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Title: Inside Benchley
Date of first publication: 1921
Author: Robert Benchley (1889-1945)
Date first posted: July 3 2012
Date last updated: July 3 2012
Faded Page eBook #20120707

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones, Ross Cooling, James Simmons
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




  INSIDE
  BENCHLEY

  _By_
  Robert
  Benchley

  _Harper & Brothers_
  _New York and London_

  _Pictures by_

  GLUYAS
  WILLIAMS




  INSIDE BENCHLEY

  _Copyright, 1921, 1922, 1925, 1927, 1928, 1942, by Harper & Brothers_

  _Printed in the United States of America_

  _All rights in this book are reserved._

  _No part of the book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
  written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
  critical articles and reviews. For information address Harper &
  Brothers_

  3-2

  TWELFTH EDITION

  G-T


  Books by
  ROBERT BENCHLEY

  AFTER 1903--WHAT?

  MY TEN YEARS IN A QUANDARY, AND HOW THEY GREW

  FROM BED TO WORSE: OR COMFORTING THOUGHTS ABOUT THE BISON

  NO POEMS: OR AROUND THE WORLD BACKWARDS AND SIDEWAYS

  PLUCK AND LUCK

  THE TREASURER'S REPORT, AND OTHER ASPECTS OF COMMUNITY SINGING

  20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA, OR DAVID COPPERFIELD

  THE EARLY WORM

  LOVE CONQUERS ALL

  OF ALL THINGS




  _Table of Contents_


  The Social Life of the Newt                                  1

  Coffee, Megg and Ilk, Please                                 7

  Political Parties and Their Growth                          15

  Call for Mr. Kenworthy!                                     18

  A Romance in Encyclopedia Land                              29

  Fascinating Crimes                                          37

  Christmas Afternoon                                         43

  The Benchley-Whittier Correspondence                        51

  A Christmas Spectacle                                       55

  "Roll Your Own"                                             60

  Opera Synopses                                              65
      I Die Meister-Genossenschaft
     II Il Minnestrone
    III Lucy de Lima

  The Tooth, the Whole Tooth, and Nothing but the Tooth       73

  Literary Lost and Found Department                          84

  Trout Fishing                                               89

  Fascinating Crimes                                          93

  Kiddie-Kar Travel                                           97

  The Last Day                                               105

  Family Life in America                                     114

  Romance of Digestion                                       118

  "Ask That Man"                                             122

  Cell Formations and Their Work                             128

  Editha's Christmas Burglar                                 132

  A Short History of American Politics                       138

  Lost Language                                              142

  Museum Feet                                                146

  Traveling in Peace                                         155

  The Future of the Class of 1926--North Central
    Grammar School                                           162

  Fascinating Crimes                                         165

  "Howdy, Neighbor!"                                         171

  A Talk to Young Men                                        180

  Biography by Inches                                        185

  Paul Revere's Ride                                         195

  Shakespeare Explained                                      202

  Fascinating Crimes                                         207

  What College Did to Me                                     212

  Uncle Edith's Ghost Story                                  220

  More Songs for Meller                                      225

  The Boys' Camp Business                                    228

  Goethe's Love Life                                         238

  Old Program from the Benchley Collection                   241

  The Low State of Whippet Racing                            249

  The Cooper Cycle in American Folk Songs                    258

  Fascinating Crimes                                         262

  The Passing of the Cow                                     267

  A Short (What There Is of It) History of American
    Political Problems                                       271

  Back to the Game                                           274

  The Four-in-Hand Outrage                                   284

  A Christmas Garland of Books                               290

  The Woolen Mitten Situation                                298

  The World of Grandpa Benchley                              305

  Glossary of Terms                                          313

  Abbreviations                                              314

  Bibliography                                               315

  Special Index for Research Students                        316




  _The Social Life of the Newt_


It is not generally known that the newt, although one of the smallest of
our North American animals, has an extremely happy home-life. It is just
one of those facts which never get bruited about.

[Illustration: _Since that time I have practically lived among the
newts_]

I first became interested in the social phenomena of newt life early in
the spring of 1913, shortly after I had finished my researches in sexual
differentiation among ameba. Since that time I have practically lived
among newts, jotting down observations, making lantern-slides, watching
them in their work and in their play (and you may rest assured that the
little rogues have their play--as who does not?) until, from much lying
in a research posture on my stomach, over the inclosure in which they
were confined, I found myself developing what I feared might be
rudimentary creepers. And so, late this autumn, I stood erect and walked
into my house, where I immediately set about the compilation of the
notes I had made.

So much for the non-technical introduction. The remainder of this
article bids fair to be fairly scientific.

In studying the more intimate phases of newt life, one is chiefly
impressed with the methods by means of which the males force their
attentions upon the females, with matrimony as an object. For the newt
is, after all, only a newt, and has his weaknesses just as any of the
rest of us. And I, for one, would not have it different. There is little
enough fun in the world as it is.

The peculiar thing about a newt's courtship is its restraint. It is
carried on, at all times, with a minimum distance of fifty paces (newt
measure) between the male and the female. Some of the bolder males may
now and then attempt to overstep the bounds of good sportsmanship and
crowd in to forty-five paces, but such tactics are frowned upon by the
Rules Committee. To the eye of an uninitiated observer, the pair might
be dancing a few of the more open figures of the minuet.

The means employed by the males to draw the attention and win the
affection of those of the opposite sex (females) are varied and
extremely strategic. Until the valuable researches by Strudlehoff in
1887 (in his "_Entwickelungsmechanik_") no one had been able to
ascertain just what it was that the male newt did to make the female see
anything in him worth throwing herself away on. It had been observed
that the most personally unattractive newt could advance to within fifty
paces of a female of his acquaintance and, by some _coup d'oeil_, bring
her to a point where she would, in no uncertain terms, indicate her
willingness to go through with the marriage ceremony at an early date.

It was Strudlehoff who discovered, after watching several thousand
courting newts under a magnifying lens (questionable taste on his part,
without doubt, but all is fair in pathological love) that the male,
during the courting season (the season opens on the tenth of March and
extends through the following February, leaving about ten days for
general overhauling and redecorating), gives forth a strange,
phosphorescent glow from the center of his highly colored dorsal crest,
somewhat similar in effect to the flash of a diamond scarf-pin in a red
necktie. This glow, according to Strudlehoff, so fascinates the female
with its air of elegance and indication of wealth, that she immediately
falls a victim to its lure.

But the little creature, true to her sex-instinct, does not at once give
evidence that her morale has been shattered. She affects a coyness and
lack of interest, by hitching herself sideways along the bottom of the
aquarium, with her head turned over her right shoulder away from the
swain. A trained ear might even detect her whistling in an indifferent
manner.

The male, in the meantime, is flashing his gleamer frantically two
blocks away and is performing all sorts of attractive feats, calculated
to bring the lady newt to terms. I have seen a male, in the stress of
his handicap courtship, stand on his forefeet, gesticulating in amorous
fashion with his hind feet in the air. Franz Ingehalt, in his "Über
Weltschmerz des Newt," recounts having observed a distinct and
deliberate undulation of the body, beginning with the shoulders and
ending at the filament of the tail, which might well have been the
origin of what is known to-day in scientific circles as "the shimmy."
The object seems to be the same, except that in the case of the newt, it
is the male who is the active agent.

In order to test the power of observation in the male during these
manoeuvers, I carefully removed the female, for whose benefit he was
undulating, and put in her place, in slow succession, another (but less
charming) female, a paper-weight of bronze shaped like a newt, and,
finally, a common rubber eraser. From the distance at which the
courtship was being carried on, the male (who was, it must be admitted,
a bit near-sighted congenitally) was unable to detect the change in
personnel, and continued, even in the presence of the rubber eraser, to
gyrate and undulate in a most conscientious manner, still under the
impression that he was making a conquest.

At last, worn out by his exertions, and disgusted at the meagerness of
the reaction on the eraser, he gave a low cry of rage and despair and
staggered to a nearby pan containing barley-water, from which he
proceeded to drink himself into a gross stupor.

Thus, little creature, did your romance end, and who shall say that its
ending was one whit less tragic than that of Camille? Not I, for
one. . . . In fact, the two cases are not at all analogous.

And now that we have seen how wonderfully Nature works in the fulfilment
of her laws, even among her tiniest creatures, let us study for a minute
a cross-section of the community-life of the newt. It is a life full of
all kinds of exciting adventure, from weaving nests to crawling about in
the sun and catching insect larvæ and crustaceans. The newt's day is
practically never done, largely because the insect larvæ multiply three
million times as fast as the newt can possibly catch and eat them. And
it takes the closest kind of community teamwork in the newt colony to
get things anywhere near cleaned up by nightfall.

It is early morning, and the workers are just appearing hurrying to the
old log which is to be the scene of their labors. What a scampering!
What a bustle! Ah, little scamperers! Ah, little bustlers! How lucky you
are, and how wise! You work long hours, without pay, for the sheer love
of working. An ideal existence, I'll tell the scientific world.

Over here on the right of the log are the Master Draggers. Of all the
newt workers, they are the most futile, which is high praise indeed.
Come, let us look closer and see what it is that they are doing.

The one in the lead is dragging a bit of gurry out from the water and up
over the edge into the sunlight. Following him, in single file, come the
rest of the Master Draggers. They are not dragging anything, but are
sort of helping the leader by crowding against him and eating little
pieces out of the filament of his tail.

And now they have reached the top. The leader, by dint of much leg-work,
has succeeded in dragging his prize to the ridge of the log.

The little workers, reaching the goal with their precious freight, are
now giving it over to the Master Pushers, who have been waiting for them
in the sun all this while. The Master Pushers' work is soon
accomplished, for it consists simply in pushing the piece of gurry over
the other side of the log until it falls with a splash into the water,
where it is lost.

This part of their day's task finished, the tiny toilers rest, clustered
together in a group, waving their heads about from side to side, as who
should say: "There--that's done!" And so it is done, my little Master
Draggers and my little Master Pushers, and _well_ done, too. Would that
my own work were as clean-cut and as satisfying.

And so it goes. Day in and day out, the busy army of newts go on making
the world a better place in which to live. They have their little trials
and tragedies, it is true, but they also have their fun, as any one can
tell by looking at a logful of sleeping newts on a hot summer day.

And, after all, what more has life to offer?




  "_Coffee, Megg and Ilk, Please_"


Give me any topic in current sociology, such as "The Working Classes
_vs._ the Working Classes," or "Various Aspects of the Minimum Wage,"
and I can talk on it with considerable confidence. I have no hesitation
in putting the Workingman, as such, in his place among the hewers of
wood and drawers of water--a necessary adjunct to our modern life, if
you will, but of little real consequence in the big events of the world.

But when I am confronted, in the flesh, by the "close up" of a
workingman with any vestige of authority, however small, I immediately
lose my perspective--and also my poise. I become servile, almost
cringing. I feel that my modest demands on his time may, unless
tactfully presented, be offensive to him and result in something, I
haven't been able to analyze just what, perhaps public humiliation.

For instance, whenever I enter an elevator in a public building I am
usually repeating to myself the number of the floor at which I wish to
alight. The elevator man gives the impression of being a social worker,
filling the job just for that day to help out the regular elevator man,
and I feel that the least I can do is to show him that I know what's
what. So I don't tell him my floor number as soon as I get in. Only
elderly ladies do that. I keep whispering it over to myself, thinking to
tell it to the world when the proper time comes. But then the big
question arises--what is the proper time? If I want to get out at the
eighteenth floor, should I tell him at the sixteenth or the seventeenth?
I decide on the sixteenth and frame my lips to say, "Eighteen out,
please." (Just why one should have to add the word "out" to the number
of the floor is not clear. When you say "eighteen" the obvious
construction of the phrase is that you want to get out at the eighteenth
floor, not that you want to get in there or be let down through the
flooring of the car at that point. However, you'll find the most
sophisticated elevator riders, namely, messenger boys, always adding the
word "out," and it is well to follow what the messenger boys do in such
matters if you don't want to go wrong.)

So there I am, mouthing the phrase, "Eighteen out, please," as we shoot
past the tenth--eleventh--twelfth--thirteenth floors. Then I begin to
get panicky. Supposing that I should forget my lines! Or that I should
say them too soon! Or too late! We are now at the fifteenth floor. I
clear my throat. Sixteen! Hoarsely I murmur, "Eighteen out." But at the
same instant a man with a cigar in his mouth bawls, "Seventeen out!" and
I am not heard. The car stops at seventeen, and I step confidentially up
to the elevator man and repeat, with an attempt at nonchalance,
"Eighteen out, please." But just as I say the words the door clangs,
drowning out my request, and we shoot up again. I make another attempt,
but have become inarticulate and succeed only in making a noise like a
man strangling. And by this time we are at the twenty-first floor with
no relief in sight. Shattered, I retire to the back of the car and ride
up to the roof and down again, trying to look as if I worked in the
building and had to do it, however boresome it might be. On the return
trip I don't care what the elevator man thinks of me, and tell him at
every floor that I, personally, am going to get off at the eighteenth,
no matter what any one else in the car does. I am dictatorial enough
when I am riled. It is only in the opening rounds that I hug the ropes.

[Illustration: _At the same instant a man with a cigar in his mouth
bawls, "Seventeen out!"_]

My timidity when dealing with minor officials strikes me first in my
voice. I have any number of witnesses who will sign statements to the
effect that my voice changed about twelve years ago, and that in
ordinary conversation my tone, if not especially virile, is at least
consistent and even. But when, for instance, I give an order at a soda
fountain, if the clerk overawes me at all, my voice breaks into a yodel
that makes the phrase "Coffee, egg and milk" a pretty snatch of song,
but practically worthless as an order.

If the soda counter is lined with customers and the clerks so busy
tearing up checks and dropping them into the toy banks that they seem to
resent any call on their drink-mixing abilities, I might just as well
save time and go home and shake up an egg and milk for myself, for I
shall not be waited on until every one else has left the counter and
they are putting the nets over the caramels for the night. I know that.
I've gone through it too many times to be deceived.

For there is something about the realization that I must shout out my
order ahead of some one else that absolutely inhibits my shouting
powers. I will stand against the counter, fingering my ten-cent check
and waiting for the clerk to come near enough for me to tell him what I
want, while, in the meantime, ten or a dozen people have edged up next
to me and given their orders, received their drinks and gone away. Every
once in a while I catch a clerk's eye and lean forward murmuring,
"Coffee"--but that is as far as I get. Some one else has shoved his way
in and shouted, "Coca-Cola," and I draw back to get out of the way of
the vichy spray. (Incidentally, the men who push their way in and
footfault on their orders always ask for "Coca-Cola." Somehow it seems
like painting the lily for them to order a nerve tonic.)

[Illustration: _Placing both hands on the counter, I emit what promises
to be a perfect bellow_]

I then decide that the thing for me to do is to speak up loud and act
brazenly. So I clear my throat, and, placing both hands on the counter,
emit what promises to be a perfect bellow: "COFFEE, MEGG AND ILK." This
makes just about the impression you'd think it would, both on my
neighbors and the clerk, especially as it is delivered in a tone which
ranges from a rich barytone to a rather rasping tenor. At this I
withdraw and go to the other end of the counter, where I can begin life
over again with a clean slate.

Here, perhaps, I am suddenly confronted by an impatient clerk who is in
a perfect frenzy to grab my check and tear it into bits to drop in his
box. "What's yours?" he flings at me. I immediately lose my memory and
forget what it was that I wanted. But here is a man who has a lot of
people to wait on and who doubtless gets paid according to the volume of
business he brings in. I have no right to interfere with his work. There
is a big man edging his way beside me who is undoubtedly going to shout
"Coca-Cola" in half a second. So I beat him to it and say, "Coca-Cola,"
which is probably the last drink in the store that I want to buy. But it
is the only thing that I can remember at the moment, in spite of the
fact that I have been thinking all morning how a coffee, egg and milk
would taste. I suppose that one of the psychological principles of
advertising is to so hammer the name of your product into the mind of
the timid buyer that when he is confronted by a brusk demand for an
order he can't think of anything else to say, whether he wants it or
not.

This dread of offending the minor official or appearing at a
disadvantage before a clerk extends even to my taking nourishment. I
don't think that I have ever yet gone into a restaurant and ordered
exactly what I wanted. If only the waiter would give me the card and let
me alone for, say, fifteen minutes, as he does when I want to get him to
bring me my check, I could work out a meal along the lines of what I
like. But when he stands over me, with disgust clearly registered on his
face, I order the thing I like least and consider myself lucky to get
out of it with so little disgrace.

And yet I have no doubt that if one could see him in his family life the
Workingman is just an ordinary person like the rest of us. He is
probably not at all as we think of him in our dealings with him--a
harsh, dictatorial, intolerant autocrat, but rather a kindly soul who
likes nothing better than to sit by the fire with his children and read.

And he would probably be the first person to scoff at the idea that he
could frighten me.




  _Political Parties and Their Growth_


  1. _Introductory Essay_

It was Taine (of "Taine Goin' to Rain No More") who said: "Democracies
defeat themselves." Perhaps I haven't got that quotation right. It
doesn't seem to mean much.

However, my point--and I am sure Taine's point, if he were here to make
it--is that under the system of government known as a democracy, or, as
it is sometimes known, the _Laissez-Faire_ system (1715-1810), the ratio
of increase in the population will eventually outstrip the ratio of
increase in wheat production and then where will we be? Although this
theory is generally credited to Malthus, I am not sure that I didn't
state it before him. I certainly remember saying it when I was very
young.

In writing a history of the political parties of the United States (to
which this is the introductory essay and possibly the last chapter as
well) one must bear constantly in mind the fact that there are two
separate and distinct parties, the Republicans (a clever combination of
two Latin words, _res_ and _publicæ_, meaning "things of the public")
and the Democrats (from the Greek _demos_, meaning something which I
will look up before this goes to the printer's). The trick comes in
telling which is which.

During the early years of our political history the Republican Party was
the Democratic Party, or, if you chose, the Democratic Party was the
Republican Party. This led naturally to a lot of confusion, especially
in the Democratic Party's getting the Republican Party's mail; so it was
decided to call the Republicans "Democrats" and be done with it. The
Federalist Party (then located at what is now the corner of Broad and
Walnut streets and known as "The Swedish Nightingale") became, through
the process of Natural Selection and a gradual dropping-off of its
rudimentary tail, the Republican Party as we know it today. This makes,
as prophesied earlier in this article, _two_ parties, the Republicans
and the Democrats. As a general rule, Republicans are more blonde than
Democrats.

Now that we have cleared up the matter of the early confusion in names,
it remains for us simply to trace the growth of the party platforms from
their original sources to their present-day clearly defined and
characteristic chaos. This will involve quite a bit of very dull
statistical matter and talk about Inflation and Nullification, which
will be enlivened by comical stories and snatches of current songs of
the period. In fact, talk about Inflation and Nullification may be
omitted entirely. It will also be necessary to note the rise and fall of
the minor political parties, such as the Free Soil Party, the Mugwumps,
the St. Louis Cardinals and Tom ("Rum-Romanism-and-Rebellion") Heflin.
This will not be much fun either. As a matter of fact, in outlining the
subject matter of this history the thought has come to me that it shapes
up as a pretty dry book and I am wondering if perhaps I haven't made a
mistake in undertaking it. . . . Oh, well, we'll see.

In compiling these data and writing the book I have been aided
immeasurably by the following colleagues, to whom I take this
opportunity of expressing my warmest thanks (the warmest thanks on a
February 9th since 1906, according to the Weather Bureau atop the
Whitehall Building): B. S. Aal, Raymond Aalbue, Aalders Bros., A. C.
Aalholm, Alex Aaron, the Aar-Jay Bed-Light Co., Henry W. Aarts, Theo. T.
Aarup, Charles Aba, M. M. Abajian, B. Abadessa (Miss), Abbamonte &
Frinchini (shoe reprng.) and Lewis Browne Zzyd.

I also wish to thank Dr. Hartmann Weydig for the loan of his interesting
collection of shells, without which I would have had nothing to do when
I was not writing the book.

  The Author.


  BIBLIOGRAPHY

    "Political Parties and Their Growth, with a Key to the
    Calories." Robert Benchley. (Life Pub. Co.)

    "Ivanhoe." Sir Walter Scott. (Ginn & Co.)

    "Fifty Cocktail Recipes, with Directions for Swallowing." A. M.
    Herz. (Doubleday-Doran-Doubleday-Doran-Doubleday-Doran-Boom!)

    "An Old-Fashioned Girl." Louisa M. Alcott. (Vir Pub. Co.)

    And countless back-numbers of _Harper's Round Table_.




  _Call for Mr. Kenworthy!_


A great many people have wondered to themselves, in print, just where
the little black laundry-studs go after they have been yanked from the
shirt. Others pass this by as inconsequential, but are concerned over
the ultimate disposition of all the pencil stubs that are thrown away.
Such futile rumination is all well enough for those who like it. As for
me, give me a big, throbbing question like this: "Who are the people
that one hears being paged in hotels? Are they real people or are they
decoys? And if they are real people, what are they being paged for?"

Now, there's something vital to figure out. And the best of it is that
it _can_ be figured out by the simple process of following the page to
see whether he ever finds any one.

In order that no expense should be spared, I picked out a hotel with
poor service, which means that it was an expensive hotel. It was so
expensive that all you could hear was the page's voice as he walked by
you; his footfalls made no noise in the extra heavy Bokhara. It was just
a mingling of floating voices, calling for "Mr. Bla-bla, Mr. Schwer-a-a,
Mr. Twa-a-a."

Out of this wealth of experimental material I picked a boy with a
discouraged voice like Wallace Eddinger's, who seemed to be saying "I'm
calling these names--because that's my job--if I wasn't calling
these--I'd be calling out cash totals in an honor system lunchery--but
if any one should ever answer to one of these names--I'd have a poor
spell."

Allowing about fifteen feet distance between us for appearance's sake, I
followed him through the lobby. He had a bunch of slips in his hand and
from these he read the names of the pagees.

"Call for Mr. Kenworthy--Mr. Shriner--Mr. Bodkin--Mr. Blevitch--Mr.
Kenworthy--Mr. Bodkin--Mr. Kenworthy--Mr. Shriner--call for Mr.
Kenworthy--Mr. Blevitch--Mr. Kenworthy."

[Illustration: _Sometimes that was the only name he would call for mile
upon mile_]

Mr. Kenworthy seemed to be standing about a 20 per cent better chance of
being located than any of the other contestants. Probably the boy was of
a romantic temperament and liked the name. Sometimes that was the only
name he would call for mile upon mile. It occurred to me that perhaps
Mr. Kenworthy was the only one wanted, and that the other names were
just put in to make it harder, or to give body to the thing.

But when we entered the bar the youth shifted his attack. The name of
Kenworthy evidently had begun to cloy. He was fed up on romance and
wanted something substantial, homely, perhaps, but substantial.

So he dropped Kenworthy and called: "Mr. Blevitch. Call for Mr.
Blevitch--Mr. Shriner--Mr. Bodkin--Mr. Blevitch----"

But even this subtle change of tactics failed to net him a customer. We
had gone through the main lobby, along the narrow passage lined with
young men waiting on sofas for young women who would be forty minutes
late, through the grill, and now had crossed the bar, and no one had
raised even an eyebrow. No wonder the boy's voice sounded discouraged.

As we went through one of the lesser dining-rooms, the dining-room that
seats a lot of heavy men in business suits holding cigarettes, who lean
over their plates the more confidentially to converse with their blond
partners, in this dining-room the plaintive call drew fire. One of the
men in business suits, who was at a table with another man and two
women, lifted his head when he heard the sound of names being called.

"Boy!" he said, and waved like a traffic officer signaling, "Come!"

Eagerly the page darted forward. Perhaps this was Mr. Kenworthy! Or
better yet, Mr. Blevitch.

[Illustration: "_Anything here for Studz?_"]

"Anything here for Studz?" said the man in the business suit, when he
was sure that enough people were listening.

"No, sir," sighed the boy. "Mr. Blevitch, Mr. Kenworthy, Mr. Shriner,
Mr. Bodkin?" he suggested, hopefully.

"Naw," replied the man, and turned to his associates with an air of
saying: "Rotten service here--just think of it, no call for me!"

On we went again. The boy was plainly skeptical. He read his lines
without feeling. The management had led him into this; all he could do
was to take it with as good grace as possible.

He slid past the coat-room girl at the exit (no small accomplishment in
itself) and down a corridor, disappearing through a swinging door at the
end. I was in no mood to lose out on the finish after following so far,
and I dashed after him.

The door led into a little alcove and another palpitating door at the
opposite end showed me where he had gone. Setting my jaw for no
particular reason, I pushed my way through.

At first, like the poor olive merchant in the Arabian Nights I was
blinded by the glare of lights and the glitter of glass and silver. Oh,
yes, and by the snowy whiteness of the napery, too. "By the napery of
the neck" wouldn't be a bad line to get off a little later in the story.
I'll try it.

At any rate, it was but the work of a minute for me to realize that I
had entered by a service entrance into the grand dining-room of the
establishment, where, if you are not in evening dress, you are left to
munch bread and butter until you starve to death and are carried out
with your heels dragging, like the uncouth lout that you are. It was,
if I may be allowed the phrase, a galaxy of beauty, with every one
dressed up like the pictures. And I had entered 'way up front, by the
orchestra.

Now, mind you, I am not ashamed of my gray suit. I like it, and my wife
says that I haven't had anything so becoming for a long time. But in it
I didn't check up very strong against the rest of the boys in the
dining-room. As a gray suit it is above reproach. As a garment in which
to appear single-handed through a trapdoor before a dining-room of well
dressed Middle Westerners it was a fizzle from start to finish. Add to
this the items that I had to snatch a brown soft hat from my head when I
found out where I was, which caused me to drop the three evening papers
I had tucked under my arm, and you will see why my up-stage entrance was
the signal for the impressive raising of several dozen eyebrows, and why
the captain approached me just exactly as one man approaches another
when he is going to throw him out.

(Blank space for insertion of "napery of neck" line, if desired. Choice
optional with reader.)

I saw that anything that I might say would be used against me, and left
him to read the papers I had dropped. One only lowers one's self by
having words with a servitor.

Gradually I worked my way back through the swinging doors to the main
corridor and rushed down to the regular entrance of the grand
dining-salon, to wait there until my quarry should emerge. Suppose he
should find all of his consignees in this dining-room! I could not be in
at the death then, and would have to falsify any story to make any kind
of ending at all. And that would never do.

Once in a while I would catch the scent, when, from the humming depths
of the dining-room, I could hear a faint "Call for Mr. Kenworthy" rising
above the click of the oyster shells and the soft crackling of the
"potatoes Julienne" one against another. So I knew that he had not
failed me, and that if I had faith and waited long enough he would come
back.

And, sure enough, come back he did, and without a name lost from his
list. I felt like cheering when I saw his head bobbing through the mèlée
of waiters and 'bus-boys who were busy putting clean plates on the
tables and then taking them off again in eight seconds to make room for
more clean plates. Of all discouraging existences I can imagine none
worse than that of an eternally clean plate. There can be no sense of
accomplishment, no glow of duty done, in simply being placed before a
man and then taken away again. It must be almost as bad as paging a man
who you are sure is not in the hotel.

The futility of the thing had already got on the page's nerves, and in a
savage attempt to wring a little pleasure out of the task he took to
welding the names, grafting a syllable of one to a syllable of another,
such as "Call for Mr. Kenbodkin--Mr. Shrineworthy--Mr. Blevitcher."

This gave us both amusement for a little while, but your combinations
are limited in a thing like that, and by the time the grill was reached
he was saying the names correctly and with a little more assurance.

It was in the grill that the happy event took place. Mr. Shriner, the
one of whom we expected least, suddenly turned up at a table alone. He
was a quiet man and not at all worked up over his unexpected honor. He
signaled the boy with one hand and went on taking soup with the other,
and learned, without emotion, that he was wanted on the telephone. He
even made no move to leave his meal to answer the call, and when last
seen he was adding pepper with one hand and taking soup with the other.
I suspect that he was a "plant," or a plainclothes house detective,
placed there on purpose to deceive me.

We had been to every nook of the hotel by this time, except the
writing-room, and, of course, no one would ever look there for patrons
of the hotel. Seeing that the boy was about to totter, I went up and
spoke to him. He continued to totter, thinking, perhaps, that I was Mr.
Kenworthy, his long-lost beau-ideal. But I spoke kindly to him and
offered him a piece of chocolate almond-bar, and soon, in true reporter
fashion, had wormed his secret from him before he knew what I was really
after.

The thing I wanted to find out was, of course, just what the average is
of replies to one paging trip. So I got around it in this manner:
offering him another piece of chocolate almond-bar, I said, slyly: "Just
what is the average number of replies to one paging trip?"

I think that he had suspected something at first, but this question
completely disarmed him, and, leaning against an elderly lady patron, he
told me everything.

"Well," he said, "it's this way: sometimes I find a man, and sometimes I
can go the rounds without a bite. To-night, for instance, here I've got
four names and one came across. That's about the average--perhaps one in
six."

I asked him why he had given Mr. Kenworthy such a handicap at the start.

A faint smile flickered across his face and then flickered back again.

"I call the names I think will be apt to hang round in the part of the
hotel I'm in. Mr. Kenworthy would have to be in the dressy dining-room
or in the lobby where they wait for ladies. You'd never find him in the
bar or the Turkish baths. On the other hand, you'll never find a man by
the name of Blevitch anywhere except in the bar. Of course, I take a
chance and call every name once in so often, no matter where I am, but,
on the whole, I use my own discretion."

I gave him another piece of chocolate and the address of a good
bootmaker and left him. What I had heard had sobered me, and the lights
and music suddenly seemed garish. It is no weak emotion to feel that
you have been face to face with a mere boy whose chances of success in
his work are one to six.

And I found that he had not painted the lily in too glowing terms. I
followed other pages that night--some calling for "Mr. Strudel," some
for "Mr. Carmickle," and one was broad-minded enough to page a "Mrs.
Bemis." But they all came back with that wan look in their eyes and a
break in their voices.

And each one of them was stopped by the man in the business suit in the
downstairs dining-room and each time he considered it a personal affront
that there wasn't a call for "Studz."

Sometime I'm going to have him paged, and when he comes out I shall
untie his necktie for him.




  _A Romance in Encyclopedia Land_

  _Written After Three Hours' Browsing in a New Britannica Set_


Picture to yourself an early spring afternoon along the banks of the
river Aa, which, rising in the Teutoburger Wald, joins the Werre at
Herford and is navigable as far as St. Omer.

Branching _bryophyta_ spread their flat, dorsi-ventral bodies, closely
applied to the sub-stratum on which they grew, and leafy carophyllaceæ
twined their sepals in prodigal profusion, lending a touch of color to
the scene. It was clear that nature was in preparation for her
estivation.

[Illustration: _Was playing softly to himself on a double curtail or
converted bass-pommer_]

But it was not this which attracted the eye of the young man who,
walking along the phonolithic formation of the riverbank, was playing
softly to himself on a double curtail, or converted bass-pommer, an
octave below the single curtail and therefore identical in pitch and
construction with the early _fagotto_ in C.

His mind was on other things.

He was evidently of Melanochronic extraction, with the pentagonal facial
angle and strong orbital ridges, but he combined with this the fine
lines of a full-blooded native of Coll, where, indeed, he was born,
seven miles west of Caliach Point, in Mull, and in full view of the
rugged gneiss.

As he swung along, there throbbed again and again through his brain the
beautiful opening paragraph of Frantisek Palacky's (1798-1876) "_Zur
böhmischen Geschichtschreibung_" (Prague, 1871), written just after the
author had refused a portfolio in the Pillersdorf Cabinet and had also
declined to take part in the preliminary diet at Kromerice.

"If _he_ could believe such things, why can not I?" murmured the young
man, and crushed a ginkgo beneath his feet. Young men are often so. It
is due to the elaterium of spring.

"By Ereshkigal," he swore softly to himself, "I'll do it."

No sooner had he spoken than he came suddenly out of the tangle of
gymnosperms through whose leaves, needle-like and destitute of
oil-glands as they were, he had been making his way, and emerged to a
full view of the broad sweep of the Lake of Zug, just where the Lorze
enters at its northern extremity and one and a quarter miles east of
where it issues again to pursue its course toward the Reuss. Zug, at
this point, is 1,368 feet above sea-level, and boasted its first steamer
in 1852.

[Illustration: _He came suddenly out of the tangle of gymnosperms_]

"Well," he sighed, as he gazed upon the broad area of subsidence, "if I
were now an exarch, whose dignity was, at one time, intermediate between
the Patriarchal and the Metropolitan and from whose name has come that
of the politico-religious party, the Exarchists, I should not be here
daydreaming. I should be far away in Footscray, a city of Bourke
County, Victoria, Australia, pop. (1901) 18,301."

And as he said this his eyes filled with tears, and under his skin,
brown as fustic, there spread a faint flush, such as is often formed by
citrocyde, or by pyrochloric acid when acting on uncured leather.

Far down in the valley the natives were celebrating the birthday of
Gambrinus, a mythical Flemish king who is credited with the first
brewing of beer. The sound of their voices set in motion longitudinal
sound waves, and these, traveling through the surrounding medium, met
the surface separating two media and were in part reflected, traveling
back from the surface into the first medium again with the velocity with
which they approached it, as depicted in Fig. 10. This caused the echo
for which the Lake of Zug is justly famous.

The twilight began to deepen and from far above came the twinkling
signals of, first, Böotes, then Coma Berenices, followed, awhile later,
by Ursa Major and her little brother, Ursa Minor.

"The stars are clear to-night," he sighed. "I wonder if they are visible
from the dacite elevation on which SHE lives."

His was an untrained mind. His only school had been the Eleatic School,
the contention of which was that the true explanation of things lies in
the conception of a universal unity of being, or the All-ness of One.

But he knew what he liked.

In the calm light of the stars he felt as if a uban had been lifted from
his heart, 5 ubans being equal to 1 quat, 6 quats to 1 ammat and 120
ammats to 1 sos.

He was free again.

Turning, he walked swiftly down into the valley, passing returning
peasants with their baa-poots, and soon came in sight of the shining
lamps of the small but carefully built pooroos which lined the road.

Reaching the corner he saw the village epi peering over the tree-tops,
and swarms of cicada, with the toothed famoras of their anterior legs
mingling in a sleepy drone, like so many cichlids. It was all very
home-like to the wanderer.

Suddenly there appeared on a neighboring eminence a party of guisards,
such as, during the Saturnalia, and from the Nativity till the Epiphany
were accustomed to disport themselves in odd costumes; all clad in
clouting, and evidently returning from taking part in the celebration.

As they drew nearer, our hero noticed a young woman in the front rank
who was playing folk-songs on a cromorne with a double-reed mouthpiece
enclosed in an air-reservoir. In spite of the detritus wrought by the
festival, there was something familiar about the buccinator of her face
and her little mannerism of elevating her second phalanx. It struck him
like the flash of a cloud highly charged by the coalescence of drops of
vapor. He approached her, tenderly, reverently.

"Lange, Anne Françoise Elizabeth," he said, "I know you. You are a
French actress, born in Genoa on the seventeenth of September, 1772, and
you made your first appearance on the stage in _L'Ecossaise_ in 1788.
Your talent and your beauty gave you an enormous success in _Pamela_. It
has taken me years to find you, but now we are united at last."

[Illustration: _She turned like a frightened aardvark (male, greatly
reduced)_]

The girl turned like a frightened aard-vark, still holding the cromorne
in her hand. Then she smiled.

[Illustration: _Barnaby Bernard Weenix (1777-1829)_]

"Weenix, Barnaby Bernard (1777-1829)," she said very slowly, "you
started business as a publisher in London about 1797."

They looked at each other for a moment in silence. He was the first to
speak.

"Miss Lange, Anne," he said, "let us go together to Lar--and be happy
there--happy as two ais, or three-toed South American sloths."

She lowered her eyes.

"I will go with you Mr. Weenix-Barney," she said, "to the ends of the
earth. But why to Lar? Why not to Wem?"

[Illustration: _Why not to Wem?_ (_from a contemporaneous print_)]

"Because," said the young man, "Lar is the capital of Laristan, in 27
degrees, 30 minutes N., 180 miles from Shiraz, and contains an old
bazaar consisting of four arcades each 180 feet long."

Their eyes met, and she placed her hands in his.

And, from the woods, came the mellow whinnying of a herd of vip, the
wool of which is highly valued for weaving.




  _Fascinating Crimes_

  _1. The Odd Occurrence in the Life of Dr. Meethas_


Early in the evening of October 14, 1879, Dr. Attemas Meethas, a
physician of good repute in Elkhart, Indiana, went into the pantry of
his home at 11 Elm Street, ostensibly to see if there was any of that
cold roast pork left. The good doctor was given to nibbling cold roast
pork when occasion offered.

