Judge — October 7, 1905 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A VISIT TO THE HOME OF MR, JOHN D, ROCKEFELLER. EAR JUDGE—I take my typewriter in hand to let you know I have just called on Mr. John D. Rockefeller, and to give you some account of the same. You may have noticed that it has been quite a summer for the re-appraisement of misjudged notabilities by persons themselves notable. Mr. Charles M. Schwab, one of our brightest young gun-makers, called on the Czar; Mr. Nicholas Murray But- ler, head of one of our most promising col- leges, saw the Kaiser; and I, one of the bes ! IXZ&{$FNdkn)(5% OUCH !!!rATSzszsip BOOM ! in New York, saw the King of Kero- sene. By the new rating thus obtained the Czar is much more of a man than we had been led to suppose ; the Kaiser despises war and loves peace by the month; and the laird of the wick-lamps is not the man Miss Tarbell has chased up a tree with a club, The per- son treed by that petticoated besom of wrath must be somebody else. By the way, have you noticed, JUDGE, that some of our best besoms nowadays come done up in calico and other female apparel ? Though not afflicted with the fear of big men, I confess to some momentary shivery sensations when I found myself approaching the master of Forest Hill and 26 Broadway. Just why I should have been thus affected at the prospect of meeting the Standard Oil magnate is a mystery to me. I didn’t have any money with me, and I had never said anything to offend Mr. Rockefeller. I suppose it was the feeling that I was about to see somebody so different from me. Violent con- trasts always have a bad effect on my nervous system. We had been ‘painting Cleveland red until the financial strain was telling on us. Yet here was a man who could incarnadine the whole state of Ohio out of his vest-pocket change. To meet such a man would naturally be a severe shock to a small salary. Another reason for my trepida- tion may be in the fact that I had a distant fear that Mr. Rockefeller, in his new passion to do good with his money, might seize upon me and insist on endowing me, and I have always had a horror of being endowed and perpetuated as one of the great institutions of the re- public. The thought of being set alongside a Carnegie Free Library or the Chicago University and megaphonically pointed out and hoarsely jeered at from a + sight-seeing auto” with fifty-six seats is very chill- ing to me. But let us begin at the beginning. The Press Humorists were in Cleveland and I was their guest. A note was sent to Mr. Rockefeller asking permission to ride through the grounds of his 7oo-acre estate on the edge of the city. Meanwhile we were adyised by Clevelandites that such a favor was very rarely granted. On the contrary, Mr. Ant is CAREFUL. Curorwan—' And will you Join our Sunday-school, Tommy ?”” Tommy—"! don't know, Mamma says | must be careful with whom I associate.” Rockefeller sent word at once that he would be glad to have us view his place, and would send a guide to act as escort. B-r-r-r-r! This is where we began to shiver. We were actually going to see the home of the rich- est. man in the world. Mayor Tom Johnson came to the hotel with his go h.p. Red Devil to carry us out, and other friends donated enough more au- tos to accommo- date the party. The procession moved out Euclid GETTING A LINE. Maupe—"" Your friend Is awfully cruel to be chas- ing that poor dog.”* avenue, past the Ciaupe—"Let me explain, my dear. Carlo dis- home and the haveifhe got chased himself.” home of Mrs. Chadwick, who starred for a season as Cassie in a great financial melodrama. Then somebody shouted + There it is!" Ber-r-r-r-r-r! It was the fence round Forest Hill! A little further along a subdued chorus of shouts went up. We must be getting there. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! This time it was the lodge and entrance to Forest Hill. Perhaps I have not made it perfectly plain that Forest Hill is not a cemetery. Sounds something like it, but it isn't. This is the name Mr. Rocke- feller has given to his country home on the outskirts of Cleveland. The next minute found us winding along the drives through the sparse timber surrounding the millionaire’s home. The house does not ap- pear as yet, and speculation is rife whether we will be allowed to see either that or the only J. D. himself. Opinion inclines to the negative on both propositions. Meanwhile what wonderful roads ! Marvelous, but in one particular only. They are so crooked, serpentine, wind- ing, uncertain, bewildering, weaving about under the trees, crossing and recrossing in a puzzling network, that the whole driveway is named “the maze." Somebody had to make a joke on this, and sug- gested that Mr. Rockefeller had built these worming roads to illus- trate ++ The System " and give some idea how he had managed to“ get there.” After a half-hour of this we came to a rather more pretentious point, where the road forked and a sign-board on the left said, **To The House.” B-r- r-r-r-r-r! And the guide steered us into the other road. We promptly gave up the hope of seeing Mr. Rockefeller or his home, and opinion had sudden- ly flopped to zero on the question of the amiability of the Standard Oil head when we wheeled round into another Smiore pretentious piece of road and saw another sign- hoard marked ‘To The House."” We were going to see “Stafter all! Ber-r-r-r-r-r-r! The road wound round a slight plateau, mounted it, circled the further side, and curved round, leading past the door of the mansion. Not a soul was to be seen. The house is big, white, a wood-and-frame structure, entirely without mag- nificence. Not a town of 25,000 in the country but has a more imposing show-place. We thought Mr. Rockefeller might have stood on the porch and bowed to us, but he didn’t. Somebody sug- gested that if he had stood out on the kitchen- roof and fired bricks at us it would have shown a little more of a spirit of friendliness ; but to be teetotally ignored, just left completely out of the reckoning that way, was very galling to the proud and haughty spirit of the American Hu- morists. Into the woods again we went, and somebody began to sing softly, Back, back to the woods. You haven't got the goods,” etc. (Continued on next page.) was Wea ting t Aft ler asi Tom J leadin as our other | specin withou Po comicbooks.com