diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:43 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:43 -0700 |
| commit | ca9da7707ea539552dc8888311c74c8ccfbb1fa6 (patch) | |
| tree | 829a42eaf2cde23b9687790f9b9861c8d262727c /13694-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '13694-h')
31 files changed, 6221 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/13694-h/13694-h.htm b/13694-h/13694-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7b4a046 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/13694-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6221 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mince Pie, by Christopher Darlington Morley</title> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- +p { text-indent: 3%; + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em;} +H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } +hr { width: 33%; + height: 2px; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + color: #000000; + background-color: #000000; + border: none} +body { background:#ffffff; + color:black; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size:1.1em; + margin-top:100px; + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align:justify} +blockquote { font-size: 1.0em; + text-align: left;} +table {font-size:1.0em} +.smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps } +.linenum {position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ +.note {margin-left: 2em; + margin-right: 2em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} /* block indent */ +.pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + right: 100%; + font-size: 8pt; } + + hr.full { width: 100%; + height: 5px; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + +// --> + + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13694 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Mince Pie, by Christopher Darlington Morley</h1> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h1>MINCE PIE</h1> + +<h2>CHRISTOPHER MORLEY</h2> +<br> + + +<h3>TO</h3> +<br> + + +<h3>F.M. AND L.J.M.</h3> +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0004.png"><img src="images/Illus-0004.png" + alt="Man in Bed" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<h2>INSTRUCTIONS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>This book is intended to be read in bed. Please do not attempt to read it +anywhere else.</p> + +<p>In order to obtain the best results for all concerned do not read a +borrowed copy, but buy one. If the bed is a double bed, buy two.</p> + +<p>Do not lend a copy under any circumstances, but refer your friends to the +nearest bookshop, where they may expiate their curiosity.</p> + +<p>Most of these sketches were first printed in the Philadelphia <i>Evening +Public Ledger</i>; others appeared in <i>The Bookman</i>, the Boston +<i>Evening Transcript</i>, <i>Life</i>, and <i>The Smart Set</i>. To all +these publications I am indebted for permission to reprint.</p> + +<p>If one asks what excuse there can be for prolonging the existence of these +trifles, my answer is that there is no excuse. But a copy on the bedside +shelf may possibly pave the way to easy slumber. Only a mind "debauched by +learning" (in Doctor Johnson's phrase) will scrutinize them too anxiously.</p> + +<p>It seems to me, on reading the proofs, that the skit entitled "Trials of a +President Travelling Abroad" is a faint and subconscious echo of a passage in +a favorite of my early youth, <i>Happy Thoughts</i>, by the late F.C. +Burnand. If this acknowledgment should move anyone to read that delicious +classic of pleasantry, the innocent plunder may be pardonable.</p> + +<p>And now a word of obeisance. I take this opportunity of thanking several +gentle overseers and magistrates who have been too generously friendly to +these eccentric gestures. These are Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday, editor of +<i>The Bookman</i> and victim of the novelette herein entitled "Owd Bob"; Mr. +Edwin F. Edgett, literary editor of The Boston <i>Transcript</i>, who has +often permitted me to cut outrageous capers in his hospitable columns; and +Mr. Thomas L. Masson, of <i>Life</i>, who allows me to reprint several of the +shorter pieces. But most of all I thank Mr. David E. Smiley, editor of the +Philadelphia <i>Evening Public Ledger</i>, for whom the majority of these +sketches were written, and whose patience and kindness have been a frequent +amazement to</p> + +<p>THE AUTHOR.</p> + +<p><span class="smallcaps">Philadelphia</span> <i>September, 1919</i></p> +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0008.png"><img src="images/Illus-0008.png" + alt="Pie Seller" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<h1><b>MINCE PIE</b></h1> + + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<a href="#INK_WELL"><b>ON FILLING AN INK_WELL</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#OLD_THOUGHTS_FOR_CHRISTMAS"><b>OLD THOUGHTS FOR +CHRISTMAS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#CHRISTMAS_CARDS"><b>CHRISTMAS CARDS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#ON_UNANSWERING_LETTERS"><b>ON UNANSWERING LETTERS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_LETTER_TO_FATHER_TIME"><b>A LETTER TO FATHER TIME</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#WHAT_MEN_LIVE_BY"><b>WHAT MEN LIVE BY</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_UNNATURAL_NATURALIST"><b>THE UNNATURAL NATURALIST</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#SITTING_IN_THE_BARBER'S_CHAIR"><b>SITTING IN THE BARBER'S +CHAIR</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#BROWN_EYES_AND_EQUINOXES"><b>BROWN EYES AND EQUINOXES</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#163_INNOCENT_OLD_MEN"><b>163 INNOCENT OLD MEN</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_TRAGIC_SMELL_IN_MARATHON"><b>A TRAGIC SMELL IN +MARATHON</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#BULLIED_BY_THE_BIRDS"><b>BULLIED BY THE BIRDS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_MESSAGE_FOR_BOONVILLE"><b>A MESSAGE FOR BOONVILLE</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#MAKING_MARATHON_SAFE_FOR_THE_URCHIN"><b>MAKING MARATHON SAFE FOR +THE URCHIN</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_SMELL_OF_SMELLS"><b>THE SMELL OF SMELLS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_JAPANESE_BACHELOR"><b>A JAPANESE BACHELOR</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#TWO_DAYS_WE_CELEBRATE"><b>TWO DAYS WE CELEBRATE</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_URCHIN_AT_THE_ZOO"><b>THE URCHIN AT THE ZOO</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#FELLOW_CRAFTSMEN"><b>FELLOW CRAFTSMEN</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_KEY_RING"><b>THE KEY RING</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#quotOWD_BOBquot"><b>"OWD BOB"</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_APPLE_THAT_NO_ONE_ATE"><b>THE APPLE THAT NO ONE ATE</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#AS_TO_RUMORS"><b>AS TO RUMORS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#OUR_MOTHERS"><b>OUR MOTHERS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#GREETING_TO_AMERICAN_ANGLERS"><b>GREETING TO AMERICAN +ANGLERS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#MRS_IZAAK_WALTON_WRITES_A_LETTER_TO_HER_MOTHER"><b>MRS. IZAAK +WALTON WRITES A LETTER TO HER MOTHER</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#TRUTH"><b>TRUTH</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_TRAGEDY_OF_WASHINGTON_SQUARE"><b>THE TRAGEDY OF WASHINGTON +SQUARE</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#IF_MR_WILSON_WERE_THE_WEATHER_MAN"><b>IF MR. WILSON WERE THE +WEATHER MAN</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#SYNTAX_FOR_CYNICS"><b>SYNTAX FOR CYNICS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_TRUTH_AT_LAST"><b>THE TRUTH AT LAST</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#FIXED_IDEAS"><b>FIXED IDEAS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#TRIALS_OF_A_PRESIDENT_TRAVELING_ABROAD"><b>TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT +TRAVELING ABROAD</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#DIARY_OF_A_PUBLISHER'S_OFFICE_BOY"><b>DIARY OF A PUBLISHER'S OFFICE +BOY</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_DOG'S_COMMANDMENTS"><b>THE DOG'S COMMANDMENTS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_VALUE_OF_CRITICISM"><b>THE VALUE OF CRITICISM</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_MARRIAGE_SERVICE_FOR_COMMUTERS"><b>A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR +COMMUTERS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_SUNNY_SIDE_OF_GRUB_STREET"><b>THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB +STREET</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#BURIAL_SERVICE_FOR_A_NEWSPAPER_JOKE"><b>BURIAL SERVICE FOR A +NEWSPAPER JOKE</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#ADVICE_TO_THOSE_VISITING_A_BABY"><b>ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A +BABY</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#ABOU_BEN_WOODROW"><b>ABOU BEN WOODROW</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#MY_MAGNIFICENT_SYSTEM"><b>MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM</b></a><br><br> + +<table> +<tr> +<td> +<b>LETTERS TO CYNTHIA:</b><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#LETTERS_TO_CYNTHIA"><b>I. IN PRAISE OF +BOOBS</b></a></span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#SIMPLIFICATION"><b>II. SIMPLIFICATION</b></a></span> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<br> +<a href="#TO_AN_UNKNOWN_DAMSEL"><b>TO AN UNKNOWN DAMSEL</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THOUGHTS_ON_SETTING_AN_ALARM_CLOCK"><b>THOUGHTS ON SETTING AN ALARM +CLOCK</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#SONGS_IN_A_SHOWER_BATH"><b>SONGS IN A SHOWER BATH</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#ON_DEDICATING_A_NEW_TEAPOT"><b>ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#THE_UNFORGIVABLE_SYNTAX"><b>THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#VISITING_POETS"><b>VISITING POETS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#A_GOOD_HOME_IN_THE_SUBURBS"><b>A GOOD HOME IN THE +SUBURBS</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#WALT_WHITMAN_MINIATURES"><b>WALT WHITMAN MINIATURES</b></a><br><br> +<a href="#ON_DOORS"><b>ON DOORS</b></a><br><br> +</center> +<br> + +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> + +<h1>MINCE PIE</h1> +<br> + + +<p><a name="INK_WELL"></a></p> + +<h2>ON FILLING AN INK-WELL</h2> +<br> +<br> + + +<p>Those who buy their ink in little stone jugs may prefer to do so because +the pottle reminds them of cruiskeen lawn or ginger beer (with its wire-bound +cork), but they miss a noble delight. Ink should be bought in the tall, blue +glass, quart bottle (with the ingenious non-drip spout), and once every three +weeks or so, when you fill your ink-well, it is your privilege to elevate the +flask against the brightness of a window, and meditate (with a breath of +sadness) on the joys and problems that sacred fluid holds in solution.</p> + +<p>How blue it shines toward the light! Blue as lupin or larkspur, or +cornflower—aye, and even so blue art thou, my scriven, to think how +far the written page falls short of the bright ecstasy of thy dream! In the +bottle, what magnificence of unpenned stuff lies cool and liquid: what +fluency of essay, what fonts of song. As the bottle glints, blue as a squill +or a hyacinth, blue as the meadows of Elysium or the eyes of girls loved by +young poets, meseems the racing pen might almost gain upon the thoughts that +are turning the bend in the road. A jolly throng, those thoughts: I can see +them talking and laughing together. But when pen reaches the road's turning, +the thoughts are gone far ahead: their delicate figures are silhouettes +against the sky.</p> + +<p>It is a sacramental matter, this filling the ink-well. Is there a writer, +however humble, who has not poured into his writing pot, with the ink, some +wistful hopes or prayers for what may emerge from that dark source? Is there +not some particular reverence due the ink-well, some form of propitiation to +humbug the powers of evil and constraint that devil the journalist? Satan +hovers near the ink-pot. Luther solved the matter by throwing the well itself +at the apparition. That savors to me too much of homeopathy. If Satan ever +puts his face over my desk, I shall hurl a volume of Harold Bell Wright at +him.</p> + +<p>But what becomes of the ink-pots of glory? The conduit from which Boswell +drew, for Charles Dilly in The Poultry, the great river of his Johnson? The +well (was it of blue china?) whence flowed <i>Dream Children: a Revery</i>? +(It was written on folio ledger sheets from the East India House—I saw +the manuscript only yesterday in a room at Daylesford, Pennsylvania, where +much of the richest ink of the last two centuries is lovingly laid away.) The +pot of chuckling fluid where Harry Fielding dipped his pen to tell the +history of a certain foundling; the ink-wells of the Café de la Source</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0015.png"><img src="images/Illus-0015.png" + alt="Man filling inkwell" border= "0" width="30%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +on the Boul' Mich'—do they by any chance remember which it was that +R.L.S. used? One of the happiest tremors of my life was when I went to that +café and called for a bock and writing material, just because R.L.S. had +once written letters there. And the ink-well Poe used at that boarding-house +in Greenwich Street, New York (April, 1844), when he wrote to his dear Muddy +(his mother-in-law) to describe how he and Virginia had reached a haven of +square meals. That hopeful letter, so perfect now in pathos—<br> + + + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">For</span> breakfast we had excellent-flavored +coffee, hot and strong—not +very clear and no great deal of +cream—veal cutlets, elegant ham +and eggs and nice bread and butter. I never +sat down to a more +plentiful or a nicer breakfast. I wish you +could have seen the +eggs—and the great dishes of meat. Sis +[his wife] is delighted, and +we are both in excellent spirits. She has +coughed hardly any and had +no night sweat. She is now busy mending my +pants, which I tore +against a nail. I went out last night and +bought a skein of silk, a +skein of thread, two buttons, a pair of +slippers, and a tin pan for +the stove. The fire kept in all night. We +have now got four dollars +and a half left. To-morrow I am going to try +and borrow three +dollars, so that I may have a fortnight to go +upon. I feel in +excellent spirits, and haven't drank a +drop—so that I hope soon to +get out of trouble. +</blockquote> + +<p>Yes, let us clear the typewriter off the table: an ink-well is a sacred +thing.</p> + +<p>Do you ever stop to think, when you see the grimy spattered desks of a +public post-office, how many eager or puzzled human hearts have tried, in +those dingy little ink-cups, to set themselves right with fortune? What +blissful meetings have been appointed, what scribblings of pain and sorrow, +out of those founts of common speech. And the ink-wells on hotel +counters—does not the public dipping place of the Bellevue Hotel, +Boston, win a new dignity in my memory when I know (as I learned lately) that +Rupert Brooke registered there in the spring of 1914? I remember, too, a +certain pleasant vibration when, signing my name one day in the Bellevue's +book, I found Miss Agnes Repplier's autograph a little above on the same +page.</p> + +<p>Among our younger friends, Vachel Lindsay comes to mind as one who has +done honor to the ink-well. His <i>Apology for the Bottle Volcanic</i> is in +his best flow of secret smiling (save an unfortunate dilution of Riley):</p> + + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle +full of fire,<br> +The salamanders flying forth I cannot but +admire....<br> +O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its +way—<br> +All demons of a bottle size have pranced from +you to-day,<br> +And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches +ride a broom,<br> +And left a trail of brimstone words and blots +and gobs of gloom.<br> +And yet when I am extra good ... [<i>here I +omit the transfusion of Riley</i>]<br> +My bottle spreads a rainbow mist, and from +the vapor fine<br> +Ten thousand troops from fairyland come +riding in a line. + +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<p>I suppose it is the mark of a trifling mind, yet I like to hear of the +little particulars that surrounded those whose pens struck sparks. It is +Boswell that leads us into that habit of thought. I like to know what the +author wore, how he sat, what the furniture of his desk and chamber, who +cooked his meals for him, and with what appetite he approached them. "The +mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty" (so dipped Hazlitt in some +favored ink-bottle)—"it is at home in the groveling, the disagreeable, +and the little."</p> + +<p>I like to think, as I look along book shelves, that every one of these +favorites was born out of an ink-well. I imagine the hopes and visions that +thronged the author's mind as he filled his pot and sliced the quill. What +various fruits have flowed from those ink-wells of the past: for some, +comfort and honor, quiet homes and plenteousness; for others, bitterness and +disappointment. I have seen a copy of Poe's poems, published in 1845 by +Putnam, inscribed by the author. The volume had been bought for $2,500. Think +what that would have meant to Poe himself.</p> + +<p>Some such thoughts as these twinkled in my head as I held up the Pierian +bottle against the light, admired the deep blue of it, and filled my +ink-well. And then I took up my pen, which wrote:</p><br> + +<h4>A GRACE BEFORE WRITING </h4> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On Filling an Ink-well</span><br><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is a sacrament, I think!</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Holding the bottle toward the light,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As blue as lupin gleams the ink:</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">May Truth be with me as I write!</span><br><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That small dark cistern may afford</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Reunion with some vanished friend,—</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And with this ink I have just poured</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">May none but honest words be penned!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> + +</table> +</center> +<br><br> + +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="OLD_THOUGHTS_FOR_CHRISTMAS"></a> + +<h2>OLD THOUGHTS FOR CHRISTMAS</h2> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0020.png"><img src="images/Illus-0020.png" + alt="Santa and his Pack" border= "0" width="30%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>A new thought for Christmas? Who ever wanted a new thought for Christmas? +That man should be shot who would try to brain one. It is an impertinence +even to write about Christmas. Christmas is a matter that humanity has taken +so deeply to heart that we will not have our festival meddled with by +bungling hands. No efficiency expert would dare tell us that Christmas is +inefficient; that the clockwork toys will soon be broken; that no one can eat +a peppermint cane a yard long; that the curves on our chart of kindness +should be ironed out so that the "peak load" of December would be evenly +distributed through the year. No sourface dare tell us that we drive postmen +and shopgirls into Bolshevism by overtaxing them with our frenzied purchasing +or that it is absurd to send to a friend in a steam-heated apartment in a +prohibition republic a bright little picture card of a gentleman in Georgian +costume drinking ale by a roaring fire of logs. None in his senses, I say, +would emit such sophistries, for Christmas is a law unto itself and is not +conducted by card-index. Even the postmen and shopgirls, severe though their +labors, would not have matters altered. There is none of us who does not +enjoy hardship and bustle that contribute to the happiness of others.</p> + +<p>There is an efficiency of the heart that transcends and contradicts that +of the head. Things of the spirit differ from things material in that the +more you give the more you have. The comedian has an immensely better time +than the audience. To modernize the adage, to give is more fun than to +receive. Especially if you have wit enough to give to those who don't expect +it. Surprise is the most primitive joy of humanity. Surprise is the first +reason for a baby's laughter. And at Christmas time, when we are all a little +childish I hope, surprise is the flavor of our keenest joys. We all remember +the thrill with which we once heard, behind some closed door, the rustle and +crackle of paper parcels being tied up. We knew that we were going to be +surprised—a delicious refinement and luxuriant seasoning of the +emotion!</p> + +<p>Christmas, then, conforms to this deeper efficiency of the heart. We are +not methodical in kindness; we do not "fill orders" for consignments of +affection. We let our kindness ramble and explore; old forgotten friendships +pop up in our minds and we mail a card to Harry Hunt, of Minneapolis (from +whom we have not heard for half a dozen years), "just to surprise him." A +business man who shipped a carload of goods to a customer, just to surprise +him, would soon perish of abuse. But no one ever refuses a shipment of +kindness, because no one ever feels overstocked with it. It is coin of the +realm, current everywhere. And we do not try to measure our kindnesses to the +capacity of our friends. Friendship is not measurable in calories. How many +times this year have you "turned" your stock of kindness?</p> + +<p>It is the gradual approach to the Great Surprise that lends full savor to +the experience. It has been thought by some that Christmas would gain in +excitement if no one knew when it was to be; if (keeping the festival within +the winter months) some public functionary (say, Mr. Burleson) were to +announce some unexpected morning, "A week from to-day will be Christmas!" +Then what a scurrying and joyful frenzy—what a festooning of shops and +mad purchasing of presents! But it would not be half the fun of the slow +approach of the familiar date. All through November and December we watch it +drawing nearer; we see the shop windows begin to glow with red and green and +lively colors; we note the altered demeanor of bellboys and janitors as the +Date flows quietly toward us; we pass through the haggard perplexity of "Only +Four Days More" when we suddenly realize it is too late to make our shopping +the display of lucid affectionate reasoning we had contemplated, and clutch +wildly at grotesque tokens—and then (sweetest of all) comes the quiet +calmness of Christmas Eve. Then, while we decorate the tree or carry parcels +of tissue paper and red ribbon to a carefully prepared list of aunts and +godmothers, or reckon up a little pile of bright quarters on the dining-room +table in preparation for to-morrow's largesse—then it is that the +brief, poignant and precious sweetness of the experience claims us at the +full. Then we can see that all our careful wisdom and shrewdness were folly +and stupidity; and we can understand the meaning of that Great +Surprise—that where we planned wealth we found ourselves poor; that +where we thought to be impoverished we were enriched. The world is built upon +a lovely plan if we take time to study the blue-prints of the heart.</p> + +<p>Humanity must be forgiven much for having invented Christmas. What does it +matter that a great poet and philosopher urges "the abandonment of the +masculine pronoun in allusions to the First or Fundamental Energy"? Theology +is not saddled upon pronouns; the best doctrine is but three words, God is +Love. Love, or kindness, is fundamental energy enough to satisfy any brooder. +And Christmas Day means the birth of a child; that is to say, the triumph of +life and hope over suffering.</p> + +<p>Just for a few hours on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day the stupid, harsh +mechanism of the world runs down and we permit ourselves to live according to +untrammeled common sense, the unconquerable efficiency of good will. We grant +ourselves the complete and selfish pleasure of loving others better than +ourselves. How odd it seems, how unnaturally happy we are! We feel there must +be some mistake, and rather yearn for the familiar frictions and distresses. +Just for a few hours we "purge out of every heart the lurking grudge." We +know then that hatred is a form of illness; that suspicion and pride are only +fear; that the rascally acts of others are perhaps, in the queer webwork of +human relations, due to some calousness of our own. Who knows? Some man may +have robbed a bank in Nashville or fired a gun in Louvain because we looked +so intolerably smug in Philadelphia!</p> + +<p>So at Christmas we tap that vast reservoir of wisdom and +strength—call it efficiency or the fundamental energy if you +will—Kindness. And our kindness, thank heaven, is not the placid +kindness of angels; it is veined with human blood; it is full of absurdities, +irritations, frustrations. A man 100 per cent. kind would be intolerable. As +a wise teacher said, the milk of human kindness easily curdles into cheese. +We like our friends' affections because we know the tincture of mortal acid +is in them. We remember the satirist who remarked that to love one's self is +the beginning of a lifelong romance. We know this lifelong romance will +resume its sway; we shall lose our tempers, be obstinate, peevish and crank. +We shall fidget and fume while waiting our turn in the barber's chair; we +shall argue and muddle and mope. And yet, for a few hours, what a happy +vision that was! And we turn, on Christmas Eve, to pages which those who +speak our tongue immortally associate with the season—the pages of +Charles Dickens. Love of humanity endures as long as the thing it loves, and +those pages are packed as full of it as a pound cake is full of fruit. A +pound cake will keep moist three years; a sponge cake is dry in three +days.</p> + +<p>And now humanity has its most beautiful and most appropriate Christmas +gift—Peace. The Magi of Versailles and Washington having unwound for +us the tissue paper and red ribbon (or red tape) from this greatest of all +gifts, let us in days to come measure up to what has been born through such +anguish and horror. If war is illness and peace is health, let us remember +also that health is not merely a blessing to be received intact once and for +all. It is not a substance but a condition, to be maintained only by sound +régime, self-discipline and simplicity. Let the Wise Men not be too +wise; let them remember those other Wise Men who, after their long journey +and their sage surmisings, found only a Child. On this evening it serves us +nothing to pile up filing cases and rolltop desks toward the stars, for in +our city square the Star itself has fallen, and shines upon the Tree.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="CHRISTMAS_CARDS"></a> + +<h2>CHRISTMAS CARDS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>By a stroke of good luck we found a little shop where a large overstock of +Christmas cards was selling at two for five. The original 5's and 10's were +still penciled on them, and while we were debating whether to rub them off a +thought occurred to us. When will artists and printers design us some +Christmas cards that will be honest and appropriate to the time we live in? +Never was the Day of Peace and Good Will so full of meaning as this year; and +never did the little cards, charming as they were, seem so formal, so merely +pretty, so devoid of imagination, so inadequate to the festival.</p> + +<p>This is an age of strange and stirring beauty, of extraordinary romance +and adventure, of new joys and pains. And yet our Christmas artists have +nothing more to offer us than the old formalism of Yuletide convention. After +a considerable amount of searching in the bazaars we have found not one +Christmas card that showed even a glimmering of the true romance, which is to +see the beauty or wonder or peril that lies around us. Most of the cards hark +back to the stage-coach up to its hubs in snow, or the blue bird, with which +Maeterlinck penalized us (what has a blue bird got to do with Christmas?), or +the open fireplace and jug of mulled claret. Now these things are merry +enough in their way, or they were once upon a time; but we plead for an +honest romanticism in Christmas cards that will express something of the +entrancing color and circumstance that surround us to-day. Is not a +commuter's train, stalled in a drift, far more lively to our hearts than the +mythical stage-coach? Or an inter-urban trolley winging its way through the +dusk like a casket of golden light? Or even a country flivver, loaded down +with parcels and holly and the Yuletide keg of root beer? Root beer may be +but meager flaggonage compared to mulled claret, but at any rate 'tis honest, +'tis actual, 'tis tangible and potable. And where, among all the Christmas +cards, is the airplane, that most marvelous and heart-seizing of all our +triumphs? Where is the stately apartment house, looming like Gibraltar +against a sunset sky? Must we, even at Christmas time, fool ourselves with a +picturesqueness that is gone, seeing nothing of what is around us?</p> + +<p>It is said that man's material achievements have outrun his imagination; +that poets and painters are too puny to grapple with the world as it is. +Certainly a visitor from another sphere, looking on our fantastic and +exciting civilization, would find little reflection of it in the Christmas +card. He would find us clinging desperately to what we have been taught to +believe was picturesque and jolly, and afraid to assert that the things of +to-day are comely too. Even on the basis of discomfort (an acknowledged +criterion of picturesqueness) surely a trolley car jammed with parcel-laden +passengers is just as satisfying a spectacle as any stage coach? Surely the +steam radiator, if not so lovely as a flame-gilded hearth, is more real to +most of us? And instead of the customary picture of shivering subjects of +George III held up by a highwayman on Hampstead Heath, why not a deftly +delineated sketch of victims in a steam-heated lobby submitting to the +plunder of the hat-check bandit? Come, let us be honest! The romance of +to-day is as good as any!</p> + +<p>Many must have felt this same uneasiness in trying to find Christmas cards +that would really say something of what is in their hearts. The sentiment +behind the card is as lovely and as true as ever, but the cards themselves +are outmoded bottles for the new wine. It seems a cruel thing to say, but we +are impatient with the mottoes and pictures we see in the shops because they +are a conventional echo of a beauty that is past. What could be more absurd +than to send to a friend in a city apartment a rhyme such as this:</p> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As round the Christmas fire you sit</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And hear the bells with frosty +chime,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Think, friendship that long love has +knit</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Grows sweeter still at Christmas +time!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<p>If that is sent to the janitor or the elevator boy we have no cavil, for +these gentlemen do actually see a fire and hear bells ring; but the apartment +tenant hears naught but the hissing of the steam in the radiator, and counts +himself lucky to hear that. Why not be honest and say to him:</p> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hope the janitor has shipped</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You steam, to keep the cold away;</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if the hallboys have been +tipped,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then joy be thine on Christmas Day!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<p>We had not meant to introduce this jocular note into our meditation, for +we are honestly aggrieved that so many of the Christmas cards hark back to an +old tradition that is gone, and never attempt to express any of the romance +of to-day. You may protest that Christmas is the oldest thing in the world, +which is true; yet it is also new every year, and never newer than now.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="ON_UNANSWERING_LETTERS"></a> + +<h2>ON UNANSWERING LETTERS</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0031.png"><img src="images/Illus-0031.png" + alt="Man writing letter" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>There are a great many people who really believe in answering letters the +day they are received, just as there are people who go to the movies at 9 +o'clock in the morning; but these people are stunted and queer.</p> + +<p>It is a great mistake. Such crass and breathless promptness takes away a +great deal of the pleasure of correspondence.</p> + +<p>The psychological didoes involved in receiving letters and making up one's +mind to answer them are very complex. If the tangled process could be clearly +analyzed and its component involutions isolated for inspection we might reach +a clearer comprehension of that curious bag of tricks, the efficient +Masculine Mind.</p> + +<p>Take Bill F., for instance, a man so delightful that even to contemplate +his existence puts us in good humor and makes us think well of a world that +can exhibit an individual equally comely in mind, body and estate. Every now +and then we get a letter from Bill, and immediately we pass into a kind of +trance, in which our mind rapidly enunciates the ideas, thoughts, surmises +and contradictions that we would like to write to him in reply. We think what +fun it would be to sit right down and churn the ink-well, spreading +speculation and cynicism over a number of sheets of foolscap to be wafted +Billward.</p> + +<p>Sternly we repress the impulse for we know that the shock to Bill of +getting so immediate a retort would surely unhinge the well-fitted panels of +his intellect.</p> + +<p>We add his letter to the large delta of unanswered mail on our desk, +taking occasion to turn the mass over once or twice and run through it in a +brisk, smiling mood, thinking of all the jolly letters we shall write some +day.</p> + +<p>After Bill's letter has lain on the pile for a fortnight or so it has been +gently silted over by about twenty other pleasantly postponed manuscripts. +Coming upon it by chance, we reflect that any specific problems raised by +Bill in that manifesto will by this time have settled themselves. And his +random speculations upon household management and human destiny will probably +have taken a new slant by now, so that to answer his letter in its own tune +will not be congruent with his present fevers. We had better bide a wee until +we really have something of circumstance to impart.</p> + +<p>We wait a week.</p> + +<p>By this time a certain sense of shame has begun to invade the privacy of +our brain. We feel that to answer that letter now would be an indelicacy. +Better to pretend that we never got it. By and by Bill will write again and +then we will answer promptly. We put the letter back in the middle of the +heap and think what a fine chap Bill is. But he knows we love him, so it +doesn't really matter whether we write or not.</p> + +<p>Another week passes by, and no further communication from Bill. We wonder +whether he does love us as much as we thought. Still—we are too proud +to write and ask.</p> + +<p>A few days later a new thought strikes us. Perhaps Bill thinks we have +died and he is annoyed because he wasn't invited to the funeral. Ought we to +wire him? No, because after all we are not dead, and even if he thinks we +are, his subsequent relief at hearing the good news of our survival will +outweigh his bitterness during the interval. One of these days we will write +him a letter that will really express our heart, filled with all the +grindings and gear-work of our mind, rich in affection and fallacy. But we +had better let it ripen and mellow for a while. Letters, like wines, +accumulate bright fumes and bubblings if kept under cork.</p> + +<p>Presently we turn over that pile of letters again. We find in the lees of +the heap two or three that have gone for six months and can safely be +destroyed. Bill is still on our mind, but in a pleasant, dreamy kind of way. +He does not ache or twinge us as he did a month ago. It is fine to have old +friends like that and keep in touch with them. We wonder how he is and +whether he has two children or three. Splendid old Bill!</p> + +<p>By this time we have written Bill several letters in imagination and +enjoyed doing so, but the matter of sending him an actual letter has begun to +pall. The thought no longer has the savor and vivid sparkle it had once. When +one feels like that it is unwise to write. Letters should be spontaneous +outpourings: they should never be undertaken merely from a sense of duty. We +know that Bill wouldn't want to get a letter that was dictated by a feeling +of obligation.</p> + +<p>Another fortnight or so elapsing, it occurs to us that we have entirely +forgotten what Bill said to us in that letter. We take it out and con it +over. Delightful fellow! It is full of his own felicitous kinks of whim, +though some of it sounds a little old-fashioned by now. It seems a bit stale, +has lost some of its freshness and surprise. Better not answer it just yet, +for Christmas will soon be here and we shall have to write then anyway. We +wonder, can Bill hold out until Christmas without a letter?</p> + +<p>We have been rereading some of those imaginary letters to Bill that have +been dancing in our head. They are full of all sorts of fine stuff. If Bill +ever gets them he will know how we love him. To use O. Henry's immortal joke, +we have days of Damon and Knights of Pythias writing those uninked letters to +Bill. A curious thought has come to us. Perhaps it would be better if we +never saw Bill again. It is very difficult to talk to a man when you like him +so much. It is much easier to write in the sweet fantastic strain. We are so +inarticulate when face to face. If Bill comes to town we will leave word that +we have gone away. Good old Bill! He will always be a precious memory.</p> + +<p>A few days later a sudden frenzy sweeps over us, and though we have many +pressing matters on hand, we mobilize pen and paper and literary shock troops +and prepare to hurl several battalions at Bill. But, strangely enough, our +utterance seems stilted and stiff. We have nothing to say. <i>My dear +Bill</i>, we begin, <i>it seems a long time since we heard from you. Why +don't you write? We still love you, in spite of all your shortcomings</i>.</p> + +<p>That doesn't seem very cordial. We muse over the pen and nothing comes. +Bursting with affection, we are unable to say a word.</p> + +<p>Just then the phone rings. "Hello?" we say.</p> + +<p>It is Bill, come to town unexpectedly.</p> + +<p>"Good old fish!" we cry, ecstatic. "Meet you at the corner of Tenth and +Chestnut in five minutes."</p> + +<p>We tear up the unfinished letter. Bill will never know how much we love +him. Perhaps it is just as well. It is very embarrassing to have your friends +know how you feel about them. When we meet him we will be a little bit on our +guard. It would not be well to be betrayed into any extravagance of +cordiality.</p> + +<p>And perhaps a not altogether false little story could be written about a +man who never visited those most dear to him, because it panged him so to say +good-bye when he had to leave.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_LETTER_TO_FATHER_TIME"></a> + +<h2>A LETTER TO FATHER TIME</h2> +<br> + + +<p>(NEW YEAR'S EVE)</p> + +<p>Dear Father Time—This is your night of triumph, and it seems only +fair to pay you a little tribute. Some people, in a noble mood of bravado, +consider New Year's Eve an occasion of festivity. Long, long in advance they +reserve a table at their favorite café; and becomingly habited in boiled +shirts or gowns of the lowest visibility, and well armed with a commodity +which is said to be synonymous with yourself—money—they seek to +outwit you by crowding a month of merriment into half a dozen hours. Yet +their victory is brief and fallacious, for if hours spin too fast by night +they will move grindingly on the axle the next morning. None of us can beat +you in the end. Even the hat-check boy grows old, becomes gray and dies at +last babbling of greenbacks.</p> + +<p>To my own taste, old Time, it is more agreeable to make this evening a +season of gruesome brooding. Morosely I survey the faults and follies of my +last year. I am grown too canny to pour the new wine of good resolution into +the old bottles of my imperfect humors. But I get a certain grim satisfaction +in thinking how we all—every human being of us—share alike in +bondage to your oppression. There is the only true and complete democracy, +the only absolute brotherhood of man. The great ones of the +earth—Charley Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks, General Pershing and Miss +Amy Lowell—all these are in service to the same tyranny. Day after day +slips or jolts past, joins the Great Majority; suddenly we wake with a start +to find that the best of it is gone by. Surely it seems but a day ago that +Stevenson set out to write a little book that was to be called "Life at +Twenty-five"—before he got it written he was long past the delectable +age—and now we rub our eyes and see he has been dead longer than the +span of life he then so delightfully contemplated. If there is one meditation +common to every adult on this globe it is this, so variously phrased, "Well, +bo, Time sure does hustle."