As he passed through the living-room on his way to the pantry, he spoke
to his housekeeper, Mrs. Omphrey, and said that, if everything turned
out all right, he would be at that cold roast pork in about half a
minute (Elkhart time--an hour earlier than Eastern time). "Look out for
the pits," Mrs. Omphrey cautioned him, and went on with her stitching.
Mrs. Omphrey, in her spare time, was a stitcher of uppers for the local
shoe-factory.

This is the last that was seen of Dr. Attemas Meethas alive. It is
doubtful if he ever even reached the pantry, for the cold roast pork was
found untouched on a plate, and Dr. Meethas was found, three days later,
hanging from the top of the flag-pole on the roof of the Masonic Lodge.
The mystery was even more puzzling in that Dr. Meethas was not a Mason.

[Illustration: _The revolting death of Dr. Meethas_

--Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.]

Citizens of Elkhart, on being grilled, admitted having seen the doctor
hanging from the flag-pole for two days, but thought that he was fooling
and would come down soon enough when he got hungry. But when, after
three days, he made no sign of descending, other than to drop off one
shoe, a committee was formed to investigate. It was found that their
fellow-citizen, far from playing a practical joke on them, had had one
played on him, for he was quite dead, with manifold and singular
abrasions. A particularly revolting feature of the case was that the
little gold chain which the doctor wore over his right ear, to keep his
pince-nez glasses in place, was still in position. This at once disposed
of the possibility of suicide.

[Illustration: _Dr. Meethas--The unfortunate victim_

--Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.]

Mrs. Omphrey and her uppers were held for examination, as it was
understood that she had at one time made an attempt on the doctor's
life, on the occasion of his pushing her down when they were skating
together. But her story in the present affair was impregnable. After the
doctor had gone through the living-room on his way to the pantry, she
said that she continued stitching at her machine until nine o'clock in
the evening. She thought it a little odd that Dr. Meethas did not return
from the pantry, but figured it out that there was probably quite a lot
of cold roast pork there and that he was still busy nibbling. At nine
o'clock, however, she stopped work and started on her rounds of the
house to lock up for the night. On reaching the pantry, she found that
her employer was not there, and had not been there; at least that he had
not touched the pork. She thought nothing of it, however, as it occurred
to her that the doctor had probably remembered an engagement and had
left suddenly by the pantry window in order not to worry her. So, after
finishing the cold pork herself, she locked the bread-box and retired
for the night. The police, on investigation, found the bread-box locked
just as she had said, and so released Mrs. Omphrey.

When the news of Dr. Meethas' accident reached La Porte, Amos W.
Meethas, a brother of the victim and a respected citizen of the town,
came directly to Elkhart and insisted on an investigation. He said that
his brother had accumulated quite a fortune tinting postcards on the
side, and was known to have this money hidden in a secret panel in the
hammock which hung on the back porch. The police, guided by Mr. Amos
Meethas, went to the hammock, slid the panel open and found nothing
there but some old clippings telling of Dr. Meethas' confirmation in
1848. (He was a confirmed old bachelor.) This definitely established
robbery as the motive for the crime. The next thing to do was to
discover someone who could climb flag-poles.

Neighbors of the doctor recalled that some weeks before a young man had
gone from door to door asking if anybody wanted his flag-pole climbed.
He said he was working his way through college climbing flag-poles and
would be grateful for any work, however small. He was remembered to have
been a short youth about six feet two or three, with hair blond on one
side and dark on the other. This much the neighbors agreed upon.

Working in South Bend at the time was a young man named Herman Trapp. He
was apprehended by the authorities, who subsequently decided that he had
no connection whatever with the tragedy.

So the strange murder of Dr. Meethas (if indeed it _was_ a murder) rests
to this day unsolved and forgotten, which is just as well, as it was at
best a pretty dull case.




  _Christmas Afternoon_

  _Done in the Manner, if Not the Spirit, of Dickens_


What an afternoon! Mr. Gummidge said that, in his estimation, there
never had _been_ such an afternoon since the world began, a sentiment
which was heartily endorsed by Mrs. Gummidge and all the little
Gummidges, not to mention the relatives who had come over from Jersey
for the day.

In the first place, there was the _ennui_. And such _ennui_ as it was! A
heavy, overpowering _ennui_, such as results from a participation in
eight courses of steaming, gravied food, topping off with salted nuts
which the little old spinster Gummidge from Oak Hill said she never knew
when to stop eating--and true enough she didn't--a dragging,
devitalizing _ennui_, which left its victims strewn about the
living-room in various attitudes of prostration suggestive of those of
the petrified occupants in a newly unearthed Pompeiian dwelling; an
_ennui_ which carried with it a retinue of yawns, snarls and thinly
veiled insults, and which ended in ruptures in the clan spirit serious
enough to last throughout the glad new year.

Then there were the toys! Three and a quarter dozen toys to be divided
among seven children. Surely enough, you or I might say, to satisfy the
little tots. But that would be because we didn't know the tots. In came
Baby Lester Gummidge, Lillian's boy, dragging an electric grain-elevator
which happened to be the only toy in the entire collection which
appealed to little Norman, five-year-old son of Luther, who lived in
Rahway. In came curly-headed Effie in frantic and throaty disputation
with Arthur, Jr., over the possession of an articulated zebra. In came
Everett, bearing a mechanical negro which would no longer dance, owing
to a previous forcible feeding by the baby of a marshmallow into its
only available aperture. In came Fonlansbee, teeth buried in the hand of
little Ormond, who bore a popular but battered remnant of what had once
been the proud false-bosom of a hussar's uniform. In they all came, one
after another, some crying, some snapping, some pulling, some
pushing--all appealing to their respective parents for aid in their
intra-mural warfare.

And the cigar smoke! Mrs. Gummidge said that she didn't mind the smoke
from a good cigarette, but would they mind if she opened the windows for
just a minute in order to clear the room of the heavy aroma of used
cigars? Mr. Gummidge stoutly maintained that they were good cigars. His
brother, George Gummidge, said that he, likewise, would say that they
were. At which colloquial sally both the Gummidge brothers laughed
testily, thereby breaking the laughter record for the afternoon.

[Illustration: _What an afternoon!_]

Aunt Libbie, who lived with George, remarked from the dark corner of the
room that it seemed just like Sunday to her. An amendment was offered to
this statement by the cousin, who was in the insurance business, stating
that it was worse than Sunday. Murmurings indicative of as hearty
agreement with this sentiment as their lethargy would allow came from
the other members of the family circle, causing Mr. Gummidge to suggest
a walk in the air to settle their dinner.

And then arose such a chorus of protestations as has seldom been heard.
It was too cloudy to walk. It was too raw. It looked like snow. It
looked like rain. Luther Gummidge said that he must be starting along
home soon, anyway, bringing forth the acid query from Mrs. Gummidge as
to whether or not he was bored. Lillian said that she felt a cold coming
on, and added that something they had had for dinner must have been
undercooked. And so it went, back and forth, forth and back, up and
down, and in and out, until Mr. Gummidge's suggestion of a walk in the
air was reduced to a tattered impossibility and the entire company
glowed with ill-feeling.

In the meantime, we must not forget the children. No one else could.
Aunt Libbie said that she didn't think there was anything like children
to make a Christmas; to which Uncle Ray, the one with the Masonic fob,
said, "No, thank God!" Although Christmas is supposed to be the season
of good cheer, you (or I, for that matter) couldn't have told, from
listening to the little ones, but what it was the children's Armageddon
season, when Nature had decreed that only the fittest should survive, in
order that the race might be carried on by the strongest, the most
predatory and those possessing the best protective coloring. Although
there were constant admonitions to Fonlansbee to "Let Ormond have that
whistle now; it's his," and to Arthur, Jr., not to be selfish, but to
"give the kiddie-car to Effie; she's smaller than you are," the net
result was always that Fonlansbee kept the whistle and Arthur, Jr., rode
in permanent, albeit disputed, possession of the kiddie-car. Oh, that we
mortals should set ourselves up against the inscrutable workings of
Nature!

Hallo! A great deal of commotion! That was Uncle George stumbling over
the electric train, which had early in the afternoon ceased to function
and which had been left directly across the threshold. A great deal of
crying! That was Arthur, Jr., bewailing the destruction of his already
useless train, about which he had forgotten until the present moment. A
great deal of recrimination! That was Arthur, Sr., and George fixing it
up. And finally a great crashing! That was Baby Lester pulling over the
tree on top of himself, necessitating the bringing to bear of all of
Uncle Ray's knowledge of forestry to extricate him from the wreckage.

[Illustration: _Hallo! A great deal of commotion!_]

And finally Mrs. Gummidge passed the Christmas candy around. Mr.
Gummidge afterward admitted that this was a tactical error on the part
of his spouse. I no more believe that Mrs. Gummidge thought they wanted
that Christmas candy than I believe that she thought they wanted the
cold turkey which she later suggested. My opinion is that she wanted to
drive them home. At any rate, that is what she succeeded in doing. Such
cries as there were of "Ugh! Don't let me see another thing to eat!" and
"Take it away!" Then came hurried scramblings in the coat-closet for
overshoes. There were the rasping sounds made by cross parents when
putting wraps on children. There were insincere exhortations to "come
and see us soon" and to "get together for lunch some time." And,
finally, there were slammings of doors and the silence of utter
exhaustion, while Mrs. Gummidge went about picking up stray sheets of
wrapping paper.

And, as Tiny Tim might say in speaking of Christmas afternoon as an
institution, "God help us, every one."




  _The Benchley-Whittier Correspondence_


Old scandals concerning the private life of Lord Byron have been revived
with the recent publication of a collection of his letters. One of the
big questions seems to be: _Did Byron send Mary Shelley's letter to Mrs.
R. B. Hoppner?_ Everyone seems greatly excited about it.

Lest future generations be thrown into turmoil over my correspondence
after I am gone, I want right now to clear up the mystery which has
puzzled literary circles for over thirty years. I need hardly add that I
refer to what is known as the "Benchley-Whittier Correspondence."

The big question over which both my biographers and Whittier's might
possibly come to blows is this, as I understand it: _Did John Greenleaf
Whittier ever receive the letters I wrote to him in the late Fall of
1890? If he did not, who did? And under what circumstances were they
written?_

I was a very young man at the time, and Mr. Whittier was, naturally,
very old. There had been a meeting of the Save-Our-Song-Birds Club in
old Dane Hall (now demolished) in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Members had
left their coats and hats in the check-room at the foot of the stairs
(now demolished).

In passing out after a rather spirited meeting, during the course of
which Mr. Whittier and Dr. Van Blarcom had opposed each other rather
violently over the question of Baltimore orioles, the aged poet
naturally was the first to be helped into his coat. In the general
mix-up (there was considerable good-natured fooling among the members as
they left, relieved as they were from the strain of the meeting)
Whittier was given my hat by mistake. When I came to go, there was
nothing left for me but a rather seedy gray derby with a black band,
containing the initials "J. G. W." As the poet was visiting in Cambridge
at the time I took opportunity next day to write the following letter to
him:

      Cambridge, Mass.
      November 7, 1890.

    Dear Mr. Whittier:

    I am afraid that in the confusion following the
    Save-Our-Song-Birds meeting last night, you were given my hat by
    mistake. I have yours and will gladly exchange it if you will
    let me know when I may call on you.

    May I not add that I am a great admirer of your verse? Have you
    ever tried any musical comedy lyrics? I think that I could get
    you in on the ground floor in the show game, as I know a young
    man who has written several songs which E. E. Rice has said he
    would like to use in his next comic opera--provided he can get
    words to go with them.

    But we can discuss all this at our meeting, which I hope will be
    soon, as your hat looks like hell on me.

      Yours respectfully,

      Robert C. Benchley

I am quite sure that this letter was mailed, as I find an entry in my
diary of that date which reads:

"Mailed a letter to J. G. Whittier. Cloudy and cooler."

Furthermore, in a death-bed confession, some ten years later, one Mary
F. Rourke, a servant employed in the house of Dr. Agassiz, with whom
Whittier was bunking at the time, admitted that she herself had taken a
letter, bearing my name in the corner of the envelope, to the poet at
his breakfast on the following morning.

But whatever became of it after it fell into his hands, I received no
reply. I waited five days, during which time I stayed in the house
rather than go out wearing the Whittier gray derby. On the sixth day I
wrote him again, as follows:

      Cambridge, Mass.
      Nov. 14, 1890.

    Dear Mr. Whittier:

    How about that hat of mine?

      Yours respectfully,

      Robert C. Benchley

I received no answer to this letter either. Concluding that the good
gray poet was either too busy or too gosh-darned mean to bother with the
thing, I myself adopted an attitude of supercilious unconcern and closed
the correspondence with the following terse message:

      Cambridge, Mass.
      December 4, 1890.

    Dear Mr. Whittier:

    It is my earnest wish that the hat of mine which you are keeping
    will slip down over your eyes some day, interfering with your
    vision to such an extent that you will walk off the sidewalk
    into the gutter and receive painful, albeit superficial,
    injuries.

      Your young friend,

      Robert C. Benchley

Here the matter ended so far as I was concerned, and I trust that
biographers in the future will not let any confusion of motives or
misunderstanding of dates enter into a clear and unbiased statement of
the whole affair. We must not have another Shelley-Byron scandal.




  _A Christmas Spectacle_

  _For Use in Christmas Eve Entertainments in the Vestry_


At the opening of the entertainment the Superintendent will step into
the footlights, recover his balance apologetically, and say:

"Boys and girls of the Intermediate Department, parents and friends: I
suppose you all know why we are here tonight. (At this point the
audience will titter apprehensively.) Mrs. Drury and her class of little
girls have been working very hard to make this entertainment a success,
and I am sure that everyone here tonight is going to have what I
overheard one of my boys the other day calling 'some good time.'
(Indulgent laughter from the little boys.) And may I add before the
curtain goes up that immediately after the entertainment we want you all
to file out into the Christian Endeavor room, where there will be a
Christmas tree, 'with all the fixin's,' as the boys say." (Shrill
whistling from the little boys and immoderate applause from everyone.)

There will then be a wait of twenty-five minutes, while sounds of
hammering and dropping may be heard from behind the curtains. The Boys'
Club orchestra will render the "Poet and Peasant Overture" four times in
succession, each time differently.

At last one side of the curtains will be drawn back; the other will
catch on something and have to be released by hand; someone will whisper
loudly, "Put out the lights," following which the entire house will be
plunged into darkness. Amid catcalls from the little boys, the
footlights will at last go on, disclosing:

The windows in the rear of the vestry rather ineffectively concealed by
a group of small fir trees on standards, one of which has already fallen
over, leaving exposed a corner of the map of Palestine and the list of
gold-star classes for November. In the center of the stage is a larger
tree, undecorated, while at the extreme left, invisible to everyone in
the audience except those sitting at the extreme right, is an imitation
fireplace, leaning against the wall.

Twenty-five seconds too early little Flora Rochester will prance out
from the wings, uttering the first shrill notes of a song, and will have
to be grabbed by eager hands and pulled back. Twenty-four seconds later
the piano will begin "The Return of the Reindeer" with a powerful accent
on the first note of each bar, and Flora Rochester, Lillian McNulty,
Gertrude Hamingham and Martha Wrist will swirl on, dressed in white, and
advance heavily into the footlights, which will go out.

There will then be an interlude while Mr. Neff, the sexton, adjusts the
connection, during which the four little girls stand undecided whether
to brave it out or cry. As a compromise they giggle and are herded back
into the wings by Mrs. Drury, amid applause. When the lights go on
again, the applause becomes deafening, and as Mr. Neff walks
triumphantly away, the little boys in the audience will whistle: "There
she goes, there she goes, all dressed up in her Sunday clothes!"

"The Return of the Reindeer" will be started again and the show-girls
will reappear, this time more gingerly and somewhat dispirited. They
will, however, sing the following, to the music of the "Ballet
Pizzicato" from "Sylvia":

  "_We greet you, we greet you,_
   _On this Christmas Eve so fine._
   _We greet you, we greet you,_
   _And wish you a good time._"

They will then turn toward the tree and Flora Rochester will advance,
hanging a silver star on one of the branches, meanwhile reciting a
verse, the only distinguishable words of which are: "_I am Faith so
strong and pure----_"

At the conclusion of her recitation, the star will fall off.

Lillian McNulty will then step forward and hang her star on a branch,
reading her lines in clear tones:

  "_And I am Hope, a virtue great,_
   _My gift to Christmas now I make,_
   _That children and grown-ups may hope today_
   _That tomorrow will be a merry Christmas Day._"

The hanging of the third star will be consummated by Gertrude Hamingham,
who will get as far as "_Sweet Charity I bring to place upon the
tree--_" at which point the strain will become too great and she will
forget the remainder. After several frantic glances toward the wings,
from which Mrs. Drury is sending out whispered messages to the effect
that the next line begins, "_My message bright--_" Gertrude will
disappear, crying softly.

After the morale of the cast has been in some measure restored by the
pianist, who, with great presence of mind, plays a few bars of "Will
There Be Any Stars In My Crown?" to cover up Gertrude's exit, Martha
Wrist will unleash a rope of silver tinsel from the foot of the tree,
and, stringing it over the boughs as she skips around in a circle, will
say, with great assurance:

  "_'Round and 'round the tree I go,_
   _Through the holly and the snow_
   _Bringing love and Christmas cheer_
   _Through the happy year to come._"

At this point there will be a great commotion and jangling of
sleigh-bells off-stage, and Mr. Creamer, rather poorly disguised as
Santa Claus, will emerge from the opening in the imitation fireplace. A
great popular demonstration for Mr. Creamer will follow. He will then
advance to the footlights, and, rubbing his pillow and ducking his knees
to denote joviality, will say thickly through his false beard:

"Well, well, well, what have we here? A lot of bad little boys and girls
who aren't going to get any Christmas presents this year? (Nervous
laughter from the little boys and girls.) Let me see, let me see! I have
a note here from Dr. Whidden. Let's see what it says. (Reads from a
paper on which there is obviously nothing written.) 'If you and the
young people of the Intermediate Department will come into the Christian
Endeavor room, I think we may have a little surprise for you. . . .
Well, well, well! What do you suppose it can be? (Cries of 'I know, I
know!' from sophisticated ones in the audience.) Maybe it is a bottle of
castor-oil! (Raucous jeers from the little boys and elaborately
simulated disgust on the part of the little girls.) Well, anyway,
suppose we go out and see? Now if Miss Liftnagle will oblige us with a
little march on the piano, we will all form in single file----"

At this point there will ensue a stampede toward the Christian Endeavor
room, in which chairs will be broken, decorations demolished, and the
protesting Mr. Creamer badly hurt.

This will bring to a close the first part of the entertainment.




  "_Roll Your Own_"

  _Inside Points on Building and Maintaining a Private Tennis Court_


One really ought to have a tennis-court of one's own. Those at the Club
are always so full that on Saturdays and Sundays the people waiting to
play look like the gallery at a Davis Cup match, and even when you do
get located you have two sets of balls to chase, yours and those of the
people in the next court.

The first thing is to decide among yourselves just what kind of court it
is to be. There are three kinds: grass, clay, and corn-meal. In Maine,
gravel courts are also very popular. Father will usually hold out for a
grass court because it gives a slower bounce to the ball and Father
isn't so quick on the bounce as he used to be. All Mother insists on is
plenty of headroom. Junior and Myrtis will want a clay one because you
can dance on a clay one in the evening. The court as finished will be a
combination grass and dirt, with a little goldenrod late in August.

A little study will be necessary before laying out the court. I mean you
can't just go out and mark a court by guess-work. You must first learn
what the dimensions are supposed to be and get as near to them as is
humanly possible. Whereas there might be a slight margin for error in
some measurements, it is absolutely essential that both sides are the
same length, otherwise you might end up by lobbing back to yourself if
you got very excited.

The worst place to get the dope on how to arrange a tennis-court is in
the Encyclopædia Britannica. The article on TENNIS was evidently written
by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It begins by explaining that in America
tennis is called "court tennis." The only answer to that is, "You're a
cock-eyed liar!" The whole article is like this.

The name "tennis," it says, probably comes from the French "_Tenez!_"
meaning "Take it! Play!" More likely, in my opinion, it is derived from
the Polish "_Tinith!_" meaning "Go on, that was _not_ outside!"

During the Fourteenth Century the game was played by the highest people
in France. Louis X died from a chill contracted after playing. Charles V
was devoted to it, although he tried in vain to stop it as a pastime for
the lower classes (the origin of the country-club); Charles VI watched
it being played from the room where he was confined during his attack of
insanity and Du Guesclin amused himself with it during the siege of
Dinan. And, although it doesn't say so in the Encyclopædia, Robert C.
Benchley, after playing for the first time in the season of 1922, was so
lame under the right shoulder-blade that he couldn't lift a glass to his
mouth.

This fascinating historical survey of tennis goes on to say that in the
reign of Henri IV the game was so popular that it was said that "there
were more tennis-players in Paris than drunkards in England." The
drunkards of England were so upset by this boast that they immediately
started a drive for membership with the slogan, "Five thousand more
drunkards by April 15, and to Hell with France!" One thing led to
another until war was declared.

The net does not appear until the 17th century. Up until that time a
rope, either fringed or tasseled, was stretched across the court. This
probably had to be abandoned because it was so easy to crawl under it
and chase your opponent. There might also have been ample opportunity
for the person playing at the net or at the "rope," to catch the eye of
the player directly opposite by waving his racquet high in the air and
then to kick him under the rope, knocking him for a loop while the ball
was being put into play in his territory. You have to watch these
Frenchmen every minute.

The Encyclopædia Britannica gives fifteen lines to "Tennis in America."
It says that "few tennis courts existed in America before 1880, but that
now there are courts in Boston, New York, Chicago, Tuxedo and Lakewood
and several other places." Everyone try hard to think now just where
those other places are!

Which reminds us that one of them is going to be in your side yard where
the garden used to be. After you have got the dimensions from the
Encyclopædia, call up a professional tennis-court maker and get him to
do the job for you. Just tell him that you want "a tennis-court."

Once it is built the fun begins. According to the arrangement, each
member of the family is to have certain hours during which it belongs to
them and no one else. Thus the children can play before breakfast and
after breakfast until the sun gets around so that the west court is
shady. Then Daddy and Mother and sprightly friends may take it over.
Later in the afternoon the children have it again, and if there is any
light left after dinner Daddy can take a whirl at the ball.

What actually will happen is this: Right after breakfast Roger Beeman,
who lives across the street and who is home for the summer with a couple
of college friends who are just dandy looking, will come over and ask if
they may use the court until someone wants it. They will let Myrtis play
with them and perhaps Myrtis' girl-chum from Westover. They will play
five sets, running into scores like 19-17, and at lunch time will make
plans for a ride into the country for the afternoon. Daddy will stick
around in the offing all dressed up in his tennis-clothes waiting to
play with Uncle Ted, but somehow or other every time he approaches the
court the young people will be in the middle of a set.

After lunch, Lillian Nieman, who lives three houses down the street,
will come up and ask if she may bring her cousin (just on from the West)
to play a set until someone wants the court. Lillian's cousin has never
played tennis before but she has done a lot of croquet and thinks she
ought to pick tennis up rather easily. For three hours there is a great
deal of screaming, with Lillian and her cousin hitting the ball an
aggregate of eleven times, while Daddy patters up and down the
side-lines, all dressed up in white, practising shots against the
netting.

Finally, the girls will ask him to play with them, and he will thank
them and say that he has to go in the house now as he is all
perspiration and is afraid of catching cold.

After dinner there is dancing on the court by the young people. Anyway,
Daddy is getting pretty old for tennis.




  _Opera Synopses_

  _Some Sample Outlines of Grand Opera Plots For Home Study_


  I

  DIE MEISTER-GENOSSENSCHAFT

Scene: _The Forests of Germany_.

Time: _Antiquity_.


  Cast

  Strudel, _God of Rain_                                 Basso
  Schmalz, _God of Slight Drizzle_                       Tenor
  Immerglück, _Goddess of the Six Primary Colors_        Soprano
  Ludwig das Eiweiss, _the Knight of the Iron Duck_      Baritone
  The Woodpecker                                         Soprano


  Argument

The basis of "Die Meister-Genossenschaft" is an old legend of Germany
which tells how the Whale got his Stomach.


  Act 1

_The Rhine at Low Tide Just Below Weldschnoffen._--Immerglück has grown
weary of always sitting on the same rock with the same fishes swimming
by every day, and sends for Schwül to suggest something to do. Schwül
asks her how she would like to have pass before her all the wonders of
the world fashioned by the hand of man. She says, rotten. He then
suggests that Ringblattz, son of Pflucht, be made to appear before her
and fight a mortal combat with the Iron Duck. This pleases Immerglück
and she summons to her the four dwarfs: Hot Water, Cold Water, Cool, and
Cloudy. She bids them bring Ringblattz to her. They refuse, because
Pflucht has at one time rescued them from being buried alive by acorns,
and, in a rage, Immerglück strikes them all dead with a thunderbolt.


  Act 2

_A Mountain Pass._--Repenting of her deed, Immerglück has sought advice
of the giants, Offen and Besitz, and they tell her that she must
procure the magic zither which confers upon its owner the power to go to
sleep while apparently carrying on a conversation. This magic zither has
been hidden for three hundred centuries in an old bureau drawer, guarded
by the Iron Duck, and, although many have attempted to rescue it, all
have died of a strange ailment just as success was within their grasp.

But Immerglück calls to her side Dampfboot, the tinsmith of the gods,
and bids him make for her a tarnhelm or invisible cap which will enable
her to talk to people without their understanding a word she says. For a
dollar and a half extra Dampfboot throws in a magic ring which renders
its wearer insensible. Thus armed, Immerglück starts out for Walhalla,
humming to herself.


  Act 3

_The Forest Before the Iron Duck's Bureau Drawer._--Merglitz, who has up
till this time held his peace, now descends from a balloon and demands
the release of Betty. It has been the will of Wotan that Merglitz and
Betty should meet on earth and hate each other like poison, but
Zweiback, the druggist of the gods, has disobeyed and concocted a
love-potion which has rendered the young couple very unpleasant company.
Wotan, enraged, destroys them with a protracted heat spell.

Encouraged by this sudden turn of affairs, Immerglück comes to earth in
a boat drawn by four white Holsteins, and, seated alone on a rock,
remembers aloud to herself the days when she was a girl. Pilgrims from
Augenblick, on their way to worship at the shrine of Schmürr, hear the
sound of reminiscence coming from the rock and stop in their march to
sing a hymn of praise for the drying up of the crops. They do not
recognize Immerglück, as she has her hair done differently, and think
that she is a beggar girl selling pencils.

In the meantime, Ragel, the papercutter of the gods, has fashioned
himself a sword on the forge of Schmalz, and has called the weapon
"Assistance-in-Emergency." Armed with "Assistance-in-Emergency" he comes
to earth, determined to slay the Iron Duck and carry off the beautiful
Irma.

But Frimsel overhears the plan and has a drink brewed which is given to
Ragel in a golden goblet and which, when drunk, makes him forget his
past and causes him to believe that he is Schnorr, the God of Fun. While
laboring under this spell, Ragel has a funeral pyre built on the summit
of a high mountain and, after lighting it, climbs on top of it with a
mandolin which he plays until he is consumed.

Immerglück never marries.


  II

  IL MINNESTRONE
  (Peasant Love)

Scene: _Venice and Old Point Comfort_.

Time: _Early 16th Century_.


  Cast

  Alfonso, _Duke of Minnestrone_                   Baritone
  Partola, _a Peasant Girl_                        Soprano

  Cleanso }                                        { Tenor
  Turino  }     _Young Noblemen of Venice._        { Tenor
  Bombo   }                                        { Basso

  Ludovico }     _Assassins in the service of_     { Basso
  Astolfo  }        _Cafeteria Rusticana_          { Methodist

  _Townspeople_, _Cabbies_ _and Sparrows_


  Argument

"Il Minnestrone" is an allegory of the two sides of a man's nature (good
and bad), ending at last in an awfully comical mess with everyone dead.


  Act 1

_A Public Square, Ferrara._--During a peasant festival held to celebrate
the sixth consecutive day of rain, Rudolpho, a young nobleman, sees
Lilliano, daughter of the village bell-ringer, dancing along throwing
artificial roses at herself. He asks of his secretary who the young
woman is, and his secretary, in order to confuse Rudolpho and thereby
win the hand of his ward, tells him that it is his (Rudolpho's) own
mother, disguised for the festival. Rudolpho is astounded. He orders her
arrest.


  Act 2

_Banquet Hall in Gorgio's Palace._--Lilliano has not forgotten Breda,
her old nurse, in spite of her troubles, and determines to avenge
herself for the many insults she received in her youth by poisoning her
(Breda). She therefore invites the old nurse to a banquet and poisons
her. Presently a knock is heard. It is Ugolfo. He has come to carry away
the body of Michelo and to leave an extra quart of pasteurized. Lilliano
tells him that she no longer loves him, at which he goes away, dragging
his feet sulkily.


  Act 3

_In Front of Emilo's House._--Still thinking of the old man's curse,
Borsa has an interview with Cleanso, believing him to be the Duke's
wife. He tells him things can't go on as they are, and Cleanso stabs
him. Just at this moment Betty comes rushing in from school and falls in
a faint. Her worst fears have been realized. She has been insulted by
Sigmundo, and presently dies of old age. In a fury, Ugolfo rushes out to
kill Sigmundo and, as he does so, the dying Rosenblatt rises on one
elbow and curses his mother.


  III

  LUCY DE LIMA

Scene: _Wales_.

Time: _1700_ (_Greenwich_).


  Cast

  William Wont, _Lord of Glennnn_      Basso
  Lucy Wagstaff, _his daughter_        Soprano
  Bertram, _her lover_                 Tenor
  Lord Roger, _friend of Bertram_      Soprano
  Irma, _attendant to Lucy_            Basso

  _Friends, Retainers and Members of the local Lodge of Elks._


  Argument

"Lucy de Lima," is founded on the well-known story by Boccaccio of the
same name and address.


  Act 1

_Gypsy Camp Near Waterbury._--The gypsies, led by Edith, go singing
through the camp on the way to the fair. Following them comes Despard,
the gypsy leader, carrying Ethel, whom he has just kidnapped from her
father, who had previously just kidnapped her from her mother. Despard
places Ethel on the ground and tells Mona, the old hag, to watch over
her. Mona nurses a secret grudge against Despard for having once cut off
her leg and decides to change Ethel for Nettie, another kidnapped child.
Ethel pleads with Mona to let her stay with Despard, for she has fallen
in love with him on the ride over. But Mona is obdurate.


  Act 2

_The Fair._--A crowd of sightseers and villagers is present. Roger
appears, looking for Laura. He can not find her. Laura appears, looking
for Roger. She can not find him. The gypsy queen approaches Roger and
thrusts into his hand the locket stolen from Lord Brym. Roger looks at
it and is frozen with astonishment, for it contains the portrait of his
mother when she was in high school. He then realizes that Laura must be
his sister, and starts out to find her.


  Act 3

_Hall in the Castle._--Lucy is seen surrounded by every luxury, but her
heart is sad. She has just been shown a forged letter from Stewart
saying that he no longer loves her, and she remembers her old free life
in the mountains and longs for another romp with Ravensbane and
Wolfshead, her old pair of rompers. The guests begin to assemble for the
wedding, each bringing a roast ox. They chide Lucy for not having her
dress changed. Just at this moment the gypsy band bursts in and Cleon
tells the wedding party that Elsie and not Edith is the child who was
stolen from the summer-house, showing the blood stained derby as proof.
At this, Lord Brym repents and gives his blessing on the pair, while the
fishermen and their wives celebrate in the courtyard.




  _The Tooth, the Whole Tooth, and Nothing but the Tooth_


Some well-known saying (it doesn't make much difference what) is proved
by the fact that everyone likes to talk about his experiences at the
dentist's. For years and years little articles like this have been
written on the subject, little jokes like some that I shall presently
make have been made, and people in general have been telling other
people just what emotions they experience when they crawl into the old
red plush guillotine.

They like to explain to each other how they feel when the dentist puts
"that buzzer thing" against their bicuspids, and, if sufficiently
pressed, they will describe their sensations on mouthing a rubber dam.

"I'll tell you what I hate," they will say with great relish, "when he
takes that little nut-pick and begins to scrape. Ugh!"

"Oh, I'll tell you what's worse than that," says the friend, not to be
outdone, "when he is poking around careless-like, and strikes a nerve.
Wow!"

And if there are more than two people at the experience-meeting,
everyone will chip in and tell what he or she considers to be the worst
phase of the dentist's work, all present enjoying the narration hugely
and none so much as the narrator who has suffered so.

This sort of thing has been going on ever since the first mammoth gold
tooth was hung out as a bait to folks in search of a good time. (By the
way, when _did_ the present obnoxious system of dentistry begin? It
can't be so very long ago that the electric auger was invented, and
where would a dentist be without an electric auger? Yet you never hear
of Amalgam Filling Day, or any other anniversary in the dental year.
There must be a conspiracy of silence on the part of the trade to keep
hidden the names of the men who are responsible for all this.)

However many years it may be that dentists have been plying their
trade, in all that time people have never tired of talking about their
teeth. This is probably due to the inscrutable workings of Nature who is
always supplying new teeth to talk about.

As a matter of fact, the actual time and suffering in the chair is only
a fraction of the gross expenditure connected with the affair. The
preliminary period, about which nobody talks, is much the worse. This
dates from the discovery of the wayward tooth and extends to the moment
when the dentist places his foot on the automatic hoist which jacks you
up into range. Giving gas for tooth-extraction is all very humane in its
way, but the time for anaesthetics is when the patient first decides
that he must go to the dentist. From then on, until the first excavation
is started, should be shrouded in oblivion.

There is probably no moment more appalling than that in which the
tongue, running idly over the teeth in a moment of care-free play, comes
suddenly upon the ragged edge of a space from which the old familiar
filling has disappeared. The world stops and you look meditatively up to
the corner of the ceiling. Then quickly you draw your tongue away, and
try to laugh the affair off, saying to yourself:

"Stuff and nonsense, my good fellow! There is nothing the matter with
your tooth. Your nerves are upset after a hard day's work, that's all."

Having decided this to your satisfaction, you slyly, and with a poor
attempt at being casual, slide the tongue back along the line of
adjacent teeth, hoping against hope that it will reach the end without
mishap.

But there it is! There can be no doubt about it this time. The tooth
simply has got to be filled by someone, and the only person who can fill
it with anything permanent is a dentist. You wonder if you might not be
able to patch it up yourself for the time being,--a year or so--perhaps
with a little spruce-gum and a coating of new-skin. It is fairly far
back, and wouldn't have to be a very sightly job.

But this has an impracticable sound, even to you. You might want to eat
some peanut-brittle (you never can tell when someone might offer you
peanut-brittle these days), and the new-skin, while serviceable enough
in the case of cream soups and custards, couldn't be expected to stand
up under heavy crunching.

So you admit that, since the thing has got to be filled, it might as
well be a dentist who does the job.

This much decided, all that is necessary is to call him up and make an
appointment.

Let us say that this resolve is made on Tuesday. That afternoon you
start to look up the dentist's number in the telephone-book. A great
wave of relief sweeps over you when you discover that it isn't there.
How can you be expected to make an appointment with a man who hasn't got
a telephone? And how can you have a tooth filled without making an
appointment? The whole thing is impossible, and that's all there is to
it. God knows you did your best.

On Wednesday there is a slightly more insistent twinge, owing to bad
management of a sip of ice-water. You decide that you simply must get in
touch with that dentist when you get back from lunch. But you know how
those things are. First one thing and then another came up, and a man
came in from Providence who had to be shown around the office, and by
the time you had a minute to yourself it was five o'clock. And, anyway,
the tooth didn't bother you again. You wouldn't be surprised if, by
being careful, you could get along with it as it is until the end of the
week when you will have more time. A man has to think of his business,
after all, and what is a little personal discomfort in the shape of an
unfilled tooth to the satisfaction of work well done in the office?

By Saturday morning you are fairly reconciled to going ahead, but it is
only a half day and probably he has no appointments left, anyway. Monday
is really the time. You can begin the week afresh. After all, Monday is
really the logical day to start in going to the dentist.

Bright and early Monday morning you make another try at the
telephone-book, and find, to your horror, that some time between now and
last Tuesday the dentist's name and number have been inserted into the
directory. There it is. There is no getting around it: "Burgess, Jas.
Kendal, DDS. . . . Courtland--2654." There is really nothing left to do
but to call him up. Fortunately the line is busy, which gives you a
perfectly good excuse for putting it over until Tuesday. But on Tuesday
luck is against you and you get a clear connection with the doctor
himself. An appointment is arranged for Thursday afternoon at 3:30.

