Chapter 2 State University of Iowa “A middlin’ doctor is a pore thing, and a midlin’ lawyer is a pore thing, but keep me from a middlin’ man o’ God.”   --The Virginian. Why, I could not have told then, and how it came about I do not know to this day, but across the years which separated our first acquaintance from the friendship which came after, an occasional letter passed between Fred Smith and me. His letter were not frequent, of course, and when they did come they seemed for some reason only half satisfactory, grammatically perfect as they were, and interesting in their way, but steady and methodical-plodding. Strange, too, for the descriptions of school life which he sent should have been bright with color and laughter and enthusiasm. His letters were, as a man’s letter must be, the written expression of his thoughts and ideas; but he did not seem to be able to put the human quality into his sentences. At one time we fell to bantering over the length of our letters, for if he practiced English theses on me, I no doubt afflicted him with quantities of happy girl’s chatter. He claimed that his letters were the longer. I wagered that mine were. It was finally agreed that if by actual count it was proved that I had written more to him than he had written to me, I should receive a prize. The woman’s “gift o’ gab” triumphed; I had talked the longest by ten words, and he sent me a beautiful copy of Lord Byron’s poems. That little book is shabby now, and soiled with children’s finger prints, for our books are one of the things we have never denied our girls-but still I treasure it. While I treasure the book I have never heard him mention the incident. Man-like, he has hidden his heart from the most of the world, and even when those who are nearest him have attempted to fathom the emotions of his great soul they have been baffled so often by some freak of matter-of-factness or almost cold-blooded humor. I recall an incident of his graduation from high school. It was a typical small town commencement: beaming parents, class day orations and literally wagon loads of flowers. All day before the final commencement it rained an unbroken barrage. The drainless lawns stood ankle deep in flood, and the roads ran Iowa mud hub deep. And when my husband recalls that graduation day, he does not speak of the good friends who stood with him as he took his first diploma, nor of the pride of his first big-worded and sedately read oration. Rather he tells how the whole class spent the day trampling up the soggy door yards, cutting the drenched and drooping flowers to bank the church for the evening performance, regardless of the torrent. The whole class was out-with on exception. Fred Smith was enjoying a long, lazy day in the hay mow with his favorite book, a cap full of the earliest ripe tomatoes from the spring garden and a fistful of salt. He laughed at his friends then for their pains in faithfully gathering the customary decorations. He laughs now as he tells the story. It would be impossible to suppose, however, that there is no room in his deep nature for the matters of sentiment that make life worth living for the most of us, for when his affections are touched, the depth of his feeling is unfathomable. A man’s school days, for instance, mean more and more to him as he emerges into the treadmill of reality, and the friendships of college day are a month the most vital and lasting attachments of a lifetime; but I think Mr. Smith’s academy and college years were even more precious to him than are the average man’s youthful days. For one thing, they took him for the first time away from Lamoni and the shadow of his future. To prepare himself for his great work, to consider the dignity of his father’s office that he might not by word of action bring reproach upon the teachings of his father’s religion, to be an example of all virtues, economies and methods to the youth of his father’s church, were ideas too firmly fixed by the moral discipline of his father’s home not to have restrained to some extent the normal activity of his blundering boy nature. It was the same idea of preparation for the leadership of many thousands of people, however, that gained for him of his graduation from the three-year course of the Lamoni high school his two years at the State University of Iowa. Here he found superior instruction, activities and friendships unhampered by the restrictions of his father’s and his own future position. Among the few men in that day of those who finished high school in Lamoni and found their way open to higher education, Fred Smith was the first to forsake the small normal and parochial schools of the neighborhood for the State University at Iowa City that the boys still call “S.U.I.” His father was obliged to borrow the money to send him there, and he went as a poor man’s son, being too sane to spend borrowed money in luxuries, and too devoted to his “learning” to use his precious time working for the money to supply himself with comforts. Still he worked and played as a manly fellow