</p> + +<p>Some of them have scurvily entreated you, old Time! The thief of youth, +they have called you; a highwayman, a gipsy, a grim reaper. It seems a little +unfair. For you have your kindly moods, too. Without your gentle passage +where were Memory, the sweetest of lesser pleasures? You are the only +medicine for many a woe, many a sore heart. And surely you have a right to +reap where you alone have sown? Our strength, our wit, our comeliness, all +those virtues and graces that you pilfer with such gentle hand, did you not +give them to us in the first place? Give, do I say? Nay, we knew, even as we +clutched them, they were but a loan. And the great immortality of the race +endures, for every day that we see taken away from ourselves we see added to +our children or our grandchildren. It was Shakespeare, who thought a great +deal about you, who put it best:</p> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nativity, once in the main of +light,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Crawls to maturity, wherewith being +crowned,</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory +fight</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Time that gave doth now his gift +confound—</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<p>It is to be hoped, my dear Time, that you have read Shakespeare's sonnets, +because they will teach you a deal about the dignity of your career, and also +suggest to you the only way we have of keeping up with you. There is no way +of outwitting Time, Shakespeare tells his young friend, "Save breed to brave +him when he takes thee hence." Or, as a poor bungling parodist revamped +it:</p> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Pep is the stuff to put Old Time on +skids—<br> +Pep in your copy, yes, and lots of +kids.<br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + + +<p>It is true that Shakespeare hints another way of doing you in, which is to +write sonnets as good as his. This way, needless to add, is open to few.</p> + +<p>Well, my dear Time, you are not going to fool me into making myself +ridiculous this New Year's Eve with a lot of bonny but impossible +resolutions. I know that you are playing with me just as a cat plays with a +mouse; yet even the most piteous mousekin sometimes causes his tormentor +surprise or disappointment by getting under a bureau or behind the stove, +where, for the moment, she cannot paw him. Every now and then, with a little +luck, I shall pull off just such a scurry into temporary immortality. It may +come by reading Dickens or by seeing a sunset, or by lunching with friends, +or by forgetting to wind the alarm clock, or by contemplating the rosy little +pate of my daughter, who is still only a nine days' wonder—so young +that she doesn't even know what you are doing to her. But you are not going +to have the laugh on me by luring me into resolutions. I know my weaknesses. +I know that I shall probably continue to annoy newsdealers by reading the +magazines on the stalls instead of buying them; that I shall put off having +my hair cut; drop tobacco cinders on my waistcoat; feel bored at the idea of +having to shave and get dressed; be nervous when the gas burner pops when +turned off; buy more Liberty Bonds than I can afford and have to hock them at +a grievous loss. I shall continue to be pleasant to insurance agents, from +sheer lack of manhood; and to keep library books out over the date and so +incur a fine. My only hope, you see, is resolutely to determine to persist in +these failings. Then, by sheer perversity, I may grow out of them.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0041.png"><img src="images/Illus-0041.png" + alt="Man and woman carrying baby" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>What avail, indeed, for any of us to make good resolutions when one +contemplates the grand pageant of human frailty? Observe what I noticed the +other day in the Lost and Found column of the New York <i>Times</i>:</p> + +<blockquote> +LOST—Hotel Imperial lavatory, set of +teeth. Call or communicate Flint, 134 East 43d street. Reward. +</blockquote> + +<p>Surely, if Mr. Flint could not remember to keep his teeth in his mouth, or +if any one else was so basely whimsical as to juggle them away from him, it +may well teach us to be chary of extravagant hopes for the future. Even the +League of Nations, when one contemplates the sad case of Mr. Flint, becomes a +rather anemic safeguard. We had better keep Mr. Flint in mind through the New +Year as a symbol of human error and disappointment. And the best of it is, my +dear Time, that you, too, may be a little careless. Perhaps one of these days +you may doze a little and we shall steal a few hours of timeless bliss. Shall +we see a little ad in the papers:</p> + +<blockquote> +LOST—Sixty valuable minutes, said to +have been stolen by the unworthy human race. If found, please return +to Father Time, and no questions asked. +</blockquote> + + +<p>Well, my dear Time, we approach the Zero Hour. I hope you will have a +Happy New Year, and conduct yourself with becoming restraint. So live, my +dear fellow, that we may say, "A good Time was enjoyed by all." As the hands +of the clock go over the top and into the No Man's Land of the New Year, good +luck to you!</p> + +<p>Your obedient servant!</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="WHAT_MEN_LIVE_BY"></a> + +<h2>WHAT MEN LIVE BY</h2> +<br> + + +<p>What a delicate and rare and gracious art is the art of conversation! With +what a dexterity and skill the bubble of speech must be maneuvered if mind is +to meet and mingle with mind.</p> + +<p>There is no sadder disappointment than to realize that a conversation has +been a complete failure. By which we mean that it has failed in blending or +isolating for contrast the ideas, opinions and surmises of two eager minds. +So often a conversation is shipwrecked by the very eagerness of one member to +contribute. There must be give and take, parry and thrust, patience to hear +and judgment to utter. How uneasy is the qualm as one looks back on an hour's +talk and sees that the opportunity was wasted; the precious instant of +intercourse gone forever: the secrets of the heart still incommunicate! +Perhaps we were too anxious to hurry the moment, to enforce our own theory, +to adduce instance from our own experience. Perhaps we were not patient +enough to wait until our friend could express himself with ease and +happiness. Perhaps we squandered the dialogue in tangent topics, in a +multitude of irrelevances.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0045.png"><img src="images/Illus-0045.png" + alt="Two Men Talking" border= "0" width="50%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>How few, how few are those gifted for real talk! There are fine merry +fellows, full of mirth and shrewdly minted observation, who will not abide by +one topic, who must always be lashing out upon some new byroad, snatching at +every bush they pass. They are too excitable, too ungoverned for the joys of +patient intercourse. Talk is so solemn a rite it should be approached with +prayer and must be conducted with nicety and forbearance. What steadiness and +sympathy are needed if the thread of thought is to be unwound without tangles +or snapping! What forbearance, while each of the pair, after tentative +gropings here and yonder, feels his way toward truth as he sees it. So often +two in talk are like men standing back to back, each trying to describe to +the other what he sees and disputing because their visions do not tally. It +takes a little time for minds to turn face to face.</p> + +<p>Very often conversations are better among three than between two, for the +reason that then one of the trio is always, unconsciously, acting as umpire, +interposing fair play, recalling wandering wits to the nub of the argument, +seeing that the aggressiveness of one does no foul to the reticence of +another. Talk in twos may, alas! fall into speaker and listener: talk in +threes rarely does so.</p> + +<p>It is little realized how slowly, how painfully, we approach the +expression of truth. We are so variable, so anxious to be polite, and +alternately swayed by caution or anger. Our mind oscillates like a pendulum: +it takes some time for it to come to rest. And then, the proper allowance and +correction has to be made for our individual vibrations that prevent +accuracy. Even the compass needle doesn't point the true north, but only the +magnetic north. Similarly our minds at best can but indicate magnetic truth, +and are distorted by many things that act as iron filings do on the compass. +The necessity of holding one's job: what an iron filing that is on the +compass card of a man's brain!</p> + +<p>We are all afraid of truth: we keep a battalion of our pet prejudices and +precautions ready to throw into the argument as shock troops, rather than let +our fortress of Truth be stormed. We have smoke bombs and decoy ships and all +manner of cunning colorizations by which we conceal our innards from our +friends, and even from ourselves. How we fume and fidget, how we bustle and +dodge rather than commit ourselves.</p> + +<p>In days of hurry and complication, in the incessant pressure of human +problems that thrust our days behind us, does one never dream of a way of +life in which talk would be honored and exalted to its proper place in the +sun? What a zest there is in that intimate unreserved exchange of thought, in +the pursuit of the magical blue bird of joy and human satisfaction that may +be seen flitting distantly through the branches of life. It was a sad thing +for the world when it grew so busy that men had no time to talk. There are +such treasures of knowledge and compassion in the minds of our friends, could +we only have time to talk them out of their shy quarries. If we had our way, +we would set aside one day a week for talking. In fact, we would reorganize +the week altogether. We would have one day for Worship (let each man devote +it to worship of whatever he holds dearest); one day for Work; one day for +Play (probably fishing); one day for Talking; one day for Reading, and one +day for Smoking and Thinking. That would leave one day for Resting, and +(incidentally) interviewing employers.</p> + +<p>The best week of our life was one in which we did nothing but talk. We +spent it with a delightful gentleman who has a little bungalow on the shore +of a lake in Pike County. He had a great many books and cigars, both of which +are conversational stimulants. We used to lie out on the edge of the lake, in +our oldest trousers, and talk. We discussed ever so many subjects; in all of +them he knew immensely more than we did. We built up a complete philosophy of +indolence and good will, according to Food and Sleep and Swimming their +proper share of homage. We rose at 10 in the morning and began talking; we +talked all day and until 3 o'clock at night. Then we went to bed and regained +strength and combativeness for the coming day. Never was a week better spent. +We committed no crimes, planned no secret treaties, devised no annexations or +indemnities. We envied no one. We examined the entire world and found it +worth while. Meanwhile our wives, who were watching (perhaps with a little +quiet indignation) from the veranda, kept on asking us, "What on earth do you +talk about?"</p> + +<p>Bless their hearts, men don't have to have anything to talk <i>about</i>. +They just talk.</p> + +<p>And there is only one rule for being a good talker: learn how to +listen.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_UNNATURAL_NATURALIST"></a> + +<h2>THE UNNATURAL NATURALIST</h2> +<br> + + +<p>It gives us a great deal of pleasure to announce, officially, that spring +has arrived.</p> + +<p>Our statement is not based on any irrelevant data as to equinoxes or +bluebirds or bock-beer signs, but is derived from the deepest authority we +know anything about, our subconscious self. We remember that some +philosopher, perhaps it was Professor James, suggested that individuals are +simply peaks of self-consciousness rising out of the vast ocean of collective +human Mind in which we all swim, and are, at bottom, one. Whenever we have to +decide any important matter, such as when to get our hair cut and whether to +pay a bill or not, and whether to call for the check or let the other fellow +do so, we don't attempt to harass our conscious volition with these +decisions. We rely on our subconscious and instinctive person, and for better +or worse we have to trust to its righteousness and good sense. We just find +ourself doing something and we carry on and hope it is for the best.</p> + +<p>From this deep abyss of subconsciousness we learn that it is spring. The +mottled goosebone of the Allentown prophet is no more meteorologically +accurate than our subconscience. And this is how it works.</p> + +<p>Once a year, about the approach of the vernal equinox or the seedsman's +catalogue, we wake up at 6 o'clock in the morning. This is an immediate +warning and apprisement that something is adrift. Three hundred and +sixty-four days in the year we wake, placidly enough, at seven-ten, ten +minutes after the alarm clock has jangled. But on this particular day, +whether it be the end of February or the middle of March, we wake with the +old recognizable nostalgia. It is the last polyp or vestige of our +anthropomorphic and primal self, trailing its pathetic little wisp of glory +for the one day of the whole calendar. All the rest of the year we are the +plodding percheron of commerce, patiently tugging our wain; but on that +morning there wambles back, for the nonce, the pang of Eden. We wake at 6 +o'clock; it is a blue and golden morning and we feel it imperative to get +outdoors as quickly as possible. Not for an instant do we feel the customary +respectable and sanctioned desire to kiss the sheets yet an hour or so. The +traipsing, trolloping humor of spring is in our veins; we feel that we must +be about felling an aurochs or a narwhal for breakfast. We leap into our +clothes and hurry downstairs and out of the front door and skirmish round the +house to see and smell and feel.</p> + +<p>It is spring. It is unmistakably spring, because the pewit bushes are +budding and on yonder aspen we can hear a forsythia bursting into song. It is +spring, when the feet of the floorwalker pain him and smoking-car windows +have to be pried open with chisels. We skip lightheartedly round the house to +see if those bobolink bulbs we planted are showing any signs yet, and +discover the whisk brush that fell out of the window last November. And then +the newsboy comes along the street and sees us prancing about and we feel +sheepish and ashamed and hurry indoors again.</p> + +<p>There may still be blizzards and frozen plumbings and tumbles on icy +pavements, but when that morning of annunciation has come to us we know that +winter is truly dead, even though his ghost may walk and gibber once or +twice. The sweet urge of the new season has rippled up through the oceanic +depths of our subconsciousness, and we are aware of the rising tide. Like Mr. +Wordsworth we feel that we are wiser than we know. (Perhaps we have misquoted +that, but let it stand.)</p> + +<p>There are other troubles that spring brings us. We are pitifully ashamed +of our ignorance Of nature, and though we try to hide it we keep getting +tripped up. About this time of year inquisitive persons are always asking us: +"Have you heard any song sparrows yet?" or "Are there any robins out your +way?" or "When do the laburnums begin to nest out in Marathon?" Now we really +can't tell these people our true feeling, which is that we do not believe in +peeking in on the privacy of the laburnums or any other songsters. It seems +to us really immodest to keep on spying on the birds in that way. And as for +the bushes and trees, what we want to know is, How does one ever get to know +them? How do you find out which is an alder and what is an elm? Or a +narcissus and a hyacinth, does any one really know them apart? We think it's +all a bluff. And jonquils. There was a nest of them on our porch, we are +told, but we didn't think it any business of ours to bother them. Let nature +alone and she'll let you alone.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0053.png"><img src="images/Illus-0053.png" + alt="Man chasing butterflies" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>But there is a pettifogging cult about that says you ought to know these +things; moreover, children keep on asking one. We always answer at random and +say it's a wagtail or a flowering shrike or a female magnolia. We were +brought up in the country and learned that first principle of good manners, +which is to let birds and flowers and animals go on about their own affairs +without pestering them by asking them their names and addresses. Surely +that's what Shakespeare meant by saying a rose by any other name will smell +as sweet. We can enjoy a rose just as much as any one, even if we may think +it's a hydrangea.</p> + +<p>And then we are much too busy to worry about robins and bluebirds and +other poultry of that sort. Of course, if we see one hanging about the lawn +and it looks hungry we have decency enough to throw out a bone or something +for it, but after all we have a lot of troubles of our own to bother about. +We are short-sighted, too, and if we try to get near enough to see if it is a +robin or only a bandanna some one has dropped, why either it flies away +before we get there or it does turn out to be a bandanna or a clothespin. One +of our friends kept on talking about a Baltimore oriole she had seen near our +house, and described it as a beautiful yellowish fowl. We felt quite ashamed +to be so ignorant, and when one day we thought we saw one near the front +porch we left what we were doing, which was writing a check for the coal man, +and went out to stalk it. After much maneuvering we got near, made a +dash—and it was a banana peel! The oriole had gone back to Baltimore +the day before.</p> + +<p>We love to read about the birds and flowers and shrubs and insects in +poetry, and it makes us very happy to know they are all round us, innocent +little things like mice and centipedes and goldenrods (until hay fever time), +but as for prying into their affairs we simply won't do it.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="SITTING_IN_THE_BARBER'S_CHAIR"></a> + +<h2>SITTING IN THE BARBER'S CHAIR</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Once every ten weeks or so we get our hair cut.</p> + +<p>We are not generally parsimonious of our employer's time, but somehow we +do hate to squander that thirty-three minutes, which is the exact chronicide +involved in despoiling our skull of a ten weeks' garner. If we were to have +our hair cut at the end of eight weeks the shearing would take only +thirty-one minutes; but we can never bring ourselves to rob our employer of +that much time until we reckon he is really losing prestige by our unkempt +appearance. Of course, we believe in having our hair cut during office hours. +That is the only device we know to make the hateful operation tolerable.</p> + +<p>To the times mentioned above should be added fifteen seconds, which is the +slice of eternity needed to trim, prune and chasten our mustache, which is +not a large group of foliage.</p> + +<p>We knew a traveling man who never got his hair cut except when he was on +the road, which permitted him to include the transaction in his expense +account; but somehow it seems to us more ethical to steal time than to steal +money.</p> + +<p>We like to view this whole matter in a philosophical and ultra-pragmatic +way. Some observers have hazarded that our postponement of haircuts is due to +mere lethargy and inertia, but that is not so. Every time we get our locks +shorn our wife tells us that we have got them too short. She says that our +head has a very homely and bourgeois bullet shape, a sort of pithecanthropoid +contour, which is revealed by a close trim. After five weeks' growth, +however, we begin to look quite distinguished. The difficulty then is to +ascertain just when the law of diminishing returns comes into play. When do +we cease to look distinguished and begin to appear merely slovenly? Careful +study has taught us that this begins to take place at the end of sixty-five +days, in warm weather. Add five days or so for natural procrastination and +devilment, and we have seventy days interval, which we have posited as the +ideal orbit for our tonsorial ecstasies.</p> + +<p>When at last we have hounded ourself into robbing our employer of those +thirty-three minutes, plus fifteen seconds for you know what, we find ourself +in the barber's chair. Despairingly we gaze about at the little blue flasks +with flowers enameled on them; at the piles of clean towels; at the bottles +of mandrake essence which we shall presently have to affirm or deny. Under +any other circumstances we should deeply enjoy a half hour spent in a +comfortable chair, with nothing to do but do nothing. Our barber is a +delightful fellow; he looks benign and does not prattle; he respects the +lobes of our ears and other vulnerabilia. But for some inscrutable reason we +feel strangely ill at ease in his chair. We can't think of anything to think +about. Blankly we brood in the hope of catching the hem of some intimation of +immortality. But no, there is nothing to do but sit there, useless as an +incubator with no eggs in it. The processes of wasting and decay are hurrying +us rapidly to a pauperish grave, every instant brings us closer to a notice +in the obit column, and yet we sit and sit without two worthy thoughts to rub +against each other.</p> + +<p>Oh, the poverty of mortal mind, the sad meagerness of the human soul! Here +we are, a vital, breathing entity, transformed to a mere chemical carcass by +the bleak magic of the barber's chair. In our anatomy of melancholy there are +no such atrabiliar moments as those thirty-three (and a quarter) minutes once +every ten weeks. Roughly speaking, we spend three hours of this living death +every year.</p> + +<p>And yet, perhaps it is worth it, for what a jocund and pantheistic +merriment possesses us when we escape from the shop! Bay-rummed, powdered, +shorn, brisk and perfumed, we fare down the street exhaling the syrups of +Cathay. Once more we can take our rightful place among aggressive and +well-groomed men; we can look in the face without blenching those human +leviathans who are ever creased, razored, and white-margined as to vest. We +are a man among men and our untethered mind jostles the stars. We have had +our hair cut, and no matter what gross contours our cropped skull may display +to wives or ethnologists, we are a free man for ten dear weeks.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="BROWN_EYES_AND_EQUINOXES"></a> + +<h2>BROWN EYES AND EQUINOXES</h2> +<br> + + +<p>"What is an equinox?" said Titania.</p> + +<p>I pretended not to hear her and prayed fervently that the inquiry would +pass from her mind. Sometimes her questions, if ignored, are effaced by some +other thought that possesses her active brain. I rattled my paper briskly and +kept well behind it.</p> + +<p>"Yes," I murmured husbandly, "delicious, delicious! My dear, you certainly +plan the most delightful meals." Meanwhile I was glancing feverishly at the +daily Quiz column to see if that noble cascade of popular information might +give any help. It did not.</p> + +<p>Clear brown eyes looked across the table gravely. I could feel them +through the spring overcoat ads.</p> + +<p>"What is an equinox?"</p> + +<p>"I think I must have left my matches upstairs," I said, and went up to +look for them. I stayed aloft ten minutes and hoped that by that time she +would have passed on to some other topic. I did not waste my time, however; I +looked everywhere for the "Children's Book of a Million Reasons," until I +remembered it was under the dining-room table taking the place of a missing +caster.</p> + +<p>When I slunk into the living room again I hastily suggested a game of +double Canfield, but Titania's brow was still perplexed. Looking across at me +with that direct brown gaze that would compel even a milliner to relent, she +asked:</p> + +<p>"What is an equinox?"</p> + +<p>I tried to pass it off flippantly.</p> + +<p>"A kind of alarm clock," I said, "that lets the bulbs and bushes know it's +time to get up."</p> + +<p>"No; but honestly, Bob," she said, "I want to know. It's something about +an equal day and an equal night, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"At the equinox," I said sternly, hoping to overawe her, "the day and the +night are of equal duration. But only for one night. On the following day the +sun, declining in perihelion, produces the customary inequality. The usual +working day is much longer than the night of relaxation that follows it, as +every toiler knows."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "but how does it work? It says something in +this article about the days getting longer in the Northern Hemisphere, while +they are getting shorter in the Southern."</p> + +<p>"Of course," I agreed, "conditions are totally different south of Mason +and Dixon's line. But as far as we are concerned here, the sun, revolving +round the earth, casts a beneficent shadow, which is generally regarded as +the time to quit work. This shadow—"</p> + +<p>"I thought the earth revolved round the sun," she said. "Wasn't that what +Galileo proved?"</p> + +<p>"He was afterward discovered to be mistaken," I said. "That was what +caused all the trouble."</p> + +<p>"What trouble?" she asked, much interested.</p> + +<p>"Why, he and Socrates had to take hemlock or they were drowned in a butt +of malmsey, I really forget which."</p> + +<p>"Well, after the equinox," said Titania, "do the days get longer?"</p> + +<p>"They do," I said; "in order to permit the double-headers. And now that +daylight saving is to go into effect, equinoxes won't be necessary any more. +Very likely the pan-Russian Soviets, or President Wilson, or somebody, will +abolish them."</p> + +<p>"June 21 is the longest day in the year, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"The day before pay-day is always the longest day."</p> + +<p>"And the night the cook goes out is always the longest night," she +retorted, catching the spirit of the game.</p> + +<p>"Some day," I threatened her, "the earth will stop rotating on its orbit, +or its axis, or whatever it is, and then we will be like the moon, divided +into two hostile hemispheres, one perpetual day and the other eternal +night."</p> + +<p>She did not seem alarmed. "Yes, and I bet I know which one you'll emigrate +to," she said. "But how about the equinoctial gales? Why should there be +gales just then?"</p> + +<p>I had forgot about the equinoctial gales, and this caught me unawares.</p> + +<p>"That was an old tradition of the Phoenician mariners," I said, "but the +invention of latitude and longitude made them unnecessary. They have fallen +into disrepute. Dead reckoning killed them."</p> + +<p>"And the precession of the equinoxes?" she asked, turning back to her +magazine.</p> + +<p>This was a poser, but I rallied stoutly. "Well," I said, "you see, there +are two equinoxes a year, the vernal and the autumnal. They are well known by +coal dealers. The first one is when he delivers the coal and the second is +when he gets paid. Two of them a year, you see, in the course of a million +years or so, makes quite a majestic series. That is why they call it a +procession."</p> + +<p>Titania looked at me and gradually her face broke up into a charming +aurora borealis of laughter.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you know any more about the old things than I do," she +said.</p> + +<p>And the worst of it is, I think she was right.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="163_INNOCENT_OLD_MEN"></a> + +<h2>163 INNOCENT OLD MEN</h2> +<br> + + +<p>I found Titania looking severely at her watch, which is a queer little +gold disk about the size of a waistcoat button, swinging under her chin by a +thin golden chain. Titania's methods of winding, setting and regulating that +watch have always been a mystery to me. She frequently knows what the right +time is, but how she deduces it from the data given by the hands of her +timepiece I can't guess. It's something like this: She looks at the watch and +notes what it says. Then she deducts ten minutes, because she remembers it is +ten minutes fast. Then she performs some complicated calculation connected +with when the baby had his bath, and how long ago she heard the church bells +chime; to this result she adds five minutes to allow for leeway. Then she +goes to the phone and asks Central the time.</p> + +<p>"Hullo," I said; "what's wrong?"</p> + +<p>"I'm wondering about this daylight-saving business," she said. "You know, +I think it's all a piece of Bolshevik propaganda to get us confused and +encourage anarchy. All the women in Marathon are talking about it and +neglecting their knitting. Junior's bath was half an hour late today because +Mrs. Benvenuto called me up to talk about daylight saving. She says her cook +has threatened to leave if she has to get up an hour earlier in the morning. +I was just wondering how to adjust my watch to the new conditions."</p> + +<p>"It's perfectly simple," I said. "Put your watch ahead one hour, and then +go through the same logarithms you always do."</p> + +<p>"Put it ahead?" asked Titania. "Mrs. Borgia says we have to put the clock +<i>back</i> an hour. She is fearfully worried about it. She says suppose she +has something in the oven when the clock is put back, it will be an hour +overdone and burned to a crisp when the kitchen clock catches up again."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Borgia is wrong," I said. "The clocks are to be put ahead one hour. +At 2 o'clock on Easter morning they are to be turned on to 3 o'clock. Mrs. +Borgia certainly won't have anything in the oven at that time of night. You +see, we are to pretend that 2 o'clock is really 3 o'clock, and when we get up +at 7 o'clock it will really be 6 o'clock. We are deliberately fooling +ourselves in order to get an hour more of daylight."</p> + +<p>"I have an idea," she said, "that you won't get up at 7 that morning."</p> + +<p>"It is quite possible," I said, "because I intend to stay up until 2 a.m. +that morning in order to be exactly correct in changing our timepieces. No +one shall accuse me of being a time slacker."</p> + +<p>Titania was wrinkling her brow. "But how about that lost hour?" she said. +"What happens to it? I don't see how we can just throw an hour away like +that. Time goes on just the same. How can we afford to shorten our lives so +ruthlessly? It's murder, that's what it is! I told you it was a Bolshevik +plot. Just think; there are a hundred million Americans. Moving on the clock +that way brings each of us one hour nearer our graves. That is to say, we are +throwing away 100,000,000 hours."</p> + +<p>She seized a pencil and a sheet of paper and went through some +calculations.</p> + +<p>"There are 8,760 hours in a year," she said. "Reckoning seventy years a +lifetime, there are 613,200 hours in each person's life. Now, will you please +divide that into a hundred million for me? I'm not good at long division."</p> + +<p>With docility I did so, and reported the result.</p> + +<p>"About 163," I said.</p> + +<p>"There you are!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Throwing away all that +perfectly good time amounts simply to murdering 163 harmless old men of +seventy, or 326 able-bodied men of thirty-five, or 1,630 innocent little +children of seven. If that isn't atrocity, what is? I think Mr. Hoover or +Admiral Grayson, or somebody, ought to be prosecuted."</p> + +<p>I was aghast at this awful result. Then an idea struck me, and I took the +pencil and began to figure on my own account.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Titania," I said. "Not so fast. Moving the clock ahead doesn't +really bring those people any nearer their graves. What it does do is bring +the ratification of the Peace Treaty sooner, which is a fine thing. By +deleting a hundred million hours we shorten Senator Borah's speeches against +the League by 11,410 years. That's very encouraging."</p> + +<p>"According to that way of reckoning," she said with sarcasm, "Mr. Borah's +term must have expired about 11,000 years ago."</p> + +<p>"My dear Titania," I said, "the ways of the Government may seem +inscrutable, but we have got to follow them with faith. If Mr. Wilson tells +us to murder 163 fine old men in elastic-sided boots we must simply do it, +that's all. Peace is a dreadful thing. We have got to meet the Germans on +their own ground. They adopted this daylight-saving measure years ago. They +call it Sonnenuntergangverderbenpraxis, I believe. After all, it is only a +temporary measure, because in the fall, when the daylight hours get shorter, +we shall have to turn the clocks back a couple of hours in order to +compensate the gas and electric light companies for all the money they will +have lost. That will bring those 163 old gentlemen to life again and double +their remaining term of years to make up for their temporary effacement. They +are patriotic hostages to Time for the summer only. You must remember that +time is only a philosophical abstraction, with no real or tangible existence, +and we have a right to do whatever we want with it."</p> + +<p>"I will remind you of that," she said, "at getting-up time on Sunday +morning. I still think that if we are going to monkey with the clocks at all +it would be better to turn them backward instead of forward. Certainly that +would bring you home from the club a little earlier."</p> + +<p>"My dear," I said, "we are in the Government's hands. A little later we +may be put on time rations, just as we are on food rations. We may have time +cards to encourage thrift in saving time. Every time we save an hour we will +get a little stamp to show for it. When we fill out a whole card we will be +entitled to call ourselves a month younger than we are. Tell that to Mrs. +Borgia; it will reconcile her."</p> + +<p>A lusty uproar made itself heard upstairs and Titania gave a little +scream. "Heavens!" she cried. "Here I am talking with you and Junior's bottle +is half an hour late. I don't care what Mr. Wilson does to the clocks; he +won't be able to fool Junior. He knows when it's, time for meals. Won't you +call up Central and find out the exact time?"</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_TRAGIC_SMELL_IN_MARATHON"></a> + +<h2>A TRAGIC SMELL IN MARATHON</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Marathon, Pa., April 2.</p> + +<p>This is a very embarrassing time of year for us. Every morning when we get +on the 8:13 train at Marathon Bill Stites or Fred Myers or Hank Harris or +some other groundsel philosopher on the Cinder and Bloodshot begins to chivvy +us about our garden. "Have you planted anything yet?" they say. "Have you put +litmus paper in the soil to test it for lime, potash and phosphorus? Have you +got a harrow?"</p> + +<p>That sort of thing bothers us, because our ideas of cultivation are very +primitive. We did go to the newsstand at the Reading Terminal and try to buy +a Litmus paper, but the agent didn't have any. He says he doesn't carry the +Jersey papers. So we buried some old copies of the <i>Philistine</i> in the +garden, thinking that would strengthen up the soil a bit. This business of +nourishing the soil seems grotesque. It's hard enough to feed the family, let +alone throwing away good money on feeding the land. Our idea about soil is +that it ought to feed itself.</p> + +<p>Our garden ought to be lusty enough to raise the few beans and beets and +blisters we aspire to. We have been out looking at the soil. It looks fairly +potent and certainly it goes a long way down. There are quite a lot of broken +magnesia bottles and old shinbones scattered through it, and they ought to +help along. The topsoil and the humus may be a little mixed, but we are not +going to sort them out by hand.</p> + +<p>Our method is to go out at twilight the first Sunday in April, about the +time the cutworms go to roost, and take a sharp-pointed stick. We draw lines +in the ground with this stick, preferably in a pleasant geometrical pattern +that will confuse the birds and other observers. It is important not to do +this until twilight, so that no robins or insects can watch you. Then we go +back in the house and put on our old trousers, the pair that has holes in +each pocket. We fill the pockets with the seed, we want to plant and loiter +slowly along the grooves we have made in the earth. The seed sifts down the +trousers legs and spreads itself in the furrow far better than any mechanical +drill could do it. The secret of gardening is to stick to nature's old +appointed ways. Then we read a chapter of Bernard Shaw aloud, by candle light +or lantern light. As soon as they hear the voice of Shaw all the vegetables +dig themselves in. This saves going all along the rows with a shingle to pat +down the topsoil or the humus or the magnesia bottles or whatever else is +uppermost.</p> + +<p>Fred says that certain vegetables—kohl-rabi and colanders, we +think—extract nitrogen from the air and give it back to the soil. It +may be so, but what has that to do with us? If our soil can't keep itself +supplied with nitrogen, that's its lookout. We don't need the nitrogen in the +air. The baby isn't old enough to have warts yet.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0073.png"><img src="images/Illus-0073.png" + alt="Man hoeing a garden" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<p>Hank says it's no use watering the garden from above. He says that +watering from above lures the roots toward the surface and next day the hot +sun kills them. The answer to that is that the rain comes from above, doesn't +it? Roots have learned certain habits in the past million years and we +haven't time to teach them to duck when it rains. Hank has some irrigation +plan which involves sinking tomato cans in the ground and filling them with +water.</p> + +<p>Bill says it's dangerous to put arsenic on the plants, because it may kill +the cook. He says nicotine or tobacco dust is far better. The answer to that +is that we never put fertilizers on our garden, anyway. If we want to kill +the cook there is a more direct method, and we reserve the tobacco for +ourself. No cutworm shall get a blighty one from our cherished baccy +pouch.</p> + +<p>Fred says we ought to have a wheel-barrow; Hank swears by a mulching iron; +Bill is all for cold frames. All three say that hellebore is the best thing +for sucking insects. We echo the expletive, with a different application.</p> + +<p>You see, we have no instinct for gardening. Some fellows, like Bill +Stites, have a divinely implanted zest for the propagation of chard and +rhubarb and self-blanching celery and kohl-rabi; they are kohl-rabid, we +might say. They know, just what to do when they see a weed; they can +assassinate a weevil by just looking at it. But weevils and cabbage worms are +unterrified by us. We can't tell a weed from a young onion. We never mulched +anything in our life; we wouldn't know how to begin.</p> + +<p>But the deuce of it is, public opinion says that we must raise a garden. +It is no use to hire a man to do it for us. However badly we may do it, +patriotism demands that we monkey around with a garden of our own. We may get +bitten by a snapping bean or routed by a rutabaga or infected by a parsnip. +But with Bill and those fellows at our heels we have just got to face it. +Hellebore!</p> + +<p>What we want to know is, How do you ever find out all these things about +vegetables? We bought an ounce of tomato seeds in desperation, and now Fred +says "one ounce of tomato seeds will produce 3,000 plants. You should have +bought two dozen plants instead of the seed." How does he know those things? +Hank says beans are very delicate and must not be handled while they are wet +or they may get rusty. Again we ask, how does he know? Where do they learn +these matters? Bill says that stones draw out the moisture from the soil and +every stone in the garden should be removed by hand before we plant. We +offered him twenty cents an hour to do it.</p> + +<p>The most tragic odor in the world hangs over Marathon these days; the +smell of freshly spaded earth. It is extolled by the poets and all those +happy sons of the pavement who know nothing about it. But here are we, who +hardly know a loam from a lentil, breaking our back over seed catalogues. +Public opinion may compel us to raise vegetables, but we are going to go +about it our own way. If the stones are going to act like werewolves and suck +the moisture from our soil, let them do so. We don't believe in thwarting +nature. Maybe it will be a very wet summer and we shall have the laugh on +Bill, who has carted away all his stones.</p> + +<p>And we should just like to see Bill Stites write a poem. We bet it +wouldn't look as much like a poem as our beans look like beans. And as for +Hank and Fred, they wouldn't even know how to begin to plant a poem!</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="BULLIED_BY_THE_BIRDS"></a> + +<h2>BULLIED BY THE BIRDS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Marathon, Pa., May 2.