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TTEARST’S SUNDAY AMERICAN, ATLANTA, GA„ SUNDAY, AUGUST 31, lOTG.
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Jack Smith Is Losing His Lifelong Battle With a Necktie
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Atlantal Most Eccentric Citizen, After Perpet
uating His Image in Stone at the Tomb He
Built, Finds That Nature Will, After All,
Thwart One of His Dearest Wishes.
By L. F. WOODRUFF
“Jack” Smith In stone still sits with unfur
rowed brow gazing unbllnklngly on the western
sun as It sinks behind Oakland cemetery.
“Jack” Smith In the flesh stands staring at
his graven Image and care and trouble and
blasted purpose add to wrinkles that time has
placed on his forehead.
For “Jack” Smith In stone, once the hope,
the joy, and the satisfaction of “Jack” Smith
in the flesh, Is now his chief trial and tribula
tion.
And all because “Jack" Smith In the flesh
tried with “Jack” Smith of granite to oppose
a lasting law of nature and now in his old age
he realizes the strength of the force that he
tried to overcome, but still fights grimly on.
Nine years ago, when it was announced that
“Jack” Smith was to erect a statue of himself
to sit in silent and eternal vigil by the tomb he
had years before built for himself in anticipa
tion of the day when he must meet his Maker,
Atlanta was in no way surprised.
Atlanta had become thoroughly accustomed
to the wealthy, crusty, eccentric old Jasper
Smith’s doing bizarre, unheard of things and
the mere fact that he was going to break all
precedent and tradition by having his statue
erected while he was alive Instead of taking
Chances on somebody else having it made after
his death, seemed entirely in keeping with the
nature of the man.
From the time that Jasper Smith, a typical
Cracker, came to Atlanta from a little Georgia
town, hardly a day passed without his having
done or said things that are seldom done and
said by the average workaday man.
Tradition has it that he came to Atlanta
with a carpetbag and the savings of his life
In a leather wallet, and It didn’t take a large
wallet to hold his money then. The story goes
that he was walking along Pryor street, when
he saw the red flag of an auctioneer.
Jasper Smith had always been a good trader.
He always rejoiced in an ability to pick up a
bargain. The red flag and the clang of the
auctioneer’s bell lured him. He entered the
vacant store, where the auction Was to be held
and he met his fate—on the doorslll.
Real estate was being sold to the racous a#
companiment of the auctioneer’s eloquence.
Atlanta was at that time just rising from the
ashes of the war. Atlanta property was the
cheapest thing in Atlanta.
There were plenty of people with plenty of
land and there were pitifully few people with
any ready cash.
Jasper Smith was making his first visit to
Atlanta, but by some sort of divination, he fore
saw the future of the then stricken town.
He made a few inquiries of bystanders as to
the property then on the block, and when the
tame bidding had. ceased Jasper Smith owned
the property and had become an Atlantan
and an Atlanta institution.
This was the start of a career in the real
estate market that amassed a fortune for the
then green Cracker. He bought low and he
sold high. His judgment of property seemed
Infallible. Everf piece of land he acquired
grew a crop of gold.
“The House That Jack Built,” that Peachtree
street landmark with a cornerstone with the
time of construction dating from the inaugu
ration of George Washington Instead of the
conventional Anno Domini and its quaint mot
toes, made the name of “Jack” Smith known
wherever a Southern newspaper Is read.
Then followed his building of the Bachelors'
Domain in Pryor street, near the place where
the red flag and the auctioneer’s hell invited
him to fortune.
In this queer building with the rooms bear
ing the names of the States instead of the con
ventional numbers, like the old cabins of steam
boat days, old Jasper Smith lives in practical
seclusion now, awaiting the time when his body
will rest in the tomb he has prepared, keep
ing company with his granite image that has
blocked his ambition and U a thorn In his side
in his declining years.
For that statue is at one time the hobby and
the sorrow of this strange old man. There is
a world of common, hard horse sense in the ec
centric brain of old “Jack.” And it was some
of this horse sense that prompted him to build
the vault in Oakland and to sit for the statue
that makes the vault one of the show places
of the cemetery.