will, and made his mark. The great tuba he had learned to play in the town band at home took him into the cadet corps and the university band. Athletics were his passion, but he never neglected his books for the lure of the gridiron or the diamond. Baseball he permitted himself and soon became a creditable catcher with a reputation for “slugging” that put him on the academy team the first season. Football he persistently refused to play, in spite of the reproaches of captain, coaches and fans. His powerful physique, trained to a fine point at two hundred pound, his surprising quickness and the clear thinking of his mathematical and logical brain would have given the eleven a man to succeed, or die in the attempt; but he would not play. “I can’t, you see,” he would explain patiently, with pitiful seriousness, when someone urged the point. “If I once went in for it I wouldn’t be good for study or anything else.” He made a consistent rooter however. He went into every game as a band member. He had behind his usually quiet and well modulated voice the force of a healthy pair of lungs and he was always ready to see the best man win The fellows liked him. They trusted him. And from the first they picked him for a leader. There were two men from the Iowa City high school who had chummed together before coming to the academy-Gilbert McElroy, a small-town boy like Fred Smith, and Edwin Hobby, a college-town boy and a rich man’s son. Since they were both new members of the academy class then completing its senior year, they were naturally thrown with the other strangers, and from the first were attracted to the man they called “Smith.” They were all of pioneer stock, representative of the aristocracy of the Middle West and typical of the rising generation. On the occasion of the senior academy election, the three were implicated in a political intrigue which upset the existing factions of the calls, and linked together the interests of these three boys whose friendship then in its incipiency has lasted through so many years. It became known shortly before the election that the class was divided with alarming evenness and the situation was such that a “dark hose” candidate, if there had been one, would have stood more than a “sporting” chance. “Ned,” said Mac to his friend a day or so before the voting, “if we should run ‘Smith’ for president of the class, he would sweep the slate.” “He shall be president,” declared Ned promptly. Two days of rapid campaigning put the new candidate well into the running, but so quietly was it managed by the young politicians that when “Smith” sat down between his two new friends, he himself was utterly unaware of their plans. The two regular candidates were named by their respective factions and the nomination speeches finished. Then Bert McElroy of the shaggy head and the ingenuous drawl, introduced the name of an unknown man. Ned Hobby innocently demanded to see the new candidate. Wonderingly and confusedly Fred Smith got his feet under him and was helped by a friend on either side to the floor. There was a spatter of applause from the previously coached adherents. He stood there, as I have seen him stand so many times, when called on for the extemporaneous speeches that are among his best public accomplishment-big and broad shouldered, frankly astonished, a little embarrassed, but with no intimation of pleasure or pride, or panic, or disapproval. There was strength in his pose, confidence in his manner and integrity in is face. The crowd sensed a leader. When the vote was taken, his majority was overwhelming. This was the beginning of a friendship between Frederick M. Smith and the two men, Gilbert A. McElroy and Edwin E. Hobby, which the years have not destroyed nor the changes which have come to them made less intimate and enduring. Since those days at “S.U.I.” their names have been household words in our family, as has the name of their first Alma Mater. I have often thought that Ned and Mac were the dearer to my husband as his church work occupied more and more of his time and thought, from their very indifference to who and what he was officially. To them he was not a president and prophet, not a leader, not an example-just “dear old Fred Smith,” for they are fond of him, even as he is of them. It is not surprising that this boy with a man’s future already in his mind should expand and develop as he did at this first transplanting. The contact with professors such as the men and women of the University of Iowa, even at that early day fine, inspirational and well-trained specialists, was one of the strongest factors in the development from the awkward country boy to a man of education and refinement. Under their tutelage he discovered unsuspected traits of expression, an artistic sense undreamed of, and a demeanor to command the respect of his instructors and of his classmates. That he made good in his studies was not a matter of surprise to Mt. Smith nor of any particular pride. It was simply a matter of course. Mr. McElroy, however, told me the other day that