Memoirs continue... Page nine. We moved from 215 W 100 St. in 1910 to 314 W 100 St. near Riverside Drive, and lived there until the fall of 1911. Only one incident of any importance took place while we resided there, and that was the owner of the apartment house was George Lederer, the theatrical producer, and his mother-in-law, Mrs. Douras managed the house, and we became acquainted with her. About this time I attempted to write songs and composed several but I was unable to interest music publishers in any of them but one which was titled "Because I Love You." This was published, but few copies were ever sold, probably because it was not the kind of music that was then popular, as at this time "coon" songs were the rage. I showed Mrs. Douras some copies of my songs, and she said she would submit them to Mr. Lederer and see if he could use any of them. Lederer's wife was Reine Davies, an actress then prominent, and her little sister Marion used to sit on the door step of our apartment, and we often noticed her there when we were going out. Since then she has become famous on the "screen" as Marion Davies. About this time I also became acquainted with May Vokes, who was then the rage with John Slavin in "A Knight for a Day," a musical comedy hit playing on Broadway. She was singing a ballad which became popular the world over called: "I'm Afraid to go Home in the Dark." The words were: "Baby dear oh don't you hear, I'm afraid to go home in the dark, Every day the policemen say, there's a robbery in the park. So I sit alone in the YMCA, singing just like a lark, there's no place like home, but I'm afraid to go home in the dark." May Vokes asked me to write her a comic song, and she suggested something which would intimate she wanted to get married. So here's the chorus of the song I wrote: "I want to get married, I do by hick, I'm so chuck full of yearnings, it make me almost sick, I'm a "nut" on matrimony, and would join the married class, So here's here's your opportunity, "Oh for a man." Needless to say, she never sang it. Maybe it was a little too pointed, who knows.

We moved from 100 St. to one door from the corner of 103rd St. on West End Ave., and took a small room on the top floor of a boarding house run by a Mrs. Leeming, a nice, kind landlady who was very lenient with me when I became slow in paying my board. We lived here until 1915 when we moved into another boarding house on 102nd St. From there we moved to the Hotel Clendening, 103rd St. and Amsterdam, and lived there until 1917 when we moved to Summit N.J. When we moved from Brooklyn in 1904 to 100 St., I was just beginning to know the meaning of trouble and financial worry. And during this entire period, from 1904 to 1914, I was hard pressed to make both ends meet. One day I met an old friend Billy Morris; previously mentioned as one of the members of that memorable camping party on Otsego Lake in 1900. Billy asked me to join a club called The West End Republican Club, situated in a handsome club house near the corner of Broadway and 81st St. I was shortly afterward elected to this club and remained a member until about 1915 or 1916. Many a good time I had in this jovial club, and a finer lot of fellows one would never care to meet. Here I learned to play Bridge, what was then becoming the popular card game under the lead of Elwell. I later on became chairman of the entertainment committee and ran several shows and dinners successfully. I also was once appointed chairman of the campaign committee as the copies of the clipping will show. (Here insert clippings and picture of Club House and menus.) It was while I was chairman of this committee I had the pleasure of meeting Chas. E. Hughes, later on Governor of N. Y. State and Justice of Supreme Court, and very nearly President of USA. Also, Theodore Roosevelt, Chas. Whitman, later on Governor of N.Y. State, Job Hedges who ran for governor but was defeated. Joseph Cannon, Speaker of the House, and other prominent public men I numbered among my friends: Congressmen Walter Chandler, Harris Douglas, and Van Vectan Olcott. (Others were) William H. Burnett, Albert Ottinger, Henry A. Wise, John S. Wise, all prominent politically, besides the other men, friends and members of this important west side political club. Lucia and I joined the Bloomingdale Reformed Church, which then stood on the square facing Broadway at 106 St. When we first attended this church the pastor was a Dr. Stimson, a very eloquent preacher. He resigned the pastorate and was succeeded by Rev. William W. Ketchum, and shortly after his installation I became superintendent of the Sunday School, and served there for about two years, and succeeded in building up a large school of young people who seemed to enjoy attending this Sunday School as much as I did. End of Part 2

Part 3 In 1909, I again tried working for a Stock Exchange house and struggled along for about three years on a commission basis, trying to get outside security business; but either because I was not equipped by nature to handle this type of business, or because of the depressed conditions generally prevailing in Wall Street during this period, I was not successful, and these years were starvation years with us. After having to go without the bare necessities of life, I recall a very dark gloomy time during this period. One Christmas I found myself entirely without funds. This was, I believe, Christmas 1910. Downtown they were celebrating the holiday the day before and there was, as there always is at this season of the year, considerable gaiety prevailing, everyone looking happy, and in the cafes there were crowds of brokers toasting each other's health and singing out "Best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." I stood outside of the Hoffman House cafe, which at this time was located under the Consolidated Stock Exchange on the corner of Exchange Place and New Street. It was snowing and cold, a band was playing upstairs on the floor of the Exchange the Gypsy Love Song. People were hurrying past me with bundles and packages on the way home with gifts for the family. I was cold, heartsick and discouraged, and as far as I could see the future held out very little hope for me to make good at my age, forty, and I felt I was only a drag and a handicap to my sweet, brave wife who had so patiently struggled to help me by exercising the strictest economy and going without things she should have had, sacrificing everything for me. And here I was unable to take her home the simplest Christmas present, and I was ashamed to go home and have to tell her I had no money for our board and none for her. The prospect I faced was a notice from the landlady to vacate our room. Where could we go? I had managed to keep up my life insurance, and I knew if I passed out of the picture my wife would have enough money to live on in a simple way. I was torn between my desire not to desert her in her time of need, and a feeling that I ought to jump off the dock and let her have my insurance. Shall I ever be able to forget that incident, the band sweetly playing "My Little Gypsy Sweetheart," the laughter issuing from the cafe, the cold snow, and my hopeless condition! A voice roused me from my reverie saying, "Well, John D., come in and have a drink." It was Harry Kennedy, a man I met in the broker's house, R.H. Fiero & Co., where I tried to make a few dollars commission. He took me in and bought me a cheering drink, but he did more than that, he saved me from a rash act and gave me some good wholesome advice, saying, "It's always darkest before dawn, and after all it never hurts anyone to go broke if one bears up under it and takes it as a good lesson and corrects the reasons for it." So I went home, on the way writing a little poem to my wife (which Harry later said was worth more than the biggest diamond ring in Tiffany's): Santa will come to most of the homes, Bringing his gifts and good cheer. No Santa will come to us, Sweetheart, With beautiful gifts this year. Our Santa in this world's goods is poor, Has nothing to offer dear wife, No diamonds, no rubies, no emeralds, No pearls, but the tears of devotion for life. For myself I would rather have you, dear heart, Than the wealth of the world's richest king. I would rather be sure of your love, sweetheart, Than anything Santa could bring. I enclosed this little poem in an envelope and presented it to her Christmas Eve, and when she read it she wept and told me that she would rather have had it for a gift that anything I could have given her. All of which goes to prove that sentiment is not killed by marriage, time, nor adversity. (This was the same Christmas that she received the surprise gift earlier mentioned. JR) Continued on page ten...