more disgusting wrecks, 
 Who once were girls, yet were no more. 
 
 And then I saw a clean pale lass, 
 In a white gown, with clear blue eyes, 
 
 And she alone, of all the mob, looked pure 
 And innocent. And then I thought of you, 
 Sweet Ming, and loved with all my heart. 
 November 12, 1921. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 I MEAN TO SHUN. 
 
 I mean to shun short paths that trend 
 Toward the loose and careless, lazy mood. 
 From now on I my ways must mend: — 
 Good habits thrive on thoughtful food. 
 For now I have a purpose and an end 
 That drives me on with quickened blood, 
 One that my fondest dreams could not transcend 
 'Twill not be drowned in life's mad flood. 
 Of God above I ask a longing prayer 
 O f keep my image before her fair. 
 
 January 8, 1922, 
 
 10 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THREE GIRLS. 
 
 I know three girls, clean through and through 
 
 And of these three I really love but one. 
 
 To her alone I would be always true 
 
 Whose tender love, I think — nay, hope — I've won. 
 
 And still, in solitude, I dream each good 
 I see the wonders each possesses there, 
 For each stands out above all womanhood 
 In purity, and loveliness so fair. 
 
 One I admire for winsome impudence, 
 
 Her saucy wit and entertaining laugh; 
 
 She is my opposite in height and sense, 
 
 And she attracts with sparkling eyes, mere chaff. 
 
 The next I like for her expedient style 
 
 Her dignity and self-possession cool; 
 
 And she will be fair-faced — well-formed a while; 
 
 The man she'll marry is a rich, weak fool. 
 
 But my girl is the only one, I'll swear 
 That I can ever love, I know, I feel; — 
 Her hair and eyes are quite beyond compare 
 Her charm refreshes, rests, and then appeals. 
 
 January 25, 1922. 
 
 11 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 PHILOSOPHER DIGIT. 
 
 Love's flame needs fuel to feed upon; requires 
 Material wealth, a home, and long-firm friends, 
 Just as the slow devouring flame of fire 
 Requires fresh logs for its long life, or ends. 
 
 Ours was enkindled as by dry, thin boards, 
 Which, quickly catching, leapt to greater heights 
 Than our hearth's confines warranted; pale swords 
 Soon fall, as chimney's soot, be-sparkling lights. 
 
 We must not let our love turn thus to ash, 
 
 Lacking supplies obtained laboriously, 
 
 That sweet, pure glow nor scorched nor blackened 
 
 trust — 
 But turn to gold its kindling, instantly. 
 
 So we must wait and nourish steadily — 
 Yet keep from sparkling forth as it survives — 
 Till we can fan to flame with souls quite free 
 And build our love throughout inspired lives. 
 
 January 25, 1922. 
 
 12 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 YEARNINGS. 
 
 Many hours she had watched from her window, 
 Her pale face glued fast to the pane, 
 
 Till a light 'cross the way lit the darkness 
 Flooding the soul it sustains. 
 
 O she knew it was wrong and quite wicked 
 
 Yet ever drew near to the glass, 
 Her dark eyes gleaming and glowing 
 
 Like stars through a dark-clouded mass. 
 
 And she looked with a breathless delight 
 On its bright, waving, shadowy beams; 
 
 Now obscured by a shape that it hallowed, 
 Now clear as sun-lighted dreams. 
 
 She was conscious of passionate yearnings 
 
 Hitherto long dead in her heart. 
 For a time she forgot she was passive, 
 
 Acting stirred Love's counterpart. 
 
 Now the form that attracts her attention 
 Sometimes bows, and blows a light kiss, 
 
 Sometimes sways in a dance of queer gestures 
 Which holds, in a trance, this strange miss. 
 
 Then, in turn, she responds in shy manner 
 And turns on her light, smiling fair; 
 
 Well she knows the effect on her lover 
 Of combs, silken hands, run through hair. 
 
 But she, conscious of passions and yearnings 
 
 That invalids have to restrain, 
 Was yet doomed for life to an armchair, 
 
 Unable Love's joys to attain. February IS< , p „. 
 13 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 AD SEIPSUM. 
 
 Parens deorum ultor et infrequens . . . .Horace 
 
 —Liber. I, XXXIV. 
 
 Strange gods are with us overmuch now'days, 
 In towns and cities we see all around 
 Naught else but man-created homeliness, 
 Part bad, part fair, but wholly incomplete 
 And lacking unity; a sorry job, 
 Conglomerate of many thousand minds, 
 Cross-purposing, — in many cases done 
 With insufficient funds or skill, immorally. 
 But creeping through this desecration stark, 
 Nature's unthwarted beauty everywhere 
 Delights our souls by mingling gracefully 
 Its greys and greens of wondrous gothic art 
 That, clothing, hide a naked, ugly earth 
 With oft-repeated robes of loveliness, 
 As setting suns transform dull clouds to glowing 
 
 light. 
 Had we no handmade idols to detract 
 From worship of thy greatest, litt'lest work, 
 The world would be a better place; we, better men. 
 
 February 26, 1922. 
 
 14 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 RUMINATIONS OF A MUSE. 
 
 This world is one we can't remake 
 By hasty scheme or deed; 
 
 Slowly we learn by sad mistakes- 
 Impulsiveness makes hearts bleed. 
 
 How cruel we are unknowingly, 
 How selfish, vain, unwise! — 
 
 Selecting love too hastily: — 
 To awake with wide-open eyes. 
 
 Then childish judgments are broken 
 And new friendships appeal; 
 
 Yet are we less outspoken, 
 
 Have we less of the old-time zeal? 
 
 The quest of life is before us still 
 Our dreams, not all shattered, behind. 
 
 Let Fate meet us with strengthened will, 
 Ennobled hearts, trained minds. 
 
 15 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Unpublished Letters. 
 
 Recently the world was shocked at the dis- 
 covery of some hitherto unpublished letters of 
 Alexander Pope, written after his lecture tour in 
 America (this note was his) 
 
 TO JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Were you alive today, with your great power, 
 You would not stoop to waste a single hour 
 Satirizing evils of America's Yale. 
 No, the subject's too small, for you, too stale. 
 But were you a student there, somehow I feel 
 You'd be stirred to ridicule with utmost zeal. 
 Would you, I wonder, cause laughter with your 
 
 prose, 
 Poke fun at the heated Town-and-Gown's vain 
 
 blows? 
 Or smile at class feeling let loose in the winter 
 Snowball fights, broken glass, paid for by each 
 
 dollar? 
 Or bitterly assail the queer research Professor, 
 Famed for his findings on fly protein matter, 
 But unable to teach well the most elementary 
 
 drool, 
 Forcing many to poverty through the tutoring 
 
 school? 
 Would chapel be so vigorously defended 
 Could you only see the coughs there mended? 
 Dwight Hall would surely attract your praise 
 For its good grill, and the leaders it helps to raise 
 
 16 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 You would not, I trust, be so unwary 
 
 As to say fraternities are unnecessary. 
 
 They do a man more good than harm — besides 
 
 They draw friends closer and arm with pride. 
 
 They are not — as some say — mutual admiration 
 
 groups 
 They sort out great men — show others they're 
 
 dupes. 
 It's quite true often relatives and friends 
 Serve to defeat plutocracy's ends. 
 But who cares? Soon the admitted one 
 Will become a big man through association. 
 No, Jonathan, were you alive today 
 You would descry the national decay, 
 Movies, bad plays, the failure of the League 
 Anything but these, these prickly little weeds. 
 
 17 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 LETHE . 
 
 Tonight why did I see you standing there? 
 
 How could I recognize, yet cut you dead? 
 Why did we ever secret love declare, 
 
 Or dream sweet dreams while wasting hours 
 quick fled? 
 
 Pray don't be wrongly grieved at me, old dear. 
 Mean things like me should trouble you no 
 more. 
 Life is a shining net unseen, yet clear 
 That frightful fates, gone mad, fish with off- 
 shore 
 
 And e'er enmesh blind, struggling forms galore :— 
 Yet some escape its foils so easily. 
 
 Why can't we find the path the swordfish tore 
 And swim away into eternity, 
 
 The woeful past all done, the future all before? 
 
 March 14, 1922. 
 
 18 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 A DIVERSION. 
 
 I'm a jolly old alligator 
 
 I lie in the mud all day 
 
 And think what the scientists call me— 
 
 What would my ancestors say? 
 
 They say I'm the phylum reptilia 
 Sub-class anemia, too. 
 I evolved from the little mud puppies 
 When the lands went dry of all dew. 
 
 All life comes from the lowest 
 
 The simple multiple cell 
 
 That divides, grows, divides by the thousands 
 
 Cannot see, hear, taste, love or smelK 
 
 As I ponder on all this wisdom 
 
 In my warm basking mud all day long 
 
 I lazily lower my eyelids 
 
 Smile, wink and the silence prolong. 
 
 19 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 MY DESIRES. 
 
 Three things I must do ere I die 
 And these are tasks for no mean man. 
 
 First, I must build me a real home, 
 Where love and family life can live, — 
 
 (Not a big barracks full of open rooms) — 
 A rambling home with long, low wings 
 
 Furnished in rare good taste luxuriously. 
 
 Next, I must lay the cornerstone 
 Of a wonderful clubhouse here at Yale, 
 
 To take the place more admirably 
 Of the one to which I now belong. 
 
 For it is poor, — yet still it is our best. 
 It makes it hard for us to get good men 
 
 To join our friendly brotherhood. 
 
 And last, I must accomplish — ere I die 
 
 Some bit of verse or writing clear, 
 A famous work a future age holds dear. 
 
 20 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 II 
 PROSE. 
 
 Unlike his efforts in verse, none of his prose 
 work bears a date, but in its form and composition 
 it carries evidence that it was written in his sopho- 
 more and junior years at college. The essay on 
 Dr. Horace Taft, master of Taft School, Water- 
 town, Conn., may be an exception, probably dat- 
 ing from his freshman year. He had taken his 
 preparatory course at Taft and, in common with 
 all Taft students loved and revered Dr. Taft. 
 The manuscript bears his professor's endorsement 
 "I agree with you/ ' We include it chiefly because 
 it mirrors the ideals of its writer. 
 
 The other prose work, with the single exception 
 of the article on athletics at Yale, which grew out 
 of disappointment over his failure to make the 
 football team, and which contains suggestions 
 that might seem worthy of serious consideration 
 from college authorities, is in the form of short 
 stories, many of them incomplete, and one de- 
 scription of a night ramble in winter. 
 
 Perhaps there is little unusual in any of this 
 work, but we cannot but feel that uch 
 flashes of description as that which speaks of the 
 air of a winter night tingling with "exhilarating 
 unreality" reveal a perception and an apprecia- 
 tion of nature that was fine and true and held dis- 
 tinct promise of future growth. 
 
 The sketches are arranged, as nearly as we may 
 judge, in the order of their production . 
 
 21 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 HORACE TAFT. 
 
 It is hard to find a man in our generation who 
 has accomplished great things and yet captures 
 the love of his fellowmen so that they idealize him. 
 There will be many Americans like Hoover and 
 Wilson, and even William Howard Taft, Horace's 
 brother, who will occupy great places in history. 
 Why, then, should I pick an unknown for my 
 choice as the man of our day who approaches 
 nearest to the ancient prophets? 
 
 I choose him partly because he was my boyhood 
 ideal as he has been of so many young fellows — 
 in fact, of all with whom he has come in contact, 
 so as to know him. I think him great, because, 
 while only a headmaster in a boy's preparatory 
 school of his own creation, yet he is turning out a 
 high type of manhood and doing a great work. 
 Moreover, he is absolutely honest with himself 
 and all men, refusing a deanship of Yale College, 
 because he did not believe himself to be a 'big' 
 enough man for the place, and also because, I 
 suspect, he believed that his best work, in charac- 
 ter formation, would not be allowed full scope and 
 would not accomplish the best results in work with 
 men already of well-formed characters. 
 
 The qualities that endear him to his friends are : 
 first, absolute unselfishness; second, tireless pur- 
 suit of his ideal; third, a high sense of honesty and 
 honor; fourth, a hospitality and fine consciousness 
 of manners: and lastly, a force fulness and winning 
 
 22 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 personality in speaking. Surely he is a 'right 
 perfect gentleman/ 
 
 Mr. Taft is a tall man — about six feet four and 
 far from stout. He has greyish white hair and a 
 large white moustache. A wonderful smile and 
 twinkling, understanding eyes complete his physi- 
 cal attractions. He has remained a widower since 
 his wife, whom he worshipped, died in 1905. By 
 example, and by illustration and also by exhorta- 
 tion he teaches and instructs. It is no wonder 
 on alumni day, when all the 'old' boys are back 
 again, that they rise, applaud and cheer for 
 minutes at a time when the chairman announces, 
 "Gentlemen, the King." 
 
 Such is his nickname and such he surely is, and 
 I for one can only clap my hands and yell, "Vive 
 le Roi!" 
 
 23 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 ATHLETICS AT YALE. 
 
 (An unsuccessful undergraduate speaks his mind.) 
 
 There are plenty of men in Yale better qualified 
 to write this than I ; plenty who know more about 
 the present system of Athletics than I ; but there 
 can be none who have suffered more through its 
 defects or whom an outspoken thought can harm 
 less. 
 
 At the present time all the sporting world is 
 discussing the question of collegiate football, of 
 the evils of commercialization of all sports by 
 Harvard, Yale and Princeton — (by that I don't 
 mean the use of tramp-athletes — I mean com- 
 mercialized in the sense of being run as a business 
 venture). And all that has been said has been 
 uttered by university presidents, coaches, Board- 
 of-Control chairmen and newspaper writers. I 
 shall try to say what a duffer of an undergraduate 
 athlete thinks. 
 
 First, it seems to me, we shall have to come to 
 President Lowell's suggestion — a shorter schedule. 
 We shall have to do this if we hope to increase 
 Yale's prestige in Athletics. The evils of the 
 present system do not seem to me to be too much 
 interference by coaches on the sidelines, as Mr. 
 Mendal points out so well; rather they are faults 
 of too long schedules and faults of improper con- 
 ditioning. 
 
 A long string of games with squeedunk colleges, 
 
 24 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 with their glorious traditions of never having more 
 than fifty undergraduates, neither contributes to 
 Yale's reputation — win or lose — nor does it con- 
 dition the men properly. If we win all the minor 
 games, some calculating fool on the squad is al- 
 ways comparing scores with the scores of our 
 rivals, and undermining the morale of the team. 
 Moreover, such a series of victories can only have 
 one result; they make the team overconfident of 
 their own ability. And if they are not victories — 
 as they often are not — the effect is hopeless, both 
 on the team and the spirit of the undergraduate. 
 
 But, President Lowell points out, victories are 
 not the purpose of athletics — the purpose is the 
 training of the individual. If that statement is 
 true, Athletics at Yale is a rank failure. I have 
 only to point to the great men who, by their won- 
 derful perseverance and courage, have come up 
 from the ranks of mediocrity to fame. Their 
 numbers in the past few years have been growing 
 more and more — praise be — but still they are 
 such rare phenomena as to furnish table-talk for 
 weeks afterwards. 
 
 Why is this? Simply because all the best 
 coaching is given the first team; because the squad 
 is often cut; because the poor duffer gets no en- 
 couragement or little chance to play the game or 
 improve. 
 
 These statements have been made before; they 
 are not new. I make them again because the 
 conditions back of them have not been changed. 
 
 25 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Let me show what I mean by an example. Say- 
 Smith has played prep, school football on a small 
 scale. He goes out with the squad of fifty or a 
 hundred men. He is not distinguished by a great 
 amount of beef and brawn, but he knows a little 
 bit well. He is placed on Billy Bull's squad. He 
 scrimmages against the varsity or second team 
 about two afternoons a week; maybe more if he is 
 good or lucky. But say he shows grave faults — 
 does anyone tell him them? Say he misses tackle 
 after tackle — does anyone send him over for an 
 hour's work on the dummy? And when Saturday 
 comes around, he sits in the stands and watches 
 from afar. 
 
 Take a better example from another sport. 
 Jones hurts his shoulder in a bad fall on the ice. 
 Up to this time he has been playing on the first 
 team. It heals slowly and when he comes back, 
 he finds the half-hour-a-day practise not enough 
 for him to get in condition. He loses out, because 
 of lack of enough work. 
 
 One can find cases like this in all the sports. In 
 basketball, how many men have dropped because 
 they were placed on the second or third teams and 
 waited from seven to nine every night watching 
 the first two teams practise or play against the 
 K. C's. And then perhaps they would scrimmage 
 for an hour with no particular attention from the 
 coach. 
 
 From these plentiful examples we can easily see 
 the individual is not trained. Indeed, he is often 
 
 26 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 discouraged because he does not improve; dis- 
 heartened because he can not play enough to im- 
 prove and because he feels he is forgetting all 
 about the game that he learned in prep, school. 
 He looks around him and sees a waste of material 
 on all sides and he turns away in failure; or if he is 
 built of better stuff, succeeds in spite of his ob- 
 stacles. When such a case happens, the coaches 
 point with pride at their system which made it 
 possible; but the undergraduate knows where 
 credit is due and gives the man his full share of 
 honor. 
 
 What would be an ideal system to have at Yale? 
 
 The league games, the class system has not suc- 
 ceeded. If we cut down on schedules, the profits 
 will be cut down. If we enlarge squads and plan 
 for more individual instruction, a larger coaching 
 personnel and larger facilities are needed. How 
 can this be done? 
 
 I think a system could be worked out that would 
 eliminate all the evils of the present one and yet 
 give us the advantages. I believe all the football 
 men could be split up into, say a dozen, squads 
 of two teams each, with their coaches and own 
 field; each with its insignia and name and individ- 
 ual style of play. 
 
 I can see no reason why, on Saturday, contests 
 of excellent football between these squads would 
 not draw just as big crowds to the Bowl as con- 
 tests like the Vermont game. Then a staff of 
 coaches would pick an all- Yale team of the various 
 
 27 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 stars which would practise together for two or three 
 weeks for the one big game of the season — that 
 with Harvard. Perhaps also a second all- Yale 
 team could meet the Army or Princeton. The 
 members of these two teams would get their Y, 
 the members of the squad their minor F Y B. 
 
 Such a system could be worked out in other 
 sports with equal satisfaction and success. The 
 only necessary requisite would be a fine staff of 
 coaches, who would be willing, if necessary, to set 
 the example to their men to keep training by not 
 smoking on the field — a large enough auditorium 
 for the tremendous crowds that would attend the 
 big games of hockey, baseball and basketball, and 
 a thoroughly different spirit of participation by 
 the whole undergraduate body. 
 
 Let us not sit back supinely as does the 'News' 
 and say that the present system will last a good 
 long time yet; let us by all means agitate for a 
 better, more securely-built foundation to our 
 Athletics — for the good of Yale. Let us see Yale 
 take the leadership in this idea which Harvard 
 has had the wisdom to suggest and let us see a 
 new era of sport for the undergraduate and for the 
 highest good of Yale. 
 
 28 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 As I look back on it now, it was all shadowy, 
 vague. I know not how I got there, or why. I 
 was in the midst of a great crowd, all pushing, 
 hurrying along, eager to get somewhere. Sudden- 
 ly in the distance I heard the roar of a train, and 
 far ahead I saw, silhouetted against the horizon 
 of the plain, the long mail train slowing down to 
 stop before a large wooden station. In the same 
 moment, among the people who had come to meet 
 the mail, arose outcries and exclamations of 
 wonder. And there in their midst I saw what 
 had caused such an outburst, and I gazed in 
 admiration too. For what held us spellbound 
 was the spectacle of a bank messenger carrying 
 great bags marked with dollar signs and with 
 green bills protruding — running alone unarmed, 
 braving — almost inviting, a holdup. When his 
 fearlessness and boldness won out, and he reached 
 the protection of the trainmen, a great muffled 
 roar of applause swelled up. 
 
 The train pulled out slowly and we turned back 
 toward the town. But before the excitement of 
 the messenger had been forgotten we were swept 
 off our feet by the terrifying figure of a masked 
 rider, pointing two pistols at the driver of the 
 small mail car. And we knew by his coolness 
 that his plans had been carefully arranged — and 
 there must be a greater prize in the little truck 
 than was in the messenger's money bags. We 
 
 29 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 were all wrought up to the highest pitch of emo- 
 tion, and we hurried forward to see the completion 
 of this drama. 
 