the suggestions included in the oration my husband wrote for his graduation from the academy-he was chosen as one of ten to represent the class-on the ”Utilization of the Power in the Iowa River,” are now being worked out at Iowa city. Mr. McElroy tells this with pride. He Has irrigation projects and dams of his own now, but he marvels at a mind that planned years ago, as a matter of discussion only, a proposition which is being accomplished in actual fact today. I am not surprised, however. It is only one of the many instances I could mention of my husband’s being a generation or so ahead of his time. The story of his life is a succession of plans rejected, ideas thwarted and movements retarded, because those with whom he worked were unable to look forward to the needs of a quarter of a century hence. One of the greatest handicaps, I think among the many he has to meet, is this failure to find men who will look forward with him into the future; but, after all, is that not the natural experience of an educator and a prophet? Socially, too, he met men and women during his two years in Iowa City who have been among his firmest friends for life; and he found in the home of his chum, Ned Hobby, a hospitality which more than made up for the meager arrangements of his own living quarters. He had a room in a house, now utterly in ruin, which was known as Sausage Row; but it was big enough for his accumulated belongings and light enough in which to study well, and he had the home of his friend to supplement his poor and lonely room. Ned’s family were people who had long been known in the town and in the university, and it was only natural that they should take pleasure in the entertainment of the many friends of their generous and lovable son. Doctor Hobby was a man of brilliant, philosophical mind and keen scientific knowledge, and an inspiration to many of the state’s future physicians. Mrs. Hobby, her daughter has told me, was early interested in the idea, still quite new in the social service of some agricultural sections, of providing rest rooms and community centers for the country women who came into town on Saturdays and holidays, and had frequently devoted her home to such purposes. It is no wonder then that with such ability and ideals Ned’s mother should prove a delightful hostess, and she was ably seconded by “sweet, little Ruth Hobby,” as the boys used to call Ned’s sister. I had sometimes wondered if little Ruth and her friends were not quite as able an attraction as the efforts of the older Hobbys and the charming hospitality of Ned himself; and my suspicions were confirmed when I learned that Ruth was married to George Gibbs, one of those other boys who enjoyed the entertainment of the Hobbys at the same time with my husband. It has been my good fortune in later years, when some one of his varied interests has taken my husband to Washington and I have been with him, occasionally to meet these old friends of Mr. Smith’s and to witness at their reunions that rare feast of “don’t -you-remember” which comes only when old schoolmates once more come together. I have found out, too, just why the boys still speak of the ministrations as hostess of “little Ruth Hobby.” For the same delicate welcome which made the doctor’s home a social center in Iowa City has made of the colonel’s home in Washington a haven for old friends as well as new. I shall never forget the time, just after the Great War, when Colonel Gibbs, who had recently returned from directing the signal corps operation the American army in France, kept us entertained for so long at a restaurant one evening that the maid came in with the broom and swept us out with the crumbs from the dining table. The next Sunday evening we were invited to the Gibbs home and the stories were continued. Here George, as his friends still call him, was enabled to illustrate his tales by bringing out and fastening on my proud breast for the sake of demonstration a collection of medals, ribbons and decorations, which represented the approbation of many kings and governments. I was just wondering if I couldn’t make my escape with all the pretty ornaments under cover of the colonel’s increasingly vehement discourse, when I discovered that the dignified Mrs. Gibbs was quite convulsing the rest of her audience by imitating behind her husband’s back with certain additional improvisations of her own, every gesture of the gyrations with which the colonel was acting out his campaign. No wonder George beamed so at the attention given his remarks. Later in the evening Colonel Gibbs and his beautiful brown-eyed daughter, Jessie, withdrew to the kitchen where George prepared his famous rarebit which Jessie served with a grace and dignity quite like her mother’s. The rarebits, it seems, are quite as much an institution in the Gibb’s household as Fred Smith’s pancakes are in our own. Before we left that night, I remember, Mrs. Gibbs called me aside for a word or two about her brother Ned. “Mrs. Smith,” she said, “I wish you would use your influence to see