Our mothers understand us so well! Speech and companionship with them are so easy, so unobstructed by the thousand teasing barriers that bar soul from eager soul! To walk and talk with them is like slipping on an old coat. To hear their voices is like the shake of music in a sober evening hush.

There is a harmony and beauty in the life of mother and son that brims the mind's cup of satisfaction. So well we remember when she was all in all; strength, tenderness, law and life itself. Her arms were the world: her soft cheek our sun and stars. And now it is we who are strong and self-sufficing; it is she who leans on us. Is there anything so precious, so complete, so that return of life's pendulum?

And it is as grandmothers that our mothers come into the fullness of their grace. When a man's mother holds his child in her gladdened arms he is aware (with some instinctive sense of propriety) of the roundness of life's cycle; of the mystic harmony of life's ways. There speaks humanity in its chord of three notes: its little capture of completeness and joy, sounding for a moment against the silent flux of time. Then the perfect span is shredded away and is but a holy memory.

The world, as we tread its puzzling paths, shows many profiles and glimpses of wonder and loveliness; many shapes and symbols to entrance and astound. Yet it will offer us nothing more beautiful than our mother's face; no memory more dear than her encircling tenderness. The mountain tops of her love rise as high in ether as any sun-stained alp. Lakes are no deeper and no purer blue than her bottomless charity. We need not fare further than her immortal eyes to know that life is good.

How strangely fragmentary our memories of her are, and yet (when we piece them together) how they erect a comfortable background for all we are and dream. She built the earth about us and arched us over with sky. She created our world, taught us to dwell therein. The passion of her love compelled the rude laws of life to stand back while we were soft and helpless. She defied gravity that we might not fall. She set aside hunger, sleep and fear that we might have plenty. She tamed her own spirit and crushed her own weakness that we might be strong. And when we passed down the laughing street of childhood and turned that corner that all must pass, it was her hand that waved good-bye. Then, smothering the ache, with one look into the secret corner where the old keepsakes lie hid, she set about waiting the day when the long-lost baby would come back anew. The grandchild—is he not her own boy returned to her arms?

Who can lean over a crib at night, marveling upon that infinite innocence and candor swathed in the silk cocoon of childish sleep, without guessing the throb of fierce gentleness that runs in maternal blood? The earth is none too rich in compassion these days: let us be grateful to the mothers for what remains. It was not they who filled the world with spies and quakings. It was not a cabal of mothers that met to decree blood and anguish for the races of men. They know that life is built at too dear a price to be so lathered in corruption and woe. Those who create life, who know its humility, its tender fabric and its infinite price, who have cherished and warmed and fed it, do not lightly cast it into the pit.

Mothers are great in the eyes of their sons because they are knit in our minds with all the littlenesses of life, the unspeakably dear trifles and odds of existence. The other day I found in my desk a little strip of tape on which my name was marked a dozen times in drawing ink, in my mother's familiar script. My mind ran back to the time when that little band of humble linen was a kind of passport into manhood. It was when I went away from home and she could no longer mark my garments with my name, for the confusion of rapacious laundries. I was to cut off the autographed sections of this tape and sew them on such new vestments as came my way. Of course I did not do so; what boy would be faithful to so feminine a trust? But now the little tape, soiled by a dozen years of wandering, lies in my desk drawer as a symbol and souvenir of that endless forethought and loving kindness.

They love us not wisely but too well, it is sometimes said. Ah, in a world where so many love us not well but too wisely, how tremulously our hearts turn back to bathe in that running river of their love and ceaseless charm!



GREETING TO AMERICAN ANGLERS

From Master Isaak Walton

My Good Friends—As I have said afore time, sitting by a river's side is the quietest and fittest place for contemplation, and being out and along the bank of Styx with my tackle this sweet April morning, it came into my humor to send a word of greeting to you American anglers. Some of your fellows, who have come by this way these past years, tell me notable tales of the sport that may he had in your bright streams, whereof the name of Pocono lingers in my memory. Sad it is to me to recall that when writing my little book on the recreation of a contemplative man I had made no mention of your rivers as delightsome places where our noble art might be carried to a brave perfection, but indeed in that day when I wrote—more years ago than I like to think on—your far country was esteemed a wild and wanton land. Some worthy Pennsylvania anglers with whom I have fished this water of Styx have even told me of thirty and forty-inch trouts they have brought to basket in that same Pocono stream, from the which fables I know that the manners of our ancient sport have altered not a whit. I myself could tell you of a notable catch I had the other morning, when I took some half dozen brace of trouts before breakfast, not one less than twenty-two inches, with bellies as yellow as marigold and as white as a lily in parts. That I account quite excellent taking for these times, when this stream hath been so roiled and troubled by the passage of Master Charon's barges, he having been so pressed with traffic that he hath discarded his ancient vessel as incommodious and hasteneth to and fro with a fleet of ferryboats.



My Good Friends, I wish you all the comely sport that may be found along those crystal rivers whereof your fellows have told me, and a good honest alehouse wherein to take your civil cup of barley wine when there ariseth too violent a shower of rain. I have ever believed that a pipe of tobacco sweeteneth sport, and I was never above hiding a bottle of somewhat in the hollow root of a sycamore against chilly seizures. But come, what is this I hear that you honest anglers shall no longer pledge fortune in a cup of mild beverage? Meseemeth this is an odd thing and contrary to our tradition. I look for some explanation of the matter. Mayhap I have been misled by some waggishness. In my days along my beloved little river Dove, where my friend Mr. Cotton erected his fishing house, we were wont to take our pleasure on the bowling green of an evening, with a cup of ale handy. And our sheets used to smell passing sweet of lavender, which is a pleasant fragrance, indeed.