 Before we could get near, something happened — 
 not according to the prearranged scheme. There 
 was a shot; one of the guards fell, the other grap- 
 pled with the bandit. His weapons were torn 
 from his grasp and he ran staggering to a clump 
 of underbrush. But the crowd had him nearly 
 surrounded; there was no escape for him that way. 
 I turned to my companions and yelled: 
 
 "Spread out, spread out, we'll get the devil yet." 
 
 And I dived into a bush at the left side of the 
 road. They obeyed me, and I found myself all 
 alone and very much afraid. 
 
 From where I was, I could overlook the mail 
 car, standing deserted in the road. After a few 
 minutes waiting, during which the pursuit seemed 
 to die away far ahead of me, I noticed a man with 
 his cap pulled down over his eyes, sauntering up 
 to the truck. He reached inside and drew forth a 
 small package, round, and no larger than a base- 
 ball. This he tossed directly towards my hiding 
 place. Stooping he picked up one of the aban- 
 doned revolvers. Then he started toward me. 
 
 Almost paralyzed with fright, and only too 
 conscious of my helplessness, I acted automatical- 
 ly. I picked up the sphere and put it in my 
 pocket. Waiting until he was almost upon me, I 
 let out a roar, and made a flying tackle. I hit 
 him squarely in the middle taking him out com- 
 
 30 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 pletely. In the scuffle that followed, his cap came 
 off and I got a good look at him. 
 
 "My God! You are my own — " 
 
 I awoke and heard steps in the room next my 
 bedroom and realized that my subconscious mind 
 had been trying to convey to me the fact that my 
 roommate had just returned from the Shubert. 
 
 31 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 A SAD CASE. 
 
 An accurate observer of human character right- 
 ly comes to the conclusion that man is weak. To 
 prove this theory, it is only necessary to point to 
 the fact that, when a man fails because of the lack 
 of a few important qualities, he invariably con- 
 tracts new habits which are often dangerous and 
 ruinous. 
 
 I was alone in Paris in the first months after 
 we entered the war. I had no friends and did not 
 speak the language; so when, in looking over the 
 hotel register, I came across the name of John 
 Salisbury from New Haven, Conn., U. S. A., I 
 immediately looked him up and invited him to 
 dine with me. He was very agreeable and when 
 he learned I had attended college at New Haven, 
 became very friendly. I probably would not 
 have picked him for a friend at college, because 
 his general appearance and personality were 
 against him, but over there it's different. Yet he 
 was far from repulsive. He was of medium height, 
 had dull red hair, eyes small and set closely to- 
 gether, large thin nose and a rather homely chin. 
 His face had an unnatural pallor, but he did not 
 look dissipated. On the whole, I rather liked 
 him, attracted by the originality and mystery 
 which marked the man. 
 
 After dinner, over our cigars and a bottle of 
 wine, I told him my history in a few words. Then 
 I asked him his. He was almost evasive at first, 
 
 32 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 but the wine soon had its effect and he startled 
 me with his story. 
 
 He began with his early life. 
 
 "My father was a professor. He desired me to 
 master nothing but knowledge. I was educated 
 in booklore by the best private tutors until I was 
 seventeen. Then I entered Yale." 
 
 "Why, you never told me you were a Yale 
 man " I exclaimed. 
 
 "I never was, really. You see, I knew nothing 
 of the world, had no athletic ability or training 
 and was as green as they make 'em. At college I 
 was lost, overwhelmed by what I saw and learned* 
 At the end of the first term I had to resign on ac- 
 count of a nervous breakdown. 
 
 "I came over here because our family physician 
 advised it. The change was good for me, I guess. 
 But I found I could not sleep at night. I was 
 troubled by exaggerated dreams of unpleasant 
 things in college life. Night after night, I would 
 wake in a cold sweat from a dream of the most 
 vivid impressions of terror. 
 
 "You cannot imagine what I suffered. Finally 
 I decided I would escape from these nightmares. 
 I resolved to try opium/ ' 
 
 "No, really," I murmured. I did not mean to 
 be sarcastic, but I thought Salisbury was drawing 
 on his imagination. 
 
 "Yes. I had no trouble getting it." 
 
 "You smoked it?" I inquired. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 33 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 "What were the effects?" 
 
 "I was no longer John Salisbury, but John of 
 Salisbury. I was transported back to the middle 
 ages. I found myself attending not modern Yale 
 but the University of Paris. A wonderful picture 
 was shown me of the life of the student of that 
 period. 
 
 "I found I liked the atmosphere of the Univer- 
 sity. In spite of the queer clothes — consisting of 
 long, flowing robes, short scarf, skull-cap and 
 short shoes, there was a democratic plainness that 
 I admired. I found that most of the students 
 were poor, the majority working their way by 
 various hard tasks. There were no organizations 
 among them, except mutual benefit societies, 
 which helped out those in financial difficulty. The 
 masters lived with us, ate with us, and were our 
 real friends. The young men, my fellow class- 
 men, lived the same life, all being on good terms, 
 existing without rivalries or jealousies, because 
 they had no outside interests, no athletics, no 
 fraternities, no politics and no nobility, except the 
 real nobility of birth or of the clergy. And these, 
 let me add, did not bother us at all. 
 
 "Moreover, there were no poorly-written text 
 books that only confuse a subject and make it 
 difficult. Although we had to attend lectures 
 and take copious notes seven hours a day, yet 
 when classes were over, there was no poring over 
 any homework and the aim of the students was 
 to learn as much as possible. 
 
 34 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 "There were drawbacks, of course. I found a 
 small group of men who, like the rounders of 
 Yale, went in for physical pleasures and spent 
 most of their time in wine shops, but they were 
 honest about it all and were not looked down upon 
 by the rest of us. Indeed, if one of them got in a 
 serious scrape, we would all stand back of him, 
 college authorities included, until he should be 
 released from prison. Several times so much feel- 
 ing was aroused that rioting broke out, only to be 
 stopped by the surrender of the student." 
 
 Through this eloquent description, I was hardly 
 a rapt listener. While the wine had made him 
 more voluble and excited, it had the opposite 
 effect on me and I was becoming drowsy. Still, 
 I was amused and decided to keep him talking. 
 
 "And was that the only pipe dream you ever 
 had?" I asked. 
 
 "No, sometimes I have that and sometimes I 
 have a dream of the ideal modern college." 
 
 "Now you're talking But I have those myself 
 and without any opium." 
 
 "But never like these. These are real pictures, 
 colored with a golden glow, like a freshly green 
 wood in a spring sunset." 
 
 I began to think that the man across the table 
 from me was not lying to me at all and I took more 
 heed to his words, thinking that perhaps something 
 truly great had come to this drugged mind. 
 
 "My modern college was a queer place. I was 
 in the midst of a very representative group of 
 
 35 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 young men, but they were all separated. It seems 
 there were different schools, something like the 
 different colleges at Oxford or Cambridge. The 
 freshmen would all start in at one large school, 
 where they would remain only as long as was re- 
 quired to classify them for the individual colleges. 
 Of these there were countless numbers. 
 
 "There was one for the athletes, the men who 
 sought to develop their bodies alone. These men 
 were ruled with an iron hand; they had to keep 
 training, but their schedules were very light and 
 arranged so as to give them a great deal of time 
 for athletic work. 
 
 "There was a school for the men who desired 
 only to study. These men enjoyed the best pro- 
 fessors and had the hardest courses and they were 
 encouraged to be as eccentric, erratic and irregu- 
 lar as they pleased. 
 
 "Another was for social figureheads, the men 
 who loved to dress and go to dances, but who en- 
 joyed a clean life of luxury. 
 
 "And in the same way there were colleges for 
 rounders; for those of little intelligence; several 
 for women; many for Jews; and so on. 
 
 "To get into these colleges from the common 
 freshman one, was a mark of distinction, a reward 
 for faithful service, by the college authorities. 
 Thus men were encouraged to do their best and 
 no ability was wasted. 
 
 "Other features were most strange. The men 
 in the common college had to wear a uniform dress, 
 
 36 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 clothes entirely modern, but ready-made, of 
 black wool, cut in conservative style. There was 
 nothing freakish or military about these; tfiey 
 were fashionable and could be worn without at- 
 tracting attention in any large city." 
 
 "But," I asked anxiously, "what becomes of the 
 fraternity?" 
 
 "It is gone." 
 
 "Are there no societies?" 
 
 "Yes, there are honorary societies. The first 
 ten percent of the graduating class are elected by 
 a majority vote of the men in their schools. These 
 societies are all different, of course, each belonging 
 to its particular school. They are secret and 
 much like our modern institutions." 
 
 On hearing such nonsense, I became rather 
 bored, and since it was getting late, stated my in- 
 tention of retiring. We parted politely, both ex- 
 pressing the desire to meet again. 
 
 But the next day, I received my orders to report 
 at a training camp and I never saw nor heard of 
 my misguided acquaintance again. 
 
 37 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT. 
 
 It was a sweltering August day, the hottest of 
 the summer, and Bill Roper, cub reporter, was 
 literally worn out. Almost all the oppressive 
 morning he had been tramping the narrow streets 
 of the dirty, downtown district of the Steel City, 
 where the fierce rays of the sun were reflected 
 with agonizing force from the melting pavements. 
 A slight south breeze but added to his discomfort 
 and swept the clouds of pulverized soot from the 
 mills to his parched throat and suffocating lungs 
 like the odor of bad cooking in a confined space. 
 
 He had had scant luck in gathering news, be- 
 cause he had been out on a rambling assignment, 
 and since the saloons had gone out of business, 
 there was little to be gleaned from the streets, 
 unless the Fates should donate an accident or an 
 interesting feature story. So at noon he returned 
 to the city office tired and discouraged. Although 
 no one paid him the slightest attention, hardly 
 expecting anything from so inexperienced a man, 
 yet he did not care to confess failure. He sat 
 down quietly at a desk and pretended to be writ- 
 ing. But soon he stopped, staring across the busy 
 room apparently in deep thought. 
 
 He turned towards the man next to him and 
 waited for him to look up from his work. But 
 Dawson, a rough, kind man of middle age, who 
 had had very little education, but whose natural 
 ability was unequalled, was having difficulty, and 
 
 38 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 it was some time before he straightened up from 
 his typewriter. 
 
 "Mr. Dawson, did you ever fake a story?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Well, now, Mr. Roper, I don't like to tell a 
 lie. I ain't never done it without some good 
 object-like. Understand, this paper don't stand 
 for that sort of thing as a regular thing, but some- 
 times a good story is news, even if it stretches the 
 truth some." 
 
 "You see, Dawson, I have a dandy story, a 
 traffic story. But it happened in another city 
 and was featured by a newspaper there. If I 
 used fictitious names, do you think I could get 
 away with it here?" 
 
 Dawson scratched his head and thought a 
 minute. Unconsciously he lowered his voice. 
 
 "I tell you what to do, Bill. Go down and see 
 the cop on the square, you know, Pat McKinny— 
 tell him who you are and say you're a friend of 
 mine, see? Tell him your story and ask him if 
 you can use his name. It's a cinch he'll agree; 
 he likes the blarney, and yuh can pass the buck 
 to him." 
 
 A happy smile spread over Bill's face. "Thanks, 
 Mr. Dawson; I'll do that, and if he has any good 
 stories of his own, I'll give them to you." 
 
 Fifteen minutes later the perspiring cub report- 
 er handed in a feature story which the city editor 
 praised so much that Bill began to feel the small 
 voice of conscience and to wish he had not sacri- 
 
 39 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 ficed veracity. And later, after the first editions 
 had been passed around the office, it was as in a 
 daze that he received the compliments from the 
 rest of the force, who realized he was now gradu- 
 ated from the cub class — for there was his story 
 with a neat line around it on the first page. 
 
 Pat McKinny was the city's oldest landmark. 
 He was the type of traffic policeman that every 
 motorist likes to meet, for, in addition to his 
 efficiency, his venerable white hair, good nature, 
 hearty smile and ready Irish wit had made him 
 the favorite of all. 
 
 But, while he was the most popular man on the 
 force with civilians, his superiors saw only his 
 faults. The most obvious of these was his liking 
 for strong waters. And, in spite of the dry era of 
 prohibition, his many friends saw to it that Tat' 
 was well supplied. Since he had served so long 
 and faithfully, Pat naturally was accustomed to 
 taking a few liberties, and it was no secret in 
 official circles that he often went on duty under 
 the influence of liquor. 
 
 Pat was on duty when young Roper approached 
 him and introduced himself. Giving the young 
 man his attention and, directing traffic at the same 
 time was easy for him. 
 
 "Yis, sure an* yez can use my name," he smiled. 
 "And say, I was lookin' for wan of yez reporter 
 fellers the other day. I had a peach av a yarn 
 for yez." 
 
 And, not neglecting his work in the slightest, he 
 
 40 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 proceeded to tell a story of his own which Bill 
 took down for his friend. At the close, Bill 
 thanked him, shook hands warmly and told him 
 to watch for his name in the last edition of that 
 evening's paper. 
 
 Several years later Bill Roper had attained 
 some success and prominence in his profession. 
 He no longer had to search for news, nor did he 
 have to write any but the most important stories. 
 He now occupied the city editor's desk of the 
 New York Blade. 
 
 Early one cold Winter morning, when the work 
 was just beginning to come in, he was interrupted. 
 
 "Mr. Roper!" 
 
 Bill did not glance up for a minute as he was 
 editing some copy. When he did it was with an 
 impetuous scowl. 
 
 "Well? ... O, is it you again? What do you 
 want now?" 
 
 With deliberate intent the city editor treated 
 the younger members of his force with meanness 
 and contempt, often shouting at them at the top 
 of his lungs. The man who had approached him 
 was a cub who was helping out on the morgue 
 route. Roper hated all cubs, and this one in par- 
 ticular, because he was the most persistent in 
 bothering him with foolish questions. 
 
 "Mr. Roper, do you want me to include this 
 clipping in the writeup of this man's death notice? 
 
 41 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 It was found in his pocket and was the means of 
 identifying the poor fellow." 
 
 Bill snatched at the copy. Realty, this sort of 
 thing was getting to be an awful nuisance. 
 
 But his attitude changed as he read it. All at 
 once he seemed to crumple in his chair. Then he 
 straightened. When he spoke his tone was mild. 
 
 "No, I will handle this. After this use your 
 own judgment. Don't bother me." 
 
 Alone he hastily edited the copy and wrote the 
 headline. The finished product read as follows: 
 
 "ONCE PROMINENT POLICEMAN DIES 
 IN DISGRACE. 
 
 Pittsburgh Officer Found Dead In Gutter. 
 
 Patrick McKinny, once a well known and re- 
 spected traffic officer in the city of Pittsburg, was 
 found frozen to death by workmen at the corner 
 of Third Avenue and Thirty-third Street. A 
 coroner's inquiry came to the decision that the 
 man, who was evidently in reduced circumstances, 
 had been drunk and had fallen asleep in the gutter, 
 where death had overtaken him. 
 
 The identity of the deceased was established 
 by a peculiar newspaper clipping found in his 
 pocket. 
 
 He is survived . . . etc., and etc." 
 
 Roger placed the copy in the pile of corrected 
 work. Then he read again the clipping, worn and 
 dirty from much handling. 
 
 42 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 LOSES EYE IN TRAFFIC. 
 
 Wilson Howe, of Philadelphia, who was 
 driving through this city yesterday was 
 proceeding at a fast rate of speed through 
 the public square when he hit the bad strip 
 of pavement near the street intersection. 
 
 The car shot forward out of control, 
 crossed the street in spite of the closed traffic 
 signal, narrowly missed a street car and 
 several pedestrians and stopped. 
 
 When traffic officer Pat McKinny, hur- 
 ried over to find the trouble he heard Howe 
 screaming frantically. 
 
 "My eye, my eye," he shouted, "where 
 is my eye?" 
 
 After several minutes search, the missing 
 eye was found and explanations made. 
 
 Howe, it seems was badly wounded in 
 the late war and was wearing a glass eye, 
 which jarred out in crossing the terrific 
 bumps. 
 
 Pat McKinny swears to the truth of this 
 one. 
 
 The city editor stared out of the window for a 
 long time. 
 
 "I wonder," he mused, "was it liquor that 
 caused poor old Pat's downfall or was it — ," and 
 he fumbled his own first feature story tenderly. 
 
 43 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 WhoooOOOoooo . . . WhoooOOOooo . . . 
 WhoooOOOooo. . . 
 
 Throughout the night, the ship's foghorn had 
 ceaselessly sounded its monotonous warning. The 
 passengers who had never been at sea before got 
 little rest and many of them were now dozing in 
 the dim morning light of the warm saloon. Sud- 
 denly the man next to me woke up, groaned and 
 turned to a more comfortable position. Presently, 
 he found himself unable to go to sleep again and 
 sat up. Then he spoke. 
 
 "You know," he said, and as his eyes met mine 
 they startled me by their intensity, "I don't mind 
 that awful noise so very much " 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No. What I mind is that when I fall asleep 
 I have terrible dreams." 
 
 I wanted very much to yawn or remark that I 
 thought the fog was lifting, but instead I sat very 
 still and he proceeded. 
 
 "These dreams worry me. They are so real. 
 I cannot understand them." 
 
 He fumbled nervously for a cigar and began to 
 chew it excitedly. 
 
 "I have a son, Ned, who is at Yale. Before 
 sailing I got a letter from him saying he was not 
 getting along very well. And last night, my worst 
 dream was about him. It was like some awful 
 drama on the stage. I saw him before me telling 
 
 44 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. MeClure Jr. 
 
 of his troubles and then the whole scene would be 
 enacted before me. 
 
 "I saw him going out to the field for football. I 
 saw him playing on a team in a scrimmage. He 
 missed several tackles and was replaced by another 
 man. On the next day he was dropped to Bull's 
 scrubs. There he ran through signals and plays 
 of strange formations. But he was not getting 
 any coaching. Day after day he was out there, 
 often playing in short scrimmages, often sitting on 
 the sidelines because of his failure to show im- 
 provement. For a month he worked hard. Then 
 he became careless; finally he could be heard to 
 complain. He* railed against the system which 
 handicapped the man who was not a star, and it 
 seemed to me that it was unjust, that it was no 
 wonder that he could not improve without more 
 practise and more individual coaching. 
 
 "Next I saw him practising on the ice at the 
 arena. He had always played hockey well. Soon 
 his ability was recognized and he made the var- 
 sity. In his first game, he had a great oppor- 
 tunity. The puck was free near the opponents' 
 goal and their goaltender was skating out to clear 
 it. But Ned was coming down the ice fast. He 
 reached the puck first, shot it forward with a 
 sweep of his stick and crashed into the goaltender, 
 falling beneath him. When they picked him up 
 his arm hung limply. The crowd that had 
 cheered madly the moment before, was silent as 
 he was carried off. 
 
 45 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 "Later in the season, I saw him trying to play 
 again. He was strong enough but he could not 
 get back his old skill. He would skate alone and 
 take long shots at the goal while the team would 
 practise together. Then he would play against 
 them a few minutes each day. And again I 
 heard him grumble against the system. How 
 could a man improve without more chance to 
 play or more coaching? 
 
 "Many years elapsed and I saw Ned visiting 
 his son at Yale. A new system was now in prac- 
 tise; one that offered encouragement and a broader 
 range of exercise to all. Ned's son pointed out 
 with pride five fields for football, each squad of 
 which had its own coaches, style of play and 
 facilities for its own squads. He said that only 
 one squad of two teams used each field, and that 
 each squad had its traditions, colors and name. I 
 saw a game played on Saturday afternoon in the 
 Bowl against two squads, and I was surprised to 
 see an evenly matched game between two Yale 
 teams draw as large a crowd as ever came out to 
 the Yale- Vermont or Yale-Bates game in my day. 
 
 "Ned's son explained that only three big games 
 were now played with other colleges; one with 
 Army, Princeton and Harvard. He said a differ- 
 ent Yale team met each of these. These teams 
 were picked by a committee of coaches and com- 
 prised the best players of the various squads. 
 There was the first All- Yale team, the second and 
 the third. Only the men on the first received 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 major Y's, the others got a minor letter, while 
 those who were on a squad team but not an All- 
 Yale got only numerals. In this way, he said 
 Walter Camp was now saved the trouble of 
 bothering about an All-American selection, for 
 these teams were so good and won such overwhelm- 
 ing victories that they always won that honor 
 automatically. 
 