that Fred does not entirely lose touch with Ned. He does him so much good.” I promised. But is was not for Ned’s sake alone that I have been glad whenever there has been an opportunity for these old school friends to renew the intimacies of their youth. Many are our splendid friends among the church people, yet as the years pass, it is still gratifying to Frederick to have among his friends those who love him for himself only, uninfluenced by that for which he stands in relation to his life work. For a number of years after their separation the renewals of friendship between the three chums were infrequent and desultory, and then just at the time when the first enthusiasm with which each had attacked the life work which he had chosen had settled into the dogged persistence which brings to a man his periods of discouragement as well as his triumphs, they came again into the lives of each other. When the Great War drew Ned again into the service (he and Mac had both served in the Spanish War, but Ned had not remained in the army after the close of the war) by some twist of circumstances hew was stationed as medical examiner at Camp Funston, a ride of only several hours from our home in Independence near Kansas City. One day Fred came home form the office with the announcement that his old school friend, Ned Hobby, was in town and would be over at once. The children and I were wildly excited. Any soldier, and particularly a major, would have been welcomed in those days of open house for the men of the service, but had not Ned Hobby’s name been a household word with us since the days of S.U.I.? He came in all the glory of a tailor-made uniform and shining yellow boots. Lois promptly fell in love with the boots, I remember, and made so much talk about them that Ned with a most unusual lack of humility sent back in one of his “bread and butter” letters, a snapshot of himself which he said was a picture of his boots for Lois. The picture became a family possession from that time forth, for if his boots endeared him to our youngest, the dignity of bearing, the sweetness of character and the rare intelligence of which we found him possessed, made of him a welcome guest, while the delicacy and refinement which he added to his technical skill as a doctor and a surgeon and the quaint philosophy and quiet humor which he showed only to those who knew him best marked him for a man whom all might well admire and any would be glad to call friend. Fred said to me once after Ned had gone back to camp from his week-end with us, “You know Ruth, I am so fond of Ned-I wish he could live with us always.” I shall never forget him as he strode up and down the living room on the morning after his first evening with us. We had sat late the night before listening to the tales of old “Iowa” that the men recalled one after another until we were choking with laughter. Ned always would pace the floor like a caged lion when he talked, especially if the conversation were on any subject which touched his more tender emotions. This morning as he walked, he talked of his family; and bringing up suddenly at the end of a turn, he dived into his suitcase and brought out a picture of his beautiful wife Helen and their two delightful little daughters. These girls were truly doctor’s daughters, he said, with an eye to sanitation and hygiene. Once a child asked Mary Mead what she supposed bananas had skins for, and she said, “Why, to keep them sanitary, of course.” And another time, when Betty had been reproved by her grandmother for not finishing her ablutions quickly enough, or some such failure, she retorted: “All right, I‘ll just leave your old wash rag wet, and it will smell.” Later, in Berkeley, we were happy to have tea with Mrs. Hobby, and to meet the little girls, and even “grandmother,” who proved to be one of those charming women who have acquired grandchildren without the old-fashioned prerequisite of growing old. They have become our very good friends. It was not until after the close of the Great War that we came to know Mac better, when my husband was abroad in the interests of the foreign work of the church, and also to promote particularly among our church people the new educational movement of student exchange which has helped in late years to develop a more cosmopolitan spirit in our universities, as well as assisting in the reconstruction of Europe by making possible a broad and social education for its future leaders. The girls and I planned to spend the time of his absence in Los Angeles. Mr. Smith took us out to find us a place to live and get us “settled” before he sailed. We had been there only a few days, and had by no means accomplished the settling process, when Fred called up Mr. McElroy, and before I was aware of what had happened a dinner had been planned at which Mr. Smith and I were present with Mr. And Mrs. McElroy, and a Doctor Wallace and his wife. Doctor Wallace is Mrs. McElroy’s brother, and they are of the Wallaces, one of whom wrote the well-known book, Ben Hur. To offset this greatness