Thursday afternoon, and here it is only Tuesday morning! Almost anything
may happen between now and then. We might declare war on Mexico, and off
you'd have to go, dentist appointment or no dentist appointment. Surely
a man couldn't let a date to have a tooth filled stand in the way of his
doing his duty to his country. Or the social revolution might start on
Wednesday, and by Thursday the whole town might be in ashes. You can
picture yourself standing, Thursday afternoon at 3:30, on the ruins of
the City Hall, fighting off marauding bands of reds, and saying to
yourself, with a sigh of relief: "Only to think! At this time I was to
have been climbing into the dentist's chair!" You never can tell when
your luck will turn in a thing like that.

But Wednesday goes by and nothing happens. And Thursday morning dawns
without even a word from the dentist saying that he has been called
suddenly out of town to lecture before the Incisor Club. Apparently,
everything is working against you.

By this time, your tongue has taken up a permanent resting-place in the
vacant tooth, and is causing you to talk indistinctly and incoherently.
Somehow you feel that if the dentist opens your mouth and finds the tip
of your tongue in the tooth, he will be deceived and go away without
doing anything.

The only thing left is for you to call him up and say that you have just
killed a man and are being arrested and can't possibly keep your
appointment. But any dentist would see through that. He would laugh
right into his transmitter at you. There is probably no excuse which it
would be possible to invent which a dentist has not already heard eighty
or ninety times. No, you might as well see the thing through now.

Luncheon is a ghastly rite. The whole left side of your jaw has suddenly
developed an acute sensitiveness and the disaffection has spread to the
four teeth on either side of the original one. You doubt if it will be
possible for him to touch it at all. Perhaps all he intends to do this
time is to look at it anyway. You might even suggest that to him. You
could very easily come in again soon and have him do the actual work.

Three-thirty draws near. A horrible time of day at best. Just when a
man's vitality is lowest. Before stepping in out of the sunlight into
the building in which the dental parlor is, you take one look about you
at the happy people scurrying by in the street. Carefree children that
they are! What do they know of Life? Probably that man in the
silly-looking hat never had trouble with so much as his baby-teeth.
There they go, pushing and jostling each other, just as if within ten
feet of them there was not a man who stands on the brink of the Great
Misadventure. Ah well! Life is like that!

Into the elevator. The last hope is gone. The door clangs and you look
hopelessly about you at the stupid faces of your fellow passengers. How
can people be so clownish? Of course, there is always the chance that
the elevator will fall and that you will all be terribly hurt. But that
is too much to expect. You dismiss it from your thoughts as too
impractical, too visionary. Things don't work out as happily as that in
real life.

You feel a certain glow of heroic pride when you tell the operator the
right floor number. You might just as easily have told him a floor too
high or too low, and that would, at least, have caused delay. But after
all, a man must prove himself a man and the least you can do is to meet
Fate with an unflinching eye and give the right floor number.

Too often has the scene in the dentist's waiting-room been described for
me to try to do it again here. They are all alike. The antiseptic smell,
the ominous hum from the operating-rooms, the ancient _Digests_, and the
silent, sullen group of waiting patients, each trying to look
unconcerned and cordially disliking everyone else in the room,--all
these have been sung by poets of far greater lyric powers than mine.
(Not that I really think that they _are_ greater than mine, but that's
the customary form of excuse for not writing something you haven't got
time or space to do. As a matter of fact, I think I could do it much
better than it has ever been done before).

I can only say that, as you sit looking, with unseeing eyes, through a
large book entitled, "The War in Pictures," you would gladly change
places with the most lowly of God's creatures. It is inconceivable that
there should be anyone worse off than you, unless perhaps it is some of
the poor wretches who are waiting with you.

That one over in the arm-chair, nervously tearing to shreds a copy of
"The Dental Review and Practical Inlay Worker." She may have something
frightful the trouble with her. She couldn't possibly look more worried.
Perhaps it is very, very painful. This thought cheers you up
considerably. What cowards women are in times like these!

And then there comes the sound of voices from the next room.

"All right, Doctor, and if it gives me any more pain shall I call you
up? . . . Do you think that it will bleed much more? . . . Saturday
morning, then, at eleven. . . . Good bye, Doctor."

And a middle-aged woman emerges (all women are middle-aged when emerging
from the dentist's office) looking as if she were playing the big
emotional scene in "John Ferguson." A wisp of hair waves dissolutely
across her forehead between her eyes. Her face is pale, except for a
slight inflammation at the corners of her mouth, and in her eyes is that
far-away look of one who has been face to face with Life. But she is
through. She should care how she looks.

The nurse appears, and looks inquiringly at each one in the room. Each
one in the room evades the nurse's glance in one last, futile attempt to
fool someone and get away without seeing the dentist. But she spots you
and nods pleasantly. God, how pleasantly she nods! There ought to be a
law against people being as pleasant as that.

"The doctor will see you now," she says.

The English language may hold a more disagreeable combination of words
than "The doctor will see you now." I am willing to concede something to
the phrase "Have you anything to say before the current is turned on."
That may be worse for the moment, but it doesn't last so long. For
continued, unmitigating depression, I know nothing to equal "The doctor
will see you now." But I'm not narrow-minded about it. I'm willing to
consider other possibilities.

Smiling feebly, you trip over the extended feet of the man next to you,
and stagger into the delivery-room, where amid a ghastly array of
death-masks of teeth, blue flames waving eerily from Bunsen burners, and
the drowning sound of perpetually running water which chokes and gurgles
at intervals, you sink into the chair and close your eyes.

    *    *    *    *    *

But now let us consider the spiritual exaltation that comes when you are
at last let down and turned loose. It is all over, and what did it
amount to? Why, nothing at all. A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Nothing at all.

You suddenly develop a particular friendship for the dentist. A splendid
fellow, really. You ask him questions about his instruments. What does
he use this thing for, for instance? Well, well, to think of a little
thing like that making all that trouble. A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! . . . And the
dentist's family, how are they? Isn't that fine!

Gaily you shake hands with him and straighten your tie. Forgotten is the
fact that you have another appointment with him for Monday. There is no
such thing as Monday. You are through for today, and all's right with
the world.

As you pass out through the waiting-room, you leer at the others
unpleasantly. The poor fishes! Why can't they take their medicine like
grown people and not sit there moping as if they were going to be shot?

Heigh-ho! Here's the elevator-man! A charming fellow! You wonder if he
knows that you have just had a tooth filled. You feel tempted to tell
him and slap him on the back. You feel tempted to tell everyone out in
the bright, cheery street. And what a wonderful street it is too! All
full of nice, black snow and water. After all, Life is sweet!

And then you go and find the first person whom you can accost without
being arrested and explain to him just what it was that the dentist did
to you, and how you felt, and what you have got to have done next time.

Which brings us right back to where we were in the beginning, and
perhaps accounts for everyone's liking to divulge their dental secrets
to others. It may be a sort of hysterical relief that, for the time
being, it is all over with.




  _Literary Lost and Found Department_

  With Scant Apology to the Book Section of the _New York Times_


  "Old Black Tillie"

H.G.L.--When I was a little girl, my nurse used to recite a poem
something like the following (as near as I can remember). I wonder if
anyone can give me the missing lines?

  "_Old Black Tillie lived in the dell,_
   _Heigh-ho with a rum-tum-tum!_
   _Something, something, something like a lot of hell,_
   _Heigh-ho with a rum-tum-tum!_
   _She wasn't very something and she wasn't very fat_
   _But----_"


  "Victor Hugo's Death"

M.K.C.--Is it true that Victor Hugo did not die but is still living in a
little shack in Colorado?


  "I'm Sorry That I Spelt the Word"

J.R.A.--Can anyone help me out by furnishing the last three words to the
following stanza which I learned in school and of which I have forgotten
the last three words, thereby driving myself crazy?

  "_'I'm sorry that I spelt the word,_
   _I hate to go above you,_
   _Because--' the brown eyes lower fell,_
   _'Because, you see, -- -- --.'_"


  "God's in His Heaven"

J.A.E.--Where did Mark Twain write the following?

  "_God's in his heaven:_
   _All's right with the world._"


  "She Dwelt Beside"

N.K.Y.--Can someone locate this for me and tell
the author?

  "_She dwelt among untrodden ways,_
   _Beside the springs of Dove,_
   _To me she gave sweet Charity,_
   _But greater far is Love._"


  "The Golden Wedding"

K.L.F.--Who wrote the following and what does it mean?

  "_Oh, de golden wedding,_
   _Oh, de golden wedding,_
   _Oh, de golden wedding,_
   _De golden, golden wedding!_"


  ANSWERS


  "When Grandma Was a Girl"

Luther F. Neam, Flushing, L. I.--The poem asked for by "E.J.K." was
recited at a Free Soil riot in Ashburg, Kansas, in July, 1850. It was
entitled, "And That's the Way They Did It When Grandma Was a Girl," and
was written by Bishop Leander B. Rizzard. The last line runs:

  "_And that's the way they did it, when Grandma was a girl._"

Others who answered this query were: Lillian W. East, of Albany; Martin
B. Forsch, New York City, and Henry Cabot Lodge, Nahant.


  "Let Us Then Be Up and Doing"

Roger F. Nilkette, Presto, N. J.--Replying to the query in your last
issue concerning the origin of the lines:

  "_Let us then be up and doing,_
   _With a heart for any fate._
   _Still achieving, still pursuing,_
   _Learn to labor and to wait._"

I remember hearing these lines read at a gathering in the Second Baptist
Church of Presto, N. J., when I was a young man, by the Reverend Harley
N. Ankle. It was said at the time among his parishioners that he himself
wrote them and on being questioned on the matter he did not deny it,
simply smiling and saying, "I'm glad if you liked them." They were
henceforth known in Presto as "Dr. Ankle's verse" and were set to music
and sung at his funeral.


  "The December Bride, or Old Robin"

Charles B. Rennit, Boston, N. H.--The whole poem wanted by "H.J.O." is
as follows, and appeared in _Hostetter's Annual_ in 1843.


  1

  "_'Twas in the bleak December that I took her for my bride;_
   _How well do I remember how she fluttered by my side;_
   _My Nellie dear, it was not long before you up and died,_
   _And they buried her at eight-thirty in the morning._


  2

  "_Oh, do not tell me of the charms of maidens far and near,_
   _Their charming ways and manners I do not care to hear,_
   _For Lucy dear was to me so very, very dear,_
   _And they buried her at eight-thirty in the morning._


  3

  "_Then it's merrily, merrily, merrily, whoa!_
   _To the old gray church they come and go,
   Some to be married and some to be buried,_
   _And old Robin has gone for the mail._"


  "The Old King's Joke"

F. J. Bruff, Hammick, Conn.--In a recent issue of your paper, Lillian F.
Grothman asked for the remainder of a poem which began: "_The King of
Sweden made a joke, ha, ha!_"

I can furnish all of this poem, having written it myself, for which I
was expelled from St. Domino's School in 1895. If Miss Grothman will
meet me in the green room at the Biltmore for tea on Wednesday next at
4:30, she will be supplied with the missing words.




  _Trout Fishing_


I never knew very much about trout-fishing anyway, and I certainly had
no inkling that a trout-fisher had to be so deceitful until I read
"Trout-Fishing in Brooks," by G. Garrow-Green. The thing is appalling.
Evidently the sport is nothing but a constant series of compromises
with one's better nature, what with sneaking about pretending to be
something that one is not, trying to fool the fish into thinking one
thing when just the reverse is true, and in general behaving in an
underhanded and tricky manner throughout the day.

The very first and evidently the most important exhortation in the book
is, "Whatever you do, keep out of sight of the fish." Is that open and
above-board? Is it honorable?

"Trout invariably lie in running water with their noses pointed against
the current, and therefore whatever general chance of concealment there
may be rests in fishing from behind them. The moral is that the
brook-angler must both walk and fish upstream."

It seems as if a lot of trouble might be saved the fisherman, in case he
really didn't want to walk upstream but had to get to some point
downstream before 6 o'clock, to adopt some disguise which would deceive
the fish into thinking that he had no intention of catching them anyway.
A pair of blue glasses and a cane would give the effect of the wearer
being blind and harmless, and could be thrown aside very quickly when
the time came to show one's self in one's true colors to the fish. If
there were two anglers they might talk in loud tones about their dislike
for fish in any form, and then, when the trout were quite reassured and
swimming close to the bank they could suddenly be shot with a pistol.

    *    *    *    *    *

But a little further on comes a suggestion for a much more elaborate bit
of subterfuge.

The author says that in the early season trout are often engaged with
larvæ at the bottom and do not show on the surface. It is then a good
plan, he says, to sink the flies well, moving in short jerks to imitate
nymphs.

You can see that imitating a nymph will call for a lot of rehearsing,
but I doubt very much if moving in short jerks is the way in which to go
about it. I have never actually seen a nymph, though if I had I should
not be likely to admit it, and I can think of no possible way in which I
could give an adequate illusion of being one myself. Even the most
stupid of trout could easily divine that I was masquerading, and then
the question would immediately arise in his mind: "If he is not a nymph,
then what is his object in going about like that trying to imitate one?
He is up to no good, I'll be bound."

And crash! away would go the trout before I could put my clothes back
on.

    *    *    *    *    *

There is an interesting note on the care and feeding of worms on page
67. One hundred and fifty worms are placed in a tin and allowed to work
their way down into packed moss.

"A little fresh milk poured in occasionally is sufficient food," writes
Mr. Garrow-Green, in the style of Dr. Holt. "So disposed, the worms soon
become bright, lively and tough."

It is easy to understand why one should want to have bright worms, so
long as they don't know that they are bright and try to show off before
company, but why deliberately set out to make them tough? Good manners
they may not be expected to acquire, but a worm with a cultivated
vulgarity sounds intolerable. Imagine 150 very tough worms all crowded
together in one tin! "Canaille" is the only word to describe it.

    *    *    *    *    *

I suppose that it is my ignorance of fishing parlance which makes the
following sentence a bit hazy:

"Much has been written about bringing a fish downstream to help drown
it, as no doubt it does; still, this is often impracticable."

I can think of nothing more impracticable than trying to drown a fish
under any conditions, upstream or down, but I suppose that Mr.
Garrow-Green knows what he is talking about.

And in at least one of his passages I follow him perfectly. In speaking
of the time of day for fly-fishing in the spring he says:

"'Carpe diem' is a good watchword when trout are in the humor." At
least, I know a good pun when I see one.




  _Fascinating Crimes_

  _2. The Wallack Disappearances_


Shortly after the Civil War the residents of Wallack, Connecticut, were
awakened by the barking of a dog belonging to James Lenn, a visiting
farmer. The dog was an old one, so they thought nothing of it, and went
back to sleep again.

Later it was discovered that James Lenn was missing, and that the dog
also had disappeared, but in the opposite direction. A search of the
countryside was instituted which resulted in the finding of twenty-five
empty tins, several old brooms, enough newspapers to make a fair-sized
bale, and one old buggy-top. None of these seemed to have any value as
clews in the mysterious disappearance of James Lenn. Some importance was
attached to the discovery of the buggy-top until it was found that the
missing farmer was not hiding under it.

The police, however, were not satisfied. There had been several
violations of the State Fishing and Gaming ordinances in and around
Wallack and public censure of the police was at its height. Chief of
Police Walter M. Turbot determined to carry this case through to a
finish. Thus it was that the search for Farmer James Lenn was begun
afresh, a search which was destined to end in Innsbruck, Austria.

In the little town of Innsbruck there had been living an old garbler
named Leon Nabgratz, a sort of town character, if such a thing were
possible. Nabgratz had never been to America, but his young nephew,
Gurling Nabgratz, son of Leon's brother Meff, was born in that country
and had lived there all his life. Late in December, 1867, he had moved
to Wallack, Connecticut, where he was sold as a slave to one James Lenn.

[Illustration: _The principals in the famous Wallack disappearances_

--Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.]

One day, while reading the newspaper, Gurling Nabgratz came across an
item indicating that slavery had been abolished four years previously
and figured out that he was just a sap to be working for James Lenn for
nothing. He mentioned the matter to his master, but Lenn maintained that
it was only the Negro slaves who had been freed, and that Lincoln was no
longer President anyway.

Nabgratz went away grumbling but did his chores that day as usual. He
was seen late in the evening of April 17 in the poolroom of the village,
where he is said to have made _sotto-voce_ remarks and sung several
slave songs of the ante-bellum South with such inflammatory refrains as
"We'se all gwine ter be free!"

That night Gurling Nabgratz disappeared and was never seen again in
Wallack.

This having preceded the disappearance of James Lenn by about two years,
nothing was thought of it at the time. During the search for Lenn,
however, the incident was recalled, and a search for Nabgratz was
instituted. This made two searches going on at once in the little town
of Wallack, and resulted in considerable hard feeling between the rival
searching-parties. The town was divided into two camps, the "Find Lenn"
faction and the "Find Nabgratz" faction, and on at least one occasion
shots were exchanged.

In the meantime, in Innsbruck, Austria, Leon Nabgratz, the old garbler,
was quietly pursuing his way, quite unconscious of the stir that he was
causing four thousand miles away. His brother Meff had written him about
Gurling's disappearance, but, as the old man never bothered to read his
brother's letters, he was just as much in the dark as he had been
before. More so, in fact, because he was older.

His surprise can well be imagined, therefore, when one day in the spring
of 1869 the police entered his house in the Schmalzgasse and began a
search for James Lenn of Wallack, Connecticut, U. S. A. In vain Nabgratz
protested that he had never heard the name of Lenn and that, even if he
had, it was not interesting to him. The arm of the law reaching across
the Atlantic was inexorable. Leon Nabgratz's house was searched and in
it was found an old trunk of suspiciously large proportions. In spite of
the fact that this trunk was labeled "_Weihnachtsgeschenke_" ("Christmas
presents") it was opened, and in it were found James Lenn _and_ Gurling
Nabgratz, together with a copy of the New York _Times_ of October 12,
1868.

The mysterious Wallack disappearances were thus explained, and Leon
Nabgratz was arrested for having in his possession a trunk with a
misleading label on it.

Art is long and time is fleeting.




  _Kiddie-Kar Travel_


In America there are two classes of travel--first class, and with
children. Traveling with children corresponds roughly to traveling
third-class in Bulgaria. They tell me there is nothing lower in the
world than third-class Bulgarian travel.

The actual physical discomfort of traveling with the Kiddies is not so
great, although you do emerge from it looking as if you had just moved
the piano upstairs single-handed. It is the mental wear-and-tear that
tells and for a sensitive man there is only one thing worse, and that is
a church wedding in which he is playing the leading comedy rôle.

There are several branches of the ordeal of Going on Choo-Choo, and it
is difficult to tell which is the roughest. Those who have taken a very
small baby on a train maintain that this ranks as pleasure along with
having a nerve killed. On the other hand, those whose wee companions are
in the romping stage, simply laugh at the claims of the first group.
Sometimes you will find a man who has both an infant _and_ a romper with
him. Such a citizen should receive a salute of twenty-one guns every
time he enters the city and should be allowed to wear the insignia of
the Pater Dolorosa, giving him the right to solicit alms on the
cathedral steps.

There is much to be said for those who maintain that rather should the
race be allowed to die out than that babies should be taken from place
to place along our national arteries of traffic. On the other hand,
there _are_ moments when babies are asleep. (Oh, yes, there are. There
_must_ be.) But it is practically a straight run of ten or a dozen hours
for your child of four. You may have a little trouble in getting the
infant to doze off, especially as the train newsboy waits crouching in
the vestibule until he sees signs of slumber on the child's face and
then rushes in to yell, "Cop of _Life_, out today!" right by its pink,
shell-like ear. But after it _is_ asleep, your troubles are over except
for wondering how you can shift your ossifying arm to a new position
without disturbing its precious burden.

If the child is of an age which denies the existence of sleep, however,
preferring to run up and down the aisle of the car rather than sit in
its chair (at least a baby can't get out of its chair unless it falls
out and even then it can't go far), then every minute of the trip is
full of fun. On the whole, having traveled with children of all the
popular ages, I would be inclined to award the Hair-Shirt to the man who
successfully completes the ride with a boy of, let us say, three.

In the first place, you start with the pronounced ill-will of two-thirds
of the rest of the occupants of the car. You see them as they come in,
before the train starts, glancing at you and yours with little or no
attempt to conceal the fact that they wish they had waited for the four
o'clock. Across from you is perhaps a large man who, in his home town,
has a reputation for eating little children. He wears a heavy gold watch
chain and wants to read through a lot of reports on the trip. He is just
about as glad to be opposite a small boy as he would be if it were a
hurdy-gurdy.

[Illustration: _You start with the pronounced ill-will of the rest of
the occupants_]

In back of you is a lady in a black silk dress who doesn't like the
porter. Ladies in black silk dresses always seem to board the train with
an aversion to the porter. The fact that the porter has to be in the
same car with her makes her fussy to start with, and when she discovers
that in front of her is a child of three who is already eating (you
simply have to give him a lemon-drop to keep him quiet at least until
the train starts), she decides that the best thing to do is simply to
ignore him and not give him the slightest encouragement to become
friendly. The child therefore picks her out immediately to be his buddy.

For a time after things get to going all you have to do is answer
questions about the scenery. This is only what you must expect when you
have children, and it happens no matter where you are. You can always
say that you don't know who lives in that house or what that cow is
doing. Sometimes you don't even have to look up when you say that you
don't know. This part is comparatively easy.

It is when the migratory fit comes on that you will be put to the test.
Suddenly you look and find the boy staggering down the aisle, peering
into the faces of people as he passes them. "Here! Come back here,
Roger!" you cry, lurching after him and landing across the knees of the
young lady two seats down. Roger takes this as a signal for a game and
starts to run, screaming with laughter. After four steps he falls and
starts to cry.

On being carried kicking back to his seat, he is told that he mustn't
run down the aisle again. This strikes even Roger as funny, because it
is such a flat thing to say. Of course he is going to run down the aisle
again and he knows it as well as you do. In the meantime, however, he is
perfectly willing to spend a little time with the lady in the black silk
dress.

"Here, Roger," you say, "don't bother the lady."

"Hello, little boy," the lady says, nervously, and tries to go back to
her book. The interview is over as far as she is concerned. Roger,
however, thinks that it would be just dandy to get up in her lap. This
has to be stopped, and Roger has to be whispered to.

He then announces that it is about time that he went to the wash-room.
You march down the car, steering him by the shoulders and both lurching
together as the train takes the curves and attracting wide attention to
your very obvious excursion. Several kindly people smile knowingly at
you as you pass and try to pat the boy on the head, but their advances
are repelled, it being a rule of all children to look with disfavor on
any attentions from strangers. The only people they want to play with
are those who hate children.

On reaching the wash-room you discover that the porter has just locked
it and taken the key with him, simply to be nasty. This raises quite a
problem. You explain the situation as well as possible, which turns out
to be not well enough. There is every indication of loud crying and
perhaps worse. You call attention to the Burrows Rustless Screen sign
which you are just passing and stand in the passage-way by the
drinking-cups, feverishly trying to find things in the landscape as it
whirls by which will serve to take the mind off the tragedy of the
moment. You become so engrossed in this important task that it is some
time before you discover that you are completely blocking the
passage-way and the progress of some fifteen people who want to get off
at Utica. There is nothing for you to do but head the procession and get
off first.

[Illustration: _Before you discover that you are completely blocking the
passageway_]

Once out in the open, the pride and prop of your old age decides that
the thing to do is pay the engineer a visit, and starts off up the
platform at a terrific rate. This amuses the onlookers and gives you a
little exercise after being cramped up in that old car all the morning.
The imminent danger of the train's starting without you only adds to the
fun. At that, there might be worse things than being left in Utica. One
of them is getting back on the train again to face the old gentleman
with the large watch chain.

The final phase of the ordeal, however, is still in store for you when
you make your way (and Roger's way) into the diner. Here the plunging
march down the aisle of the car is multiplied by six (the diner is never
any nearer than six cars and usually is part of another train). On the
way, Roger sees a box of animal crackers belonging to a little girl and
commandeers it. The little girl, putting up a fight, is promptly pushed
over, starting what promises to be a free-for-all fight between the two
families. Lurching along after the apologies have been made, it is just
a series of unwarranted attacks by Roger on sleeping travelers and
equally unwarranted evasions by Roger of the kindly advances of very
nice people who love children.

In the diner, it turns out that the nearest thing they have suited to
Roger's customary diet is veal cutlets, and you hardly think that his
mother would approve of those. Everything else has peppers or sardines
in it. A curry of lamb across the way strikes the boy's fancy and he
demands some of that. On being told that he has not the slightest chance
in the world of getting it but how would he like a little
crackers-and-milk, he becomes quite upset and threatens to throw a fork
at the Episcopal clergyman sitting opposite. Pieces of toast are waved
alluringly in front of him and he is asked to consider the advantages of
preserved figs and cream, but it is curry of lamb or he gets off the
train. He doesn't act like this at home. In fact, he is noted for his
tractability. There seems to be something about the train that brings
out all the worst that is in him, all the hidden traits that he has
inherited from his mother's side of the family. There is nothing else to
do but say firmly: "Very well, then, Roger. We'll go back _without_ any
nice dinner," and carry him protesting from the diner, apologizing to
the head steward for the scene and considering dropping him overboard
as you pass through each vestibule.

In fact, I had a cousin once who had to take three of his little ones on
an all-day trip from Philadelphia to Boston. It was the hottest day of
the year and my cousin had on a woolen suit. By the time he reached
Hartford, people in the car noticed that he had only two children with
him. At Worcester he had only one. No one knew what had become of the
others and no one asked. It seemed better not to ask. He reached Boston
alone and never explained what had become of the tiny tots. Anyone who
has ever traveled with tiny tots of his own, however, can guess.




  _The Last Day_


When, during the long winter evenings, you sit around the snap-shot
album and recall the merry, merry times you had on your vacation, there
is one day which your memory mercifully overlooks. It is the day you
packed up and left the summer resort to go home.

This Ultimate Day really begins the night before, when you sit up until
one o'clock trying to get things into the trunks and bags. This is when
you discover the well-known fact that summer air swells articles to
twice or three times their original size; so that the sneakers which in
June fitted in between the phonograph and the book (which you have never
opened), in September are found to require a whole tray for themselves
and even then one of them will probably have to be carried in the hand.

Along about midnight, the discouraging process begins to get on your
nerves and you snap at your wife and she snaps at you every time it is
found that something won't fit in the suitcase. As you have both
gradually dispensed with the more attractive articles of clothing under
stress of the heat and the excitement, these little word passages taken
on the sordid nature of a squabble in an East Side tenement, and all
that is needed is for one of the children to wake up and start
whimpering. This it does.

It is finally decided that there is no sense in trying to finish the job
that night. General nervousness, combined with a specific fear of
oversleeping, results in a troubled tossing of perhaps three hours in
bed, and ushers in the dawn of the last day on just about as irritable
and bleary-eyed a little family as you will find outside an institution.

The trouble starts right away with the process of getting dressed in
traveling clothes which haven't been worn since the trip up. Junior's
shoulders are still tender, and he decides that it will be impossible
for him to wear his starched blouse. One of Philip's good shoes,
finding that there has been no call for it during the summer, has become
hurt and has disappeared; so Philip has to wear a pair of Daddy's old
bathing shoes which had been thrown away. (After everything has been
locked and taken out of the room, the good shoe is found in the closet
and left for dead.)

You, yourself, aren't any too successful in reverting to city clothes.
Several weeks of soft collars and rubber-soled shoes have softened you
to a point where the old "Deroy-14½" feels like a napkin-ring around
your neck, and your natty brogans are so heavy that you lose your
balance and topple over forward if you step out suddenly. The whole
effect of your civilian costume when surveyed in a mirror is that of a
Maine guide all dressed up for an outing "up to Bangor."

Incidentally, it shapes up as one of the hottest days of the season--or
any other season.

"Oh, look how funny Daddy looks in his straw hat!"

"I never realized before, Fred, how much too high the crown is for the
length of your face. Are you sure it's your hat?"

"It's my hat, all right," is the proper reply, "but maybe the face
belongs to somebody else."

This silences them for a while, but on and off during the day a lot of
good-natured fun is had in calling the attention of outsiders to the
spectacle presented by Daddy in his "store" clothes.

Once everyone is dressed, there must be an excursion to take one last
look at the ocean, or lake, or whatever particular prank of Nature it
may have been which has served as an inducement to you to leave the
city. This must be done before breakfast. So down to the beach you go,
getting your shoes full of sand, and wait while Sister, in a sentimental
attempt to feel the water for the last time, has tripped and fallen in,
soaking herself to the garters. There being no dry clothes left out, she
has to go in the kitchen and stand in front of the stove until at least
one side of her is dry.

[Illustration: _Sister has tripped and fallen in, soaking herself to the
garters_]

Breakfast bears no resemblance to any other meal eaten in the place.
There is a poorly-suppressed feeling that you must hurry, coupled with
the stiff collar and tight clothes, which makes it practically
impossible to get any food down past the upper chest.

Then follows one of the worst features of the worst of all vacation
days--the goodbyes. It isn't that you hate to part company with these
people. They too, as they stand there in their summer clothes, seem to
have undergone some process whereby you see them as they really are and
not as they seemed when you were all together up to your necks in water
or worrying a tennis ball back and forth over a net. And you may be sure
that you, in your town clothes, seem doubly unattractive to them.

Here is Mrs. Tremble, who lives in Montclair, N. J., in the winter. That
really is a terrible hat of hers, now that you get a good look at it.
"Well, goodbye, Mrs. Tremble. Be sure to look us up if you ever get out
our way. We are right in the telephone book, and we'll have a regular
get-together meeting. . . . Goodbye, Marian. Think of us tonight in the
hot city, and be sure to let us know when you are going through . . .
Well, so long, Mr. Prothero; look out for those girls up at the post
office. Don't let any of them marry you . . . Well, we're off, Mrs.
Rostetter. Yes, we're leaving today. On the 10:45. We have to be back
for Junior's school. It begins on the 11th. _Good_bye!"

It is then found that there is about an hour to wait before the machine
comes to take you to the station; so all these goodbyes have been wasted
and have to be gone through with again.

In the meantime, Mother decides that she must run over to the Bide-a-Wee
cottage and say goodbye to the Sisbys. The children feel that they are
about due for another last look at the ocean. And Daddy remembers that
he hasn't been able to shut the big suitcase yet. So the family
disperses in various directions and each unit gets lost. Mother, rushing
out from the Sisbys' in a panic thinking that she hears the automobile,
is unable to find the others. Little Mildred, having taken it upon
herself to look out for the other children while they are gazing on the
ocean, has felt it incumbent on her to spank Philip for trying to build
one last tunnel in the sand, resulting in a bitter physical encounter in
which Philip easily batters his sister into a state of hysteria. Daddy,
having wilted his collar and put his knee through his straw hat in an
attempt to jam the suitcase together, finds that the thing can't be
done and takes out the box of sea-shells that Junior had planned to take
home for his cabinet, and hides them under the bed.

The suitcase at last having been squeezed shut and placed with the rest
of the bags in the hall, the maid comes running up with five damp
bathing suits which she has found hanging on the line and wants to know
if they belong here. Daddy looks cautiously down the hall and whispers:
"No!"

[Illustration: _Looks cautiously down the hall and whispers: "No!"_]

At last the automobile arrives and stands honking by the roadside.
"Come, Junior, quick, put your coat on! . . . Have you got the bag with
the thermos? . . . Hurry, Philip! . . . Where's Sister? . . . Come,
Sister! . . . Well, it's too late now. You'll have to wait till we get
on the train . . . Goodbye, Mrs. Tremble . . . Be sure to look us
up . . . Goodbye, everybody! . . . Here, Junior! Put that down! You
can't take that with you. No, no! That belongs to that other little boy
. . . _Junior!_ . . . Goodbye, Marian! . . . Goodbye, Mrs.
McNerdle! . . . Philip, say goodbye to Mrs. McNerdle, she's been so good
to you, don't you remember? . . . Goodbye, Mrs. McNerdle, that's right.
. . . _Goodbye!_"

And with that the automobile starts, the friends on the porch wave and
call out indistinguishable pleasantries, Junior begins to cry, and it is
found that Ed has no hat.

The trip home in the heat and cinders is enlivened by longing
reminiscences: "Well, it's eleven o'clock. I suppose they're all getting
into their bathing suits now. How'd you like to jump into that old ocean
right this minute, eh?" (As a matter of fact, the speaker has probably
not been induced to go into "that old ocean" more than three times
during the whole summer.)

The fact that they reach home too late to get a regular dinner and have
to go to bed hungry, and the more poignant impressions in the process
of opening a house which has been closed all summer, have all been
treated of before in an article called "The Entrance Into the Tomb." And
so we will leave our buoyant little family, their vacation ended, all
ready to jump into the swing of their work, refreshed, invigorated, and
clear-eyed.




  _Family Life in America_

  Part 1


    The naturalistic literature of this country has reached such a
    state that no family of characters is considered true to life
    which does not include at least two hypochondriacs, one sadist,
    and one old man who spills food down the front of his vest. If
    this school progresses, the following is what we may expect in
    our national literature in a year or so.

The living-room in the Twillys' house was so damp that thick, soppy moss
grew all over the walls. It dripped on the picture of Grandfather Twilly
that hung over the melodeon, making streaks down the dirty glass like
sweat on the old man's face. It was a mean face. Grandfather Twilly had
been a mean man and had little spots of soup on the lapel of his coat.
All his children were mean and had soup spots on their clothes.

Grandma Twilly sat in the rocker over by the window, and as she rocked
the chair snapped. It sounded like Grandma Twilly's knees snapping as
they did whenever she stooped over to pull the wings off a fly. She was
a mean old thing. Her knuckles were grimy and she chewed crumbs that she
found in the bottom of her reticule. You would have hated her. She hated
herself. But most of all she hated Grandfather Twilly.

"I certainly hope you're frying good," she muttered as she looked up at
his picture.

    *    *    *    *    *

"Hasn't the undertaker come yet, Ma?" asked young Mrs. Wilbur Twilly
petulantly. She was boiling water on the oil-heater and every now and
again would spill a little of the steaming liquid on the baby who was
playing on the floor. She hated the baby because it looked like her
father. The hot water raised little white blisters on the baby's red
neck and Mabel Twilly felt short, sharp twinges of pleasure at the
sight. It was the only pleasure she had had for four months.

"Why don't you kill yourself, Ma?" she continued. "You're only in the
way here and you know it. It's just because you're a mean old woman and
want to make trouble for us that you hang on."

Grandma Twilly shot a dirty look at her daughter-in-law. She had always
hated her. Stringy hair, Mabel had. Dank, stringy hair. Grandma Twilly
thought how it would look hanging at an Indian's belt. But all that she
did was to place her tongue against her two front teeth and make a noise
like the bath-room faucet.

Wilbur Twilly was reading the paper by the oil lamp. Wilbur had watery
blue eyes and cigar ashes all over his knees. The third and fourth
buttons of his vest were undone. It was too hideous.

He was conscious of his family seated in chairs about him. His mother,
chewing crumbs. His wife Mabel, with her stringy hair, reading. His
sister Bernice, with projecting front teeth, who sat thinking of the man
who came every day to take away the waste paper. Bernice was wondering
how long it would be before her family would discover that she had been
married to this man for three years.

How Wilbur hated them all. It didn't seem as if he could stand it any
longer. He wanted to scream and stick pins into every one of them and
then rush out and see the girl who worked in his office snapping
rubber-bands all day. He hated her too, but she wore side-combs.


  Part 2

The street was covered with slimy mud. It oozed out from under Bernice's
rubbers in unpleasant bubbles until it seemed to her as if she must
kill herself. Hot air coming out from a steam laundry. Hot, stifling
air. Bernice didn't work in the laundry but she wished that she did so
that the hot air would kill her. She wanted to be stifled. She needed
torture to be happy. She also needed a good swift clout on the side of
the face.

A drunken man lurched out from a door-way and flung his arms about her.
It was only her husband. She loved her husband. She loved him so much
that, as she pushed him away and into the gutter, she stuck her little
finger into his eye. She also untied his neck-tie. It was a bow
neck-tie, with white, dirty spots on it and it was wet with gin. It
didn't seem as if Bernice could stand it any longer. All the repressions
of nineteen sordid years behind protruding teeth surged through her
untidy soul. She wanted love. But it was not her husband that she loved
so fiercely. It was old Grandfather Twilly. And he was too dead.