 "But the joy I had felt at this picture changed 
 to horror. For now I saw Ned, discouraged, a 
 failure. I saw him spending his time in the com- 
 pany of other disheartened, dissolute college 
 youths. Night after night I saw him drinking 
 vile concoctions called 'bootleg' and dancing, in- 
 toxicated, in dirty dancehalls with cheap painted 
 girls. Finally, I saw him in a purple and golden 
 cabaret with an alluring, but overdressed actress. 
 I heard him making love to her, heard her leading 
 him on with all the wiles and arts of accomplished 
 women of the world. He was fascinated, mad- 
 dened by her. He lost his head and proposed to 
 her. She laughed her consent. They hurried 
 away and were married. 
 
 "Lastly I saw him in disgrace; dishonored and 
 dismissed from Yale. I saw his name printed 
 large in scandal sheets with the history of the 
 woman he had married. And at last, I saw him 
 level a revolver at his own head and pull the 
 trigger. 
 
 "I awoke in an agony of fear. Tell me, do you 
 think there is such a thing as a prophetic vision?" 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 I told him that I did not think so, that nothing 
 of the kind had ever happened to me; and that I 
 had travelled much. 
 
 Just then a steward came through the saloon, 
 calling, "Mr. Tracy, Mr. Tracy." 
 
 "Here," yelled the man next to me, and turning 
 to me, "What if, what if it's from Ned?" 
 
 He tore open the wireless envelope and read 
 the message. Then a sickly grin spread over his 
 face. He handed it to me. 
 
 It read, "Congratulate me, I just made Phi 
 Beta Kappa.— Ned Tracy." 
 
 48 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THE GOLD FOOTBALL. 
 
 He had decided to wear it that night at the 
 dinner party, although for several years it had 
 lain neglected in his bureau drawer. His pride 
 in the cute little gold trophy, with its red letter- 
 ing, which proclaimed that he had played on a 
 championship preparatory school team, had gone. 
 Instead of reminding him of the triumph it cele- 
 brated, of those glorious days when, after many 
 months struggle, he had won his place on the 
 team and later had contributed to its victories, 
 it now seemed an empty thing because he had not 
 succeeded in his college football ambitions later. 
 
 But this was not the reason it had been dis- 
 carded. There were other memories it carried 
 with it that were not entirely pleasant. 
 
 John Parker was a clean-cut, good-looking 
 young man. His curly light brown hair, parted 
 in the middle, crowned a long and rather narrow 
 face which was lighted up by attractive blue eyes. 
 When he left Preparatory School to join the Navy, 
 he was quite a strikingly handsome fellow, even 
 if his gobs' uniform did not do him full justice. 
 He was young; he was attractive; he had attended 
 one of the best Preparatory schools; he came of a 
 good family, and, more than any of these to him, 
 he had won a gold football. 
 
 It was while he was in the Navy that John had 
 his first love affair. At an officers' training camp 
 near a small coast town, he fell madly in love with 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Vivian Paul. She was a dainty little girl who did 
 not reach to his shoulder but she quite bewitched 
 him with her smile, her soft grey eyes and her 
 quick coloring blush. They met at many enter- 
 tainments, given by the best families of the neigh- 
 borhood to show their interest and good will to 
 the boys who were in training for their country's 
 service, but they were never alone together and 
 John felt that he made slight headway in winning 
 her affections. 
 
 One Sunday, when on leave, he hired an old- 
 fashioned victoria and a pair of worn-out livery 
 horses and with his buddy drove Vivian and her 
 sister along the wooded shore road. The day 
 was glorious, perfect, with brilliant sunshine and 
 a soft sea breeze. In the comfortable rear seat, 
 John was enjoying himself to the utmost, over- 
 come by the sense of her nearness and the warmth 
 of her smile. 
 
 They talked of mutual acquaintances, of the 
 beautiful homes they passed, of an approaching 
 wedding to which both were invited, and somehow 
 John found it impossible to turn the conversation 
 into personal channels. At last, the chance came 
 when Vivian remarked she wished she had an 
 engagement ring. 
 
 "I'll give you one," said John quickly, looking 
 her squarely in the eyes. His tone and look 
 startled her by their intensity, yet she played up, 
 half-seriously. 
 
 "And will you announce our engagement, let 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 me have a big wedding and build me a great big 
 house, with lots of pretty things?" she asked, 
 laughingly. 
 
 "Of course," he smiled back, "you know I will." 
 
 Then the conversation veered away to other 
 and safer subjects. 
 
 But what Vivian had said in jest, had fallen in 
 fertile soil, and sprang up quickly. He told her 
 how he regretted every moment they were apart, 
 how lonely he was for home and its comforts, and 
 he made a bet with her that she could not write 
 him a letter a day for a whole week. 
 
 On her part, Vivian was impressed with his 
 seriousness, flattered by his attentions and at- 
 tracted by his clean manhood. A uniform and 
 a harvest moon perform strange miracles, more- 
 over, in a girl's heart. 
 
 She won the bet easily. 
 
 In reply to her gossipy notes, John wrote real 
 love letters which soon won a like response. 
 
 The summer drew to a close, the training school 
 was about to end. The last night of the training 
 camp came, and again John took Vivian riding, 
 this time alone, in a borrowed roadster. 
 
 They rode down the familiar roads and lanes 
 rather slowly. Hardly a word was spoken until 
 they stopped at their trysting place and were 
 bathed in a flood of clear, mystic moonlight. Not 
 till then, did John reach forth his arms for her to 
 nestle close. 
 
 "I love you," he murmured, and marvelled at 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 her racing heart. "And I love you, John, with 
 all my soul," she answered. 
 
 They kissed — a long, sweet embrace — and 
 sorrowfully raced home that her family might not 
 suspect. But, later, on the porch, he told her his 
 ambitions and they made their plans. 
 
 "When the war is over, Vivian," he told her, 
 "I must go to college. It is part of our family 
 tradition. But I shall only go for a year — one 
 year is enough — I have a good education now. 
 Next summer I shall come back for you. I'll get 
 a ring and we'll announce our engagement then." 
 
 "Oh, John, if I only had something to remember 
 you by now — some little thing — I would be better 
 able to stand not being with you," she begged. 
 
 With difficulty, John unpinned the gold foot- 
 ball, and, kissing it, gave it to her. 
 
 The next day he left so early he had no oppor- 
 tunity to say goodbye. 
 
 The war ended that fall and John went to 
 college as he had planned. He wrote Vivian 
 regularly but foolishly showed some of her letters 
 to his roommate, who ridiculed them. John 
 was furious but, as a result, he began to judge 
 them more cynically. 
 
 What was more serious, his roommate led John 
 into reckless company. For a few weeks he 
 drank to excess and figured in a number of wild 
 episodes. 
 
 A letter from Vivian startled him. She ac- 
 cused him of neglect and of not loving her. John 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 was overcome with remorse over his escapades and 
 wrote her a long letter telling of his worthlessness. 
 She replied that she trusted him and knew he was 
 not "a rounder' ' and that she would never believe 
 it of him. 
 
 John in reply wrote her quixotically, doing a 
 mad, but, as he thought, a highly chivalrous thing. 
 He asked her to release him because of his way- 
 wardness and unworthiness. Her response 
 touched the wrong chord, accusing him of trifling 
 with her and charging that he never had loved her. 
 John was angered and asked for and obtained his 
 gold football. 
 
 Within a year Vivian Paul's wedding was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 John finished college, always disappointed in 
 his ambitions to make a career there, and un- 
 happy, sometimes almost sullen. 
 
 Now he had been at home for two years. He 
 was making a success in business. A house party 
 was in progress at a near-by neighbor's, and among 
 the guests whom John had met repeatedly was a 
 small dark girl with fine grey eyes. She was to be 
 his dinner partner that evening. 
 
 Tenderly and carefully, John clasped the gold 
 football on his watch chain. 
 
 53 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 A SOLITARY WALK 
 
 How often in each civilized man's life he has 
 instinctively turned away from the smothering 
 confines of walled rooms and sought peace of 
 mind by tramping the city streets at night. There 
 is a chance here for letting loose the imagination, 
 for enjoying the lights and shadows of the town, 
 for filling the lungs with fresh air and for absorb- 
 ing rare designs in architecture enhanced by na- 
 ture and softened by kinder lights. 
 
 Of all such nocturnal wanderings, I like best 
 those taken on clear winter nights. The streets 
 are deserted, the moonlight is reflected from the 
 snow, the lights twinkle like diamonds through 
 the frosted panes, and the whole atmosphere 
 tingles with exhilarating unreality. At this time, 
 solitude lures with a strange appeal of excitement 
 and a promise of mystery. 
 
 It was an hour before midnight in New Haven 
 when I set forth from York Street. I turned 
 northwest along by the cemetery, winding up one 
 street and down the next, quite at random. In 
 these narrow streets, the rows of tenement-like 
 buildings with their flights of steps and iron rail- 
 ings were clothed for once in white. 
 
 Walking slowly and evenly, I turned northwest 
 from York Street along by the cemetery, winding 
 up one street and down the next, wandering into 
 Canal Street and from there down around Hill- 
 house and so back to the campus. In all, the 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 circuit took perhaps an hour and was filled with 
 small incidents. 
 
 But first, allow me to describe the night and the 
 districts I passed through. It was clear but as yet 
 no moon had appeared. Millions of different 
 colored stars, some blue, some golden and a few 
 pale white, alternately grew dim and bright like 
 the flickering arc lamps which regularly spaced 
 the streets. In such faint ethereal light, rows of 
 tenement-like buildings, some with high flights 
 of steps and iron railings — some opening on the 
 street level, and small shining white cottages with 
 shutters, contrasted strongly with larger houses 
 of the late French gothic style, or frame flat- 
 roofed American ones, having front porches and 
 occasionally full length windows. Sometimes, I 
 could see, through the yellow illumination from 
 unblinded windows, small mahogany wall clocks, 
 crooked oak staircases and, more rarely, grotesque 
 moving shadows of the occupants. 
 
 In the poorer districts, where the dwellings are 
 smaller and more closely packed together, I was 
 surprised to find I was not really alone. First, 
 I noticed an old woman, wrapped in shawls and 
 many petticoats, limping along on one crutch and 
 carrying in her free hand an object that made me 
 pause and wonder. I fancied that habit was still 
 strong in her stubborn spirit and that she was 
 bringing back to her home a bucket of home-brew 
 mysteriously obtained from the former grog-shop, 
 which was near and whose shaded and curtained 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 windows failed to conceal the bright lights within. 
 But perhaps I did her an injustice; maybe she was 
 returning from an evening's gossip with neighbor- 
 ing friends. 
 
 Continuing, I found I was the object of sus- 
 picious looks from several patrolmen. Small dogs 
 barked at me. Again speculation ruled my 
 thoughts. I imagined they considered me a 
 possible second-story man, looking for an easy 
 job. This thought affording me only temporary 
 amusement, I discarded it for another. Since 
 I had seen no other policeman on any other streets, 
 I wondered if they were not congregating for a 
 raid on some gambling den or disorderly house, 
 and I regarded the shacks close by the street with 
 a new intensity. Tiring of such inane curiosity, 
 I wandered into more brightly lighted thorough- 
 fares. 
 
 Here, at a street intersection, I noticed two 
 well dressed girls, evidently just returned from the 
 theatre. They were bidding goodnight to each 
 other and making plans for the next day. Inter- 
 ested, I stopped on the far corner, and, after light- 
 ing a cigarette, gazed intently in their direction. 
 I was hoping I could offer some protection in case 
 any disorderly rowdies should appear, but evi- 
 dently I, myself, frightened the younger for she 
 was finally escorted to her home by the other, who 
 in turn nastily disappeared. 
 
 Finally, on my way home again by the high 
 cemetery wall, I saw far ahead a man and a maid 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 and moved nearer the wall to see them better 
 against the street lamp. They had stopped, their 
 shadows had merged and I imagined they were 
 lovers stealing an embrace. But only for a mo- 
 ment — a sudden flare of a match, the glow of a 
 cigarette and they started toward me once more. 
 
 "How selfish and discourteous is the modern 
 man," I thought, quickening my step, much like a 
 horse who knows when he approaches home. 
 
 By this time my feet were numb with cold, my 
 lungs filled with ozone and my face tingling with 
 frost. As I turned in to the campus, I felt dis- 
 appointed that nothing big, nothing great had 
 occurred. But I had enjoyed my solitary walk 
 keenly. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 The MS. of the following unfinished sketch 
 bore no title. 
 
 We were seated around a blazing log fire, after 
 a dance that had ended at midnight. Neither 
 Mildred nor myself, nor George nor Helen were 
 sleepy. So my friend George suggested a round 
 of ghost stories. He laid down the rules of the 
 game. Each was to add something to the tale 
 when it was left off by the one to the right. 
 Anything was in order; supernatural elements, ro- 
 mantic stories or ghastly tragedies. No one, how- 
 ever, was to plagiarize any more than necessary. 
 
 George very kindly called on me to start. I 
 thought for a moment. Presently to encourage 
 me, Mildred, who was sitting on my nght, slyly 
 reached over and patted my hand. I held it 
 firmly concealed from the others' view and began. 
 
 "There was once a very great scientist. He 
 lived ahead of his time. He had studied geology, 
 chemistry, astronomy, until he knew all that man 
 could teach him. Then like Darwin and Burbank, 
 he went out to experiment in Nature. He had 
 theories of his own that he wanted to test and 
 his great ambition was to discover, if he could, 
 whether man could not control the great phenom- 
 ena of Nature. He believed that if the secrets of 
 volcanos could be found out, they could be con- 
 trolled by man; that mountains could be reared 
 out of deserts; that the world could be made a 
 better place to live in through the resulting con- 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 trol of climates; and that even the oceans could be 
 sunk deeper into the earth, forced to give up their 
 fertile, continental slopes so that man would have 
 more land for future generations' prosperity, peace 
 and happiness. 
 
 "He spent many years in experimenting with the 
 breaking up of the atom and with the different 
 rays of the sun and their effect on basic rocks under 
 pressure. He worked ceaselessly, but he could 
 not find the solution of his vast problem. Finally, 
 he was in despair, threatened with a nervous 
 breakdown. His friends advised him to rest. 
 At last he gave in to their pleas and taking along 
 only his faithful Japanese man-servant, left for 
 several months vacation. He went up in the 
 mountains, where there was an old chateau, that 
 had been in his family for generations. Its tradi- 
 tions and history he was unfamiliar with, however, 
 since it had but recently passed to him on the 
 death of his great-uncle. 
 
 "This castle-like structure stood on the top of 
 a steep, rough hill, overlooking a winding river 
 valley and its medieval town. The townspeople 
 had told him of vague rumors about its being 
 haunted by strange, terrifying shades of his an- 
 cestors, but, as he knew them for an ignorant lot, 
 he was only slightly amused by them. 
 
 "The first week of his vacation passed very 
 pleasantly. He lived only in three large rooms on 
 the second floor. The windows were barred and 
 small apertures in the massive walls, but there 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 were so many of them that there was plenty of 
 light. His rooms connected directly with a stone 
 balcony from which a flight of stone steps lead 
 down to the old court. This balcony connected 
 all the living rooms, or rather suites of the chateau. 
 On the other side of his suite, away from the court, 
 there was a straight drop downward of several 
 hundred feet. 
 
 "One night, he was awakened out of a sound 
 sleep by a loud knocking at his outer door." 
 
 "All right, George, you take it up from there." 
 
 George had been following the tale with interest, 
 although he had been gazing somewhat fondly at 
 Helen now and then, yet he was able to start in 
 with his contribution. 
 
 "He, ah-er, called to the Jap and had him open 
 the door. The inrushing blast of air blew out the 
 candles and left all in darkness. Something 
 seemed to glide past his face. Jocumo — that was 
 the Jap's name — slammed the door, swearing in 
 his own tongue, and relighted the candles. The 
 dog, after furious barking, suddenly subsided with 
 a low moan. The scientist went over to see what 
 was the matter with it and found it was dead." 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Ill 
 DRAMA. 
 
 The two efforts at dramatic composition which 
 follow, are rough drafts of experimental work but 
 they warrant the statement, we believe, that 
 Samuel G. McClure, Jr., showed a promising apti- 
 tude for it. The drama appealed to him, not 
 only on its technical side, for he was always 
 struggling with the problem of how to present his 
 ideas, but because of the opportunity it offered 
 of creating types of character and throwing them 
 into striking relief by means of dramatic conflict. 
 
 His selection of types in these two embryonic 
 plays illustrates several cardinal traits of his 
 character; his fundamental democracy, his love 
 of beauty, his impatience with man-created ugli- 
 ness, his sympathy for the "under dog" and his 
 interest in all classes of people from the humblest 
 to the highest. This interest was not morbid or 
 merely sentimental, but healthy, young and gen- 
 erous, and touched with understanding sympathy 
 for the most of mankind. 
 
 The merits or demerits of what were probably 
 his first efforts at the dramatic form, written as 
 experiments and for self-instruction, call for no 
 comment. He was enrolled for his senior year at 
 Yale in Professor Crawford's course in Dramatic 
 Composition and was looking forward keenly to 
 the opportunities it presented. He had begun to 
 study the drama for its own sake. 
 
 Both these rough drafts are crude and unfin- 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 ished. It seems likely, however, that the second 
 play was among his latest work. It was type- 
 written by himself, very probably only a short 
 time before his death. 
 
 62 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THE BUG. 
 Act L 
 
 Scene: An all night restaurant of the familiar 
 white-tiled sort. 
 
 As curtain ascends, Dominic, the Greek propri- 
 etor, is seen behind counter. A student of the 
 hard working type is seated eating. 
 
 Student and Dominic converse on various 
 topics, ending on the strangeness of the large 
 number of fires recently. Student's theories: 
 either a policeman, a poet or a wild firebug. Dom- 
 inic says he knows any twenty men who eat at his 
 joint who might be capable of incendiarism. 
 
 Enter policeman, just off duty. Wears slicker, 
 wet. Wind howls outside, banging door shut 
 after him. He talks of the weather — "Bad night 
 for a fire." Talks also of his heroic work in the 
 last few fires. Dominic knows of this and praises 
 him patronizingly. 
 
 Enter a tough looking individual, tall, poorly 
 clad — no overcoat, bloodshot eyes and weak chin, 
 unshaven. 
 
 Policeman and he have violent argument about 
 Jews who suffered recent fire. Policeman shows 
 contempt of man, distrust and suspicion in ques- 
 tioning him. He explains Jews caused trouble 
 in New York — blames Jews violently and madly. 
 
 Student and Dominic have been listening. 
 Student gets up, picks up books and leaves. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Policeman stares after him, asks Dominic where 
 he has seen him before. Dominic answers with a 
 shrug — "Probably in restaurant.' ' 
 
 Policeman leaves, leaving Dominic alone. Sev- 
 eral taxicab parties enter and are waited on by 
 Dominic. Interesting but not nice conversation; 
 witty, full of double-entendres and slams at pro- 
 hibition. Girls show poor manners — cheapness. 
 Men slightly drunk. One of them does a dance to 
 amusement of other unimportant non-descript 
 loafers who have come in. 
 
 In the applause following this, is heard the 
 siren of a fire engine, followed by gongs and rumble 
 of trucks as they run to a fire alarm. All, terri- 
 fied, rush to windows at front and watch engines. 
 One of the loafers rushes out, yelling: 
 
 "It must be near, I hear them stopping now!" 
 
 Returns breathless in a moment with the infor- 
 mation that: 
 
 "It's that big ugly firetrap on the next corner — 
 the Altman Block." 
 
 Dominic gets excited, seizes man by coat — 
 
 "My God, man, is that right? And the wind 
 blowing this way! O my God!" 
 
 All rush out without paying for food and Domi- 
 nic, alone, fastens door, goes to unlock safe and 
 take out the cash bags and put them in his coat 
 pocket. At this moment, door is forced and a tall 
 man, in mask, rushes in, revolver in hand. He 
 holds up Dominic and quickly leaves. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Dominic rushes to door, yelling: 
 "Police, police, fire, murder, police!!" 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Same scene. 
 
 A group of people, talking to Dominic, includes 
 policeman — tall suspicious stranger — student. 
 
 Student — And after that, you called the police- 
 man here? 
 
 Dominic— Yes, but the fellow had too big a 
 start. 
 
 Stranger — God, Dominic! that's too bad. (All 
 start at tone.) — But you missed it, you should 
 have seen the fire. It started in the rear near the 
 basement door. 
 
