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Frances PerkinsFrances Perkins
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called on me. The place was full of people. Among other people who called was an old acquaintance of my father's, the son of old Senator Hoar of Massachusetts. The people out there didn't know him from Adam and he was rudely treated, or at least he thought he was. He was very much upset personality.

This business of paying respects, which was more common in Washington then than it is nor, although, goodness knows, It's common enough still, is a very exhausting and time-consuming process. My advice to people joining the government in recent years is, “Don't try to accomplish anything for the first two weeks. Just sit there and have respects paid to you, and engage in polite persiflage and conversation with all comers, because if you try to do anything you'll get going on a project that will keep you from being on good terms with everybody who comes to call.”

People who had no reason whatever to call came to call. Among the people who came to call, I remember, was the widow of Terence Powdery. I had heard Terence Powderly's name, and I don't know why I had supposed that he and all of his tribe must have been dead for fifty years. I don't know when he died, but she was still living. “She brought me her only remaining copy of Terence Powderly's book with his name on it in his own handwriting, and the date when he had written





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