  Part 3

In the dining-room of the Twilly's house everything was very quiet. Even
the vinegar-cruet which was covered with fly-specks. Grandma Twilly lay
with her head in the baked potatoes, poisoned by Mabel, who, in her turn
had been poisoned by her husband and sprawled in an odd posture over the
china-closet. Wilbur and his sister Bernice had just finished choking
each other to death and between them completely covered the carpet in
that corner of the room where the worn spot showed the bare boards
beneath, like ribs on a chicken carcass.

Only the baby survived. She had a mean face and had great spillings of
Imperial Granum down her bib. As she looked about her at her family, a
great hate surged through her tiny body and her eyes snapped viciously.
She wanted to get down from her high-chair and show them all how much
she hated them.

Bernice's husband, the man who came after the waste paper, staggered
into the room. The tips were off both his shoe-lacings. The baby
experienced a voluptuous sense of futility at the sight of the
tipless-lacings and leered suggestively at her uncle-in-law.

"We must get the roof fixed," said the man, very quietly. "It lets the
sun in."




  _The Romance of Digestion_


When you take a bite of that delicious cookie, or swallow a morsel of
that nourishing bread, do you stop to think of the marvelous and
intricate process by means of which Mother Nature is going to convert it
into bone and sinew and roses for those pretty cheeks? Probably not, and
it is just as well. For if you did stop to think of it at that time, you
would unquestionably not be able to digest that cookie--or that
nourishing bread.

But whether you think of it or not this exciting process of digestion is
going on, day in and day out, sometimes pretty badly but always with a
great show of efficiency. It is, on the whole, probably one of the
worst-done jobs in the world.

[Illustration: _Cross section of human food duct, showing ludicrous
process of self-styled "Digestion"_]

First you must know that those hard, white edges of bone which you must
have noticed hundreds of times along the front of your mouth, are
"teeth," and are put there for a very definite purpose. They are the
ivory gates to the body. They are Nature's tiny sentinels, and if you
have ever bitten yourself, you will know how sharp they can be, and what
efficient little watchmen they are. Just you try to slip your finger
into your mouth without your teeth's permission, and see how far you
get. Or try to get it out, once they have captured it.

Now these thousands of brave little soldiers, the teeth, which we have
in our mouths, take the food as it comes through the air (in case you
are snapping at a butterfly) or from the fork, and separate it into its
component parts (air, land and water). In this process, the teeth are
aided by the tongue, which is that awful-looking thing right back of
your teeth. Don't look at it!

The tongue (which we may call the escalator of the mouth or Nature's
nobleman for short), and the teeth toss the food back and forth between
them until there is nothing left of it, except the little bones which
you have to take out between your thumb and forefinger and lay on your
butter-plate. In doing this be careful that the bone is really on the
butter-plate and that it does not stick to your finger so that you put
it back into your mouth again on the next trip, for this would make the
little white sentries very angry and they might all drop out.

And now comes the really wonderful part of the romance which is being
enacted right there under your very eyes. A chemical reaction on the
tongue presses a little button which telegraphs down, down, down, 'way
down to the cross old Stomach and says: "Please, sir, do you want this
food or don't you?" And the Stomach, whom we shall call "Prince
Charming" from now on, telegraphs (or more likely writes) back: "Yes,
dear!" or "You can do what you like with it for all of me." Just as he
happens to feel at the time.

And then, such a hurry and bustle as goes on in the mouth! "Foodie's
going to visit Stomach!" all the little teeth cry, and rush about for
all the world as if they were going themselves. "All aboard, all
aboard!" calls out the tongue, and there is a great ringing of bells and
blowing of whistles and bumping of porters and in the midst of it all,
the remnants of that delicious cookie seated nervously on the tongue,
ready to be taken down on its first journey alone, down to see Prince
Charming. For all the joyousness of the occasion, it is a little sad,
too. For that bit of cookie is going to get some terribly tough
treatment before it is through.

The food is then placed on a conveyor, by means of which it is taken to
the Drying Room, situated on the third floor, where it is taken apart
and washed and dried, preparatory to going through the pressing
machines. These pressing machines are operated by one man, who stands by
the conveyor as it brings the food along and tosses it into the vats.
Here all rocks and moss are drawn off by mechanical pickers and the food
subjected to treatment in a solution of sulphite, a secret process which
is jealously guarded. From here the food is taken to the Playroom where
it plays around awhile with the other children until it is time for it
to be folded by the girls in the bindery, packed into neat stacks, and
wrapped for shipment in bundles of fifty. Some of these bundles, the
proteins, are shipped to the bones of the body, others, the hydrates, go
to making muscle, while a third class, the sophomores, contribute to
making fatty tissue which nobody wants, that is, not if he has any pride
at all about his appearance. The by-products are made into milk-bottle
caps, emery wheels, and insurance calendars, and are sold at cost.

Thus we see how wonderfully Nature takes care of us and our little
troubles, aided only by soda-mint and bicarbonate.




  "_Ask that Man_"


This is written for those men who have wives who are constantly
insisting on their asking questions of officials.

For years I was troubled with the following complaint: Just as soon as
we started out on a trip of any kind, even if it were only to the corner
of the street, Doris began forcing me to ask questions of people. If we
weren't quite sure of the way: "Why don't you ask that man? He could
tell you." If there was any doubt as to the best place to go to get
chocolate ice-cream, she would say: "Why don't you ask that boy in
uniform? He would be likely to know."

I can't quite define my aversion to asking questions of strangers. From
snatches of family battles which I have heard drifting up from railway
stations and street corners, I gather that there are a great many men
who share my dislike for it, as well as an equal number of women who,
like Doris, believe it to be the solution of most of this world's
problems. The man's dread is probably that of making himself appear a
pest or ridiculously uninformed. The woman's insistence is based
probably on experience which has taught her that any one, no matter who,
knows more about things in general than her husband.

[Illustration: _I gather that there are a great many men who share my
dislike for it_]

Furthermore, I never know exactly how to begin a request for
information. If I preface it with, "I beg your pardon!" the stranger is
likely not to hear, especially if he happens to be facing in another
direction, for my voice isn't very reliable in crises and sometimes
makes no intelligible sound at all until I have been talking for fully a
minute. Often I say, "I beg your pardon!" and he turns quickly and says,
"What did you say?" Then I have to repeat, "I beg your pardon!" and he
asks, quite naturally, "What for?" Then I am stuck. Here I am, begging a
perfect stranger's pardon, and for no apparent reason under the sun. The
wonder is that I am not knocked down oftener.

[Illustration: _My voice isn't very reliable in crises_]

It was to avoid going through life under this pressure that I evolved
the little scheme detailed herewith. It cost me several thousand
dollars, but Doris is through with asking questions of outsiders.

We had started on a little trip to Boston. I could have found out where
the Boston train was in a few minutes had I been left to myself. But
Doris never relies on the signs. Someone must be asked, too, just to
make sure. Confronted once by a buckboard literally swathed in banners
which screamed in red letters, "This bus goes to the State Fair
Grounds," I had to go up to the driver (who had on his cap a flag
reading "To the State Fair Grounds") and ask him if this bus surely went
to the State Fair Grounds. He didn't even answer me.

So when Doris said: "Go and ask that man where the Boston train leaves
from," I gritted my teeth and decided that the time had come. Simulating
conversation with him, I really asked him nothing, and returned to
Doris, saying, "Come on. He says it goes from Track 10."

Eight months later we returned home. The train that left on Track 10 was
the Chicago Limited, which I had taken deliberately. In Chicago I again
falsified what "the man" told me, and instead of getting on the train
back to New York we went to Little Rock, Arkansas. Every time I had to
ask where the best hotel was, I made up information which brought us out
into the suburbs, cold and hungry. Many nights we spent wandering
through the fields looking for some place that never existed, or else in
the worst hotel in town acting on what I said was the advice of "that
kind-looking man in uniform."

From Arkansas, we went into Mexico, and once, guided by what I told her
had been the directions given me by the man at the news-stand in Vera
Cruz, we made a sally into the swamps of Central America, in whatever
that first republic is on the way south. After that, Doris began to lose
faith in what strange men could tell us. One day, at a little station in
Mavicos, I said: "Wait a minute, till I ask that man what is the best
way to get back into America," and she said, sobbing: "Don't ask
anybody. Just do what you think is best." Then I knew that the fight was
over. In ten days I had her limp form back in New York and from that
day to this she hasn't once suggested that I ask questions of a
stranger.

The funny part of it is, I constantly find myself asking them. I guess
the humiliation came in being told to ask.




  _Cell-formations and Their Work_


It is only recently that science has found out the exact structure of
the tiny cell-formations which go to make up life. Only yesterday, in
fact.

Every higher animal starts life as a single cell. This much is obvious.
Look at the rainbow. Look at the formation of frost on the window-pane.
Don't look now. Wait a minute. . . . Now look.

This cell measures no more than 1/125 of an inch in diameter at first,
but you mustn't be discouraged. It looks like nothing at all, even under
the strongest microscope, and, before we knew just how important they
were, they were often thrown away. We now know that if it were not for
these tiny, tiny cells, we should none of us be here today. This may or
may not be a recommendation for the cells. _Quien sabe?_

Shortly after the cell decides to go ahead with the thing, it gets
lonely and divides itself up into three similar cells, just for
company's sake and to have someone to talk to. They soon find out that
they aren't particularly congenial, so they keep on dividing themselves
up into other cells until there is a regular mob of them. Then they
elect an entertainment committee and give a show.

After the show, there is a fight, and the thing breaks up into different
cliques or groups. One group think they are white corpuscles or
_phagocytes_. Others go around saying that they are _red_ corpuscles and
to hell with the white.

The other groups of cells devote themselves to music, æsthetic dancing,
and the formation of starch which goes into dress-shirts. They are all
very happy and very busy, and it's nobody's business _what_ they do when
they aren't working. We certainly are not going to snoop into that here.

We must take up, however, the work of the brain-cells, as it is in the
brain that the average man of today does his thinking.
(Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

Oh, let's _not_ take up the brain-cells. You know as much about them as
anybody does, and what's the use anyway? Suppose you _do_ learn
something today. You're likely to die tomorrow, and there you are.

And we _must_ go into the question of the size of these cells. That
really is important. In about 1/150000 of a cubic inch of blood there
are some five million cells afloat. This is, as you will see, about the
population of the City of London, except that the cells don't wear any
hats. Thus, in our whole body, there are perhaps (six times seven is
forty-two, five times eight is forty, put down naught and carry your
four, eight times nine is seventy-two and four is seventy-six, put down
six and carry your seven and then, adding, six, four, three, one, six,
naught, naught, naught), oh, about a billion or so of these red
corpuscles alone, not counting overhead and breakage. In the course of
time, that runs into figures.

[Illustration: _Differentiation of cells in the lens of an eye. Doesn't
mean a thing_]

Now when it comes to reproduction, you have to look out. In the
cuttlefish, for example, there is what is known as "greesion" or
budding. The organism as a whole remains unaltered, except that one
small portion of it breaks off and goes into business for itself. This,
of course, makes a very pretty picture, but gets nowhere. In the case of
multicellular animals, like the orange, it results in a frightful
confusion.

We should have said that there are two classes of animals, unicellular
and multicellular. From the unicellular group we get our coal, iron,
wheat and ice, and from the multicellular our salt, pepper, chutney and
that beautiful silk dress which milady wears so proudly. Woolen and
leather goods we import.

You will see then that by grafting a piece of one species on another
species, you can mix the cells and have all kinds of fun. Winkler, in
1902, grafted a piece of Solanum (the genus to which the potato belongs)
onto a stock of another kind, and then, after the union had been
established, cut the stem across, just at the point of junction. The bud
was formed of the intermingled tissues of the two species and was most
peculiar-looking.

Winkler was arrested.




  _Editha's Christmas Burglar_


It was the night before Christmas, and Editha was all agog. It was all
so exciting, so exciting! From her little bed up in the nursery she
could hear Mumsey and Daddy down-stairs putting the things on the tree
and jamming her stocking full of broken candy and oranges.

"Hush!" Daddy was speaking. "Eva," he was saying to Mumsey, "it seems
kind of silly to put this ten-dollar gold-piece that Aunt Issac sent to
Editha into her stocking. She is too young to know the value of money.
It would just be a bauble to her. How about putting it in with the
household money for this month? Editha would then get some of the food
that was bought with it and we would be ten dollars in."

Dear old Daddy! Always thinking of someone else! Editha wanted to jump
out of bed right then and there and run down and throw her arms about
his neck, perhaps shutting off his wind.

"You are right, as usual, Hal," said Mumsey. "Give me the gold-piece and
I will put it in with the house funds."

"In a pig's eye I will give you the gold-piece," replied Daddy. "You
would nest it away somewhere until after Christmas and then go out and
buy yourself a muff with it. I know you, you old grafter." And from the
sound which followed, Editha knew that Mumsey was kissing Daddy. Did
ever a little girl have two such darling parents? And, hugging her
Teddy-bear close to her, Editha rolled over and went to sleep.

    *    *    *    *    *

She awoke suddenly with the feeling that someone was downstairs. It was
quite dark and the radiolite traveling-clock which stood by her bedside
said eight o'clock, but, as the radiolite traveling-clock hadn't been
running since Easter, she knew that that couldn't be the right time. She
knew that it must be somewhere between three and four in the morning,
however, because the blanket had slipped off her bed, and the blanket
always slipped off her bed between three and four in the morning.

And now to take up the question of who it was downstairs. At first she
thought it might be Daddy. Often Daddy sat up very late working on a
case of Scotch and at such times she would hear him downstairs counting
to himself. But whoever was there now was being very quiet. It was only
when he jammed against the china-cabinet or joggled the dinner-gong that
she could tell that anyone was there at all. It was evidently a
stranger.

Of course, it might be that the old folks had been right all along and
that there really was a Santa Claus after all, but Editha dismissed this
supposition at once. The old folks had never been right before and what
chance was there of their starting in to be right now, at their age?
None at all. It couldn't be Santa, the jolly old soul!

It must be a burglar then! Why, to be sure! Burglars always come around
on Christmas Eve and little yellow-haired girls always get up and go
down in their nighties and convert them. Of course! How silly of Editha
not to have thought of it before!

With a bound the child was out on the cold floor, and with another bound
she was back in bed again. It was too cold to be fooling around without
slippers on. Reaching down by the bedside, she pulled in her little fur
foot-pieces which Cousin Mabel had left behind by mistake the last time
she visited Editha, and drew them on her tiny feet. Then out she got and
started on tip-toe for the stairway.

She did hope that he would be a good-looking burglar and easily
converted, because it was pretty gosh-darned cold, even with slippers
on, and she wished to save time.

As she reached the head of the stairs, she could look down into the
living-room where the shadow of the tree stood out black against the
gray light outside. In the doorway leading into the dining room stood a
man's figure, silhouetted against the glare of an old-fashioned
burglar's lantern which was on the floor. He was rattling silverware.
Very quietly, Editha descended the stairs until she stood quite close to
him.

"Hello, Mr. Man!" she said.

[Illustration: _"Hello, Mr. Man!" she said_]

The burglar looked up quickly and reached for his gun.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked.

"I'se Editha," replied the little girl in the sweetest voice she could
summon, which wasn't particularly sweet at that as Editha hadn't a very
pretty voice.

"You's Editha, is youse?" replied the burglar. "Well, come on down here.
Grandpa wants to speak to you."

"Youse is not my Drandpa," said the tot getting her baby and tough talk
slightly mixed. "Youse is a dreat, bid burglar."

"All right, kiddy," replied the man. "Have it your own way. But come on
down. I want ter show yer how yer kin make smoke come outer yer eyes.
It's a Christmas game."

"This guy is as good as converted already," thought Editha to herself.
"Right away he starts wanting to teach me games. Next he'll be telling
me I remind him of his little girl at home."

So with a light heart she came the rest of the way downstairs, and stood
facing the burly stranger.

"Sit down, Editha," he said, and gave her a hearty push which sent her
down heavily on the floor. "And stay there, or I'll mash you one on that
baby nose of yours."

This was not in the schedule as Editha had read it in the books, but it
doubtless was this particular burglar's way of having a little fun. He
_did_ have nice eyes, too.

"Dat's naughty to do," she said, scoldingly.

"Yeah?" said the burglar, and sent her spinning against the wall. "I
guess you need attention, kid. You can't be trusted." Whereupon he
slapped the little girl. Then he took a piece of rope out of his bag and
tied her up good and tight, with a nice bright bandana handkerchief
around her mouth, and trussed her up on the chandelier.

"Now hang there," he said, "and make believe you're a Christmas present,
and if you open yer yap, I'll set fire to yer."

Then, filling his bag with the silverware and Daddy's imitation sherry,
Editha's burglar tip-toed out by the door. As he left, he turned and
smiled. "A Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good Night," he
whispered, and was gone.

[Illustration: "_A Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good Night!_"]

And when Mumsey and Daddy came down in the morning, there was Editha up
on the chandelier, sore as a crab. So they took her down and spanked her
for getting out of bed without permission.




  _A Short History of American Politics_


Those of you who get around to reading a lot will remember that a
history of American politics was begun by me several chapters back--or
rather, an introduction to such a history was written. Then came the
Great War . . . brother was turned against brother, father against
father; the cobblestones of the Tuileries were spattered with the blood
of the royalists, and such minor matters as histories were cast aside
for the musket and ploughshare. In crises such as that of March, 1928,
the savants must give way to the men of action.

Now that the tumult and the shouting have died, however, the history of
American politics can be written. The only trouble at present is that I
have lost the introduction I wrote several months ago. It must have
fallen down behind the bureau and the wall of the Kremlin.

To write another introductory preface would be silly, and that is the
reason I have decided to write one. The other one was probably not much
good, anyway. So while you all go ahead and read the other pages of this
volume, I will write another introduction to a history of American
politics. (That is, I will if I can get this stuff off the keys of my
typewriter. Either somebody has rubbed candy over each key while I have
been dozing here or the typewriter itself has a strain of maple in it
and is giving off sap. I have never run across anything like it in all
my experience with typewriters. The "j" key looks so sticky that I am
actually afraid to touch it. Ugh!)

Well, anyway----


  A History of American Politics

(2 vol., 695 pp. 8vo.        100 to 1 to show.)


  INTRODUCTION

The theory of political procedure in those countries in which a
democratic form of government obtains is based on the assumption that
the average citizen knows enough to vote. (_Time out for prolonged
laughter._)

The Ideal State of Plato, as you will remember (you liar!), was founded
on quite a different principle, but, if you will look at Greece today
you will see that something was wrong in that principle, too. Plato
felt--and quite rightly--that Truth is the Ultimate Good and that the
Ultimate Good is Truth--or the Idea. (Check one of these three.)
_Now_--in the Ideal State, granted that the citizens keep away from the
polls and mind their own business, we have an oligarchy or combination
of hydrogen atoms so arranged as to form Truth in the Abstract. Of
course, Plato wrote only what he had learned from Socrates, and
Socrates, like the wise old owl that he was, never signed his name to
anything. So that left Plato holding the bag for an unworkable political
theory which has been carried down to the present day.

Aristotle followed Plato with some new theories, but as he dealt mostly
with the Drama and Mathematics, with side excursions into Bird Raising
and Exercises for the Eye, we don't have to bother with his ideas on
Government. I don't remember what they were, in the first place.

This brings us up to 1785, when the United States began to have its
first political prickly-heat. It may have been a little before 1785 (I
am working entirely without notes or reference books in this history),
but 1785 is near enough, for the Revolution didn't end until around
1782, or 1780, and that would leave a couple of years for George
Washington to begin his two terms as President and get things good and
balled up. So we will say 1785.

Here we are, then, a new country, faced with an experiment in government
and working on nothing sounder than a belief that the average voter is
entitled to have a hand in the running of the State. The wonder is that
we have got as far as we have--or _have_ we?

Now, in this introduction I have tried to outline the main influences in
political thought which culminated in the foundation of our form of
government. I have omitted any reference to Leboeuf and Froissart,
because, so far as I know, Leboeuf and Froissart never had any ideas on
the subject; at any rate, not the Leboeuf that I knew. I have not gone
into the Hanseatic League or the Guild System, not through any pique on
my part, but because, after all, they involved a quite different
approach to the question of democratic government and I couldn't find
any pictures which would illustrate them interestingly. If, however, any
of my readers are anxious to look up the Hanseatic League, I can refer
them to a very good book on the subject called "The Hanseatic League."




  _The Lost Language_


At the meeting of the International Philologists' Association in
Lucerne last April (1923-1925), something in the nature of a bombshell
was thrown by Professor Eric Nunsen of the University of Ulholm.
Professor Nunsen, in a paper entitled, "Aryan Languages: The Funny Old
Things," declared that in between the Hamitic group of languages and the
Ural-Altaic group there should by rights come another and hitherto
uncharted group, to be known as the Semi-Huinty group. Professor
Nunsen's paper followed a number on the program called "Al Holtz and His
Six Musical Skaters."

According to this eminent philologist, too much attention has been paid
in the past to root words. By "root words" we mean those words which
look like roots of some kind or other when you draw pictures of them.
These words recur in similar form in all the languages which comprise a
certain group. Thus, in the Aryan group, compare, for example, the
English _dish-towel_, Gothic _dersh-terl_, German _tish-döl_, Latin
_dec-tola_, French _dis-toil_, Armenian _dash-taller_, Sanskrit
_dit-toll_ and Dutch _dösh-töoller_. In all of these words you will note
the same absurdity.

In the same manner it is easy to trace the similarity between languages
of the same group by noting, as in the Semitic group, that the
fundamental _f_ in Arabic becomes _w_ in Assyrian, and the capital _G_
in Phoenician becomes a small _g_ in Abyssinian. This makes it hard for
Assyrian traveling salesmen, as they have no place to leave their grips.

    *    *    *    *    *

In his interesting work, "The Mutations of the Syllable _Bib_ Between
2000 and 500 B. C.," Landoc Downs traces the use of the letter _h_ down
through Western Asia with the Caucasian migration into Central Europe,
and there loses it. For perhaps two thousand years we have no record of
the letter _h_ being used by Nordics. This is perhaps not strange, as
the Nordics at that time didn't use much of anything. And then suddenly,
in about 1200 B. C., the letter _h_ shows up again in Northern Ohio,
this time under the alias of _m_ and clean-shaven. There is no question,
however, but that it is the old Bantu _h_ in disguise, and we are thus
able to tell that the two peoples (the Swiss and that other one) are
really of the same basic stock. Any one could tell that; so don't be
silly.

Now, says Professor Nunsen, it is quite probable that this change in
root words, effected by the passage of the Aryan-speaking peoples north
of the Danube, Dneiper and Don (the "D" in Danube is silent, making the
word pronounced "Anube"), so irritated the Hamitic group (which included
ancient Egyptian, Coptic, Berber and Otto H. Kahn) that they began
dropping the final _g_ just out of spite. This, in the course of several
centuries, resulted in the formation of a quite distinct group, the one
which Professor Nunsen calls the "Semi-Huinty." It is not _entirely_
Huinty, for there still remain traces of the old Hamitic. Just
_semi_-Huinty. Even _semi_ is quite a lot.

[Illustration: _Chart showing relation of lost language (semi-Huinty) to
other Language groups and to itself_]

This, of course, takes no notice of the Ural-Altaic group. That is quite
all right. No one ever does. This group includes the Lappish, Samoyed,
Magyar and Tartar, and, as Dr. Kneeland Renfrew says in his "Useless
Languages: Their Origin and Excuse": "There is no sense in bothering
with the Ural-Altaic group."

    *    *    *    *    *

So Professor Nunsen has some authority for disregarding the question of
grammatical gender, and it is on this point that he bases his discovery
of the existence of the Semi-Huinty languages. These languages, he says,
are monosyllabic and have no inflections, the tone used in uttering a
word determining its meaning. In this it is similar to the Chinese
tongue, which is one of the reasons why China is so far away from the
European continent.

Thus the word _reezyl_, uttered in one tone, means "Here comes the
postman," in another tone, "There is a button off this pair," and, in
still a third tone, "you" (diminutive).

It will be seen from this how difficult it is for the philologist to do
anything more than guess at just what the lost languages were really
like. He is not sure that they are even lost. If they were _not_ really
lost, then the joke is on Professor Nunsen for having gone to all this
trouble for nothing.





  _Museum Feet_

_A Complaint Contracted by Over-zealous Parents_


There is one big danger in the approach of Autumn, and that is that the
snappy weather may excite us into making plans for doing things we ought
to have done long ago. Those of us who are parents are likely to decide
that we haven't been paying enough attention to the children, that we
ought to take them out more to places of interest and instruction. More
of a pal than a father, is what we feel we ought to be, and yet withal
an instructor, steering them into enlightening byways and taking them on
educational trips to fisheries and jute manufactories, etc.

Now this is just a manifestation of Fall Fever, and will die down, so
don't give in to it. Let the children educate themselves. You haven't
done such a swell job with yourself that you should undertake to show
someone else how to do it. And, above all, never take the kiddies to a
natural history museum. Taking them to a natural history museum is one
of the things a parent first feels coming on when the crisp Autumn days
send the blood tingling through his veins, and it's one of the last
things he should do.

I, myself, in a burst of parental obligation last Fall, decided to take
the boys through the Smithsonian Institution in Washington. I would have
picked a _bigger_ place if there had been one in the country, but the
Smithsonian was the biggest I could get. As a result I contracted a bad
case of what is known in medical circles as "Smithsonian feet," that is,
a complete paralysis of the feet from the ankles down, due to standing
on first one foot and then the other in front of exhibition cases and
walking miles upon miles up and down the tessellated corridors of the
museum. The boys suffered no ill effects from the trip at all.

The sad thing about a trip through a museum with the children is that
you start out with so much vigor and zip. On entering the main entrance
lobby, you call back Herbert who takes a running slide across the smooth
floor, and tell him that he must stay close to Daddy and that Daddy will
show him everything and explain everything. And what a sap that makes
Daddy before the day is done!

In your care not to miss anything, you stop and examine carefully the
very first tablet in the entrance lobby, deciding to work to the left
and look at everything on the left side of the building, and then take
up the right side.

"Look, boys," you say, "it says here that this building was built by the
Natural History Society of America in 1876--Oh, well, I guess that isn't
very important." And you ask the attendant at the door which is the most
satisfactory way to see the museum, a foolish question at best. He tells
you to begin with the Glacier Hall over there at the right. This upsets
your plans a little, but what difference does it make whether you see
the right or left side first?

"Come on, boys," you call to both of them who are now sliding back and
forth on the floor. "Here is the room where the glaciers are. Come on
and look at the glaciers."

The boys by this time are very hot and sweaty, and probably less
interested in glaciers than in anything else in the world. You,
yourself, find nothing particularly thrilling about the rocks which are
lined up for inspection in the room as you enter. However, it is a
pretty important thing, this matter of glacial deposits, and both you
and the boys would be better off for knowing a little something about
them.

"Look, Herbert," you say. "Look, Arthur! See here where the glacier
went right over this rock and left these big marks."

But Herbert is already in the next hall, which for some mysterious
reason is devoted to stuffed rats demonstrating the Malthusian
Doctrine--and Arthur has disappeared entirely.

"Where's Arthur, Herbert?" you yell.

"Look, Daddy," replies Herbert from across the hall. "Come here quick!
Quick, Daddy!" There evidently is some danger that the stuffed rats are
going to get away before you arrive, and you have to run to hush Herbert
up, although you had much rather not look at stuffed rats, Malthusian
Doctrine or no Malthusian Doctrine.

Arthur has, by this time, appeared several miles down the building in
the Early American Indian Room and screams:

[Illustration: _Arthur has by this time appeared several miles down the
building_]

"Come quick, Daddy! Look! Indians!"

So you and Herbert set off on a dog trot to the Early American Indian
Room.

"You boys _must not_ yell so in here," you warn. "And stop running,
Arthur! We've got all day (God forbid!)."

"Where did these Indians live, Daddy?" asks Herbert.

"Oh, around Massachusetts," you explain. "They fought the Pilgrims."

"It says here they lived in Arizona," reads Arthur. (Whoever taught that
boy to read, anyway?)

"Well, Arizona _too_," you crawl. "They lived all over."

"What are these, Daddy?"

"Those? Those are hatchet-heads. They used them for heads to their
hatchets."

"It says here they are flint stones that they struck fire on."

"Flint stones, eh? Well, they're funny-looking flint stones. They must
have used them for hatchet-heads, too."

"What did they use these for, Daddy?"

"If you can read so well, why don't you read what it says and not ask me
so much? Where's Herbert?"

Herbert is now on the point of pushing over a little case of Etruscan
bowls in an attempt to get at the figure of a Boeotian horse in the case
behind it.

"Here, Herbert, don't push that like that! Do you want to break it?"

"Yes," replies Herbert, giving you a short answer.

"Well, we'll go right straight home if you are going to act that way."
(Here a good idea strikes you: Why _not_ go right straight home and
blame it on Herbert?)

The first evidences of "Smithsonian feet" are beginning to make
themselves felt. You try walking on your ankles to favor the soles of
your feet, but that doesn't help. And you haven't even struck the second
floor yet.

By actual count, the word "look" has been called out eighty-two times,
and each time you have looked. Forty-three questions have been asked,
forty of which you have answered incorrectly and thirty-four of which
you have been caught answering incorrectly. It is high time that you did
go home.

But the boys are just beginning. They spot another room at the end of
the wing and rush to it. You trail after them, all your old fire gone.
It turns out to be Glacier Hall again.

[Illustration: _You trail after them, all the old fire gone_]

"We've been in here before," you say, hoping that this will discourage
them. "There's the door to the street over there. How about going home
and coming again tomorrow?"

This suggestion is not even heard, for the boys are on their way up the
big flight of stairs leading to the second floor. If you can make half
the flight you will be doing well. By the time you reach the first
landing, you are in a state of collapse.

"Look, Daddy!" you hear the little voices calling from above. "Come
quick, Daddy! Skeletons!"

And skeletons they are, sure enough. Mastodon skeletons. Herbert,
turning the corner hurriedly, comes suddenly on one and is thrown into a
panic. Not a bad idea! Perhaps they might both be frightened into
wanting to go home. But Nature herself comes to your rescue. At the end
of the mastodon room Herbert comes and whispers to you.

"I don't know," you reply hopefully. "Perhaps we had better go home."

"No," screams Herbert. "I want to stay here."

"Well, come along with me then, and we'll see if we can find it. Come
on, Arthur. Come with Herbert and Daddy."

So, on the pretext of locating the section of the building in question
you lead the boys down stairs and out the back way.

"Over here, I guess," you say. "No, I guess over there."

By this time, you are at the street and within hailing distance of a
taxi. It is but the work of a minute to hit Herbert over the head until
he is quiet and to yank Arthur into the cab along with you.

"Drive quickly to 468 Elm avenue," you say to the driver.

That would be your home address.




  _Traveling in Peace_

  _The Uncommercial Traveler and His Problems_


Even in an off year, the conversational voltage is very high on the
trans-Atlantic greyhounds (ocean liners). There is something in the sea
air which seems to bring a sort of kelp to the surface even in the most
reticent of passengers, and before the ship has passed Fire Island you
will have heard as much dull talk as you would get at a dozen Kiwanis
meetings at home. And the chances are that you, yourself, will have done
nothing that you can be particularly proud of as a raconteur. They tell
me that there is something that comes up from the bilge which makes
people like that on shipboard.

I myself solved the problem of shipboard conversation by traveling alone
and pretending to be a deaf-mute. I recommend this ruse to other
irritable souls.

There is no sense in trying to effect it if you have the family along.
There is no sense in trying to effect _anything_ if you have the family
along. But there is something about a family man which seems to attract
prospective talkers. Either the Little Woman scrapes up acquaintances
who have to have their chairs moved next to yours and tell you all about
how rainy it was all spring in East Orange, or the children stop people
on the deck and drag them up to you to have you show them how to make
four squares out of six matches, and once you have established these
contacts, you might as well stay in your stateroom for the rest of the
voyage.

Once you are alone, you can then start in on the deaf-mute game. When
you go down to dinner, write out your order to the steward and pretty
soon the rest of the people at your table will catch on to the fact that
something is wrong. You can do a few pleasant passes of sign language if
the thing seems to be getting over too slowly. As a matter of fact, once
you have taken your seat without remarking on the condition of the ocean
to your right-hand neighbor, you will have established yourself as
sufficiently queer to be known as "that man at our table who can't
talk." Then you probably will be left severely alone.

Once you are out on deck, stand against the rail and look off at the
horizon. This is an invitation which few ocean-talkers can resist. Once
they see anyone who looks as if he wanted to be alone, they immediately
are rarin' to go. One of them will come up to you and look at the
horizon with you for a minute, and then will say:

"Isn't that a porpoise off there?"

If you are not very careful you will slip and say: "Where?" This is
fatal. What you should do is turn and smile very sweetly and nod your
head as if to say: "Don't waste your time, neighbor. I can't hear a word
you say." Of course, there is no porpoise and the man never thought
there was; so he will immediately drop that subject and ask you if you
are deaf. Here is where you may pull another bone. You may answer: "Yes,
very." That will get you nowhere, for if he thinks that he can make you
hear by shouting, he will shout. It doesn't make any difference to him
what he has to do to engage you in conversation. He will do it. He would
spell words out to you with alphabet blocks if he thought he could get
you to pay any attention to his story of why he left Dallas and what he
is going to do when he gets to Paris.

[Illustration: _What you should do is turn and smile very sweetly_]

So keep your wits about you and be just the deafest man that ever
stepped foot on a ship. Pretty soon he will get discouraged and will
pass on to the next person he sees leaning over the rail and ask _him_
if that isn't a "porpoise 'way off there." You will hear the poor sucker
say, "Where?" and then the dam will break. As they walk off together
you will hear them telling each other how many miles they get to a
gallon and checking up on the comparative sizes of the big department
stores in their respective towns.

After a tour of the smoking-room and writing-room making deaf-and-dumb
signs to the various stewards, you will have pretty well advertised
yourself as a hopeless prospect conversationally. You may then do very
much as you like.

Perhaps not quite as you like. There may be one or two slight
disadvantages to this plan. There may be one or two people on board to
whom you _want_ to speak. Suppose, for instance, that you are sitting at
one of those chummy writing desks where you look right into the eyes of
the person using the other half. And suppose that those eyes turn out to
be something elegant; suppose they turn out to be very elegant indeed.
What price being dumb then?

[Illustration: _Suppose those eyes turn out to be something elegant_]

Your first inclination, of course, is to lean across the top of the desk
and say: "I beg your pardon, but is this your pen that I am using?" or
even more exciting: "I beg your pardon, but is this your letter that I
am writing?" Having been posing as a deaf-mute up until now, this
recourse is denied you, and you will have to use some other artifice.

There is always the old Roman method of writing notes. If you decide on
this, just scribble out the following on a bit of ship's stationery: "I
may be deaf and I may be dumb, but if you think that makes any
difference in the long run, you're crazy." This is sure to attract the
lady's attention and give her some indication that you are favorably
impressed with her. She may write a note back to you. She may even write
a note to the management of the steamship line.

Another good way to call yourself to her attention would be to upset the
writing desk. In the general laughter and confusion which would follow,
you could grab her and carry her up on deck where you could tell her
confidentially that you really were not deaf and dumb but that you were
just pretending to be that way in order to avoid talking to people who
did not interest you. The fact that you were talking to her, you could
point out, was a sure sign that she, alone, among all the people on the
ship, _did_ interest you; a rather pretty compliment to her, in a way.
You could then say that, as it was essential that none of the other
passengers should know that you could talk, it would be necessary for
her to hold conversations with you clandestinely, up on the boat deck,
or better yet, in one of the boats. The excitement of this would be sure
to appeal to her, and you would unquestionably become fast friends.

There is one other method by which you could catch her favor as you sat
looking at her over the top of the desk, a method which is the right of
every man whether he be deaf, dumb or bow-legged. You might wink one eye
very slowly at her. It wouldn't be long then before you could tell
whether or not it would be worth your while to talk.

However it worked out, you would have had a comparatively peaceful
voyage.




  _The Future of the Class of 1926--North Central Grammar School_

  _Class Prophecy by William N. Crandle, '26_


The other night I had a dream in which I saw all that was going to
happen to the Class of 1926 of the North Central Grammar School in the
future, and when, much to my surprise, I was elected to be Class
Prophet, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to write down
the things I saw in that dream and tell you something of what is going
to happen in 1950 to the members of the Class of 1926.

In this dream I happened to be walking down the street when suddenly I
saw a familiar face standing on a soap-box at the corner, and in a
minute I recognized Harry Washburn, our Class President, who was
evidently making some sort of a speech to the assembled multitude, among
whom I recognized Edna Gleen, Harriet Mastom and Lillian MacArdle.
"Well," I said to myself, "I always knew that those girls were crazy
about Harry, and I guess they still are." Harry was making some sort of
a speech and I gathered that he was running for President of the United
States, which didn't surprise me at all as Harry always was a politician
in grammar school days.