 Policeman — See here, how do you know where it 
 started? 
 
 Stranger — Why, my rooms are off the alley, and 
 from my window I could see as I looked out at the 
 clouds and the rain falling in lambent puddles. 
 
 All— What? 
 
 Stranger — I could see a tall man, hooded to the 
 ears, with a cap on, crouching among the rubbish 
 there in the shadow. Suddenly he struck a match. 
 A tiny blaze resulted. I watched fascinated, hor- 
 ror stricken. He turned around, looking to right 
 and left, and I could see a pistol's steely barrel 
 flash in his hand. Then he quickly walked away, 
 hidden in the darkness and the rain. 
 
 Policeman — What did you do? 
 
 Stranger — Nothing. What could I do? 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Policeman — Why not put the blaze out or give 
 the alarm? 
 
 Stranger — I told you I was paralyzed with fear. 
 There is no telephone in my rooms and I did not 
 know if the bug would come back. 
 
 All— Who? 
 
 Stranger — The firebug. And anyway, if I 
 had not been afraid, I doubt if I would have moved 
 to put it out. 
 
 Dominic — What? You're a menace to us all! 
 
 Stranger (slowly with hard expression and 
 strange tone that terrifies all)— Perhaps I am. 
 But why should I? Day after day, week on 
 week, have I looked at that ugly building. Why 
 was it there? It was no ornament; the vilest, 
 most hideous thing on earth. And what right 
 did it have to exist? Two Jews built it — two 
 filthy Jews. They shirked their civic duty in 
 building a cheap and ugly firetrap — sacrificed 
 the beauty of nature for their vile commercialism, 
 so they could prosper and grow fat. There are 
 many like them in the world, you know their kind. 
 
 Dominic — Well, what would you do about it? 
 
 Stranger — I — what can I do? Nothing, always 
 nothing. I couldn't begin to burn them all, even 
 if I wanted to. 
 
 Policeman — See here, who are you anyway? 
 
 Stranger — Nothing but a poor worthless poet. 
 (Snickers and smiles.) But what I am, I am; 
 I can't help it. I was born so that I love beauty 
 and I have been denied its sight all my life. I 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 have longed for open spaces where I could roam 
 and dwell alone with nature. But all my life has 
 been spent pent up in this ugly city where the 
 freedom a tradesman has, means license to build 
 ugliness. Why even the foulest swamp in nature 
 is better and more comely than the awful shacks 
 they force on our vision. And even the most 
 violent of nature's mysteries, the volcano, serves 
 a more useful purpose with its lava, smoke and 
 fire. (As he pronounces the last word, his eyes 
 glitter strangely and a wild look comes into his 
 face.) 
 
 The policeman edges over to him, lays hand on 
 shoulder. 
 
 Policeman — Young man, I arrest you in the 
 name of the law. 
 
 Stranger (frightened, sick) — What f-f-for? 
 
 Policeman — Never you mind, you can explain 
 that later. Come along now — no trouble. 
 
 Stranger squirms out of his grasp, turns and 
 flees toward door at rear. Policeman pulls gun 
 and orders him to come back. 
 
 Dominic all this time has been watching the 
 policeman intently. When he sees gun his face 
 lights up — his eyes grow large and he reaches 
 under the counter for his own revolver. Then he 
 hops over counter. 
 
 Dominic — Hold up your hands there, officer! 
 (Takes gun away from him.) Now, the game's 
 up! Where's that money of mine? (Searches 
 his coat pockets). I wouldn't have recognized 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 you if you hadn't pulled that gun. (To by- 
 stander)— George, run and get me a sergeant of 
 police. I've got a dangerous fellow here. 
 
 Student (still scared) — Why, what's the matter 
 with him? 
 
 Dominic — Nothing — not a thing — only he's the 
 Firebug. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 JULIUS 
 Persons 
 
 Julius, a negro servant, well built, with a 
 pleasant grin. 
 
 Annie, an Irish cook, weighing around two 
 hundred; horrible laugh. 
 
 Millie, a common housemaid, efficient but vul- 
 gar. 
 
 John, her beau. 
 
 Mrs. M., the mistress of an American home, 45. 
 
 Donald, her son, 21. 
 
 Betty, her daughter, fashionable, 23, inclined 
 towards aristocracy. 
 
 Lottie, handsome colored girl, thin, mistress to 
 Julius. 
 
 Parson Green and wife, both colored. 
 
 First Act. 
 
 Scene: A modern kitchen that serves as dining 
 room and parlor to the servants. Outside door 
 at left, refrigerator on one side, sink on other. At 
 rear, a large butler's pantry lined on one side with 
 shelves containing dishes, on the other a nickel sink 
 for washing them; butler's pantry has two swing- 
 ing doors with catches so they can remain open; 
 at either side of pantry, large electric stove and 
 gas range. To right, cupboards for food, built in 
 flour-bins, etc.; door with glass pane leads to 
 telephone booth and back stairs. In center, a 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 white table with cloth, around which are straight 
 backed chairs. 
 
 Julius, discovered in the butler's pantry listen- 
 ing at second swinging door. At table, finishing 
 supper, Annie and Millie. 
 
 The tinkle of a bell in the room at the rear is 
 heard. Julius goes through swinging door to 
 carry out dishes. A glimpse of a pretty white 
 panelled dining room is seen through the door. 
 Julius wears white serving jacket and brings back 
 used dessert dishes in several trips. Annie and 
 Millie eat in silence; both are dressed plainly, 
 Annie with apron, Millie in black dress. 
 
 Finally, Julius has, in an incredibly short time, 
 cleared off the dining room table, taken the crumbs 
 away, taken in a water carafe with glasses, and 
 turned off the lights. He places all the dirty 
 dishes in the sink, runs hot water and is about to 
 leave them to soak, when Annie speaks loudly. 
 
 Annie — Julius, come here at once and take away 
 these dishes. 
 
 Julius — Yasum, Fse comin', (Enters, takes 
 away dishes and reenters) — Missus said Ah was 
 to tell you the dinnah was quite smhat tonight. 
 (He sits down at his place at table, starts to eat) . 
 
 Millie — Hump! I'll say it was. 
 
 Annie — It had been better if you hand't 
 scorched these potatoes while I was at the phone. 
 
 Julius — Yessum. Ah didn't go fer to do it. 
 (Laughs, showing white teeth). Lordy, Ah was 
 so excited heahin you talk so sharp to that fellah. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Annie (getting angry and raising her voice) — I 
 sure told him where to get off. 
 
 Millie — What did ya say? Did you have a row 
 with 'im? 
 
 Annie — You bet I did. Hump! Any man 
 that can tell me what I can do — where I can go. 
 I, that have taken prizes for my dancing. O, 
 you needn't laugh, even if I do weigh a lot, I'm 
 the best dancer in town, if I do say it who 
 shouldn't. 
 
 Mrs. M. has quietly entered from the right. 
 She has overheard Annie. 
 
 Mrs. M. (amused) — Annie, did you have a row 
 with your beau? 
 
 Annie — Yessum. He forbid me to go to the 
 dance tonight and I'm going. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well, don't do anything reckless, 
 Annie. There's plenty of men in the world who 
 would fight for a good cook like you, to say nothing 
 of your good looks. 
 
 Annie — He made me mad with his giving orders. 
 I'm not one to take orders from any man, let alone 
 that little runt. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well, please don't stay out too late, 
 Annie. (Turns to Millie) — Are you going to the 
 dance too, Millie? (Millie nods) — Well, I do hope 
 you won't be out till all hours of the night. It 
 makes you too tired for the next day's work. 
 (Addresses Julius) — Julius, here's some money for 
 washing the dishes today. (Gives him a few 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 dollars). Mrs. Wade said she wanted you at her 
 house again tomorrow. 
 
 Julius (who has been the only one to arise on 
 his mistress' entrance) — Yassum. Won't you all 
 want me again soon? Work is mighty scarce, an' 
 Ah has all Ah can do ter make ends meet. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I am sorry, Julius. You are a good 
 worker but I can't afford to employ you all the 
 time. You make things too easy for Annie and 
 Millie here and they are indispensable. Still, you 
 may come next Sunday, as I expect some guests. 
 
 Julius — Thank you, Missus. (Scratches head). 
 Shall Ah come 'bout .one? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes. Now remember, girls, not too 
 late. Goodnight. (Exit). 
 
 A short silence. 
 
 Annie — The old lady gives me a pain, always 
 gossiping with us. 
 
 Millie — Yeah. That'a good joke about her not 
 being able to afford Julius. She is that stingy! 
 
 Julius — Ah done heard them talkin' 'bout us at 
 dinnah. 
 
 Annie (inquisitively) — What'd they say? 
 
 Julius — Sh ! Ah hear someone coming. 
 
 Enter Miss Betty. 
 
 Betty — Millie, could you tell me where you put 
 the gloves I left in the hall last night? 
 
 Millie — Why, Miss Betty, I thought I put 'em 
 in the table drawer. 
 
 Betty — They are not there. You must be more 
 careful, Millie. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Julius — Ah knows whar they is, Miss Betty, 
 Ah go git 'em. 
 
 Millie — Now I remember, Julius put them away 
 when he was helping me dust this morning. 
 
 Exit Miss Betty and Julius. 
 
 Julius (repeating) — Ah knows jes whar they is. 
 
 Annie — Millie, do you want to lose your place 
 here? 
 
 Millie — I don't care. Sometimes I think I'd 
 just as soon. Missus is so stingy; we have no 
 privacy to ourselves and there are better jobs. 
 
 Annie — Well, I don't. You don't realize what 
 a soft thing you have here. We don't have to 
 work very hard, 'specially when Julius is here. 
 
 Millie — You're right there. I make him do ail 
 my work and I notice you do the same. 
 
 Annie — Sure I do. But I don't let Misses M. 
 get wind of it. If she knew how much he does 
 here, she'd be likely to fire us and keep him alone. 
 Why he can cook 'most as well as I. 
 
 Millie — And he can do lots of heavy work, I 
 don't. And she's that stingy . . . 
 
 Annie — We've got to get him in wrong, that's 
 what I say! 
 
 Millie— I'll tell 'em he insulted me the first 
 chance I get. 
 
 Annie— That ought 'er do it. 
 
 Julius enters butler's pantry and starts washing 
 dishes. Both hear him come in and fall silent. 
 
 Millie — I'm going up to fix my hair. You 
 comin'? 
 
 73 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Annie — In a minit. 
 
 (Exit Millie). 
 
 Annie — Julius, come here and get your dessert. 
 Here's some more dishes too. (She rises and 
 serves his dessert.) 
 
 Julius takes away dishes and returns to his 
 chair. 
 
 Annie — Now tell me what the family said. 
 
 Julius (grins — reports the following conversa- 
 tion in his own manner. — Marse Don asked why 
 Missus didn't give me more work. She done told 
 him she couldn't afford it. Miss Betty says she, 
 'Mother!' Then she done complain that I'se too 
 good a worker, says I spoil the other help. (Grins) . 
 Says I caused trouble over at Miss' Wades', 'cause 
 Ah made the help want me 'round all the time an' 
 they got dissatisfied. Then Mister done spoke 
 up, said he wished they wouldn't talk 'bout the 
 servants all the time. Said a woman' conversa- 
 tion was circumscribed on the North by her ser- 
 vants, on the East by her bridge games and parties, 
 on the South by her gossip of her neighbors and 
 on the West by her clothes. Then Misses com- 
 plain* he don't understan* her troubles and he 
 comes right back at her about how he handles the 
 men at the office without trouble. Miss Betty 
 says to stop bickering; says kinder kiddin' like 
 that she wants ter know if Ah told the truth about 
 doing all the work on the farm last summer while 
 Marse Don and the rest lay 'round in the shade 
 drinking elderberry wine. Marse Don gits mad 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 an' denies it — says Ah ought ter be horsewhipped 
 fer telling sech a whopper; says they don't know 
 how ter treat servants, spoil 'em when they ought 
 ter scold and vice versie. 
 
 Annie — Did they say anything about me? 
 
 Julius — No — 'cept 'bout the dinner. 
 
 Julius (now fairly started story telling, anxious 
 to keep on) — You know, Ah did tell the truth 
 'bout las' summer. Marse Don didn't drink much 
 but some of the other boys did. Why, one noon 
 we was all sitting round pretty tired out 'cause 
 the sun was mighty hot even through the woods 
 whar we was chopping an' Dave, he'd been drink- 
 ing some, he goes over to the car an' gits out his 
 gun. Says he's gwine to have target practice. 
 So he places the bottle on the stump and shoots 
 away at it. O, Lordy, ! He took 'bout ten shots 
 an' he didn't come within a mile of it. Every- 
 body laugh fit to kill at him. Then he gits kind 
 of sore and says he'll show 'em. He ups with 
 the pistol an aims at a big hornet's nest right 
 above us all, a great big nest it was, 'bout twenty 
 feet from the ground. And sure 'nough he hits it 
 plumb in the middle. O, Lordy! you should have 
 seed those hornets come out. Mad — why they 
 was jest crazy. We all jumps up and runs, they 
 following. Ah done made fer the road whar Ah 
 could strech mah laiges, but Marse Dave, he 
 was jes' drunk enough to git mixed up and he run 
 into the swamp. He got in way over his hips and 
 couldn't move an' you oughter seed him. His 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 face was the size of a pumpkin, all puffed out. 
 Lordy, he sure was a funny looking sight. 
 Annie — Was it real wine you had? 
 Julius — It sure was. We don* got it from the 
 farmers out there, spite of inhibition. But 
 t'wasn't like the shine yo git down in Kaintuck. 
 Annie — Where? Kentucky? 
 Julius — Yessir. Why when Ah used ter live 
 down thar. Ah used ter git this white mule. O, 
 Boy! That's mean stuff. Ah used ter drink 
 quite a bit too 'cause me an' my wife don't get 
 along. An' when we'd had some we'd sing. This 
 is the fav'rite. (He sings). 
 
 An' every good warm night 
 
 I'd leave my wife an' mine 
 
 For through you're brain so bright 
 
 Glimmers that white moonshine 
 
 O, O, the tender fights 
 
 Ah'd have with wifey mine 
 
 For through 
 
 Annie — Why, Julius, I never knew you were 
 married. Why don't you bring her up North. 
 
 Julius — You see, it's like this. She done want 
 a divorce so's she can have 'nother man. She don' 
 like the North. She was a good wife to me, used 
 to make lots of money takin' in washing. But 
 she run 'way from me with a low down nigger, an' 
 Ah couldn't stand that. Ah couldn't go on living 
 with her after that, so Ah come up heah, so's 
 she can have a divorce. She still writes to me 
 regular, too— even sends me money now an' then. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Enter Donald from right. 
 
 Donald — Annie, I want to talk to Julius. (Exit 
 Annie to right). 
 
 Julius — Yessir, Marse Don. 
 
 Donald — Jule, you darned, good-for-nothing nig- 
 ger, darn your hide anyhow. You got me into trouble 
 telling everybody about the wine last summer. 
 Don't you know my father won't stand for that? 
 
 Julius — Marse Don, Ah's sorry. 
 
 Donald — Don't you ever say anything about me 
 again or I'll give you a good licking. I've a good 
 notion to give you one now. Come here. (Julius 
 comes over). Lean over. Turn your face down. 
 There. (He cuffs his ears). So. Now the other 
 side. (Julius turns). (Boxes other ear). (Julius 
 groans). Now bring me two glasses. (He sits 
 down on table, lights a cigarette). 
 
 Julius enters with tray, glasses. 
 
 Donald — Can you lock that door? (Indicates 
 door to right). 
 
 Julius — Yassir, Marse Don. 
 
 Donald — See here. Look at this (produces 
 flask). Smell it. (Julius smells). What do you 
 think it is? 
 
 Julius (grins) — It smells like juniper juice. 
 
 Donald — Now I want you to taste it. (Pours 
 him a small drink). Here. 
 
 Julius — Now, Marse Don, you ain't gwine force 
 me ter drink this stuff, are you? (getting pale with 
 fright) Lordy, it might be alchemy or something. 
 I don't want ter die yit. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Donald — That's for you to find out. I was told 
 by an eminent bootlegger that it was the real stuff. 
 
 Julius — Can't we try it on a chicken that's out- 
 side in de coop? 
 
 Donald — O, alright. My, but you are a funny, 
 cowardly nigger. 
 
 Julius — Yassir, Ah'll fetch the bird right in. 
 (Exit to left). 
 
 Don strolls around room, humming a popular 
 tune. Sees banjo in corner and picks it up, takes 
 it out of case, plays a few chords poorly and lays 
 it down, shaking his head. 
 
 Re-enter Julius with a live rooster. 
 
 Donald — Ha! now for the great experiment. 
 (Feeds liquor to fowl with spoon). 
 
 Julius (holding chicken, has to let it go) — Lordy 
 sakes alive, look at the crazy thing go. (Both laugh 
 heartily — watch chicken. It runs around room 
 wildly and soon sinks exhausted. Julius picks it up 
 carefully). The poor fella's drunk, now he's asleep. 
 
 Donald — Well, while we're waiting to see if he 
 lives, play me a tune on your banjo. 
 
 Julius (never so happy as when he can play) — 
 That's jes' what Ah been wanting to do all day. 
 Dis am de first chance Ah got. (He tunes banjo 
 and plays old Southern love song, sings the words). 
 
 Donald — That's great. I wish I could play. 
 Well, the bird's still alive. I'll mix these drinks 
 while you put him to bed. 
 
 Exit Julius — re-enters soon. Meanwhile Don 
 mixes the drinks, humming the tune just played. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Donald— There! That's that. Here's a toast 
 to the life of the farmer who produces enough for 
 his own needs, raising even his own strong drink. 
 (He raises his own glass and drinks. Julius waits 
 until his master has finished — takes his glass, then 
 drinks his own portion). 
 
 Donald — Now, Jule, let me see you clog dance 
 just once. 
 
 Julius moves over where there is room and 
 starts his feet rattling. He gets going faster and 
 faster, while Don claps his hands. 
 
 Donald — Come on, try a few stunts now. 
 
 Mrs. M. (who has entered from the butler's 
 pantry) — Donald! what's the meaning of all this 
 racket? (Sees bottle on table) Julius! have you 
 been drinking? (Julius slides over and puts bottle 
 in his pocket). 
 
 Julius — Ah's sorry, Missus. Marse Don wanted 
 me to do a jig fer 'im, and Ah can't without a 
 little drap of something. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well, Donald, I want you to see to it 
 that Julius does not drink again in this house. 
 I'll not tell your father this once, if you'll promise 
 not to encourage him again. 
 
 Donald — Mother, you're a peach. I'll come in, 
 in a minute, I want to tell Julius of my plans for 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. M. (leaving) — All right, Donald dear. 
 
 Donald — Jule, that was a close shave. You 
 saved my life. Whew! 
 
 Julius — Ah's afraid, Ah's in bad with Missus. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Donald — Don't you worry, Julius. Listen. 
 In a month I'm going to be married. Now I 
 know all about you, Julius, and I want you to get 
 that divorce of yours and marry this brown- 
 skin gal of yours. 
 
 Julius — Yas, Marse Don, that's what Ah want 
 ter do. All's done got religion and Ah want ter 
 do what's right, only Ah hain't had 'nough money, 
 ner no luck with that wife in Kaintuck. 
 
 Donald — You write her immediately and tell 
 her she must get her divorce mighty soon. And 
 when you marry, I'll promise you steady work 
 and good comfortable quarters. 
 
 Julius — Yassir, Marse Don, that's mighty fine 
 of you. Ah sure would like to work fer you, and 
 my Lottie, she's a good cook and she'll do house- 
 work besides, if you give us a place together. 
 
 Donald— All right, Julius. Then that's settled. 
 Good night. 
 
 Julius goes into pantry and starts washing 
 dishes. Annie and Millie enter from right with 
 their hats and coats on, speak to Julius about 
 locking up, and leaving a light for them, and exit 
 to left. 
 
 Curtain falls on Julius still bending over the 
 sink. 
 
 Act II. 
 Scene the same, three hours later. 
 Annie, very tired, enters from outside door, 
 throws off hat and coat, sighs and sinks exhausted 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 in the first chair. The electric light over the 
 sink glows at dim; she sits still a moment in the 
 half-light then, her head falls forward in her arms 
 and she weeps quietly. She hears footsteps pause 
 on the outside steps and hurriedly wipes her eyes, 
 powders nose, sits erect, ready for company. 
 Door is opened slowly and Millie rushes in, her 
 hair disheveled, as if she were fleeing from her 
 lover's embrace. He follows, chases her around 
 table and catches her easily. When she sees 
 Annie, she stops. 
 