Jasper Smith knew what sort of a tomb he
wished for his eternal resting place. He knew
that the only way in which he could be abso
lutely assured that his tomb would be built
structed during his lifetime. Then he could
know, and know positively, that there would
be a place to receive his body and the place
would be one of his own choice.
So Jasper Smith built the tomb, and as
Jack Smith in the
flesh as he has
become familiar to
Atlantans, and as hej
appears iii the stone I
statue which guards.^
his tomb.
as he wished it, was for him to have it con-
brick was laid on mortar he stood by and
watched, well pleased in the fact that in this
respect at least he had removed one of the
terrors of death. No matter what happened,
he would never rest in ah unmarked and se
cluded grave.
But he also wished to preserve the memory
of himself to posterity. On the streets of At
lanta, Jasper Smith is as readily recognizer’
as the Candler Building. Hardly a man has
lived here six months who could not point out
to the stranger the old, bowed, wrinkled man
with the stubby, white mustache and age-
dimmed eyes as “old Jack Smith.”
His appearance is as strange as his nature.
Never in his wakfng hours has he been seen
unless an old-fashioned beaver hat crowned
his head. Many people believe he sleeps in it.
It Is part and parcel of his person.
And no man has ever seen him wear a
necktie. As much as the beaver belongs to his
personality, does the absence of a scarf of any
kind. It Is not penuriousness that causes him
to forego this feature of haberdashery. When
“old Jack” wants to spend money, he can do
so with the best of them, say his acquaintances.
The necktie is missing because neckties are as
Inimical to the principles of Jasper Smith as
a red dress is to the good nature of a vigorous
bull.
To him the beaver hat stands for the olden
days, to whose traditions he is constant and
true. It stands for the dignity which is his.
It is the badge of the financial success he has
won.
The cane that he carries, assists him in walk
ing. That’s why he carries it. If he thought
than any one suspected that he was using it as
a swagger stick he would propably throw it
in the ash barrel. He is for useful things,
like carefully-selected tombs, beaver hats and
walking sticks.
But he has never discovered the use of a
necktie, and, therefore, he has never worn one.
The necktie does not cool in summer, it does
not warm in winter. Valuable minutes are
wasted daily in tying it and untying it.
It is a symbol of foppery. It has no
place in the sartorial make-up of Jasper Smith.
Wherefore, Jasper Smith has an averson for
neckties, and the combination of this aversion,
the laws of nature and his desire that the gen
erations to come shall know how "old Jack
Smith” looked in his lifetime, form the tragedy
of his career.
When Jasper Smith decided to preserve his
physiognomy and figure for the edification of
posterity, his first thought was that they be
reproduced on canvas with a master artist using
his pigments to portray faithfully "old Jack
Smith” as Atlanta knew him.
A portrait painter was given the commission.
He was instructed to spare neither time nor ex
pense on the work. Jasper Smith sat patiently
for days. The artist had reached the stage
where nothing but the finishing touches were
to be added. Jasper Smith waited to view
the finished product.
The artist, satisfied with a task well per
formed, invited his patron to view the work
in his studio. The covering of the portrait
was removed and Jasper Smith gazed on his
picture.
The likeness was striking. The colors were
perfectly blended. “Old Jack Smith” seemed
to breathe on the canvas, and then the eyes
This Wizard of Real
Estate Who Has De
fied Custom in Own
Way Meets Defeat.
of Jasper Smith rested on the bust of the por
trait.
There was one wild cry of rage and his foot
crashed through the painting. The artist nar
rowly escaped a second kick, which was in
tended for him personally.
The painter had committed the highest of
crimes. For, decorating the neck of the old
eccentric was a scarf. It is true it was of dig
nified black. But it was a scarf just the same.
Old Jasper Smith refused to pay for the
painting, and a suit followed. Old Jasper plead
ed a Cromwellian attitude. It was cited that
the mighty Oliver had insisted that a painter
reproduce the mole on his nose when the gen
eral was sitting for his portrait. Jasper Smith
contended that it was Just as important to
leave ont the necktie as It was to put in the
mole. He won his suit.
But Jasper’s purpose had not been accom
plished. It still remained for him to per
petuate his likeness. Immediately his mind
turned from thought of canvas to thought of
enduring stone, stone that would defy the
ravages of time or the destructive force of
nature's elements.