A little further along I heard someone making a speech on another
corner, and I looked a little closer and saw that it was Beatrice
Franley, who was making a speech against the use of face-powder by
girls. It seemed that Prohibition had been done away with but that
Beatrice was trying to get an amendment to the Constitution preventing
girls from using face-powder. "Well," I said to myself, "back in North
Central, Beatrice was always rabid on the subject of girls using
face-powder and she doesn't seem to have lost it even in 1950."
Listening to Beatrice were George Delmot, Bertram Posner and Mary Alley.

A little further along I came to a big sign which said: "William Nevin
and Gertrude Dolby, Ice-Cream Parlor," and I remembered that when they
were in school William and Gertrude were always eating ice-cream at
recess together, so I wasn't much surprised to find that they had gone
into the ice-cream business, and it occurred to me that they probably
ate more ice-cream than they sold.

Pretty soon I came to a big crowd which was watching a couple of
prizefighters fighting, and imagine my surprise to find out that the
prizefighters were Louis Wrentham and George DuGrasse, who had evidently
gone in for prizefighting. The referee was Mr. Ranser, our old algebra
teacher, and I guessed that he would give the decision to George, as
George always was a favorite of his and probably still was.

In a little while I found myself in England, and there I was told that
Walter Dodd had been made King of England because he always dressed like
a dude in school, and that he had married Miriam Friedburg and had made
her Queen of England. The Prince of Wales had fallen off his horse so
often that the English people had elected Philip Wasserman to be Prince
because he was so good at using ponies in high-school Latin.

In France I found that George Disch, Harry Petro, John Walters, Robert
Dimmock, Edwin LeFavre and Eddie Matsdorf were working in a café
together and that Mary Duggan, Louise Creamer, Margaret Penny and Freda
Bertel were constant customers. In Germany, Albert Vogle had been chosen
Kaiser because he was so bossy.

On the boat coming back I saw William Debney, Stella Blum, Arthur
Crandall, Noble MacOnson and Henry Bostwick, all looking older than they
did in North Central, but evidently prosperous, and just as I landed in
America I woke up and realized that it had all been nothing but a
dream.




  _Fascinating Crimes_

  _3. The Missing Floor_


It has often been pointed out that murderers are given to revisiting the
scene of their crimes. The case of Edny Pastelle is the only one on
record where the scene of the crime revisited the murderer.

Edny Pastelle was a Basque elevator woman who ran one of the first
elevators installed in the old Fifth Avenue Hotel, which stood at the
corner of Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, New York City. The
elevator was of the surrey type, and was pushed from floor to floor by
the operator, who was underneath climbing on a ladder. It was Mlle.
Pastelle's daily task to hoist such personages as Chauncey M. Depew,
Boss Tweed and Harriet Beecher Stowe up to their rooms in the Fifth
Avenue Hotel. In fact, she is said to have been Miss Stowe's model for
_Uncle Tom_ in the novel of that name (with the word "Cabin" added to
it).

In the evenings, when Edny Pastelle was not on duty, she carried Punch
and Judy shows about town for whoever wanted them. As not many people
wanted them, Edny's evenings were pretty much her own.

The evening of July 7, 1891, however, is on record as being not Edny's,
but Max Sorgossen's.

Max Sorgossen worked in the Eden Musée, which was situated on
Twenty-third Street just below the Fifth Avenue Hotel. His job was to
put fresh cuffs on the wax figure of Chester A. Arthur in the
Presidential Group. At five o'clock every afternoon he also took
"Ajeeb," the mechanical chess player, out in the back yard for his
exercise.

At five-thirty on the afternoon in question Max Sorgossen had just
knocked off work and was strolling up Twenty-third Street in search of
diversion. In the back of his mind was an idea that perhaps he might
find another mechanical chess player for "Ajeeb" and a girl for himself
and that the four of them might go down to Coney Island for the evening,
as the weather was warm. As he passed the service entrance of the Fifth
Avenue Hotel he met Edny Pastelle, who was likewise calling it a day.
(She called it a _jour_, but that is the Basque of it.)

Edny and Max had known each other in finishing school, and so there
seemed no impropriety in his speaking to her and asking her if she knew
of a mechanical chess player for "Ajeeb" and if she would look with
favor on an evening at Coney.

The two were seen entering a restaurant on Twenty-first Street to talk
it over at 6:10. At 9:20 the next morning guests of the hotel, on trying
to descend in the elevator, found it stuck between the first and third
floors. When the car was finally dislodged, it was found to contain the
body of Max Sorgossen. Furthermore, _the second floor, where the
elevator should have stopped, was gone_!

[Illustration: --Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.

_Edny Pastelle and Max Sorgossen in the gallery of human fiends and
their victims_]

Edny was arrested and the trial took place in the Court of Domestic
Relations, since she was a domestic and there had evidently been
relations, albeit unfriendly. The prosecuting attorney was a young
lawyer named William T. Jerome, later William Travers Jerome. Following
is a transcript of the cross-examination:

    _Q._ What did you do after Sorgossen spoke to you on
    Twenty-third Street?

    _A._ Pardon.

    _Q._ What did you do after Sorgossen spoke to you on
    Twenty-third Street?

    _A._ Plenty.

    _Q._ Very good, Mr. Bones. And now tell me, why is a man with a
    silk hat on like Mary Queen of Scots?

    _A._ What Scots?

    _Q._ I'm asking _you_.

    _A._ Animal, vegetable or mineral?

    _Q._ Mineral.

    _A._ The tidy on the back of that chair?

    _Q._ No.

    _A._ Cyrus W. Field?

    _Q._ Give up?

    _A._ Three spades.

    _Q._ Double three spades.

At this point, counsel for the defense objected and the case was thrown
out into a higher court, where Edny Pastelle was acquitted, or whatever
you call it.

It was some thirty years later that the missing second floor of the old
Fifth Avenue Hotel was discovered. A workman laying wagers on the
sixteenth floor of the Fifth Avenue Building (erected on the site of the
old Fifth Avenue Hotel) came across a floor which was neither the
fifteenth, sixteenth nor seventeenth. The police were called in and,
after several weeks of investigation and grilling, it was identified as
the missing floor of the old hotel, the floor at which the little
romance of Edny Pastelle had come to such an abrupt end. How it came to
be on the sixteenth floor of the Fifth Avenue Building nobody knows.
Perhaps Max Sorgossen could tell.




  "_Howdy, Neighbor!_"


Among the inhabitants of North America there is a queer tribal custom
which persists in spite of being universally unpopular. Its technical
name is "paying a call." The women of the tribe are its chief priests,
but once in a while the men are roped in on it and it is then that the
lamentations and groans may be heard even in the surrounding villages.

Among the women-folk the procedure is as follows: The one who is to "pay
a call" puts on what she considers her most effective regalia, collects
ten or a dozen engraved cards bearing her name and twice that number
bearing her husband's (he doesn't even know that he _has_ any cards, let
alone that they are being thrown around the neighborhood every
Wednesday afternoon), and sets out with the bit between her teeth.

The idea is to call on as many other women as she thinks will not be at
home. Ringing the doorbell at each house on her list, she inquires of
the maid if her mistress is in. On receiving a favorable answer ("No")
she drops the required number of cards and runs down the street to her
car or bicycle or whatever she came in, and rushes off at top speed lest
the maid should suddenly discover that her mistress is at home after
all. The chances are, however, that the maid has had instructions to say
"no" from the lady of the house herself, who is at that moment standing
at the head of the stairs waiting for the door to shut.

[Illustration: _On receiving a favorable answer one drops the required
number of cards_]

The social amenities having been satisfied in this manner at perhaps ten
other houses, the caller returns home, where she sinks into a chair,
pulls off her gloves, and sighs: "Thank Heaven, _that's_ done!"

It is on those rare occasions when the men of the tribe are impressed
into service in this paying of calls that the thing assumes its most
horrible aspect. Let us take a peek into a typical celebration of the
rite.

The man returns home from the office at night, all set for an evening
with a motor-boat catalog in front of the fire.

"I thought we might run up and call on the Grimsers tonight. We've owed
them a call for a long time now."

"The Grimsers?" queries the husband.

"Yes, you know them. He's the little short man we saw in the drug-store
the other night. She is quite pleasant, but rather fast, I understand.
She told me that her husband was very anxious to know you better."

"What is he--in the insurance business?"

"No, he isn't. He's a very nice man. And _she_ is just mad about you.
'Mrs. Tomlin,' she said to me, 'you don't mean to tell me that that
nice-looking husband of yours is forty years old! He looks about
twenty-five. And such nice hair!'"

"Well," says the husband, not unmoved by this bit of strategy, "I
suppose if we must, we must. Do I have to get dressed up?"

And so they start out for a call on the Grimsers, with whom they have no
more in common than the same milkman.

Their reception is more or less formal in tone, as the Grimsers had
planned on going to bed early, Mr. Grimser even having gone so far as
his dressing-gown.

"Do sit over here," urges Mrs. Grimser, indicating her husband's
favorite cavity in the corner of the divan, "that rocker is so
uncomfortable."

"It just suits me," lies Mrs. Tomlin. "Ed says that he is glad that I
like chairs like this, as it leaves all the comfortable ones in the
house for him."

Everyone looks at Ed as the author of this pleasantry, and there is
general, albeit extremely moderate laughter.

"Well, did you ever see such weather?" This might come from anybody. In
fact, two or three are likely to say it at once. This leads to an
account on the part of Mrs. Grimser of what the dampness has done to her
jelly in the cellar, and a story by Mrs. Tomlin illustrating how hard it
is to keep a maid contented during a rainy spell. Mr. Tomlin leads off
with one he heard at the club about the farmer who prayed for rain, but
noticing a sudden tightening of his wife's lips accompanied by a warning
tapping of her right foot, he gathers that probably Mrs. Grimser's
father was a clergyman or something, and trails his story off into a
miserable series of noises.

[Illustration: _Trails his story off into a miserable series of noises_]

This is a signal for Mrs. Grimser to say: "I just know that you men are
dying to get off in a corner and talk to each other. Harry, why don't
you show Mr. Grimser the plans for the new garage?"

The two men are then isolated on a window-seat, where they smoke and try
to think up something to say next. Mr. Tomlin, knowing nothing about
blueprints and caring less about the Grimsers' garage, is forced to bend
over the sheets and ask unintelligent questions, cooing appreciatively
now and then to show that he is getting it. They finally are reduced to
checking up on mutual acquaintances in the automobile business,
summarizing each new find with: "Yes, sir, George is a great old scout,"
or "Yes, sir, Nick is a great old scout." Everyone possible having been
classified as a great old scout, they just sit and puff in silence,
frankly talked out.

[Illustration: _They just sit and puff in silence, frankly talked out_]

The ladies, in the meantime, have been carrying on much the same sort of
line, except that each has her eye out for details outside the
conversation. Mrs. Grimser is trying to make out just how Mrs. Tomlin's
transformation is tied on, and Mrs. Tomlin is making mental notes of the
material in Mrs. Grimser's under-curtains. Given nothing to talk about,
women can make a much more convincing stab at it than men. To hear them
from a distance, you might almost think that they were really saying
something.

When all the contestants are completely worn out and the two men reduced
to a state of mental inertia bordering on death, Mrs. Tomlin brightens
up and says that they must be going. This throws a great wave of relief
over the company, and Mr. Tomlin jumps to his feet and says that he'll
run ahead and see if the engine is working all right. The Grimsers very
cautiously suggest that it is early yet, but unless the Tomlins are
listening very carefully (which they are not) they will not hear it.

Then, all the way home, Mrs. Tomlin suggests that Mr. T. might be a
little more agreeable to her friends when they go out of an evening, and
Mr. Tomlin wants to know what the hell he did that was wrong.

"You know very well what you did that was wrong, and besides, what a
story to start telling in front of Mrs. Grimser!"

"What story?"

"The one about the farmer who prayed for rain."

"What's the matter with that story?"

"You know very well what's the matter with it. You seem to think when
you are out with my friends that you are down in the locker-room with
George Herbert."

"I wish to God I _was_ down in the locker-room with George Herbert."

"Oh, you make me sick."

The rest of the ride home is given over to a stolid listening to the
chains clanking on the pavement as the wheels go round.

This is known in the tribe life of North America as being "neighborly,"
and a whole system has been built up on the tradition. Some day a
prophet is going to arise out of some humble family and say, "What's the
use?" and the whole thing is going to topple over with a crash and
everyone is going to be a lot happier.




  _A Talk to Young Men_

  _Graduation Address on "The Decline of Sex"_


To you young men who only recently were graduated from our various
institutions of learning (laughter), I would bring a message, a message
of warning and yet, at the same time, a message of good cheer. Having
been out in the world a whole month, it is high time that you learned
something about the Facts of Life, something about how wonderfully
Nature takes care of the thousand and one things which go to make up
what some people jokingly call our "sex" life. I hardly know how to
begin. Perhaps "Dear Harry" would be as good a way as any.

You all have doubtless seen, during your walks in the country, how the
butterflies and bees carry pollen from one flower to another? It is very
dull and you should be very glad that you are not a bee or a butterfly,
for where the fun comes in _that_ I can't see. However, they think that
they are having a good time, which is all that is necessary, I suppose.
Some day a bee is going to get hold of a real book on the subject, and
from then on there will be mighty little pollen-toting done or I don't
know my bees.

Well, anyway, if you have noticed carefully how the bees carry pollen
from one flower to another (and there is no reason why you should have
noticed carefully as there is nothing to see), you will have wondered
what connection there is between this process and that of animal
reproduction. I may as well tell you right now that there is no
connection at all, and so your whole morning of bee-stalking has been
wasted.

We now come to the animal world. Or rather, first we come to One Hundred
and Twenty-fifth Street, but you don't get off there. The animal world
is next, and off you get. And what a sight meets your eyes! My, my! It
just seems as if the whole world were topsy-turvy.

The next time you are at your grocer's buying gin, take a look at his
eggs. They really are some hen's eggs, but they belong to the grocer
now, as he has bought them and is entitled to sell them. So they really
_are_ his eggs, funny as it may sound to anyone who doesn't know. If you
will look at these eggs, you will see that each one is _almost_ round,
but not _quite_. They are more of an "egg-shape." This may strike you as
odd at first, until you learn that this is Nature's way of
distinguishing eggs from large golf balls. You see, Mother Nature takes
no chances. She used to, but she learned her lesson. And that is a
lesson that all of you must learn as well. It is called Old Mother
Nature's Lesson, and begins on page 145.

Now, these eggs have not always been like this. That stands to reason.
They once had something to do with a hen or they wouldn't be called
hen's eggs. If they are called duck's eggs, that means that they had
something to do with a duck. Who can tell me what it means if they are
called "ostrich's eggs"? . . . That's right.

But the egg is not the only thing that had something to do with a hen.
Who knows what else there was? . . . That's right.

Now the rooster is an entirely different sort of bird from the hen. It
is very proud and has a red crest on the top of his head. This red crest
is put there by Nature so that the hen can see the rooster coming in a
crowd and can hop into a taxi or make a previous engagement if she wants
to. A favorite dodge of a lot of hens when they see the red crest of the
rooster making in their direction across the barnyard is to work up a
sick headache. One of the happiest and most contented roosters I ever
saw was one who had had his red crest chewed off in a fight with a dog.
He also wore sneakers.

But before we take up this phase of the question (for it is a question),
let us go back to the fish kingdom. Fish are probably the worst example
that you can find; in the first place, because they work under water,
and in the second, because they don't know anything. You won't find one
fish in a million that has enough sense to come in when it rains. They
are just stupid, that's all, and nowhere is their stupidity more evident
than in their sex life.

Take, for example, the carp. The carp is one of the least promising of
all the fish. He has practically no forehead and brings nothing at all
to a conversation. Now the mother carp is swimming around some fine
spring day when suddenly she decides that it would be nice to have some
children. So she makes out a deposit slip and deposits a couple million
eggs on a rock (all this goes on _under_ water, mind you, of all
places). This done, she adjusts her hat, powders her nose, and swims
away, a woman with a past.

It is not until all this is over and done with that papa enters the
picture, and then only in an official capacity. Papa's job is very
casual. He swims over the couple of million eggs and takes a chance that
by sheer force of personality he can induce half a dozen of them to
hatch out. The remainder either go to waste or are blacked up to
represent caviar.

So you will see that the sex life of a fish is nothing much to brag
about. It never would present a problem in a fish community as it does
in ours. No committees ever have to be formed to regulate it, and about
the only way in which a fish can go wrong is through drink or stealing.
This makes a fish's life highly unattractive, you will agree, for,
after a time, one would get very tired of drinking and stealing.

We have now covered the various agencies of Nature for populating the
earth with the lesser forms of life. We have purposely omitted any
reference to the reproduction of those unicellular organisms which
reproduce by dividing themselves up into two, four, eight, etc., parts
without any outside assistance at all. This method is too silly even to
discuss.

We now come to colors. You all know that if you mix yellow with blue you
get green. You also get green if you mix cherries and milk. (Just
kidding. Don't pay any attention.) The derivation of one color from the
mixture of two other colors is not generally considered a sexual
phenomenon, but that is because the psychoanalysts haven't got around to
it yet. By next season it won't be safe to admit that you like to paint,
or you will be giving yourself away as an inhibited old uncle-lover and
debauchee. The only thing that the sex-psychologists can't read a sexual
significance into is trap-shooting, and they are working on that now.

All of which brings us to the point of wondering if it _all_ isn't a
gigantic hoax. If the specialists fall down on trap-shooting, they are
going to begin to doubt the whole structure which they have erected, and
before long there is going to be a reaction which will take the form of
an absolute negation of sex. An Austrian scientist has already come out
with the announcement that there is no such thing as a hundred per cent
male or a hundred per cent female. If this is true, it is really a big
step forward. It is going to throw a lot of people out of work, but
think of the money that will be saved!

And so, young men, my message to you is this: Think the thing over very
carefully and examine the evidence with fair-minded detachment. And if
you decide that, within the next ten years, sex is going out of style,
make your plans accordingly. Why not be pioneers in the new movement?




  _Biography by Inches_

  (_Such as has recently been done for Keats_)

  A Life of William Bodney

  _Together with an Examination of His Poetry and Punctuation_


  I

  GENESIS

The weather report submitted by the Suffix Weather Bureau on May 11,
1837, states that shortly after three in the afternoon there was a light
rain, a precipitation of some .005 inches. There is a certain sad
significance in this technical statement of the Weather Bureau, for
during that light rain, George and Edna Bodney were married in the south
vestry of Queen's Church.

We know that it was the south vestry because of a letter written the
next day by the Rev. Dr. Morbeling, the rector, to his sister, Mrs.
Wrethnam. "Such a mess, such a mess!" writes Dr. Morbeling. "The north
vestry has been torn up by plumbers and plasterers for over a week now,
throwing all the business into that dark, damp old south vestry which is
very difficult to work in owing to the danger of tripping over the
litter of kindergarten chairs."

North or south vestry, however, it is certain (and essential) that
George and Edna Bodney were married on May 11, 1837, for on May 13,
1837, William Bodney was born.


  II

  BROOK AND RIVER

Of the boyhood of William Bodney we know but little. He was brought up
as most of the boys in Suffix were brought up, except for the fact that
he did not go out of doors until he was eleven, and then only to strike
at the postman. He was kept in the house so much because of an old
prejudice of Edna Bodney's against fireflies.

We catch a glimpse of Bodney's school life, however, in a letter written
by Charles Cod, a fellow student at Wimperis School (From the Danker
Collection):

"There are lots of fellows here in school," writes Cod; "among them
Henry Mamsley, Ralph Dyke, Luther Fennchurch, William Bodney, Philip
Massteter and Norman Walsh."

Cod is no doubt accurate in his letter, although a note of personal
prejudice which creeps in now and again makes it a little hard to rely
on his judgment.

No more trustworthy is Norman Rully, writing to Ashman in 1845 (Arthur's
Collection) when he says that Bodney paid "three shillings for a pair of
skates." This is unquestionably an error on Rully's part, for skates at
that time cost five shillings if they cost a nickel.


  III

  EARLY POETRY

We first find Bodney displaying his genius on the occasion of the
presentation to him of a knitted necktie by Laura Pensick, the sister of
his friend Alan Pensick. The tie was given to him early in the afternoon
and by evening the young man had composed the following sonnet in honor
of its fair donor:


  LINES ON OPENING A LETTER AND FINDING SAND IN IT

  When hours of sorry death have thundered by
    And with them open windows to the sea
    Lycurgus from his moss-bedowered tree
  Brings asphodel to deck the starry sky.
  The winter-scarred olympids homeward fly
    And softly spread their wolden heraldry
    Yet Lacedemon does not wake in fantasy
  Nor Thetis sing her songs to such as I.

  So, Laura, how shall Eros take his due
    Or crafty Xerxes leave his tent at night
  If, dropping down from his cerulean blue,
    He brings not gold with him wherewith to fight?
  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
    And, what is more, you'll be a man, my son.

    *    *    *    *    *

The boy in Bodney is fading and giving place to the man. This sonnet,
while not perfect, shows what was going on in the youth's mind. Of
course, "moss-bedowered tree" is bad, and Lacedemon was the name of a
country, not a person, but "winter-scarred olympids" makes up for a
great deal, and the picture of decking "the starry sky" with asphodel
comes doubtless from Bodney's vacation days in Polpero where there are a
lot of rocks and seaweed. Henry Willers, in a most interesting paper on
_Bodney's Relation to Open Windows_, points out that the "open windows
to the sea" probably refers to an old window of his aunt's which she
kept upstairs in the house at Ragley. Mr. Willers is probably right also
in believing that in line six, the word "their" comes from a remark make
by Remson to Bodney concerning some plovers sent him (Remson) after a
hunting trip. "I am using _their_ feathers," Remson is reported to have
said, "to make a watch fob with."

These are fascinating speculations, but we must not linger too long with
them. Even as we speculate, the boy Bodney is turning into the man
Bodney, and is looking searchingly at the life about him. Poor Bodney!
We know now that he looked once too often.


  IV

  SHOPPING IN LONDON

The first big adventure in William Bodney's life was a trip up to London
to buy shoes. The shoes which he had been wearing in Suffix, we learn
from the Town Clerk's record, were "good enough," but "good enough" was
never a thing to satisfy William Bodney. The fashion at the time was to
wear shoes only to parties and coronations, but Bodney was never one to
stick to the fashion.

So bright and early on the morning of April 9, 1855, the young man set
out for the city, full of the vigor of living. Did he go by coach or by
foot? We do not know. On the coach records of April 9, there is a
passenger listed as "Enoch Reese," but this was probably not William
Bodney. There is no reason why he should have traveled under the name of
"Enoch Reese." But whether he went by coach or over the road, we do know
that he must have passed through Weeming-on-Downs, as there was no way
of getting to London from Suffix without passing through
Weeming-on-Downs. And as Bodney went through this little town, probably
bright in the sunlight of the early April morning, is it not possible
that he stopped at the pump in the square to wet his wrists against the
long, hot journey ahead? It is not only possible. It is more than
likely. And, stopping at the pump, did he know that in the third house
on the left as you leave the pump Londonwards, was Mary Wassermann? Or,
did Mary Wassermann know that Bodney was just outside her door? The
speculation is futile, for Mary Wassermann moved from Weeming-on-Downs
the next week and was never heard from again. But I anticipate.

Of Bodney's stay in London we know but little. We know that he reached
London, for he sent a postcard to his mother from there saying that he
had arrived "safe and sound." We know that he left London, because he
died fifteen years later in Suffix. What happened in between we can only
conjecture at, but we may be sure that he was very sensitive to whatever
beauty there may have been in London at that time. In the sonnet _On
Looking Into a Stereoscope for the First Time_, written when he had
grown into full manhood, we find reference to this visit to the city:

  And, with its regicidal note in tune,
  Brings succor to the waiting stream.

If this isn't a reference to the London trip, what is it a reference to?


  V

  PROGRESS AND REGRESS

We have seen Bodney standing on the threshold of the Great Experience.
How did he meet it? Very well indeed.

For the first time we find him definitely determined to create. "I am
definitely determined to create," he wrote to the Tax Collector of
Suffix (Author's Collection). And with the spring of 1860 came, in
succession, _To Some Ladies Who Have Been Very Nice To Me, Ode to
Hester, Rumpty_: _A Fragment_, and _To Arthur Hosstetter MacMonigal_.
Later in the same year came _I wonder when, if I should go, there'd be_.

It is in _I wonder when, if I should go, there'd be_ that Bodney for the
first time strikes the intimate note.

  I sometimes think that open fires are best,
  Before drab autumn swings its postern shut . . .

"Open fires" is a delightful thought, carrying with it the picture of a
large house, situated on a hill with poplars, the sun sinking charmingly
behind the town in the distance and, inside, the big hall, hung with
banners, red and gold, and a long table laden with rich food, nuts,
raisins, salt (plenty of salt, for Bodney was a great hand to put salt
on his food and undoubtedly had salt in mind), and over all the presence
of the king and his knights, tall, vigorous blond knights swearing
allegiance to their lord. Or perhaps in the phrase Bodney had in mind, a
small room with nobody in it. Who can tell? At any rate, we have the
words "open fires" and we are able to reconstruct what went on in the
poet's mind if we have a liking for that sort of thing. And, although he
does not say so in so many words, there is little doubt but that in
using "fires" in conjunction with the word "open" he meant Lillian Walf
and what was to come later.


  VI

  MIRAGE

From _I wonder when, if I should go, there'd be_ to _On Meeting Roger H.
Clafflin for the Second Time_ is a far cry--and a merry one. _On Meeting
Roger H. Clafflin for the Second Time_ is heptasyllabic and, not only
that, but trochaic. Here, after years of suffering and disillusion,
after discovering false friends and vain loves, we find Bodney resorting
to the trochee. His letter to his sister at the time shows the state of
mind the young poet was in (Rast Collection):

    Somehow today I feel that things are closing in on me. Life is
    closing in on me. I have a good mind to employ the trochee and
    see what that will do. I have no fault to find with the spondee.
    Some of my best work is spondaic. But I guess there just comes a
    time in everyone's life when the spondee falls away of its own
    accord and the trochee takes its place. It is Nature's way. Ah,
    Nature! How I love Nature! I love the birds and the flowers and
    Beauty of all kinds. I don't see how anyone can hate Beauty, it
    is so wonderful. . . . Well, there goes the bell, so I must
    close now and employ a spondee.

Seven days later Bodney met Lillian Walf.


  VII

  FINIS ORIGINE PENDET

We do not know whether it was at four o'clock or a quarter past four on
October 17, 1874, that Henry Ryan said to Bodney: "Bodney, I want that
you should meet my friend Miss Walf. . . . Miss Walf, Mr. Bodney." The
British War Office has no record of the exact hour and Mr. Ryan was
blotto at the time and so does not remember. However, it was in or
around four o'clock.

Lillian Walf was three years older than Bodney, but had the mind of a
child of eight. This she retained all her life. Commentators have
referred to her as feeble minded, but she was not feeble minded. Her
mind was vigorous. It was the mind of a vigorous child of eight. The
fact that she was actually in her thirties has no bearing on the
question that I can see. Writing to Remson three years after her
marriage to Bodney, Lillian says:

    We have a canary which sings something terrible all day. I think
    I'll shoot it Tuesday.

If that is the product of a feeble mind, then who of us can lay claim to
a sound mentality?

The wedding of Bodney to Lillian Walf took place quietly except for the
banging of the church radiator. The parson, Rev. Dr. Padderson,
estimated that the temperature of the room was about 78° at the time,
too hot for comfort. However, the young couple were soon on their way to
Bayswater where they settled down and lived a most uneventful life from
then on. Bodney must have been quite happy in his new existence, for he
gave up writing poetry and took to collecting pewter. We have no record
of his ever writing anything after his marriage, except a sonnet for the
yearbook of the Bayswater School for Girls. This sonnet (_On Looking
into William Ewart Gladstone_) beginning:

  O Lesbos! When thy fêted songs shall ring . . .

is too well known to quote here in full, but we cannot help calling
attention to the reference to Bayswater. For it was in Bayswater that
Bodney really belonged and it was there that he died in 1876. His
funeral was a Masonic one and lasted three hours and twenty minutes.
(Author's Collection).




  _Paul Revere's Ride_

  _How a Modest Go-Getter Did His Bit for the Juno Acid Bath Corporation_


Following are the salesman's report sheets sent into the home office in
New York by Thaddeus Olin, agent for the Juno Acid Bath Corporation.
Mr. Olin had the New England territory during the spring of 1775 and
these report sheets are dated April 16, 17, 18, and 19, of that year.

      _April 16, 1775._
      _Boston._

    Called on the following engravers this a. m.: Boston Engraving
    Co., E. H. Hosstetter, Theodore Platney, Paul Revere, Benjamin
    B. Ashley and Roger Durgin.

    Boston Engraving Co. are all taken care of for their acid.

    E. H. Hosstetter took three tins of acid No. 4 on trial and
    renewed his old order of 7 Queen-Biters.

    Theodore Platney has gone out of business since my last trip.

    Paul Revere was not in. The man in his shop said that he was
    busy with some sort of local shin-dig. Said I might catch him in
    tomorrow morning.

    The Benjamin Ashley people said they were satisfied with their
    present product and contemplated no change.

    Roger Durgin died last March.

    Things are pretty quiet in Boston right now.


      _April 17._

    Called on Boston Engraving people again to see if they might not
    want to try some Daisy No. 3. Mr. Lithgo was interested and said
    to come in tomorrow when Mr. Lithgo, Senior, would be there.

    Paul Revere was not in. He had been in for a few minutes before
    the shop opened and had left word that he would be up at Sam
    Adams' in case anyone wanted him. Went up to the Adams place,
    but the girl there said that Mr. Revere and Mr. Adams had gone
    over to Mr. Dawes' place on Milk Street. Went to Dawes' place,
    but the man there said Dawes and Adams and Revere were in
    conference. There seems to be some sort of parade or something
    they are getting up, something to do with the opening of the
    new foot-bridge to Cambridge, I believe.

    Things are pretty quiet here in Boston, except for the trade
    from the British fleet which is out in the harbour.

    Spent the evening looking around in the coffee houses. Everyone
    here is cribbage-crazy. All they seem to think of is cribbage,
    cribbage, cribbage.


      _April 18._

    To the Boston Engraving Company and saw Mr. Lithgo, Senior. He
    seemed interested in the Daisy No. 3 acid and said to drop in
    again later in the week.

    Paul Revere was out. His assistant said that he knew that Mr.
    Revere was in need of a new batch of acid and had spoken to him
    about our Vulcan No. 2 and said he might try some. I would have
    to see Mr. Revere personally, he said, as Mr. Revere makes all
    purchases himself. He said that he thought I could catch him
    over at the Dawes' place.

    Tried the Dawes' place but they said that he and Mr. Revere had
    gone over to the livery stable on State Street.

    Went to the livery stable but Revere had gone. They said he had
    engaged a horse for tonight for some sort of entertainment he
    was taking part in. The hostler said he heard Mr. Revere say to
    Mr. Dawes that they might as well go up to the North Church and
    see if everything was all set; so I gather it is a church
    entertainment.

    Followed them up to the North Church, but there was nobody there
    except the caretaker, who said that he thought I could catch Mr.
    Revere over at Charlestown late that night. He described him to
    me so that I would know him and said that he probably would be
    on horseback. As it seemed to me to be pretty important that we
    land the Revere order for Vulcan No. 2, I figured out that
    whatever inconvenience it might cause me to go over to
    Charlestown or whatever added expense to the firm, would be
    justified.

    Spent the afternoon visiting several printing establishments,
    but none of them do any engraving.

    Things are pretty quiet here in Boston.

    Went over to Charlestown after supper and hung around "The Bell
    in Hand" tavern looking for Mr. Revere. Met a man there who used
    to live in Peapack, N. J., and we got to talking about what a
    funny name for a town that was. Another man said that in
    Massachusetts there was actually a place called Podunk, up near
    Worcester. We had some very good cheese and talked over names of
    towns for a while. Then the second man, the one who knew about
    Podunk, said he had to go as he had a date with a man. After he
    had left I happened to bring the conversation around to the fact
    that I was waiting for a Mr. Paul Revere, and the first man told
    me that I had been talking to him for half an hour and that he
    had just gone.

    I rushed out to the corner, but the man who keeps the
    watering-trough there said that someone answering Mr. Revere's
    description had just galloped off on a horse in the direction of
    Medford. Well, this just made me determined to land that order
    for Juno Acid Bath Corporation or die in the attempt. So I hired
    a horse at the Tavern stable and started off toward Medford.

    Just before I hit Medford I saw a man standing out in his
    night-shirt in front of his house looking up the road. I asked
    him if he had seen anybody who looked like Mr. Revere. He seemed
    pretty sore and said that some crazy coot had just ridden by and
    knocked at his door and yelled something that he couldn't
    understand and that if he caught him he'd break his back. From
    his description of the horse I gathered that Mr. Revere was the
    man; so I galloped on.

    A lot of people in Medford Town were up and standing in front of
    their houses, cursing like the one I had just seen. It seems
    that Mr. Revere had gone along the road-side, knocking on doors
    and yelling something which nobody understood, and then
    galloping on again.

    "Some god-dam drunk," said one of the Medfordites, and they all
    went back to bed.

    I wasn't going to be cheated out of my order now, no matter what
    happened, and I don't think that Mr. Revere could have been
    drunk, because while he was with us at "The Bell in Hand," he
    had only four short ales. He had a lot of cheese, though.

    Something seemed to have been the matter with him, however,
    because in every town that I rode through I found people just
    going back to bed after having been aroused up out of their
    sleep by a mysterious rider. I didn't tell them that it was Mr.
    Revere, or that it was probably some stunt to do with the
    shin-dig that he and Mr. Dawes were putting on for the North
    Church. I figured out that it was a little publicity stunt.

    Finally, just as I got into Lexington, I saw my man getting off
    his horse at a house right alongside the Green. I rushed up and
    caught him just as he was going in. I introduced myself and told
    him that I represented the Juno Acid Bath Corporation of New
    York and asked him if he could give me a few minutes, as I had
    been following him all the way from Charlestown and had been to
    his office three days in succession. He said that he was busy
    right at that minute, but that if I wanted to come along with
    him upstairs he would talk business on the way. He asked me if I
    wasn't the man he had been talking to at "The Bell in Hand" and
    I said yes, and asked him how Podunk was. This got him in good
    humour and he said that we might as well sit right down then and
    that he would get someone else to do what he had to do. So he
    called a man-servant and told him to go right upstairs, wake up
    Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams and tell them to get up, and no
    fooling. "Keep after them, Sambo," he said, "and don't let them
    roll over and go to sleep again. It's very important."

    So we sat down in the living room and I got out our statement of
    sales for 1774 and showed him that, in face of increased
    competition, Juno had practically doubled its output. "There
    must be some reason for an acid outselling its competitors three
    to one," I said, "and that reason, Mr. Revere, is that a Juno
    product is a guaranteed product." He asked me about the extra
    sixpence a tin and I asked him if he would rather pay a sixpence
    less and get an inferior grade of acid and he said, "No." So I
    finally landed an order of three dozen tins of Vulcan No. 2 and
    a dozen jars of Acme Silver Polish, as Mr. Revere is a
    silversmith, also, on the side.

    Took a look around Lexington before I went back to Boston, but
    didn't see any engraving plants. Lexington is pretty quiet right
    now.

      Respectfully submitted,
      Thaddeus Olin.

                  Attached.
            _Expense Voucher_
        Juno Acid Bath Corp., New York
                  Thaddeus Olin, Agent.

  Hotel in Boston                                         15s.
  Stage fare                                              30s.
  Meals (4 days)                                          28s.
  Entertaining prospects                                £3 4s.
  Horse rent. Charlestown to Lexington and return       £2 6s.
                                                       _______
      Total Expense                                     £9 3s.

  To Profit on three dozen tins of Vulcan No. 2           18s.
    and One dozen jars Acme Silver Polish                  4s.
                                                       _______
                                                        £1 2s.

      Net Loss                                          £8 1s.




  _Shakespeare Explained_

  _Carrying on the System of Footnotes to a Silly Extreme_


  PERICLES

  Act II. SCENE 3

_Enter first Lady-in-Waiting (Flourish,[1] Hautboys[2] and[3]
torches[4])._

_First Lady-in-Waiting_--What[5] ho![6] Where[7] is[8] the[9] music?[10]


  NOTES

1. _Flourish_: The stage direction here is obscure. Clarke claims it
should read "flarish," thus changing the meaning of the passage to
"flarish" (that is, the King's), but most authorities have agreed that
it should remain "flourish," supplying the predicate which is to be
flourished. There was at this time a custom in the countryside of
England to flourish a mop as a signal to the passing vender of berries,
signifying that in that particular household there was a consumer-demand
for berries, and this may have been meant in this instance. That
Shakespeare was cognizant of this custom of flourishing the mop for
berries is shown in a similar passage in the second part of King Henry
IV, where he has the Third Page enter and say, "Flourish." Cf. also
Hamlet, IV, 7:4.