</p> + +<p>I insist that the place for birds is in the air or on the bushy tops of +trees or on smooth-shaven lawns. Let them twitter and strut on the greens of +golf courses and intimidate the tired business men. Let them peck cinders +along the railroad track and keep the trains waiting. But really they have no +right to take possession of a man's house as they have mine.</p> + +<p>The nesting season is a time of tyranny and oppression for those who live +in Marathon. The birds are upon us like Hindenburg in Belgium. We go about on +tiptoe, speaking in whispers, for fear of annoying them. It is all the fault +of the Marathon Bird Club, which has offered all sorts of inducements to the +fowls of the air to come and live in our suburb, quite forgetting that humble +commuters have to live there, too. Birds have moved all the way from +Wynnewood and Ambler and Chestnut Hill to enjoy the congenial air of Marathon +and the informing little pamphlets of our club, telling them just what to eat +and which houses offer the best hospitality. All our dwellings are girt about +with little villas made of condensed milk boxes, but the feathered tyrants +have grown too pernickety to inhabit these. They come closer still, and make +our homes their own. They take the grossest liberties.</p> + +<p>I am fond of birds, but I think the line must be drawn somewhere. The +clothes-line, for instance. The other day Titania sent me out to put up a new +clothesline; I found that a shrike or a barn swallow or some other veery had +built a nest in the clothespin basket. That means we won't be able to hang +out our laundry in the fresh Monday air and equally fresh Monday sunshine +until the nesting season is over.</p> + +<p>Then there is a gross, fat, indiscreet robin that has taken a home in an +evergreen or mimosa or banyan tree just under our veranda railing. It is an +absurdly exposed, almost indecently exposed position, for the confidential +family business she intends to carry on. The iceman and the butcher and the +boy who brings up the Sunday ice cream from the apothecary can't help seeing +those three big blue eggs she has laid. But, because she has nested there for +the last three springs, while the house was unoccupied, she thinks she has a +perpetual lease on that bush. She hotly resents the iceman and the butcher +and the apothecary's boy, to say nothing of me. So these worthy merchants +have to trail round a circuitous route, violating the neutral ground of a +neighbor, in order to reach the house from behind and deliver their wares +through the cellar. We none of us dare use the veranda at all for fear of +frightening her, and I have given up having the morning paper delivered at +the house because she made such shrill protest.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0079.png"><img src="images/Illus-0079.png" + alt="Bird scolding man near its nest" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<p>Frightening her, do I say? Nay, it is <i>we</i> who are frightened. I go +round to the side of the house to prune my benzine bushes or to plant a mess +of spinach and a profane starling or woodpecker bustles off her nest with +shrewish outcry and lingers nearby to rail at me. Abashed, I stealthily +scuffle back to get a spade out of the tool bin and again that shrill scream +of anger and outraged motherhood. A throstle or a whippoorwill is raising a +family in the gutter spout over the back kitchen. I go into the bathroom to +shave and Titania whispers sharply, "You mustn't shave in there. There's a +tomtit nesting in the shutter hinge and the light from your shaving mirror +will make the poor little birds crosseyed when they're hatched." I try to +shave in the dining-room and I find a sparrow's nest on the window sill. +Finally I do my toilet in the coal bin, even though there is a young +squeaking bat down there. A bat is half mouse anyway, so Titania has less +compassion for its feelings. Even if that bat grows up bow-legged on account +of premature excitement, I have to shave somewhere.</p> + +<p>We can't play croquet at this time of year, because the lawn must be kept +clear for the robins to quarry out worms. The sound of mallet and ball +frightens the worms and sends them underground, and then it's harder for the +robins to find them. I suppose we really ought to keep a stringed orchestra +playing in the garden to entice the worms to the surface. We have given up +frying onions because the mother robins don't like the odor while they're +raising a family. I love my toast crusts, but Titania takes them away from me +for the blackbirds. "Now," she says, "they're raising a family. You must be +generous."</p> + +<p>If my garden doesn't amount to anything this year the birds will be my +alibi. Titania makes me do my gardening in rubber-soled shoes so as not to +disturb the birds when they are going to bed. (They begin yelping at 4 a.m. +right outside the window and never think of my slumbers.) The other evening I +put on my planting trousers and was about to sow a specially fine pea I had +brought home from town when Titania made signs from the window. "You simply +mustn't wear those trousers around the house in nesting season. Don't you +know the birds are very sensitive just now?" And we have been paying board +for our cat on Long Island for a whole year because the birds wouldn't like +his society and plebeian ways.</p> + +<p>Marathon has come to a pretty pass, indeed, when the commuters are to be +dispossessed in this way by a lot of birds, orioles and tomtits and +yellow-bellied nuthatches. Some of these days a wren will take it into its +head to build a nest on the railroad track and we'll all have to walk to +town. Or a chicken hawk will settle in our icebox and we'll starve to +death.</p> + +<p>As I have said before, I believe in keeping nature in its proper place. +Birds belong in trees. I don't go twittering and fluffing about in oaks and +chestnuts, perching on the birds' nest steps and getting in their way. And +why should some swarthy robin, be she never so matronly, swear at me if I set +foot on my own front porch?</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_MESSAGE_FOR_BOONVILLE"></a> + +<h2>A MESSAGE FOR BOONVILLE</h2> +<br> + + +<p>When corncob pipes went up from a nickel to six cents, smoking traditions +tottered. That was a year or more ago, but one can still recall the +indignation written on the faces of nicotine-soaked gaffers who had been +buying cobs at a jitney ever since Washington used one to keep warm at Valley +Forge. It was the supreme test of our determination to win the war: the price +of Missouri meerschaums went up 20 per cent and there was no insurrection.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we went out to buy our annual corncob, and were agreeably +surprised to learn that the price is still six cents; but our friend the +tobacconist said that it may go up again soon. We took the treasure, gleaming +yellow with fresh varnish, back to our kennel, and we are smoking it as we +set down these words. A corncob is sadly hot and raw until it is well sooted, +but the ultimate flavor is worth persecution.</p> + +<p>The corncob pipes we always buy come from Boonville, Mo., and we don't see +why we shouldn't blow a little whiff of affection and gratitude toward that +excellent town. Moreover, Boonville celebrated its centennial recently: it +was founded in 1818. If the map is to be believed, it is on the southern bank +of the Missouri River, which is there spanned by a very fine bridge; it is +reached by two railroads (Missouri Pacific and M., K. and T.) and stands on a +bluff 100 feet above the water. According to the two works of reference +nearest to our desk, its population is either 4252 or 4377. Perhaps the +former census omits the 125 men of the town who are so benighted as to smoke +briars or clays.</p> + +<p>Delightful town of Boonville, seat of Cooper County, you are well named. +How great a boon you have conferred upon a troubled world! Long after more +ambitious towns have faded in the memory of man your quiet and soothing gift +to humanity will make your name blessed. I like to imagine your shady +streets, drowsing in the summer sun, and the rural philosophers sitting on +the verandas of your hotels or on the benches of Harley Park ("comprising +fifteen acres"—New International Encyclopedia), looking out across the +brown river and puffing clouds of sweet gray reek. Down by the livery stable +on Main street (there must be a livery stable on Main street) I can see the +old creaky, cane-bottomed chairs (with seats punctured by too much +philosophy) tilted against the sycamore trees, ready for the afternoon gossip +and shag tobacco. I can imagine the small boys of Boonville fishing for +catfish from the piers of the bridge or bathing down by the steamboat dock +(if there is one), and yearning for the day when they, too, will be grown up +and old enough to smoke corncobs.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0085.png"><img src="images/Illus-0085.png" + alt="Man in chair, smoking pipe" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>What is the subtle magic of a corncob pipe? It is never as sweet or as +mellow as a well-seasoned briar, and yet it has a fascination all its own. It +is equally dear to those who work hard and those who loaf with intensity. +When you put your nose to the blackened mouth of the hot cob its odor is +quite different from that fragrance of the crusted wooden bowl. There is a +faint bitterness in it, a sour, plaintive aroma. It is a pipe that seems to +call aloud for the accompaniment of beer and earnest argument on factional +political matters. It is also the pipe for solitary vigils of hard and +concentrated work. It is the pipe that a man keeps in the drawer of his desk +for savage hours of extra toil after the stenographer has powdered her nose +and gone home.</p> + +<p>A corncob pipe is a humble badge of philosophy, an evidence of tolerance +and even humor. It requires patience and good cheer, for it is slow to "break +in." Those who meditate bestial and brutal designs against the weak and +innocent do not smoke it. Probably Hindenburg never saw one. Missouri's +reputation for incredulity may be due to the corncob habit. One who is +accustomed to consider an argument over a burning nest of tobacco, with the +smoke fuming upward in a placid haze, will not accept any dogma too +immediately.</p> + +<p>There is a singular affinity among those who smoke corncobs. A Missouri +meerschaum whose bowl is browned and whose fiber stem is frayed and stringy +with biting betrays a meditative and reasonable owner. He will have pondered +all aspects of life and be equally ready to denounce any of them, but without +bitterness. If you see a man on a street corner smoking a cob it will be safe +to ask him to watch the baby a minute while you slip around the corner. You +would even be safe in asking him to lend you a five. He will be safe, too, +because he won't have it.</p> + +<p>Think, therefore, of the charm of a town where corncob pipes are the chief +industry. Think of them stacked up in bright yellow piles in the warehouse. +Think of the warm sun and the wholesome sweetness of broad acres that have +grown into the pith of the cob. Think of the bright-eyed Missouri maidens who +have turned and scooped and varnished and packed them. Think of the airy +streets and wide pavements of Boonville, and the corner drug stores with +their shining soda fountains and grape-juice bottles. Think of sitting out on +that bluff on a warm evening, watching the broad shimmer of the river +slipping down from the sunset, and smoking a serene pipe while the local +flappers walk in the coolness wearing crisp, swaying gingham dresses. That's +the kind of town we like to think about.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="MAKING_MARATHON_SAFE_FOR_THE_URCHIN"></a> + +<h2>MAKING MARATHON SAFE FOR THE URCHIN</h2> +<br> + + +<p>The Urchin and I have been strolling about Marathon on Sunday mornings for +more than a year, but not until the gasolineless Sabbaths supervened were we +really able to examine the village and see what it is like. Previously we had +been kept busy either dodging motors or admiring them as they sped by. Their +rich dazzle of burnished enamel, the purring hum of their great tires, evokes +applause from the Urchin. He is learning, as he watches those flashing +chariots, that life truly is almost as vivid as the advertisements in the +<i>Ladies' Home Journal</i>, where the shimmer of earthly pageant first was +presented to him.</p> + +<p>Marathon is a village so genteel and comely that the Urchin and I would +like to have some pictures of it for future generations, particularly as we +see it on an autumn morning when, as I say, the motors are kenneled and the +landscape has ceased to vibrate. In the douce benignance of equinoctial +sunshine we gaze about us with eyes of inventory. Where my observation errs +by too much sentiment the Urchin checks me by his cooler power of +ratiocination.</p> + +<p>Marathon is a suburban Xanadu gently caressed by the train service of the +Cinder and Bloodshot. It may be recognized as an aristocratic and patrician +stronghold by the fact that while luxuries are readily obtainable (for +instance, banana splits, or the latest novel by Enoch A. Bennett), +necessaries are had only by prayer and advowson. The drug store will deliver +ice cream to your very refrigerator, but it is impossible to get your garbage +collected. The cook goes off for her Thursday evening in a taxi, but you will +have to mend the roof, stanch the plumbing and curry the furnace with your +own hands. There are ten trains to take you to town of an evening, but only +two to bring you home. Yet going to town is a luxury, coming home is a +necessity. The supply of grape juice seems almost unlimited, yet coal is to +be had catch-as-catch-can.</p> + +<p>Another proof that Marathon is patrician at heart is that nothing is known +by its right name! The drug store is a "pharmacy," Sunday is "the Sabbath," a +house is a "residence," a debt is a "balance due on bill rendered." A girls' +school is a "young ladies' seminary," A Marathon man is not drafted, he is +"inducted into selective service." And the railway station has a porte +cochère (with the correct accent) instead of a carriage entrance. A +furnace is (how erroneously!) called a "heater." Marathon people do not +die—they "pass away." Even the cobbler, good fellow, has caught the +trick; he calls his shop the "Italo-American Shoe Hospital."</p> + +<p>This is an innocent masquerade! If Marathon prefers not to call a flivver +a flivver, I shall not expostulate. And yet this quaint subterfuge should not +be carried quite so far. Stone walls are made for sunny lounging; yet stone +walls in Marathon are built with uneven vertical projections to discourage +the sedentary. Nothing is more delightful than a dog; but there are no dogs +in Marathon. They are all airedales or spaniels or mastiffs. If an ordinary +dog should wag his tail up our street the airedales would cut him dead. Bless +me, Nature herself has taken to the same insincerity. The landscape round +Marathon is lovely, but it has itself well in hand. The hills all pretend to +be gentle declivities. There is a beautiful little sheet of water, reflecting +the trailery of willows, a green salute to the eye. In a robuster community +it would be a swimming hole—but with us, an ornamental lake. Only in +one spot has Nature forgotten herself and been so brusque and rough as to jut +up a very sizable cliff. This is the loveliest thing in Marathon: sunlight +and shadow break and angle in cubist magnificence among the oddly veined +knobs and prisms of brown stone. Yet this cliff or quarry is by common +consent taboo among us. It is our indelicacy, our indecency. Such +"residences" as are near modestly turn their kitchens toward it. Only the +blacksmith and the gas tanks are hardy enough to face this nakedness of +Mother Earth—they, and excellent Pat Lemon, Marathon's humblest and +blackest citizen, who contemplates that rugged and honest beauty as he tills +his garden on the land abandoned by squeamish burghers. That is our Aceldama, +our Potter's Field, only approached by the athletic, who keep their eyes from +Nature's indiscretion by vigorous sets of tennis in the purple shadow of the +cliff.</p> + +<p>Life is queerly inverted in Marathon. Nature has been so bullied and +repressed that she fawns about us timidly. No well-conducted suburban +shrubbery would think of assuming autumn tints before the ladies have got +into their fall fashions. Indeed none of our chaste trees will even shed +their leaves while any one is watching; and they crouch modestly in the shade +of our massive garages. They have been taught their place. In Marathon it is +a worse sin to have your lawn uncut than to have your books or your hair +uncut. I have been aware of indignant eyes because I let my back garden run +wild. And yet I flatter myself it was not mere sloth. No! I want the Urchin +to see what this savage, tempestuous world is like. What preparation for life +is a village where Nature comes to heel like a spaniel? When a thunderstorm +disorganizes our electric lights for an hour or so we feel it a personal +affront. Let my rearward plot be a deep-tangled wild-wood where the happy +Urchin may imagine something more ferocious lurking than a posse of radishes. +Indeed, I hardly know whether Marathon is a safe place to bring up a child. +How can he learn the horrors of drink in a village where there is no saloon? +Or the sadness of the seven deadly sins where there is no movie? Or deference +to his betters where the chauffeurs, in their withered leather legs, drive +limousines to the drug store to buy expensive cigars, while their employers +walk to the station puffing briar pipes?</p> + +<p>I had been hoping that the war would knock some of this topsy-turvy +nonsense out of us. Maybe it has. Sometimes I see on the faces of our +commuters the unaccustomed agitation of thought. At least we still have the +grace to call ourselves a suburb, and not (what we fancy ourselves) a +superurb. But I don't like the pretense that runs like a jarring note through +the music of our life. Why is it that those who are doing the work must +pretend they are not doing it; and those not doing the work pretend that they +are? I see that the motor messenger girls who drive high-powered cars wear +Sam Browne belts and heavy-soled boots, whereas the stalwart colored wenches +who labor along the tracks of the Cinder and Bloodshot console themselves +with flimsy waists and light slippers. (A fact!) By and by the Urchin will +notice these things. And I don't want him to grow up the kind of chap who, +instead of running to catch a train, loiters gracefully to the station and +waits to be caught.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_SMELL_OF_SMELLS"></a> + +<h2>THE SMELL OF SMELLS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>I Smelt it this morning—I wonder if you know the smell I mean?</p> + +<p>It had rained hard during the night, and trees and bushes twinkled in the +sharp early sunshine like ballroom chandeliers. As soon as I stepped out of +doors I caught that faint but unmistakable musk in the air; that dim, warm +sweetness. It was the smell of summer, so wholly different from the crisp +tang of spring.</p> + +<p>It is a drowsy, magical waft of warmth and fragrance. It comes only when +the leaves and vegetation have grown to a certain fullness and juice, and +when the sun bends in his orbit near enough to draw out all the subtle vapors +of field and woodland. It is a smell that rarely if ever can be discerned in +the city. It needs the wider air of the unhampered earth for its circulation +and play.</p> + +<p>I don't know just why, but I associate that peculiar aroma of summer with +woodpiles and barnyards. Perhaps because in the area of a farmyard the +sunlight is caught and focused and glows with its fullest heat and radiance. +And it is in the grasp of the relentless sun that growing things yield up +their innermost vitality and emanate their fragrant essence. I have seen +fields of tobacco under a hot sun that smelt as blithe as a room thick with +blue Havana smoke. I remember a pile of birch logs, heaped up behind a barn +in Pike County, where that mellow richness of summer flowed and quivered like +a visible exhalation in the air. It is the goodly soul of earth, rendering +her health and sweetness to her master, the sun.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0095.png"><img src="images/Illus-0095.png" + alt="Man fishing" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>Every one, I suppose, who is a fancier of smells, knows this blithe +perfume of the summer air that is so pleasant to the nostril almost any fine +forenoon from mid-June until August. It steals pungently through the blue +sparkle of the morning, fading away toward noon when the moistness is dried +out. But when one first issues from the house at breakfast time it is at its +highest savor. Irresistibly it suggests worms and a tin can with the lid +jaggedly bent back and a pitchfork turning up the earth behind the cow +stable. Fishing was first invented when Adam smelt that odor in the air.</p> + +<p>The first fishing morning—can't you imagine it! Has no one ever +celebrated it in verse or oils? The world all young and full of unmitigated +sweetness; the Garden of Eden bespangled with the early dew; Adam scrabbling +up a fistful of worm's and hooking them on a bent thorn and a line of twisted +pampas grass; hurrying down to the branch or the creek or the bayou or +whatever it may have been; sitting down on a brand-new stump that the devil +had put there to tempt him; throwing out his line; sitting there in the sun +dreaming and brooding....</p> + +<p>And then a tug, a twitch, a flurry in the clear water of Eden, a pull, a +splash, and the First Fish lay on the grass at Adam's foot. Can you imagine +his sensations? How he yelled to Eve to come—look—see, and, how +annoyed he was because she called out she was busy....</p> + +<p>Probably it was in that moment that all the bickerings and back-talk of +husbands and wives originated; when Adam called to Eve to come and look at +his First Fish while it was still silver and vivid in its living colors; and +Eve answered she was busy. In that moment were born the men's clubs and the +women's clubs and the pinochle parties and being detained at the office and +Kelly pool and all the other devices and stratagems that keep men and women +from taking their amusements together.</p> + +<p>Well, I didn't mean to go back to the Garden of Eden; I just wanted to say +that summer is here again, even though the almanac doesn't vouch for it until +the 21st. Those of you who are fond of smells, spread your nostrils about +breakfast time tomorrow morning and see if you detect it.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_JAPANESE_BACHELOR"></a> + +<h2>A JAPANESE BACHELOR</h2> +<br> + + +<p>The first obligation of one who lives by writing is to write what editors +will buy. In so doing, how often one laments that one cannot write exactly +what happens. Suppose I were to try it—for once!</p> + +<p>I have been lying on the bed—where the landlady has put a dark blue +spread, instead of the white one, because I drop my tobacco +ashes—smoking, and thinking about a new friend I met today. His name +is Kenko, a Japanese bachelor of the fourteenth century, who wrote a little +book of musings which has been translated under the title "The Miscellany of +a Japanese Priest." His candid reflections are those of a shrewd, learned, +humane and somewhat misogynist mind. I have been lying on the bed because his +book, like all books that make one ponder deeply on human destiny, causes +that feeling of mind-sickness, that swimming pain of the mental +faculties—or is it caused by too much strong tobacco?</p> + +<p>My acquaintance with Kenko began only last night, when I sat in bed +reading Mr. Raymond Weaver's very pleasant article about him in a recent +<i>Bookman</i>. My last act before turning out the light was to lay the +magazine on the table, open at Mr. Weaver's essay, to remind me to get a copy +of Kenko the first thing this morning. Happily to-day was Saturday. I don't +know what I should have done if it had been Sunday. I felt that I could not +wait another day without owning that book. I suspected it was a good deal in +the mood of another bachelor, an Anglo-American Caleb of to-day—Mr. +Logan Pearsall Smith, whose whimsical "Trivia" belongs on the same shelf.</p> + +<p>This morning I tried to argue myself out of the decision. It may be a very +expensive book, I thought; it may cost two or three dollars; I have been +spending a lot of money lately, and I certainly ought to buy some new +undershirts. Moreover, this has been a bad week; I have never written those +paragraphs I promised a certain editor, and I haven't paid the rent yet. Why +not try to find the book at a library? But I knew the only library where I +would have any chance of finding Kenko would be the big pile at Fifth avenue +and Forty-second street, and I could not bear the thought of having to read +that book without smoking. I felt instinctively (from what Mr. Weaver had +written) that it was the kind of book that requires a pipe.</p> + +<p>Well, I thought, I won't decide this too hastily; I'll walk down to the +post office (four blocks) and make up my mind on the way. I knew already, +however, that if I didn't go downtown for that book it would bother me all +day and ruin my work.</p> + +<p>I walked down to the post office (to mail to an editor a sonnet I thought +fairly well of) saying to myself: That book is imported from England, it may +be a big book, it may even cost four dollars. How much better to exhibit the +stoic tenacity of all great men, go back to my hall bedroom (which I was +temporarily occupying) and concentrate on matters in hand. What right, I +said, has a Buddhist recluse, born either in 1281 or 1283, to harass me so? +But I knew in my heart that the matter was already decided. I walked back to +the corner of Hallbedroom street, and stood vacillating at the newsstand, +pretending to glance over the papers. But across six centuries the insistent +ghost of Kenko had me in its grip. Annoyed, and with a sense of chagrin, I +hurried to the subway.</p> + +<p>In the dimly lit vestibule of the subway car, a boy of sixteen or so sat +on an up-ended suitcase, plunged in a book. I can never resist the temptation +to try to see what books other people are reading. This innocent curiosity +has led me into many rudenesses, for I am short-sighted and have to stare +very close to make out the titles. And usually the people who read books on +trolleys, subways and ferries are women. How often I have stalked them +warily, trying to identify the volume without seeming too intrusive. That +weakness deserves an essay in itself. It has led me into surprising +adventures. But in this case my quarry was easy. The lad—I judged him +a boarding school boy going back to school after the holidays—was so +absorbed in his reading that it was easy to thrust my face over his shoulder +and see the running head on the page—"The Light That Failed."</p> + +<p>I left the subway at Pennsylvania Station. Just to appease my conscience, +I stopped in at the agreeable Cadmus bookshop on Thirty-third street to see +if by any chance they might have a second-hand copy of Kenko. But I know they +wouldn't; it is not the kind of book at all likely to be found second-hand. I +tarried here long enough to smoke one cigarette and pay my devoirs to the +noble profession of second-hand bookselling. I even thought, a little wildly, +of buying a copy of "The Monk" by M.G. Lewis, which I saw there. So does the +frenzy rage when once you unleash it. But I decided to be content with paying +my devoirs to the proprietor, a friend of mine, and not go on (as the soldier +does in Hood's lovely pun) to devour my pay. I hurried off to the office of +the Oxford University Press, Kenko's publishers.</p> + +<p>It should be stated, however, that owing to some confusion of doors I got +by mistake into the reception room of the Brunswick-Balke-Collender Billiard +Table Company, which is on the same corridor as the salesroom of the Oxford +Press. It was a pleasant reception room, not very bookish in aspect, but in +my agitation I was too eager to feel surprised by the large billiard table in +the offing. I somewhat startled a young man at an adding machine by +demanding, in a husky voice, a copy of "The Miscellanies of a Japanese +Priest." I was rather nervous by this time, lest for some reason I should not +be able to buy a copy of Kenko. I feared the publishers might be angry with +me for not having made a round of the bookstores first. The young man saw +that I was chalking the wrong cue, and forwarded me.</p> + +<p>In the office of the Oxford Press I met a very genial reception. I had +been, as I say, apprehensive lest they should refuse to sell me the book; or +perhaps they might not have a copy. I wondered what credentials I could offer +to override their scruples. I had made up my mind to tell them, if they +demurred, that I had once published an essay to prove that the best book for +reading in bed is the General Catalogue of the Oxford University Press. This +is quite true. It is a delightful compilation of several thousand pages, on +India paper. But to my pleasant surprise the Oxonians seemed not at all +surprised at the sudden appearance of one asking, in a voice a little shaken +with emotion, for a copy of the "Miscellanies." Mr. Campion and Mr. Krause, +who greeted me, were kindness itself.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," they said, "we have a copy." And in a minute it lay before me. +One of those little green and gold volumes in the Oxford Library of Prose and +Poetry. "How much?" I said. "A dollar forty." I paid it joyfully. It is a +good price for a book. Once I wrote a book myself that sells (when it does +sell) at that figure. When I was at Oxford I used to buy the O.L.P.P. books +for (I think) half a crown. In 1917 they were listed at a dollar. Now $1.40. +But I fear Kenko's estate doesn't get the advantage of increased +royalties.</p> + +<p>The first thing to do was to find a place to read the book. My club was +fifteen blocks away. The smoking room of the Pennsylvania Station, where I +have done much reading, was three long blocks. But I must dip into Kenko +immediately. Down in the hallway I found a shoe-shining stand, with a bowl of +indirect light above it. The artist was busy in the barber shop near-by. +Admirable opportunity. I mounted the throne and fell to. The first thing I +saw was a quaint Japanese woodcut of a buxom maiden washing garments in a +rapidly purling stream. She was treading out a petticoat with her bare feet, +presumably on a flat stone. In a black storm-cloud above a willow tree a +bearded supernatural being, with hands spread in humorous deprecation, gazes +down half pleased, half horrified. And the caption is, "Did not the fairy +Kumé lose his supernatural powers when he saw the white legs of a girl +washing clothes?" Yet be not dismayed. Kenko is no George Moore.</p> + +<p>By and bye the shoeshiner came out and found me reading. He was +apologetic. "I didn't know you were here," he said. "Sorry to keep you +waiting." Fortunately my shoes needed shining, as they generally do. He +shined them, and I still sat reading. He was puzzled, and tried to make out +the title of the book. At that moment I was reading:</p> + +<p>One morning after a beautiful snowfall I sent a letter to a friend's house +about something I wished to say, but said nothing at all about the snow. And +in his reply he wrote: "How can I listen to a man so base that his pen in +writing did not make the least reference to the snow! Your honorable way of +expressing yourself I exceedingly regret." How amusing was this answer!</p> + +<p>The shoeshiner was now asking me whether anything was wrong with the +polish he had put on my boots, so I thought it best to leave.</p> + +<p>In the earlier pages of Kenko's book there are a number of allusions to +the agreeableness of intercourse with friends, so I went into a nearby +restaurant to telephone to a man whom I wished to know better. He said that +he would be happy to meet me at ten minutes after twelve. That left over half +an hour. I felt an immediate necessity to tell some one about Kenko, so I +made my way to Mr. Nichols's delightful bookshop (which has an open fire) on +Thirty-third Street. I showed the book to Mr. Nichols, and we had a pleasant +talk, in the course of which she showed me the five facsimile volumes of +Dickens's Christmas books, which he had issued. In particular, he read aloud +to me the magnificent description of the boiling kettle in the first "Chirp" +of "The Cricket on the Hearth," and pointed out to me how Dickens fell into +rhyme in describing the song of the kettle. This passage Mr. Nichols read to +me, standing in front of his fire, in a very musical and sympathetic tone of +voice which pleased me exceedingly. I was strongly tempted to buy the five +little books, and wished I had known of them before Christmas. With a brutal +effort at last I pulled out my watch, and found it was a quarter after +twelve.</p> + +<p>I met my friend at his office, and we walked up Fourth Avenue in a flush +of sunshine. From Twenty-fourth to Forty-second Street we discussed the +habits of English poets visiting this country. At the club we got onto +Bolshevism, and he told me how a bookseller on Lexington Avenue, whose shop +is frequented by very outspoken radicals, had told him that one of these had +said, "The time is coming, and not far away, when the gutters in front of +your shop will run with blood as they did in Petrograd." I thought of some +recent bomb outrages in Philadelphia and did not laugh. With such current +problems before us, I felt a little embarrassed about turning the talk back +to so many centuries to Kenko, but finally I got it there. My friend ate +chicken hash and tea; I had kidneys and bacon, and cocoa with whipped cream. +We both had a coffee éclair. We parted with mutual regret, and I went +back to the Hallbedroom street, intending to do some work.</p> + +<p>Of course you know that I didn't do it. I lit the gas stove, and sat down +to read Kenko. I wished I were a recluse, living somewhere near a plum tree +and a clear running water, leisurely penning maxims for posterity. I read +about his frugality, his love of the moon and a little music, his somewhat +embittered complaints against the folly of men who spend their lives in +rushing about swamped in petty affairs, and the sad story of the old priest +who was attacked by a goblin-cat when he came home late at night from a +pleasant evening spent in capping verses. I read with special pleasure his +seven Self-Congratulations, in which he records seven occasions when he felt +that he had really done himself justice. The first of these was when he +watched a man riding horseback in a reckless fashion; he predicted that the +man would come a cropper, and he did so. The next four self-congratulations +refer to times when his knowledge of literary and artistic matters enabled +him to place an unfamiliar quotation or assign a painted tablet to the right +artist. One tells how he was able to find a man in a crowd when everyone else +had failed. And the last and most amusing is an anecdote of a court lady who +tried to inveigle him into a flirtation with her maid by sending the latter, +richly dressed and perfumed, to sit very close to him when he was at the +temple. Kenko congratulates himself on having been adamant. He was no +Pepys.</p> + +<p>I thought of trying to set down a similar list of self-congratulations for +myself. Alas, the only two I could think of were having remembered a +telephone number, the memorandum of which I had lost; and having persuaded a +publisher to issue a novel which was a great success. (Not written by me, let +me add.)</p> + +<p>I found my friend Kenko a rather disturbing companion. His condemnation of +our busy, racketing life is so damned conclusive! Having recently added to my +family, I was distressed by his section "Against Leaving Any Descendants." He +seems to be devoid of the sentiment of ancestor worship and sacredness of +family continuity which we have been taught to associate with the Oriental. +And yet there is always a current of suspicion in one's mind that he is not +really revealing his inmost heart. When a bachelor in his late fifties tells +us how glad he is never to have had a son, we begin to taste sour grapes.</p> + +<p>I went out about six o'clock, and was thrilled by a shaving of shining new +moon in the cold blue winter sky—"the sky with its terribly cold clear +moon, which none care to watch, is simply heart-breaking," says Kenko. As I +walked up Broadway I turned back for another look at the moon, and found it +hidden by the vast bulk of a hotel. Kenko would have had some caustic remark +for that. I went into the Milwaukee Lunch for supper. They had just baked +some of their delicious fresh bran muffins, still hot from the oven. I had +two of them, sliced and buttered, with a pot of tea. Kenko lay on the table, +and the red-headed philosopher who runs the lunchroom spotted him. I have +always noticed that "plain men" are vastly curious about books. They seem to +suspect that there is some occult power in them, some mystery that they would +like to grasp. My friend, who has the bearing of a prizefighter, but the +heart of an amiable child, came over and picked up the book. He sat down at +the table with me and looked at it. I was a little doubtful how to explain +matters, for I felt that it was the kind of book he would not be likely to +care for. He began spelling it out loud, rather laboriously—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Section 1. Well! Being born into this world there are, I suppose, many +aims which we may strive to attain.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>To my surprise he showed the greatest enthusiasm. So much so that I +ordered another pair of bran muffins, which I did not really want, so that he +might have more time for reading Kenko.</p> + +<p>"Who was this fellow?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"He was a Jap," I said, "lived a long time ago. He was mighty thick with +the Emperor, and after the Emperor died he went to live by himself in the +country, and became a priest, and wrote down his thoughts."</p> + +<p>"I see," said my friend. "Just put down whatever came into his head, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"That's it. All his ideas about the queer things a fellow runs into in +life, you know, little bits of philosophy."</p> + +<p>I was a little afraid of using that word "philosophy," but I couldn't +think of anything else to say. It struck my friend very pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"That's it," he said, "philosophy. Just as you say, now, he went off by +himself and put things down the way they come to him. Philosophy. Sure. Say, +that's a good kind of book. I like that kind of thing. I have a lot of books +at home, you know. I get home about nine o'clock, and I most always read a +bit before I go to bed."</p> + +<p>How I yearned to know what books they were, but it seemed rude to question +him.</p> + +<p>He dipped into Kenko again, and I wondered whether courtesy demanded that +I should order another pot of tea.</p> + +<p>"Say, would you like to do me a favor?"</p> + +<p>"Sure thing," I said.</p> + +<p>"When you get through with that book, pass it over, will you? That's the +kind of thing I've been wanting. Just some little thoughts, you know, +something short. I've got a lot of books at home."</p> + +<p>His big florid face gleamed with friendly earnestness.</p> + +<p>"Sure thing," I said. "Just as soon as I've finished it you shall have +it." I wanted to ask whether he would reciprocate by lending me one of his +own books, which would give me some clue to his tastes; but again I felt +obscurely that he would not understand my curiosity.</p> + +<p>As I went out he called to me again from where he stood by the shining +coffee boiler. "Don't forget, will you?" he said. "When you're through, just +pass it over."</p> + +<p>I promised faithfully, and tomorrow evening I shall take the book in to +him. I honestly hope he'll enjoy it. I walked up the bright wintry street, +and wondered what Kenko would have said to the endless flow of taxicabs, the +elevators and subways, the telephones, and telegraph offices, the newsstands +and especially the plate-glass windows of florists. He would have had some +urbane, cynical and delightfully disillusioning remarks to offer. And, as Mr. +Weaver so shrewdly says, how he would enjoy "The Way of All Flesh!"</p> + +<p>I came back to Hallbedroom street, and set down these few meditations. +There is much more I would like to say, but the partitions in hall bedrooms +are thin, and the lady in the next room thumps on the wall if I keep the +typewriter going after ten o'clock.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="TWO_DAYS_WE_CELEBRATE"></a> + +<h2>TWO DAYS WE CELEBRATE</h2> +<br> + + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0113.png"><img src="images/Illus-0113.png" + alt="Cartoon drawing of Boswell" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>If we were asked (we have not been asked) to name a day the world ought to +celebrate and does not, we would name the 16th of May. For on that day, in +the year 1763, James Boswell first met Dr. Samuel Johnson.