 Millie (pushing her man away, embarrassed) — 
 O, er, gee, Annie, this here's John. 
 
 Annie — I'm glad to meet you, I'm sure. 
 
 John (also embarrassed, flushing) — Glad ter 
 know youse. 
 
 Millie — Why can't you take off your cap when 
 you meet a lady? I'll show you manners, you big 
 lommax (Snatches cap off, puts it on hook, 
 turns up lights). 
 
 John — The weather seems to be perking up, eh? 
 
 Millie (breaking a slight pause which threatens 
 to become embarrassing) — O, wasn't that the 
 grandest party. We had a good time, didn't we, 
 John? 
 
 John (showing himself slightly henpecked in 
 spite of his size) — If you say it, why then we did, 
 Millie. 
 
 Millie (not pleased) — Why don't youse have a 
 mind of your own? 
 
 Annie — I wonder if Miss Betty or Mister Don 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 have left any cake for us. (Crosses room and 
 looks in cake box). 
 
 Millie— Do you want some cake, smarty? 
 
 John — Well, if you — (gets warning glance from 
 Millie) please? 
 
 Millie (playfully assuming a belligerent atti- 
 tude toward John. Has come quite close to him 
 and shakes him, grasping his coat lapels) — Oh, 
 why can't you be a man? You're an awful stick, 
 you are. 
 
 Annie — Here, you kids, stop fussing. I found 
 it doesn't help any. Look at me. I had a row 
 with my steady and I made him terrible mad. It 
 took me an hour to smooth him down tonight and 
 I might have been dancing. And he didn't come 
 in for a bite afterwards. Here now, take some 
 cake. It's all right, John, I made it, not Millie. 
 
 Millie (sore) — I can cook as well as you. 
 
 Annie— Then why don't you? It isn't because 
 you don't like to, is it? 
 
 Millie — No, it's because any one can get a good 
 cook but a good maid's hard to find. 
 
 John — That's what I say. You sure can make 
 good fudge, 'cause I had some last Sunday. 
 
 Millie — I'll make you some more some day. 
 (The compliment makes her feel good and she 
 dances around room, singing "Da, da lee, dum de 
 dee, dadee de dee" to tune of "My Old Kentucky 
 Home" medley. Suddenly she stops, utters a 
 loud, "My Gawd," and kicks object out from 
 under table. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Annie — What have you found there? 
 
 John — It looks like a basket. 
 
 Millie — Of course it is, stupid. 
 
 John — Well, what's so wrong about that? Why 
 shouldn't a basket be under your kitchen table? 
 
 Millie (paying no attention to this question and 
 placing basket on table before Annie) — Look, 
 here's potatoes, canned soup, flour, tomaters, 
 beans and even celery and lettuce. Did you put 
 this stuff here, Annie? 
 
 Annie — Not I, Millie. Do you suppose — ? I'll 
 bet he did. 
 
 John — Who? You don't mean me, do you? I 
 haven't been here before this evening. 
 
 Millie — O, you fool! No, she means that low 
 nigger, Julius. 
 
 Annie — What are we to do about it? 
 
 Millie — Let's see. (Seeking to impress John 
 with her command over the situation) — If he did 
 it, he must be coming back for it. Let's see if 
 he took the extra door key. (Looks). 
 
 Annie and John — Is it there? 
 
 Millie — No, it's gone. Well, John, you run 
 out and get the nearest policeman. He won't be 
 anywhere near probably, but you run around this 
 block, then if you don't find him, try the one 
 North, and if you still don't see him, the one to 
 the South of here. He ought to be on his beat 
 somewhere. 
 
 John — Shall I run? (Picks up cap). 
 
 Millie — Well, if you're not man enough to run — 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 John— I'll run. (Exit). 
 
 Annie — Do you think we'd better wake Mrs.? 
 
 Millie — Wake her! Why she always hears us 
 come in. The walls of this house are like paper 
 and she doesn't sleep soundly at all, I know that. 
 
 Annie — Suppose Julius should come back before 
 John gets a cop! 
 
 Millie (composedly) — Say, what was the idea in 
 speaking about my cooking before John? Do you 
 want to queer me? I thought you were my friend. 
 
 Annie — I'm going to wake Mrs. — if he does. 
 Listen (runs to door and looks out) — O, Lord, 
 there he is! I'll fetch Mrs. right away. 
 
 Millie (moves around room, says to herself) — 
 Just like that cowardly Annie to leave me alone 
 with him. 
 
 The outer door is pushed open quietly. Julius 
 enters, stops short on seeing Millie, who is bend- 
 ing over adjusting her stocking which is rolled 
 half way to the knee. He grins and rolls whites of 
 eyes. 
 
 Julius — O, Lordy, 'scuse me. I didn't mean to 
 intrude, but Ah don' forget suffin'/ 
 
 Millie — If you mean your basket, it's right here. 
 
 Julius — Yassum, that's it. Marse Don said Ah 
 might take a few things. (This is obviously a lie 
 as he shifts his gaze and whines a little) — But 
 you needn't tell Missus. 
 
 Millie — Why not? (coming closer to him). Why 
 shouldn't I tell whoever I please? You old 
 rascal (pokes him in stomach). 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Julius — Now see here, Missy, don't you do that. 
 
 Millie — Who cares? I'll poke you if I want to 
 and I'll tell too. 
 
 Julius (alarmed) — Now see here, honey, (grasps 
 her shoulders) — Don't you say miffing! Ah don' 
 want ter have ter hurt you none. 
 
 Millie (beats him on breast with both fists and 
 while apparently struggling to break away, wrig- 
 gles closer in his arms) — Let me go, you're hurting 
 me! 
 
 Mrs. M. enters excitedly, followed by Annie. 
 Millie instantly extricates herself, slaps Julius 
 in the face and yells, "O, you beast!" 
 
 Mrs. M. — Julius, explain your conduct here. 
 What does this mean? 
 
 Julius (stuttering) — You see Missus, it's lak 
 dis. Ah's coming back after some food that Ah 
 need for mah gal, an', an' dis gal here, she don' 
 impose herself on me. Ah wasn't doing nuffi'n 
 'cept take a little somethin' ter eat. 
 
 Millie — He insulted me. 
 
 Mrs. M. — You admit you were stealing, then. 
 
 Julius — Noam, Ah was only takin' a little 
 suffin'. Ah didn't think you all'd mind. Why, 
 down South, Massir expected us ter tak' suffin,' 
 esspecial after any big holiday. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Julius, you need say no more. This 
 is not the South. You have stolen from me, and 
 you have insulted Millie. I can't have that sort 
 of thing in my house. You can go and don't 
 come back here again. 
 
 85 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Julius (unable to grasp fact that he is not be- 
 lieved or understood, starts to plead) — O, Missus, 
 please, Ah didn't understand. Won* you' please 
 forgive me. Ah's don' tried mighty hard ter 
 please, and Ah'll never take nuffin' again. 
 
 Mrs. M. — No, Julius, I mean what I say. You 
 are discharged. . 
 
 Julius (piteously) — O, Missus, Ah don' know 
 what Ah'll do. Work's so scahce, an' mah gal's 
 sick, an', an', please, won't you give me sufrin' 
 now and then. 
 
 Mrs. M. — No. (points to door). Go! 
 
 Julius (realized at last his position, hopelessly) — 
 All right, I'se goin'. (Then with sudden fire) — 
 But befor' Ah go, I'se gwine say a few things. 
 Ah've done all the work round here fer every time 
 Ah've come. Ah've don' all Annie's work, and 
 waited han' an' foot on everybody. An' Ah've 
 never complain'. Ah can do all the work round a 
 house a woman can do. Ah done did all the work 
 on the farm this Summer, while . . . (suddenly 
 chokes up, an' turns away, weeping). All right, 
 Ah's goin', but Ah neber 'spected ter be treated 
 lak dis. (He slowly reaches door, turns, looks 
 appealingly at Misses, says) — If Marse Don were 
 here . . . tell Marse Don, I done got in trouble, 
 not on 'count of him though, and I'se leavin*. 
 (He opens door and goes out). 
 
 Mrs. M. — Girls, it's high time you were in bed. 
 We are well rid of that Julius. 
 
 Millie — Aren't you going to arrest him or 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 nothing? I sent my man out to call the perlice- 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. M. — No, this is not a case for the police. 
 When he comes tell him it was a false alarm. Don't 
 forget to lock up. Goodnight, (this last from 
 the doorway at right. Closes door behind her). 
 
 Annie (walks over to Millie and nods her head 
 approvingly)— I'll hand it to you, kid, you sure 
 are clever. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Scene — A dingy attic room of a tenement 
 house. No furniture except cot. No heat. Gas 
 jet in wall. On the cot, a colored woman, young 
 in years. She is ill and coughs frequently. It is 
 Winter and cold. Dusk is setting in. 
 
 Julius enters by the single door. He is in rags 
 and looks sick. The figure on the cot groans and 
 looks around at him. Julius, crossing over, sits 
 on foot of cot. 
 
 Julius — How's mah honey tonight? 
 
 Lottie — Ah don' know, Julie. Did you get 
 work today? 
 
 Julius (shakes his head) — Ah done tried efer- 
 thin'; dere'snouse. 
 
 Lottie — Ah wish Ah were dead. 
 
 Julius (piteously) — Don' say it, honey. Ah 
 haven't got enough even to buy yo' all a box. ... 
 (a pause) — O, I've tried and I've worked my 
 hands off to make money. I was always thinkin' 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 while I worked. Ah'm poor, Ah got to work an' 
 Ah never got any richer. Ah never got any more 
 work. It seems though folks didn't want me to 
 work hard. Dey jes wanted me to pertend to be 
 hard at work an' ter loaf lak all der res'. O, 
 Lordy, Ah know Ah's only a poor nigger, but Ah 
 a good nigger. Ah've gone ter meeting regular, 
 an' Ah've don' said ma'h prayers. Ah couldn't 
 marry you, count of my wife, an' she's gwine git a 
 divorce anyway. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Arrival of letter tells of his wife's divorce. He 
 gets some money from her for having been so 
 complacent about it. 
 
 Enter Mr. Don. He apologizes for his entrance, 
 explains he heard they were in trouble and has 
 come to see what he can do for them. Their 
 mutual experiences are related since last they saw 
 each other. Mr. Don tells of his marriage — 
 Julius of his divorce. Mr. Don tells Julius of 
 his new home that he has just moved into and 
 says he wants two good servants whom he expects 
 to treat well — to punish severely for shortcom- 
 ings — to reward well for good service. Mr. Don 
 makes requirement that they marry. Both agree 
 with joy — like the children they are. Julius 
 calls down banister to Deacon Jones who occupies 
 room on second floor, to hurry up. Julius pro- 
 duces a license that he got long ago and the play 
 ends as the minister starts the marriage ceremony. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 [It seems worth while to add here, a few of the 
 brief written criticisms of the Drama, done by 
 Samuel G. McClure, Jr., as part of his class work, 
 during his Junior year at Yale. They reveal a 
 more than usual grasp of the principles of dramatic 
 composition and the true purpose of the Drama.] 
 
 RIDERS TO THE SEA. 
 
 Riders to The Sea, is, in my opinion, a master- 
 piece of dramatic construction. It has just 
 enough of the unfolding method of Ibsen, com- 
 bined with the right amount of the mysticism of 
 Maeterlink and the forward action of Rostand, to 
 make it well worthy of study. 
 
 In addition, the play is an unusual one because 
 it is a bit of realism from one of the queerest spots 
 on earth. It is a tragedy because in this place 
 the young men die soon, leaving the old alone 
 and unsupported. And these old people are 
 superstitious; they are affected by the horrors of 
 the place, so that they seem unnatural, terrible. 
 One is inclined to think that the terrific strain of 
 their lives leaves them mildly unbalanced, if not 
 insane. Certainly there can be no other reason 
 for Maurya's forgetfulness of a blessing for her 
 last son's parting, nor her relief after all her sons 
 are dead. 
 
 In the treatment of the next-to-last-son's death 
 by the two girls and their subsequent breaking of 
 the news to their mother, Ibsen's manner is plain- 
 ly visible. We are kept in suspense as all the 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 past tragedies are unfolded, suggesting more 
 terrible ones to come. Then the action of Bart- 
 ley in riding off without food or a blessing, Maur- 
 ya's dream, and the bringing in of the body give 
 an extra stimulus in the way of real action. And 
 interwoven throughout is mysticism, the weird- 
 ness of the injustice of the sea, the 'keening' of the 
 mourning women, and the ghostly dream. The 
 realism of Nora's last remark that she was fonder 
 of Michael touches off the whole play, and makes 
 you think that somehow it is all for the best, and 
 that the old woman deserves her hard fate. 
 
 THE HOUR GLASS. 
 
 The Hour Glass seemed to me to be William 
 Butler Yeats' version of Marlow's Faustus. You 
 have instead of the Devil, Mephistopheles, an 
 unknown angel, instead of the learned Doctor 
 Faustus, a cynical Wise man. There is not the 
 actual device of selling a soul to the devil, but 
 there is certainly the same dramatic trick of hav- 
 ing the man die at the end of the hour. In Faus- 
 tus, though, we are inclined to think that this is 
 done with greater effect, since the striking of the 
 quarter hour is more emphatic than the silent 
 flow of sand through the hour glass. And the 
 parallel is noticeable in that both men turn cow- 
 ards at the end, seeking every means in their 
 power to save their souls. 
 
 The question at once comes to our minds, is 
 this true of life? Is this the way in which all 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 known disbelievers and atheists have met their 
 end? We have ample evidence that it is not. 
 There have been just as many non-believers who 
 have faced death bravely and with confidence 
 as there have been Christians who were in terror 
 and misery at the time of passing into the un- 
 known. But Yeats presents us with the conven- 
 tional view. 
 
 Moreover, in the sign that is shown to the stu- 
 dents at their teacher's death, we see the worst 
 sort of cheap religious superstition which has the 
 miraculous effect of making all believe. One 
 wonders that it really could — so steeped in dis- 
 belief are they that it seems fantastic to have 
 them change so suddenly. Surely there would be 
 some of them at any rate who would not be taken 
 in by the words of the fool; who would have sense 
 enough to see that he was imposing on them in a 
 moment of irrationality. 
 
 CYRANO de BERGERAC. 
 
 Rostand won great and deserved fame through 
 this, perhaps his best known play. In comment- 
 ing on this play, it is impossible to pick out and 
 criticise any flaws, unless one is a much better 
 critic than I. I am forced to content myself 
 with only touching on those points that made the 
 greatest impression, and try to explain why. 
 
 In the first place, the whole love affair between 
 Cyrano and Roxane is done in masterful fashion. 
 Compare this with the too frequent sketches of 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 love-at-first-sight that one sees — for instance — at 
 places like Poli's Palace. There it is easy to see 
 the falseness and absurdity of trying to make an 
 amour start suddenly out of nowhere and proceed 
 in five minutes to a grand declaration of passionate 
 love. It always leaves a distasteful impression, 
 if one thinks about it at all, for it is contrary to 
 the realities of life. Shaw recognized the 
 humor in this sort of a situation, and made sly 
 fun at it in 'You Never Can Tell!' But a serious 
 treatment deserves serious consideration, and 
 Rostand impresses us by his comparison of two 
 men's loves, a sudden infatuation and a long- 
 cherished passion strengthened by childhood 
 memories. He leaves us no doubt, I think, as to 
 which is the nobler; I only wish he had made 
 Cyrano's the happier. 
 
 Next, the balcony scene, while it reminded one 
 of Romeo and Juliet, is one of the best pictures of 
 love-making we had had since Shakespeare. It 
 avoids the heaviness of the earlier scene by quick 
 transitions to humor and pathos. 
 
 Lastly, for a climax I know of no better than that 
 at the end of the fourth act, when Cyrano leaps for- 
 ward to meet the charge shouting, "Famed fight- 
 ers, liars, desperates, they are the Gascony Ca- 
 dets !" . Why, it makes shivers run down your spine- 
 
 I think we should congratulate Rostand for 
 giving us a drama — a great tragedy — containing 
 all the glamor of a romance of Dumas. Such an 
 achievement is worthy of the highest praise. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 KING ARGIMENES. 
 
 For a dramatic picture of misery and poverty, 
 one has only to point to King Argimenes and The 
 Unknown Warrior. Somehow to see a former 
 king debased and suffering the hardships of slaves 
 seems to me to be a sight that would have de- 
 lighted Shakespeare. Yet, even in the midst of 
 the worst conditions imaginable, there is hope, 
 and we are thrilled to see Argimenes make the 
 most of his opportunity and rise once more to his 
 former power. 
 
 To me, this is the proper theme for a drama. 
 There is a dramatic interest aroused in each one 
 of us in seeing any man improve his condition 
 from slavery to mastery. It is what we like to 
 see those about us doing for themselves, it is what 
 we wish we could do for ourselves. It is the spirit 
 of modern life. 
 
 And in this play, we believe that Dunsany has 
 served us a real treat. He has made us believe a 
 little bit more in the old 'saw* that, 'right is 
 might.' He has purposely made his play simple, 
 he has not developed character except in the 
 cleverest, most subtile way — by the use of legit- 
 imate speech to bring out the inmost desires 
 and thoughts of each one of fris characters. Truly, 
 this is an inspiring and healthy drama. 
 
 Incidentally, the best thing about it is that the 
 actual fighting is not seen on the stage. Yet all 
 the effect is conveyed with far more force since it 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 is heard in the distance. Thus the play is saved 
 from becoming a melodrama or a farce. 
 
 But the ending is also good, very cleverly ar- 
 ranged. The spectacle of the new king almost 
 forgetting himself when it is announced that the 
 dog of King Darniak is dead, and almost ordering 
 it served as a meal re-emphasized the suddenness 
 of the victory, and recalled again the pathetic 
 hunger of the former slaves. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 IV. 
 LETTERS 
 
 No form of composition mirrors the spirit and 
 character of the writer better than friendly letters 
 written in comradeship and affection. For this 
 reason selections from the personal letters of 
 Samuel G. McClure, Jr., are included in this 
 memorial volume. 
 
 Some of them reveal the youth in his Prepara- 
 tory School life at Taft, others his experiences in 
 the Naval training unit and the later ones give 
 some pictures of his college life. Many of them 
 are notable for the humor that was always bub- 
 bling up in him, while others, especially that to 
 his grandmother which closes the collection, show 
 the considerate tenderness and affection which, 
 to those who knew him best, were among his 
 noblest qualities. 
 
 As far as possible, personal references have been 
 excluded, except as they seemed necessary to give 
 lucidity to the extracts. 
 
 95 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 (between April 7 and May 1, 1917). 
 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I got a letter from Dad yesterday but have not 
 heard from you since last week. Dad forgot to 
 give me his New York address so I am sending 
 this home. I guess I can't take a Sunday off this 
 term as I lack points — but I wrote Bob asking 
 him to come to Waterbury next Sunday for a noon 
 dinner (at the Elton). I can get off from 11 A. M. 
 to 4 o'clock without points if I have relatives in 
 Waterbury. Dad said something about coming 
 up to Waterbury, but as he will not be in the East 
 next Sunday, I guess we will not have a reunion. 
 The mail monitor just brought a letter from Bob 
 (written in class very hastily) saying that he 
 hoped to come if he doesn't leave there at the end 
 of the week for R. O. T. C. Training Camp. 
 
 Dad has sent me considerable money and I 
 have spent most of it furnishing the room. Cur- 
 tis, my old roommate, left for tutoring school in 
 New Haven last Thursday and I bought a great 
 deal of his stuff. He left a desk also which I will 
 try to buy from him when he comes up. He 
 promised to come up in a few Sundays. 
 
 I have been playing baseball on the class teams 
 at third base. Today we lost 15 to 6. In the 
 last inning they brought in three runs (knocked 
 a home run with the bases full and no out). It 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 was a good game, nevertheless. I made one 
 assist, three errors (I think) one hit, got on base 
 twice on errors, and once on a pass. I wish I had 
 gone out for the game in earnest, now; as they 
 haven't got a very strong team this year — only 
 one T man back. 
 
 O, yes, I dropped history and am overjoyed. 
 I mean to specialize on the things I need to get a 
 recommendation in, and substitute chemistry 
 and physics for history. As you know, I never 
 have liked the history teacher, the large class of 
 younger fellows, nor the stuff itself. When you 
 write Dad, tell him to wire me if he is coming up 
 here. 
 