[Illustration: _Might be one of the hautboys bearing a box of "trognies"
for the actors to suck_]

2. _Hautboys_, from the French _haut_, meaning "high" and the Eng.
_boys_, meaning "boys." The word here is doubtless used in the sense of
"high boys," indicating either that Shakespeare intended to convey the
idea of spiritual distress on the part of the First Lady-in-Waiting or
that he did not. Of this Rolfe says: "Here we have one of the chief
indications of Shakespeare's knowledge of human nature, his remarkable
insight into the petty foibles of this work-a-day world." Cf. T. N. 4:6,
"Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd thy beauty's form in
table of my heart."

3. _and._ A favorite conjunctive of Shakespeare's in referring to the
need for a more adequate navy for England. Tauchnitz claims that it
should be pronounced "und," stressing the anti-penult. This
interpretation, however, has found disfavor among most commentators
because of its limited significance. We find the same conjunctive in A.
W. T. E. W. 6:7, "Steel-boned, unyielding _and_ uncomplying virtue," and
here there can be no doubt that Shakespeare meant that if the King
should consent to the marriage of his daughter the excuse of Stephano,
offered in Act 2, would carry no weight.

4. _Torches._ The interpolation of some foolish player and never the
work of Shakespeare (Warb.). The critics of the last century have
disputed whether or not this has been misspelled in the original, and
should read "trochies" or "troches." This might well be since the
introduction of tobacco into England at this time had wrought havoc with
the speaking voices of the players, and we might well imagine that at
the entrance of the First Lady-in-Waiting there might be perhaps one of
the hautboys mentioned in the preceding passage bearing a box of
"troches" or "trognies" for the actors to suck. Of this entrance Clarke
remarks: "The noble mixture of spirited firmness and womanly modesty,
fine sense and true humility, clear sagacity and absence of conceit,
passionate warmth and sensitive delicacy, generous love and
self-diffidence with which Shakespeare has endowed this First
Lady-in-Waiting renders her in our eyes one of the most admirable of his
female characters." Cf. M. S. N. D. 8:9, "That solder'st close
impossibilities and mak'st them kiss."

5. _What_--What.

6. _Ho!_ In conjunction with the preceding word doubtless means "What
ho!" changed by Clarke to "what hoo!" In the original MS. it reads "What
hi!" but this has been accredited to the tendency of the time to write
"What hi" when "what ho" was meant. Techner alone maintains that it
should read "What humpf!" Cf. Ham. 5:0, "High-ho!"

7. _Where._ The reading of the folio, retained by Johnson, the Cambridge
editors and others, but it is not impossible that Shakespeare wrote
"why," as Pope and others give it. This would make the passage read "Why
the music?" instead of "Where is the music?" and would be a much more
probable interpretation in view of the music of that time. Cf. George
Ade. Fable No. 15, "Why the gunnysack?"

8. _is_--is not. That is, would not be.

9. _the._ Cf. Ham. 4:6. M. S. N. D. 3:5. A. W. T. E. W. 2:6. T. N. 1:3
and Macbeth 3:1, "that knits up _the_ raveled sleeves of care."

10. _music._ Explained by Malone as "the art of making music" or "music
that is made." If it has but one of these meanings we are inclined to
think it is the first; and this seems to be favored by what precedes,
"_the_ music!" Cf. M. of V. 4:2, "The man that hath no music in
himself."

The meaning of the whole passage seems to be that the First
Lady-in-Waiting has entered, concomitant with a flourish, hautboys and
torches and says, "What ho! Where is the music?"




  _Fascinating Crimes_

  _4. The Lynn Horse-Car Murders_


Early in the morning of August 7th, 1896, a laborer named George Raccid,
while passing the old street-car barns at Fleeming and Main Streets,
Lynn, Massachusetts, noticed a crowd of conductors and drivers
(horse-cars were all the rage in 1896) standing about a car in the
doorway to the barn. Mr. Raccid was too hurried to stop and see what the
excitement was, and so it was not until the following Wednesday, when
the bi-weekly paper came out, that he learned that a murder had been
committed in the car-barn. And at this point, Mr. Raccid drops out of
our story.

The murder in question was a particularly odd one. In the first place,
it was the victim who did the killing. And in the second, the killing
occurred in a horse-car, an odd conveyance at best. And finally, the
murderer had sought to conceal his handiwork by cramming his victim into
the little stove in the middle of the car, a feat practically impossible
without the aid of scissors and a good eye for snipping.

The horse-car in which the murder occurred was one of the older types,
even for a horse-car. It was known in the trade as one of the "chummy
roadster" models and was operated by one man only. This man drove the
horses, stoked the fire, and collected the fares. He also held the
flooring of the car together with one foot braced against a "master"
plank. On his day off he read quite a lot.

[Illustration: _The murder-car and its driver, Swelf Yoffsen_

--Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.]

The driver of the murder-car was named Swelf Yoffsen, a Swedish
murder-car driver. He had come to this country four years before, but,
not liking it here, had returned to Sweden. It is not known how he
happened to be back in Lynn at this late date.

If we have neglected to state the name of the victim thus far, it is
because nobody seemed able to identify him. Some said that he was
Charlie Ross, who had disappeared shortly before. Others (the witty
ones) said it was Lon Chaney. A vote taken among all those present
designated him as the one least likely to succeed.

An interesting feature of this crime was that it was the sixth of a
series of similar crimes, all of which had occurred in Swelf Yoffsen's
horse-car. In the other five cases, the victims had been found
inadequately packed in the stove at the end of the run, but as Yoffsen,
on being questioned, had denied all knowledge of how they got there,
the matter had been dropped. After the discovery of the sixth murder,
however, Yoffsen was held on a technical charge of homicide.

The trial was one of the social events of the Lynn Mi-Careme season.
Yoffsen, on the stand, admitted that the victim was a passenger in his
car; in fact, that he was the only passenger. He had got on at the end
of the line and had tried to induce Yoffsen to keep on going in the same
direction, even though the tracks stopped there. He wanted to see a man
in Maine, he had said. But Yoffsen, according to his own story, had
refused and had turned his horses around and started for Lynn again. The
next he saw of him, people were trying to get him out of the stove. It
was Yoffsen's theory that the man, in an attempt to get warm, had tried
to crowd his way into the stove and had smothered. On being reminded
that the affair took place during a very hot week in August, Yoffsen
said that no matter how hot it got during the day in Lynn, the nights
were always cool.

Attorney Hammis, for the State, traced the movements of Yoffsen on the
morning of the murder and said that they checked up with his movements
on the occasions of the five other murders. He showed that Yoffsen, on
each occasion, had stopped the horse-car at a particularly lonely spot
and asked the occupants if they minded making a little detour, as there
was a bad stretch of track ahead. He had then driven his horses across a
cornfield and up a nearby hill on the top of which, in the midst of a
clump of bayberry bushes, stood a deserted house. He pointed out that on
four out of the six occasions Yoffsen had driven his horses right into
the house and asked the passengers (when there were any, other than his
victim) if they would step into the front room for a few minutes, giving
them some magazines to read while they waited. According to the
testimony of seven of these passengers, after about fifteen minutes
Yoffsen had appeared and yelled "All aboard!" in a cheery voice and
everyone had piled back into the horse-car and away they had gone, over
the cornfield and down the hill to Lynn. It was noted that on each
occasion, one of the passengers was missing, and that, oddly enough,
this very passenger was always the one to be found in the stove on the
way back.

It was the State's contention that Yoffsen killed his victims for their
insurance, _which is double when the deceased has met his death in a
common carrier_.

On April 14th, the ninth day of the trial, the jury went out and shortly
after asked for a drink of water. After eighteen hours of deliberation
they returned with a verdict of guilty, but added that, as it was not
sure whether Yoffsen had actually killed his victims _in_ the car or had
killed them outside and _then_ stuffed them in the stove, he was not
entitled to the double insurance.

When they went to inform Yoffsen of the verdict, he was nowhere to be
found.




  _What College Did to Me_

  _An Outline of Education_


My college education was no haphazard affair. My courses were all
selected with a very definite aim in view, with a serious purpose in
mind--no classes before eleven in the morning or after two-thirty in the
afternoon, and nothing on Saturday at all. That was my slogan. On that
rock was my education built.

As what is known as the Classical Course involved practically no
afternoon laboratory work, whereas in the Scientific Course a man's time
was never his own until four p. m. anyway, I went in for the classic.
But only such classics as allowed for a good sleep in the morning. A man
has his health to think of. There is such a thing as being a studying
fool.

In my days (I was a classmate of the founder of the college) a student
could elect to take any courses in the catalogue, provided no two of his
choices came at the same hour. The only things he was not supposed to
mix were Scotch and gin. This was known as the Elective System. Now I
understand that the boys have to have, during the four years, at least
three courses beginning with the same letter. This probably makes it
very awkward for those who like to get away of a Friday afternoon for
the week-end.

Under the Elective System my schedule was somewhat as follows:

    Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 11:00:

    Botany 2a (The History of Flowers and Their Meaning)

    Tuesdays and Thursdays at 11:00:

    English 26 (The Social Life of the Minor Sixteenth Century
    Poets)

    Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 12:00:

    Music 9 (History and Appreciation of the Clavichord)

    Tuesdays and Thursdays at 12:00:

    German 12b (Early Minnesingers--Walter von Vogelweider, Ulric
    Glannsdorf and Freimann von Stremhofen. Their Songs and Times)

    Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 1:30:

    Fine Arts 6 (Doric Columns: Their Uses, History and Various
    Heights)

    Tuesdays and Thursdays at 1:30:

    French 1C (Exceptions to the verb _être_)

This was, of course, just one year's work. The next year I followed
these courses up with supplementary courses in the history of
lace-making, Russian taxation systems before Catharine the Great, North
American glacial deposits and Early Renaissance etchers.

This gave me a general idea of the progress of civilization and a
certain practical knowledge which has stood me in good stead in
thousands of ways since my graduation.

[Illustration: _Some of the drawings in my economics notebook were the
finest things I have ever done_]

My system of studying was no less strict. In lecture courses I had my
notebooks so arranged that one-half of the page could be devoted to
drawings of five-pointed stars (exquisitely shaded), girls' heads, and
tick-tack-toe. Some of the drawings in my economics notebook in the
course on Early English Trade Winds were the finest things I have ever
done. One of them was a whole tree (an oak) with every leaf in perfect
detail. Several instructors commented on my work in this field.

These notes I would take home after the lecture, together with whatever
supplementary reading the course called for. Notes and textbooks would
then be placed on a table under a strong lamplight. Next came the
sharpening of pencils, which would take perhaps fifteen minutes. I had
some of the best sharpened pencils in college. These I placed on the
table beside the notes and books.

At this point it was necessary to light a pipe, which involved going to
the table where the tobacco was. As it so happened, on the same table
was a poker hand, all dealt, lying in front of a vacant chair. Four
other chairs were oddly enough occupied by students, also preparing to
study. It therefore resolved itself into something of a seminar, or
group conference, on the courses under discussion. For example, the
first student would say:

"I can't open."

The second student would perhaps say the same thing.

The third student would say: "I'll open for fifty cents."

And the seminar would be on.

At the end of the seminar, I would go back to my desk, pile the notes
and books on top of each other, put the light out, and go to bed, tired
but happy in the realization that I had not only spent the evening
busily but had helped put four of my friends through college.

An inventory of stock acquired at college discloses the following bits
of culture and erudition which have nestled in my mind after all these
years.


    THINGS I LEARNED FRESHMAN YEAR

    1. Charlemagne either died or was born or did something with the
    Holy Roman Empire in 800.

    2. By placing one paper bag inside another paper bag you can
    carry home a milk shake in it.

    3. There is a double l in the middle of "parallel."

    4. Powder rubbed on the chin will take the place of a shave if
    the room isn't very light.

    5. French nouns ending in "aison" are feminine.

    6. Almost everything you need to know about a subject is in the
    encyclopedia.

    7. A tasty sandwich can be made by spreading peanut butter on
    raisin bread.

    8. A floating body displaces its own weight in the liquid in
    which it floats.

    9. A sock with a hole in the toe can be worn inside out with
    comparative comfort.

    10. The chances are against filling an inside straight.

    11. There is a law in economics called _The Law of Diminishing
    Returns_, which means that after a certain margin is reached
    returns begin to diminish. This may not be correctly stated, but
    there is a law by that name.

    12. You begin tuning a mandolin with A and tune the other
    strings from that.


    SOPHOMORE YEAR

    1. A good imitation of measles rash can be effected by stabbing
    the forearm with a stiff whisk-broom.

    2. Queen Elizabeth was not above suspicion.

    3. In Spanish you pronounce z like th.

    4. Nine-tenths of the girls in a girls' college are not pretty.

    5. You can sleep undetected in a lecture course by resting the
    head on the hand as if shading the eyes.

    6. Weakness in drawing technique can be hidden by using a wash
    instead of black and white line.

    7. Quite a respectable bun can be acquired by smoking three or
    four pipefuls of strong tobacco when you have no food in your
    stomach.

    8. The ancient Phoenicians were really Jews, and got as far
    north as England where they operated tin mines.

    9. You can get dressed much quicker in the morning if the night
    before when you are going to bed you take off your trousers and
    underdrawers at once, leaving the latter inside the former.


    JUNIOR YEAR

    1. Emerson left his pastorate because he had some argument about
    communion.

    2. All women are untrustworthy.

    3. Pushing your arms back as far as they will go fifty times
    each day increases your chest measurement.

    4. Marcus Aurelius had a son who turned out to be a bad boy.

    5. Eight hours of sleep are not necessary.

    6. Heraclitus believed that fire was the basis of all life.

    7. A good way to keep your trousers pressed is to hang them from
    the bureau drawer.

    8. The chances are that you will never fill an inside straight.

    9. The Republicans believe in a centralized government, the
    Democrats in a de-centralized one.

    10. It is not necessarily effeminate to drink tea.


    SENIOR YEAR

    1. A dinner coat looks better than full dress.

    2. There is as yet no law determining what constitutes trespass
    in an airplane.

    3. Six hours of sleep are not necessary.

    4. Bicarbonate of soda taken before retiring makes you feel
    better the next day.

    5. You needn't be fully dressed if you wear a cap and gown to a
    nine-o'clock recitation.

    6. Theater tickets may be charged.

    7. Flowers may be charged.

    8. May is the shortest month in the year.

The foregoing outline of my education is true enough in its way, and is
what people like to think about a college course. It has become quite
the cynical thing to admit laughingly that college did one no good. It
is part of the American Credo that all that the college student learns
is to catch punts and dance. I had to write something like that to
satisfy the editors. As a matter of fact, I learned a great deal in
college and have those four years to thank for whatever I know today.

    *    *    *    *    *

(The above note was written to satisfy those of my instructors and
financial backers who may read this. As a matter of fact, the original
outline is true, and I had to look up the date about Charlemagne at
that.)




  _Uncle Edith's Ghost Story_


"Tell us a ghost story, Uncle Edith," cried all the children late
Christmas afternoon when everyone was cross and sweaty.

"Very well, then," said Uncle Edith, "it isn't much of a ghost story,
but you will take it--and like it," he added, cheerfully. "And if I hear
any whispering while it is going on, I will seize the luckless offender
and baste him one.

"Well, to begin, my father was a poor woodchopper, and we lived in a
charcoal-burner's hut in the middle of a large, dark forest."

"That is the beginning of a fairy story, you big sap," cried little
Dolly, a fat, disagreeable child who never should have been born, "and
what we wanted was a _ghost_ story."

"To be sure," cried Uncle Edith, "what a stupid old woopid I was. The
ghost story begins as follows:

"It was late in November when my friend Warrington came up to me in the
club one night and said: 'Craige, old man, I want you to come down to my
place in Whoopshire for the week-end. There is greffle shooting to be
done and grouse no end. What do you say?'

"I had been working hard that week, and the prospect pleased. And so it
was that the 3:40 out of Charing Cross found Warrington and me on our
way into Whoopshire, loaded down with guns, plenty of flints, and two of
the most beautiful snootfuls ever accumulated in Merrie England.

"It was getting dark when we reached Breeming Downs, where Warrington's
place was, and as we drove up the shadowy path to the door, I felt
Warrington's hand on my arm.

"'Cut that out!' I ordered, peremptorily. 'What is this I'm getting
into?'

"'Sh-h-h!' he replied, and his grip tightened. With one sock I knocked
him clean across the seat. There are some things which I simply will not
stand for.

"He gathered himself together and spoke. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I was a
bit unnerved. You see, there is a shadow against the pane in the guest
room window.'

"'Well, what of it?' I asked. It was my turn to look astonished.

Warrington lowered his voice. 'Whenever there is a shadow against the
windowpane as I drive up with a guest, that guest is found dead in bed
the next morning--dead from fright,' he added, significantly.

"I looked up at the window toward which he was pointing. There,
silhouetted against the glass, was the shadow of a gigantic man. I say,
'a man,' but it was more the figure of a large weasel except for a
fringe of dark-red clappers that it wore suspended from its beak."

"How do you know they were dark red," asked little Tom-Tit, "if it was
the shadow you saw?"

"You shut your face," replied Uncle Edith. "I could hardly control my
astonishment at the sight of this thing, it was so astonishing. 'That is
in my room?' I asked Warrington.

"'Yes,' he replied, 'I am afraid that it is.'

"I said nothing, but got out of the automobile and collected my bags.
'Come on,' I announced cheerfully, 'I'm going up and beard Mr. Ghost in
his den.'

"So up the dark, winding stairway we went into the resounding corridors
of the old seventeenth-century house, pausing only when we came to the
door which Warrington indicated as being the door to my room. I knocked.

"There was a piercing scream from within as we pushed the door open. But
when we entered, we found the room empty. We searched high and low, but
could find no sign of the man with the shadow. Neither could we discover
the source of the terrible scream, although the echo of it was still
ringing in our ears.

"'I guess it was nothing,' said Warrington, cheerfully. 'Perhaps the
wind in the trees,' he added.

"'But the shadow on the pane?' I asked.

"He pointed to a fancily carved piece of guest soap on the washstand.
'The light was behind that,' he said, 'and from outside it looked like a
man.'

"'To be sure,' I said, but I could see that Warrington was as white as a
sheet.

"'Is there anything that you need?' he asked. 'Breakfast is at nine--if
you're lucky,' he added, jokingly.

"'I think that I have everything,' I said. 'I will do a little reading
before going to sleep, and perhaps count my laundry. . . . But stay,' I
called him back, 'you might leave that revolver which I see sticking out
of your hip pocket. I may need it more than you will.'

"He slapped me on the back and handed me the revolver as I had asked.
'Don't blow into the barrel,' he giggled, nervously.

"'How many people have died of fright in this room?' I asked, turning
over the leaves of a copy of _Town and Country_.

"'Seven,' he replied. 'Four men and three women.'

"'When was the last one here?'

"'Last night,' he said.

"'I wonder if I might have a glass of hot water with my breakfast,' I
said. 'It warms your stomach.'

"'Doesn't it though?' he agreed, and was gone.

"Very carefully I unpacked my bag and got into bed. I placed the
revolver on the table by my pillow. Then I began reading.

"Suddenly the door to the closet at the farther end of the room opened
slowly. It was in the shadows and so I could not make out whether there
was a figure or not. But nothing appeared. The door shut again, however,
and I could hear footfalls coming across the soft carpet toward my bed.
A chair which lay between me and the closet was upset as if by an unseen
hand, and, simultaneously, the window was slammed shut and the shade
pulled down. I looked, and there, against the shade, as if thrown from
the _outside_, was the same shadow that we had seen as we came up the
drive that afternoon."

"I have to go to the bathroom," said little Roger, aged six, at this
point.

"Well, go ahead," said Uncle Edith. "You know where it is."

"I don't want to go alone," whined Roger.

"Go with Roger, Arthur," commanded Uncle Edith, "and bring me a glass of
water when you come back."

"And whatever was this horrible thing that was in your room, Uncle
Edith?" asked the rest of the children in unison when Roger and Arthur
had left the room.

"I can't tell you that," replied Uncle Edith, "for I packed my bag and
got the 9:40 back town."

"That is the lousiest ghost story I have ever heard," said Peterkin.

And they all agreed with him.




  _More Songs for Meller_


As Senorita Raquel Meller sings entirely in Spanish, it is again
explained, the management prints little synopses of the songs on the
program, telling what each is all about and why she is behaving the way
she is. They make delightful reading during those periods when Señorita
Meller is changing mantillas, and, in case she should run out of songs
before she runs out of mantillas, we offer a few new synopses for her
repertoire.


  (1) ¿Voy Bien?

  (AM I GOING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION?)

When the acorns begin dropping in Spain there is an old legend that for
every acorn which drops there is a baby born in Valencia. This is so
silly that no one pays any attention to it now, not even the
gamekeeper's daughter, who would pay attention to anything. She goes
from house to house, ringing doorbells and then running away. She hopes
that some day she will ring the right doorbell and will trip and fall,
so that Prince Charming will catch her. So far, no one has even come to
the door. Poor Pepita! if that is her name.


  (2) Camisetas de Flanela

  (FLANNEL VESTS)

Princess Rosamonda goes nightly to the Puerta del Sol to see if the
early morning edition of the papers is out yet. If it isn't she hangs
around humming to herself. If it is, she hangs around humming just the
same. One night she encounters a young matador who is returning from
dancing school. The finches are singing and there is Love in the air.
Princess Rosamonda ends up in the Police Station.


  (3) La Guia

  (THE TIME-TABLE)

It is the day of the bull fight in Madrid. Everyone is cock-eyed. The
bull has slipped out by the back entrance to the arena and has gone
home, disgusted. Nobody notices that the bull has gone except Nina, a
peasant girl who has come to town that day to sell her father. She looks
with horror at the place in the Royal Box where the bull ought to be
sitting and sees there instead her algebra teacher whom she had told
that she was staying at home on account of a sick headache. You can
imagine her feelings!


  (4) No Puedo Comer Eso

  (I CAN NOT EAT THAT!)

A merry song of the Alhambra--of the Alhambra in the moonlight--of a
girl who danced over the wall and sprained her ankle. Lititia is the
ward of grouchy old Pampino, President of the First National Banco. She
has never been allowed further away than the edge of the piazza because
she teases people so. Her lover has come to see her and finds that she
is fast asleep. He considers that for once he has the breaks, and
tiptoes away without waking her up. Along about eleven o'clock she
awakes, and is sore as all get-out.


  (5) La Lavandera

  (THE LAUNDRYMAN)

A coquette, pretending to be very angry, bites off the hand of her lover
up to the wrist. Ah, naughty Cirinda! Such antics! However does she
think she can do her lessons if she gives up all her time to
love-making? But Cirinda does not care. Heedless, heedless Cirinda!


  (6) Abra Vd. Esa Ventana

  (OPEN THAT WINDOW)

The lament of a mother whose oldest son is too young to vote. She walks
the streets singing: "My son can not vote! My son is not old enough!"
There seems to be nothing that can be done about it.




  _The Boys' Camp Business_


There seems to be an idea prevalent among parents that a good way to
solve the summer problem for the boy is to send him to a boys' camp. At
any rate, the idea seems to be prevalent in the advertising pages of the
magazines.

If all the summer camps for boys and girls turn out the sterling
citizens-in-embryo that they claim to do, the future of this country is
as safe as if it were in the hands of a governing board consisting of
the Twelve Apostles. From the folders and advertisements, we learn that
"Camp Womagansett--in the foothills of the White Mountains" sends yearly
into the world a bevy of "strong, manly boys, ready for the duties of
citizenship and equipped to face life with a clear eye and a keen mind."
It doesn't say anything about their digestions, but I suppose they are
in tiptop shape, too.

The outlook for the next generation of mothers is no less dazzling.
"Camp Wawilla for Girls," we learn, pays particular attention to the
spiritual development of Tomorrow's Women and compared to the civic
activities of the majority of alumnæ of Wawilla, those of Florence
Nightingale or Frances Willard would have to be listed under the head
of "Junior Girls' Work."

Now this is all very splendid, and it is comforting to think that when
every boy and girl goes to Womagansett or Wawilla there will be no more
Younger Generation problem and probably no crime waves worth mentioning.
But there are several other features that go hand in hand with sending
the boy to camp which I would like to take up from the parents' point of
view, if I may. I will limit myself to twenty minutes.

In the first place, when your boy comes home from camp he is what is
known in the circular as "manly and independent." This means that when
you go swimming with him he pushes you off the raft and jumps on your
shoulders, holding you under water until you are as good as
drowned--better, in fact. Before he went to camp, you used to take a
kindly interest in his swimming and tell him to "take your time, take it
easy," with a feeling of superiority which, while it may have had no
foundation in your own natatorial prowess, nevertheless was one of the
few points of pride left to you in your obese middle-age. After watching
one of those brown heroes in one-piece suits and rubber helmets dive off
a tower and swim under water to the raft and back, there was a sort of
balm in being able to turn to your son and show him how to do the crawl
stroke, even though you yourself weren't one of the seven foremost crawl
experts in the country. You could do it better than your son could, and
that was something.

[Illustration: _Holding you under water until you are as good as
drowned_]

It was also very comforting to be able to stand on the springboard and
say: "Now watch Daddy. See? Hands like this, bend your knees. See?" The
fact that such exhibitions usually culminated in your landing heavily on
the area bounded by the knees and the chest was embarrassing, perhaps,
but at that you weren't quite so bad as the boy when he tried the same
thing.

[Illustration: _"Now watch Daddy. See? Hands like this, bend your knees.
See?"_]

But after a summer at camp, the "manly, independent" boy comes back and
makes you look like Horace Greeley in his later years. "Do this one,
Dad!" he says, turning a double flip off the springboard and cutting
into the water like a knife blade. If you try it, you sprain your back.
If you don't try it, your self-respect and prestige are shattered. The
best thing to do is not to hear him. You can do this by disappearing
under the surface every time it looks as if he were going to pull a new
one. After a while, however, this ruse gets you pretty soggy and
waterlogged and you might better just go in and get dressed as rapidly
as possible.

The worst phase of this new-found "independence" is the romping instinct
that seems to be developed to a high state of obnoxiousness at all boys'
camps. I went to camp when I was a boy, but I don't remember being as
unpleasant about my fun as boys today seem to be. I have done many mean
things in my time. I have tortured flies and kicked crutches out from
under cripples' arms. But I have never, so help me, Confucius, pushed
anybody off a raft or come up behind anyone in the water and jumped up
on his shoulders. And I don't think that Lincoln ever did, either.

There is evidently a course in raft pushing and back jumping in boys'
camps today. Those photographs that you see in the camp advertisements,
if you examine them closely, will disclose, in nine cases out of ten, a
lot of boys pushing each other off rafts. You can't see the ones who are
jumping on others' shoulders, as they are under water. But I want to
serve notice right now that the next boy who pushes me off a raft when I
am not looking, or tries to play leapfrog over me in ten feet of water,
is going to be made practically useless as Tomorrow's Citizen, and I am
going to do it myself, too. If it happens to be my own son, it will just
make the affair the sadder.

Another thing that these manly boys learn at camp is a savage habit of
getting up at sunrise. The normal, healthy boy should be a very late
sleeper. Who does not remember in his own normal, healthy boyhood having
to be called three, four, or even five times in the morning before it
seemed sensible to get up? One of the happiest memories of childhood is
that of the maternal voice calling up from downstairs, fading away into
silence, and the realization that it would be possibly fifteen minutes
before it called again.

All this is denied to the boy who goes to a summer camp. When he comes
home, he is so steeped in the pernicious practice of early rising that
he can't shake it off. Along about six o'clock in the morning he begins
dropping shoes and fixing up a new stand for the radio in his room. Then
he goes out into the back yard and practices tennis shots up against the
house. Then he runs over a few whistling arrangements of popular songs
and rides his bicycle up and down the gravel path. You would be
surprised at the sound two bicycle wheels can make on a gravel path at
six-thirty in the morning. A forest fire might make the same crackling
sound, but you probably wouldn't be having a forest fire out in your
yard at six-thirty in the morning. Not if you had any sense, you
wouldn't.

[Illustration: _You'd be surprised at the sound two bicycle wheels can
make on a gravel path_]

Just what the boys do at camp when they get up at six is a mystery. They
seem to have some sort of setting-up exercises and a swim--more pushing
each other off the raft--but they could do that by getting up at eight
and still have a good long day ahead of them. I never knew anyone yet
who got up at six who did anything more useful between that time and
breakfast than banging a tennis ball up against the side of the house,
waiting for the civilized members of the party to get up. We have to do
enough waiting in this life without getting up early to wait for
breakfast.

Next summer I have a good mind to run a boys' camp of my own. It will be
on Lake Chabonagogchabonagogchabonagungamog--yes, there is, too, in
Webster, Massachusetts--and I will call it Camp
Chabonagogchabonagogchabonagungamog for Manly Boys. And by the word
"manly," I will mean "like men." In other words, everyone shall sleep
just as long as he wants, and when he does get up there will be no
depleting "setting-up" exercises. The day will be spent just as the
individual camper gosh-darned pleases. No organized "hikes"--I'd like a
word on the "hike" problem some day, too--no camp spirit, no talk about
Tomorrow's Manhood, and _no pushing people off rafts_.




  _Goethe's Love Life_


Lovers of Goethe will rejoice in the recently discovered series of
letters which have been added to the world's collection of Goethiana by
Dr. Heimsatz Au of Leipzig.

Dr. Au had spent fifteen years searching through bureau-drawers and
things for these missing links in the chain of the poet's love-life, and
was at last rewarded by finding them in the pocket of an old raincoat
belonging to Hugo Kranz. Goethe had evidently given them to Kranz to
mail, and the lovable old fellow had completely forgotten them. So the
letters were never received by the people to whom they were addressed,
which accounts for several queer things that happened subsequently,
among them the sudden birth of a daughter in the family of Walter
Tierney.

We must remember that at the time these letters were written, Goethe was
in delicate health and had seriously contemplated suicide. At least,
that was what he said. More likely he was just fooling, as there is no
record that he ever succeeded. At any rate, not the Goethe of whom we
are speaking. There was a George Goethe who committed suicide in Paris
in 1886, but it is doubtful if he was the poet. The first of the Au
collection of letters was written on August 11, 1760, four days after
Goethe had returned from his operation. It was addressed to Leopold
Katz, his old room-mate in the Kindergarten. ". . . I have never been so
sore at anyone in my life," writes Goethe, "as I was at Martha last
Friday."

In closing Goethe promised to send Katz the flowered slippers he had
promised him and bade him be "a good boys (_ein gutes Kind_)."

On November 26 he wrote to the Gebrüder Feigenspan, Importers of Fine
Mechanical Toys, 1364 Ludwigstrasse, München:

"Gentlemen. . . . On September 12, I sent you a letter, together with
fifteen cents in stamps, requesting that you send me for inspection one
of your wheeled ducks as per your advertisement. Our Herr Rothapfel
informs me that the shipment has never reached us. It is not the money
that I object to, as fifteen cents in stamps is only fifteen cents in
stamps, no matter how you should look at it, but it strikes me as very
funny that a firm of your standing should be so sloppy in its business
transactions. Please oblige."

That is all. Not a word of his heart-aches. Not a word of his emotional
crises. Not a word of Elsa von Bahnhoff. In fact, not a word about
anything but the wheeled duck. No wonder that, in January, we find him
writing piteously to Lena Lewis, his teacher:

". . . Well, Lena, this is a fine sort of a day I must say. Rain, rain,
rain, is about all it seems to know how to do in this dump. And the
food. Say! The worst you ever see (_sehen_)."

Thus we are able to piece together those years of Goethe's life when he
was in a formative frame of mind and facing his first big problems. In
the light of these letters several of the passages in "_Dichtung und
Wahrheit_" which have hitherto been clouded in mystery may now be read
with a clearer understanding. We cannot thank Dr. Au too much--if at
all.




  _Old Program from the Benchley Collection_

  _A Glance Backward in the Manner of the Authors of Theatrical
  Reminiscences_


Few, probably, of my readers, will remember the time when the old
Forrest Theater stood where the Central Park Reservoir now is. In those
days, Central Park was considered 'way downtown, or "crosstown," as they
called it then, and one of the larks of the period was going "down to
Central Park to see the turtles." There was a large turtle farm in the
Park at that time, run by Anderson M. Ferderber, and it was this turtle
farm, expanding and growing as the turtles became more venturesome,
which later became the Zoological Exhibit.

I remember very well the night when it was announced at the Forrest
Theater that the building was to be torn down to make way for the new
Reservoir. It was, as I recall, H. M. Ramus ("Henry" Ramus) who made the
announcement. He was playing _Laertes_ at the time (_Laertes_ was played
with the deuces wild and a ten-cent limit) when the manager of the
theater (Arthur Semden, who later became Harrison Blashforth) came into
the dressing-room and said: "Well, boys, it's all over. They're going to
build the Reservoir here!" There was a silence for a full
minute--probably more, for the manager had come into the wrong
dressing-room and there was nobody there.

At any rate, "Henry" Ramus was selected to go out and tell the audience.
He did it with infinite tact, explaining that there was no need for
alarm or panic, as the water could not possibly be let in until the
theater was down and the Reservoir constructed, but the audience was
evidently taking no chances on being drowned, for within three minutes
from the time Ramus began speaking everyone in the theater was outdoors
and in a hansom cab. Audience psychology is a queer thing, and possibly
this audience knew best. At any rate, the old Forrest Theater is no
more.

Speaking of "Henry" Ramus, an amusing anecdote is told of Whitney Hersh.
Hersh was playing with Booth in Philadelphia at the time, and was well
known for his ability to catch cold, a characteristic which won him many
new friends but lost him several old ones. The theater where Booth was
playing in _The Queen's Quandary, or What's Open Can't Be Shut_, was the
old Chestnut Street Opera House which stood at the corner of what was
then Arch, Chestnut, Spruce, Pine and Curly Maple Streets. This theater
was noted in the profession for its slanting stage, so much so, in fact,
that Booth, on hearing that they were to play there, is said to have
remarked: "The Chestnut Street, eh?" On being assured that he had heard
correctly, Booth simply smiled. He later founded the Player's Club.

In _The Queen's Quandary, or What's Open Can't Be Shut_, Hersh had to
play the part of _Rodney Ransome_, the father of several people. In the
second act there was a scene in which _Rodney_ had to say to _Marian_:

"But I thought you said the Duke _had_ no moustache!"

To which _Marian_ was supposed to reply: "I never was more serious in
all my life."

On the night of the opening performance Hersh was, as usual, very
nervous. He got through the first act all right, with the aid of several
promptings from his mother who was sitting in the balcony. But when the
second act came along, it was evident to the other members of the
company that Hersh could not be relied upon. This feeling was
strengthened by the fact that he was nowhere to be found. They searched
high and low for him but, like the sword of Damocles, he had
disappeared. At the curtain to the second act, however, he was
discovered sitting out front in D-113 applauding loudly and calling out:
"Hersh! We-want-Hersh!" The only way they could get him back on the
stage was a ruse which was not without its pathetic side. The manager of
the house stepped out in front of the curtain and asked if any member of
the audience would volunteer to come upon the stage and be hypnotized.
Hersh, who had always wanted to go on the stage, was one of the first to
push his way up. Once behind the footlights again his nervousness left
him and he went on with his part where he had left off. It did not fit
in with the rest of the play, but they were all so glad to have him back
in the cast again that they said nothing about it to him, and whenever,
in later years, he himself mentioned the affair, it was always as "that
time in Philadelphia when I was so nervous." . . . And that little girl
was Charlotte Cushman.

It was at this time that Stopford's _A New Way With Old Husbands, or The
Mysterious Drummer-Boy_, was given its first performance at the old
Garrick Theater in New York. The old Garrick Theater was torn down in
1878 to make way for the new Garrick Theater, which, in its turn, was
torn down in 1880 to make way for the old Garrick again. It is the old,
or new, Garrick which now stands at Broadway and Tenth Street on the
spot known to passers-by as "Wanamaker's." Thus is the silver cord
loosed and the pitcher broken at the well.

_A New Way With Old Husbands, or The Mysterious Drummer-Boy_ was written
for Ada Rehan, but she was in Fall River at the time; so the part was
given to a young woman who had come to the theater that morning asking
if a Mr. Wasserman lived there. On being told that it was not a private
dwelling and that there was no one there named Wasserman, she had said,

"Well, then, does anyone here want to subscribe to the _Saturday Evening
Post_?"