</p> + +<p>This great event, which enriched the world with one of the most vivid +panoramas of human nature known to man, happened in Tom Davies's bookshop in +Covent Garden. Mr. and Mrs. Davies were friends of the Doctor, who frequently +visited their shop. Of them Boswell remarks quaintly that though they had +been on the stage for many years, they "maintained an uniform decency of +character." The shop seems to have been a charming place: one went there not +merely to buy books, but also to have a cup of tea in the back parlor. It is +sad to think that though we have been hanging round bookshops for a number of +years, we have never yet met a bookseller who invited us into the private +office for a quiet cup. Wait a moment, though, we are forgetting Dr. +Rosenbach, the famous bookseller of Philadelphia. But his collations, held in +amazed memory by many editioneers, rarely descend to anything so humble as +tea. One recalls a confused glamor of ortolans, trussed guinea-hens, +strawberries reclining in a bowl carved out of solid ice, and what used to be +known as vintages. It is a pity that Dr. Johnson died too soon to take lunch +with Dr. Rosenbach.</p> + +<p>"At last, on Monday, the 16th of May," says Boswell, "when I was sitting +in Mr. Davies's back parlor, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs. Davies, +Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr. Davies, having perceived him +through the glass door, announced his awful approach to me. Mr. Davies +mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much +agitated." The volatile Boswell may be forgiven his agitation. We also would +have trembled not a little. Boswell was only twenty-two, and probably felt +that his whole life and career hung upon the great man's mood. But +embarrassment is a comely emotion for a young man in the face of greatness; +and the Doctor was speedily put in a good humor by an opportunity to utter +his favorite pleasantry at the expense of the Scotch. "I do, indeed, come +from Scotland," cried Boswell, after Davies had let the cat out of the bag; +"but I cannot help it." "That, sir," said Doctor Johnson, "is what a great +many of your countrymen cannot help."</p> + +<p>The great book that dated from that meeting in Davies's back parlor has +become one of the most intimately cherished possessions of the race. One +finds its admirers and students scattered over the globe. No man who loves +human nature in all its quirks and pangs, seasoned with bluff honesty and the +genuineness of a cliff or a tree, can afford to step into a hearse until he +has made it his own. And it is a noteworthy illustration of the biblical +saying that whosoever will rule, let him be a servant. Boswell made himself +the servant of Johnson, and became one of the masters of English +literature.</p> + +<p>It used to annoy us to hear Karl Rosner referred to as "the Kaiser's +Boswell." For to <i>boswellize</i> (which is a verb that has gone into our +dictionaries) means not merely to transcribe faithfully the acts and moods +and import of a man's life; it implies also that the man so delineated be a +good man and a great. Horace Traubel was perhaps a Boswell; but Rosner +never.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to know that Boswell was not merely a kind of animated +note-book. He was a droll, vain, erring, bibulous, warm-hearted creature, a +good deal of a Pepys, in fact, with all the Pepysian vices and virtues. Mr. +A. Edward Newton's "Amenities of Book Collecting" makes Boswell very human to +us. How jolly it is to learn that Jamie (like many lesser fry since) wrote +press notices about himself. Here is one of his own blurbs, which we quote +from Mr. Newton's book:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Boswell,</span> the author, is a most excellent man: +he is of an ancient +family in the west of Scotland, upon which he +values himself not a +little. At his nativity there appeared omens +of his future +greatness. His parts are bright, and his +education has been good. He has traveled in post chaises miles without +number. He is fond of seeing much of the world. He eats of every +good dish, especially apple pie. He drinks Old Hock. He has a very +fine temper. He is somewhat of a humorist and a little tinctured +with pride. He has a good manly countenance, and he owns himself +to be amorous. He has infinite vivacity, yet is observed at times +to have a melancholy cast. He is rather fat than lean, rather +short than tall, rather young than old. His shoes are neatly made, +and he never wears spectacles. +</blockquote> + +<p>This brings the excellent Boswell very close to us indeed: he might almost +be a member of the Authors' League. "Especially apple pie, bless his +heart!"</p> + +<p>When we said that Boswell was a kind of Pepys, we fell by chance into a +happy comparison. Not only by his volatile errors was he of the tribe of +Samuel, but in his outstanding character by which he becomes of importance to +posterity—that of one of the great diarists. Now there is no human +failing upon which we look with more affectionate lenience than that of +keeping a diary. All of us, in our pilgrimage through the difficult thickets +of this world, have moods and moments when we have to fall back on ourselves +for the only complete understanding and absolution we will ever find. In such +times, how pleasant it is to record our emotions and misgivings in the sure +and secret pages of some privy notebook; and how entertaining to read them +again in later years! Dr. Johnson himself advised Bozzy to keep a journal, +though he little suspected to what use it would be put. The cynical will say +that he did so in order that Bozzy would have less time to pester him, but we +believe his advice was sincere. It must have been, for the Doctor kept one +himself, of which more in a moment.</p> + +<p>"He recommended to me," Boswell says, "to keep a journal of my life, full +and unreserved. He said it would be a very good exercise and would yield me +great satisfaction when the particulars were faded from my remembrance. He +counselled me to keep it private, and said I might surely have a friend who +would burn it in case of my death."</p> + +<p>Happily it was not burned. The Great Doctor never seemed so near to me as +the other day when I saw a little notebook, bound in soft brown leather and +interleaved with blotting paper, in which Bozzy's busy pen had jotted down +memoranda of his talks with his friend, while they were still echoing in his +mind. From this notebook (which must have been one of many) the paragraphs +were transferred practically unaltered into the Life. This superb treasure, +now owned by Mr. Adam of Buffalo, almost makes one hear the Doctor's voice; +and one imagines Boswell sitting up at night with his candle, methodically +recording the remarks of the day. The first entry was dated September 22, +1777, so Bozzy must have carried it in his pocket when Dr. Johnson and he +were visiting Dr. Taylor in Ashbourne. It was during this junket that Dr. +Johnson tried to pole the large dead cat over Dr. Taylor's dam, an incident +that Boswell recorded as part of his "Flemish picture of my friend." It was +then also that Mrs. Killingley, mistress of Ashbourne's leading inn, The +Green Man, begged Boswell "to name the house to his extensive acquaintance." +Certainly Bozzy's acquaintance was to be far more extensive than good Mrs. +Killingley ever dreamed. It was he who "named the house" to me, and for this +reason The Green Man profited in fourpence worth of cider, 134 years +later.</p> + +<p>There is another day we have vowed to commemorate, by drinking great +flaggonage of tea, and that is the 18th of September, Dr. Johnson's birthday. +The Great Cham needs no champion; his speech and person have become part of +our common heritage. Yet the extraordinary scenario in which Boswell filmed +him for us has attained that curious estate of great literature the +characteristic of which is that every man imagines he has read it, though he +may never have opened its pages. It is like the historic landmark of one's +home town, which foreigners from overseas come to study, but which the +denizen has hardly entered. It is like Niagara Falls: we have a very fair +mental picture of the spectacle and little zeal to visit the uproar itself. +And so, though we all use Doctor Johnson's sharply stamped coinages, we +generally are too lax about visiting the mint.</p> + +<p>But we will never cease to pray that every honest man should study +Boswell. There are many who have topped the rise of human felicity in that +book: when reading it they feel the tide of intellect brim the mind with a +unique fullness of satisfaction. It is not a mere commentary on life: it +<i>is</i> life—it fills and floods every channel of the brain. It is a +book that men make a hobby of, as golf or billiards. To know it is a liberal +education. I could have understood Germany yearning to invade England in +order to annex Boswell's Johnson. There would have been some sense in +that.</p> + +<p>What is the average man's conception of Doctor Johnson? We think of a huge +ungainly creature, slovenly of dress, addicted to tea, the author of a +dictionary and the center of a tavern coterie. We think of him prefacing +bluff and vehement remarks with "Sir," and having a knack for demolishing +opponents in boisterous argument. All of which is passing true, just as is +our picture of the Niagara we have never seen; but how it misses the inner +tenderness and tormented virtue of the man!</p> + +<p>So it is refreshing sometimes to turn away from Boswell to those passages +where the good old Doctor has revealed himself with his own hand. The letter +to Chesterfield is too well known for comment. But no less noble, and not +nearly so well known, is the preface to the Dictionary. How moving it is in +its sturdy courage, its strong grasp of the tools of expression. In every +line one feels the weight and push of a mind that had behind it the full +reservoir of language, particularly the Latin. There is the same sense of +urgent pressure that one feels in watching a strong stream backed up behind a +dam:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">I</span> look with pleasure on my book, however +defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that +has endeavored well. That it will immediately become popular I have not +promised to myself: a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, +from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a +time furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance in contempt, +but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there never can be +wanting some who distinguish desert; who will consider that no +dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since while it is +hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some +falling away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and +etymology, and that even a whole life would not be sufficient; that +he, whose design includes whatever language can express, must often +speak of what he does not understand; that a writer will sometimes be +tarried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint with weariness +under a task, which Scaliger compares to the labors of the anvil +and the mine; that what is obvious is not always known, and what is +known is not always present; that sudden fits of inadvertency +will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and +casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the +writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment of need, for +that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will +come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow. +</blockquote> + +<p>I know no better way of celebrating Doctor Johnson's birthday than by +quoting a few passages from his "Prayers and Meditations," jotted down during +his life in small note-books and given shortly before his death to a friend. +No one understands the dear old doctor unless he remembers that his spirit +was greatly perplexed and harassed by sad and disordered broodings. The +bodily twitchings and odd gestures which attracted so much attention as he +rolled about the streets were symptoms of painful twitchings and gestures +within. A great part of his intense delight in convivial gatherings, in +conversation and the dinner table, was due to his eagerness to be taken out +of himself. One fears that his solitary hours were very often tragic.</p> + +<p>There were certain dates which Doctor Johnson almost always commemorated +in his private notebook—his birthday, the date of his wife's death, +the Easter season and New Year's. In these pathetic little entries one sees +the spirit that was dogmatic and proud among men abasing itself in humility +and pouring out the generous tenderness of an affectionate nature. In these +moments of contrition small peccadilloes took on tragic importance in his +mind. Rising late in the morning and the untidy state of his papers seemed +unforgivable sins. There is hardly any more moving picture in the history of +mankind than that of the rugged old doctor pouring out his innocent petitions +for greater strength in ordering his life and bewailing his faults of +sluggishness, indulgence at table and disorderly thoughts. Let us begin with +his entry on September 18, 1760, his fifty-second birthday:</p> + +<p>RESOLVED, D.J.</p> +<p>To combat notions of obligation.</p> +<p>To apply to study.</p> +<p>To reclaim imaginations.</p> +<p>To consult the resolves on Tetty's [his wife's] coffin.</p> +<p>To rise early.</p> +<p>To study religion.</p> +<p>To go to church.</p> +<p>To drink less strong liquors.</p> +<p>To keep a journal.</p> +<p>To oppose laziness by doing what is to be done to-morrow.</p> +<p>Rise as early as I can.</p> +<p>Send for books for history of war.</p> +<p>Put books in order.</p> +<p>Scheme of life.</p> + + +<p>The very human feature of these little notes is that the same good +resolutions appear year after year. Thus, four years after the above, we find +him writing:</p> + +<p>Sept. 18, 1764.</p> + +<p>This is my 56th birthday, the day on which I have concluded 55 years.</p> + +<p>I have outlived many friends, I have felt many sorrows. I have made few +improvements. Since my resolution formed last Easter, I have made no +advancement in knowledge or in goodness; nor do I recollect that I have +endeavored it. I am dejected, but not hopeless.</p> + +<p>I resolve,</p> + +<p>To study the Scriptures; I hope, in the original languages. Six hundred +and forty verses every Sunday will nearly comprise the Scriptures in a +year.</p> + +<p>To read good books; to study theology.</p> + +<p>To treasure in my mind passages for recollection.</p> + +<p>To rise early; not later than six, if I can; I hope sooner, but as soon as +I can.</p> + +<p>To keep a journal, both of employment and of expenses. To keep +accounts.</p> + +<p>To take care of my health by such means as I have designed.</p> + +<p>To set down at night some plan for the morrow.</p> + +<p>To-morrow I purpose to regulate my room.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>At Easter, 1765, he confesses sadly that he often lies abed until two in +the afternoon; which, after all, was not so deplorable, for he usually went +to bed very late. Boswell has spoken of "the unseasonable hour at which he +had habituated himself to expect the oblivion of repose." On New Year's Day, +1767, he prays: "Enable me, O Lord, to use all enjoyments with due +temperance, preserve me from unseasonable and immoderate sleep." Two years +later than this he writes:</p> + +<p>"I am not yet in a state to form many resolutions; I purpose and hope to +rise early in the morning at eight, and by degrees at six; eight being the +latest hour to which bedtime can be properly extended; and six the earliest +that the present system of life requires."</p> + +<p>One of the most pathetic of his entries is the following, on September 18, +1768:</p> + +<p>"This day it came into my mind to write the history of my melancholy. On +this I purpose to deliberate; I know not whether it may not too much disturb +me."</p> + +<p>From time to time there have been stupid or malicious people who have said +that Johnson's marriage with a homely woman twenty years older than himself +was not a love match. For instance, Mr. E.W. Howe, of Atchison, Kan., in most +respects an amiable and well-conducted philosopher, uttered in <i>Howe's +Monthly</i> (May, 1918) the following words, which (I hope) he will forever +regret:</p> + +<p>"I have heard that when a young man he (Johnson) married an ugly and +vulgar old woman for her money, and that his taste was so bad that he +worshiped her."</p> + +<p>Against this let us set what Johnson wrote in his notebook on March 28, +1770:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">This</span> is the day on which, in 1752, I was +deprived of poor dear Tetty. When I recollect the time in which we +lived together, my grief of her departure is not abated; and I +have less pleasure in any good that befalls me, because she does +not partake it. On many occasions, I think what she would have said +or done. When I saw the sea at Brighthelmstone, I wished for her to +have seen it with me. But with respect to her, no rational wish is +now left but that we may meet at last where the mercy of God shall +make us happy, and perhaps make us instrumental to the happiness +of each other. It is now 18 years. +</blockquote> + +<p>Let us end the memorandum with a less solemn note. On Good Friday, 1779, +he and Boswell went to church together. When they returned the good old +doctor sat down to read the Bible, and he says, "I gave Boswell Les +Pensées de Pascal, that he might not interrupt me." Of this very copy +Boswell says: "I preserve the book with reverence." I wonder who has it +now?</p> + +<p>So let us wish Doctor Johnson many happy returns of the day, sure that as +long as paper and ink and eyesight preserve their virtue he will bide among +us, real and living and endlessly loved.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_URCHIN_AT_THE_ZOO"></a> + +<h2>THE URCHIN AT THE ZOO</h2> +<br> + + +<p>I don't know just what urchins think about; neither do they, perhaps; but +presumably by the time they're twenty-eight months old they must have formed +some ideas as to what is possible and what isn't. And therefore it seemed to +the Urchin's curators sound and advisable to take him out to the Zoo one +Sunday afternoon just to suggest to his delightful mind that nothing is +impossible in this curious world.</p> + +<p>Of course, the amusing feature of such expeditions is that it is always +the adult who is astounded, while the child takes things blandly for granted. +You or I can watch a tiger for hours and not make head or tail of +it—in a spiritual sense, that is—whereas an urchin simply +smiles with rapture, isn't the least amazed, and wants to stroke the "nice +pussy."</p> + +<p>It was a soft spring afternoon, the garden was thronged with visitors and +all the indoor animals seemed to be wondering how soon they would be let out +into their open-air inclosures. We filed through the wicket gate and the +Urchin disdained the little green go-carts ranked for hire. He preferred to +navigate the Zoo on his own white-gaitered legs. You might as well have +expected Adam on his first tour of Eden to ride in a palanquin.</p> + +<p>The Urchin entered the Zoo much in the frame of mind that must have been +Adam's on that original tour of inspection. He had been told he was going to +the Zoo, but that meant nothing to him. He saw by the aspect of his curators +that he was to have a good time, and loyally he was prepared to exult over +whatever might come his way. The first thing he saw was a large +boulder—it is set up as a memorial to a former curator of the garden. +"Ah," thought the Urchin, "this is what I have been brought here to admire." +With a shout of glee he ran to it. "See stone," he cried. He is an enthusiast +concerning stones. He has a small cardboard box of pebbles, gathered from the +walks of a city square, which is very precious to him. And this magnificent +big pebble, he evidently thought, was the marvelous thing he had come to +examine. His custodians, far more anxious than he to feast their eyes upon +lions and tigers, had hard work to lure him away. He crouched by the boulder, +appraising its hugeness, and left it with the gratified air of one who has +extracted the heart out of a surprising and significant experience.</p> + +<p>The next adventure was a robin, hopping on the lawn. Every child is +familiar with robins which play a leading part in so much Mother Goose +mythology, so the Urchin felt himself greeting an old friend. "See Robin +Red-breast!" he exclaimed, and tried to climb the low wire fence that +bordered the path. The robin hopped discreetly underneath a bush, uncertain +of our motives.</p> + +<p>Now, as I have no motive but to attempt to record the truth, it is my duty +to set down quite frankly that I believe the Urchin showed more enthusiasm +over the stone and the robin than over any of the amazements that succeeded +them. I suppose the reason for that is plain. These two objects had some +understandable relation with his daily life. His small mind—we call a +child's mind "small" simply by habit; perhaps it is larger than ours, for it +can take in almost anything without effort—possessed well-known +classifications into which the big stone and the robin fitted comfortably and +naturally. But what can a child say to an ostrich or an elephant? It simply +smiles and passes on. Thereby showing its superiority to some of our most +eminent thinkers. They, confronted by something the like of which they have +never seen before—shall we say a League of Nations or +Bolshevism?—burst into shrill screams of panic abuse and flee the +precinct! How much wiser the level-headed Urchin! Confronting the elephant, +certainly an appalling sight to so small a mortal, he looked at the curator, +who was carrying him on one shoulder, and said with an air of one seeking +gently to reassure himself, "Elphunt won't come after Junior." Which is +something of the mood to which the Senate is moving.</p> + +<p>It was delightful to see the Urchin endeavor to bring some sense of order +into this amazing place by his classification of the strange sights that +surrounded him. He would not confess himself staggered by anything. At his +first glimpse of the emu he cried ecstatic, "Look, there's a—," and +paused, not knowing what on earth to call it. Then rapidly to cover up his +ignorance he pointed confidently to a somewhat similar fowl and said sagely, +"And there's another!" The curious moth-eaten and shabby appearance that +captive camels always exhibit was accurately recorded in his addressing one +of them as "poor old horsie." And after watching the llamas in silence, when +he saw them nibble at some grass he was satisfied. "Moo-cow," he stated +positively, and turned away. The bears did not seem to interest him until he +was reminded of Goldylocks. Then he remembered the pictures of the bears in +that story and began to take stock of them.</p> + +<p>The Zoo is a pleasant place to wander on a Sunday afternoon. The willow +trees, down by the brook where the otters were plunging, were a cloud of +delicate green. Shrubs everywhere were bursting into bud. The Tasmanian +devils those odd little swine that look like small pigs in a high fever, were +lying sprawled out, belly to the sun-warmed earth, in the same whimsical +posture that dogs adopt when trying to express how jolly they feel. The +Urchin's curators were at a loss to know what the Tasmanian devils were and +at first were led astray by a sign on a tree in the devils' inclosure. "Look, +they're Norway maples," cried one curator. In the same way we thought at +first that a llama was a Chinese ginkgo. These errors lead to a decent +humility.</p> + +<p>There is something about a Zoo that always makes one hungry, so we sat on +a bench in the sun, watched the stately swans ruffling like square-rigged +ships on the sparkling pond, and ate biscuits, while the Urchin was given a +mandate over some very small morsels. He was much entertained by the monkeys +in the open-air cages. In the upper story of one cage a lady baboon was +embracing an urchin of her own, while underneath her husband was turning over +a pile of straw in a persistent search for small deer. It was a sad day for +the monkeys at the Zoo when the rule was made that no peanuts can be brought +into the park. I should have thought that peanuts were an inalienable right +for captive monkeys. The order posted everywhere that one must not give the +animals tobacco seems almost unnecessary nowadays, with the weed at present +prices. The Urchin was greatly interested in the baboon rummaging in his +straw. "Mokey kicking the grass away," he observed thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>Down in the grizzly-bear pit one of the bears squatted himself in the pool +and sat there, grinning complacently at the crowd. We explained that the bear +was taking a bath. This presented a familiar train of thought to the Urchin +and he watched the grizzly climb out of his tank and scatter the water over +the stone floor. As we walked away the Urchin observed thoughtfully, "He's +dying." This somewhat shocked the curators, who did not know that their +offspring had even heard of death. "What does he mean?" we asked ourselves. +"He's dying," repeated the Urchin in a tone of happy conviction. Then the +explanation struck us. "He's drying!" "Quite right," we said. "After his bath +he has to dry himself."</p> + +<p>We went home on a crowded Girard Avenue car, thinking impatiently that it +will be some time before we can read "The Jungle Book" to the Urchin. In the +summer, when the elephants take their bath outdoors, we'll go again. And the +last thing the Urchin said that night as he fell asleep was, "Mokey kicking +the grass away."</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="FELLOW_CRAFTSMEN"></a> + +<h2>FELLOW CRAFTSMEN</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Robert Urwick, the author, was not yet so calloused by success that he was +immune from flattery. And so when he received the following letter he was +rather pleased:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Mr. Robt. Urwick, dear sir I seen your story in this weeks Saturday Evn +Cudgel, not that I can afford to buy journals of that stamp but I pick up the +copy on a bench in the park. Now Mr. Urwick I am a poor man but I was brought +up a patron of the arts and I am bound to say that story of yours called +Brass Nuckles was a fine story and I am proud to compliment you upon it. Mr. +Urwick that brings me to another matter upon which I have been intending to +write you upon for a long time but did not like to risk an intrusion. I used +to dable in literature to some little extent myself if that will lend a +fellow feeling for a craftsman in distress. I am a poor man, out of work +through no fault of mine but on account of the illness of my wife and my +sitting up with her at nights for weeks and weeks I could not hold my job +whch required mentle concentration of a vigorous sort. Now Mr. Urwick I have +a sick wife and seven children to support, and the rent shortly due and the +landlord threatens to eject us if I don't pay what I owe. As it happens my +wife and I are hoping to be blessed again soon, with our eighth. Owing to my +love and devotion for the fine arts we have named all the earlier children +for noted authors or writers Rudyard Kipling, W.J. Bryan, Mark Twain, Debs, +Irvin Cobb, Walt Mason and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Now Mr. Urwick I thought that +I would name the next one after you, seeing you have done so much for +literature Robert if a boy or Roberta if a girl with Urwick for a middle name +thus making you a godfather in a manner of speaking. I was wondering whether +you would not feel like making a little godfathers gift for this innocent +babe now about to come into the world and to bare your name. Say twenty +dollars, but not a check if it can be avoided as owing to tempry +ambarrassment I am not holding any bank account, and currency would be easier +for me to convert into the necesity of life.</p> + +<p>I wrote this letter once before but tore it up fearing to intrude, but now +my need compels me to be frank. I hope you will adorn our literature with +many more beautiful compositions similiar to Brass Nuckles.</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Mr Henry Phillips</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">454 East 34 St.</span> +</blockquote> + +<p>Mr. Urwick, after reading this remarkable tribute twice, laughed heartily +and looked in his bill-folder. Finding there a crisp ten-dollar note, he +folded it into an envelope and mailed it to his admirer, inclosing with it a +friendly letter wishing success to the coming infant who was to carry his +name.</p> + +<p>A fortnight later he found on his breakfast table a very soiled postal +card with this message:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Dear and kind friend, the babe arrived and to the joy of all is a boy and +has been cristened Robert Urwick Phillips. Unfortunately he is a sicly infant +and the doctor says he must have port wine at once or he may not survive. His +mother and I were overjoyed at your munificant gift and hope some day to tell +the boy of his beanefactor, Mr. Kipling only sent five spot to his namesake. +Do you think you could spare five dollars to help pay for port wine</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Yours gratefully</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Henry Phillips?</span> +</blockquote> + +<p>Mr. Urwick was a little surprised at the thought of port wine for one so +young, but happening to be bound down town that morning he thought it might +be interesting to look in at Mr. Phillips' residence and find out how his +godchild was faring. If the child were really in distress he might perhaps +contribute a small sum to insure proper medical care.</p> + +<p>The address proved to be a shabby tenement house hedged by saloons. A +ragged little girl (he wondered whether she were Ella Wheeler Wilcox +Phillips) pointed him to Mr. Phillips's door. Meeting no answer, he +entered.</p> + +<p>The room was empty—a single room, with a cot bed, an oil stove and +a table littered with stationery and stamps. Of Mrs. Phillips, his namesake +or the other seven he saw no signs. He advanced to the table.</p> + +<p>Evidently Mr. Phillips was not a ready writer and his letters cost him +some pains. Several lay open on the table in different stages of composition. +They were all exactly the same in wording as the first one Urwick had +received. They were addressed to Booth Tarkington, Don Marquis, Ellen +Glasgow, Edna Ferber, Agnes Repplier, Holworthy Hall and Fannie Hurst. Each +letter offered to name some coming child after these Parnassians. Near by lay +a pile of old magazines from which the industrious Mr. Phillips evidently +culled the names of his literary favorites.</p> + +<p>Urwick smiled grimly and tiptoed from the room. On the stairs he met a fat +charwoman. He asked her if Mr. Phillips were married. "Whisky is his wife and +child," she replied.</p> + +<p>A month later Urwick put Phillips into a story which he sold to the +<i>Saturday Evening Cudgel</i> for $500. When it was published he sent a +marked copy of the magazine to the father of Robert Urwick Phillips with the +following note:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"Dear Mr. Phillips—I owe you about $490. Come around some day and +I'll blow you to lunch."</p> +</blockquote> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_KEY_RING"></a> + +<h2>THE KEY RING</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0140.png"><img src="images/Illus-0140.png" + alt="Man with key ring" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>I know a man who carries in his left-leg trouser pocket a large heavy key +ring, on which there are a dozen or more keys of all shapes and sizes. There +is a latchkey, and the key of his private office, and the key of his roll-top +desk, and the key of his safe deposit box, and a key to the little mail box +at the front door of his flat (he lives in what is known as a pushbutton +apartment house), and a key that does something to his motor car (not being +an automobilist, I don't know just what), and a key to his locker at the golf +club, and keys of various traveling bags and trunks and filing cases, and all +the other keys with which a busy man burdens himself. They make a noble +clanking against his thigh when he walks (he is usually in a hurry), and he +draws them out of his pocket with something of an imposing gesture when he +approaches the ground glass door of his office at ten past nine every +morning. Yet sometimes he takes them out and looks at them sadly. They are a +mark and symbol of servitude, just as surely as if they had been heated +red-hot and branded on his skin.</p> + +<p>Not necessarily an unhappy servitude, I hasten to remark, for servitude is +not always an unhappy condition. It may be the happiest of conditions, and +each of those little metal strips may be regarded as a medal of honor. In +fact, my friend does so regard them. He does not think of the key of his +roll-top desk as a reminder of hateful tasks that must be done willy-nilly, +but rather as an emblem of hard work that he enjoys and that is worth doing. +He does not think of the latchkey as a mandate that he must be home by seven +o'clock, rain or shine; nor does he think of it as a souvenir of the landlord +who must be infallibly paid on the first of the month next ensuing. No, he +thinks of the latchkey as a magic wand that admits him to a realm of kindness +"whose service is perfect freedom," as say the fine old words in the prayer +book. And he does not think of his safe deposit box as a hateful little +casket of leases and life insurance policies and contracts and wills, but +rather as the place where he has put some of his own past life into voluntary +bondage—into Liberty Bondage—at four and a quarter per cent. +Yet, however blithely he may psychologize these matters, he is wise enough to +know that he is not a free man. However content in servitude, he does not +blink the fact that it is servitude.</p> + +<p>"Upon his will he binds a radiant chain," said Joyce Kilmer in a fine +sonnet. However radiant, it is still a chain.</p> + +<p>So it is that sometimes, in the lulls of telephoning and signing contracts +and talking to salesmen and preparing estimates and dictating letters "that +must get off to-night" and trying to wriggle out of serving on the golf +club's house committee, my friend flings away his cigar, gets a corncob pipe +out of his desk drawer, and contemplates his key ring a trifle wistfully. +This nubby little tyrant that he carries about with him always makes him +think of a river in the far Canadian north, a river that he visited once, +long ago, before he had built up all the barbed wire of life about his +spirit. It was a green lucid river that ran in a purposeful way between long +fringes of pine trees. There were sandy shelves where he and a fellow +canoeist with the good gift of silence built campfires and fried bacon, or +fish of their own wooing. The name of that little river (his voice is grave +as he recalls it), was the Peace; and it was not necessary to paddle if you +didn't feel like it. "The current ran" (it is pathetic to hear him say it) +"from four to seven miles an hour."</p> + +<p>The tobacco smoke sifts and eddies into the carefully labeled pigeonholes +of his desk, and his stenographer wonders whether she dare interrupt him to +ask whether that word was "priority" or "minority" in the second paragraph of +the memo to Mr. Ebbsmith. He smells that bacon again; he remembers stretching +out on the cool sand to watch the dusk seep up from the valley and flood the +great clear arch of green-blue sky. He remembers that there were no key rings +in his pocket then, no papers, no letters, no engagements to meet Mr. Fonseca +at a luncheon of the Rotary Club to discuss demurrage. He remembers the clear +sparkle of the Peace water in the sunshine, its downward swell and slant over +many a boulder, its milky vexation where it slid among stones. He remembers +what he had said to himself then, but had since forgotten, that no matter +what wounds and perplexities the world offers, it also offers a cure for each +one if we know where to seek it. Suddenly he gets a vision of the whole race +of men, campers out on a swinging ball, brothers in the common motherhood of +earth. Born out of the same inexplicable soil bred to the same problems of +star and wind and sun, what absurdity of civilization is it that has robbed +men of this sense of kinship? Why he himself, he feels, could enter a Bedouin +tent or an Eskimo snow-hut and find some bond of union with the inmates. The +other night, he reflects, he saw moving pictures of some Fiji natives, and +could read in their genial grinning faces the same human impulses he knew in +himself. What have men done to cheat themselves of the enjoyment of this +amazing world? "We've been cheated!" he cries, to the stenographer's +horror.</p> + +<p>He thinks of his friends, his partners, his employees, of conductors on +trains and waiters in lunchrooms and drivers of taxicabs. He thinks, in one +amazing flash of realization, of all the men and women he has ever seen or +heard of—how each one nourishes secretly some little rebellion, some +dream of a wider, freer life, a life less hampered, less mean, less material. +He thinks how all men yearn to cross salt water, to scale peaks, to tramp +until weary under a hot sun. He hears the Peace, in its far northern valley, +brawling among stones, and his heart is very low.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Edwards to see you," says the stenographer.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, sir," says Edwards, "but I've had the offer of another job and +I think I shall accept it. It's a good thing for a chap to get a +chance--"</p> + +<p>My friend slips the key ring back in his pocket.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" he says. "Nonsense! When you've got a good job, the thing +to do is to keep it. Stick to it, my boy. There's a great future for you +here. Don't get any of those fool ideas about changing around from one thing +to another."</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="quotOWD_BOBquot"></a> + +<h2>"OWD BOB"</h2> + +<h4>CHAPTER I</h4> + +<h4>(INTRODUCES OUR HERO)</h4> + + +<p>Loitering perchance on the western pavement of Madison avenue, between the +streets numbered 38 and 39, and gazing with an observant eye upon the +pedestrians passing southward, you would be likely to see, about 8:40 o'clock +of the morning, a gentleman of remarkable presence approaching with no +bird-like tread. This creature, clad in a suit of subfuse respectable weave, +bearing in his hand a cane of stout timber with a right-angled hornblende +grip, and upon his head a hat of rich texture, would probably also carry in +one hand (the left) a leather case filled with valuable papers, and in the +other hand (the right, which also held the cane) a cigarette, lit upon +leaving the Grand Central subway station. This cigarette the person of our +tale would frequentatively apply to his lips, and then withdraw with a quick, +swooping motion. With a rapid, somewhat sidelong gait (at first somehow +clumsy, yet upon closer observation a mode of motion seen to embrace certain +elements of harmony) this gentleman would converge upon the southwest corner +of Madison avenue and 38th street; and the intent observer, noting the +menacing contours of the face, would conclude that he was going to work.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0147.png"><img src="images/Illus-0147.png" + alt="Man with cane and leather case" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<p>This gentleman, beneath his sober but excellently haberdashered surtout, +was plainly a man of large frame, of a Sam Johnsonian mould, but, to the +surprise of the calculating observer, it would be noted that his volume (or +mass) was not what his bony structure implied. Spiritually, in deed, this +interesting individual conveyed to the world a sensation of stoutness, of +bulk and solidity, which (upon scrutiny) was not (or would not be) verified +by measurement. Evidently, you will conclude, a stout man grown thin; or, at +any rate, grown less stout. His molded depth, one might assess at 20 inches +between the eaves; his longitude, say, five feet eleven; his registered +tonnage, 170; his cargo, literary; and his destination, the editorial sancta +of a well-known publishing house.</p> + +<p>This gentleman, in brief, is Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday (but not the +"stout Cortes" of the poet), the editor of <i>The Bookman</i>.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER II</h4> + +<h4>(OUR HERO BEGINS A CAREER)</h4> + + +<p>"It would seem that whenever Nature had a man of letters up her sleeve, +the first gift with which she has felt necessary to dower him has been a +preacher sire."</p> + +<p>R.C.H. of N.B. Tarkington.</p> + +<p>Mr. Holliday was born in Indianapolis on July 18, 1880. It is evident that +ink, piety and copious speech circulated in the veins of his clan, for at +least two of his grandfathers were parsons, and one of them, Dr. Ferdinand +Cortez Holliday, was the author of a volume called "Indiana Methodism" in +which he was the biographer of the Rev. Joseph Tarkington, the grandfather of +Newton B. Tarkington, sometimes heard of as Booth Tarkington, a novelist. +Thus the hand of Robert C. Holliday was linked by the manacle of destiny to +the hand of Newton B. Tarkington, and it is a quaint satisfaction to note +that Mr. Holliday's first book was that volume "Booth Tarkington," one of the +liveliest and soundest critical memoirs it has been our fortune to enjoy.