IN MEMORIAM, A. G. TUTTLE. 203 



One winter day, the coldest day of that winter, when the mercury 

 was away below zero, the wind blowing a gale and the snow flying 

 as in a Dakota blizzard, there came a rap at the door and in walked 

 Mr. Tuttle, a vigorous old man still, though well past his fourscore 

 years. As soon as he could get his breath he explained his visit 

 by saying that he had heard I was not' feeling real well and so had 

 come up to see if I needed any help about doing my chores. 



His keen sense of humor led him to store his memory with an 

 inexhaustible fund of amusing anecedotes, which he knew well how 

 to tell, and it led him into the perpetration of numberless jokes. 

 Mr. Tuttle's jokes were peculiar to himself. He would start off in 

 a way that would completely disarm you of any suspicion of what 

 was coming and then treat you to a kindly and good natured sell. 



Home place of Mr. A. G. Tuttle, Baraboo, Wis. This plate was made from an old 

 and much faded photograph. 



To me the most amusing feature of the whole affair was his boyish 

 chuckle as he noted your surprise at the unexpected turn he had 

 given to the conversation. A year ago this last summer, when in 

 his ninetieth year, he stopped at my house on his way back from 

 Mr. Miner's. He said he had been over to see Mr. Miner's show for 

 a crop of plums. I was interested, and he continued : "I find I 

 can beat him this year." Of course I was surprised, for Mr. Miner 

 makes a specialty of plums. He repeated very positively, "I can 

 beat hi'm this year for I have got one plum, but Mr. Miner hasn't 

 any." Presently the conversation drifted very naturally to poultry. 