Those members of the cast who had gathered on the bare stage for
rehearsal were so impressed by the young woman's courage that a purse
was taken up for her children in case she had any and, in case she had
no children, for her next of kin.

"I do not want money," she said, taking it. "All I want is a chance to
prove my ability on the stage."

"Can you make the sound of crashing glass?" asked Arthur Reese, the
stage manager.

"I think so," replied the young woman without looking up.

Reese looked at Meany, the assistant stage manager. "She is the one we
want," he said quietly.

So the young woman was engaged. . . . Some thirty years later the Empire
Theater in New York was aglow with lights on the occasion of the opening
of _Call the Doctor_. Gay ladies, bejeweled and bejabbered, were running
back and forth in the lobby, holding court, while tall, dark gentlemen
in evening dress danced attendance. Those who couldn't dance sat it out.
It was the metropolitan season at its height.

Suddenly a man burst excitedly through the crowd and made his way to the
box-office.

"This seat is ridiculous," he exclaimed to the Treasurer of the theater
(Roger M. Wakle, at the time). "I can't even see the stage from it."

"That is not so strange as it may seem to you at first," replied Wakle,
"for the curtain is not up yet."

A hush fell over the crowded lobby. This was followed somewhat later by
a buzz of excitement. This, in turn, was followed by a detail of mounted
police. Men looked at women and at each other. . . . For that young man
was Charlotte Cushman.

It was about this time, as I remember it (or maybe later) that the old
Augustin Daly Stock Company was at the top of its popularity and
everyone was excited over the forthcoming production of _Up and Away_.
It had been in rehearsal for several weeks when Tom Nevers asked Daly
how much longer they were going to rehearse.

"Oh, about another week," replied Daly, with that old hat which later
made him famous.

You can imagine Nevers' feelings!

A glance at the Cast assembled for this production might be of interest
in the light of subsequent events (the completion of the vehicular
tunnel and the Centennial Exposition). So anyway it is in the middle of
page 57 to look at if you want to.

    UP AND AWAY

    OR NOBODY KNOWS BUT NERO

    OR THREE TIMES SIX IS EIGHTEEN

    (_Choice of any two titles_)

    Jonathan Henchman, father of Ralph Henchman and Mother of Men,
    Old Yale Mr. Macready

    Ralph Henchman, father of Jonathan Henchman and a rather wild
    young chap Mr. Junius Booth

    Jack Wyman, M.D., a doctor who has more "patience" than
    "patients" Mr. Edmund Keene

    Professor Hawksworth, an irascible old fellow who specializes in
    bird troubles Mr. Hornblow

    Professor Hawksworth, an irascible old fellow who specializes in
    bird troubles Mr. Junius Booth

    Meeker, a party who lives by his wits and not much of that Mr.
    Jonathan Edwards

    Eugenia, daughter of Jonathan Henchman Mrs. Siddons

    Mlle. de Bon-Ton, a young lady who is not above drinking a
    little champagne now and then Miss Cushman

    Eliza, maid at the Nortons By Herself

    Hamlet, Prince of Denmark Mr. William A. Brady

As it turned out, _Up and Away_ was never produced, as it was found to
be too much trouble. But the old Augustin Daly Stock Company will not
soon be forgotten.

My memories of St. Louis are of the pleasantest. We played there in
Dante's _Really Mrs. Warrington_--and _Twelfth Night_. The _St. Louis
Post-Dispatch_, on the morning following our opening, said:

"It is quite probable that before the end of the year we shall see the
beginning of the end of the work on the McNaffen Dam. The project has
been under construction now for three years and while there can be no
suspicion thrown on the awarding of the contracts, nevertheless we must
say that the work has progressed but slowly."

It was while we were playing in St. Louis that the news came of the
capture of J. Wilkes Booth. A performance of _Richelieu_ was in
progress, in which I was playing _Rafferty_, and Fanny Davenport the
_Queen_. In the second act there is a scene in which _Rafferty_ says to
_La Pouce_:

  _"I can not, tho' my tongue were free,_
    _Repeat the message that my liege inspires,_
  _And tho' you ask it, were it mine,_
    _And hope you'll be my Valentine."_

Following this speech, _Rafferty_ falls down and opens up a bad gash in
his forehead.

We had come to this scene on the night I mention, when I noticed that
the audience was tittering. I could not imagine what the matter was, and
naturally thought of all kinds of things--sheep jumping over a
fence--anything. But strange as it may seem, the tittering continued,
and I have never found out, from that day to this what amused them
so. . . . This was in 1878.

And now we come to the final curtain. For, after all, I sometimes think
that Life is like a stage itself. The curtain rises on our little scene;
we have our exits and our entrances, and each man in his time plays many
parts. I must work this simile up sometime.

Life and the Theater. Who knows? _Selah._




  _The Low State of Whippet Racing_


It does not seem too soon now to begin formulating plans for next year's
whippet racing. While there are still a few more races on the 1928
schedule, most of the important ones have been run off and the leading
whippets have practically all broken training.

Whippet racing in recent years has deteriorated into a sordid spectacle,
productive only of gigantic gate receipts for the promoters. At one
whippet race on Long Island last summer, it is estimated that forty
people lined the course, and, as each of these forty paid something in
the neighborhood of a quarter for parking their cars in a nearby field,
it will be seen that the thing has already got out of hand and is now in
the class of mad sport carnivals.

This has naturally had its reaction on the whippets themselves. They
have become mercenary and callous. All they think of is money, money,
money. The idea of sport for sport's sake is a dream of the past as far
as whippets are concerned. In order to make the game what it used to be,
we shall have to bring up a whole new breed of whippets and send the
present success-crazed organization out on the road in circuses where
they may indulge their lust for gain without hindrance of any
considerations of sportsmanship.

Perhaps a few examples may serve to illustrate my point. I witnessed a
whippet race in California recently at which the gate happened to be
very small. There had been no publicity worthy of the name and the word
had simply got around among the racetrack gang that some whippets were
going to race at three o'clock. This brought out a crowd of perhaps six
people, exclusive of the owners and trainers. Four of the six were
chance passers-by and the other two were state policemen.

Now evidently the small size of the crowd enraged the whippets or, at
any rate, threw them into such a state of mind that they gave up all
idea of racing and took to kidding. In the first race they were not
halfway down the lanes when two of them stopped and walked back, while
the other two began wrestling good-naturedly. The owners at the finish
line called frantically, but to no avail, and the race had to be called
off.

In the second race they would not even start. When the gun was fired,
they turned as if by prearranged mutiny and began jumping up and kissing
their trainers. This race also had to be called off.

By this time the crowd was in an ugly humor and one or two started to
boo. The state police, scenting trouble, went home. This left four
spectators and further upset the whippets. A conference of the owners
and trainers resulted in what you might call practically nothing. It got
along toward supper time and even I went home. I looked in the papers
the next morning but could find no news of the races, so I gathered
that the rest of the heats had been called off too.

[Illustration: _By this time the crowd was in an ugly humor_]

This pretty well indicates the state in which whippet racing now finds
itself in this country. The remedy is up to those of us old whippet
fanciers who have the time and the means to reform the thing from the
ground up.

First, I would recommend a revision of the system of whippet-calling. As
you no doubt know, a whippet race is at least one-third dependent on
calling. The trainer leads the whippet from the finish line up the lane
to the starting point (a silly procedure to begin with) and then holds
him in leash until the gun. The owner, or some close personal friend,
stands at the finish line and calls to the whippet, which is supposed to
drive him crazy and make him run like mad back down the lane again in a
desire to reach his owner. As we have seen, the whippet can take it or
leave it and is by no means certain to show any desire at all to get
back to the caller. Now this must be due to the calling. If the thing
were made attractive at all for the whippet to reach the finish line, we
would see no more of this hopping up and kissing trainers at the start.

As near as I could distinguish, most of the owners called out, "Come on,
Luke!" or "Here, Bennie, here!" Now obviously there was nothing very
exciting about these calls. You or I wouldn't run like mad down a lane
to get to someone who was calling, "Come on, Charlie!" or "Here, Bob,
here!" (unless, of course, it was Greta Garbo who was doing the
calling. In that case, a short, sharp whistle would be O.K.).

There must be some more attractive sounds made to entice the whippets
down the lanes. Not knowing exactly what it is that whippets like best,
it is a little difficult for me to make suggestions. I don't know and I
don't pretend to know. All I am sure of is that the whippets aren't
particularly attracted by what is being held out to them now.

Now in the matter of blankets. On the way up the lanes to the starting
point, the whippets are forced to wear blankets like race horses. This
saps not only their vitality but their self-respect. It is all right for
a race horse to wear a blanket if he wants to, because he is big and can
carry it off well. But when you get a whippet who, even with everything
showing, can hardly be seen unless you have him in your lap, and then
cover him up in a blanket, it just makes a nance out of him, that's all.
They look like so many trotting blankets, and they must know it. A
whippet has feelings as well as the rest of us. You can't make a dog
ashamed to appear in public and then expect him to run a race. If they
have to be kept warm, give each one a man's-size shot of rye before he
starts up the course. You'd get better racing that way, too. With a good
hooker of rye inside him, a whippet might not really be running fast but
he would think that he was, and that's something. As it stands, they are
so ashamed of their blankets that they have to do something on the way
down the lanes to appear virile. So they stop right in the middle of the
race and wrestle.

[Illustration: _It just makes a nance out of him_]

This wrestling business calls for attention, too. It is all right for
dogs to kid, but they don't have to do it in the middle of a race. It is
as if Charlie Paddock, while running the hundred, should stop after
about fifty yards and push one of his opponents playfully on the
shoulder and say, "Last tag!" and then as if his opponent should stop
and chase Charlie around in the track trying to tag him back. What kind
of time would they make in a race like that?

I don't think that the thing has ever been put up to the whippets quite
frankly in this manner. If someone could take a few whippets to a track
meet and (the whole gag having been worked up before, of course, among
the runners) the thing should deteriorate into a rough-and-tumble
clowning match of pushing and hauling one another, the whippets might
see what it looks like. You could say to them: "Now you see, that's how
you look when you stop in the middle of a race and wrestle all over the
track." They would be pretty ashamed, I should think.

[Illustration: _The owner or some close personal friend stands at the
finish line and calls to the whippet_]

The less said about their jumping up and kissing their trainers at the
start, the better. This is something that a good psychoanalyst ought to
handle. But so long as it is allowed to go on, whippet racing will be
in the doldrums. And so long as whippet racing is in the doldrums--well,
it is in the doldrums, that's all.

Better in the doldrums, say I, than for the whippets to so far forget
the principles of good, clean amateur sport as to pursue a mechanical
rabbit.




  _The Cooper Cycle in American Folk Songs_


A study of the folk-songs of--and indigenous to--the Ohio River Valley
(and just a teeny-weeny section of Illinois) discloses the fact that,
between 1840 and half-past nine, coopering was the heroic occupation and
coopers the legendary heroes of local song and story.

On all sides we come across fragments of ballads, or even the ballads
themselves, dealing with the romantic deeds of such characters as _Cris
the Cooper_, or _Warburton the Barrel-Maker_, with an occasional
reference to _William W. Ransome_, although there is no record of
_Ransome's_ having been a cooper.

The style in which these cooper-ballads were written would indicate that
they were all written by members of the same family, possibly the Jukes.
There is the same curious, stilted rhyme-scheme, more like a random idea
than a scheme, and a mannerism of harmony which indicates clearly that
they were composed on a comb.

Probably the most famous of all these ballads in praise of coopering is
the one called "Ernie Henkle," which begins as follows:

  "Oh, my name is Ernie Henkle,
    Oh, in Rister I was born,
   Oh, I never let up with my coopering
    Oh, till I get my rintle on."

(A rintle was the special kind of thumb-piece that coopers used to thumb
down the hoops, before the invention of the automatic hooper.)

  "Oh, one day 'twas down in Georgia,
    And that I won't deny,
   That I met a gal named Sadie Fried,
    And--(_line lost_)

  "Oh, she stole my heart completely,
    And that I can't deny,
   And it wasn't the tenth of August
    Or the eighteenth of July."

(Here the singer interjects a whistling solo.)

  "When up stepped Theodore Munson,
    And unto me did say,
   'Oh, you can't go back on your promised word,'
    And unto me did say.

  "Oh, I killed that Theodore Munson,
    And unto him did say,
   'Oh, the only gal is Henrietta Bascome,
    And that you can't deny.'"

This goes on for thirty-seven verses and then begins over again and goes
over the entire thirty-seven for the second time. By this time every one
is pretty sick of it.

But there we see the cooper-ballad at its best. (If you don't believe
it, you ought to hear some of the others.) _Ernie Henkle_ came to stand
for the heroic cooper and, even in later songs about baggage-men, we
find the _Henkle_ motif creeping in--and out again.

For example, in the famous song about "Joe McGee, the Baggage-Man":

  "'Twas in the gay December,
    And the snow was up to your knees,
   When Number 34 pulled 'round the bend
    As pretty as you please.
   Lord, Lord. As pretty as you please.

  "Now Joe McGee was the baggage-man,
    On Number 34,
   And he sat right down on the engine step
    And killed that Sam Basinette."

(There seems to be some confusion here as to just _what_ Sam Basinette
is meant. He must have been referred to in an earlier verse which has
been lost.)

  "Now Sam Basinette said before he died,
    'This ain't no treat to me,
   For the only gal is Henrietta Bascome,
    And that you will agree.'"

It seems that _Henrietta Bascome_ was more or less of a prom-girl who
rotated between the coopers and the baggage-men in their social affairs,
and even got as far north as Minnesota when the roads were clear.

It will be seen that in all these folk-songs the picaresque element is
almost entirely lacking: that is, there is very little--perhaps I mean
"picturesque" instead of "picaresque." In all these songs the
_picturesque_ element is lacking; that is, there is very little color,
very little movement, very little gin, please. The natives of this
district were mostly rude people--constantly bumping into each other and
never apologizing--and it is quite likely that they thought these to be
pretty good songs, as songs go. That they aren't, is no fault of mine.
You ought to know better than to read an article on American folk-songs.




  _Fascinating Crimes_

  _5. The Strange Case of the Vermont Judiciary_


Residents of Water Street, Bellows Falls (Vt.), are not naturally sound
sleepers, owing to the proximity of the Bellows Falls Light and Power
Co. and its attendant thumpings, but fifteen years before the erection
of the light-and-power plant there was nothing to disturb the slumbers
of Water Streetites, with the possible exception of the bestial
activities of Roscoe Erkle. For it was Mr. Erkle's whim to creep up upon
people as they slept and, leaping on their chests, to cram poisoned
biscuits into their mouths until they died, either from the poison or
from choking on the crumbs.

A tolerant citizenry stood this as long as it could decently be expected
to, and then had Roscoe Erkle arrested. It is not this phase of his
career in which we are interested, however, so much as the remarkable
series of events which followed.

His trial began at St. Albans, Franklin County, on Wednesday morning,
May 7, 1881. Defending Erkle was an attorney appointed by the Court,
Enos J. Wheefer. Mr. Wheefer, being deaf, had not heard the name of his
client or he would never have taken the case. He thought for several
days that he was defending Roscoe Conkling and had drawn up his case
with Conkling in mind.

Atty. Herbert J. McNell represented the State and, as it later turned
out, a tragic fate gave the case into the hands of Judge Alonso Presty
for hearing.

Judge Presty was one of the leaders of the Vermont bar at the time and a
man of impeccable habits. It was recalled after his untimely death that
he had been something of a rounder in his day, having been a leader in
barn-dancing circles while in law school, but since donning the sock and
buskin his conduct had been propriety itself. Which make the events that
we are about to relate all the more puzzling.

On the opening day of the trial, Atty. McNell was submitting as evidence
passages from the prisoner's diary which indicated that the murders were
not only premeditated but a source of considerable delight to Mr. Erkle.
It might perhaps be interesting to give a sample page from the diary:

    "_Oct._ 7--Cool and fair. Sharp tinge of Fall in the air. New
    shipment of arsenic arrived from W. Spent all day powdering biscuits
    and then toasting them. Look good enough to eat.

    "_Oct._ 8--Raw, with N. E. wind. Betsy came in for a minute and
    we did anagrams. (Editor's Note: _Betsy was Erkle's cow._)

    "_Oct._ 9--Still raw. Cleaned up Water Street on the left-hand
    side, with the exception of old Wassner who just wouldn't open his
    mouth. Home and read till after midnight. That man Carlyle certainly
    had the dope on the French Revolution, all right, all right."

As Atty. McNell read these excerpts from the diary in a droning voice,
the breath of Vermont May-time wafted in at the open windows of the
courtroom. Now and then a bee hummed in and out, as if to say:
"Buz-z-z-z-z-z-z!" Judge Presty sat high above the throng, head resting
on his hand, to all intents and purposes asleep.

Suddenly the attorney for the defendant arose and said: "I protest, Your
Honor. I cannot hear what my learned colleague is saying, but I don't
like his expression!"

There was silence while all eyes turned on the Judge. But the Judge did
not move. Thinking that he had fallen asleep, as was his custom during
the May term, the attorneys went on. It was not until he had gradually
slipped forward into the glass of water which stood before him on his
desk that it was discovered that he was dead!

The trial was immediately halted and an investigation begun. Nothing
could be discovered about the Judge's person which would give a clue to
his mysterious lapse except a tiny red spot just behind his right ear.
This, however, was laid to indigestion and the Judge was buried.

Another trial was called for October 10, again in St. Albans. This time
Judge Walter M. Bondy was presiding, and the same two attorneys opposed
each other. Roscoe Erkle had, during the summer, raised a red beard and
looked charming.

On the second day of the trial, while Atty. McNell was reading the
prisoner's diary, Judge Bondy passed away quietly at his bench, with
the same little red spot behind his right ear that had characterized the
cadaver of his predecessor. The trial was again halted, and a new one
set for the following May.

By this time, the matter had become one for serious concern. Erkle was
questioned, but his only reply was: "Let them mind their own business,
then." He had now begun to put pomade on his beard and had it parted in
the middle, and, as a result, had married one of the richest spinsters
in that section of Vermont.

We need not go into the repetitious account of the succeeding trials.
Suffice it to say that the following May Judge Rapf died at his post,
the following October Judge Orsenigal, the May following that a Judge
O'Heel, who had been imported from New Hampshire without being told the
history of the case, and the succeeding solstices saw the mysterious
deaths of Judges Wheefer (the counsel for the defense in the first
trial, who had, in the meantime, been appointed Judge because of his
deafness), Rossberg, Whelan, Rock, and Brady. And, in each case, the
little telltale mark behind the ear.

The State then decided to rest its case and declare it _nol-prossed_.
Judges were not so plentiful in Vermont that they could afford to go on
at this rate. Erkle was released on his own recognizance, took up the
study of law, and is, at latest accounts, a well-to-do patent attorney
in Oldham. Every May and every October he reports at St. Albans to see
if they want to try him again, but the Court laughingly postpones the
case until the next term, holding its hand over its right ear the
while.




  _The Passing of the Cow_

  (_With Wild West Sketches from the Author's Notebook_)


One of the signs of the gradual deterioration of the West is the even
more gradual disappearance of the cow. By "cow" is meant any heavy
animal that lumbers along mooing, regardless of sex. There has been too
much attention paid to sex lately.

According to the startling statistics of the U. S. Cow-Counting Bureau
issued on Monday (for release Wednesday), there are not more than six or
seven real cows left in the West. This, at first blush, would seem to be
an understatement when one thinks of the number of animals that _look_
like cows that one sees from the back of the prairie-schooner as one
drives across the plains. But certainly the U. S. Cow-Counting Bureau
ought to know a cow when it sees one. These other animals must be
impostors.

Accepting these statistics--or this statistic--as genuine, we find
ourselves confronted by a pretty serious situation. The cow has been
called "Man's best friend." No, that is the dog. . . . Sorry.

The situation is serious, regardless of who Man's best friend is.
Without cows (and if, when these figures were compiled, there were only
six or seven left in the West, it is safe to assume that even these are
gone by now) things look pretty black. It sometimes seems as if it were
hardly worth while going on.

Ever since 1847 the cow has been the feature of the West that most
appealed to the imagination. Prior to 1847 it was thought that all these
animals were horses. You can imagine the surprise of the man who first
discovered otherwise.

With the discovery of cows came the cowboy. And with the cowboy came the
moving picture. So you see!

[Illustration: _Horse and rider_

(_If I were doing this over again, I would put a large cactus in to hide
the horse's front legs. And maybe his hind ones, too. Perhaps I would
just have the cowboy standing there._)]

It is related, in an old cowboy ballad, how the first cow was lassoed.
It seems that Ernest Guilfoil, known as "Mr. Ernest Guilfoil," was
practicing swinging his rope one day, trying to synchronize gum-chewing
with rope-twirling so that he could work in a monologue between the two
and go on the stage. He had the gum-chewing and monologue all
synchronized, but was having trouble with the rope. Suddenly, after a
particularly complicated session with the "pesky" thing, he felt a tug
on the other end and, on reeling it in, discovered that he had entangled
a cow in the noose. Terrified, he jumped on his pony and rode to the
nearest corral, dragging the luckless cow behind him. Thus "Mr. Ernest
Guilfoil" became the first cowboy.

[Illustration: _One of the steers that has disappeared_

(_This is easily the worst drawing of the lot. It has, however, caught
something of the spirit of the old West._)]

The first inkling that the world at large had of the lack of cows was
the concentration of cowboys in rodeos and Wild West shows. Here it was
possible for a dozen or so cowboys to work on one cow, using the same
one over and over at each performance. But it was not until the Bureau
of Cow-Counting made its staggering analysis that the public finally
realized what had happened. And now it is too late. Just what is to be
done about it is a problem. Some suggest moving a lot of cows on from
the East, but old-time Westerners feel that this would be adding insult
to injury. The alternative seems to be to bring the cowboys on to where
the cows are, but that wouldn't work out either, because--oh, because it
_wouldn't_, that's all.

[Illustration: _Cowboy chasing cow_

(_It has never been very easy for me to draw animals, and it seems to be
getting harder and harder as I grow older. For instance, that cow is not
right and I know it. The horse is a little better, but seems to have too
much personality. At any rate, the etching has action. Perhaps it would
have been better to write an article just about cowboys themselves._)]

And so it comes about that romance dies and Civilization charges ahead.
But some of us are wondering, "Is it all worth it?"




  _A Short (What There Is of It) History of American Political Problems_

  Chap. I Vol. I.


In our two introductions to this history (one of which was lost) we made
a general survey of the development of political theory and practice
from Plato down to Old Man ("He Must Know Nothin'") River. In beginning
our history proper, it might perhaps be wise to forget all that we have
said before and start fresh, as a lot of new things have come up since
the last introduction was written (such as the Abolition of Slavery and
the entire Reconstruction Period) which have changed the political
aspect considerably.

We will begin our history, therefore, with the year 1800; in the first
place, because 1800 is a good round number and easily remembered
(Vanderbilt 1800, for instance), and in the second place, because it
marked the defeat of the Federalist Party under Hamilton by the
Republicans under Jefferson.

Now you are going to start back in astonishment when I say "Republicans
under Jefferson" and most likely will write in and say, "What do you
mean, _Republicans_ under Jefferson, you big old gump you! Everybody
knows that it was Jefferson who founded the _Democratic_ Party. . . .
Yours truly (whatever your name happens to be). . . ."

And here is where I will have the laugh on you, because you will have
forgotten what I told you in one of our introductions to this history
about the present Democratic Party having once been called the
Republican Party. So when I say "Republicans under Jefferson" I _mean_
"Republicans under Jefferson" and no more back talk out of you, either.
If you had devoted half the time to reading one, or both, of the
introductions to this history that you devote to jazz and
petting-parties you would know something about the political history of
your country instead of being such a nimcompoop. (There was a political
party named the "Nimcompoops" a little later on, and I can hardly wait
to tell you about it. . . . Perhaps I won't wait. I may tell about it
any minute now. [Adv.])

Now the reason for the defeat of the Federalists in 1800 was based on
several influences which have a rather important bearing on our story.
They were:

1. The Federalists (as I have told you again and again until I am sick
of it) thought that the Federal Government ought to have the power to
rule the various states with a rod of iron. A good way to remember this
by means of an old rhyme: "The Federalists thought that the Federal
Government ought to have the power to rule the various states with a rod
of iron. Rum-tiddy-um-tum-tum-tiron!"

2. Hamilton himself was very snooty.

3. Adams (John), the Federalist President, was very snooty and a Harvard
man into the bargain.

4. No one ever had any fun.

Jefferson, on the other hand, believed that the various states ought to
be allowed to govern themselves, using the Federal Government only when
company came or when there was a big reception or something. This
appealed to the various states, and as, after all, the various states
were made up of the voters themselves and the Federal Government
consisted chiefly of Hamilton and Adams and their families, it is little
wonder that, on a majority vote, the various states won.

So, in 1801, Thomas Jefferson took over the reins of the government and
the Republican Party had its first opportunity to show the strength of
its principles.

But we are getting ahead of our story.

In our next chapter we will take up the final collapse of the
Federalists and the appearance of the Whigs.




  _Back to the Game_


This is about the time of year (it would be a good joke on me if this
chapter were held over until Spring) when the old boys begin thinking of
going back to college to the Big Game. All during the year they have
never given a thought to whether they were alumni of Yale or the New
York Pharmaceutical College, but as soon as the sporting pages begin
telling about O'Brienstein of Harvard and what a wonderful back he is,
all Harvard men with cigar-ashes on their waistcoats suddenly remember
that they went to Harvard and send in their applications for the Yale
Game. There is nothing like a college education to broaden a man.

Going back to the old college town is something of an ordeal, in case
you want to know. You think it's going to be all right and you have a
little dream-picture of how glad the boys will be to see you. "Weekins,
1914" you will say, and there will be a big demonstration, with
fire-works and retchings. The word will go round that Weekins, 1914, is
back and professors in everything but Greek will say to their classes:
"Dismissed for the day, gentlemen. Weekins, 1914, is back!" And a happy
crowd of boys will rush pell-mell out of the recitation-hall and down to
the Inn to take the horses from your carriage (or put horses into it)
and drag you all around the Campus. (My using the word "Campus" is just
a concession to the rabble. Where I come from "Campus" is a place where
stage-collegians in skull-caps romp around and sing "When Love Is Young
in Springtime" in four-part harmony. The reservation in question is
known as "the Yard," and I will thank you to call it that in future.)

Anyone who has ever gone back to the old college town after, let us say,
ten years, will realize that this country is going to the dogs,
especially as regards its youth in the colleges. You get your tickets
for the Big Game and you spend a lot of money on railroad fare. (That's
all right; you have made a lot of money since getting out. You can
afford it.) When you get to the old railroad station you can at least
expect that Eddie, the hack-driver, will remember you. Eddie, however,
is now pretty fat and has five men working for him. You can't even get
one of his cabs, much less a nod out of him. "O. K. Eddie! The hell with
you!"

You go to the fraternity house (another concession on my part to my
Middle West readers) and announce yourself as "Weekins, 1914." (My class
was 1912, as a matter of fact. I am giving myself a slight break and
trying to be mysterious about this whole thing.) A lone Junior who is
hanging around in the front room says "How do you do? Come on in," and
excuses himself immediately. The old place looks about the same, except
that an odd-looking banner on the wall says "1930," there being no such
year. A couple of young men come in and, seeing you, go right out again.
Welcome back to the old House, Weekins!

[Illustration: _A couple of young men come in and, seeing you, go right
out again_]

A steward of some sort enters the room and arranges the magazines on
the table.

"Rather quiet for the day of the Big Game," you say to him. "Where is
everybody?"

This frightens him and he says: "Thank you, sir!" and also disappears.

Well, after all, you _do_ have a certain claim on this place. You helped
raise the money for the mission furniture and somewhere up on the wall
is a stein with your name on it. There is no reason why you should feel
like an intruder. This gives you courage to meet the three young men who
enter with books under their arms and pass right by into the hall.

"My name is Weekins, 1914," you say. "Where is everybody?"

"Classes are just over," one of them explains. "Make yourself at home.
My name is Hammerbiddle, 1931."

Somehow the mention of such a year as "1931" enrages you. "1931 what?
Electrons?" But the three young men have gone down the hall; so you will
never know.

A familiar face! In between the bead portières comes a man, bald and
fat, yet with something about him that strikes an old G chord.

"Billigs!" you cry.

"Stanpfer is the name," he says. "Think of seeing you here!"

You try to make believe that you knew that it was Stanpfer all the time
and were just saying Billigs to be funny.

"It must be fifteen years," you say.

"Well, not quite," says Stanpfer, "I saw you two years ago in New
York."

"Oh, yes, I know, _that_!" (Where the hell did you see him two years
ago? The man is crazy.) "But I mean it must be fifteen years since we
were here together."

"Fourteen," he corrects.

"I guess you're right. Fourteen. Well, how the hell are you?"

"Great! How are you?"

"Great! How are you?"

"Great! Couldn't be better. Everything going all right?"

"Great! All right with you?"

"Great! All right with you?"

"You bet."

"That's fine! Kind of quiet around here."

"That's right! Not much like the old days."

"That's right."

"Yes, sir! That's right!"

Perhaps it would be better if the 1931 boys came back. At least, you
wouldn't have to recall old days with them. You could start at scratch.
Here comes somebody! Somebody older than you, if such a thing is
possible.

"Hello," he says, and falls on his face against the edge of the table,
cutting his forehead rather badly.

"Up you get!" you say, suiting the action to the word.

"A very nasty turn there," he says, crossly. "They should have that
banked."

"That's right," you agree. You remember him as a Senior who was
particularly snooty to you when you were a sophomore.

"My name is Feemer, 1911," he says, dabbing his forehead with his
handkerchief.

"Weekins, 1914," you say.

"Stanpfer, 1914," says Billigs.

"I remember you," says Feemer, "you were an awful pratt."

You give a short laugh.

Feemer begins to sing loudly and hits his head again against the table,
this time on purpose. Several of the undergraduates enter and look
disapprovingly at all three of you.

By this time Feemer, through constant hitting of his head and lurching
about, is slightly ill. The general impression is that you and Stanpfer
(or Billigs) are drunk too. These old grads!

The undergraduates (of whom there are now eight or ten) move
unpleasantly about the room, rearranging furniture that Feemer has upset
and showing in every way at their disposal that they wish you had never
come.

"What time is the game?" you ask. You know very well what time the game
is.

Nobody answers.

"How are the chances?" Just why you should be making _all_ the advances
you don't know. After all, you are fourteen years out and these boys
could almost be your sons.

"I want everybody here to come to Chicago with me after the game," says
Feemer, tying his tie. "I live in Chicago and I want everybody here to
come to Chicago with me after the game. I live in Chicago and I want
everybody here to come to Chicago with me after the game."

Having made this blanket invitation, Feemer goes to sleep standing up.

The undergraduate disapproval is manifest and includes you and Billigs
(or Stanpfer) to such an extent that you might better be at the bottom
of the lake.

"How are the chances?" you ask again. "Is Derkwillig going to play?"

"Derkwillig has left college," says one of the undergraduates,
scornfully. "He hasn't played since the Penn State game."

"Too bad," you say. "He was good, wasn't he?"

"Not so good."

"I'm sorry. I thought he was, from what I read in the papers."

"The papers are crazy," says a very young man, and immediately leaves
the room.

There is a long silence, during which Feemer comes to and looks
anxiously into each face as if trying to get his bearings, which is
exactly what he is trying to do.

"We might as well clear the room out," says one of the undergraduates.
"The girls will be coming pretty soon and we don't want to have it
looking messy."

Evidently "looking messy" means the presence of you, Feemer and
Stanpfer. This is plain to be seen. So you and Stanpfer each take an
arm of Feemer and leave the house. Just as you are going down the steps
(a process which includes lurching with Feemer from side to side) you
meet Dr. Raddiwell and his wife. There is no sign of recognition on
either side.

[Illustration: _There is no sign of recognition on either side_]

There is a train leaving town at 1:55. You get it and read about the
game in the evening papers.




  _The Four-in-Hand Outrage_


What has happened to four-in-hand ties that they refuse to slide around
under the collar any more? Or am I just suffering from a persecution
complex?

For maybe ten years I have been devoted to the soft collar or sport
model, the polo shirt, and other informal modes in collarings affected
by the _jeunesse dorée_. They have not been particularly adapted to
playing up my good points in personal appearance, but they are easy to
slip into in the morning.

[Illustration: _I have been devoted to informal modes of Collarings
affected by the_ jeunesse dorée]

With the approach of portly middle-age, however, and the gradual but
relentless assumption of power in the financial world, it seemed to me
that I ought to dress the part. When a man goes into a bank to ask to
have his note extended he should at least wear a stiff collar and a
four-in-hand of some rich, dark material, preferably a foulard. He owes
it to himself.

So I laid in a stock of shirts (two) which called for either stiff
collars or a knotted bandana, and then set about digging up some collars
to go with them. My old stock of "Graywoods 14½" which I used to wear in
high-school proved useless. They were of the mode, so flashy in those
days, which came close together in front, allowing just a tip of the
knitted club-tie to peek out from under the corners. And, owing to a
temporary increase in neck-size (I can reduce it at any time by dieting
for two or three days), 14½ is no longer my number. So I bought several
styles of a more modern collar and prepared to throw the world of
fashion into a tumult by appearing in formal neckwear on, let us say,
the following Wednesday at high noon.

But in the ten years which have elapsed since I last tied a four-in-hand
under a stiff collar something perverse has been injected into the
manufacture of either the ties or the collars. My male readers will
recognize a manoeuvre which I can best designate as the Final Tug, the
last short pull-around of the tie under the collar before tightening the
knot. This, under the present system, has become practically impossible.
The tie refuses to budge; I pull and yank, take the collar off and
rearrange the tie, try gentle tactics, followed suddenly by a deceptive
upward jerk, but this gets me nothing. The knot stays loosely off-center
and the tie appears to be stuck somewhere underneath the collar at a
point perhaps three inches to the right. After two minutes of this mad
wrenching one of three things happens--the tie rips, the collar tears,
or I strangle to death in a horrid manner with eyes bulging and temples
distended, a ghastly caricature of my real self.

[Illustration: _The tie refuses to budge_]

Now this is a very strange thing to have happened in ten years. It can't
be that I have forgotten how. It can't be that I have lost that amount
of strength through loose living. It must be that some deliberate
process has been adopted by the manufacturers to prevent four-in-hands
from slipping under collars. What their idea can be is a mystery. You'd
think they would _want_ to make things as easy for their patrons as
possible. But no! Modern business _efficiency_, I suppose! The
manufacturers were _in conference_, I suppose! Rest-rooms for their
women employees . . . oh, yes! Time clocks, charts, paper drinking-cups
. . . oh, yes! But collars that hold ties immovable, and ties that stick
in collars. That's what _we_ get. That's what the Public gets.
Prohibition was foisted on our boys while they were overseas, and while
I was wearing soft collars the Powers-That-Be were putting the devil
into stiff ones, so that when I come back to wearing them again I
strangle myself to death. A fine civilization, I must say!




  _A Christmas Garland of Books_


Among the little bundle of books especially selected for
Christmas-Wistmas, perhaps the most pat is "Rubber Hand Stamps and the
Manipulation of India Rubber" by T. O'Conor Sloane. Into it Mr. Sloane
has put the spirit of Yuletide which all of us must feel, whether we are
cynical enough to deny it or not.

Beginning with a short, and very dirty, history of the sources of India
Rubber, the author takes us by the hand and leads us into the fairy-land
of rubber manipulation. And it is well that he does, for without his
guidance we should have made an awful mess of the next rubber-stamp we
tried to make. As he says on page 35: "It will be evident from the
description to come that it is not advisable for anyone without
considerable apparatus to attempt to clean and wash ("to sheet"), to
masticate, or to mix india rubber." Even if we had the apparatus, we
would probably be content with simply "sheeting" and mixing the india
rubber and leave the masticating for other less pernickety people to go
through with. We may be an old maid about such things, but it is too
late now for us to learn to like new things.

It seems that in the making of rubber stamps a preparation known as
"flong" is necessary. Mr. Sloane assures us that anyone who has watched
the stereotyping of a large daily newspaper knows what "flong" is.
Perhaps our ignorance is due to the fact that we were on the editorial
end of a daily newspaper and went down into the composing-room only when
it was necessary to rescue some mistake we had made from the forms. At
any rate, we didn't know what "flong" was and we don't want to know. A
man must keep certain reticences these days or he will just have no
standards left at all.

