The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1903-02-15
THE GIO''!S
Of AORGU[
ProSaic Guardian of Dead
Talks of His Duties.
NEARLY COLLAPSED ONCE
When Terrifying Shrieks
Cameron CouChes otCorpses
NEARLY COLLAPSED ONCE

New York, Feb. II. The New York
World says:
What sort of a man is the morgue-
keeper? is he nervous, or figety, or NOR
bid, or melancholy? Can he take what
the novelists call an objective view of
his occupation and be jolly? Does he be-
come a philosopher, fitted to contem-
plate even the end of his own life with
equanimity, or does his experience wear
on him and produce an abnormal fear OF
death?
Naturally, nobody could answer these
questions SO well as the morgue-keeper
himself
idgets,' said John Walker the other
nigth to a writer for the New York
World. Mr. Walker is the night keeper
of the Newt York Morgue, and he sat
staring into the semi-gloom where lay
his colony of unknown unfortunates.
But it wouldn't do for nervously in
clined person 10 have this job" he con-
tinued. abstractedly running his fingers
through his hair. Its wearing-thats
what it is-it's wearing. 1 am not super
stitious and L deal with the dead as 1
would with the living, but l tell you it
gets mighty lonesome in here after II
o'clock
At that moment the clock pointed to
midnight In the sombre room you could
= hear the water drip, drip. drip, while
from underneath the floor came the
swish of the river which has given so
many dead to the Morgue.
1t was a place of ghosts, no matter
whether or not prosaic John Walker be-
Heves in them. Sit for awhile alone in
the shadows with the dead about you
and reflect. In the gloom are the brood
ing ghosts of men whose lives have gone
out in violence-of suicides whose load
OF misery was too great; of drunkards
who stumbled into the river and drowned
without a cry.
Over eight thousand homeless and
fiiendless are brought into this terminal
station in the journey of life every year.
Sixty of them are here now. They are
marked with yellow tickets. which give
them free transportation over the river
to the Potter's Field. Each of these
tickets bears the number of the passen-
ger.
In this last journey there are no greet
ings and no farewells, not even from
John Walker, who sits by the little WIN
dow all night waiting for his customers.
The door leading to Twenty sixth street
opened without sound. There stood
before the little window a gray-haired
woman with a shawl over her head.
She wrung her hands Historically and
gazed into the gloomy room with face
like marble What is it, madam" ask
ed John Walker quietly.
My daughter. please, sir; she has not
been home for week. 1 fear she has
committed suicide because-because-you
see, she was in love and the neighbors
said she went toward the river L tried
to get my husband to come here to-
night, but he had a drop too much and
could not. We are worried to death about
her.
Prosaic John Walker produced a large
stock of photographs. They are pictures
of human heads. swathed in white-pic-
lures of the unkempt dead. just as they
came from the river or the street, with |
tousled hair.
What was her name?" asked the keep |
er gently.
Kate O'Brien, sir.
There is no Katie O'Brien among the |
known ones. Here are the photographs |
of those unknown. See II you recognize |
any of them" said John Walker.
The woman took the photographs |
violently. Face after face |
passed through her hands in review
faces lined with care and scanned with /
sin; faces grim and terrible; faces elo- /
Quent of suffering; faces almost tender
In lineament, as thought they had caught |
at the very last moment a knowledge |
OF respite and happiness in the hereafter. |
They were the faces Of those marked |
by the yellow ockets, waiting for their
last Journey.
When she had looked at the last of
the photographs the woman sank into
a chair sobbing. "Oh. thank God, Thank !
Cod she exclaimed. ''She is not here.
[ didn't think she was. but l wanted
20 make sure. Thank you sir; you have
lightened my heart wonderfully. God
bless you.
As she opened the door to go out
foot of Twenty-sixth street, and into the
gloom of the deadhouse floated the frag-
n,ent of a song. 1t was:
Mr. Dooley, o Mr.. Dooley
The grandest man the country ever knew;
He's autocratic,
He's democratic.
Is Mr.. Dooley, ooley. ooley. 90.
John Walker smiled. That often hap
pens he said
The New York Yacht Club has a land
ng on the pier. and some belated party
Was going on its way TO one of the steam
Yachts out in the river There are sell
iom less than half a dozen of finely
,quipped pleasure craft riding at anchor
III the Morgue and ii often happens that
light farers on their way to claim their
lead. or in search of the missing. are
passed by representatives of high society
L is this fact. in a measure. which makes
light life at the Morgue endurahle to !
John Walker
Hardly has the rumble of the carriage {
wheels died away before a queer sound /
Irises In the rear of the dead-house
huffle, shuttle shuttle it approaches
dong the walk outside, and pauses be- I
ore the door. Here surely is a ghost TO {
'e feared Of men :
But the keeper steps quietly into the /
doom of the dead-room, and opens the /
oor without word. The shuttle. shuttle.
huffle. from the outer darkness. and t
NO men appear On a stretcher between 4
hem they carry another yellow ticketed {
assenger to the Potters' Field.
Found drowned" the card SAYS. He I
lifted TO a vacant lifting place. and G
he two grim and silent assistants shut v
e out again and vanish in the direction $
{ the hospital q
.'ornetines they come in by the half /
Oxen. one after another says Walker,