 Yours, with love to all, 
 
 Sam McClure, Jr. 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 May 1, 1917. 
 (rainy all day and colder!) 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 Sunday evening Bob and I met — he couldn't 
 come at noon on account of the dentist's— in 
 Waterbury, and had a very nice visit. It is un- 
 necessary to say anything of Dad's visit, but 
 nevertheless I must say that I was very much 
 pleased to see him; and I wish that you could have 
 come to New York with him. If that had hap- 
 pened I might have been able to take a Sunday off. 
 Everything has resumed its natural course now 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 and there have been no bad effects — except that I 
 got 40 in that English test I took when Dad was 
 here. They are terribly discouraging but I'm 
 learning more by getting low marks than other- 
 wise. 
 
 I was informed last night that I was not elected 
 track manager for next year. I didn't know that 
 the election would come so soon and had let Wood- 
 ruff get ahead of me in the matter of work. So he 
 deserved the job. I am rather glad that it is over 
 as it was not the cinch I had been led to expect. 
 Now I can go in for tennis, and to that end I 
 bought a good racket — some time ago, however. 
 
 I just wrote Elinor in reply to a very funny 
 letter of hers — telling her that she had a wonderful 
 gift for writing lengthy articles about nothing and 
 that the only thing I deduced from her epistle was 
 that she was playing some tennis and that the 
 weather was fine. I am afraid her course in Eng- 
 lish under a Harvard graduate is beginning to show 
 results — even in her letters. Therefore it might 
 be a very good thing for her to change colleges 
 next year. I wrote Al recently, perhaps he men- 
 tioned the fact (boastingly) that he was actually 
 keeping up a correspondence. 
 
 ***** Have you kept track of the 
 errors I've made (in the Papyrus*)? It's funny. 
 Please don't forget to write. 
 
 With love to all, gAM 
 
 * The school paper of which he was one of the 
 local editors. 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 (About Oct. 1, 1917). 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 School has completely started. After having a 
 fine time in New Haven and Milford, I am back at 
 work again. I wrote Al several days ago that, 
 although I expected to stay at the Taft Hotel in 
 New Haven, I was invited out to Milford by 
 Royal Bassett. It is 10 miles from New Haven 
 and we were driven back and forth by Royal's 
 chauffeur. 
 
 Sunday night we called on some girls, one of 
 whom goes to Bennett's and knows M. W. Mon- 
 day night we took some girls to movies and Tues- 
 day night we took them to a show at Shubert's 
 Theatre in New Haven. I won't say at the 
 present writing what I did in the exams; however, 
 I guess I did as well as I ever have, if not better. 
 I'll let you know about next Monday, when I 
 expect to hear from them. If they should be sent 
 to you please send them at once by special de- 
 livery. 
 
 Football started today for everybody. A fellow 
 named Val Ely and I had to coach the second 
 squad for 20 minutes, so I guess I've got a "drag" 
 with the coach. I have a slight "pull" with 
 Royal, the football captain, also. * * * * I want 
 to know Elinor's address and something about her. 
 In Dad's telegram he said she had been sick. First 
 thing I knew of it. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 What is Bob doing or planning this year? 
 Please write soon. 
 As ever, 
 
 Your loving son, 
 Sam. 
 p.s. — Private. 
 
 Please forgive me for speaking so crossly that 
 last Sunday. I am sorry. I was so tired I was 
 short on patience. Lots of love. 
 
 S. M. 
 
 THE TAFT ANNUAL 
 
 Watertown, Conn., Fall, 1917. 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 Forgive me if I seemed to neglect you in writ- 
 ing, but I wanted to wait until I could tell you 
 how our first letter game came out. Last Satur- 
 day I played during the whole game at right, 
 thereby winning my T. We won 6-0; although 
 we were down under the shadow of their goal 
 time after time — about 5 — they held wonderfully 
 and we were unable to get a touch-down, scoring 
 by two drop kicks. 
 
 It was a rather windy day. They won the toss 
 and we kicked off to them against the wind. We 
 held them and they kicked — then we kicked soon 
 again but it was a short one on account of the 
 wind. Then they opened up with all they had 
 and before we knew it the ball was on our 4-yard 
 line — on 4th down however. We held and kicked 
 to the middle of the field. From then on, it was 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 easier for us, since we knew their attack and they 
 didn't come so close to our goal line, although they 
 were in our territory all the time. In the second 
 quarter they tried 2 drop kicks — against the wind, 
 however, and they were unsuccessful. It was 
 in this quarter that we had our first chance to 
 score, when we were on their 10-yard line. But 
 we were penalized 15 yards for offside or holding 
 and so tried a drop kick which went right between 
 the posts. In the third quarter we repeated the 
 performance with the same result, and in the last 
 we were constantly menaced until Angier inter- 
 cepted a forward pass and we got the ball in the 
 middle of the field. The game ended when we 
 were on their 7-yard line — first down. Alto- 
 gether, it was a very evenly matched game, but I 
 think we would have beaten them more decisively, 
 had we won the toss, for you can't imagine what a 
 handicap that wind was. 
 
 Well, Dad, if we win next Saturday we get gold 
 footballs and if we are not scored on then, we will 
 be the first team Taft ever put out that wasn't 
 scored on. We have already equaled the record, 
 not having been scored on so far. 
 
 This morning Otis, Benjamin (left-end) and 
 Hoyt, (quarterback) and myself were invited to 
 breakfast with Mr. Macintosh, the history teach- 
 er. We had a fine meal, the features of which were 
 real cream and butter, toast, marmalade, boiled 
 eggs and bacon, also oranges and shredded wheat. 
 Outside of that there wasn't anything else except 
 
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 coffee and water. We didn't have any celebra- 
 tion last night, since they decided to wait until 
 after next Saturday's game. 
 With lots of love, 
 
 Sam, Jr. 
 
 William E. Otis, Whitford C. Gillies, 
 
 Chairman. He's here Manager. 
 
 THE TAFT ANNUAL 
 
 Watertown, Conn., November, 1917. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 Here I am out at the house enjoying not being 
 in training very much. 
 
 To begin at the beginning, we have had a very 
 successful football season as you doubtless know, 
 scoring 165 points to our opponents 0. We won 
 the Pomfret game 6-0 and the Westminster 47-0. 
 I played all the time and no one was hurt — more 
 than a few bruises. Last Saturday there was a 
 big bonfire and a celebration in which the Fb team 
 rode around town in a wagon with the school 
 following in a long line — snake dance with red fire 
 torches. Everyone yelled themselves hoarse. As 
 I telegraphed you we got gold footballs and most of 
 us are already wearing our T on borrowed sweat- 
 ers. 
 
 Last night the King, Mr. Taft, spoke to the 
 two upper classes saying how much he approved 
 of military drill. We have arranged to buy regu- 
 lar uniforms at $23 not including shoes, puttees- 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 nor o.d. shirt nor hat. This is a heavy lined regu- 
 lar officer's uniform with alterations and we can 
 use them down at New Haven next year. 
 
 I am getting along pretty well in my studies, I 
 think I got a privilege last week, and next week is 
 exam week. 
 
 Basketball started in earnest today although 
 strict training is not expected to be kept. I am 
 smoking a pipe, now and then, with the captain 
 and expect to do so until Xmas since we figure we 
 will break it then anyway and it won't hurt us as 
 much if we are moderate all the time as it will if 
 we break it violently then. 
 
 I am planning a little more outside work and 
 may go out for the winter competition for the 
 Papyrus, the monthly paper. What does Dad 
 think? 
 
 I must close, 
 
 With love to all, hoping to see you soon, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 (date doubtful, possibly middle 
 
 January, 1918). 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 Your good letter came at the right moment — as 
 usual. Last night I made my speech and, al- 
 though I got a poor start, I got away with it all 
 right. Needless to say, I didn't win. In fact, 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 the judges voted unanimously for Pharr, who, by 
 the way, made the best speech heard here for 
 some time. I am tremendously glad that the 
 whole thing is over, because it took so much time. 
 There have been rehearsals 1 hour every night this 
 week. To make things harder, we have had drill 
 Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and on those 
 evenings basketball at 8.30. To top the climax, 
 this has been exam. week. But I have passed my 
 English Exam. — 64 — and my Geometry — 80. 
 However, as I meant to say in the beginning, your 
 letter came just after I had flunked a "trig" exam. 
 Only one in the class passed and he got only 60. 
 After trig, I flunked a geometry recitation, so you 
 can see that your letter cheered me up quite a lot. 
 
 Today at detentions, S. M. Weld — math, teach- 
 er — told the class if they thought the exam, in trig 
 was hard, they could take another one tomorrow 
 morning which would be much harder. I was the 
 only one who volunteered for the hard exam. At 
 any rate, I won't have anything to lose, for I got 
 between and 22. Mr. Weld said I could take 
 the exam, with my book open in front of me — it 
 wouldn't make any difference. I told him I didn't 
 expect to get anything on it but I wanted to see 
 what a hard exam, looked like. 
 
 Tomorrow there is a basketball game. I am 
 playing guard on the first team in practice, but 
 this coach keeps you uncertain as to whether you 
 have made the team. Also he has a habit of sub- 
 stituting a whole new team after the first half. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Did I tell you that I skated last Sunday on the 
 rink here? I had to take some exercise and it was 
 too icy for walking. If you don't believe I've 
 been working, listen — this week I have retired 
 not earlier than 12 and on two occasions at 1. 
 
 Yours, with love to all. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 December, 1917. 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 You have asked me to write a special letter and 
 so I shall try to write what you asked. But it is 
 going to be rather hard, since I hardly know what 
 to say. 
 
 You see, in these times, it is not the same as it 
 was when you were a boy, one has to figure more 
 or less on the war. If it were not for Mother, I 
 believe I should join something this summer, for I 
 think you would be very proud of me if I should 
 do so. But I have promised not to do anything 
 that she does not approve of until I am 21. 
 
 As you doubtless know, I have no definite plans 
 for a career. Perhaps it is a weakness in my 
 character, but I have never been able to lay out a 
 plan or course very far ahead. But having re- 
 solved on a thing, I have tried to stick to it, to 
 the best of my ability. I have not succeeded in 
 sticking to my studies as well as I should, but I 
 think I did succeed, after much effort, in football. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 I have not yet decided whether to go out for foot- 
 ball in college or not, but when the time comes, I 
 shall probably do so. In the same manner, I 
 shall do other things, I suppose. I have found 
 out that the only way to know what you like is to 
 find out by comparison and experience. So now 
 it is very hard for me to state definitely what I 
 want to do after I finish my education. 
 
 You said you did not like Sheff. because it laid 
 emphasis on practical things. However, don't 
 you think it better for me to have a more practical 
 education so that I can discover what I like before 
 leaving college? Of course, I want to be a man of 
 some standing— every one does. I want to be 
 powerful to some extent. I should like to have 
 enough money to be able to get along without 
 worrying, and to put through enterprises — mostly 
 things which others could not do and which would 
 be of some benefit to the community. I should 
 like to be known as one who gives a square deal, 
 and it would be a very nice thing to be able to 
 help one's friends when in trouble. I have never 
 seriously considered going into the ministry — I 
 doubt, if you would want me to. Law would be a 
 rather interesting profession, I imagine, but I 
 think I should like to be a business man. Perhaps 
 my views have been influenced somewhat by yours, 
 but if so, it has been a good influence. 
 
 I shall close this somewhat rambling discourse 
 with just a line or two about a subject you men- 
 tioned. I am uncertain if I ever told you about it 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 or not, but one reason I left Blair was because, 
 although there were some fine fellows there, the 
 moral standard of the fellows wasn't as high as it 
 might have been. Here, especially in the lower 
 classes, perhaps because Mr. Taft does not have 
 many fellows over 18 in the school, the moral 
 standard rather goes to the opposite extreme — if 
 such a thing could be said. Last year, I would 
 have said that some of the fellows had too high 
 standards — that they could not get along when 
 they got to college. But now, I can realize how 
 this school has got its reputation at Yale — for 
 turning out fellows who always hit the happy 
 medium. 
 
 Last Saturday, Bob Garfield was sick so I cap- 
 tained the basket ball team to victory 15-8 against 
 Willowby High from Waterbury. It was a slow 
 game and we didn't do very well, since they were 
 rotten. 
 
 Did I tell you I got away with my speech o.k. 
 I did. 
 
 Yours with love to all, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Note: The following letter was written the 
 night before he and four other members of his 
 class left Taft school without permission to enter 
 the service of their country. His four class- 
 mates enlisted as second class seamen in the 
 Navy; Sam went to New Haven to enter avia- 
 tion, but was dissuaded by his family before he 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 had been sworn in. Three of the four other boys 
 were released from the Navy on representations 
 by their parents, as all were under eighteen years 
 of age.] 
 
 (Very last night at the school.) 
 
 THE TAFT SCHOOL 
 WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 
 
 Tuesday, Jan. 22, 1918. 
 Dear Family: 
 
 I shall write explaining my hasty act later when 
 I have learned how it has affected you. 
 
 I enclose my bills which I expected to pay. So 
 far as I know there is only the school bills and 
 perhaps a bill from a framer of pictures in Water- 
 bury. 
 
 I shall have to overdraw my account and expect 
 that you should deposit some until I get settled. 
 I shall write or wire after I've enlisted whether 
 I've been accepted or not and where to send 
 letters. 
 
 Believe me, I had no idea of doing this when I 
 left Xmas or even when I wrote Dad Sunday. I 
 can't say how sorry I am to make you all so much 
 anxiety and worry. Mother, please just trust in 
 God, and leave it all to Him. I am sorry I have 
 not your permission, but am hoping it will come 
 to-morrow. 
 
 I am packing my trunk now and will send it 
 home by express. 
 
 I got a postcard from Bob today with a picture 
 of West Gate Winchester on the back of it. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 I don't imagine I'll go over right away, in fact 
 I may have six months or so before they send me. 
 With all the love in the world to all, 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Note: All the letters written in 1918, deal with 
 his experiences in the Yale Naval Training Unit, 
 first at the summer camp and later at New Haven. 
 Incidentally they give a rather graphic picture of 
 so-called naval training. 
 
 Madison, Conn., June, 1918. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I hope Dad got the two telegrams I sent — es- 
 pecially the one about money. . . . 
 
 The cruise isn't anything like I thought it would 
 be. We are barracked here in an old summer re- 
 sort, about 150 of us. Already guns have been 
 issued to us. Capt. Abbott gave us a talk last 
 night, and said he intended to have the discipline 
 as strict as Annapolis. He said the War Depart- 
 ment had promised two one-pounders and a three- 
 inch gun, some anti-aircraft guns with kites and 
 balloons to practice at. There is a rifle range 
 within a mile and a half and we are to practice 
 with both rifles and machine guns. Moreover 
 shrapnel has been promised for our big guns. 
 
 There are four ships which we will be on over 
 Saturdays and Sundays. Also, they have some 
 cutters, which we can take out every day. 
 
 I went in swimming yesterday for the first time 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 in salt water. I must say I can't hand it much; 
 the salty taste it leaves in your mouth is very dis- 
 tasteful. 
 
 The town is not very large. However, there 
 are numerous cottages along the beach. We have 
 not had much time to inspect the surrounding 
 country, though, in fact we are not allowed to 
 leave the boundaries without permission — which is 
 hard to get. 
 
 I ran into two fellows from school — Bassett, our 
 football captain, and Warren Leslie. Bassett 
 drove four of us down here from New Haven, the 
 chauffeur taking the car back. Willard Foster is 
 here, and is one of my officers, together with 
 Billingslea. 
 
 We have to study up the drills and things for a 
 parade and inspection July 4th. This a.m. we 
 spent in grooming the grounds, etc. (nuff said ). 
 
 I like the place, the men, and the work first rate. 
 
 Well, more next time, with love to all, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Yale Naval Training Station, 
 Madison, Conn., August, 1918. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I got your very good letter some time ago, and 
 I have been so busy that I have not had time to 
 write anything. 
 
 Royal Bassett left on board the Runaway for a 
 short cruise of about ten days, and while he is 
 away I have his place, as I was his assistant. It is 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 a fine job, and I'm going to have to go some to 
 hold it down. At present I am writing this while 
 on the quarterdeck as O.D. — officer of the deck, 
 and it's quite a job. 
 
 It surely is fine not to be a common gob any 
 more, for I don't have to go on guard or kitchen 
 duty (cleaning up after meals). 
 
 I am not exactly sure when I'll be home. You 
 see they are going to have a cruise of three weeks 
 in September, and although I haven't signed up 
 for it, they may order me to go if they enlist us 
 all, as they are trying to do. If I don't go on the 
 cruise, I shall be home sometime during the first 
 week of September. We get out here Saturday 
 night late, and I think I'll stay over until the next 
 day. Then I'll go down and visit Warren Leslie 
 at Center Moricher, Long Island, for a day or so, 
 and will probably get home Tuesday or Wednes- 
 day. Does that meet with your approval? 
 
 This isn't much of a letter, as I have been in- 
 terrupted several times, and had to act as messen- 
 ger boy, etc., for Capt. Abbott. But I'm just 
 writing to let you know I'm getting along, and 
 am well and happy. 
 
 Yours, with much love, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Madison, Conn., August, 1918. 
 Dear Family: 
 I just got father's letter, and I am writing to 
 111 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 amend some former statements which were in- 
 correct. 
 
 The Commander from the Bureau of Naviga- 
 tion (which runs the Navy) was here Monday and 
 Tuesday, and he could not enlist us. However, 
 we are enrolled in the Students' Training Corps — 
 Y. N. T. U. branch. 
 
 I don't think I'll get in wrong by not going on 
 the cruise — especially in view of the fact that they 
 can't yet enlist us; and if I have a good record 
 here, I'll be O. K. 
 
 Well, I have lots to tell you and show you when 
 I get home. Among other things I expect to 
 take charge of the laundry, cleaning, painting, 
 shoe-shining, and night-watchman jobs about the 
 house, so please give the servants orders to that 
 effect. 
 
 Hoping to see you soon, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 New Haven, September, 1918. 
 Dear Family: 
 
 "O, how I hate to get up in the morning, for I 
 would rather lie in bed; but the hardest blow of 
 all, is to hear the bugle call, You've got to get up, 
 you've got to get up this morning — some day I'm 
 going to murder the bugler, etc. — ". The above 
 is a song popular here, and suits me to a T. 
 
 About the only news I've got is that we're in 
 quarantine. I 'm a first petty officer under Billings- 
 
 112 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 lea — right guide of a company (100 men) which 
 corresponds to top sergeant in the army, I believe. 
 
 Recitations have not yet started for us, and 
 today is Wednesday. However, we have one 
 today at eleven — Gee, I've a hard schedule!! In 
 the first place, they won't let line-officers-to-be 
 take chemistry or anything unnecessary to what 
 they will need. And we who were at Madison, 
 have merely to review all that we studied. 
 
 What would you say if I could get into a Marine 
 Officers' School about January? I hardly think 
 there's any chance of getting a commission here 
 until after two years anyway, and at the rate the 
 war is going it will all be over by next summer. If 
 I went to the school, I could probably get a com- 
 mission by Spring, which would be pretty nice. 
 
 I went to New York last Saturday with Whit 
 Gillies and Bob Garfield, and stayed at the Ritz 
 as the guest of Mr. Gillies and Mr. McKinnie. I 
 had a fine time visiting with the fellows whom I 
 hadn't seen since last February. They had just 
 been transferred from Pelham to Boston Tech., 
 and came back here yesterday on a ten days' leave. 
 Naturally, I've been spending a good deal of 
 money lately, and my pay doesn't begin until after 
 a month from the time we got here. 
 
 The food is about the same as at Madison, 
 which means it's very third-class stuff. There 
 are a lot of my friends here, more than 90% of 
 our class at Taft School, and all those I made at 
 Madison. I'm not rooming with Bill Otis, as we 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 did the first few days; because of my petty 
 officer's job I have to room with Chapman, whom 
 I visited on Long Island. We have a dandy room 
 at 495 Haughton Hall, where Bob roomed his 
 Junior year. That's about all, except I'd like to 
 hear from you all. What's Elinor's address? 
 Yours as ever, 
 
 Sam. McClure, Jr. 
 
 New Haven, October, 1918. 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 I have nothing to say except to repeat what 
 Admiral Chester told us tonight. 
 
