The Sauk Centre herald. (Sauk Centre, Stearns County, Minn.) 1886-current, 1938-08-11


fore again with something new with
the same nervous energy he has
always displayed. -. There's a tale
behind it. Some years ago in one
of his visits to this section, DIR. Lew
is watched the fidgety author in
hale his way through 40 cigarettes
in a single morning. you won't
see so, Harry" the Doctor said. :.
80
Trend of the times: Now the gas
oline dispensing pump is thing
of beauty-and an eyesore fore
Packet-Or Man River rolled
down the lane it has carved, some
time ago, and aboard one Of the last
of the old packet boats, the stern
wheelers, went your correspondent.
It was night when we left the
wharf at st. Paul and lights flashed
over a skyline vastly different to-
day than when the Capitol" first
eased itself away from those docks.
From Capitol Hill the dome Of the
state house was brilliant in a bath
of light. Moons winked from the
two Cities and flashed into the riv-
er below. For those who knew
the river in the old days such a
ride would bring up memories Of
jammed wharfs, jeweled ladies, and
gay gentlemen coming up from
New Orleans and the Old South. /.
But for me it could only bring con-
lecture of what the old days were.
So I fell into conversation with
Harry Schmidt. Harry saw his
younger days along the old Mis-
sissippi at Lacrosse where the pac-
kets piled their way loaded for bear.
He remembers the negro rousta-
bouts, stripped to the waists, their
naked bodies shining in the sweat
and heat, unloading freight. :. ].
There were always the daredevils
of the town who would go out in
small boats and ride the kinky wash
of the old paddle wheelers. They
were gay, colorful picture as they
locked, these old packet boats. !.
Carrying freight loaded high up the
decks, and passengers on tours
from the south, they landed at La
Crosse. There were side wheelers,
too, in those days. Harry used to
go down to unload butter and eggs
from some of the smaller craft that
piled between Wisconsin and Min
nesota towns. Butter, he said, that
nearly ran in the jars from the sum-
mer's heat. Vast crowds met
every boat at the wharf, to get the
news, watch the strapping negroes,
see the colorful parade of handles
and their ladies alight to the docks.
Once Harry sprained his ankle
scurrying up the rock wharf steps.
Much of that passes today. On
ly last week came announcement
that the last of the old packets in
the south end of the river went the
way of all things-yielding to the
new.
62 Houses-A tale so often told in
the story of John A. Myhre, Nor
wegian immigrant. ;. So years ago
with 50 cents to his name, no
friends, no relatives, no job, he
came to Sank Centre. In fact he
was unable to speak the English
language. On a Saturday night he
landed here; on Monday he went
to work. Too poor to continue
schooling here that he had begun
in Norway, Mr.. Myhre had to choose
the hard way to learn the language.
Picking up wl1gt he could. And
surprisingly he said this week the
best way to learn the language is
from the kids" All his life
he has been a painter and in the
46 years he pursued the trade he
kept track Of the houses-new
houses-that he painted. And
his brush had scurried across the
expanses of 62 Of Sank Centres
new dwellings that rose in that 40
year period. Now year ago