It is not generally known how simple it is to make things out of rubber.
"The writer has obtained excellent results from pieces of an old
discarded bicycle tire. The great point is to apply a heavy pressure to
the hot material. Many other articles can be thus produced
extemporaneously." (Page 78.) This should lend quite a bit of excitement
to the manipulation of india rubber. Imagine working along quietly
making, let us say, rubber type and then finding that, extemporaneously,
you had a rubber Negro doll or balloon on your hands! A man's whole life
could be changed by such a fortuitous slip of the rubber.

Not the least of Mr. Sloane's contributions to popular knowledge is his
sly insertion, under the very noses of the authorities, of what he calls
the "Old Home Receipt" (ostensibly for "roller-composition," but we know
better, eh, Mr. Sloane?). The "Old Home Receipt" specifies "Glue 2 lbs.
soaked over night, to New Orleans molasses 1 gallon. Not durable, but
excellent while it lasts." We feel sure that we have been served
something made from this "Old Home Receipt," but would suggest to Mr.
Sloane that he try putting in just a dash of absinthe. It makes it more
durable.

    *    *    *    *    *

We can recommend Laurence Vail Coleman's "Manual for Small Museums" to
all those who have received or are about to give small museums for
Christmas. Having a small museum on your hands with no manual for it is
no joke. It sometimes seems as if a small museum were more bother than a
large one, but that is only when one is tired and cross.

From Mr. Coleman's remarkably comprehensive study of small museums, we
find that, as is so often the case, income is a very serious problem. In
financing special projects for the museum, such as the purchase of bird
groups (if it is a museum that _wants_ bird groups), there is a great
play for ingenuity, and Dr. Abbott of the San Diego Museum of Natural
History, tells of how they, in San Diego, met the problem:

The little cases containing bird-groups were offered to tradespeople in
the city for display in their windows, the understanding being that the
store should pay $50 for the advertising value. Thus, a meadowlark
group, representing the male in very bright dress, the female, the nest
and eggs, was paid for by a men's and women's clothing store and
displayed in its window in the early spring with the slogan: "Take a
pointer from the birds. Now is the time for your new spring clothes." A
savings-bank took a woodpecker group, showing the storing away of
acorns, and a California shrike group (Dr. Abbott ought to know) showing
a rather sanguinary example of impaling surplus prey on the spines of a
cactus, both displayed under the euphemistic caption "The Saving
Instinct" and "Are You Providing for the Future by storing up your
dollars [or cadavers] now?" A bush-tit's nest was taken by a
real-estate firm and a mockingbird group by a music house. The local
lodge of Elks gave $1200 for a case holding four elks (not members) and
so, in time, the entire housing of the groups was accomplished and paid
for. We are crazy to know what business houses paid for the rabbit and
owl exhibits.

In the chapter on "Protection from Pests" we looked for a way of dealing
with the man in an alpaca coat who grabs your stick away from you as you
enter the museum and the young people who use museums for necking
assignations, but they were not specified. A blanket formula is given,
however, which ought to cover their cases. "The surest way to get rid of
pests is to fumigate with hydrocyanic acid in an airtight compartment,
but this is a dangerous procedure which has resulted in a loss of human
life. [Why "but"?] Another fumigant that is widely used is carbon
bisulphide, but this is highly explosive and has caused serious
accidents." This presents a new problem to museum-visitors and would
seem to make the thing one of the major risks of modern civilization. If
a person can't be safe from asphyxiation and mutilation while looking at
bird-groups, where _is_ one to be safe? It would almost be better to let
the pests go for a while, at least until the museum gets started.

    *    *    *    *    *

A collection of verse entitled "Through the Years with Mother," compiled
by Eva M. Young, makes a nice gift which might perhaps be given to
Father. It contains most of the little poems which have been written
about mothers and the general tone of the thing is favorable to
motherhood. One, entitled "A Bit O' Joy," wears off a little into
child-propaganda, but probably would rank as a mother-poem too, for it
is presumably the mother who speaks:

  Just a Bit-a-Feller,
    Lips a bit o' rose,
  Puckered sort o' puzzled like,
    Wonder if he knows--

There is one more verse explaining what the Bit-a-Feller might possibly
know, but we didn't go into that. Another one which we left for reading
on the train was entitled: "Muvvers" and begins:

  One time, I wuz so very small,
    I prit' near wuzn't there at all--

We can not even tell you what the first two lines are of "Mama's Dirl."

    *    *    *    *    *

The introduction to "Are Mediums Really Witches?" by John P. Touey
begins by saying: "The sole purpose of this book, as its title suggests,
is to prove the existence of a personal evil force and demon
intervention in human affairs." This frightened us right at the start,
for we are very susceptible to any argument which presupposes a tough
break for ourself. There must be _some_ explanation for what happens to
us every time we stick our head out doors--or in doors, for that matter.

Mr. Touey begins with witchcraft in ancient times and comes right
straight down to the present day. Even though he quoted "no less an
authority than Porphyrius" in his earlier chapter, it was not until we
got into the examples of modern people having their bed-clothes pulled
off and their hats thrown at them that we began to feel uneasy. The
story of the terrible time had by the Fox Sisters in Hydesville, N. Y.,
seemed pretty conclusive to us at the time of reading (2:15 A.M. this
morning) and, frankly, we stopped there. And, believe it or not, a
couple of hours later, during our troubled sleep, _some_thing pulled the
bed-clothes out from the foot of _our_ bed, and we awoke with a nasty
head-cold.

We will pay $100 to Mr. Touey or Sir Oliver Lodge or anyone else who can
help us locate the personal demon who has been assigned to us. We would
just like to talk to him for five minutes, the big bully!

    *    *    *    *    *

We can quote but one example of the fascinating problems presented in
John A. Zangerle's "Principles of Real Estate Appraising" as we are
limited in our space assignment, but perhaps from it the reader may get
some idea of the charm of the book:

"Mr. Flanagan of New Zealand values this interest on the basis of an
annuity using the 5% interest tables. Calculating the value on a 6%
basis he would proceed as follows: Lessor receives $6,000 per annum for
ten years, the present value of which is 6,000 × 7.36 equals $44,160;
plus the present value of $12,000 per annum for 89 years commencing ten
years hence which is 12,000 × 9.254 (16.614--7.36) equals $111,048.
Lessor is also entitled to receive either possession or rent after 99
years have expired, the reversionary value of which can be taken at
$12,000 × 16.667 less 16.614 or .053 equals $636. Thus $11,048 plus
$44,160 equals $155,844, the value of the lessor's interest."

How do you mean 16.614, Mr. Flanagan? Aren't you forgetting
depreciation?

For those who like to browse along lazily with British royalty, we can
think of no less charming way than to accompany Helen, Countess-Dowager
of Radnor through her 361-page book: "From a Great-Grandmother's
Armchair." We had almost decided not to begin it at all, until we read
in the Countess-Dowager's preface: "At the present time I am resting 'on
my oars' (or rather, in my Armchair) at my quiet country home, which,
amongst those of the third generation, goes by the name of 'Grannie's
Peace-pool.'" This gave us incentive to read further.

And what a treat! "Grannie" certainly has earned her "peace-pool" after
the exciting life she has led. Every year of her long career is given
here in detail and it must make fascinating reading for the Radnors if
only as a record of where the Countess left her umbrella that time in
Godalming and who played zither in her "Ladies' String Band and Chorus"
in 1879.

Among other things that are cleared up in this volume is the question of
what the Countess did during those first hectic weeks of July, 1901.

"A good many engagements were crowded into the first fortnight of July,"
she writes modestly, "before going back to Venice. Among other things I
passed a very pleasant week-end at Wendover Lodge with Alfred and Lizzie
Gatty."

But the book does not dwell entirely in the past. Right up to the
present day we have disclosures of equal importance. In September, 1920,
while visiting in Bath, the following incident occurred:

"One Sunday I started off in the car to go and lunch with Mrs.
Knatchbull. When we had gone a few miles, however, the car broke down, a
'rubber-washer' having perished and let the water through! We telephoned
for a 'Taxi' which took me back to Bath, and the car was towed back.
Later in the afternoon Mrs. Knatchbull sent a car for me to go over to
tea, and I flew over hill and dale and reached her place in Babington in
half an hour."

So you see, the Countess really _had_ intended to lunch with Mrs.
Knatchbull!

We neglected to mention that the authoress is by birth a Chaplin; so she
probably can get free seats whenever Mary's boy Charlie comes to town in
a picture.




  _The Woolen Mitten Situation_

  BEING A CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

    _This great historical document, sometimes referred to as the
    Epic of Advertising, is here presented, complete and
    unexpurgated, as delivered to the A. N. A. in Atlantic City._


I have some very important data for all advertising men. I might as well
admit right at the start that my first job on leaving college was with
the advertising department of the Curtis Publishing Co. I am probably
the only ex-Curtis advertising man who has not gone into the agency
business for himself. As a matter of fact, when I left Curtis (I was
given plenty of time to get my hat and coat) I was advised not to stick
to advertising. They said that I was too tall, or something. I forget
just what the reason was they gave.

But one of my last jobs before leaving Curtis was to go out on a
commercial research trip for Mr. Charles Coolidge Parlin, the well-known
Curtis commercial research sharp. Most of you have been shown some of
Mr. Parlin's reports--in strict confidence--giving you the inside dope
on the distribution of your own product and proving that, by using
exclusively the Curtis publications--their names escape me at the
moment--you will not only reach all the public that you want to reach
but will have enough people left over to give an amateur performance of
"Pinafore."

[Illustration: _This chart shows something or other pretty
graphically--we don't know just what except that Curtis is right, as
usual. If the chart is correct there is certainly nothing like the
Curtis Publications. At that you ought to have seen some of the dandy
charts in Mr. Benchley's gingham report._]

I used to have a hand in making up these Parlin reports. My report on
the gingham situation was perhaps considered my most successful, owing
to the neat manner in which it was bound. It has been estimated that my
gingham report retarded by ten years the entrance of the gingham
manufacturers into national advertising.

Looking through an old trunk last week I came upon a report which I made
for Mr. Parlin, but which was never used. I would like to read it to you
tonight. It is a report on the woolen mitten situation in the United
States and was intended to lead the way for a national campaign in the
Curtis publications to reach mitten consumers all over the country.

In making this report I visited retail stores and jobbers selling
mittens in 49 states, asking the following questions:

Of the retailers I asked:

1. Does the average woman, in buying mittens, ask for them by brand or
just ask for mittens?

2. Does she try on the mittens for size?

3. Is there any appreciable consumer demand for mittens during the
summer? If so what the hell for?

4. Is there any appreciable consumer demand for mittens during the
winter?

5. Isn't it true that a mitten with a nationally advertised
trade-name--like "Mitto" or "Paddies"--provided the Curtis publications
were used exclusively--would sweep the field?

6. How many mitten buyers demand that the mittens be attached together
with a string?

Of the jobbers we asked the following questions:

1. How do you like jobbing?

2. Are you a college man?

3. Wouldn't you be happier doing something else?

4. Do you ever, by any chance, sell any mittens?

Out of 4,846 jobbing establishments visited, only eight jobbers were
found in. Jobbing establishments are always on such dark streets and
there never seems to be anybody in the store. I finally got so that I
would sit in my hotel and make up the jobbers' answers myself.

Now, as a result of this investigation, the Curtis Company was able to
place the following facts at the disposal of the various mitten
manufacturers. Each mitten manufacturer was blindfolded and taken into a
darkened room where he was made to promise that he would never tell any
one the facts about his own business that he was about to be told. Then
he was turned around and around until he was dizzy, and then hit over
the head by the Curtis Advertising Director.

Following is the result of the mitten investigation:

1. In 49 states it was found that 615,000 women do not buy mittens at
all. At first, these statistics would seem to be confusing. But, on
being analyzed, it is found that 82 per cent. of these 615,000 women
live in towns of a population of 50,000 or over, which means that they
can keep their hands in their pockets and do not need mittens. Here,
then, a consumer demand must be created.

2. From 5.6 per cent. to 95 per cent. of the department store sales of
men's mittens are made to women. This just shows what we are coming to.

3. In the New England states one woman in ten buys ready-to-wear mittens
instead of piece-goods from which to make her own mittens.

4. In the Middle West, one woman in eleven buys mitten piece-goods. This
extra woman is accounted for by the fact that an aunt of mine went to
live in Wisconsin last year.

In the South, they had never heard of mittens. At one place in Alabama
we were told that they had drowned the last batch they had, thinking the
inquiry had been for "kittens." This gave us an idea, and we made a
supplementary report on kitten distribution. In this investigation it
was found:

A. That there is no general consumer knowledge of breeds of kittens. In
other words, a kitten is a kitten and that's all.

B. Four out of five kittens never do anything worthwhile in the world.

C. The market for kittens is practically negligible. In some states
there are no dealers at all, and hardly any jobbers.

D. A solution of the kitten dealer-problem might lie in the introduction
of dealer helps. In other words, improve the package so that the dealer
can play it up. Give him a kitten he will be proud to display.

But to return to our mittens:

We have shown that a nationally advertised brand of mittens, _if_ given
the proper distribution and _if_ adapted to the particular consumer
demand in the different mitten localities throughout the country, ought
to dominate the field.

We now come to the problem of the proper medium for such a campaign.

In the chart on page 299 we have a pyramid representing the Curtis
circulation. Eleven million people, of whom 25,000 are able to lift the
paper high enough to read it. In this shaded section here is where the
country club is going to be. This is all made land. . . . We come down
here to a circle showing consumer demand, 49 per cent. . . . Curtis
quota 48 per cent. and here is the State of Kansas which was admitted as
a free state in 1856.

To continue: in 1902, the year of the war, there were 160,000 of these
sold in Michigan alone. Bring this down to present-day values, with time
and a half for overtime, and you will see what I mean. Of these, 50,000
were white, 4,600 were practically white and 4,000 were the same as
those in Class A--white.

We have now pretty well lined up the channels of distribution for
mittens and have seen that there is only one practical method for
reaching the mitten consumer, namely, 52 pages a year in the _Post_, and
12 pages in color in the _Journal_ and _Country Gentleman_. There will
be no duplication here as the readers of the _Country Gentleman_ go to
bed so early.

In addition to the benefit derived from all this, the mitten
manufacturers will be shown all over the Curtis building in Philadelphia
and allowed to peek into Mr. Lorimer's office. And, if they don't like
this plan for marketing their product, they can lump it, because it's
all they are going to get.

This report was the start of the big campaign which put the Frivolity
Mitten Co. where it is today. And, for submitting it, I was fired.




  _The World of Grandpa Benchley_

  _Thinking Out Loud in the Manner of Mr. Wells' Hero_


  §1

I am eighty-nine years old, and I think I would like to write a book. I
don't know--maybe I wouldn't.

[Illustration: _Grandpa Benchley_]


  §2

Eighty-nine this year, ninety next year, eighty-eight last year. That
makes three years accounted for. Three into fourteen goes four times and
two to carry. The Assyrians were probably the first people to evolve
mathematics. I sometimes get to thinking about mathematics.

The average Englishman at the age of eighty-nine is dead--has been dead
for several years. The average depth of the Caspian Sea is 3,000 feet.
The average rainfall in Canada is 1.03 inches. During the Inter-Glacial
Period it was 9.01 inches. Think of that--9.01 inches!


  §3

All this has made me stop and think, think about the world I live in. I
sometimes wonder what it is all about--this world I mean. I am not so
sure about the next world. Sometimes I think there is one and sometimes
I think there isn't. I'll be darned if _I_ can make it out.

I am not so sure about my wanting to write a book, either. But
something has got to be done about this world--something explanatory, I
mean. Here I am, eighty-nine years old, and I haven't explained about
the world to anyone yet--that is, not to anyone in this room.


  §4

It is a beautiful day outside. The sun, that luminous body 95,000,000
miles from the earth, without which we should never be able to dry hides
or bake biscuits, is shining through the trees outside my window, much
as it used to shine through the trees outside the cave of Neolithic Man,
ten thousand years before Christ. In fact, Neolithic Man sometimes built
himself houses on piles driven in the water, but this was not until
almost five thousand years before Christ.

Sometimes I get to thinking about Neolithic Man. Sometimes I get to
thinking about Cro-Magnon Man. Sometimes it just seems as if I should go
crazy thinking about things. There are so _many_ things! And I am only
eighty-nine.


  §5

I remember when I was a very small boy my mother used to forbid me to go
out when it was raining. My mother was a very quiet woman, who never
spoke unless it was to figure out how long it would take to reach the
nearest star by train.

"Nipper," she would say to me on such days as the rain would prevent my
going out, "Nipper, I guess you don't know that thousands of years
before modern civilization there was a period known as the Pluvial or
Lacustrine Age, the rain or pond period."

I remember my crying myself to sleep the first night after she told me
about the Pluvial or Lacustrine Age. It seemed so long ago--and nothing
to be done about it.


  §6

One night my father came home with a queer light in his eyes. He said
nothing during dinner, except to note, as he passed me the salt, that
salt is an essential to all grain-consuming and herbivorous animals but
that on a meat-diet man can do without it. "There have been bitter
tribal wars," he said, "between the tribes of the Soudan for possession
of the salt deposits between Fezzan and Murzuk."

"Arthur," said my mother, quietly, "remember the boys are present."

"It is time they knew," was his reply.

At last my mother, sensing that something was troubling him, said:

"Arthur, are you holding something back from me?"

He laid down his knife and fork and looked at her.

"I have just heard," he said, "that the molecule is no longer the
indivisible unit that it was supposed to be."

My mother bit her lip.

"You tell me this," she said, "after all these years!"

"I have just learned it myself," replied my father. "The National
Molecule Society found it out themselves only last month. The new unit
is to be called the 'atom.'"

"A fine time to tell me!" said my mother, her eyes blazing. "You have
known it for a month."

"I wasn't sure until just now," said my father. "I didn't want to worry
you."

My mother took my brother and me by the hand. "Come, boys," she said,
"we are going away."

Two days later the three of us left for the Continent. We never saw my
father again.


  §7

This set me to thinking about atoms. I don't think that I have it
straight even now. And then, just as I was getting accustomed to the
idea that molecules _could_ be divided into atoms, along comes somebody
a few years ago and says that you can divide atoms into electrons. And,
although I was about seventy-five at the time, I went out into the park
and had a good cry.

I mean, what is an old fellow going to do? No sooner does he get
something all thought out than something happens to make him begin all
over again. I get awfully sore sometimes.


  §8

Then there is this question of putting studs in a dress-shirt. Here is
the problem as I see it:

If you put the studs in _before_ you put the shirt on, you muss your
hair putting it on over your head. If you wait until you have the shirt
on before putting in the studs, you have to put your hand up under the
front of the shirt and punch them through with the other. This musses
the shirt bosom nine times out of ten. Eight times out of ten, perhaps.

All right. Suppose you put the studs in first and muss your hair. Then
you have to brush it again. That is not so hard to do, except that if
you put tonic on your hair before you brush it, as I do, you are quite
likely to spatter drops down the bosom. And there you are, with a good
big blister right where it shows--and it's 8 o'clock already.

Now here _is_ a problem. I have spent hours trying to figure some way to
get around it and am nowhere near the solution. I think I will go to the
Riviera where it is quiet and just think and think and think.


  §9

I am sitting at my window in the _Villa a Vendre_ at Cagnes. If it were
not for the Maritime Alps I could see Constantinople. How do you suppose
the Alps got there, anyway? Some giant cataclysm of Nature I suppose. I
guess it is too late to do anything about it now.

Irma is down in the garden gathering snails for dinner. Irma is cross at
me because this morning, when she suggested running up to Paris for the
shooting, I told her that the ancient name of Paris was Lutitia.

I get to thinking about women sometimes. From eight in the evening on.
They are funny. Female characteristics differ so from male
characteristics. This was true even in the Pleistocene Age, so they tell
me.


  §10

Next Wednesday I am going back to thinking about God. I didn't anywhere
near finish thinking about God the last time. The man came for the
trunks and I had to go with him to the station.

It is quite a problem. I don't think there is any doubt about there
being some Motive Power which governs the World. But I can't seem to get
much beyond that. Maybe I'll begin again on that Monday. Monday is a
good day to begin thinking. Your laundry is just back and everything is
sort of pristine and new. I hope that, by beginning Monday, I can get
everything cleaned up by Friday, for Friday I am going over to Monte
Carlo.


  §11

It is six years now since I began writing this book. I am almost
ninety-seven. According to the statistics of the Royal Statistical
Society I can't expect much longer in which to think things over.

The big thing that is worrying me now is about putting sugar on my
oatmeal. I find that if I put the sugar on first and then the cream, the
sugar all disappears, and I like to see it, nice and white, there on the
cereal. But if I put the cream on first and _then_ the sugar, it doesn't
taste so good. I asked Irma about this the other day and she told me to
shut up and go back to bed.


  §12

After thinking the whole thing over, I have come to the conclusion that
I don't want to write a book at all. When a man is ninety-seven it is
high time he was doing something else with his time besides writing
books. I guess I'll go out and roll down hill.




  GLOSSARY OF KIN, NATIVE, AND TECHNICAL TERMS


  Kin Terms

  arndi--mother.
  bapa--father.
  dué--father's sister's son (husband); father's sister's daughter.
  dumungur--father's sister's daughter's daughter's son; father's sister's
  daughter's daughter's daughter.
  galle--mother's brother's son; mother's brother's daughter (wife).
  gatu--son; daughter.
  gawel--mother's brother.
  gurrong--father's sister's daughter's son; father's sister's daughter's
  daughter.
  kaminyer--daughter's son; daughter's daughter.
  kutara--sister's daughter's son; sister's daughter's daughter.
  maraitcha--son's son; son's daughter.
  marelker--mother's mother's brother's son.
  mari--mother's mother's brother; mother's mother.
  marikmo--father's father; father's father's sister.
  mokul bapa--father's sister.
  mokul rumeru--mother's mother's brother's daughter (mother-in-law).
  momelker--mother's mother's brother's daughter.
  momo--father's mother.
  nati--mother's father.
  natjiwalker--mother's mother's mother's brother's son.
  waku--sister's son; sister's daughter; father's father's sister's son;
  father's father's sister's daughter.
  wawa--older brother.
  yeppa--sister.
  yukiyuko--younger brother.


  Native Terms

  Bamun--the mythological period when "things were different" and the
  totemic spirits and the ancestors of man inhabited the land.
  Bapa Indi--_see_ Muit.
  baperu--native name for moiety, meaning four subsections that belong
  to each moiety.
  billibong--a general term used by the Australian whites for a small lake
  or pool.
  bilmel, bilmal--singing sticks.
  birimbir--the totemic soul of man (_see_ mokoi).
  corroboree--a general term used by the Australian whites for native
  ceremonies.




  ABBREVIATIONS


  a. Old Testament

  Am.        Amos
  Cant.      Canticles (Song of Sol.)
  Chron.     Chronicles
  Dan.       Daniel
  Deut.      Deuteronomy
  Eccles.    Ecclesiastes
  Esth.      Esther
  Ex.        Exodus
  Ez.        Ezekiel
  Ezra       Ezra
  Gen.       Genesis
  Hab.       Habakkuk
  Hag.       Haggai
  Hos.       Hosea
  Is.        Isaiah
  Jer.       Jeremiah
  Job        Job
  Joel       Joel
  Jonah      Jonah
  Josh.      Joshua
  Judg.      Judges
  Kings      Kings
  Lam.       Lamentations
  Lev.       Leviticus
  Mal.       Malachi
  Mic.       Micah
  Nah.       Nahum
  Neh.       Nehemiah
  Num.       Numbers
  Obad.      Obadiah
  Pr.        Proverbs
  Ps.        Psalms
  Ruth       Ruth
  Sam.       Samuel
  Song       Song of Songs (Cant.)
  Zech.      Zechariah
  Zeph.      Zephaniah


  b. New Testament

  Acts       Acts of the Apostles
  Col.       Colossians
  Cor.       Corinthians
  Eph.       Ephesians
  Gal.       Galatians
  Hebr.      Hebrews
  Jam.       James
  John       John
  Jude       Jude
  Luke       Luke
  Mark       Mark
  Matt.      Matthew
  Pet.       Peter
  Phil.      Philippians
  Philem.    Philemon
  Rev.       Revelation
  Rom.       Romans
  Thess.     Thessalonians
  Tim.       Timothy
  Tit.       Titus


  c. Apocrypha

  Bar.       Baruch
  Bel.       Bel and the Dragon
  Ecclus.    Ecclesiasticus
  Esd.       Esdras
  Jth.       Judith
  Macc.      Maccabees
  Sus.       Susanna
  Tob.       Tobit
  Wisd. of Sol.     Wisdom of Solomon




  BIBLIOGRAPHY


  Abraham, K. Selected Papers. London, Hogarth Press, 1927.

  Adler, A. The Practice and Theory of Individual Psychology. New York,
  Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1924.

  Alexander, F. The Psychoanalysis of the Total Personality. New York,
  Nervous and Mental Disease Pub. Co., 1930.

  Allport, G. W. Personality: A Psychological Interpretation. New York,
  Henry Holt & Co., 1937.

  Baker, H. J., and Traphagen, V. The Diagnosis and Treatment of
  Behavior-Problem Children. New York, Macmillan Co., 1935.

  Bender, J., and Blau, A. Reaction of children to sexual relations with
  adults. _Am. J. Orthopsychiat._, 7: 500-518, 1937.

  Bolles, M. M., and Zubin, J. A graphic method for evaluating differences
  between frequencies. _J. Applied Psychology_, 23: 440-449, 1939.

  Breuer, J., and Freud, S. Studien über Hysterie. Leipzig, F. Deuticke,
  1895.

  Bromley, D. D., and Britten, F. H. Youth and Sex. New York, Harper &
  Brothers, 1938.

  Burgess, E. W., and Cottrell, L. S., Jr. Predicting Success or Failure
  in Marriage. New York, Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1939.

  Caldwell, W. E., and Moloy, H. C. Anatomical variations in the female
  pelvis and their effect in labor with a suggested classification. _Am.
  J. Obst. & Gynec._, 23: 479-505, 1933.

  Caldwell, W. E., Moloy H. C., and D'Esopo, D. A. Further studies on the
  pelvic architecture. _Am. J. Obst. & Gynec._, 28: 482-497, 1934.

  Cheney, C. O. Outlines for Psychiatric Examination. Utica, State
  Hospitals Press, 1934.

  Davis, K. B. Factors in the Sex Life of Twenty-Two Hundred Women. New
  York, Harper & Brothers, 1929.

  Dickenson, R. L. Human Sex Anatomy. Baltimore, Williams and Wilkins,
  1933.

  Dickenson, R. L., and Beam, L. A Thousand Marriages. Baltimore, Williams
  & Wilkins Co., 1931.

  Dickenson, R. L., and Beam, L. The Single Woman. Baltimore, Williams &
  Wilkins Co., 1934.

  Dietiselm, O. Treatment in Psychiatry. New York, Macmillan Co., 1936.

  Ellis, H. Studies in the Psychology of Sex. Ed. 3. Philadelphia, F. A.
  Davis Co., 1910. Vol. 1.




  _Index_

  Ben-Tom mgt 327 6 Av                                   CH elsea 2-9749
  Benach Anders 201W34                                   WI sconn 7-8738
  Benach Henry advis 55W42                              LA ckwana 4-3660
  Benach Roslie 415Wl73                                  WA dswth 3-2235
  Benai Jacqueline 301E10                                GR amrcy 5-6894
  Benaim Jos F atty 105El5                              ST uyvsnt 9-0120
  Benaim Sophia Mrs 135W79                              TR afalgr 7-7038
  Benal Dress Co Inc 11a5Bway                           CH ickrng 4-6327
  Benal Henry Co 343Bway                                   WA lkr 5-4268
  Benarli Philip J atty 24Bway                           WH itehl 4-2155
  Ben-Ard Amusement Corp 1714MadAv                      UN ivrsty 4-6420
  Benarde Inc clothing 73 5Av                            GR amrcy 7-7220
  Benario Ludwig 357WdswagthAv                           WA scwth 3-7890
  Benart Inc 235E45                                       MO hawk 4-0981
  Benart Mall Sales Srce Inc 235E45                       MO hawk 4-0981
  Benart Photo O?? Corp 235E45                            MO hawk 4-0981
    Plant 224E45                                          MO hawk 4-0981
  Benas John M Mrs 110RivDr                              EN dicot 2-9650
  Benas Maurice E 333W57                                  CI rcle 6-8019
  Benasich John 410E68                                  RH inlndr 4-2471
  Benat Trucks Inc 1357Bway                             WI sconsn 7-6810
  Benauky Ralph Dr HotelGotham                            CI rcle 6-8019
  Benavides Leo mannequin reprs 137W22                   CH elsea 2-3642
  Benar Art Embroidery Co 740Bway                        GR amrcy 7-6741
  Benay Novelty Co 11W3                                   SP ring 7-2062
  Benazzi Ernesto 325W46                                  CI rcle 6-0569
  Benbassal Perl statnry 821 3Av                        EL dorado 5-9786
  Benburt Co spgnswr 1350Bway                            LO ngacr 5-2350
  Bence Tourist Co sr agnt 331MadAv                     MU rryhil 9-3482
  Bench Craft Clothes B5 5Av                            ST uyvsnt 9-0496
  Bench Craft Uphlstry Inc 719Bway                       AL gonqn 4-0193
  Bench Edw C b 4EWall                                    HA novr 2-5740
  Bench Ruth 470W24                                      CH elsea 2-0127
  Benchley Clothes Inc 100 5Av                           CH elsea 2-5727
  Benchley Ltd jwlrs 664 5Av                           WI clnrshm 2-7620
  Benck Furn Co 223 4Av                                  AL gonqn 4-0242
  Benclare Supl Co Inc 432AmstrdmAv                      EN dicot 2-0432
  Benco-Forman Sales Co Inc 432AmstrdmAv                 EN dicot 2-1432
  Benco Sales Co 21MaidenLa                                WO rth 2-0300
  Benco Trading Co souvnrs 120W42                       WI sconsn 7-1142
  Bencone Furs Inc 6W48                                   BR yant 9-1455
  Bencose Uniforms Inc 1401MadAv                          AT watr 9-1470
  Ben-Craft Clothes Co 134 5Av                           GR amrcy 5-1676
  Bencur Helen MD 4301E4                                RH inlndr 4-5014
  Benda Gro Inc brass pushr 112E19                       AL gonqn 4-8196
  Benda Max E Mrs 640RivDr                                AU dubn 3-2237
  Benda Roiel F l0W65                                   TR afalgr 7-9617
  Benda W T 27W67                                       SU sqhana 7-3750
  Bendall Barbara 331543                                MU rryhil 6-7254
  Bendall Wilfrid H 12W40                                 BR yant 9-5166
  Bendana Frank 6W102                                     AC admy 4-0167
  Benday Foot Appliances Inc 1147Bway                   TR afalgr 7-8338
  Bendazzi Etiore 405W45                                 CO lumbs 5-4276
  Bendel Henri Inc 10W57                                  Cl rcle 7-1100
  Bendel Lenn nr 103E125                                  LE high 4-5886
  Bendel Office Furn Co 17W29                          MU rryhill 4-4830
  Bendelari Olivia 10W9                                  GR amrcy 7-7861
  Bendell Edw A l815RivDr                                L0 rrain 7-1933
  Bender Trucking 126Hudson                                WA lkr 5-2582
  Bender A hats 223Westr                                 GR amrcy 7-5027
  Bender A Gus butchr 340E65                              RE gent 4-7964
  Bender Albert CPA 853Bway                              AL gonqn 4-3028
  Bender Almira Mrs 1600YorkAv                          RH inlndr 4-7123
  Bender Barney furs 130W29                             LA ckwana 4-3553
    145Read                                               BA rcly 7-1981
  Bender Gottlieb btchr 1076 2Av                        WI ckrshm 2-7371
  Bender Geo butchr 946 2Av                                PL aza 8-1935
  Bender H statnry 327AmstrdmAv                         SU sqhana 7-6947
  Bender H&Sons puner 40E12                             ST uyvsnt 9-2539
  Bender&Hamburger me mgm dr 470 2Av                    CH ickrng 4-0150
  Bender Harry J 40RivDr                                TR afalgr 7-2105
  Bender Harry W ins 90J6hrn                              BE ekmn 3 4200
  Bender Henry P tourist agent 377 5Av                  LE xingtn 2-6200
  Bender Herbet 40Mcres                                   BE thmn 3-3109
  Bender Jack supls 420E23                              ST uyvsnt 9-5000
  Bender Jack E dentist 71Ncres                          CO rtlnd 7-3266
  Bender Jacob CPA 259943                                BR yarn! 9-8993
  Bender Jean coats 161W54                                 PL aza 3-4637
  Bender Jean 161W54                                     CO lumbs 5-7688
  Bender John T Jr b 149Bway                               WO rth 2-6884
    Residence 217ChatsworthAv Larchmont NY
                                    (Dial the Operator) Larchmont 2-0622
  Bender Jos dntist 505W135                             FO grorth 4-6934
  Bender Jos 30LaurlHtTer                               WA dswrth 8-1249
  Bender Jos B 601W169                                  WA dswrth 3-8420
  Bender Jos B 655W169                                  WA dswrth 7-5900
  Bender Jos M jwlry 161 Mw                                CA nal 6-2730
  Bender L F butchr 130ledqribAv                        ED gecomb 4-7221
  Bender Lauretta MD 325E41                             MU rryhil 4-3849
  Bender Lillian 12W72                                   EN dicot 2-2000
  Bender Louis atty 1165Bway                            MU rryhil 4-1630
  Bender Louis Mrs 6W122                                  LE high 4-3254
  Bender M b 75MaidenLa                                  BO wlGrn 9-2831
  Bender Managemnt Inc 180LexAv                         WI ckrshm 2-8100
  Bender Martin 500W111                                  MO numnt 2-2409
  Bender Matthew & Co law books 143Bway                  MO numnt 2-5884
  Bender Maurice B MD offc 50MaSq                       ST uyvsnt 9-3000
  Bender Mere Mrs 743 5Av                                 CI rcle 6-5493
  Bender Michl furs 210W26                                BR yant 7-1075
  Bender Michl M cost anals 15E69                          PL aza 7-4637
  Bender Millicent S Mrs 111E80                         RH inlndr 4-2812
  Bender Miller Dr 50W72                                 EN dicot 2-3371
  Bender Morris B MD 1163PkAv                             AT watr 9-3656
  Bender Morris B Mrs 16E98                             SA crmnto 2-5492
  Bender Morris S MD offc 121E60                          RE gent 7-3660
    Residence 88-05 150Lh Jamaica                       RE public 9-6326
  Bender Myra h 340W57                                    CI rcle 7-6990
    Residence 157W54                                     CO lumbs 5-7472
  Bender Oscar 700W90                                    EN dicot 2-4269
  Bender Oscar Inc cravats 19W34                        WI sconsn 7-9406
  Bender Paul E 111E80                                  RH inlndr 4-2312
  Bender R Mrs 112W79                                     WA tkns 9-2465
  Bender Rose H Mrs 112W7078                             EN dicot 2-6240
  Bender S shirtmaker 2l5W40                            WI sconsn 7-4521
  Bender Sallie 175W73                                  TR afalgr 7-9143
  Bender Sam mts 867Wash                                 CH elsea 3-2851
  Bender Sam mts 867Wash                                 CH elsea 3-2855
  Bender Sidney Dr b 110W34                              LO ngacr 5-1965
  Bender Sidney H atty 100 5Av                           CH elsea 2-5460
  Bender Sidney J artist 31E77                            AS hlnd 4-7139
  Bender Siegmund butchr 3651Bway                       ED gecomb 4-1520
    Residence 601W151                                     AU dubn 3-4319
  Bender&Spetalnik shoe fitrs 19W34                     WI sconsn 7-6175
  Bender Thos 403W48                                      CI rcle 6-7765
  Bender Tony 137AvE                                     GR amrcy 3-7119
  Bender Trucking 126Hudson                                WA lkr 5-2582
  Bender W D lr 480LexAv                                Wl ckrshm 2-8100
  Bender Wm h 7RockfelrPlc                                CI rcle 7-4874
  Bender Wm F MD 15ClarmntAv                            UN ivrsty 4-2646
  Bender Wm N Jr ins 17E4Z                              VA ndrblt 6-1791
  Bender Wm H Mrs 119W71                                SU sqhana 7-0821


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original
  Page 29, Branching bryophytu spread ==> Branching bryophyta spread
  Page 68, with Assistance-in-Emergency" ==>
    with "Assistance-in-Emergency"
  Page 108, On the 10·45 ==> On the 10:45
  Page 145, postman" in another tone ==> postman," in another tone
  Page 176, its forced to bend over ==> is forced to bend over
  Page 187, the presentaton to him ==> the presentation to him
  Page 201, 18s ==> 18s.
  Page 287, the collars tears ==> the collar tears


[The end of _Inside Benchley_ by Robert Benchley]