He sought a sculptor and again gave his
commission. Gray Georgia granite was the
material used in the work, and the sculptor
worked well. Jasper Smith was faithfully por
trayed. The sculptor missed no detail. Jasper
Smith in granite sits before the vault that will
some day hold all that Is earthly of Jasper
Smith. The beaver hat rests on his knee. He
stares always to the West.
And when Jasper Smith saw the statue
placed he smiled his satisfaction. There he
was to sit for centuries, perhaps, and there
was no hateful necktie to mar the perfect por
trayal.
And then came the tragedy.
On the vault a vine of dainty ivy had been
planted. The tomb was finely covered with
the green beauty of the foliage, and then a
tendril reached out and wound Itself around
the neck of the Jasper Smith of stone.
Jasper Smith has made it a custom for years
to visit his own tomb at regular intervals. On
one of these visits his old eyes rested on the
green band that encircled the statue’s neck.
He summoned the sexton. His rage was white
hot.
“Have that ivy cut down from there right
now,” he commanded. “Have It done right
away. It looks like a necktie., f never wore
a necktie in my life. I don’t want my statue to
wear one when I’m dead. Cut it down. Oh, cut
t down.”
Tlie sexton complied, but Nature was ob
durate. It would appear that she is determined
for the stone Jasper to wear the haberdashery
that the living Smith despises. Again a ten
dril reached out And again it found its place
ground old Jasper’s neck.
Since then the old man has ordered it cut
away time and time again. But Nature, in
evident approval of the conventions of the day,
has always had a new necktie to supplant the
one removed.
The sexton says that old Jasper’s visits have
become less frequent since he has found out
how hopeless is Ills struggle against Nature.
But there is one consolation for the old man's
mind. He knows that when he makes his last
pilgrimage to the green burial ground, his eyes
will not rest on the hatefnl necktie. They will
be closed in an eternal and a restful sleep.
In Time of Peace
«•
• •
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H AVING once been a member of the State
militia, Jasper Johnson had followed
with great interest the ebb and flow of
diplomatic relations between the United States
and Mexico, as recounted in the daily news
papers.
He read of the demand for recognition by
this country of the Huerta regime; the recall
of Ambassador Wilson; the dispatching of
Special Envoy John I,ind, of Minnesota, to
gether with William Bayard Hale, the Presi
dent's confidential envoy, and the subsequent
delay which has brought about a perilous sit
uation. In Jasper’s fertile brain, his readings
bore their fruit.
One evening he lowered his paper and
glanced at his wife.
“Willie Robb,” he said, “what if I should be
called off to war to-morrow morning?”
Willie Bobh looked up as if thunderstruck.
“Why Jasper,” she exclaimed “how perfectly
foolish.”
After a second thought., Jasper accepted his
wife’s answer as a matter of course. She sel
dom kept up with the news of the day and so
could not understand the Mexican crisis. There
fore he ignored her ridicule and pursued his
supposition.
“If the Mexicans crossed the border to-night
and began slaying Americans and pillaging the
country, war would be declared right away
and the Southern people would be the first to
be ordered to the front bora use they are the
nearest to the scene of action."
Visions of fleeing people, burning homes and
the American flag trampled in the dust by Mex
ican feet sped Jasper on to bis climax.
“Suppose I went down town to-morrow
morning and was ordered right ofT to war?”
he exciaimed slapping his hand down on the
table and fixing his eyes on his bewildered
spouse. “Did ever a Southerner pause at the
call to war?
“No. sir; and T wouldn’t either,” he continued
with emphasis. “I would catch the first train
off to the front. Now the point is, am I pre
pared for such an emergency? In other words,
what would become of my business?”
At this juncture, Willie Bobb rose straight
up out of her chair.
“Well,” she exclaimed with heat, “what
would become of me, too?”
“That’s right,” shouted Jasper, excitedly; “I
had almost forgotten about you.”
“If the men oj this country thought of their
women first," returned Willie Bobb, dryly,
“there wouldn’t be any wars.”
“Well, anyway," continued Jasper, ignoring
his wife’s side thrust, “you easily see how to
tally unprepared I am.”
