The Omaha Sunday
Bee
PART TWO
EDITORIAL
PAGES ONE TO TWELVE
PART TWO
SOCIETY
PAGES ONE TO TWELVE
VOL. XlV-NO. 15.
OMAHA, SUNDAY MOHNIXil, fSKI'THMHKll LY, 191').
SIXdI.K COPY FIVE CENTS.
U
Billy's" Own Story of
is Boyhood
Here is the Narrative of How He
Lost his Father in the War and was
Raised then in the Orphans' Home at .
Lrienwooa, a r ew iviiies irom umana
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The
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Photograph
of "Billy" in a
I I Characteristic Attitude )
J Caught by The Bee's Artist I
I WAS bred and born (not in old Kentucky, al
though my grandfather was a Kentucklan),
but In old Iowa, November 19, 1862. I am a
rube of the rubes. I am a hayseed of the
hayseeds, and the maladors of the barnyard
are on me yet, and It beats Plnaud and Colgate, too.
I have greased my hair with goose grease and
blacked my boots with stove blacking. I have
iped my old proboscis with a gunny sack towel;
I have drunk coffee out of my saucer, and I have
eaten with my knife; I have said "done it" when I
ehould have said "did It"' and I have "saw' when I
ehould have "seen," and I expect to go to heaven
Just the same. I have crept and crawled out of
the university of poverty and hard knocks, and
have taken post graduate courses.
My father, William Sunday, went to the war
four months before I was born, In Company E,
Twenty-third Iowa. I have butted and fought and
struggled since I was 6 years old. That's one rea
rcn why I wear that little red, white and blue
. . V t 1 . 1 .
PUllon. i kuow ail auoui me un.ru tmu Beamy biuo
of life, and if ever a man fought hard, I have
fought hard for everything I have ever gained.
The wolf scratched at the cabin door, and
finally mother said: "Boys, 1 am going to send
jou to the Soldiers' Orphans' Home!" At Ames,
la., we had to wait for a train, and we went to a
little hotel, and they came about 1 o'clock and
said: "Get ready for the train."
I looked into my mother's face. Her eyes were
ted, her hair was disheveled. I said, "What's the
matter, mother?" All the time "Ed" and I slept
mother had been praying. We went to the train;
phe put one arm about me and the other about
Ed" and sobbed as if her heart would break. Peo
ple walked by and looked at us, but they didn't
say a word. Why? They didn't know, and if they
had they probably wouldn't have cared. Mother
knew. She knew that for years she wouldn't see
l.er boys. We got into the train and said, "Good
bye, mother," as' the"traln pulled out.
We reached Council Bluffs. It was cold and
ve turned up our coats and shivered. We saw a
hotel and went up and asked the woman for some
thing to eat. She said, "What's your name?"
"My name is William Sunday, and this is my
brother, 'Ed.' "
"Where are you going?"
"Going to the Soldiers' Home at Glenwood."
She wiped her tears and said, "My husband
vas a soldier and never came back. He wouldn't
turn anyone away and I wouldn't turn you boys
away." She drew her arms about us and said,
"Come on in." She gave us our breakfast and din
r.er, too. There wasn't any train going out on the
Q" until afternoon. We saw a freight train stand
ing there so we climbed into the caboose.
Tiie conductor came along and said, "Where's
your money or ticket?"
"Ain't got any."
"I'll have to put you off."
We commenced to cry. My brother handed him
a letter of Introduction to the superintendent of
the Orphans' Home. The conductor read it and
handed it back as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Then he said. "Just sit still, boys. It won't cost a
cent to ride on my train."
It's only twenty miles from Council Bluffs to
Glenwood, and aa we rounded the curve the con
ductor said, "There it Ib, on the hill." '
I want to tell you that one of the brightest pic
tures that hangs upon the walls of my memory is
the recollection of the days when as a little boy,
out in the log cabin on the frontier of Iowa I knelt
by mother's side.
I went back to the old farm some years ago.
The scenes had changed about the place. Faces I
had known and loved had long since turned to
dust. Fingers that used to turn the pages of the
lible were obliterated and the old trees beneath
vhich we boys used to play and swing had been"
felled by the woodman's axe. I stood and thought.
Once more with my gun on my shoulder and
my favorite dog trailing at my heels I walked
through the pathless wood and sat on the old
familiar logs and etutrps, and as I sat and listened
to the wild, weird harmonies of nature, a vision of
the past opened. The squirrel from the limb of
the tree barked defiantly and I threw myself into
an Interrogation point, and when the gun cracked
the squirrel fell at my feet. I grabbed him and
ran home to throw him down and receive compli
ments for my skill as a marksman. And 1 saw the
tapestry of the evening fall. 1 heard the lowing
lerds and saw them wind slowly o'er the lea and
I listened to the tinkling bells that lulled the dis
tant fowl. Once more I heard the shouts of
childish glee. Once more I climbed the haystack
for hens' eggs. Once more we sat at the thresh
hold and ate our frugal meal. Once more mother
drew the trundle bed out from under the larger
one, and we boys, kneeling down shut our eyes
end clasping our little handssaid, "Now I lay me
down to sleep; I pray the Lord my sould to keep.
