The Washington herald., 1916-12-11
New York, Day by Day
/. ny o. d MCINTYRE.

New York, Dec. 10.-Charles Case, who
has made millions laugh monologuing in
vaudeville, passed on the other day and
only the briefest of obituaries recorded
his demise. He was always bright and
CHEEKY on and of the stage, and had
been favorite for the last twenty-five
years.
He was out OF employment when the
end came. Not long before Hammer
STEMS closed Its doors, Case was feat
ure of the bill. He remarked that he
was always a great sufferer from the in
Justice of typographical errors.
They always spell my name wrong"
he complained. Just listen to this from
a Chicago paper: The audience at the
Palace Theater yesterday afternoon was
convulsed with laughter at the greatest
comedian of modern times Chicago will
always have warm spot in her heart
for Nat Goodwin"
But the most amusing things about
Cases work were his songs. One he al
ways sung that caused much laughter
was about young man who came to the
great city to seek employment and met
some college students who made him en-
ter a saloon and drink a glass Of lager,
and then he staggered to the door with
delirium tremens
And then there was another sentimental
ditty which wound up with the line:
And he took of his false whiskers,
and Ii was Jackr'
A New York editor believes that he has
found diamond in the rough-a literary
diamond, IL you please-in Asa Anderson
Patrick, who lives near Fort Worth.
Tex, and in his community is known as
the Poet Of the Clear Fork"
Patrick at one time wore q white
apron as his badge of servitude, but like
the lilly that springs forth from the
muck. he did not allow his occupation to
impair his poetic vision
He Is a lover of nature and natures lit
tie things and has written a poem about
such an unpoetical thing as a dried corn
cob. An Asa Anderson Patrick cult has
lights and an effort will be made to bring
Patrick out of his surroundings and let
him write unfettered and untrammeled
by his material handicaps
There is something intensely human
about S. Jay Kaufman, who rambles
about town for the Globe and writes
what he sees. When most folk twere get
ting ready for the big annual stuff or to
put on the feed-bags, as Tad would say,
kaufman was visiting a police station
to find out some needy family in the
slums.
He found the family and he spent the
day with them, stocking them up with
groceries and little presents for the chill
dren. And when he left he had the lump
in-the-throat feeling that makes the hap
piest kind of Thanksgiving.
Then / saw another man who must
have had a happy Thanksgiving. He is
c. NJ. Garrison, who is at home in the
rough mining camIs of Arizona as much
as he is lolling in the deep cushioned
chairs in the Fifth avenue clubs
Garrison Stunned invitations galore to
dinner. He ordered his big limousine car
early. as did his companion, Hugo Wolf
the rich smelter magnate. Then they
went over to the East Side, where turkey
was unknown this Thanksgiving
They searched the neighborhood for
hungry children and they found them
| spindly-legged kiddies with anemic looks
They were bundled into the huge cars
and were transported from their squaIid
surroundings to a big roadhouse in the
country. where they were fed. And they
came back happy. but not as happy as
their hosts.