H. W. "Bill" Hargiss
George Atkeson
Ted Bailey
Jim Bausch
Earl Bevan
Frank Boyd
Fred Brandner
Tom Butcher
Ellis Christensen
Clyde Coffman
Ralph Colgrove
Jim Cordell
Frank Cramer
Glenn Cunningham
Elwyn Dees
Bob Dole
Dana Durand
Fen Durand
Lawrence Ely
Milo Farneti
Theno Graves
Menzo Hainline
Brutus Hamilton
Frank Harris
Alfred G. Hill
Howard Hobson
Harold Hunt
Gene Kemper
Ozzie Kristen
John Kuck
Zonie Kvaternik
Roland "Kickapoo" Logan
Red Markley
Shorty Meairs
Marion Miller
F C Neal
Carmen Newland
Eugene Niswenger
Thomas Portwood
Elmer Schaake
Arthur Schabinger
Dale Shannon
Carnie Smith
Nelson Sorem
Oscar Stauffer
Harry Van Petten
Hugo Wedell
Fran Welch
Elijah Williams

Letter from Brutus Hamilton relating Bill's Hound Dog Story

Side note about Brutus Hamilton: He finished second in the 1920 Olympic decathlon and who had coached Cunningham in his first year of college competition, went on to the University of California at Berkeley where he coached track for thirty-three years. An assistant coach in both the 1932 and 1936 Olympiads, he was Olympic head coach in 1952. In December of 1970 he died at age 70.

Note from Genevieve Hargiss:

Bill was always a talker, and people seemed to enjoy his reminiscences. Several of his stories are included here, but they lose much in print.  Below is part of a letter from Brutus Hamilton, coach of track and field at UC Berkeley.

     "Yesterday was your birthday, and I was recalling to Rowena some of the wise things you did and some of the foolish things I did during our three years of close association there in Lawrence. Among other things I told her was your famous hound dog story (as I remember it).
     You told the story at a football banquet I believe; or maybe it was at one of those pleasant bull sessions we used to have with our friends there in Lawrence. No one could ever tell a story quite as well as you, and I didn't approach you either in drama or eloquence. You brought the dog to life right there before us, and we all sat enthralled as you spun the yarn. You always had a majestic voice and you combined that with just the right words, the proper gestures, and a fine sense of timing together with your delightful sense of humor and your genius for turning a phrase.
     Anyway, you began by saying that you wanted to tell a story about the smartest dog you ever knew. (I believe you were talking off the cuff for, as I remember it, a dog had wandered into the banquet room as you stood up to speak and after some difficulty he was ejected from the room. That started you off on the yarn.) You began by repeating some of the all-around accomplishments of the dog's youth as told to you by your father. You were just a baby then and didn't get in on his achievements of his younger days.
     How gifted he was as a hunter and a stock dog. How he knew from the way in which your father was dressed, which horses he wanted brought from the pasture. Some days it was Ned the saddle horse, and he would go and get him. Usually it was the work horses for the fields. And always on Sunday it was the span of carriage horses for the trip to church. Sometimes on Saturday, too, when you would go to town for your shopping.
     Then his remarkable accomplishments as a hunter. How excited he would get when your dad came out with a gun, dressed for a hunt., if he came out with a rifle, the dog knew it was squirrels, and with a double-barreled shotgun he knew it was birds. His squirrel hunting ability came naturally I suppose, but your dad was especially proud of his ability with quail and ducks. Here he combined all the virtues of the pointer and retriever. He would point the quail, never barking, flush them when your dad was ready, watch when your dad fired, and be off immediately to retrieve the birds. Usually two, for your dad was an expert shot. In the duck blind he would wait patiently and without a sound until your dad would fire. Then he was all eyes and would immediately swim out for the duck or ducks. Usually two again, though sometimes your dad would get a double with one shell. He never failed to retrieve all the birds.
     After this introduction you got down to the nitty gritty of your story. The dog had grown old. Most of his hair had been rubbed off, all his teeth were gone, he was too feeble to hunt any longer, and he lived on bread and milk, for he had no teeth to chew anything more solid.
     One November evening you were going down to the lower pasture to drive up the cows to the barn for milking. The old dog started out with you as was his custom. This time, however, he didn't go all the way. Upon your return with the cows a few minutes later you noticed and heard him barking at an old tree stump some 50 yards below the barn. You watched in amazement as he came out with a possum. He managed to pick him up between his gums and head toward the house or barn. He would have to stop occasionally and rest because the possum was heavy. The possum was of course playing dead as is their custom, and the hound would root him around a bit and try to lick his face as though to say, "Come on, possum; I don't mean you any harm." You wondered at his purpose (after all, he was the smartest dog you ever knew, and you knew he must have a purpose).  As he neared the haystack close by the barn his purpose became clear to you. The old hound had burrowed a hole in that stack for his sleeping quarters. On the south side of course, for the hound didn't want the cold north wind blowing in his front door. He had brought the possum there as a bed warmer. And so it turned out. He put him down in front of the burrow and nosed him in. The next night the same thing happened.
     The third night (as I remember) the dog decided that carrying the heavy possum that far was quite a bit of work. So after getting him out of the stump and waiting for him to uncoil from his play-dead position, he then began to nose him toward the hay-stack. After a while (as I remember) it got to the point where all the dog had to do was to go to the stump and bark and the possum would come out on his own and head right for the burrow.
     I've made a mistake! So far I've referred to the possum as "he".  I was wrong. For the next year in November when the sleep-in was renewed, the possum brought along her babies (four, I believe you said) to the stack. So the old hound, even more hairless then, spent a happy winter warmed by his old friend and his four new ones. "It was a touching and beautiful sight" you said (as I remember) to see the possum leading her four little ones from the stump to the straw stack, followed by the hound (the smartest dog you ever saw!)
     In the September following you did a silly and foolish thing. You went away to college! Your farm neighbors were certain your dad had made a mistake in letting you go to college. Then when your picture appeared in the sports pages as having earned the starting fullback position in that crazy game called college football, they were certain of it. "Now he'll never amount to anything" seemed to be the consensus of opinion among the neighbors. But they never dared speak those words in front of your parents who were already quite proud of your achievements.
     You didn't get home for Thanksgiving for you were busy with a cross town college team in a game which had traditionally been played upon that date. You didn't get home until Christmas vacation. You found that the old hound had finally passed on to the reward which awaits all good and faithful animals. You went out and inspected the stump, but the possums had gone too. "Thus ended the life of the smartest dog I have ever known, and thus ended the tenderest and strangest love story I've ever known among animals" is the way you concluded that part of your speech. (as I remember it)
     You will forgive me Bill, if I've dis-remembered some of the facts. After all, forty years have elapsed since I heard it.