 He said he did not know how long we would be 
 here, that no one did, but that we could guess 
 (correctly) that we would be here until the end of 
 the year or longer. He mentioned the probable 
 taking over of the Merchant Marine by the Navy. 
 He also said in his argument that a large navy was 
 very important to a country which wanted domin- 
 ion over the land, and that our work — meaning 
 the navy — wasn't through yet, in fact was just 
 beginning. 
 
 He $ He # # 
 
 Dad, don't let anyone tell you we are either 
 getting an education or any training which is 
 helping us physically. Lately they've given us 
 monkey drill, i.e., physical drill, before breakfast, 
 something which the army cut out, as it was prov- 
 en to be bad for the men at that time. 
 
 Now, if you can possibly do so, I wish you'd get 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 me out of here into the Marines, so that I could 
 get the training which would build me up physi- 
 cally. 
 
 Please excuse the scrawl I've developed — I so 
 seldom write at all that I'm losing my fine hand- 
 writing. 
 
 Yours, with much love to all, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 October 28, 1918. 
 My dear Dad: 
 
 Just got yours of the 24th and also Mother's 
 box. I thank you again and again — it certainly 
 cheers me a lot. However, I'm afraid you don't 
 understand why I am so dissatisfied here. It is 
 not the discipline nor the military training that I 
 dislike so much — although they are trying, es- 
 pecially on account of the quarantine. It is the 
 utter abandonment of hope and ambition that is 
 so disgusting. Even if the war is over by next 
 summer — as you say — we will have wasted the 
 time here on a course that is useless — almost. 
 
 It is hard to describe the confusion and chaos 
 of the last miserable month. No one knows what 
 we are here for — because the course is so general 
 and non-practical that it won't do us any good if 
 we go on a ship as seamen and we can't get out of 
 here for three months for that even. All chances 
 of ensignship are nil — except for those 21 or over. 
 Anyway this is not an ensign's school — although 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Lieut. Abbott says he has recommended 70 men 
 in the last year for commissions and they got 
 them, they had to work like the deuce at an En- 
 sign's School at Pelham first. 
 
 Added to that is the fact that we have to come 
 back to college here as freshmen after the war is 
 over — if we want to then!!! We will perhaps 
 have some advanced credits here, but if we should 
 stay here three years — ordinary time to graduate 
 in Sheff. — we won't get a diploma or anything like 
 it. Can you see why I dropped French? So it 
 seems to me you can easily see we think this is a 
 "Slacker's paradise" and we are "Safe at the 
 College"— -(S. A. T. C). All we are doing for our 
 pay (which we haven't gotten yet) is drill three 
 hours in the P. M., go to two classes a day, and 
 loaf in our rooms the rest of the time. 
 
 Mr. Otis, Billy's father, was here yesterday 
 and since he is on the War Industries board, four 
 of us enlightened him as to the conditions here. 
 He promised us he would take it up with Roose- 
 velt, Assistant Secretary of Navy, and so things 
 will probably be better. I hope he can have a 
 man put in charge here. He is to let us know 
 Wednesday how we stand. 
 
 So Dad, please don't get the idea from anything 
 I said formerly that I am kicking at everything 
 for no apparent reason. If they would only lower 
 the age limit — as they said had been done when 
 we first got here, even then it wouldn't be bad if 
 they had an efficient organization, if somebody 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 were the head; but, no, first college authorities, 
 then medical officers, then Admiral — over 80 — 
 then Abbott — and so on down the line. 
 
 Just one word more. Bob was right when he 
 advised against the U. S. N. R. F., and I was 
 right when I left school last February with inten- 
 tions of going into aviation. If we could only 
 look ahead — but there's no use in crying over spilt 
 milk. What I'm hoping for is a transfer or order 
 for duty elsewhere and I've applied but there's 
 not much hope for 3 months. 
 
 Yours, as ever, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 New Haven, November 6, 1918. 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 You have doubtless done the same with my 
 allowance that I did — namely, invested it in 
 bonds. I am sorry to say I have received no pay 
 as yet, with little chance of doing so. Likewise 
 I have bought few books, using those of my kind 
 friends. Also, moreover, and for well-explained 
 reasons, I have had to eat outside whenever op- 
 portunity offered, which has been often lately. 
 
 The last two nights I've spent on Shore Patrol, 
 which is a graft, the same as Military Police. 
 Then Saturdays and Sundays they give us liberty 
 from one till taps, so if one wishes, he can eat 
 twice (or should I say dine?). The other meal we 
 just go to mess! (Note the well-defined differ- 
 ence). Mess now consists of sitting at an uncov- 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 ered table, drinking water and coffee out of gray- 
 ish-black cups (which are, or can be, washed in 
 five seconds), eating several slices of bread, shak- 
 ing your head sadly while looking at the stew, or 
 tapioca dessert, or milkless oatmeal, (or whatever 
 they set on the table — in large pails), and walking 
 out with a dreamy look of pleasant memories 
 (long past) ! 
 
 I hope this description doesn't come at a time 
 when you are hungry or about to eat (dine)!! 
 
 On the other hand dining consists of $2, and the 
 walk to the Taft or Morey's. 
 
 O, yes, another item of expense — I'm joining 
 Morey's. Again, as the month is up, laundry, 
 cleaning, and pressing bills trickle in with startling 
 frequency. 
 
 I hope you will pardon my speaking at such 
 length on such a sordid subject, but please deposit 
 something to my account in the Mahoning Na- 
 tional. 
 
 Taft has quite a football team this year. They 
 have won one game, 7-6, with Pawling. Next 
 Saturday I want to go up to Pomfret for the game 
 if I can, but maybe I won't have time. 
 
 Since I have to go to mess pretty soon, I'll have 
 to end this sad plea. Some day I hope to write a 
 regular letter telling you something pleasant. 
 
 Well, I must close, 
 Yours, with love to all, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 118 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. iVIcClure Jr. 
 
 New Haven, December 9, 1918. 
 Dear Family: 
 
 Things are going pretty well here now. Today 
 they took off all the guards and put in an honor 
 system, which ought to have been done long ago. 
 It looks as if every chance will be given us to get 
 credit in our work, and although it's hard to study 
 stuff you know you'll never use, everybody wants 
 to pass the final exams, which begin next Friday 
 and are spread out over the next ten days. 
 
 I'll be home Sunday, the twenty-second of 
 December, and have just written Elinor with the 
 idea of her going west with me. I hope that will 
 work out O. K. 
 
 I'm looking forward to a good Christmas, so 
 have the house well stocked with food, the garage 
 with gasoline, and the cellar with wood. Also, 
 please have some of my cit's clothes — especially 
 coats — pressed and cleaned. 
 
 That's all I can think of for the present. 
 
 Love to all, 
 
 Sam, Jr. 
 
 [Note: Sam's college life began in January, 
 1919, and all the letters that follow deal largely 
 with its incidents and experiences.] 
 
 New Haven, January, 1919. 
 My dear Dad: 
 
 I have heard very little from you since I got 
 here. Nothing except short notes and a letter 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 from Elinor telling me about the trouble you had 
 with your old enemy. Well, I had a little trouble 
 about the same time. Freshman rush was last 
 Tuesday evening. First we marched around 
 town to the gym. where the wrestling matches 
 came off. Bassett won his match in the Heavy- 
 weight Division, but Otis lost his on decision. 
 The Middleweight freshman (I don't know him) 
 lost on decision, so the match went to the upper- 
 classmen. Later, they made the freshmen go to 
 their rooms. 
 
 Then they came around yelling "lights out," 
 and, as we'd been informed to put up a scrap, 
 Bob Garfield and I, single-handed, tried to clean 
 up about fifteen of them. After several minutes, 
 we were overpowered and put under the shower. 
 The same thing happened once again, and then 
 we went to bed. As a result, I was stiff for the 
 rest of the week. 
 
 We have been much up in the air over the fra- 
 ternity question, which will probably be settled 
 soon. I can't tell you how the situation is until 
 later, but, suffice to say, things look pretty good 
 for all of us, if we don't split. 
 
 My work is coming on well except for physics, 
 which is pretty hard for me. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Yours with lots of love, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 120 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 New Haven, February, 1919. 
 Dearest Mother: 
 
 I have owed you a real good letter for some time, 
 and although this is about fifteen days late, please 
 consider it as a birthday letter. Somehow I am 
 always away on your birthday, and as no one is 
 around to remind me of the fact, it's only natural 
 for me to forget it. But I wish I could be with 
 you at Pinehurst, and I hope we shall all have a 
 family reunion soon — when Bob comes home. 
 
 Aren't you coming home by way of New York? 
 'Cause if you do, I could get down from Saturday 
 noon until Sunday night, and Elinor could also, 
 I think. 
 
 The other day you sent me a check — I don't 
 know what for, but it came in very handy, and I 
 wish to thank you and to return the gift as a be- 
 lated birthday present. 
 
 It's too bad you didn't get my long letter on 
 the fraternity, but Otis and Gillies went Anthony, 
 while Bassett and Hooe did not make it and 
 couldn't make anything else they wanted at the 
 last minute. You see each fraternity could only 
 take in eighteen men. Tell Dad I was first to be 
 pledged and taken in Phi Gam — he'll know what I 
 mean. 
 
 With lots of love, 
 
 S. G. M., Jr. 
 
 121 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 New Haven, October 31, 1919. 
 Dear Family: 
 
 I am very sorry I have not written for so long 
 myself, but as I know that Bob has written from 
 time to time all the news there was, I felt I could 
 better put the time in my work. And I have been 
 working, too, and slowly but surely getting the 
 confidence of my instructors. About my work — 
 they all tell me I can get high marks, and I do 
 every now and then, but somehow I don't seem 
 able to keep up my standard every day — I do 
 some very good work, and then some very poor. 
 But I think that will take care of itself as time 
 goes on, and as I learn how to bring out the most 
 of my knowledge. 
 
 Football has not been a success so far, and I 
 cannot blame anyone but myself for it. I am still 
 on the squad, but Coach Olcott practically does 
 not know I am out. He is looking for the heaviest 
 material possible and the hardest-working, and 
 somehow I have lost the facility I had at Taft of 
 playing hard. Although I have only been in 
 about four scrimmages all the time I have been 
 out, I have not showed up well in any of them. 
 However, I am hoping in the next two weeks— 
 the last — to overcome my faults and win the ad- 
 miration of the coaches, even if I don't make the 
 team — which is in itself of little importance except 
 as it leads up to more important work next year. 
 I am thinking seriously of practising every day 
 for an hour or so on the weights, etc., and then 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 going out for track-running in the Spring. In 
 this way, I could develop my muscles so I would 
 have a much better chance next year. 
 
 Bob has just told me you have granted him per- 
 mission to have the car here. I think that is 
 wonderful of you all, and I know he appreciates 
 it as he would nothing else. I am sure you will 
 have no cause to regret it, and I believe it will do 
 him a lot of good, besides making his year about 
 twice as happy as otherwise. It certainly will 
 be fine if you all will come on for the Harvard 
 game at Thanksgiving time. And I am looking 
 forward to the happiest Thanksgiving and re- 
 union we have ever had. 
 
 Well, I must close this letter, although I would 
 like to go on and tell you of the plans I am making 
 for this week-end — going up to Waterbury and 
 visiting school — yet I will tell you of that after it 
 is over. 
 
 Yours lovingly, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 November, 1920. 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 I certainly do owe you all good long letters and 
 this will be the first of the bunch. 
 
 There has been work every minute since I left 
 you and so much of it that when I have relaxed 
 I have either laid down to take a nap or else gone 
 to the movies to get my mind off things. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Basketball has demanded not so much of my 
 time but a great deal of my strength. Coming at 
 6 P. M. it breaks up the evening so I must do all 
 my work in the afternoon, and eat supper about 
 7.30. I am playing center in the second fresh- 
 man team and my chances for getting my numer- 
 als is very good as we have wonderful material out 
 there and a few real stars. (On the first team) . I 
 have heard it said that we have better material 
 than the varsity and having seen their second and 
 third teams play a very slow game, I agree em- 
 phatically. 
 
 My work — I don't know what to say about it. 
 Did I write you my general average was only 78? 
 My lowest work in French 71! Well, I'm sure 
 that I can do better than that and get better 
 marks the next rating but that all depends on my 
 killing the mid-year exams. 
 
 I really haven't done an awful lot of work in my 
 studies since I saw you all because I have had a 
 great amount of outside work. 
 
 I am sorry to hear that you have been so busy 
 and have had so much to do. I do hope you will 
 not wear yourself out, because that would cause 
 much unhappiness all around. You must realize, 
 Daddy, that Bob and I want you to do just what 
 you think is best for yourself and us both. We 
 will not have you sacrificing yourself for us, and 
 we wish to rely more on your experience and 
 superior judgment than we have in the past. I 
 
 124 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 shall always regret that you gave me such a free 
 rein when I could not foresee the future myself. 
 But in spite of that mistake, I am sure everything 
 is coming out all the better on top of it all, and I 
 am full of hope and confidence that the future 
 will bring many bright things, not only here in 
 college for me personally, but for our family, our 
 fortunes, and our happiness. 
 
 Please give my love to everyone including the 
 dog. 
 Your loving son, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 New Haven, Early December, 1921. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I haven't accomplished as much as I had hoped 
 this week. Basketball came at 7 in the evening, 
 conflicting with calling on the Sheff. fraternity 
 houses. I cut out calling the first three nights, 
 and only went over for a little while the last two. 
 Tonight, the deciding night, I have not gone over — 
 I fear we have not come out too well, since I know 
 that all the other houses were pretty well packed, 
 and we had lost out on many good men at the end 
 of the week. So, in order not to have to feel that 
 sharp pang of disappointment, I am staying in 
 and typewriting. I have made up all my work 
 and had my cards signed by my instructors — that 
 is all except one little hour, which will be easy. 
 
 125 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 I had my physical examination today. The 
 University Board of Health, which is well or- 
 ganized with a poor bunch of M.D.'s, requires 
 everyone to be examined once every year. Then 
 they keep records. Today, my doctor noticed 
 my skin was slightly yellow — after I had told him 
 I had had jaundice, and was tremendously inter- 
 ested in what he called a labial palp on my left 
 breast. I was much amused. He said it was a 
 survival from the days when man had such things 
 all down his chest; but I happen to know this one 
 was caused by an ingrown hair, which I picked at, 
 at the age of about 17. However, I didn't correct 
 him, these men of science do so love to make dis- 
 coveries that tend to prove their theories. But I 
 was reminded by their dentist to tell you to be 
 sure and make one or more appointments with 
 Dr. Hay den for me some time between the 17th 
 of December and the 1st of January. Will you 
 please, if it isn't too late? 
 
 It is hard to tell how much progress I am mak- 
 ing in basketball but I have been up to every prac- 
 tice, and have played in several scrimmages with 
 the fourth team. Friday night I shot two baskets, 
 and that in about six minutes. I have told the 
 Captain, Johnnie Cooper, my very good friend, 
 and the coach that I wasn't in too good condition 
 so they have not let me overwork. Next week 
 it should go better, although I don't want it to 
 go too well, or else I would have to go on the 
 Christmas trip, and forego most of my vacation. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 Well, I hope you will be entirely well again by 
 next Saturday when I shall be mighty glad to see 
 you again. 
 
 Lovingly, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 To Robert C. Bates. 
 
 Youngstown, June 25, 1921. 
 Dear Bob: 
 
 I opened your letter with some doubt as to 
 whether it was for me or not and looked hastily 
 for a signature — but in vain. More and more per- 
 plexed as I read on, I finally concluded that it was 
 from you, my good friend, and remarked sorrow- 
 fully to myself that it must be very hot in New 
 York!! After a second more careful reading, I 
 determined to write you and say that, while I 
 like to have my friends compliment me with their 
 personal handwriting, yet in your case — knowing 
 your facility with the typewriter — I would save 
 many precious moments of sweet lazy vacation 
 if you would print your thoroughly enjoyable and 
 idiotic letters that way. 
 
 But what I admire is not your working in New 
 York, your suffering under great heat, your geo- 
 graphical errors — lovely as they are to my— as you 
 would have it — blase — mind, or your chirography 
 (I guess that's right) no, not these — it is the spirit 
 back of it all that moves me. To think that in the 
 midst of the excitement of Wall Street, while 
 transacting high finance at the expense of your 
 
 127 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 health and laboring under the deadening effects of 
 nicotine, and the feminine influence — (you did not 
 mention it, but I take it it's there), you should 
 think of making me feel joyous and flattered!! 
 
 Now, having got rid of some of my surplus 'bull/ 
 I would say that so far my summer is another 
 glorious failure — so far. I have not cut out to- 
 bacco; I have not been able to get rid of my cold — 
 in spite of beastly hot weather; I have not suc- 
 ceeded in winning much money at golf or bridge, 
 or settling up any of my debts . . . Not that I have 
 not got hope. Today I went to a local osteopath 
 and had my neck twisted into writhing knots, my 
 back thumped as with a trip hammer, and my 
 whole body so injured that I felt as if some steam 
 roller had passed over me. And this afternoon I 
 played golf in a foursome of extremely able play- 
 ers who were out to get my cash, but I fooled them. 
 
 You don't know and can't guess the real news 
 though, the stunning, awe-inspiring news. I am 
 going to work!! Yes, I am to become an entre- 
 preneur and all because Dad has a farm which is 
 infested with a marsh and which he is foolish 
 enough to want drained. The plan is for me to 
 hire a gang of wops, to get hold of a steam ditch 
 digger and tile-layer, and to sit around and watch 
 them perform ... I expect I may have to get a 
 tent and sleep out on said farm in order to get up 
 early enough; and unfortunately that will be 
 quite a drag as I have been accustomed to rising 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 for a late breakfast with my sister — the rest of the 
 family having had theirs hours before. 
 Yours with extreme unction, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 To R. C. Bates. 
 
 Youngstown, July, 1921. 
 Dear Bob: 
 
 The above customary greeting means more, you 
 know, than most such; in fact it means a whole lot 
 more than words written by my awkward hand can 
 ever properly express — especially after reading 
 another letter from you which amused and de- 
 lighted with its glorious opening burst of ridiculous 
 (not RE.) and charming self confidence — (or 
 shall I say — vanity? — ) and which with its tearful, 
 pathetically self-pitying finale, so contrary and 
 contradictory in spirit, tone, and logic to the prom- 
 ising start and better middle or body of the letter 
 that it fairly struck me to the heart, causing me to 
 exclaim, "not so, Robert", caused me so great 
 elation that I immediately arose from my downy, 
 hot, couch — driving several fat blood-sucking 
 mosquitoes — who have somehow crept in through 
 the screens — to seek shelter, and taking up my 
 trusty Waterman, long since grown rusty and 
 weak and was inspired like some lazy, inert golf 
 ball — to make this flight of fancy. 
 
 Now to explain. No, I have not been studying 
 the German Poets. Nor am I imitating you; 
 that is, not altogether — and if so, I am merely 
 
 129 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 dead tired having driven to Cleveland and back 
 today — some 160 miles. We had a fine trip ex- 
 cept for two blowouts and some bumpy detours. 
 But I was disappointed. It was purely a shop- 
 ping jaunt and I bought quite a little I wanted. 
 Still I was unable to get anywhere a light — 
 loosely- woven sleeveless tennis sweater (not that I 
 am playing — but one must look well in hanging 
 round the country club) you know the kind that 
 Fitzgerald calls so aptly 'Petting Shirts' in his 
 little gem of a popular-seller "On to Princeton" 
 or no! — its real title is This Side of Milton's Dam— 
 I Mean Paradise. (Hope after Shakespeare you 
 can stand my punning — don't accomplish it very 
 often, so you must appreciate it!!) Well, as you 
 have said before, "perhaps it's all for the best!!" 
 
 As to light summer reading, I have not yet hit 
 my stride owing to many diversions, I think the 
 real difficulty is I can find nothing to compare 
 with our muchly-beloved text books in Econ.A., I 
 read some of Clyde Fitch and Galsworthy and 
 pick up Don Quixote now and then. Am con- 
 sidering exhaustive study of Moore's poetical 
 works! ***** 
 
 You must really pardon me for poking fun at 
 your letters if you can recognize my elusive humor. 
 You see, it's a bad habit of mine that has led me 
 into trouble with women many a time. But a 
 Yale man surely should have a saving sense of 
 humor (!!!) An example of how deeply such a 
 wound may cut was forced upon me recently when 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 an old friend of mine married, neglecting to invite 
 me to her parties, etc., for no other reason than 
 that I once told her I thought her letters dull and 
 insipid, and I simply told the truth. 
 
