PUEBLO, Colo., Sept. 11 - Young Mr. Finch, the living cheer, sat high up in the grand stand at the State fair grounds this afternoon, along with me and quite a few thousand other nice looking people, waving his hat and yelling at the top of his voice - young Mr. Finch, the very quintessence of youth and high spirits, whooping it up for land's sake, and having the time of his life - young Mr. Finch, gay and debonair, and glowing with the sunshine of eternal childhood.

Tonight old Mr. Finch, bowed down with the weight of years, and combing the long, white whiskers of imagination, and peevishly kicking the package hither and yon, and in the ribs, sat in the splendor of S. Dutton's brother Frank's hotel and allowed that he wouldn't think of going to Longmont if it wasn't for General Johnson and the reserved section of pumpkin pie.

Meeting big ones

State Senator Hume Lewis, who is quite a fellow in a lot of ways and a mighty good man to know, was introducing Mr. Finch last night. Mr. Finch looked just like a bank check returned marked "no funds" when he finally was delivered at my door.

Cheerful Mr. Finch! Optimistic Mr. Finch! Blessings on thee, little man - but kindly return that shirt, or I'll print things about you that will make you feel sad.

Me and Mr. Finch have seen to it that the State fair has been a grand, glorious success, and we carried out Denver Day to what might be termed a frayed edge.

I have seen quite a number of State fairs here since they first started giving them, but I don't believe, and Mr. Finch don't believe, either, since I told him not to, that there was ever a bigger or more representative crowd from all over the state in any one city of Colorado at the same time. The Denver delegation was particularly a representative one, and the character of the crowd from Trinidad, coming to loyally root for their gallant ball team, was the kind that can always be labeled "alive" down there, and that means the best in the land. All of the surrounding country furnished big delegations, many coming from clear across the state.

Of course this is not the last day of the State fair, by any means. Me and Mr. Finch wish we could stay, but that pumpkin pie is waiting at Longmont.

During his stay in Pueblo Mr. Finch has collected enough information concerning my early history to write a biography - and he probably will, knowing there is money in such a thing. He paid several visits to the house where I was born, and failing to find a gold plate properly inscribed on it, he wrote along the side in chalk:

"THIS HOUSE

WAS THE BIRTHPLACE OF MY

FRIEND,

ALFRED D. RUNYON -

"

He stopped there because he could not remember the rest of the quotation and returned to the hotel to ask me. I don't know. Then he hunted up an old resident of the city who used to know me when I was poor, and learning that I used to go to the Hinsdale school, he went there and tried to get the janitor to show him where I used to sit. The janitor showed him a place in the alley.

Finch sees everything

But Mr. Finch has been a howling success. He has been howling, anyhow, and that should assist in a large measure.

He saw every exhibit that wasn't hid out, Mr. Finch did, when he was out at the State fair. He looked over the cows, the horses - and they have some of the most magnificent fancy horses ever seen anywhere in the world here - the chickens, the pigs, and everything else they would let him into without question. He took in the agricultural and horticultural exhibit, and was detected trying to make off with some of the finest samples in the fruit line. He looked over the whole show, and then spent the afternoon hung up in a grandstand seat, watching the races and ball games.

So tonight it is the old Mr. Finch, with the long, white whiskers, and a peaved aspect similar to my own. He is worn out, is Mr. Finch. He is all done. Whenever I want to cheer him up a little I whisper "pumpkin pie" in his ear, and he wakes up suddenly and says: "Are we at Longmont?"

The parade is on the move. Longmont the next halt - and we'll be there under the big top just like the tent poles Thursday without fail. All right! Here we go! Br-r-rum! Wake up, Mr. Finch!