If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord,
my soul to take. And this I ask for Jesus' sake,
rraen."
I stood beneath the old oak tree and it seemed
t carry on a conversation with me. It seemed to
say:
"Hello, Bill. Is that you?"
"Yes, it's I. old tree."
"Well, you've got a bald spot on the top of
your head."
"Yes, I know, old tree."
"Won t you climb up and sit on my limbs as
you used to?"
"No, I haven't got time new. I'd like to,
though, awfully well."
"Don't go. Bill. ' Don't you remember the old
swing you made?"
"Yes, I remember; but I've got to go."
"Say, Bil don't you remember when you tried
o play George Washington and the cherry tree,
and almost cut me down? That's the scar you
made, but it's almost covered over now."
"Yes, I remember all, but I haven't time to
stay."
"Are you coming back, Bill?"
"I 'don't know, but I'll never forget you."
Then the old apple tree seemed to call me and
I said, "I haven't time to wait, old apple tree."
When I was about 14 years old, after leaving
the Soldiers' Orphans' Home, I made application
for the position of Janitor in a school. I used to
get up at 2 o'clock and there were fourteen stoves
and coal had to be carried for all of them. I had
to keep the fires up and keep up my studies and
tweep the floors. I got $25 a month salary. Well,
one day I got a check for my salary and I went
right down to the bank to get it cashed. Right In
front of me was another fellow with a check to be
teshed, and he shoved his in, and I came along and
phoved my check In, and the teller handed me out
$4 0. My check called for $25. I went to a friend
of mine, who was a lawyer In Kansas City, and
told him. I said, "Frank, what do you think, Jay
l ing handed me $40 and my check only called for
$25." He said, "Bill, if I had your luck I would
buy a lottery ticket." But I said, "The $15 is not
mine." He said, "Don't be a chump. If you were
shy $10 and you went back you would not get It,
and if they hand out $15, don't be a fool keep it."
Well, he had some drag with me and influenced
me. I was fool enough to keep It, and took It and
I ought a suit of clothes. I can see that suit now.
It was a kind of brown with a little green in It,
and I thought I was the goods, I want to tell you,
when I got those store clothes on. That was the
first suit of store clothes I had ever had, and I
bought that suit and I had $25 left after I did It.
Years afterward I said, "I ought to be a Chris
tian,' and I got on my knees to pray, and the Lord
Rtemed to touch me on the back and say, "Bill, you
owe that Farmers' bank $15 with interest, " and I
said, "Lord, the bank doesn't know that I got that
$15," and the Lord said, "I know it." So I strug
gled along for years, probably like some of you,
trying to be decent and honest and right some
wrong that was in my life, and every time I got
down to pray the Lord would say, "Fifteen dollars
with interest, Nevada county, Iowa; $15, Bill." So
years afterward I sent that money back, enclosed a
check, wrote a letter and acknowledged it, and 1
have the peace of God from that day to this, and I
have never swindled anyone out of a dollar.
When "Billy" Broke Into Base Ball
"Billy" Sunday was 19 years old when the
turning point in his career that was to bring him
fame on the base ball diamond came. He had
been playing for three years on the team of Ne
vada, la., doing most of his work In centerfield.
His wonderful speed at running bases was the ta'k
of the adjacent towns, and he was last becoming
tie idol of the Nevada fans.
"Billy" Sunday's work attracted the attention
of a friend of Anson's, and so glowing was the
account given to him concerning the boy player
that the manager decided to look him over. So
one day, while the Neva das were playing the Mar
fballtown, (la.) team, Anson "dropped In" quietly
end unheralded and sat among the spectators.
It was a hotly contested game, for the two
towna were desperate rivals, and "Billy" Sunday
as at his best. If be had known that the eyes
of the great manager were on him he could not
Lave performed with greater brilliancy. He made
catches that looked impossible, and stole bases by
means of his great runniDg speed that sent the
Nevada rooters into delirium.
After the game Anson met him and offered the
boy a salary that took his breath away. Sunday
at that time was working as a railroad fireman
and his pay averaged $50 a month. At first, Sun
day admits, he was frightened. Visions of facing
rows and rows of seats filled with critical thou
sands rose before him .and he hesitated before
answering. But it was only for a moment, and
then squaring his shoulders and taking a deep
breath, he told the manager that he would Join.
On his arrival In Chicago he was put to practice
with the team. He showed so well in the practice
work that Anson decided to put him into the game
tLat very afternoon. Once again was "Billy's"
breath swept away with astonishment, but he was
delighted. Just the same. He led off the batters
that day and "made good" In every way. His
running at once attracted the attention of the
"fans," and as far as bis base ball career figured
he was "made."
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