</p> + +<p>Like all denizens of Indianapolis—"Tarkingtonapolis," Mr. Holliday +calls it—our subject will discourse at considerable volume of his +youth in that high-spirited city. His recollections, both sacred and profane, +are, however, not in our present channel. After a reputable schooling young +Robert proceeded to New York in 1899 to study art at the Art Students' +League, and later became a pupil of Twachtman. The present commentator is not +in a position to say how severely either art or Mr. Holliday suffered in the +mutual embrace. I have seen some of his black and white posters which seemed +to me robust and considerably lively. At any rate, Mr. Holliday exhibited +drawings on Fifth avenue and had illustrative work published by <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i>. He did commercial designs and comic pictures for juvenile +readers. At this time he lived in a rural community of artists in +Connecticut, and did his own cooking. Also, he is proud of having lived in a +garret on Broome street. This phase of his career is not to be slurred over, +for it is a clue to much of his later work. His writing often displays the +keen eye of the painter, and his familiarity with the technique of pencil and +brush has much enriched his capacity to see and to make his reader see with +him. Such essays as "Going to Art Exhibitions," and the one-third dedication +of "Walking-Stick Papers" to Royal Cortissoz are due to his interest in the +world as pictures.</p> + +<p>While we think of it, then, let us put down our first memorandum upon the +art of Mr. Holliday:</p> + +<p>First Memo—Mr. Holliday's stuff is distilled from life!</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER III</h4> + +<h4>(IN WHICH OUR HERO DARTS OFF AT A TANGENT)</h4> + + +<p>It is not said why our hero abandoned bristol board and india ink, and it +is no duty of this inquirendo to offer surmise. The fact is that he +disappeared from Broome street, and after the appropriate interval might have +been observed (odd as it seems) on the campus of the University of Kansas. +This vault into the petals of the sunflower seems so quaint that I once +attempted to find out from Mr. Holliday just when it was that he attended +courses at that institution. He frankly said that he could not remember. Now +he has no memory at all for dates, I will vouch; yet it seems odd (I say) +that he did not even remember the numerals of the class in which he was +enrolled. A "queer feller," indeed, as Mr. Tarkington has called him. So I +cannot attest, with hand on Book, that he really was at Kansas University. He +may have been a footpad during that period. I have often thought to write to +the dean of the university and check the matter up. It may be that +entertaining anecdotes of our hero's college career could be spaded up.</p> + +<p>Just why this remote atheneum was sconce for Mr. Holliday's candle I do +not hazard. It seems I have heard him say that his cousin, Professor Wilbur +Cortez Abbott (of Yale) was then teaching at the Kansas college, and this was +the reason. It doesn't matter now; fifty years hence it may be of +considerable importance.</p> + +<p>However, we must press on a little faster. From Kansas he returned to New +York and became a salesman in the book store of Charles Scribner's Sons, then +on Fifth avenue below Twenty-third street. Here he was employed for about +five years. From this experience may he traced three of the most delightful +of the "Walking-Stick Papers." It was while at Scribner's that he met Joyce +Kilmer, who also served as a Scribner book-clerk for two weeks in 1909. This +friendship meant more to Bob Holliday than any other. The two men were united +by intimate adhesions of temperament and worldly situation. Those who know +what friendship means among men who have stood on the bottom rung together +will ask no further comment. Kilmer was Holliday's best man in 1913; Holliday +stood godfather to Kilmer's daughter Rose. On Aug. 22, 1918, Mrs. Kilmer +appointed Mr. Holliday her husband's literary executor. His memoir of Joyce +Kilmer is a fitting token of the manly affection that sweetens life and +enriches him who even sees it from a distance.</p> + +<p>Just when Holliday's connection with the Scribner store ceased I do not +know. My guess is, about 1911. He did some work for the New York Public +Library (tucking away in his files the material for the essay "Human +Municipal Documents") and also dabbled in eleemosynary science for the +Russell Sage Foundation; though the details of the latter enterprise I cannot +even conjecture. Somehow or other he fell into the most richly amusing post +that a belletristic journalist ever adorned, as general factotum of <i>The +Fishing Gazette</i>, a trade journal. This is laid bare for the world in "The +Fish Reporter."</p> + +<p>About 1911 he began to contribute humorous sketches to the Saturday +Magazine of the New York <i>Evening Post</i>. In 1912-13 he was writing +signed reviews for the New York <i>Times</i> Review of Books. 1913-14 he was +assistant literary editor of the New York <i>Tribune</i>. His meditations on +the reviewing job are embalmed in</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0153.png"><img src="images/Illus-0153.png" + alt="Drawing of WWI helmet resting on a laurel wreath" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +"That Reviewer Cuss." In 1914 the wear and +tear of continual hard work on Grub Street rather got the better of him: he +packed a bag and spent the summer in England. Four charming essays record his +adventures there, where we may leave him for the moment while we warm up to +another aspect of the problem. Let us just set down our second memorandum:<br> + +<p>Second Memo—Mr. Holliday knows the Literary Game from All +Angles!</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER IV</h4> + +<h4>(OUR HERO'S BOOK AND HEART SHALL NEVER PART)</h4> + + +<p>Perhaps I should apologize for treating Mr. Holliday's "Walking-Stick +Papers" in this biographical fashion. And yet I cannot resist it for this +book is Mr. Holliday himself. It is mellow, odd, aromatic and tender, just as +he is. It is (as he said of something else) "saturated with a distinguished, +humane tradition of letters."</p> + +<p>The book is exciting reading because you can trace in it the growth and +felicitous toughening of a very remarkable talent. Mr. Holliday has been +through a lively and gruelling mill. Like every sensitive journalist, he has +been mangled at Ephesus. Slight and debonair as some of his pieces are, there +is not one that is not an authentic fiber from life. That is the beauty of +this sort of writing—the personal essay—it admits us to the +very pulse of the machine. We see this man: selling books at Scribner's, +pacing New York streets at night gloating on the yellow windows and the +random ring of words, fattening his spirit on hundreds of books, concocting +his own theory of the niceties of prose. We see that volatile humor which is +native in him flickering like burning brandy round the rich plum pudding of +his theme. With all his playfulness, when he sets out to achieve a certain +effect he builds cunningly, with sure and skillful art. See (for instance) in +his "As to People," his superbly satisfying picture (how careless it seems!) +of his scrubwoman, closing with the précis of Billy Henderson's wife, +which drives the nail through and turns it on the under side—</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Billy</span> Henderson's wife is handsome; she is +rich; she is an excellent cook; she loves Billy Henderson. +</blockquote> + + +<p>See "My friend the Policeman," or "On Going a Journey," or "The +Deceased"—this last is perhaps the high-water mark of the book. To +vary the figure, this essay dips its Plimsoll-mark full under. It is +freighted with far more than a dozen pages might be expected to carry safely. +So quietly, so quaintly told, what a wealth of humanity is in it! Am I wrong +in thinking that those fellow-artists who know the thrill of a great thing +greatly done will catch breath when they read this, of the minor obits in the +press—</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">We</span> go into the feature headed "Died," a +department similar to that on the literary page headed "Books Received." +... We are set in small type, with lines following the name +line indented. It is difficult for me to tell with certainty from +the printed page, but I think we are set without leads. +</blockquote> + + +<p>In such passages, where the easy sporting-tweed fabric of Mr. Holliday's +merry and liberal style fits his theme as snugly as the burr its nut, one +feels tempted to cry joyously (as he says in some other connection), "it +seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream." And follow +him, for sheer fun, in the "Going a Journey" essay. Granted that it would +never have been written but for Hazlitt and Stevenson and Belloc. Yet it is +fresh distilled, it has its own sparkle. Beginning with an even pace, how it +falls into a swinging stride, drugs you with hilltops and blue air! Crisp, +metrical, with a steady drum of feet, it lifts, purges and sustains. "This is +the religious side" of reading an essay!</p> + +<p>Mr. Holliday, then, gives us in generous measure the "certain jolly +humors" which R.L.S. says we voyage to find. He throws off flashes of +imaginative felicity—as where he says of canes, "They are the light to +blind men." Where he describes Mr. Oliver Herford "listing to starboard, like +a postman." Where he says of the English who use colloquially phrases known +to us only in great literature—"There are primroses in their speech." +And where he begins his "Memoirs of a Manuscript," "I was born in +Indiana."</p> + +<p>We are now ready to let fall our third memorandum:</p> + +<p>Third Memo—Behind his colloquial, easygoing (apparently careless) +utterance, Mr. Holliday conceals a high quality of literary art.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER V</h4> + +<h4>(FURTHER OSCILLATIONS OF OUR HERO)</h4> + + +<p>Mr. Holliday was driven home from England and Police Constable Buckington +by the war, which broke out while he was living in Chelsea. My chronology is +a bit mixed here; just what he was doing from autumn, 1914, to February, +1916, I don't know. Was it then that he held the fish reporter job? Come to +think of it, I believe it was. Anyway, in February, 1916, he turned up in +Garden City, Long Island, where I first had the excitement of clapping eyes +on him. Some of the adventures of that spring and summer may be inferred from +"Memories of a Manuscript." Others took place in the austere lunch cathedral +known at the press of Doubleday, Page & Company as the "garage," or on +walks that summer between the Country Life Press and the neighboring +champaigns of Hempstead. The full story of the Porrier's Corner Club, of +which Mr. Holliday and myself are the only members, is yet to be told. As far +as I was concerned it was love at first sight. This burly soul, rumbling +Johnsonianly upon lettered topics, puffing unending Virginia cigarettes, +gazing with shy humor through thick-paned spectacles—well, on Friday, +June 23, 1916, Bob and I decided to collaborate in writing a farcical novel. +It is still unwritten, save the first few chapters. I only instance this to +show how fast passion proceeded.</p> + +<p>It would not surprise me if at some future time Mrs. Bedell's boarding +house, on Jackson Street in Hempstead, becomes a place of pilgrimage for +lovers of the essay. They will want to see the dark little front room on the +ground floor where Owd Bob used to scatter the sheets of his essays as he was +retyping them from a huge scrapbook and grooming them for a canter among +publishers' sanhedrim. They will want to see (but will not, I fear) the cool +barrel-room at the back of George D. Smith's tavern, an ale-house that was +blithe to our fancy because the publican bore the same name as that of a very +famous dealer in rare books. Along that pleasant bar, with its shining brass +scuppers, Bob and I consumed many beakers of well-chilled amber during that +warm summer. His urbanolatrous soul pined for the city, and he used in those +days to expound the doctrine that the suburbanite really has to go to town in +order to get fresh air.</p> + +<p>In September, 1916, Holliday's health broke down. He had been feeling +poorly most of the summer, and continuous hard work induced a spell of +nervous depression. Very wisely he went back to Indianapolis to rest. After a +good lay-off he tackled the Tarkington book, which was written in +Indianapolis the following winter and spring. And "Walking-Stick Papers" +began to go the rounds.</p> + +<p>I have alluded more than once to Mr. Holliday's book on Tarkington. This +original, mellow, convivial, informal and yet soundly argued critique has +been overlooked by many who have delighted to honor Holliday as an essayist. +But it is vastly worth reading. It is a brilliant study, full of "onion +atoms" as Sydney Smith's famous salad, and we flaunt it merrily in the face +of those who are frequently crapehanging and dirging that we have no +sparkling young Chestertons and Rebecca Wests and J.C. Squires this side of +Queenstown harbor. Rarely have creator and critic been joined in so +felicitous a marriage. And indeed the union was appointed in heaven and +smiles in the blood, for (as I have noted) Mr. Holliday's grandfather was the +biographer of Tarkington's grandsire, also a pioneer preacher of the +metaphysical commonwealth of Indiana. Mr. Holliday traces with a good deal of +humor and circumstance the various ways in which the gods gave Mr. Tarkington +just the right kind of ancestry, upbringing, boyhood and college career to +produce a talented writer. But the fates that catered to Tarkington with such +generous hand never dealt him a better run of cards than when Holliday wrote +this book.</p> + +<p>The study is one of surpassing interest, not merely as a service to native +criticism but as a revelation of Holliday's ability to follow through a +sustained intellectual task with the same grasp and grace that he afterward +showed in the memoir of Kilmer in which his heart was so deeply engaged. Of a +truth, Mr. Holliday's success in putting himself within Tarkington's dashing +checked kuppenheimers is a fine achievement of projected psychology. He knows +Tarkington so well that if the latter were unhappily deleted by some "wilful +convulsion of brute nature" I think it undoubtable that his biographer could +reconstruct a very plausible automaton, and would know just what ingredients +to blend. A dash of Miss Austen, Joseph Conrad, Henry James and Daudet; +flavored perhaps with coal smoke from Indianapolis, spindrift from the Maine +coast and a few twanging chords from the Princeton Glee Club.</p> + +<p>Fourth Memo—Mr. Holliday is critic as well as essayist.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER VI</h4> + +<h4>(OUR HERO FINDS A STEADY JOB)</h4> + +<p>It was the summer of 1917 when Owd Bob came back to New York. Just at that +juncture I happened to hear that a certain publisher needed an editorial man, +and when Bob and I were at Browne's discussing the fate of "Walking-Stick +Papers" over a jug of shandygaff, I told him this news. He hurried to the +office in question through a drenching rain-gust, and has been there ever +since. The publisher performed an act of perspicuity rare indeed. He not only +accepted the manuscript, but its author as well.</p> + +<p>So that is the story of "Walking-Stick Papers," and it does not cause me +to droop if you say I talk of matters of not such great moment. What a joy it +would have been if some friend had jotted down memoranda of this sort +concerning some of Elia's doings. The book is a garner of some of the most +racy, vigorous and genuinely flavored essays that this country has produced +for some time. Dear to me, every one of them, as clean-cut blazes by a +sincere workman along a trail full of perplexity and struggle, as Grub Street +always will be for the man who dips an honest pen that will not stoop to +conquer. And if you should require an accurate portrait of their author I +cannot do better than quote what Grote said of Socrates:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Nothing</span> could be more public, perpetual, and +indiscriminate as to persons than his conversation. But as it was +engaging, curious, and instructive to hear, certain persons made it +their habit to attend him as companions and listeners. +</blockquote> + +<p>Owd Bob has long been the object of extreme attachment and high spirits +among his intimates. The earlier books have been followed by "Broome Street +Straws" and "Peeps at People," vividly personal collections that will arouse +immediate affection and amusement among his readers. And of these books will +be said (once more in Grote's words about Socrates):</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Not</span> only his conversation reached the minds +of a much wider circle, but he became more abundantly known as a +person. +</blockquote> + +<p>Let us add, then, our final memorandum:</p> + +<p>Fifth Memo—These essays are the sort of thing you cannot afford to +miss. In them you sit down to warm your wits at the glow of a droll, +delightful, unique mind.</p> + +<p>So much (at the moment) for Bob Holliday.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_APPLE_THAT_NO_ONE_ATE"></a> + +<h2>THE APPLE THAT NO ONE ATE</h2> +<br> + + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0163.png"><img src="images/Illus-0163.png" + alt="Drawing of woman with apple" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<p>The other evening we went to dinner with a gentleman whom it pleases our +fancy to call the Caliph.</p> + +<p>Now a Caliph, according to our notion, is a Haroun-al-Raschid kind of +person; one who governs a large empire of hearts with a genial and whimsical +sway; circulating secretly among his fellow-men, doing kindnesses often not +even suspected by their beneficiaries. He is the sort of person of whom the +trained observer may think, when he hears an unexpected kindness-grenade +exploding somewhere down the line, "I'll bet that came from the Caliph's +dugout!" A Caliph's heart is not surrounded by barbed wire entanglements or a +strip of No Man's Land. Also, and rightly, he is stern to malefactors and +fakers of all sorts.</p> + +<p>It would have been sad if any one so un-Caliphlike as William Hohenzollern +had got his eisenbahn through to Bagdad, the city sacred to the memory of a +genial despot who spent his cabarabian nights in an excellent fashion. That, +however, has nothing to do with the story.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Caliph are people so delightful that they leave in one's mind +a warm afterglow of benevolent sociability. They have an infinite interest +and curiosity in the hubbub of human moods and crotchets that surrounds us +all. And when one leaves their doorsill one has a genial momentum of the +spirit that carries one on rapidly and cheerfully. One has an irresistible +impulse to give something away, to stroke the noses of horses, to write a +kind letter to the fuel administrator or do almost anything gentle and +gratuitous. The Caliphs of the world don't know it, but that is the effect +they produce on their subjects.</p> + +<p>As we left, Mr. and Mrs. Caliph pressed upon us an apple. One of those +gorgeous apples that seem to grow wrapped up in tissue paper, and are +displayed behind plate glass windows. A huge apple, tinted with gold and +crimson and pale yellow shading off to pink. The kind of apple whose colors +are overlaid with a curious mist until you polish it on your coat, when it +gleams like a decanter of claret. An apple so large and weighty that if it +had dropped on Sir Isaac Newton it would have fractured his skull. The kind +of apple that would have made the garden of Eden safe for democracy, because +it is so beautiful no one would have thought of eating it.</p> + +<p>That was the kind of apple the Caliph gave us.</p> + +<p>It was a cold night, and we walked down Chestnut street dangling that +apple, rubbing it on our sleeve, throwing it up and down and catching it +again. We stopped at a cigar store to buy some pipe tobacco. Still running on +Caliph, by which we mean still beguiled by his geniality, we fell into talk +with the tobacconist. "That's a fine apple you have there," said he. For an +instant we thought of giving it to him, but then we reflected that a man +whose days are spent surrounded by rich cigars and smokables is dangerously +felicitous already, and a sudden joy might blast his blood vessels.</p> + +<p>The shining of the street lamps was reflected on the polished skin of our +fruit as we went our way. As we held it in our arms it glowed like a huge +ruby. We passed a blind man selling pencils, and thought of giving it to him. +Then we reflected that a blind man would lose half the pleasure of the +adventure because he couldn't see the colors. We bought a pencil instead. +Still running on Caliph, you see.</p> + +<p>In our excitement we did what we always do in moments of +stress—went into a restaurant and ordered a piece of hot mince pie. +Then we remembered that we had just dined. Never mind, we sat there and +contemplated the apple as it lay ruddily on the white porcelain tabletop. +Should we give it to the waitress? No, because apples were a commonplace to +her. The window of the restaurant held a great pyramid of beauties. To her, +an apple was merely something to be eaten, instead of the symbol of a grand +escapade. Instead, we gave her a little medallion of a buffalo that happened +to be in our pocket.</p> + +<p>Already the best possible destination for that apple had come to our mind. +Hastening zealously up a long flight of stairs in a certain large building we +went to a corner where sits a friend of ours, a night watchman. Under a drop +light he sits through long and tedious hours, beguiling his vigil with a +book. He is a great reader. He eats books alive. Lately he has become much +absorbed in Saint Francis of Assisi, and was deep in the "Little Flowers" +when we found him.</p> + +<p>"We've brought you something," we said, and held the apple where the +electric light brought out all its brilliance.</p> + +<p>He was delighted and his gentle elderly face shone with awe at the amazing +vividness of the fruit.</p> + +<p>"I tell you what I'll do," he said. "That apple's much too fine for me. +I'll take it home to the wife."</p> + +<p>Of course his wife will say the same thing. She will be embarrassed by the +surpassing splendor of that apple and will give it to some friend of hers +whom she thinks more worthy than herself. And that friend will give it to +some one else, and so it will go rolling on down the ages, passing from hand +to hand, conferring delight, and never getting eaten. Ultimately some one, +trying to think of a recipient really worthy of its deliciousness, will give +it to Mr. and Mrs. Caliph. And they, blessed innocents, will innocently +exclaim, "Why we never saw such a magnificent apple in all our lives."</p> + +<p>And it will be true, for by that time the apple will gleam with an +unearthly brightness, enhanced and burnished by all the kind thoughts that +have surrounded it for so long.</p> + +<p>As we walked homeward under a frosty sparkle of sky we mused upon all the +different kinds of apples we have encountered. There are big glossy green +apples and bright red apples and yellow apples and also that particularly +delicious kind (whose name we forget) that is the palest possible cream +color—almost white. We have seen apples of strange shapes, something +like a pear (sheepnoses, they call them), and the Maiden Blush apples with +their delicate shading of yellow and debutante pink. And what a poetry in the +names—Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy, Baldwin, Ben Davis, York +Imperial, Wolf River, Jonathan, Smokehouse, Summer Rambo, Rome Beauty, Golden +Grimes, Shenango Strawberry, Benoni!</p> + +<p>We suppose there is hardly a man who has not an apple orchard tucked away +in his heart somewhere. There must be some deep reason for the old suspicion +that the Garden of Eden was an apple orchard. Why is it that a man can sleep +and smoke better under an apple tree than in any other kind of shade? Sir +Isaac Newton was a wise man, and he chose an apple tree to sit beneath. (We +have often wondered, by the way, how it is that no one has ever named an +apple the Woolsthorpe after Newton's home in Lincolnshire, where the famous +apple incident occurred.)</p> + +<p>An apple orchard, if it is to fill the heart of man to the full with +affectionate satisfaction, should straggle down a hillside toward a lake and +a white road where the sun shines hotly. Some of its branches should trail +over an old, lichened and weather-stained stone wall, dropping their fruit +into the highway for thirsty pedestrians. There should be a little path +running athwart it, down toward the lake and the old flat-bottomed boat, +whose bilge is scattered with the black and shriveled remains of angleworms +used for bait. In warm August afternoons the sweet savor of ripening drifts +warmly on the air, and there rises the drowsy hum of wasps exploring the +windfalls that are already rotting on the grass. There you may lie watching +the sky through the chinks of the leaves, and imagining the cool, golden tang +of this autumn's cider vats.</p> + +<p>You see what it is to have Caliphs in the world.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="AS_TO_RUMORS"></a> + +<h2>AS TO RUMORS</h2> + +<blockquote> +<p><span class="smallcaps">Madrid</span>, Jan. 17.—Nikolai Lenine was among +the Russians who landed at Barcelona recently, according to newspapers +here.—News item.</p> +</blockquote> +<br> + +<p>It is rather important to understand the technique of rumors. The wise man +does not scoff at them, for while they are often absurd, they are rarely +baseless. People do not go about inventing rumors, except for purposes of +hoax; and even a practical joke is never (to parody the proverb) hoax et +præterea nihil. There is always a reason for wanting to perpetrate the +hoax, or a reason for believing it will be believed.</p> + +<p>Rumors are a kind of exhalation or intellectual perfume thrown off by the +news of the day. Some events are more aromatic than others; they can be +detected by the trained pointer long before they happen. When things are +going on that have a strong vibration—what foreign correspondents love +to call a "repercussion"—they cause a good deal of mind-quaking. An +event getting ready to happen is one of the most interesting things to watch. +By a sort of mental radiation it fills men's minds with surmises and +conjectures. Curiously enough, due perhaps to the innate perversity of man, +most of the rumors suggest the exact opposite of what is going to happen. Yet +a rumor, while it may be wholly misleading as to fact, is always a proof that +something is going to happen. For instance, last summer when the news was +full of repeated reports of Hindenburg's death, any sane man could foresee +that what these reports really meant was not necessarily Hindenburg's death +at all, but Germany's approaching military collapse. Some German prisoners +had probably said "Hindenburg ist kaput," meaning "Hindenburg is done for," +i.e., "The great offensive has failed." This was taken to mean that he was +literally dead.</p> + +<p>In the same way, while probably no one seriously believes that Lenine is +in Barcelona, the mere fact that Madrid thinks it possible shows very plainly +that something is going on. It shows either that the Bolshevik experiment in +Petrograd has been such a gorgeous success that Lenine can turn his attention +to foreign campaigning, or that it has been such a gorgeous failure that he +has had to skip. It does not prove, since the rumor is "unconfirmed," that +Lenine has gone anywhere yet; but it certainly does prove that he is going +somewhere soon, even if only to the fortress of Peter and Paul. There may be +some very simple explanation of the rumor. "You go to Barcelona!" may be a +jocular Muscovite catchword, similar to our old saying about going to +Halifax, and Trotzky may have said it to Lenine. At any rate it shows that +the gold dust twins are not inseparable. It shows that Bolshevism in Russia +is either very strong or very near downfall.</p> + +<p>When we were told not long ago that Berlin was strangely gay for the +capital of a prostrate nation and that all the cafés were crowded with +dancers at night, many readers were amazed and tried to console their sense +of probability by remarking that the Germans are crazy anyway. And yet this +rumor of the dancing mania was an authentic premonition of the bloodier dance +of death led by the Spartacus group. If Berlin did dance it was a cotillon of +despair, caused by infinite war weariness, infinite hunger to forget +humiliation for a few moments, and foreboding of troubles to come. Whether +true or not, no one read the news without thinking it an ominous whisper.</p> + +<p>Coming events cast their rumors before. From a careful study of rumors the +discerning may learn a good deal, providing always that they never take them +at face value but try to read beneath the surface. People sometimes criticize +the newspapers for printing rumors, but it is an essential part of their +function to do so, provided they plainly mark them as such. Shakespeare +speaks of rumors as "stuffing the ears of men with false reports," yet if so +this is not the fault of the rumor itself, but of the too credible listener. +The prosperity of a rumor is in the ear that hears it. The sagacious listener +will take the trouble to sift and winnow his rumors, set them in perspective +with what he knows of the facts and from them he will then deduce exceedingly +valuable considerations. Rumor is the living atmosphere of men's minds, the +most fascinating and significant problem with which we have to deal. The +Fact, the Truth, may shine like the sun, but after all it is the clouds that +make the sunset beautiful. Keep your eye on the rumors, for a sufficient +number of rumors can compel an event to happen, even against its will.</p> + +<p>No one can set down any hard and fast rules for reading the rumors. The +process is partly instinctive and partly the result of trained observation. +It is as complicated as the calculation by which a woman tells time by her +watch which she knows to be wrong—she adds seventeen minutes, +subtracts three, divides by two and then looks at the church steeple. It is +as exhilarating as trying to deduce what there is going to be for supper by +the pervasive fragrance of onions in the front hall. And sometimes a very +small event, like a very small onion, can cast its rumors a long way. Destiny +is unlike the hen in that she cackles before she lays the egg.</p> + +<p>The first rule to observe about rumors is that they are often exactly +opposite in tendency to the coming fact. For instance, the rumors of secrecy +at the Peace Conference were the one thing necessary to guarantee complete +publicity. Just before any important event occurs it seems to discharge both +positive and negative currents, just as a magnet is polarized by an electric +coil. Some people by mental habit catch the negative vibrations, others the +positive. Every one can remember the military critics last March who were so +certain that there would be no German offensive. Their very certainty was to +many others a proof that the offensive was likely. They were full of the +negative vibrations.</p> + +<p>An interesting case of positive vibrations was the repeated rumor of the +Kaiser's abdication. The fact that those rumors were premature was +insignificant compared with the fact that they were current at all. The fact +that there were such rumors showed that it was only a matter of time.</p> + +<p>It is entertaining, if disconcerting, to watch a rumor on its travels. A +classic example of this during the recent war is exhibited by the following +clippings which were collected, I believe, by Norman Hapgood:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>From the <i>Koelnische-Zeitung</i>:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"When the fall of Antwerp became known the church bells were rung." +(Meaning in Germany.)</p> +</blockquote> +</blockquote> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0175.png"><img src="images/Illus-0175.png" + alt="Cartoon drawing of WWI German Soldier kicking a large bell" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<blockquote> + +<p>From the Paris <i>Matin</i>:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"According to the <i>Koelnische-Zeitung</i>, the clergy of Antwerp were +compelled to ring the church bells when the fortress was taken."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>From the London <i>Times</i>:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"According to what the <i>Matin</i> has heard from Cologne, the Belgian +priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, have +been driven away from their places."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>From the <i>Corriere Della Sera</i>, of Milan:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"According to what the <i>Times</i> has heard from Cologne, via Paris, the +unfortunate Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when +Antwerp was taken, have been sentenced to hard labor."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>From the <i>Matin</i> again:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"According to information received by the <i>Corriere Della Sera</i>, from +Cologne, via London, it is confirmed that the barbaric conquerors of Antwerp +punished the unfortunate Belgian priests for their heroic refusal to ring the +church bells by hanging them as living clappers to the bells with their heads +down."</p> +</blockquote> +</blockquote> + +<p>Be hospitable to rumors, for however grotesque they are, they always have +some reason for existence. The Sixth Sense is the sense of news, the sense +that something is going to happen. And just as every orchestra utters queer +and discordant sounds while it is tuning up its instruments, so does the +great orchestra of Human Events (in other words, The News) offer shrill and +perhaps misleading notes before the conductor waves his baton and leads off +the concerted crash of Truth. Keep your senses alert to examine the odd +scraps of hearsay that you will often see in the news, for it is in just +those eavesdroppings at the heart of humanity that the press often fulfills +its highest function.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="OUR_MOTHERS"></a> + +<h2>OUR MOTHERS</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0177.png"><img src="images/Illus-0177.png" + alt="Man standing by baby cradle" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>When one becomes a father, then first one becomes a son. Standing by the +crib of one's own baby, with that world-old pang of compassion and +protectiveness toward this so little creature that has all its course to run, +the heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to those who felt just so +toward one's self. Then for the first time one understands the homely +succession of sacrifices and pains by which life is transmitted and fostered +down the stumbling generations of men.</p> + +<p>Every man is privileged to believe all his life that his own mother is the +best and dearest that a child ever had. By some strange racial instinct of +taciturnity and repression most of us lack utterance to say our thoughts in +this close matter. A man's mother is so tissued and woven into his life and +brain that he can no more describe her than describe the air and sunlight +that bless his days. It is only when some Barrie comes along that he can say +for all of us what fills the eye with instant tears of gentleness. Is there a +mother, is there a son, who has not read Barrie's "Margaret Ogilvy?" Turn to +that first chapter, "How My Mother Got Her Soft Face," and draw aside the +veils that years and perplexity weave over the inner sanctuaries of our +hearts.</p> + +<p>Our mothers understand us so well! Speech and companionship with them are +so easy, so unobstructed by the thousand teasing barriers that bar soul from +eager soul! To walk and talk with them is like slipping on an old coat. To +hear their voices is like the shake of music in a sober evening hush.</p> + +<p>There is a harmony and beauty in the life of mother and son that brims the +mind's cup of satisfaction. So well we remember when she was all in all; +strength, tenderness, law and life itself. Her arms were the world: her soft +cheek our sun and stars. And now it is we who are strong and self-sufficing; +it is she who leans on us. Is there anything so precious, so complete, so +that return of life's pendulum?</p> + +<p>And it is as grandmothers that our mothers come into the fullness of their +grace. When a man's mother holds his child in her gladdened arms he is aware +(with some instinctive sense of propriety) of the roundness of life's cycle; +of the mystic harmony of life's ways. There speaks humanity in its chord of +three notes: its little capture of completeness and joy, sounding for a +moment against the silent flux of time. Then the perfect span is shredded +away and is but a holy memory.</p> + +<p>The world, as we tread its puzzling paths, shows many profiles and +glimpses of wonder and loveliness; many shapes and symbols to entrance and +astound. Yet it will offer us nothing more beautiful than our mother's face; +no memory more dear than her encircling tenderness. The mountain tops of her +love rise as high in ether as any sun-stained alp. Lakes are no deeper and no +purer blue than her bottomless charity. We need not fare further than her +immortal eyes to know that life is good.</p> + +<p>How strangely fragmentary our memories of her are, and yet (when we piece +them together) how they erect a comfortable background for all we are and +dream. She built the earth about us and arched us over with sky. She created +our world, taught us to dwell therein. The passion of her love compelled the +rude laws of life to stand back while we were soft and helpless. She defied +gravity that we might not fall. She set aside hunger, sleep and fear that we +might have plenty. She tamed her own spirit and crushed her own weakness that +we might be strong. And when we passed down the laughing street of childhood +and turned that corner that all must pass, it was her hand that waved +good-bye. Then, smothering the ache, with one look into the secret corner +where the old keepsakes lie hid, she set about waiting the day when the +long-lost baby would come back anew. The grandchild—is he not her own +boy returned to her arms?</p> + +<p>Who can lean over a crib at night, marveling upon that infinite innocence +and candor swathed in the silk cocoon of childish sleep, without guessing the +throb of fierce gentleness that runs in maternal blood? The earth is none too +rich in compassion these days: let us be grateful to the mothers for what +remains. It was not they who filled the world with spies and quakings. It was +not a cabal of mothers that met to decree blood and anguish for the races of +men. They know that life is built at too dear a price to be so lathered in +corruption and woe. Those who create life, who know its humility, its tender +fabric and its infinite price, who have cherished and warmed and fed it, do +not lightly cast it into the pit.</p> + +<p>Mothers are great in the eyes of their sons because they are knit in our +minds with all the littlenesses of life, the unspeakably dear trifles and +odds of existence. The other day I found in my desk a little strip of tape on +which my name was marked a dozen times in drawing ink, in my mother's +familiar script. My mind ran back to the time when that little band of humble +linen was a kind of passport into manhood. It was when I went away from home +and she could no longer mark my garments with my name, for the confusion of +rapacious laundries. I was to cut off the autographed sections of this tape +and sew them on such new vestments as came my way. Of course I did not do so; +what boy would be faithful to so feminine a trust? But now the little tape, +soiled by a dozen years of wandering, lies in my desk drawer as a symbol and +souvenir of that endless forethought and loving kindness.</p> + +<p>They love us not wisely but too well, it is sometimes said. Ah, in a world +where so many love us not well but too wisely, how tremulously our hearts +turn back to bathe in that running river of their love and ceaseless +charm!</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="GREETING_TO_AMERICAN_ANGLERS"></a> + +<h2>GREETING TO AMERICAN ANGLERS</h2> + +<p><i>From Master Isaak Walton</i></p> +<br> + + +<p>My Good Friends—As I have said afore time, sitting by a river's +side is the quietest and fittest place for contemplation, and being out and +along the bank of Styx with my tackle this sweet April morning, it came into +my humor to send a word of greeting to you American anglers. Some of your +fellows, who have come by this way these past years, tell me notable tales of +the sport that may he had in your bright streams, whereof the name of Pocono +lingers in my memory. Sad it is to me to recall that when writing my little +book on the recreation of a contemplative man I had made no mention of your +rivers as delightsome places where our noble art might be carried to a brave +perfection, but indeed in that day when I wrote—more years ago than I +like to think on—your far country was esteemed a wild and wanton land. +Some worthy Pennsylvania anglers with whom I have fished this water of Styx +have even told me of thirty and forty-inch trouts they have brought to basket +in that same Pocono stream, from the which fables I know that the manners of +our ancient sport have altered not a whit. I myself could tell you of a +notable catch I had the other morning, when I took some half dozen brace of +trouts before breakfast, not one less than twenty-two inches, with bellies as +yellow as marigold and as white as a lily in parts. That I account quite +excellent taking for these times, when this stream hath been so roiled and +troubled by the passage of Master Charon's barges, he having been so pressed +with traffic that he hath discarded his ancient vessel as incommodious and +hasteneth to and fro with a fleet of ferryboats.