 $ $ & *¥ *& 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 New Haven, Thursday, November 17, 1921. 
 
 Dear Dad: 
 
 This is just a short note which I am writing 
 hastily to tell you everything is going swimming- 
 ly. I wish you would remember to have the bank 
 send me some check-books, though. 
 
 $ # $ $ :£ 
 
 The Yale-Princeton game last week was won- 
 derful, and I only wish you could have seen it. 
 Perhaps it is just as well, since it was so excit- 
 ing; the strain might have told on you. I know 
 that after the game was over I was just as tired 
 as if I had been up all night. I really did get 
 some sleep the night before, too, although the 
 Sheff parties ended for me at 4 A. M. 
 
 Well, I got this far before I remembered Dad 
 was away, so I am sending this to you, Mother. 
 
 $fe jk ;fe jfc ;fe 
 
 I will write you a long letter about Saturday's 
 game, and you might forward this to Father — just 
 to let him know I'm still O. K. 
 
 Yours, with love to all, 
 
 Sam. 
 131 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 To Robert E. McClure on hearing of the latter 's 
 illness — postmarked New Haven, January 23, 
 1922. 
 
 (A hasty note scratched on note-book paper in 
 class.) 
 Dear old Duck: 
 
 You susceptible old thing, what is it now? Aha 
 — Ben Turpin — you have been keeping something 
 from me — there were more than shells in those 
 oysters!! But dissipation will get anyone in 
 time; they always did say that the big athletes 
 went that way!! 
 
 I have to hand it to you, old dear, if I may be 
 allowed to use slang. You certainly have more 
 ways of getting a vacation! Tell me, how much 
 does Reed charge for such a diagnosis? If isn't 
 too much, I think I'll try it to get out of here!! 
 
 But nothing is so out of place as a jest at a sick- 
 bed — guess I'll have to lapse into the profane. 
 
 I mean to say I'm damn sorry to hear of it — 
 sorrier yet you got it — but cheer up, it might be 
 a lot worse, and it's all for the best somehow. It 
 should give you a chance to write a lot and loaf 
 still more. 
 
 Lovingly, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 To Robert E. McClure~(written on his last birthday) 
 
 New Haven, March 7, 1922. 
 Dear old Fellow: 
 Your high-toned and somewhat haughty letter 
 
 132 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 reached me several days ago and I have been weigh- 
 ing the advisability of continuing our corres- 
 pondence. This shows I have weakened, and 
 under the Christian influence of Mr. Kent and 
 his course in Biblical Lit., I have decided to for- 
 give and forget all those who spitefully use me!! 
 
 I had quite the berries of a party last week-end 
 — the 25th. Church Owen, a boy from Denver 
 and I were the week-end guests of Mrs. John F. 
 Havemeyer of Ardsley-on-Hudson. The others 
 were Mildred McKinley and Miss Alice Have- 
 meyer. It was a fine houseparty — in an ideal 
 location — wonderful people. * * * *. 
 
 Outside of this one eventful time I have little 
 news. The work is going on like an ever-rolling 
 ocean wave on which I ride sometimes half-buried, 
 half-emerged; and I only hope it will throw me 
 high and dry on a nice sandy beach soon instead 
 of drowning me or casting me ruthlessly on the 
 sharp jagged rocks of next June. Well, well, 
 the boy's a poet! Bob Bates made the Lit. 
 Board and has the Editor's Table, so perhaps if 
 I do some work I may get somewhere. 
 
 Cheero, old dear — soon we'll be eating clover 
 or drinking beer on the Riviera. 
 
 Yours foolishly, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 133 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 To Robert E. McClure. 
 
 March 20, 1922. 
 Dear Bob: 
 
 Well, now I've gone and done it!! 
 
 Let me explain — but first let me thank you and 
 Mickey for the wonderful box of candy which 
 arrived here the other day. It was great and we 
 are still munching it with loud grunts of satisfac- 
 tion and much smacking of lips. But the which, 
 the what to which I refer in the genesis of this 
 gusty note was the driving on of the Cadillac. 
 Yes, actually. My roommate and I found we 
 both had a short vacation and we decided to drive 
 the car on. My reasons were manifold as you 
 can guess — having once argued the question with 
 great success — if I remember. 
 
 I particularly want it to attend a wedding in 
 Boston on April 20 of Nelson Hooe, at which I am 
 to be best man— ahem — as usual!! * * 
 
 Also for the spring house-parties to which I have 
 invited M. Church Owen having asked her 
 friend. 
 
 Moreover the old golf club argument comes in 
 handy!! 
 
 Well, to continue my narrative, we left Youngs- 
 town after a short three or four hours stay Thurs- 
 day morning. We found Al overworking and 
 living in your old house, and grandfather having a 
 great time with a good cook and Mrs. Brown to 
 look after him. 
 
 Then we drove to Pittsburgh ; arrived at 7 P. M. , 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 left at 8. Drove 'cross Alleghenies to Chambers- 
 burg via Lincoln Highway. Arrived two — slept 
 next A. M. — at 11 got going. Arrived Philly 
 4.30 P. M. Four hundred miles without a hitch — 
 wonderful roads — cold. Saw Frank Guthrie and 
 Jack Hallowell at Si U house at Penn. Had 
 dinner at M's. Left Philly 5 P. M. Then N. Y. 
 at 8. Dinner Yale Club. Arrived New Haven 
 at 1.30. Cost $28.27 for running expenses and 
 $80 for personal — great trip. 
 
 Love, 
 
 Sam. 
 **This was the third wedding at which he had 
 acted as best man. 
 
 [Excerpts from letter to his brother Robert, written 
 at New Haven in May, 1922 {no date).] 
 
 {Ben Turpin — a nickname that grew out of his 
 amusement at his brother getting 'stung* on a 
 suit of clothes.) 
 Dear old Ben T.: 
 
 Didn't I write and thank you for the best and 
 most delicious box of candy? (Pardon the super- 
 latives, the influence is that of Billy Phelps, not 
 any vinous fluids.) I am doubly sorry for my 
 horrible neglect and hope you will humbly pardon 
 me. 
 
 (There follows a description of the Boston 
 wedding). 
 
 I have come back here full of the old fight, 
 though. Played 18 holes at Waterbury yesterday 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 — out 59, in 53 — Beautiful course, hilly, wind— a 
 few long drives. 
 
 Tap Day* is this Thursday. Quod erit demon- 
 strandum and Quo Vadis? I shall get Cornelius ** 
 to pat me on the back and tell me to go to my room 
 for a check book. I haven't decided which I'll 
 go, Bones or Keys. Of course if Bones offers me 
 first man I guess I can hardly have time to make 
 up my mind. 
 
 Say I may come out to spend the summer with 
 you or nearby around Colorado somewhere. Think 
 you could stand the excitement of it? It's too 
 bad they didn't have Class Day Movies in your 
 time — then they could compare your Rogers' Peet 
 with Ben Turpin's — My best to the wife and child. 
 
 Love, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 * This, of course, was the big Tap Day of his 
 class, when men were chosen for the senior societies 
 
 ** A well-known college character; collector for 
 the laundry company — notorious for his relentless 
 persecution of delinquent students. 
 
 To Robert C. Bates. 
 
 Youngstown, July 9, 1922. 
 Dear Bob: 
 
 A short but passionate note. To quote Hardy, 
 "A man loves with his eyes, a woman with her 
 ears!" I have been — but that's a long story. *** 
 
 A long rest in the sweet smelling pines and hem- 
 locks amidst the cool Adirondack breezes — ah, my 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 boy, how I envy you. I sleep but fitfully and 
 dream many strange and fascinating short dime 
 novels always waking to the sound of joyful house- 
 hold din with a body illy rested and a conscience 
 of nothing done. Golf is a horrible game ! 
 
 I have not read Jurgen. The Cadillac is on 
 its last legs, and about to be traded in. I had 
 the somewhat startling news that I am to become 
 a bond holder — though not bloated — by the free 
 gift of a fond parent who wishes to be saved the 
 trouble of depositing my overdrawn allowance. 
 
 Golf is a horrible game! *** 
 
 Golf is really a horrible game. Bob, old man, 
 did you get a post card from me some time ago? 
 I hope not. Joe Holland — was quite well liked 
 by all our best local talent. 
 
 Golf is, I reiterate, a most damnable game, but 
 one well worth taking up. 
 
 Keep up the red ink and spill it often in this 
 direction. Heartily, if not passionately, 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [The following, so far as is known, is the last let- 
 ter he wrote.] 
 
 To R. C. Bates. 
 
 Postmarked, Youngstown, July 21, '22. 
 Dear Bob: 
 
 A slam is always a good opening, so let me say 
 that, judging from your last effort at communica- 
 tion, your existence must be more physical than 
 intellectual. Still, in spite of the B. Shaw style of 
 137 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 introduction, your letter called forth several 
 chuckles — although I can't quite imagine anyone 
 mistaking you for a guide. * * * 
 
 Ho, hum! I heard from James Churchill from 
 the Grand Hotel at St. Andrews, Scotland, and 
 he said he enjoyed the links there, neglecting to 
 inform me of his score — wisely. 
 
 I had a slight altercation with the Registrar 
 because he wanted to soak me an hour on taking 
 20 sick cuts. Have not received my marks yet — 
 (just paid my bill for tacks, etc., yesterday). 
 
 Joe Holland will not return to college, he says. 
 He has to work in a law office in Denver and study 
 at the 'Bowlder* Law School next year — "Long 
 may she wave! (he says.) 
 
 I have not heard from Cleve. 
 
 I really envy you up there, Bob, with no auto- 
 mobiles. With three on my hands — our nigger 
 chauf. is no good, and about to be fired — I have 
 my difficulties getting the family around any- 
 where. Last Saturday, the Packard came out of 
 the shop from a general overhauling; Wednesday, 
 the Stearns went in for a new wheel (chauf. skid- 
 ded) ; and today it returned while the Caddy went 
 in with a horrible knock and a overheating radia- 
 tor — (bad — looks like a bearing.) So you can 
 see I am overworked — almost as much as are the 
 mails sending bills to Dad. 
 
 Tomorrow I drive Dad to Madison to look over 
 some property. Next week after the house party 
 I go on a geology survey down state somewhere 
 
 138 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 with one of the state assistants for Dad. And 
 after that, Father and I go west for three weeks or 
 so. 
 
 Hardy's 'Desperate Remedies' is too melo- 
 dramatic; his short tales are good. 
 
 I have received no news from or about Cleve, 
 but I suppose he is having his usual time in Paris 
 and will match tales with Church next fall when 
 the evenings call for a fire and 'bull session.' 
 
 What will we have to equal them? 
 
 Nothing, I fear — But I'm going west soon!! 
 
 Your friend, 
 Sam. 
 
 [Extracts from various letters written during the 
 last year of his life to a dear friend]. 
 
 October, 1921. 
 
 "Do you ever pray, Ming? I do. Not as 
 often as I should, I guess, but every now and then. 
 I'm going to make a steady thing of it from now on 
 because I need a good friend like Him." 
 
 January, 1922. 
 
 "It seems to me that we must 'play the game,' 
 as you once said, and when we do emerge vic- 
 torious in our struggle against time and the temp- 
 tations we both will meet with, we will be bigger, 
 better, and more able to cope with the problems of 
 the future." 
 
 January, 1922. 
 
 "You know, I have a theory that it is useless to 
 struggle against your fate; rather, that it only 
 
 139 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 makes you more miserable to do so. When you 
 know you are going to do something and then 
 struggle against it with all your will power and 
 overcome it, later you are sorry. But how do you 
 know what your fate is? Is it true that you can 
 foresee certain things, or not? 
 
 "Sometimes I think there lies the point that 
 makes successful men and failures. The power 
 of feeling that a certain thing is going to happen, 
 of deciding which way to turn the moment you 
 feel certain of it, and the ability to stick to a de- 
 cision once made, makes all the difference in the 
 world. 
 
 "I was quite interested in a sentence of Conrad's 
 the other day when I picked up his 'Lord Jim/ 
 He spoke of men with soft spots in them. You 
 know most all men have them some place and in 
 more ways than you'd think. Sometimes when 
 I look around me, I dislike all men, except a few, 
 and despise all New Haveners in the town gen- 
 erally for being what Swift called 'Yahoos.' In 
 addition to having soft spots in their brains, they 
 are thoroughly weak and degenerate. You see 
 crowds of men loitering on the streets at all hours 
 of the night — crowds going to bum movies, or poor 
 baseball games on Sunday and not a clean intelli- 
 gent person among them." 
 Undated. 
 
 "Personally, I think it much nicer to seek to 
 have a good time, or as many good times as you 
 can; and by 'good time' I mean that which gives 
 
 140 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 you joy not only at that time — but also later — 
 one that your conscience can stamp with hearty 
 approval.' ' 
 Undated. 
 
 "But I think that there could be nothing finer 
 than to work out a day-dream in spite of all the 
 difficulties, to have everything come out as you 
 planned or nearly so. Just because man cannot 
 attain perfection is no reason why he shouldn't 
 try." 
 
 To Mrs. Alfred McClure. 
 
 [The following is an extract from a letter he wrote 
 at New Haven to his grandmother, Mrs. Eleanor 
 Wallace McClure, on her eighty-third birthday, 
 March 16, 1922.] 
 
 Grandmother, remember that we all love you 
 and that some day we will all be together again 
 and enjoy each other's presence much the more for 
 this little absence. 
 
 So, take good care of yourself and get as much 
 pleasure as you can from each of the dear old 
 things you love, from each sermon, each prayer- 
 meeting, every act of kindness of those about you. 
 
 And never forget the great reward that will be 
 yours, in the end, when the sun finally sets on 
 your life, that has been so full of glorious memories. 
 And remember, it is the dawns and the sunsets of 
 life that are the most beautiful always. 
 
 Your devoted grandson, 
 Sam. 
 
 141 
 
APPENDIX 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 The newspaper account of the tragedy which 
 closed the life of Samuel G. McClure, Jr., to- 
 gether with two editorial articles on the heroism 
 of his going, are included herewith to preserve 
 them in permanent form. They follow: 
 
 Editorial article from The Youngstown Telegram, 
 July 26, 1922. 
 
 SYMPATHY 
 
 Along with other friends, members of The Tele- 
 gram force extend their heartfelt sympathy to 
 Samuel G. McClure, former publisher of this news- 
 paper, and to the stricken mother in the death of 
 their son, Samuel G. McClure, Jr. 
 
 Mere expressions of sympathy, whether in words 
 or deeds, are limited in their worth. Whoever 
 has seen the heavy, silent hand of death laid on 
 his household knows that not all the acts and ex- 
 pressions of consolation the world may offer can 
 do more than add a little to the fortitude with 
 which the sufferers must bear their loss. They 
 cannot fill the void. 
 
 This is true when death takes any toll. It is 
 brought home in greater degree when a parent 
 mourns for a child, for no other sorrow can equal 
 this. 
 
 If there is a thought we can add that will lighten 
 at times the grief of the father and mother it is that 
 their boy who was taken in the fine flush of young 
 manhood had lived the life of a clean young 
 American youth and met his end a hero trying to 
 
 145 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 save another. They will sorrow that he is dead 
 but will never have to sorrow that he lived. 
 
 Editorial article from The Ohio State Journal, 
 July 30, 1922. 
 
 A YOUNG HERO'S DEATH 
 Samuel G. McClure, Jr., son of the former 
 editor of The State Journal, lost his life a few days 
 ago in Lake Erie but he died a hero. A boatload of 
 young people capsized in the water during a wind 
 squall. As the boat was overturned McClure 
 received a hard blow from an oar, the long sweep 
 striking him on the head. Despite the injury he 
 went to the assistance of one of the young women 
 and fought his way with her through the rough 
 waters until she was able to reach shore alone. 
 His effort cost him his life and he was drowned. 
 
 It was another illustration of that high courage 
 and devotion where one gives his life for another. 
 Those who were with him in the boat and who 
 watched the battle from the shore join in the dec- 
 laration that he died a hero, giving up his own 
 life that the young woman might be saved. In 
 this as in other instances the pity is that such 
 brave souls are not spared. The world has need 
 for all such. 
 
 The following is the newspaper account of the 
 death of Samuel G. McClure, Jr., published in The 
 Youngstown Telegram of July 26, 1922: 
 
 Samuel G. McClure, Jr., died a hero. 
 
 146 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 He was drowned at Madison-on-the-Lake Tues- 
 day after making a valiant attempt to save a girl 
 companion when their boat capsized. 
 Four Are Saved. 
 
 Four members of the party were saved. Friends 
 and a physician worked two hours attempting to 
 revive McClure after his body was washed ashore 
 and when his heart beat faintly. 
 
 Others in the boat at the time of the accident 
 were Miss Mary Wick Sampson, 416 Wick; Miss 
 Helen Lomasney, Cohasset rd.; Frank Guthrie, 
 273 N. Heights and Richard Grant, 1357 Fifth 
 ave. Miss Henrietta Hoops of Wilmington, Del., 
 guest of Miss Sampson and Mrs. McClure, who 
 was chaperoning the party had not made the trip 
 in the boat. 
 
 About 11 a. m. the party left the Old Tavern 
 at Unionville near Madison, in their bathing suits 
 and started out in the boat. The Lake was rough 
 and, it is said, after they had gone out a con- 
 siderable distance the boat started to fill with 
 water. 
 
 Members of the party decided the load was too 
 great for the boat and young McClure, who was 
 an excellent swimmer left the boat. The water 
 continued to come in so Richard Grant stepped on 
 the edge of the boat and plunged into the water, 
 a little later the water-laden craft overturned. 
 
 Tries to Rescue Girl. 
 All of the party were able to swim but the girls 
 were given assistance since the boat was consider- 
 
 147 
 
The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 able distance from shore and the waves were run- 
 ning high. Grant seized Miss Sampson and took 
 her to shore, McClure caught Miss Lomasney who 
 was struggling to keep above the surface and struck 
 out for shore. The girl noticed McClure was hav- 
 ing difficulty in swimming and finally she tore her- 
 self away and struggled alone, Guthrie took her to 
 shore. 
 
 When all had reached shore it was discovered 
 McClure was missing. His body was washed in a 
 short time later. Over McClure's left eye was a 
 wound. Other occupants of the boat believe 
 when it capsized, McClure was struck by an oar 
 which rendered him incapable of aiding in the 
 rescue of Miss Lomasney and later of reaching 
 shore himself. 
 
 Miss Lomasney's Story. 
 
 "We were so frightened and scared I scarcely 
 know what happened," said Miss Helen Lomasney. 
 
 "When the boat capsized, we started to swim. 
 Samuel kept trying to right the boat until he saw 
 that the girls were getting weaker. When he 
 swam up to me he acted queer, but I was so 
 frightened I could not tell what was wrong. 
 
 "I believe he must have been struck by an oar 
 or the boat while trying to right it. 
 
 Struck by Waves 
 
 "As fast as we started for the shore a heavy wave 
 would push us back and we could not make any 
 headway. We were getting weaker every minute. 
 
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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
 
 "We kept calling for help, but the people on 
 shore thought we were just joking because so many 
 people had done this for fun, I don't know what 
 happened after that." 
 
 Miss Lomasney was ill Wednesday, suffering 
 from the nervous shock. Miss Mary Wick Samp- 
 son, the other girl in the boat, was too weak and 
 ill to give any account of the accident. 
 
 Never Regained Consciousness 
 McClure never regained consciousness. At- 
 tendants say the only sign of life he showed was to 
 slightly move an eyelid. With renewed hope, 
 they continued work on his body for two hours. 
 Dr. John Winans, Madison physician who at- 
 tempted to revive McClure said his heart con- 
 tinued beating two hours after he was brought to 
 shore. 
 
 While efforts were being made to revive McClure 
 a call was sent to Painesville for a pulmotor. The 
 fire truck started to Madison with the pulmotor, 
 but in his haste to reach the lake, the driver ran 
 the truck into the ditch. 
 
 On the arrival of McClure's body in Youngs- 
 town, Dr. C. M. Reed examined the contusion of 
 the left temple and eye and is of the opinion the 
 injury was suffered at least 15 minutes before 
 death. This upholds the theory that this was the 
 cause, or contributed in a great part in McClure's 
 exhaustion and drowning. 
 
 149 
 

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