Mr. McElroy claims relationship on his mother’s side with the Pikes, one of whom was a general and has a statue erected to him in New York, and for another there stands that great monument in the Colorado foothills, which is popularly known as “Pike’s Peak..” From some prophetic impulse, perhaps, I remember saying to Mr. McElroy before we left the table that night, “Since Fred is going to be so far way, Mr. McElroy, and you are such an old friend, you will have to consider yourself as a kind of chaperon to myself and the girls.” I certainly did not realize then, however, that before Mr. Smith returned from his trip, we should have been obliged to call on him in the capacity, not only of chaperon, but of lawyer, advisor, counselor and friend. Only two years in Los Angeles were strenuous one, but whether we broke one of the ever-changing traffic rules with which that lovely city is encumbered, or tried to sublease an undesirable bungalow in the wilds of the “movie village,” or had even lost the key to the old Dodge car which Mr. McElroy had insisted Mr. Smith send to us  before he went on to New York and himself refused even to tell us what the freight bill was, Mac, as he is still called, was our faithful protector. Fred eventually was expected to return from Europe, and great was the rejoicing. If Mr. McElroy was relieved at the prospect of turning over his lively charges to the rightful authority, he did not say so. But it had been hoped that the three boys might sometime get together for a good old-fashioned school-boy reunion, and when it was learned that Fred was coming, the big hearted but impractical Mac wrote to Ned, who was then practicing orthopedics in San Francisco, something in this manner: “Fred Smith is still in Europe but will probably be home some time this summer; I suggest that we commence making our plans right away to take a trip to the Yosemite with our families and when we get there turn the families out on green pasture and then imagine we are back in the old days. The more I think of it the more enthusiastic I get. The Yosemite would have an awakening that it never dreamed of; the belly of the old ‘Dome” would wiggle with mirth, and even the ‘church spires’ would chuckle. “If I don’t hear from you by return mail, I’ll appear in San Francisco one of these foggy mornings and beat some sense into your noodle. In the event I need re-enforcements I have a husky fourteen-year-old, now in high school, who is taller than I am and weighs almost as much-sound funny doesn’t it?” This last remark is particularly typical of Mr. McElroy. That husky son of his is more to him than all his accomplishments in the fields of law or finance, which he might claim with pride, but which he characteristically refers to as a “bit of investment for young Mac.” He may well be proud of that boy. There in embryo are the same traits which made of father the loyal and courageous soldier, the keenly just lawyer and the genuinely staunch and generous friend. His eyes, too, are like his father’s, which show the steel of Scotch integrity behind the blue of Irish laughter. Mrs. McElroy says it is the blue of tenderness, but that, of course, is Mrs. McElroy’s secret. As young Mac himself once put it when his grandmother told him how proud his father was of him: “Well, he out to be. That is the kind of a child he intended to have” In his enthusiasm about the Yosemite plan, however, good Mr. Mac had failed to take into consideration the fact the respective families, not being being vegetarians, might not consent to the grass diet he suggested. When the reunion finally took place, the boys happily contented themselves with a few days hunting and reminiscing at the McElroy cabin in Arroyo Seco, while their families entertained themselves with less arduous pastimes at home. Poor boys! The years had gone hard with them. My heart ached for them as I saw them go out for their much-talked-of frolic-boyish still, light-hearted, rollicking, and yet with something written in each face which had not been there in the days they were now met again to relive. And yet I could not hope that they might have become the skilled orthopedic specialist, the successful corporation lawyer, and the unique religious leader which those three boys have made of themselves during the years, without suffering the telling weight of responsibility, the sorrow defeat, and the burden of overwork which each has had to endure. I have lived too long with him whom Ned declared to be the greatest of the three not to understand how this must be. I say Ned called Fred the greatest of the three. Perhaps he meant only that the work which Mr. Smith has had to do is of a greater worth to society even than their noble professions. But if what the Virginian says is true and we may be proud that our friend the doctor is a noted doctor and that our friend the lawyer is a famous lawyer, I can only hope that Ned was right, and I may be proud too, of my husband that he has occupied well in his calling. 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