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0183.png"><img src="images/Illus-0183.png" + alt="Man in Pilgrim attire, fishing" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>My Good Friends, I wish you all the comely sport that may be found along +those crystal rivers whereof your fellows have told me, and a good honest +alehouse wherein to take your civil cup of barley wine when there ariseth too +violent a shower of rain. I have ever believed that a pipe of tobacco +sweeteneth sport, and I was never above hiding a bottle of somewhat in the +hollow root of a sycamore against chilly seizures. But come, what is this I +hear that you honest anglers shall no longer pledge fortune in a cup of mild +beverage? Meseemeth this is an odd thing and contrary to our tradition. I +look for some explanation of the matter. Mayhap I have been misled by some +waggishness. In my days along my beloved little river Dove, where my friend +Mr. Cotton erected his fishing house, we were wont to take our pleasure on +the bowling green of an evening, with a cup of ale handy. And our sheets used +to smell passing sweet of lavender, which is a pleasant fragrance, indeed.</p> + +<p>One matter lies somewhat heavy on my heart and damps my mirth, that in my +little book I said of our noble fish the trout that his name was of a German +offspring. I am happy to confess to you that I was at fault, for my good +friend Master Charon (who doth sometimes lighten his labors with a little +casting and trolling from the poop of his vessel) hath explained to me that +the name trout deriveth from the antique Latin word <i>tructa</i>, signifying +a gnawer. This is a gladsome thing for me to know, and moreover I am bounden +to tell you that the house committee of our little angling club along Styx +hath blackballed all German members henceforward. These riparian pleasures +are justly to be reserved for gentles of the true sportsman blood, and not +such as have defiled the fair rivers of France.</p> + +<p>And so, good friends, my love and blessing upon all such as love quietness +and go angling.</p> + +<p><span class="smallcaps">Izaak Walton.</span></p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="MRS_IZAAK_WALTON_WRITES_A_LETTER_TO_HER_MOTHER"></a> + +<h2>MRS. IZAAK WALTON WRITES A LETTER TO HER MOTHER</h2> +<br> + + +<p><span class="smallcaps">Chancery Lane, London</span>, April 28, 1639.</p> + +<p>My Dearest Mother: Matters indeed pass from badd to worse, and I fear mee +that with Izaak spending all hys tyme angling along riversydes and neglecting +the millinery shoppe (wych is our onlie supporte, for can bodye and soule be +keppt in one by a few paltrie brace of trouts a weeke?) wee shall soone come +to a sorrye ende. How many tymes, deare Mother, have I bewailed my follye in +wedding this creature who seemeth to mee more a fysh than a man, not mearly +by reason of hys madnesse for the gracelesse practice of water-dabbling, but +eke for hys passion for swimming in barley wine, ale, malmsey and other +infuriatyng liquours. What manner of companye doth this dotard keepe on his +fyshing pastimes, God wot! Lo he is wonte to come home at some grievous houre +of ye nyghte, bearing but a smalle catche but plentyful aroma of drinke, and +ofttimes alsoe hys rybalde freinds do accompany hym. Nothing will serve but +they must arouse our kytchen-maide and have some paltry chubb or gudgeon +fryed in greese, filling ye house wyth nauseous odoures, and wyth their ill +prattle of fyshing tackle, not to say the comely milke-maides they have seen +along some wanton meadowside, soe that I am moste distraught. You knowe, my +deare, I never colde abyde fyssche being colde clammy cretures, and loe onlye +last nyghte this Monster dyd come to my beddside where I laye asleepyng and +wake me fromm a sweet drowse by dangling a string of loathsome queasy trouts, +still dryppinge, against my nose. Lo, says he, are these not beuties? And his +reek of barley wine did fille the chamber. Worste of alle, deare Mother, this +all-advised wretche doth spend alle his vacant houres in compiling a booke on +the art (as he calleth it) of angling, surely a trifling petty wanton taske +that will</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0187.png"><img src="images/Illus-0187.png" + alt="Woman with arms raised" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +make hym the laughing-stocke of all sober men. God forbidd that oure +littel son sholde be brought uppe in this nastye squanderinge of tyme, wych +doth breede nought (meseems) but ale-bibbing and ye disregarde of truth. Oure +house, wych is but small as thou knowest, is all cluttered wyth his slimye +tackle, and loe but yesterdaye I loste a customer fromm ye millinery shoppe, +shee averring (and I trow ryghtly) that ye shoppe dyd stinke of fysshe. Ande +soe if thys thyng do continue longer I shall ripp uppe and leave, for I +thoght to wed a man and not a paddler of dytches. O howe I longe for those +happy dayes with thee, before I ever knew such a thyng as a fysshe existed! +Sad too it is that he doth justifye his vain idle wanton pasttyme by +misquoting scriptures. Saint Peter, and soe on. Three kytchen maides have +lefte us latelye for barbyng themselves upon hydden hookes that doe scatter +our shelves and drawers.<br> + +<p>Thy persecuted daughter, <span class="smallcaps">Anne Walton</span>.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="TRUTH"></a> + +<h2>TRUTH</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Our mind is dreadfully active sometimes, and the other day we began to +speculate on Truth.</p> + +<p>Our friends are still avoiding us.</p> + +<p>Every man knows what Truth is, but it is impossible to utter it. The face +of your listener, his eyes mirthful or sorry, his eager expectance or his +churlish disdain insensibly distort your message. You find yourself saying +what you know he expects you to say, or (more often) what he expects you not +to say. You may not be aware of this, but that is what happens. In order that +the world may go on and human beings thrive, nature has contrived that the +Truth may not often be uttered.</p> + +<p>And how is one to know what is Truth? He thinks one thing before lunch; +after a stirring bout with corned beef and onions the shining vision is +strangely altered. Which is Truth?</p> + +<p>Truth can only be attained by those whose systems are untainted by secret +influences, such as love, envy, ambition, food, college education and +moonlight in spring.</p> + +<p>If a man lived in a desert for six months without food, drink or +companionship he would be reasonably free from prejudice and would be in a +condition to enunciate great truths.</p> + +<p>But even then his vision of reality would have been warped by so much sand +and so many sunsets.</p> + +<p>Even if he survived and brought us his Truth with all the gravity and long +night-gown of a Hindu faker, as soon as any one listened to him his message +would no longer be Truth. The complexion of his audience, the very shape of +their noses, would subtly undermine his magnificent aloofness.</p> + +<p>Women have learned the secret. Truth must never be uttered, and never be +listened to.</p> + +<p>Truth is the ricochet of a prejudice bouncing off a fact.</p> + +<p>Truth is what every man sees lurking at the bottom of his own soul, like +the oyster shell housewives put in the kitchen kettle to collect the lime +from the water. By and by each man's iridescent oyster shell of Truth becomes +coated with the lime of prejudice and hearsay.</p> + +<p>All the above is probably untrue.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_TRAGEDY_OF_WASHINGTON_SQUARE"></a> + +<h2>THE TRAGEDY OF WASHINGTON SQUARE</h2> +<br> + + +<p>One of our favorite amusements at lunch-time is to walk down to Henry +Rosa's pastry shop, and buy a slab of cinnamon bun. Then we walk round +Washington Square, musing, and gradually walking round and engulfing the +cinnamon bun at the same time. It is surprising what a large circumference +those buns of Henry's have. By the time we have gnashed our way through one +of those warm and mystic phenomena we don't want to eat again for a month.</p> + +<p>The real reason for the cinnamon bun is to fortify us for the +contemplation and onslaught upon a tragic problem that Washington Square +presents to our pondering soul.</p> + +<p>Washington Square is a delightful place. There are trees there, and +publishing houses and warm green grass and a fire engine station. There are +children playing about on the broad pavements that criss-cross the sward; +there is a fine roof of blue sky, kept from falling down by the enormous +building at the north side of the Square. But these things present no +problems. To our simple philosophy a tree is a vegetable, a child is an +animal, a building is a mineral and this classification needs no further +scrutiny or analysis. But there is one thing in Washington Square that +embodies an intellectual problem, a grappling of the soul, a matter for +continual anguish and decision.</p> + +<p>On the west side of the Square is the Swiss consulate, and, it is this +that weighs upon our brooding spirit. How many times we have paused before +that quiet little house and gazed upon the little red cross, a Maltese Cross, +or a Cross of St. Hieronymus; or whatever the heraldic term is, that +represents and symbolizes the diplomatic and spiritual presence of the Swiss +republic. We have stood there and thought about William Tell and the Berne +Convention and the St. Gothard Tunnel and St. Bernard dogs and winter sports +and alpenstocks and edelweiss and the Jungfrau and all the other trappings +and trappists that make Switzerland notable. We have mused upon the Swiss +military system, which is so perfect that it has never had to be tested by +war; and we have wondered what is the name of the President of Switzerland +and how he keeps it out of the papers so successfully. One day we lugged an +encyclopedia and the Statesman's Year Book out to the Square with us and sat +down on a bench facing the consulate and read up about the Swiss cabinet and +the national bank of Switzerland and her child labor problems. Accidentally +we discovered the name of the Swiss President, but as he has kept it so dark +we are not going to give away his secret.</p> + +<p>Our dilemma is quite simple. Where there is a consulate there must be a +consul, and it seems to us a dreadful thing that inside that building there +lurks a Swiss envoy who does not know that we, here, we who are walking round +the Square with our mouth full of Henry Rosa's bun, once spent a night in +Switzerland. We want him to know that; we think he ought to know it; we think +it is part of his diplomatic duty to know it. And yet how can we burst in on +him and tell him that apparently irrelevant piece of information?</p> + +<p>We have thought of various ways of breaking it to him, or should we say +breaking him to it?</p> + +<p>Should we rush in and say the Swiss national debt is $----, or ---- +kopecks, and then lead on to other topics such as the comparative heights of +mountain peaks, letting the consul gradually grasp the fact that we have been +in Switzerland? Or should we call him up on the telephone and make a +mysterious appointment with him, when we could blurt it out brutally?</p> + +<p>We are a modest and diffident man, and this little problem, which would be +so trifling to many, presents inscrutable hardships to us.</p> + +<p>Another aspect of the matter is this. We think the consul ought to know +that we spent one night in Switzerland once; we think he ought to know what +we were doing that night; but we also think he ought to know just why it was +that we spent only one night in his beautiful country. We don't want him to +think we hurried away because we were annoyed by anything, or because the +national debt was so many rupees or piasters, or because child labor in +Switzerland is----. It is the thought that the consul and all his staff are +in total ignorance of our existence that galls us. Here we are, walking round +and round the Square, bursting with information and enthusiasm about Swiss +republicanism, and the consul never heard of us. How can we summon up courage +enough to tell him the truth? That is the tragedy of Washington Square.</p> + +<p>It was a dark, rainy night when we bicycled into Basel. We hid been riding +all day long, coming down from the dark clefts of the Black Forest, and we +and our knapsack were wet through. We had been bicycling for six weeks with +no more luggage than a rucksack could hold. We never saw such rain as fell +that day we slithered and sloshed on the rugged slopes that tumble down to +the Rhine at Basel. (The annual rainfall in Switzerland is----.) When we got +to the little hotel at Basel we sat in the dining room with water running off +us in trickles, until the head waiter glared. And so all we saw of +Switzerland was the interior of the tobacconist's where we tried, +unsuccessfully, to get some English baccy. Then he went to bed while our +garments were dried. We stayed in bed for ten hours, reading, fairy tales and +smoking and answering modestly through the transom when any one asked us +questions.</p> + +<p>The next morning we overhauled our wardrobe. We will not particularize, +but we decided that one change of duds, after six weeks' bicycling, was not +enough of a wardrobe to face the Jungfrau and the national debt and the +child-labor problenm, not to speak of the anonymous President and the other +sights that matter (such as the Matterhorn). Also, our stock of tobacco had +run out, and German or French tobacco we simply cannot smoke. Even if we +could get along on substitute fumigants the issue of garments was imperative. +The nearest place where we could get any clothes of the kind that we are +accustomed to, the kind of clothes that are familiarly symbolized by three +well-known initials, was London. And the only way we had to get to London was +on our bicycle. We thought we had better get busy. It's a long bike ride from +Basel to London. So we just went as far as the Basel Cathedral, so as not to +seem too unappreciative of all the treasures that Switzerland had been saving +for us for countless centuries; then we got on board our patient steed and +trundled off through Alsace.</p> + +<p>That was in August, 1912, and we firmly intended to go back to Switzerland +the next year to have another look at, the rainfall and the rest of the +statistics and status quos. But the opportunity has not come.</p> + +<p>So that is why we wander disconsolately about Washington Square, trying to +make up our mind to unburden our bosom to the Swiss consul and tell him the +worst. But how can one go and interrupt a consul to tell him that sort of +thing? Perhaps he wouldn't understand it at all; he would misunderstand our +pathetic little story and be angry that we took up his time. He wouldn't +think that a shortage of tobacco and clothing was a sufficient excuse for +slighting William Tell and the Jungfrau. He wouldn't appreciate the +frustrated emotion and longing with which we watch the little red cross at +his front door, and think of all it means to us and all it might have +meant.</p> + +<p>We took another turn around Washington Square, trying to embolden ourself +enough to go in and tell the consul all this. And then our heart failed us. +We decided to write a piece for the paper about it, and if the consul ever +sees it he will be generous and understand. He will know why, behind the +humble façade of his consulate on Washington Square, we see the +heaven-piercing summits of Switzerland rising like a dream, blue and silvery +and tantalizing.</p> + +<p>P.S. Since the above we have definitely decided not to go to call on the +Swiss consul. Suppose he were only a vice-consul, a Philadelphia Swiss, who +had never been to Switzerland in his life!</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="IF_MR_WILSON_WERE_THE_WEATHER_MAN"></a> + +<h2>IF MR. WILSON WERE THE WEATHER MAN</h2> +<br> + + +<p>My Fellow Citizens: It is very delightful to be here, if I may be +permitted to say so, and I consider it a distinguished privilege to open the +discussion as to the probable weather to-morrow not only, but during the days +to come. I can easily conceive that many of our forecasts will need +subsequent reconsideration, for if I may judge by my own study of these +matters, the climate is not susceptible of confident judgments at present.</p> + +<p>An overwhelming majority of the American people is in favor of fine +weather. This underlying community of purpose warms my heart. If we do not +guarantee them fine weather, cannot you see the picture of what would come to +pass? Your hearts have instructed you where the rain falls. It falls upon +senators and congressmen not only—and for that we need not feel so +much chagrin—it falls upon humble homes everywhere, upon plain men, +and women, and children. If I were to disappoint the united expectation of my +fellow citizens for fine weather to-morrow I would incur their merited +scorn.</p> + +<p>I suppose no more delicate task is given any man than to interpret the +feelings and purposes of a great climate. It is not a task in which any man +can find much exhilaration, and I confess I have been puzzled by some of the +criticisms leveled at my office. But they do not make any impression on me, +because I know that the sentiment of the country at large will be more +generous. I call my fellow countrymen to witness that at no stage of the +recent period of low barometric pressure have I judged the purposes of the +climate intemperately. I should be ashamed to use the weak language of +vindictive protest.</p> + +<p>I have tried once and again, my fellow citizens, to say to you in all +frankness what seems to be the prospect of fine weather. There is a +compulsion upon one in my position to exercise every effort to see that as +little as possible of the hope of mankind is disappointed. Yet this is a hope +which cannot, in the very nature of things, be realized in its perfection. +The utmost that can be done by way of accommodation and compromise has been +performed without stint or limit. I am sure it will not be necessary to +remind you that you cannot throw off the habits of the climate immediately, +any more than you can throw off the habits of the individual immediately. But +however unpromising the immediate outlook may be, I am the more happy to +offer my observations on the state of the weather for to-morrow because this +is not a party issue. What a delightful thought that is! Whatever the +condition of sunshine or precipitation vouchsafed to us, may I not hope that +we shall all meet it with quickened temper and purpose, happy in the thought +that it is our common fortune?</p> + +<p>For to-morrow there is every prospect of heavy and continuous rain.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="SYNTAX_FOR_CYNICS"></a> + +<h2>SYNTAX FOR CYNICS</h2> + +<h4>A GRAMMAR OF THE FEMININE LANGUAGE</h4> +<br> + + +<p>The feminine language consists of words placed one after another with +extreme rapidity, with intervals for matinees. The purpose of this language +is (1) to conceal, and (2) to induce, thought. Very often, after the use of a +deal of language, a thought will appear in the speaker's mind. This, while +desirable, is by no means necessary.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0201.png"><img src="images/Illus-0201.png" + alt="Woman teacher holding book and pointer standing by a world globe" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + + +<p><b>THOUGHT</b> cannot be defined, but it is instinctively recognized even by +those unaccustomed to it.</p> + +<p><b>PARTS OF SPEECH:</b> There are five parts of feminine speech—noun, +pronoun, adjective, verb and interjection.</p> + +<p><b>THE NOUN</b> is the name of something to wear, or somebody who furnishes +something to wear, or a place where something is to be worn. E.g., <i>hat, +husband, opera</i>. Feminine nouns are always singular.</p> + +<p><b>THE PRONOUN</b> is <i>I</i>.</p> + +<p><b>ADJECTIVES:</b> There are only four feminine adjectives—<i>adorable, +cute, sweet, horrid</i>. These are all modified on occasion by the adverb +<i>perfectly</i>.</p> + +<p><b>THE VERBS</b> are of two kinds—active and passive. Active verbs express +action; passive verbs express passion. All feminine verbs are irregular and +imperative.</p> + +<p><b>INTERJECTIONS:</b> There are two interjections—<i>Heavens</i>! and +<i>Gracious</i>! The masculine language is much richer in interjections.</p> + +<p><b>DECLENSION:</b> There are three ways of feminine declining, (1) to say No; (2) +to say Yes and mean No; (3) to say nothing.</p> + +<p><b>CONJUGATION:</b> This is what happens to a verb in the course of conversation +or shopping. A verb begins the day quite innocently, as the verb <i>go</i> in +the phrase <i>to go to town</i>. When it gets to the city this verb becomes +<i>look</i>, as, for instance, to <i>look at the shop windows.</i> Thereafter +its descent is rapid into the form <i>purchase</i> or <i>charge</i>. This +conjugation is often assisted by the auxiliary expression <i>a bargain</i>. +About the first of the following month the verb reappears in the masculine +vocabulary in a parallel or perverted form, modified by an interjection.</p> + +<p><b>CONVERSATION</b> in the feminine language consists of language rapidly +vibrating or oscillating between two persons. The object of any conversation +is always accusative, e.g., "<i>Mrs. Edwards has no taste in hats</i>." Most +conversations consist of an indeterminate number of sentences, but sometimes +it is difficult to tell where one sentence ends and the next begins. It is +even possible for two sentences to overlap. When this occurs the conversation +is known as a dialogue. A sentence may be of any length, and is concluded +only by the physiological necessity of taking breath.</p> + +<p><b>SENTENCES:</b> A sentence may be defined as a group of words, uttered in +sequence, but without logical connection, to express an opinion or an +emotion. A number of sentences if emitted without interruption becomes a +conversation. A conversation prolonged over an hour or more becomes a gossip. +A gossip, when shared by several persons, is known as a secret. A secret is +anything known by a large and constantly increasing number of persons.</p> + +<p><b>LETTERS:</b> The feminine language, when committed to paper, with a stub pen +and backhanded chirography, is known as a letter. A letter should if +possible, be written on rose or lemon colored paper of a rough and flannely +texture, with scalloped edges and initials embossed in gilt. It should be +written with great rapidity, containing not less than ten exclamation points +per page and three underlined adjectives per paragraph. The verb may be +reserved until the postscript.</p> + +<p>Generally speaking, students of the feminine language are agreed that +rules of grammar and syntax are subject to individual caprice and whim, and +it is very difficult to lay down fixed canons. The extreme rapidity with +which the language is used and the charm and personal magnetism of its users +have disconcerted even the most careful and scientific observers. A glossary +of technical terms and idioms in the feminine language would be a work of +great value to the whole husband world, but it is doubtful if any such volume +will ever be published.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_TRUTH_AT_LAST"></a> + +<h2>THE TRUTH AT LAST</h2> + +<h4>AN EXTRACT FROM MARTHA WASHINGTON'S DIARY</h4> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0205.png"><img src="images/Illus-0205.png" + alt="George Washington with axe and fallen tree" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>Feb. 22, 1772. A grate Company of Guests assembled at Mt Vernon to +celebrate Gen'l Washington's Birthdaye. In the Morning the Gentlemenn went a +Fox hunting, but their Sport was marred by the Pertinacity of some Motion +Picture menn who persewd them to take Fillums and catchd the General falling +off his Horse at a Ditch. In the Evening some of the Companye tooke Occasion +to rally the General upon the old Fable of the Cherrye Tree, w'ch hath ever +been imputed an Evidence of hys exceeding Veracity, though to saye sooth I +never did believe the legend my self. "Well," sayes the General with a +Twinkle, "it wolde not be Politick to denye a Romance w'ch is soe profitable +to my Reputation, but to be Candid, Gentlemenn, I have no certain +recollection of the Affaire. My Brother Lawrence was wont to say that the +Tree or Shrubb in question was no Cherrye but a Bitter Persimmon; moreover he +told me that I stoutly denyed any Attacke upon it; but being caught with the +Goods (as Tully saith) I was soundly Flogged, and walked stiffly for three +dayes."</p> + +<p>I was glad to heare the Truth in this matter as I have never seen any +Corroboration of this surpassing Virtue in George's private Life. The evening +broke up in some Disorder as Col Fairfax and others hadd Drunk too freely of +the Cock's Taile as they dub the new and very biting Toddy introduced by the +military. Wee hadd to call a chirurgeon to lett Blood for some of the Guests +before they coulde be gott to Bedd, whither they were conveyed on +stretchers.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="FIXED_IDEAS"></a> + +<h2>FIXED IDEAS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>It is said that a Fixed Idea is the beginning of madness.</p> + +<p>Yet we are often worried because we have so few Fixed Ideas. We do not +seem to have any really definite Theory about Life.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>We find, on the other hand, that a great many of those we know have some +Guiding Principle that excuses and explains all their conduct.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>If you have some Theory about Life, and are thoroughly devoted to it, you +may come to a bad end, but you will enjoy yourself heartily.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>These theories may be of many different kinds. One of our friends rests +his career and hope of salvation on the doctrine that eating plenty of fish +and going without an overcoat whenever possible constitute supreme +happiness.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>Another prides himself on not being able to roll a cigarette. If he were +forced, at the point of the bayonet, to roll a fag, it would wreck his +life.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>Another is convinced that the Lost and Found ads in the papers all contain +anarchist code messages, and sits up late at night trying to unriddle +them.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>How delightful it must be to be possessed by one of these Theories! All +the experiences of the theorist's life tend to confirm his Theory. This is +always so. Did you ever hear of a Theory being confuted?</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>Facts are quite helpless in the face of Theories. For after all, most +Facts are insufficiently encouraged with applause. When a Fact comes along, +the people in charge are generally looking the other way. This is what is +meant by Not Facing the Facts.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>Therefore all argument is quite useless, for it only results in stiffening +your friend's belief in his (presumably wrong) Theory.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>When any one tries to argue with you, say, "You are nothing if not +accurate, and you are not accurate." Then escape from the room.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>When we hear our friends diligently expounding the ideas which Explain +Everything, we are wistful. We go off and say to ourself, We really must dig +up some kind of Theory about Life.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>We read once of a great man that he never said, "Well, possibly so." This +gave us an uneasy pang.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>It is a mistake to be Open to Conviction on so many topics, because all +one's friends try to convince one. This is very painful.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>And it is embarrassing if, for the sake of a quiet life, one pretends to +be convinced. At the corner of Tenth and Chestnut we allowed ourself to agree +with A.B., who said that the German colonies should be internationalized. +Then we had to turn down Ninth Street because we saw C.D. coming, with whom +we had previously agreed that Great Britain should have German Africa. And in +a moment we had to dodge into Sansom Street to avoid E.F., having already +assented to his proposition that the German colonies should have +self-determination. This kind of thing makes it impossible to see one's +friends more than one at a time.</p><br> +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<p>Perhaps our Fixed Idea is that we have no Fixed Ideas.</p> + +<p>Well, possibly so.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="TRIALS_OF_A_PRESIDENT_TRAVELING_ABROAD"></a> + +<h2>TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT TRAVELING ABROAD</h2> +<br> + + +<p>10 a.m.—Arrive at railway station. Welcomed by King and Queen. Hat +on head. Umbrella left hand. Gloves on.</p> + +<p>10:01—Right glove off (hastily) into left hand. Hat off (right +hand). Umbrella hanging on left arm.</p> + +<p>10:02—Right glove into left pocket. Hat to left hand. Shake hands +with King.</p> + +<p>10:03—Shake hands with Queen. Left glove off to receive flowers. +Umbrella to right hand.</p> + +<p>10:04—Shake hands with Prime Minister. Left glove in left hand. +Umbrella back to left hand. Flowers in left hand. Hat in left hand.</p> + +<p>10:05—Enter King's carriage. Try to drop flowers under carriage +unobserved. Foreign Minister picks them up with gallant remark.</p> + +<p>10:06—Shake hands with Foreign Minister. In his emotional foreign +manner he insists on taking both hands. Quick work: Umbrella to right elbow, +gloves left pocket, hat under right arm, flowers to right pocket.</p> + +<p>10:08—Received by Lord Mayor, who offers freedom of the city in +golden casket. Casket in left hand, Lord Mayor in right hand Queen on left +arm, umbrella on right arm flowers and gloves bursting from pockets hat +(momentarily) on head.</p> + +<p>10:10—Delegation of statesmen. Statesmen in right hand. Hat, +umbrella, gloves, King, flowers, casket in left hand. Situation getting +complicated.</p> + +<p>10:15—Ceremonial reception by Queen Mother. Getting confused. Queen +Mother in left pocket, umbrella on head, gloves on right hand, hat in left +hand, King on head, flowers in trousers pocket. Casket under left arm.</p> + +<p>10:17—Complete collapse. Failure of the League of Nations.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="DIARY_OF_A_PUBLISHER'S_OFFICE_BOY"></a> + +<h2>DIARY OF A PUBLISHER'S OFFICE BOY</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Jan. 7, 1600. Thys daye ye Bosse bade mee remaine in ye Outer Office to +keepe Callers from Hinderyng Hym in Hys affaires. There came an olde Bumme +(ye same wch hath beene heare before) wth ye Scrypte of a Playe, dubbed +Roumio ande Julia. Hys name was Shake a Speare or somethynge lyke thatt. Ye +Bosse bade mee reade ye maunuscripp myselfe, as hee was Bussy. I dyd. Ande of +alle foulishnesse, thys playe dyd beare away ye prize. Conceive ye +Absuerditye of laying ye Sceane in Italy, it ys welle knowne that Awdiences +will not abear nothyng that is not sett neare at Home. Butt woarse stille, +thys fellowe presumes to kille offe Boath Heroe ande Heroine in ye Laste +Acte, wch is Intolerabble toe ye Publicke. Suerley noe chaunce of Success in +thys. Ye awthour dyd reappeare in ye aufternoone, and dyd seeke to borrowe a +crowne from mee, but I sente hym packing. Ye Bosse hath heartilye given me +Styx forr admitting such Vagabones to ye Office. I tolde maister Shake a +Speare that unlesse hee colde learne to wryte Beste Sellers such as Master +Spenser's Faerye Quene (wch wee have put through six editions) there was +suerly noe Hope for hym. Hee tooke thys advyse in goode parte, and wente. Hys +jerkin wolde have beene ye better for a patchinge.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_DOG'S_COMMANDMENTS"></a> + +<h2>THE DOG'S COMMANDMENTS</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0215.png"><img src="images/Illus-0215.png" + alt="3 dogs viewing tablets of 10 Commandments" border= "0" width="50%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>From a witless puppy I brought thee up: gave thee fire and food, and +taught thee the self-respect of an honest dog. Hear, then, my +commandments:</p> + +<p>I am thy master: thou shalt have no other masters before me. Where I go, +shalt thou follow; where I abide, tarry thou also.</p> + +<p>My house is thy castle; thou shalt honor it; guard it with thy life if +need be.</p> + +<p>By daylight, suffer all that approach peaceably to enter without protest. +But after nightfall thou shalt give tongue when men draw near.</p> + +<p>Use not thy teeth on any man without good cause and intolerable +provocation; and never on women or children.</p> + +<p>Honor thy master and thy mistress, that thy days may be long in the +land.</p> + +<p>Thou shalt not consort with mongrels, nor with dogs that are common or +unclean.</p> + +<p>Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not feed upon refuse or stray bits: thy +meat waits thee regularly in the kitchen.</p> + +<p>Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower beds.</p> + +<p>Cats are to be chased, but in sport only; seek not to devour them: their +teeth and claws are deadly.</p> + +<p>Thou shalt not snap at my neighbor, nor at his wife, nor his child, nor +his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor do harm to +aught that is his.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room rug is not for thee, nor the sofa, nor the best armchair. +Thou hast the porch and thy own kennel. But for the love I bear thee, there +is always a corner for thee by the winter fire.</p> + +<p>Meditate on these commandments day and night; so shalt thou be a dog of +good breeding and an honor to thy master.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_VALUE_OF_CRITICISM"></a> + +<h2>THE VALUE OF CRITICISM</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Our friend Dove Dulcet, the well-known sub-caliber poet, has recently +issued a slender volume of verses called <i>Peanut Butter</i>. He thinks we +may be interested to see the comment of the press on his book. We don't know +why he should think so, but anyway here are some of the reviews:</p> + +<p>Buffalo <i>Lens</i>: Mr. Dulcet is a sweet singer, and we could only wish +there were twice as many of these delicately rhymed fancies. There is not a +poem in the book that does not exhibit a tender grasp of the beautiful homely +emotions. Perhaps the least successful, however, is that entitled "On Losing +a Latchkey."</p> + +<p>Syracuse <i>Hammer and Tongs</i>: This little book of savage satires will +rather dismay the simple-minded reader. Into the acid vials of his song Mr. +Dulcet has poured a bitter cynicism. He seems to us to be an irremediable +pessimist, a man of brutal and embittered life. In one poem, however, he does +soar to a very fine imaginative height. This is the ode "On Losing a +Latchkey," which is worth all the rest of the pieces put together.</p> + +<p>New York <i>Reaping Hook</i>: It is odd that Mr. Dove Dulcet, of +Philadelphia we believe should have been able to find a publisher for this +volume. These queer little doggerels have an instinctive affinity for +oblivion, and they will soon coalesce with the driftwood of the literary +Sargasso Sea. Among many bad things we can hardly remember ever to have seen +anything worse than "On Losing a Latchkey."</p> + +<p>Philadelphia <i>Prism</i>: Our gifted fellow townsman, Mr. Dove Dulcet, +has once more demonstrated his ability to set humble themes in entrancing +measures. He calls his book <i>Peanut Butter</i>. A title chosen with rare +discernment, for the little volume has all the savor and nourishing +properties of that palatable delicacy. We wish there were space to quote "On +Losing a Latchkey," for it expresses a common human experience in language of +haunting melody and witty brevity. How rare it is to find a poet with such +metrical skill who is content to handle the minor themes of life in this mood +of delicious pleasantry. The only failure in the book is the banal sonnet +entitled "On Raiding the Ice Box." This we would be content to forego.</p> + +<p>Pittsburgh <i>Cylinder</i>: It is a relief to meet one poet who deals with +really exalted themes. We are profoundly weary of the myriad versifiers who +strum the so-called lowly and domestic themes. Mr. Dulcet, however, in his +superb free verse, has scaled olympian heights, disdaining the customary +twaddling topics of the rhymesters. Such an amazing allegory as "On Raiding +the Ice Box," which deals, of course, with the experience of a man who +attempts to explore the mind of an elderly Boston spinster, marks this +powerful poet as a man of unusual satirical and philosophical depth.</p> + +<p>Boston <i>Penseroso</i>: We find Mr. Dove Dulcet's new book rather +baffling. We take his poem "On Raiding the Ice Box" to be a pæan in +honor of the discovery of the North Pole; but such a poem as "On Losing a +Latchkey," is quite inscrutable. Our guess is that it is an intricate +psycho-analysis of a pathological case of amnesia. Our own taste is more for +the verse that deals with the gentler emotions of every day, but there can be +no doubt that Mr. Dulcet is an artist to be reckoned with.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_MARRIAGE_SERVICE_FOR_COMMUTERS"></a> + +<h2>A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR COMMUTERS</h2> + +<h4>(<i>Fill in railroad as required</i>)</h4> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0220.png"><img src="images/Illus-0220.png" + alt="Bride and Groom" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>Wilt thou, Jack, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together +in so far as the ---- Railroad will allow? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, +honor and keep her, take her to the movies, prevent the furnace from going +out, and come home regularly on the 5:42 train?"</p> + +<p>"I will."</p> + +<p>"Wilt thou, Jill, have this commuter to thy wedded husband, bearing in +mind snowdrifts, washouts, lack of servants and all other penalties of +suburban life? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him, +and let him smoke a corncob pipe in the house?"</p> + +<p>"I will."</p> + +<p>"I, Jack, take thee, Jill, to my wedded wife, from 6 P.M. until 8 A.M., as +far as permitted by the ---- Railroad, schedule subject to change without +notice, for better, for worse, for later, for earlier, to love and to +cherish, and I promise to telephone you when I miss the train."</p> + +<p>"I, Jill, take thee, Jack, to my wedded husband, subject to the mutability +of the suburban service, changing trains at ----, to have and to hold, save +when the card club meets on Wednesday evenings, and thereto I give thee my +troth."</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_SUNNY_SIDE_OF_GRUB_STREET"></a> + +<h2>THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0222.png"><img src="images/Illus-0222.png" + alt="Man carrying books by Grub Street sign" border= "0" width="50%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<p>I often wonder how many present-day writers keep diaries. I wish <i>The +Bookman</i> would conduct a questionnaire on the subject. I have a suspicion +that Charley Towne keeps one—probably a grim, tragic parchment wherein +that waggish soul sets down its secret musings. I dare say Louis Untermeyer +has one (morocco, tooled and goffered, with gilt edges), and looks over its +nipping paragraphs now and then with a certain relish. It undoubtedly has a +large portmanteau pocket with it, to contain clippings of Mr. Untermeyer's +letters to the papers taking issue with the reviews of his books. There is no +way for the reviewer to escape that backfire. I knew one critic who was +determined to review one of Louis's books in such a way that the author would +have no excuse for writing to the <i>Times</i> about it. He was +overwhelmingly complimentary. But along came the usual letter by return of +post. Mr. Untermeyer asked for enough space to "diverge from the critique at +one point." He said the review was too fulsome.</p> + +<p>I wish Don Marquis kept a diary, but I am quite sure he doesn't. Don is +too—well, I was going to say he is too—but after all he has a +perfect right to be that way.