MY COUSIN and I were talking at the post office and got pretty soon in the course of nature onto the subject of forgetfulness, a subject that seems to me not to have been so prominent back in the old days, but I may have forgot. We exchanged some examples, and I said, “This reminds me of Granddaddy's story about Mr. Lowstudder.”
Mr. Lowstudder was the owner of a racetrack down at Hargrave. One time he made a trip down the river to Louisville. His business down there was to participate in the delights of the big city to the limit of his capacity.
He was on the steamboat coming back upriver to Hargrave, standing out on the deck, holding tight to the railing, when another gentleman, a stranger, came up and stood beside him. They fell into conversation, which lasted a pleasant while. The time came for introductions. The stranger made his manners to Mr. Lowstudder and stuck out his hand.
Mr. Lowstudder started to reciprocate, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out, for he could not remember the words by which he normally identified himself.
He said, “Sir, do you know by any chance the name of the old fellow who owns the racetrack at Hargrave?”
“Why yessir, I believe that would be a Mr. Lowstudder.”
“Yes!” Mr. Lowstudder said. “That's right. That's me. I'm glad to meet you too.”