As the evening wore on, Jasper’s mind waxed
more impressed with his own perilous position,
and by bedtime he was rummaging around in
dresser drawers and on shelves, bringing forth
numerous articles and laying them out on the
table.
“Jasper,” said his wife, viewing his oper
ations suspiciously, “what are you doing?”
Johnson, caught in his actions was a bit
sheepish, but continued silently with his jaw
set and a look of determination on his face.
From under the bed he drew out a suit case
and into It began arranging carefully the things
which he had laid out.
First there was a cake of lavender scented
soap in a small aluminum box; then a comb
and brush; his tooth brush nnd paste; his
shaving equipment; a suit of striped pajamas;
socks, underclothing and a freshly laundered
shirt; on top of these he placed a pair of car
pet slippers and closed and locked down the
suit case with a look of satisfaction on his face.
Then he returned it to its place under the bed.
“Jasper Johnson,” exclaimed his wife, stern
ly, “I demand to know what you are doing.”
“In times of peace, Willie Bobb, I am not
going to be caught unprepared for war, and
clothes are just as necessary as guns and am
munition,” her husband answered nnd then,
fearing the bite of her scornful laughter, he
hurried out on tlie front porch to smoke.
That night, Jasper Johnson had a vivid
dream. At the head of a gallant troop of
American calvary, he was charging into the
midst of an army of Mexicans.
Recklessly he had flung the reins on his
horse's neck, and with Old Glory held high
above his head with one hand, lie was cutting
off a dozen heads with each stroke of his saber
in the other. The surging mass of humanity
around him recoiled before his terrific on
slaught. Dike the parting of waters, it shrank
back before him, and mid the bedlam of mus
ketry, the blinding flash of cannon and the
cries of agony from the wounded, he found
himself suddenly galloping down au avenue of
human beings neither of the writliihg sides of
which he eonld reach with his murderous saber.
On and on he flew, nor could he stop. Higher
and higher his body arose with each plunge
forward of his frantic steed and harder and
harder did he hit the saddle on each rebound.
In his perilous situation, Jasper shouted out
ills fears, but the horrible realization bound
him that lie was helpless. Then the inevitable
came; Jasper finally arose too high in the air
and his horse run out from under him.
Down, down, down went Jasper Johnson,
seemingly Into an unending abyss and in that
horrible fall his dream was ended.
in the first haze of awakening, Jasper John
son felt a sharp pain shooting through him
which he at first mistook for a Mexican bullet
wound. With numb fingers he located its
source In hLs left hip on which he had fallen.
Then as consciousness lighted his brain more
clearly he found himself on the floor. He had
fallen out of bed.
Willie Robb was leaning over the edge of the
bed scolding him.
“Of all things,” she was saying: “to think
of a grown man like yon lulling out of bed.”
“Get a doctor quick,” writhed Jasper, the
full force of the pain in his liio now striking
him. “I am wounded—1 mean hu.rt,” he quick
ly corrected. “It’s my hip.”
In an instant Willie Robb bad forgotten her
scorn and was all solicitation.
“What’s the matter, goosie,” she questioned.
“I don’t know, but call a doctor," her husband
walled. “It’s killing me.”
When Doctor l’ill arrived. Jasper was in still
greater distress. Sharp pains were shooting
forth in every direction from the scat of the
trouble, and his agony was piteous to hear.
“Humph!” mused the physician, pulling at
his Vandyke. “It looks as though the bone
had been broken by the fall. I think he had
better be taken to the hospital."
Ten minutes later the ambulance clanged
its presence frantically outside the little John
son home and two white-coated internes ap
peared in the bedroom of the injured man wttn
a stretcher. Solemnly Jasper was picked up
and started for the doorway.
To the wailing Willie Robb. Dr. Pill turned
and said:
“I am afraid that your husband will he gone
for some. time. You had better pack up a few
things as quickly as possible for his use at the
hospital.”
Then he added, apologetically: “It’s too bad
that we humans are never prepared for an
emergency.”
“I am prepared, doctor,” moaned the wound
ed Jasper. “Willie Bobb, give him that suit
cqtr- under the bed with my Mexican waj^out-
_ ■ -
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