</p> + +<p>It's rather an important thing. Every one knows the fascination exerted by +personal details of authors' lives. Every one has hustled to the Café de +la Source in Paris because R.L.S. once frequented it, or to Allaire's in New +York because O. Henry wrote it up in one of his tales, and that sort of +thing. People like to know all the minutiæ concerning their favorite +author. It is not sufficient to know (let us say) that Murray Hill or some +one of that sort, once belonged to the Porrier's Corner Club. One wants to +know where the Porrier's Corner Club was, and who were the members, and how +he got there, and what he got there, and so forth. One wants to know where +Murray Hill (I take his name only as a symbol) buys his cigars, and where he +eats lunch, and what he eats, whether pigeon potpie with iced tea or hamburg +steak and "coffee with plenty." It is all these intimate details that the +public has thirst for.</p> + +<p>Now the point I want to make is this. Here, all around us, is fine doings +(as Murray Hill would put it), the jolliest literary hullabaloo going. Some +of the writers round about—Arthur Guiterman or Tom Masson or Witter +Bynner or Tom Daly, or some of these chaps now sitting down to +combination-plate luncheons and getting off all manner of merry quips and +confidential matters—some of these chaps may be famous some day +(posterity is so undiscriminating) and all that savory personal stuff will +have evaporated from our memories. The world of bookmen is in great need of a +new crop of intimists, or whatever you call them. Barbellion chaps. Henry +Ryecrofts. We need a chiel taking notes somewhere.</p> + +<p>Now if you really jot down the merry gossip, and make bright little pen +portraits, and tell just what happens, it will not only afford you a deal of +discreet amusement, but the diary you keep will reciprocate. In your older +years it will keep you. <i>Harper's Magazine</i> will undoubtedly want to +publish it, forty years from now. If that is too late to keep you, it will +help to keep your descendants. So I wish some of the authors would confess +and let us know which of them are doing it. It would be jolly to know to whom +we might confide the genial little items of what-not and +don't-let-this-go-farther that come the rounds. The inside story of the +literature of any epoch is best told in the diaries. I'll bet Brander +Matthews kept one, and James Huneker. It's a pity Professor Matthews's was a +bit tedious. Crabb Robinson was the man for my money.</p> + +<p>The diarists I would choose for the present generation on Grub Street +would be Heywood Broun, Franklin Adams, Bob Holliday, William McFee, and +maybe Ben De Casseres (if he would promise not to mention Don Marquis and +Walt Whitman more than once per page). McFee might be let off the job by +reason of his ambrosial letters. But it just occurs to me that of course one +must not know who is keeping the diary. If it were known, he would be deluged +with letters from people wanting to get their names into it. And the really +worthwhile folks would be on their guard.</p> + +<p>But if all the writers wait until they are eighty years old and can write +their memoirs with the beautifully gnarled and chalky old hands Joyce Kilmer +loved to contemplate, they will have forgotten the comical pith of a lot of +it. If you want to reproduce the colors and collisions along the sunny side +of Grub Street, you've got to jot down your data before they fade. I wish I +had time to be diarist of such matters. How candid I'd be! I'd put down all +about the two young novelists who used to meet every day in City Hall Park to +compare notes while they were hunting for jobs, and make wagers as to whose +pair of trousers would last longer. (Quite a desirable essay could he +written, by the way, on the influence of trousers on the fortunes of Grub +Street, with the three stages of the Grub Street trouser, viz.: 1, baggy; 2, +shiny; 3, trousers that must not be stooped in on any account.) There is an +uproarious tale about a pair of trousers and a very well-known writer and a +lecture at Vassar College, but these things have to be reserved for +posterity, the legatee of all really amusing matters.</p> + +<p>But then there are other topics, too, such as the question whether +Ibáñez always wears a polo shirt, as the photos lead one to +believe. The secret Philip Gibbs told me about the kind of typewriter he used +on the western front. I would be enormously candid (if I were a diarist). I'd +put down that I never can remember whether Vida Scudder is a man or a woman. +I'd tell what A. Edward Newton said when he came rushing into the office to +show me the Severn death-bed portrait of Keats, which he had just bought from +Rosenbach. I'd tell the story of the unpublished letter of R.L.S. which a +young man sold to buy a wedding present, which has since vanished (the R.L.S. +letter). I'd tell the amazing story of how a piece of Walt Whitman manuscript +was lost in Philadelphia on the memorable night of June 30, 1919. I'd tell +just how Vachel Lindsay behaves when he's off duty. I'd even forsake +everything to travel over to England with Vachel on his forthcoming lecture +tour, as I'm convinced that England's comments on Vachel will be worth +listening to.</p> + +<p>The ideal man to keep the sort of diary I have in mind would be Hilaire +Belloc. It was an ancestor of Mr. Belloc, Dr. Joseph Priestley (who died in +Pennsylvania, by the way) who discovered oxygen; and it is Mr. Belloc himself +who has discovered how to put oxygen into the modern English essay. The gift, +together with his love of good eating, probably came to him from his mother, +Bessie Rayner Parkes, who once partook of Samuel Rogers's famous literary +breakfasts. And this brings us back to our old friend Crabb Robinson, another +of the Rogers breakfast clan. Robinson is never wildly exciting, but he gives +a perfect panorama of his day. It is not often that one finds a man who +associated with such figures as Goethe, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake, and +Lamb. He had the true gift for diarizing. What could be better, for instance, +than this little miniature picture of the rise and fall of teetotalism in one +well-loved person?—</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Mary</span> Lamb, I am glad to say, is just now very +comfortable. She has put herself under Doctor Tuthill, who has +prescribed water. Charles, in consequence, resolved to accommodate +himself to her, and since Lord-Mayor's day has abstained from all other +liquor, as well asfrom smoking. We shall all rejoice if this +experiment succeeds.... His change of habit, though it, on the whole, +improves his health, yet when he is low-spirited, leaves him +without a remedy or relief.<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;" class="smallcaps">—Letter of Henry Crabb Robinson To Miss Wordsworth</span>, +December 23, 1810.<br><br> + +Spent part of the evening with Charles Lamb +(unwell) and his sister.<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">—<span class="smallcaps">Robinson's Diary</span>, +January 8, 1811.</span> +<br><br> + +Late in the evening Lamb called, to sit with +me while he smoked hispipe.<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">—<span class="smallcaps">Robinson's Diary</span>, +December 20, 1814.</span><br><br> + +Lamb was in a happy frame, and I can still +recall to my mind the look and tone with which he addressed Moore, +when he could not articulate very distinctly: "Mister Moore, +will you drink a glass of wine with me?"—suiting the action to +the word, and hobnobbing.<br> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;" class="smallcaps">—Robinson's Diary, +April 4, 1823.</span> +</blockquote> + +<p>Now that, I maintain, is just the kind of stuff we need in a diary of +today. How fascinating that old book Peyrat's "Pastors of the Desert" became +when we learned that R.L.S. had a copy of the second volume of it in his +sleeping sack when he camped out with Modestine. Even so it may be a matter +of delicious interest to our grandsons to know what book Joe Hergesheimer was +reading when he came in town on the local from West Chester recently, and who +taught him to shoot craps. It is interesting to know what Will and Stephen +Benét (those skiey fraternals) eat when they visit a Hartford Lunch; to +know whether Gilbert Chesterton is really fond of dogs (as "The Flying Inn" +implies, if you remember Quoodle), and whether Edwin Meade Robinson and Edwin +Arlington Robinson, <i>arcades ambo</i>, ever write to each other. It would +be interesting—indeed it would be highly entertaining—to +compile a list of the free meals Vachel Lindsay has received, and to +ascertain the number of times Harry Kemp has been "discovered." It would be +interesting to know how many people shudder with faint nausea (as I do) when +they pick up a Dowson playlet and find it beginning with a list of characters +including "A Moon Maiden" and "Pierrot," scene set in "a glade in the Parc du +Petit Trianon—a statue of Cupid—Pierrot enters with his hands +full of lilies." It would be interesting to resume the number of brazen +imitations of McCrae's "In Flanders Fields"—here is the most striking, +put out on a highly illuminated card by a New York publishing firm:</p> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead,<br> +The poppies still blow overhead,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The larks ye heard, still singing +fly.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They sing of the cause which made thee +die.</span><br> +<br> +And they are heard far down below,<br> +Our fight is ended with the foe.<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The fight for right, which ye begun</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And which ye died for, we have won.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rest in peace.</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + + +<p>The man who wrote that ought to be the first man mobilized for the next +war.</p> + +<p>All such matters, with a plentiful bastinado for stupidity and swank, are +the privilege of the diarist. He may indulge himself in the delightful luxury +of making post-mortem enemies. He may wonder what the average reviewer thinks +he means by always referring to single publishers in the plural. A note which +we often see in the papers runs like this: "Soon to be issued by the Dorans +(or Knopfs or Huebsches)," etc., etc. This is an echo of the old custom when +there really were two or more Harpers. But as long as there is only one +Doran, one Huebsch, one Knopf, it is simply idiotic.</p> + +<p>Well, as we go sauntering along the sunny side of Grub Street, meditating +an essay on the Mustache in Literature (we have shaved off our own since that +man Murray Hill referred to it in the public prints as "a young hay-wagon"), +we are wondering whether any of the writing men are keeping the kind of diary +we should like our son to read, say in 1950. Perhaps Miss Daisy Ashford is +keeping one. She has the seeing eye. Alas that Miss Daisy at nine years old +was a <i>puella unius libri</i>.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="BURIAL_SERVICE_FOR_A_NEWSPAPER_JOKE"></a> + +<h2>BURIAL SERVICE FOR A NEWSPAPER JOKE</h2> +<br> + + +<p><i>After the remains have been decently interred, the following remarks +shall be uttered by the presiding humorist:</i></p> + +<p>This joke has been our refuge from one generation to another:</p> + +<p>Before the mountains were brought forth this joke was lusty and of good +repute:</p> + +<p>In the life of this joke a thousand years are but as yesterday.</p> + +<p>Blessed, therefore, is this joke, which now resteth from its labors.</p> + +<p>But most of our jokes are of little continuance: though there be some so +strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their humor then but labor +and sorrow:</p> + +<p>For a joke that is born of a humorist hath but a short time to live and is +full of misery. It cometh up and is cut down like a flower. It fleeth as if +it were a shadow and abideth but one edition.</p> + +<p>It is sown in quotation, it is raised in misquotation: We therefore commit +this joke to the files of the country newspapers, where it shall circulate +forever, world without end.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="ADVICE_TO_THOSE_VISITING_A_BABY"></a> + +<h2>ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A BABY</h2> +<br> + + +<p>Interview the baby alone if possible. If, however, both parents are +present, say, "It looks like its mother." And, as an afterthought, "I think +it has its father's elbows."</p> + +<p>If uncertain as to the infant's sex, try some such formula as, "He looks +like her grandparents," or "She has his aunt's sweet disposition."</p> + +<p>When the mother only is present, your situation is critical. Sigh deeply +and admiringly, to imply that you wish <i>you</i> had a child like that. +Don't commit yourself at all until she gives a lead.</p> + +<p>When the father only is present, you may be a little reckless. Give the +father a cigar and venture, "Good luck, old man; it looks like your +mother-in-law."</p> + +<p>If possible, find out beforehand how old the child is. Call up the Bureau +of Vital Statistics. If it is two months old, say to the mother, "Rather +large for six months, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>If the worst has happened and the child really does look like its father, +the most tactful thing is to say, "Children change as they grow older." Or +you may suggest that some mistake has been made at the hospital and they have +brought home the wrong baby.</p> + +<p>If left alone in the room with the baby, throw a sound-proof rug over it +and escape.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="ABOU_BEN_WOODROW"></a> + +<h2>ABOU BEN WOODROW</h2> + +<h4>(IN PARIS)</h4> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0236.png"><img src="images/Illus-0236.png" + alt="Abou Ben Woodrow in bed watching angel reading from scroll" border= "0" width="50%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Abou Ben Woodrow (may his tribe increase!)<br> +Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,<br> +And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor<br> +(Making the room look like a department store),<br> +An Angel writing in a book of gold.<br> +Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow bold<br> +And to the Presence in the room said he,<br> +"<i>Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça que tu ecris?"</i><br> +Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire<br> +What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire<br> +But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head<br> +(All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's head!)<br> +And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's<br> +Answered: "The names of those who grease the wheels<br> +Of progress and have never, never blundered."<br> +Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered.<br> +"And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so,"<br> +Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low<br> +But cheerly still, and in his May I notting<br> +Fashion he said: "Of course you may be rotting,<br> +But even if you are, may I not then<br> +Be writ as one that loves his fellow men?<br> +Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely<br> +And I am yours, cordially and sincerely."<br> +The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse.<br> +Next night returned (accompanied by House)<br> +And showed the names whom love of Peace had blest.<br> +And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the rest! +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="MY_MAGNIFICENT_SYSTEM"></a> + +<h2>MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM</h2> +<br> + + +<p>In these days when the streets are so perilous, every man who goes about +the city ought to be sure that his pockets are in good order, so that when he +is run down by a roaring motor-truck the police will have no trouble in +identifying him and communicating with his creditors.</p> + +<p>I have always been very proud of my pocket system. As others may wish to +install it, I will describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate and lifeless +on the paving, I can quickly be identified by the following arrangement of my +private affairs:</p> + +<p>In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, partially surrounded by +pocket.</p> + +<p>In my left-hand trouser pocket is a complicated bunch of keys. I am not +quite sure what they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. They are very +useful, however, as when I walk rapidly they evolve a shrill jingling which +often conveys the impression of minted coinage. One of them, I think, unlocks +the coffer where I secretly preserve the pair of spats I bought when I became +engaged.</p> + +<p>My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, for the handkerchief reserves +(hayfever sufferers, please notice); and, in winter, for stamps. It is +tapestried with a sheet of three-cent engravings that got in there by mistake +last July, and adhered.</p> + +<p>My left-hand hip pocket holds my memorandum book, which contains only one +entry: <i>Remember not to forget anything</i>.</p> + +<p>The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a pencil, a commutation ticket +and a pipe cleaner.</p> + +<p>The left-hand lower waistcoat pocket contains what the ignorant will +esteem scraps of paper. This, however, is the hub and nerve center of my +mnemonic system. When I want to remember anything I write it down on a small +slip of paper and stick it in that pocket. Before going to bed I clean out +the pocket and see how many things I have forgotten during the day. This +promotes tranquil rest.</p> + +<p>The right-hand upper waistcoat pocket is used for wall-paper samples. Here +I keep clippings of all the wallpapers at home, so that when buying shirts, +ties, socks or books I can be sure to get something that will harmonize. My +taste in these matters has sometimes been aspersed, so I am playing safe.</p> + +<p>The right-hand lower waistcoat pocket is used for small change. This is a +one-way pocket; exit only.</p> + +<p>The inner pocket of my coat is used for railroad timetables, most of which +have since been changed. Also a selected assortment of unanswered letters and +slips of paper saying, "Call Mr. So-and-so before noon." The first thing to +be done by my heirs after collecting the remains must be to communicate with +the writers of those letters, to assure them that I was struck down in the +fullness of my powers while on the way to the post office to mail an +answer.</p> + +<p>My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes.</p> + +<p>Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and matches.</p> + +<p>The little tin cup strapped in my left armpit is for Swedish matches that +failed to ignite. It is an invention of my own.</p> + +<p>I once intended to allocate a pocket especially for greenbacks, but found +it unnecessary.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="LETTERS_TO_CYNTHIA"></a> + +<h2>LETTERS TO CYNTHIA</h2> +<br> +<a name="IN_PRAISE"></a> + +<h4>I. IN PRAISE OF BOOBS</h4> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em"><i>Dear</i></span> <i>Sir—What is a Boob? Will you +please discuss the subject a little? Perhaps I'm a boob for +asking—but I'd like to know</i>. +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smallcaps">Cynthia.</span><br> +</blockquote> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0241.png"><img src="images/Illus-0241.png" + alt="Two men and a woman talking" border= "0" width="40%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<h5>BE FRIENDLY WITH BOOBS</h5> + +<p>The Boob, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's device for mitigating the quaintly +blended infelicities of existence. Never be too bitter about the Boob. The +Boob is you and me and the man in the elevator.</p> + +<h5>THE BOOB IS HUMANITY'S HOPE</h5> + +<p>As long as the Boob ratio remains high, humanity is safe. The Boob is the +last repository of the stalwart virtues. The Boob is faith, hope and charity. +The Boob is the hope of conservatives, the terror of radicals and the meal +check of cynics. If you are run over on Market Street and left groaning under +the mailed fist of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and I.W.W. will be watching the +shop windows. It will be the Boob who will come to your aid, even before the +cop gets there.</p> + +<h5>1653 BOOBS</h5> + +<p>If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in the middle of Chestnut +Street, and illuminate it with signs and red lights and placards reading, +<i>DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT</i>, 1653 Boobs would tumble into it during the +course of the day. Boobs have faith. They are eager to plunge in where an +angel wouldn't even show his periscope.</p> + +<h5>THE BOOB RATIO</h5> + +<p>But that does not prove anything creditable to human nature. For though +1653 people would fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit Company will dig +for us free of charge) 26,448 would cautiously and suspiciously and +contemptuously avoid it. The Boob ratio is just about 1 to 16.</p> + +<h5>HE LOOKS FOR ANGELS</h5> + +<p>It does not pay to make fun of the Boob. There is no malice in him, no +insolence, no passion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If he sees +some one on a street corner gazing open-mouthed at the sky, he will do +likewise, and stand there for half hour with his apple of Adam expectantly +vibrating. But is that a shameful trait? May not a Boob expect to see angels +in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is he more disreputable than the knave who +frisks his watch meanwhile? And suppose he does see an angel, or even only a +blue acre of sky—is that not worth as much as the dial in his poke?</p> + +<h5>HE SEES THEM</h5> + +<p>It is the Boob who is always willing to look hopefully for angels who will +see them ultimately. And the man who is only looking for the Boob's timepiece +will do time of his own by and by.</p> + +<h5>HE BEARS NO MALICE</h5> + +<p>The Boob is convinced that the world is conducted on genteel and friendly +principles. He feels in his heart that even the law of gravity will do him no +harm. That is why he steps unabashed into our pit on Chestnut Street; and +finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, he bears no ill will to Sir +Isaac Newton. He simply knows that the law of gravity took him for some one +else—a street-cleaning contractor, perhaps.</p> + +<h5>A DEFINITION</h5> + +<p>A small boy once defined a Boob as one who always treats other people +better than he does himself.</p> + +<h5>HE IS UNSUSPICIOUS</h5> + +<p>The Boob is hopeful, cheery, more concerned over other people's troubles +than his own. He goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under the silk hat, +even when the silk hat is on the head of a Mayor or City Councilman. He will +pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the whole world is loaded and +aimed at him. He will keep on running for the 5:42 train, even though the +timetable was changed the day before yesterday. He goes through the revolving +doors the wrong way. He forgets that the banks close at noon on Saturdays. He +asks for oysters on the first of June. He will wait for hours at the Chestnut +Street door, even though his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon +counter.</p> + +<h5>HIS WIFE</h5> + +<p>Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a Boob before marriage he will never +become so after. Women are the natural antidotes of Boobs.</p> + +<h5>RECEPTIVE</h5> + +<p>The Boob is not quarrelsome. He is willing to believe that you know more +about it than he does. He is always at home for ideas.</p> + +<h5>HE IS HAPPY</h5> + +<p>Of course, what bothers other people is that the Boob is so happy. He +enjoys himself. He falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and has more fun +out of the tumble than the sneering 26,448 who stand above untumbled. The +happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 15 per cent investment that +returns only engraved prospectuses. He stands on that street corner looking +for an imaginary angel parachuting down, and enjoys himself more than the +Mephistopheles who is laughing up his sleeve.</p> + +<h5>NATURE'S DARLING</h5> + +<p>Nature must love the Boob, because she is a good deal of a Boob herself. +How she has squandered herself upon mountain peaks that are useless except +for the Alpenstock Trust; upon violets that can't be eaten; upon giraffes +whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that the Boob is +Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the rest?</p> + +<h5>A BRIEF MAXIM</h5> + +<p>Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead.</p> + +<h5>IN CONCLUSION</h5> + +<p>But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob with the Poor Fish. The Poor +Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob gone wrong. The Poor +Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an angel, would +think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The Poor Fish is Why +Boobs Leave Home.</p> +<br> + +<a name="SIMPLIFICATION"></a> + +<h4>II. SIMPLIFICATION</h4> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em"><i>Dear</i></span> <i>Sir—How can life be +simplified? In the office where I work the pressure of affairs is very exacting. +Often I do not have a moment to think over my own affairs before 4 +p.m. There are a great many matters that puzzle me, and I am afraid +that if I go on working so hard the sweetest hours of my youth may +pass before I have given them proper consideration. It is very +irassible. Can you help me?</i> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smallcaps">Cynthia</span>. +</blockquote> +<br> + +<h5>SALUTATION TO CYNTHIA</h5> + +<p>Cynthia, my child: How are you? It is very delightful to hear from you +again. During the recent months I have been very lonely indeed without your +comradeship and counsel with regard to the great matters which were under +consideration.</p> + +<h5>THINKING IT OVER</h5> + +<p>Well, Cynthia, when your inquiry reached me I propped my feet on the desk, +got out the corncob pipe and thought things over. How to simplify life? How, +indeed! It is a subject that interests me strangely. Of course, the easiest +method is to let one's ancestors do it for one. If you have been lucky enough +to choose a simple-minded, quiet-natured quartet of grandparents, frugal, +thrifty and foresighted, who had the good sense to buy property in an +improving neighborhood and keep their money compounding at a fair rate of +interest, the problem is greatly clarified. If they have hung on to the old +farmstead, with its huckleberry pasture and cowbells tankling homeward at +sunset and a bright brown brook cascading down over ledges of rock into a +swimming hole, then again your problem has possible solutions. Just go out to +the farm, with a copy of Matthew Arnold's "Scholar Gipsy" (you remember the +poem, in which he praises the guy who had sense enough to leave town and live +in the suburbs where the Bolsheviki wouldn't bother him), and don't leave any +forwarding address with the postoffice. But if, as I fear from an examination +of your pink-scalloped notepaper with its exhalation of lilac essence, the +vortex of modern jazz life has swept you in, the crisis is far more +intricate.</p> + +<h5>TAKE THE MATTER IN YOUR OWN HANDS</h5> + +<p>Of course, my dear Cynthia, it is better to simplify your own life than to +have some one else do it for you. The Kaiser, for instance, has had his +career greatly simplified, but hardly in a way he himself would have chosen. +The first thing to do is to come to a clear understanding of (and to let your +employer know you understand) the two principles that underlie modern +business. There are only two kinds of affairs that are attended to in an +office. First, things that absolutely must be done. These are often numerous; +but remember, that since they <i>have</i> to be done, if you don't do them +some one else will. Second, things that don't have to be done. And since they +don't have to be done, why do them? This will simplify matters a great +deal.</p> + +<h5>FURTHER SUGGESTIONS</h5> + +<p>The next thing to do is to stop answering letters. Even the firm's most +persistent customers will cease troubling you by and bye if you persist. +Then, stop answering the telephone. A pair of office shears can sever a +telephone wire much faster than any mechanician can keep it repaired. If the +matter is really urgent, let the other people telegraph. While you are +perfecting this scheme look about, in a dignified way, for another job. Don't +take the first thing that offers itself, but wait until something really +congenial appears. It is a good thing to choose some occupation that will +keep you a great deal in the open air, preferably something that involves +looking at shop windows and frequent visits to the receiving teller at the +bank. It is nice to have a job in a tall building overlooking the sea, with +office hours from 3 to 5 p.m.</p> + +<h5>HOW EASY, AFTER ALL!</h5> + +<p>Many people, dear Cynthia, are harassed because they do not realize how +easy it is to get out of a job which involves severe and concentrated effort. +My child, you must not allow yourself to become discouraged. Almost any job +can be shaken off in time and with perseverance. Looking out of the window is +a great help. There are very few businesses where what goes on in the office +is half as interesting as what is happening on the street outside. If your +desk does not happen to be near a window, so much the better. You can watch +the sunset admirably from the window of the advertising manager's office. +Call his attention to the rosy tints in the afterglow or the glorious pallor +of the clouds. Advertising managers are apt to be insufficiently appreciative +of these things. Sometimes, when they are closeted with the Boss in +conference, open the ground-glass door and say, "I think it is going to rain +shortly." Carry your love of the beautiful into your office life. This will +inevitably pave the way to simplification.</p> + +<h5>ENVELOPES WITH LOOP HOLES</h5> + +<p>And never open envelopes with little transparent panes of isinglass in +their fronts. Never keep copies of your correspondence. For, if your letters +are correct, no copy will be necessary. And, if incorrect, it is far better +not to have a copy. If you were to tell me the exact nature of your work I +could offer many more specific hints.</p> + +<h5>YOUR INQUIRY, CHILD, TOUCHES MY HEART</h5> + +<p>I am intimately interested in your problem, my child, for I am a great +believer in simplification. It is hard to follow out one's own precepts; but +the root of happiness is never to contradict any one and never agree with any +one. For if you contradict people, they will try to convince you; and if you +agree with them, they will enlarge upon their views until they say something +you will feel bound to contradict. Let me hear from you again.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="TO_AN_UNKNOWN_DAMSEL"></a> + +<h2>TO AN UNKNOWN DAMSEL</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +On Fifth Street, in a small café,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upstairs (our tables were adjacent),</span><br> +I saw you lunching yesterday,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And felt a secret thrill complacent.</span><br> +<br> +You sat, and, waiting for your meal,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You read a book. As I was eating,</span><br> +Dear me, how keen you made me feel<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To give you just a word of greeting!</span><br> +<br> +And as your hand the pages turned,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I watched you, dumbly contemplating—</span><br> +O how exceedingly I yearned<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To ask the girl to keep you waiting.</span><br> +<br> +I wished that I could be the maid<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To serve your meal or crumb your cloth, or</span><br> +Beguile some hazard to my aid<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To know your verdict on that author!</span><br> +<br> +And still you read. You dropped your purse,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, adorably unheeding,</span><br> +You turned the pages, verse by verse,—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I watched, and worshiped you for reading!</span><br> +<br> +You know not what restraint it took<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To mind my etiquette, nor flout it</span><br> +By telling you I know that book,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And asking what you thought about it.</span><br> +<br> +I cursed myself for being shy—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I longed to make polite advances;</span><br> +Alas! I let the time go by,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Fortune gives no second chances.</span><br> +<br> +You read, but still your face was calm—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(I scanned it closely, wretched sinner!)</span><br> +You showed no sign—I felt a qualm—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then the waitress brought your dinner.</span><br> +<br> +Those modest rhymes, you thought them fair?<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And will you sometimes praise or quote them?</span><br> +And do you ask why I should care?<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, Lady, it was I who wrote them!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THOUGHTS_ON_SETTING_AN_ALARM_CLOCK"></a> + +<h2>THOUGHTS ON SETTING AN ALARM CLOCK</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Mark the monitory dial,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Set the gong for six a.m.—</span><br> +Then, until the hour of trial,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clock a little sleep, pro tem.</span><br> +<br> +As I crank the dread alarum<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stern resolve I try to fix:</span><br> +My ideals, shall I mar 'em<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the awful moment ticks?</span><br> +<br> +Heaven strengthen my intention,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grant me grace my vow to keep:</span><br> +Would the law enforced Prevention<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of such Cruelty to Sleep!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="SONGS_IN_A_SHOWER_BATH"></a> + +<h2>SONGS IN A SHOWER BATH</h2> +<br> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0255.png"><img src="images/Illus-0255.png" + alt="Man in shower" border= "0" width="30%"></a> +</center><br> +<br> + +<a name="HOT WATER"></a> + +<h3>HOT WATER</h3> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Gently, while the drenching dribble<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Courses down my sweltered form,</span><br> +I am basking like a sybil,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lazy, languorous and warm.</span><br> +I am unambitious, flaccid,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well content to drowse and dream:</span><br> +How I hate life's bitter acid—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leave me here to stew and steam.</span><br> +Underneath this jet so torrid<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I forget the world's sad wrath:</span><br> +O activity is horrid!<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leave me in my shower-bath!</span><br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> + +<center><hr style="width: 33%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="COLD WATER"></a> + +<h3>COLD WATER</h3> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +But when I turn the crank<br> +O Zeus!<br> +A silver ecstasy thrills me!<br> +I caper and slap my chilled thighs,<br> +I plan to make a card index of all my ideas<br> +And feel like an efficiency expert.<br> +I tweak Fate by the nose<br> +And know I could succeed in <i>anything</i>.<br> +I throw up my head<br> +And glut myself with icy splatter...<br> +To-day I will really<br> +Begin my career!<br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="ON_DEDICATING_A_NEW_TEAPOT"></a> + +<h2>ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +Boiling water now is poured,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pouches filled with fresh tobacco,</span><br> +Round the hospitable board<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fragrant steams Ceylon or Pekoe.</span><br> +<br> +Bread and butter is cut thin,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cream and sugar, yes, bring them on;</span><br> +Ginger cookies in their tin,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the dainty slice of lemon.</span><br> +<br> +Let the marmalade be brought,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Buns of cinnamon adhesive;</span><br> +And, to catch the leaves, you ought<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To be sure to have the tea-sieve.</span><br> +<br> +But, before the cups be filled—<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cups that cause no ebriation—</span><br> +Let a genial wish be willed<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just by way of dedication.</span><br> +<br> +Here's your fortune, gentle pot:<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To our thirst you offer slakeage;</span><br> +Bright blue china, may I not<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hope no maid will cause you breakage.</span><br> +<br> +Kindest ministrant to man,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long be jocund years before you,</span><br> +And no meaner fortune than<br> +Helen's gracious hand to pour you!<br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="THE_UNFORGIVABLE_SYNTAX"></a> + +<h2>THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<table> +<tr> +<td> +A certain young man never knew<br> +Just when to say <i>whom</i> and when <i>who</i>;<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The question of choosing,"</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He said, "is confusing;</span><br> +I wonder if <i>which</i> wouldn't do?"<br> +<br> +Nothing is so illegitimate<br> +As a noun when his verbs do not fit him; it<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes him disturbed</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If not properly verbed—</span><br> +If he asks for the plural, why git him it!<br> +<br> +<i>Lie</i> and <i>lay</i> offer slips to the pen<br> +That have bothered most excellent men:<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You can say that you lay</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In bed—yesterday;</span><br> +If you do it to-day, you're a hen!<br> +<br> +A person we met at a play<br> +Was cruel to pronouns all day:<br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She would frequently cry</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Between you and I,</span><br> +If only us girls had our way—!"<br> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="VISITING_POETS"></a> + +<h2>VISITING POETS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>We were giving a young English poet a taste of Philadelphia, trying to +show him one or two of the simple beauties that make life agreeable to us. +Having just been photographed, he was in high good humor.</p> + +<p>"What a pity," he said, "that you in America have no literature that +reflects the amazing energy, the humor, the raciness of your life! I woke up +last night at the hotel and heard a motor fire engine thunder by. There's a +symbol of the extraordinary vitality of America! My, if I could only live +over here a couple of years, how I'd like to try my hand at it. It's a pity +that no one over here is putting down the humor of your life."</p> + +<p>"Have you read O. Henry?" we suggested.</p> + +<p>"Extraordinary country," he went on. "Somebody turned me loose on Mr. +Morgan's library in New York. There was a librarian there, but I didn't let +her bother me. I wanted to see that manuscript of 'Endymion' they have there. +I supposed they would take me up to a glass case and let me gaze at it. Not +at all. They put it right in my hands and I spent three quarters of an hour +over it. Wonderful stuff. You know, the first edition of my book is selling +at a double premium in London. It's been out only eighteen months."</p> + +<p>"How do you fellows get away with it?" we asked humbly.</p> + +<p>"I hope Pond isn't going to book me up for too many lectures," he said. +"I've got to get back to England in the spring. There's a painter over there +waiting to do my portrait. But there are so many places I've got to +lecture—everybody seems to want to hear about the young English +poets."</p> + +<p>"I hear Philip Gibbs is just arriving in New York," we said.</p> + +<p>"Is that so? Dear me, he'll quite take the wind out of my sails, won't he? +Nice chap, Gibbs. He sent me an awfully cheery note when I went out to the +front as a war correspondent. Said he liked my stuff about the sodgers. He'll +make a pot of money over here, won't he?"</p> + +<p>We skipped across City Hall Square abreast of some trolley cars.</p> + +<p>"I say, these trams keep one moving, don't they?" he said. "You know, I +was tremendously bucked by that department store you took me to see. That's +the sort of place one has to go to see the real art of America. Those +paintings in there, by the elevators, they were done by a young English girl. +Friend of mine—in fact, she did the pictures for my first book. Pity +you have so few poets over here. You mustn't make me lose my train; I've got +a date with Vachel Lindsay and Edgar Lee Masters in New York to-night. +Vachel's an amusing bird. I must get him over to England and get him started. +I've written to Edmund Gosse about him, and I'm going to write again. What a +pity Irvin Cobb doesn't write poetry! He's a great writer. What vivacity, +what a rich vocabulary!"</p> + +<p>"Have you read Mark Twain?" we quavered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mark's grand when he's serious; but when he tries to be funny, you +know, it's too obvious. I can always see him feeling for the joke. No, it +doesn't come off. You know an artist simply doesn't exist for me unless he +has something to say. That's what makes me so annoyed with R.L.S. In 'Weir of +Hermiston' and the 'New Arabian Nights' he really had something to say; the +rest of the time he was playing the fool on some one else's instrument. You +know style isn't something you can borrow from some one else; it's the +unconscious revelation of a man's own personality."</p> + +<p>We agreed.</p> + + +<p>"I wonder if there aren't some clubs around here that would like to hear +me talk?" he said. "You know, I'd like to come back to Philadelphia if I +could get some dates of that sort. Just put me wise, old man, if you hear of +anything. I was telling some of your poets in New York about the lectures +I've been giving. Those chaps are fearfully rough with one. You know, they'll +just ride over one roughshod if you give them a chance. They hate to see a +fellow a success. Awful tripe some of them are writing. They don't seem to be +expressing the spirit, the fine exhilaration, of American life at all. If I +had my way, I'd make every one in America read Rabelais and Madame Bovary. +Then they ought to study some of the old English poets, like Marvell, to give +them precision. It's lots of fun telling them these things. They respond +famously. Now over in my country we poets are all so reserved, so shy, so +taciturn.</p> + + +<p>"You know Pond, the lecture man in New York, was telling me a quaint story +about Masefield. Great friend of mine, old Jan Masefield. He turned up in New +York to talk at some show Pond was running. Had on some horrible old trench +boots. There was only about twenty minutes before the show began. 'Well,' +says Pond, hoping Jan was going to change his clothes, 'are you all ready?' +'Oh, yes,' says Jan. Pond was graveled; didn't know just what to do. So he +says, hoping to give Jan a hint, 'Well, I've just got to get my boots +polished.' Of course, they didn't need it—Americans' boots never +do—but Pond sits down on a boot-polishing stand and the boy begins to +polish for dear life. Jan sits down by him, deep in some little book or +other, paying no attention. Pond whispers to the boy, 'Quick, polish his +boots while he's reading.' Jan was deep in his book, never knew what was +going on. Then they went off to the lecture, Jan in his jolly old sack +suit."</p> + + +<p>We went up to a private gallery on Walnut Street, where some of the most +remarkable literary treasures in the world are stored, such as the original +copy of Elia given by Charles Lamb to the lady he wanted to marry, Fanny +Kelly. There we also saw some remarkable first editions of Shelley.</p> + +<p>"You know," he said, "Mrs. L---- in New York—I had an introduction +to her from Jan—wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, but I +wouldn't let her."</p> + +<p>"How do you fellows get away with it?" we said again humbly.</p> + +<p>"Well, old man," he said, "I must be going. Mustn't keep Vachel waiting. +Is this where I train? What a ripping station! Some day I must write a poem +about all this. What a pity you have so few poets ..."</p> +<br> + +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="A_GOOD_HOME_IN_THE_SUBURBS"></a> + +<h2>A GOOD HOME IN THE SUBURBS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>There are a number of empty apartments in the suburbs of our mind that we +shall be glad to rent to any well-behaved ideas.</p> + +<p>These apartments (unfurnished) all have southern exposure and are +reasonably well lighted. They have emergency exits.</p> + +<p>We prefer middle-aged, reasonable ideas that have outgrown the diseases of +infancy. No ideas need apply that will lie awake at night and disturb the +neighbors, or will come home very late and wake the other tenants. This is an +orderly mind, and no gambling, loud laughter and carnival or Pomeranian dogs +will be admitted.</p> + +<p>If necessary, the premises can be improved to suit high-class tenants.</p> + +<p>No lease longer than six months can be given to any one idea, unless it +can furnish positive guarantees of good conduct, no bolshevik affiliations +and no children.</p> + +<p>We have an orphanage annex where homeless juvenile ideas may be +accommodated until they grow up.</p> + +<p>The southwestern section of our mind, where these apartments are +available, is some distance from the bustle and traffic, but all the central +points can be reached without difficulty. Middle-aged, unsophisticated ideas +of domestic tastes will find the surroundings almost ideal.</p> + +<p>For terms and blue prints apply janitor on the premises.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="WALT_WHITMAN_MINIATURES"></a> + +<h2>WALT WHITMAN MINIATURES</h2> +<br> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>A decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that one should have +some excuse for being away from the office on a working afternoon. September +sunshine and trembling blue air are not sufficient reasons, it seems. +Therefore, if any one should brutally ask what I was doing the other day +dangling down Chestnut Street toward the river, I should have to reply, +"Looking for the <i>Wenonah</i>." The <i>Wenonah</i>, you will immediately +conclude, is a moving picture theater. But be patient a moment.</p> + +<p>Lower Chestnut Street is a delightful place for one who does not get down +there very often. The face of wholesale trade, dingier than the glitter of +uptown shops, is far more exciting and romantic. Pavements are cumbered with +vast packing cases; whiffs of tea and spice well up from cool cellars. Below +Second Street I found a row of enormous sacks across the curb, with bright +red and green wool pushing through holes in the burlap. Such signs as WOOL, +NOILS AND WASTE are frequent. I wonder what noils are? A big sign on Front +Street proclaims TEA CADDIES, which has a pleasant grandmotherly flavor. A +little brass plate, gleamingly polished, says HONORARY CONSULATE OF JAPAN. +Beside immense motor trucks stood a shabby little horse and buggy, restored +to service, perhaps, by the war-time shortage of gasoline. It was a typical +one-horse shay of thirty years ago.</p> + +<p>I crossed over to Camden on the ferryboat <i>Wildwood</i>, observing in +the course of the voyage her sisters, <i>Bridgeton, Camden, Salem</i> and +<i>Hammonton</i>. It is curious that no matter where one goes, one will +always meet people who are traveling there for the first time. A small boy +next to me was gazing in awe at the stalwart tower of the Victor Company, and +snuffing with pleasure the fragrance of cooking tomatoes that makes Camden +savory at this time of year. Wagonloads of ripe Jersey tomatoes making their +way to the soup factory are a jocund sight across the river just now.</p> + +<p>Every ferry passenger is familiar with the rapid tinkling of the ratchet +wheel that warps the landing stage up to the level of the boat's deck. I +asked the man who was running the wheel where I would find the +<i>Wenonah</i>. "She lays over in the old Market Street slip," he replied, +and cheerfully showed me just where to find her. "Is she still used?" I +asked. "Mostly on Saturday nights and holidays," he said, "when there's a big +crowd going across."</p> + +<p>The <i>Wenonah</i>, as all Camden seafarers know, is a ferryboat, one of +the old-timers, and I was interested in her because she and her sister, the +<i>Beverly</i>, were Walt Whitman's favorite ferries. He crossed back and +forth on them hundreds of times and has celebrated them in several paragraphs +in <i>Specimen Days</i>. Perhaps this is the place to quote his memorandum +dated January 12, 1882, which ought to interest all lovers of the Camden +ferry:</p> + +<p>"Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before sundown yesterday +evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden, is worth weaving into an +item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from the southwest, the water of a pale +tawny color, and just enough motion to make things frolicsome and lively. Add +to these an approaching sunset of unusual splendor, a broad tumble of clouds, +with much golden haze and profusion of beaming shaft and dazzle. In the midst +of all, in the clear drab of the afternoon light, there steamed up the river +the large new boat, the <i>Wenonah</i>, as pretty an object as you could wish +to see, lightly and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white, covered with +flags, transparent red and blue streaming out in the breeze. Only a new +ferryboat, and yet in its fitness comparable with the prettiest product of +Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up in the transparent ether +gracefully balanced and circled four or five great sea hawks, while here +below, mid the pomp and picturesqueness of sky and river, swam this creature +of artificial beauty and motion and power, in its way no less perfect."</p> + +<p>You will notice that Walt Whitman describes the <i>Wenonah</i> as being +white. The Pennsylvania ferryboats, as we know them, are all the brick-red +color that is familiar to the present generation. Perhaps older navigators of +the Camden crossing can tell us whether the boats were all painted white in a +less smoky era?</p> + +<p>The <i>Wenonah</i> and the <i>Beverly</i> were lying in the now unused +ferry slip at the foot of Market Street, alongside the great Victor Talking +Machine works. Picking my way through an empty yard where some carpentering +was going on, I found a deserted pier that overlooked the two old vessels and +gave a fair prospect on to the river and the profile of Philadelphia. Sitting +there on a pile of pebbles, I lit a pipe and watched the busy panorama of the +river. I made no effort to disturb the normal and congenial lassitude that is +the highest function of the human being: no Hindoo philosopher could have +been more pleasantly at ease. (O. Henry, one remembers, used to insist that +what some of his friends called laziness was really "dignified repose.") Two +elderly colored men were loading gravel onto a cart not far away. I was a +little worried as to what I could say if they asked what I was doing. In +these days casual loungers along docksides may be suspected of depth bombs +and high treason. The only truthful reply to any question would have been +that I was thinking about Walt Whitman. Such a remark, if uttered in +Philadelphia, would undoubtedly have been answered by a direction to the +chocolate factory on Race Street. But in Camden every one knows about Walt. +Still, the colored men said nothing beyond returning my greeting. Their race, +wise in simplicity, knows that loafing needs no explanation and is its own +excuse.</p> + +<p>If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so well, in New York and +Philadelphia, he would find the former strangely altered in aspect. The New +York skyline wears a very different silhouette against the sky, with its +marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. But Philadelphia's profile +is (I imagine) not much changed. I do not know just when the City Hall tower +was finished: Walt speaks of it as "three-fifths built" in 1879. That, of +course, is the dominant unit in the view from Camden. Otherwise there are few +outstanding elements. The gradual rise in height of the buildings, from Front +Street gently ascending up to Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation +to catch the gaze. The spires of the older churches stand up like soft blue +pencils, and the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel buildings catch +the sunlight. Otherwise the outline is even and well-massed in a smooth +ascending curve.</p> + +<p>It is curious how a man can stamp his personality upon earthly things. +There will always be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Delaware ferries are +full of excitement and meaning because of Walt Whitman. Just as Stratford is +Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman. Some supercilious observers, flashing +through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a town in which there is no +delirious and seizing beauty. Let us remind them of Walt's own words:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">A</span> great city is that which has the greatest men and women. If it be a few +ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world. +</blockquote> + + +<p>And as I came back across the river, and an airplane hovered over us at a +great height, I thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, a poet who can +catch the heart and meaning of these grievous bitter years, who can make +plain the surging hopes that throb in the breasts of men. The world has not +flung itself into agony without some unexpressed vision that lights the +sacrifice. If Walt Whitman were here he would look on this new world of +moving pictures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell us what it means. +His great heart, which with all its garrulous fumbling had caught the deep +music of human service and fellowship, would have had true and fine words for +us. And yet he would have found it a hard world for one of his strolling +meditative observancy. A speeding motor truck would have run him down long +ago!</p> + +<p>As I left the ferry at Market Street I saw that the Norwegian steamer +<i>Taunton</i> was unloading bananas at the Ericsson pier. Less than a month +ago she picked up the survivors of the schooner <i>Madrugada</i>, torpedoed +by a U-boat off Winter Bottom Shoal. On the <i>Madrugada</i> was a young +friend of mine, a Dutch sailor, who told me of the disaster after he was +landed in New York. To come unexpectedly on the ship that had rescued him +seemed a great adventure. What a poem Walt Whitman could have made of it!</p> +<br> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>It is a weakness of mine—not a sinful one, I hope—that +whenever I see any one reading a book in public I am agog to find out what it +is. Crossing over to Camden this morning a young woman on the ferry was +absorbed in a volume, and I couldn't resist peeping over her shoulder. It was +"Hans Brinker." On the same boat were several schoolboys carrying copies of +Myers' "History of Greece." Quaint, isn't it, how our schools keep up the +same old bunk! What earthly use will a smattering of Greek history be to +those boys? Surely to our citizens of the coming generation the battles of +the Marne will be more important than the scuffle at Salamis.</p> + +<p>My errand in Camden was to visit the house on Mickle Street where Walt +Whitman lived his last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer, a +friendly Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer graciously allowed me to +go through the downstairs rooms.</p> + +<p>I don't suppose any literary shrine on earth is of more humble and +disregarded aspect than Mickle Street. It is a little cobbled byway, grimed +with drifting smoke from the railway yards, littered with wind-blown papers +and lined with small wooden and brick houses sooted almost to blackness. It +is curious to think, as one walks along that bumpy brick pavement, that many +pilgrims from afar have looked forward to visiting Mickle Street as one of +the world's most significant altars. As Chesterton wrote once, "We have not +yet begun to get to the beginning of Whitman." But the wayfarer of to-day +will find Mickle Street far from impressive.</p> + +<p>The little house, a two-story frame cottage, painted dark brown, is +numbered 330. (In Whitman's day it was 328.) On the pavement in front stands +a white marble stepping-block with the carved initials W.W.—given to +the poet, I dare say, by the same friends who bought him a horse and +carriage. A small sign, in English and Italian, says: <i>Thomas A. Skymer, +Automobiles to Hire on Occasions</i>. It was with something of a thrill that +I entered the little front parlor where Walt used to sit, surrounded by his +litter of papers and holding forth to faithful listeners. One may safely say +that his was a happy old age, for there were those who never jibbed at +protracted audience.</p> + +<p>A description of that room as it was in the last days of Whitman's life +may not be uninteresting. I quote from the article published by the +Philadelphia <i>Press</i> of March 27, 1892, the day after the poet's +death:</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">Below</span> the windowsill a four-inch pine shelf +is swung, on which rests a bottle of ink, two or three pens and a +much-rubbed spectacle case. +</blockquote> + +<p>(The shelf, I am sorry to say, is no longer there.)</p> + +<blockquote> +<span style="margin-left: 1em">The</span> table—between which and the wall +is the poet's rocker covered with a worsted afghan, presented to him one +Christmas by a bevy of college girls who admired his work—is +so thickly piled with booksand magazines, letters and the raffle of a +literary desk that thereis scarcely an inch of room upon which he may +rest his paper as he writes. A volume of Shakespeare lies on top +of a heaping full waste basket that was once used to bring peaches to +market, and an ancient copy of Worcester's Dictionary shares places +in an adjacent chair with the poet's old and familiar soft gray +hat, a newly darned blue woolen sock and a shoe-blacking brush. There +is a paste bottle and brush on the table and a pair of scissors, +much used by the poet, who writes, for the most part, on small bits +of paper and parts of old envelopes and pastes them together in +patchwork fashion. +</blockquote> + +<p>In spite of a careful examination, I could find nothing in the parlor at +all reminiscent of Whitman's tenancy, except the hole for the stovepipe under +the mantel. One of Mrs. Skymer's small boys told me that "He" died in that +room. Evidently small Louis Skymer didn't in the least know who "He" was, but +realized that his home was in some vague way connected with a mysterious +person whose memory occasionally attracts inquirers to the house.</p> + +<p>Behind the parlor is a dark little bedroom, and then the kitchen. In a +corner of the back yard is a curious thing: a large stone or terra cotta bust +of a bearded man, very much like Whitman himself, but the face is battered +and the nose broken so it would be hard to assert this definitely. One of the +boys told me that it was in the yard when they moved in a year or so ago. The +house is a little dark, standing between two taller brick neighbors. At the +head of the stairs I noticed a window with colored panes, which lets in spots +of red, blue and yellow light. I imagine that this patch of vivid color was a +keen satisfaction to Walt's acute senses. Such is the simple cottage that one +associates with America's literary declaration of independence.</p> + +<p>The other Whitman shrine in Camden is the tomb in Harleigh Cemetery, +reached by the Haddonfield trolley. Doctor Oberholtzer, in his "Literary +History of Philadelphia," calls it "tawdry," to which I fear I must demur. +Built into a quiet hillside in that beautiful cemetery, of enormous slabs of +rough-hewn granite with a vast stone door standing symbolically ajar, it +seemed to me grotesque, but greatly impressive. It is a weird pagan cromlech, +with a huge triangular boulder above the door bearing only the words WALT +WHITMAN. Palms and rubber plants grow in pots on the little curved path +leading up to the tomb; above it is an uncombed hillside and trees flickering +in the air. At this tomb, designed (it is said) by Whitman himself, was held +that remarkable funeral ceremony on March 30, 1892, when a circus tent was +not large enough to roof the crowd, and peanut venders did business on the +outskirts of the gathering. Perhaps it is not amiss to recall what Bob +Ingersoll said on that occasion:</p> + +<p>"He walked among verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary milliners +and tailors, with the unconscious dignity of an antique god. He was the poet +of that divine democracy that gives equal rights to all the sons and +daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice."</p> + +<p>And though one finds in the words of the naïve Ingersoll the +squeaking timber of the soapbox, yet even a soapbox does lift a man a few +inches above the level of the clay.</p> + +<p>Well, the Whitman battle is not over yet, nor ever will be. Though neither +Philadelphia nor Camden has recognized 330 Mickle Street as one of the +authentic shrines of our history (Lord, how trimly dight it would be if it +were in New England!), Camden has made a certain amend in putting Walt into +the gay mosaic that adorns the portico of the new public library in Cooper +Park. There, absurdly represented in an austere black cassock, he stands in +the following frieze of great figures: Dante, Whitman, Molière, +Gutenberg, Tyndale, Washington, Penn, Columbus, Moses, Raphael, Michael +Angelo, Shakespeare, Longfellow and Palestrina. I believe that there was some +rumpus as to whether Walt should be included; but, anyway, there he is.</p> + +<p>You will make a great mistake if you don't ramble over to Camden some day +and fleet the golden hours in an observant stroll. Himself the prince of +loafers, Walt taught the town to loaf. When they built the new postoffice +over there they put round it a ledge for philosophic lounging, one of the +most delightful architectural features I have ever seen. And on Third Street, +just around the corner from 330 Mickle Street, is the oddest plumber's shop +in the world. Mr. George F. Hammond, a Civil War veteran, who knew Whitman +and also Lincoln, came to Camden in '69. In 1888 he determined to build a +shop that would be different from anything on earth, and well he succeeded. +Perhaps it is symbolic of the shy and harassed soul of the plumber, fleeing +from the unreasonable demands of his customers, for it is a kind of Gothic +fortress. Leaded windows, gargoyles, masculine medusa heads, a sallyport, +loopholes and a little spire. I stopped in to talk to Mr. Hammond, and he +greeted me graciously. He says that people have come all the way from +California to see his shop, and I can believe it. It is the work of a +delightful and original spirit who does not care to live in a demure hutch +like all the rest of us, and has really had some fun out of his whimsical +little castle. He says he would rather live in Camden than in Philadelphia, +and I daresay he's right.</p> +<br> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Something in his aspect as he leaned over the railing near me drew me on +to speak to him. I don't know just how to describe it except by saying that +he had an understanding look. He gave me the impression of a man who had +spent his life in thinking and would understand me, whatever I might say. He +looked like the kind of man to whom one would find one's self saying wise and +thoughtful things. There are some people, you know, to whom it is impossible +to speak wisdom even if you should wish to. No spirit of kindly philosophy +speaks out of their eyes. You find yourself automatically saying peevish or +futile things that you do not in the least believe.</p> + +<p>The mood and the place were irresistible for communion. The sun was warm +along the river front and my pipe was trailing a thin whiff of blue vapor out +over the gently fluctuating water, which clucked and sagged along the slimy +pilings. Behind us the crash and banging of heavy traffic died away into a +dreamy undertone in the mild golden shimmer of the noon hour.</p> + +<p>The old man was apparently lost in revery, looking out over the river +toward Camden. He was plainly dressed in coat and trousers of some coarse +weave. His shirt, partly unbuttoned under the great white sweep of his beard, +was of gray flannel. His boots were those of a man much accustomed to +walking. A weather-stained sombrero was on his head. Beneath it his thick +white hair and whiskers wavered in the soft breeze. Just then a boy came out +from the near-by ferry house carrying a big crate of daffodils, perhaps on +their way from some Jersey farm to an uptown florist. We watched them shining +and trembling across the street, where he loaded them onto a truck. The old +gentleman's eyes, which were a keen gray blue, caught mine as we both turned +from admiring the flowers.</p> + +<p>I don't know just why I said it, but they were the first words that popped +into my head. "And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the +daffodils," I quoted.</p> + +<p>He looked at me a little quizzically.</p> + +<p>"You imported those words on a ship," he said. "Why don't you use some of +your own instead?"</p> + +<p>I was considerably taken aback. "Why, I don't know," I hesitated. "They +just came into my head."</p> + +<p>"Well, I call that bad luck," he said, "when some one else's words come +into a man's head instead of words of his own."</p> + +<p>He looked about him, watching the scene with rich satisfaction. "It's good +to see all this again," he said. "I haven't loafed around here for going on +thirty years."</p> + +<p>"You've been out of town?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He looked at me with a steady blue eye in which there was something of +humor and something of sadness.</p> + +<p>"Yes, a long way out. I've just come back to see how the Great Idea is +getting along. I thought maybe I could help a little."</p> + +<p>"The Great Idea?" I queried, puzzled.</p> + +<p>"The value of the individual," he said. "The necessity for every human +being to be able to live, think, act, dream, pray for himself. Nowadays I +believe you call it the League of Nations. It's the same thing. Are men to be +free to decide their fate for themselves or are they to be in the grasp of +irresponsible tyrants, the hell of war, the cruelties of creeds, executive +deeds just or unjust, the power of personality just or unjust? What are your +poets, your young Libertads, doing to bring About the Great Idea of perfect +and free individuals?"</p> + +<p>I was rather at a loss, but happily he did not stay for an answer. Above +us an American flag was fluttering on a staff, showing its bright ribs of +scarlet clear and vivid against the sky.</p> + +<p>"You see that flag of stars," he said, "that thick-sprinkled bunting? I +have seen that flag stagger in the agony of threatened dissolution, in years +that trembled and reeled beneath us. You have only seen it in the days of its +easy, sure triumphs. I tell you, now is the day for America to show herself, +to prove her dreams for the race. But who is chanting the poem that comes +from the soul of America, the carol of victory? Who strikes up the marches of +Libertad that shall free this tortured ship of earth? Democracy is the +destined conqueror, yet I see treacherous lip-smiles everywhere and death and +infidelity at every step. I tell you, now is the time of battle, now the time +of striving. I am he who tauntingly compels men, women, nations, crying, +'Leap from your seats and contend for your lives!' I tell you, produce great +Persons; the rest follows."</p> + +<p>"What do you think about the covenant of the League of Nations?" I asked. +He looked out over the river for some moments before replying and then spoke +slowly, with halting utterance that seemed to suffer anguish in putting +itself into words.</p> + +<p>"America will be great only if she builds for all mankind," he said. "This +plan of the great Libertad leads the present with friendly hand toward the +future. But to hold men together by paper and seal or by compulsion is no +account. That only holds men together which aggregates all in a living +principle, as the hold of the limbs of the body or the fibers of plants. Does +this plan answer universal needs? Can it face the open fields and the +seaside? Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my +strength, gait, face? Have real employments contributed to it—original +makers, not mere amanuenses? I think so, and therefore I say to you, now is +the day to fight for it."</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, checking himself, "there's the ferry coming in. I'm going +over to Camden to have a look around on my way back to Harleigh."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you'll find Mickle street somewhat changed," I said, for by +this time I knew him.</p> + +<p>"I love changes," he said.</p> + +<p>"Your centennial comes on May 31," I said, "I hope you won't be annoyed if +Philadelphia doesn't pay much attention to it. You know how things are around +here."</p> + +<p>"My dear boy," he said, "I am patient. The proof of a poet shall be +sternly deferred till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has +absorbed it. I have sung the songs of the Great Idea and that is reward in +itself. I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches, I have +given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the stupid and crazy, +devoted my income and labor to others, hated tyrants, argued not concerning +God, had patience and indulgence toward the people, taken off my hat to +nothing known or unknown, gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and I +swear I begin to see the meaning of these things—"</p> + +<p>"All aboard!" cried the man at the gate of the ferry house.</p> + +<p>He waved his hand with a benign patriarchal gesture and was gone.</p> +<br> +<center><hr style="width: 65%;"></center> +<br> +<a name="ON_DOORS"></a> + +<h2>ON DOORS</h2> +<br> + + +<p>The opening and closing of doors are the most significant actions of man's +life. What a mystery lies in doors!</p> + +<p>No man knows what awaits him when he opens a door. Even the most familiar +room, where the clock ticks and the hearth glows red at dusk, may harbor +surprises. The plumber may actually have called (while you were out) and +fixed that leaking faucet. The cook may have had a fit of the vapors and +demanded her passports. The wise man opens his front door with humility and a +spirit of acceptance.</p> + +<p>Which one of us has not sat in some ante-room and watched the inscrutable +panels of a door that was full of meaning? Perhaps you were waiting to apply +for a job; perhaps you had some "deal" you were ambitious to put over. You +watched the confidential stenographer flit in and out, carelessly turning +that mystic portal which, to you, revolved on hinges of fate. And then the +young woman said, "Mr. Cranberry will see you now." As you grasped the knob +the thought flashed, "When I open this door again, what will have +happened?"</p> + +<p>There are many kinds of doors. Revolving doors for hotels, shops and +public buildings. These are typical of the brisk, bustling ways of modern +life. Can you imagine John Milton or William Penn skipping through a +revolving door? Then there are the curious little slatted doors that still +swing outside denatured bar-rooms and extend only from shoulder to knee. +There are trapdoors, sliding doors, double doors, stage doors, prison doors, +glass doors. But the symbol and mystery of a door resides in its quality of +concealment. A glass door is not a door at all, but a window. The meaning of +a door is to hide what lies inside; to keep the heart in suspense.</p> + +<p>Also, there are many ways of opening doors. There is the cheery push of +elbow with which the waiter shoves open the kitchen door when he bears in +your tray of supper. There is the suspicious and tentative withdrawal of a +door before the unhappy book agent or peddler. There is the genteel and +carefully modulated recession with which footmen swing wide the oaken +barriers of the great. There is the sympathetic and awful silence of the +dentist's maid who opens the door into the operating room and, without +speaking, implies that the doctor is ready for you. There is the brisk +cataclysmic opening of a door when the nurse comes in, very early in the +morning—"It's a boy!"</p> + +<p>Doors are the symbol of privacy, of retreat, of the mind's escape into +blissful quietude or sad secret struggle. A room without doors is not a room, +but a hallway. No matter where he is, a man can make himself at home behind a +closed door. The mind works best behind closed doors. Men are not horses to +be herded together. Dogs know the meaning and anguish of doors. Have you ever +noticed a puppy yearning at a shut portal? It is a symbol of human life.</p> + +<p>The opening of doors is a mystic act: it has in it some flavor of the +unknown, some sense of moving into a new moment, a new pattern of the human +rigmarole. It includes the highest glimpses of mortal gladness: reunions, +reconciliations, the bliss of lovers long parted. Even in sadness, the +opening of a door may bring relief: it changes and redistributes human +forces. But the closing of doors is far more terrible. It is a confession of +finality. Every door closed brings something to an end. And there are degrees +of sadness in the closing of doors. A door slammed is a confession of +weakness. A door gently shut is often the most tragic gesture in life. Every +one knows the seizure of anguish that comes just after the closing of a door, +when the loved one is still near, within sound of voice, and yet already far +away.</p> + +<p>The opening and closing of doors is a part of the stern fluency of life. +Life will not stay still and let us alone. We are continually opening doors +with hope, closing them with despair. Life lasts not much longer than a pipe +of tobacco, and destiny knocks us out like the ashes.</p> + +<p>The closing of a door is irrevocable. It snaps the packthread of the +heart. It is no avail to reopen, to go back. Pinero spoke nonsense when he +made Paula Tanqueray say, "The future is only the past entered through +another gate." Alas, there is no other gate. When the door is shut, it is +shut forever. There is no other entrance to that vanished pulse of time. "The +moving finger writes, and having writ"—</p> + +<p>There is a certain kind of door-shutting that will come to us all. The +kind of door-shutting that is done very quietly, with the sharp click of the +latch to break the stillness. They will think then, one hopes, of our +unfulfilled decencies rather than of our pluperfected misdemeanors. Then they +will go out and close the door.</p> + +<br> +<center> + <a href="images/Illus-0292.png"><img src="images/Illus-0292.png" + alt="Man with hat, bowing by open door" border= "0" width="45%"></a> +</center> +<br> +<br> + +<br> +<br> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13694 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0004.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0004.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b23725a --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0004.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0008.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0008.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9bf8807 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0008.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0015.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0015.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..25dbe2f --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0015.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0020.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0020.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d398587 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0020.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0031.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0031.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..726d560 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0031.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0041.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0041.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3d6a786 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0041.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0045.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0045.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6644b7c --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0045.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0053.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0053.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a82d8e --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0053.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0073.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0073.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5eb51d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0073.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0079.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0079.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2bfac4 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0079.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0085.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0085.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..278b6a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0085.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0095.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0095.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed3a359 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0095.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0113.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0113.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fbbdedf --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0113.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0140.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0140.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..57d371e --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0140.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0147.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0147.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff12757 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0147.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0153.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0153.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d75622 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0153.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0163.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0163.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..00ec77c --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0163.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0175.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0175.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b4f231 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0175.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0177.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0177.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..47655f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0177.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0183.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0183.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf176f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0183.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0187.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0187.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..faeef2f --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0187.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0201.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0201.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..864785b --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0201.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0205.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0205.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c62a3d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0205.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0215.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0215.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..917bb29 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0215.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0220.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0220.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..48e1c59 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0220.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0222.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0222.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b26ef17 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0222.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0236.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0236.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a85c59 --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0236.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0241.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0241.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e1c05c --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0241.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0255.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0255.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1713ebf --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0255.png diff --git a/13694-h/images/Illus-0292.png b/13694-h/images/Illus-0292.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..64bcbad --- /dev/null +++ b/13694-h/images/Illus-0292.png |