One matter lies somewhat heavy on my heart and damps my mirth, that in my little book I said of our noble fish the trout that his name was of a German offspring. I am happy to confess to you that I was at fault, for my good friend Master Charon (who doth sometimes lighten his labors with a little casting and trolling from the poop of his vessel) hath explained to me that the name trout deriveth from the antique Latin word tructa, signifying a gnawer. This is a gladsome thing for me to know, and moreover I am bounden to tell you that the house committee of our little angling club along Styx hath blackballed all German members henceforward. These riparian pleasures are justly to be reserved for gentles of the true sportsman blood, and not such as have defiled the fair rivers of France.

And so, good friends, my love and blessing upon all such as love quietness and go angling.

IZAAK WALTON.



MRS. IZAAK WALTON WRITES A LETTER TO HER MOTHER

CHANCERY LANE, LONDON, April 28, 1639.

My Dearest Mother: Matters indeed pass from badd to worse, and I fear mee that with Izaak spending all hys tyme angling along riversydes and neglecting the millinery shoppe (wych is our onlie supporte, for can bodye and soule be keppt in one by a few paltrie brace of trouts a weeke?) wee shall soone come to a sorrye ende. How many tymes, deare Mother, have I bewailed my follye in wedding this creature who seemeth to mee more a fysh than a man, not mearly by reason of hys madnesse for the gracelesse practice of water-dabbling, but eke for hys passion for swimming in barley wine, ale, malmsey and other infuriatyng liquours. What manner of companye doth this dotard keepe on his fyshing pastimes, God wot! Lo he is wonte to come home at some grievous houre of ye nyghte, bearing but a smalle catche but plentyful aroma of drinke, and ofttimes alsoe hys rybalde freinds do accompany hym. Nothing will serve but they must arouse our kytchen-maide and have some paltry chubb or gudgeon fryed in greese, filling ye house wyth nauseous odoures, and wyth their ill prattle of fyshing tackle, not to say the comely milke-maides they have seen along some wanton meadowside, soe that I am moste distraught. You knowe, my deare, I never colde abyde fyssche being colde clammy cretures, and loe onlye last nyghte this Monster dyd come to my beddside where I laye asleepyng and wake me fromm a sweet drowse by dangling a string of loathsome queasy trouts, still dryppinge, against my nose. Lo, says he, are these not beuties? And his reek of barley wine did fille the chamber. Worste of alle, deare Mother, this all-advised wretche doth spend alle his vacant houres in compiling a booke on the art (as he calleth it) of angling, surely a trifling petty wanton taske that will



make hym the laughing-stocke of all sober men. God forbidd that oure littel son sholde be brought uppe in this nastye squanderinge of tyme, wych doth breede nought (meseems) but ale-bibbing and ye disregarde of truth. Oure house, wych is but small as thou knowest, is all cluttered wyth his slimye tackle, and loe but yesterdaye I loste a customer fromm ye millinery shoppe, shee averring (and I trow ryghtly) that ye shoppe dyd stinke of fysshe. Ande soe if thys thyng do continue longer I shall ripp uppe and leave, for I thoght to wed a man and not a paddler of dytches. O howe I longe for those happy dayes with thee, before I ever knew such a thyng as a fysshe existed! Sad too it is that he doth justifye his vain idle wanton pasttyme by misquoting scriptures. Saint Peter, and soe on. Three kytchen maides have lefte us latelye for barbyng themselves upon hydden hookes that doe scatter our shelves and drawers.

Thy persecuted daughter, ANNE WALTON.



TRUTH

Our mind is dreadfully active sometimes, and the other day we began to speculate on Truth.

Our friends are still avoiding us.

Every man knows what Truth is, but it is impossible to utter it. The face of your listener, his eyes mirthful or sorry, his eager expectance or his churlish disdain insensibly distort your message. You find yourself saying what you know he expects you to say, or (more often) what he expects you not to say. You may not be aware of this, but that is what happens. In order that the world may go on and human beings thrive, nature has contrived that the Truth may not often be uttered.

And how is one to know what is Truth? He thinks one thing before lunch; after a stirring bout with corned beef and onions the shining vision is strangely altered. Which is Truth?

Truth can only be attained by those whose systems are untainted by secret influences, such as love, envy, ambition, food, college education and moonlight in spring.

If a man lived in a desert for six months without food, drink or companionship he would be reasonably free from prejudice and would be in a condition to enunciate great truths.

But even then his vision of reality would have been warped by so much sand and so many sunsets.

Even if he survived and brought us his Truth with all the gravity and long night-gown of a Hindu faker, as soon as any one listened to him his message would no longer be Truth. The complexion of his audience, the very shape of their noses, would subtly undermine his magnificent aloofness.

Women have learned the secret. Truth must never be uttered, and never be listened to.

Truth is the ricochet of a prejudice bouncing off a fact.

Truth is what every man sees lurking at the bottom of his own soul, like the oyster shell housewives put in the kitchen kettle to collect the lime from the water. By and by each man's iridescent oyster shell of Truth becomes coated with the lime of prejudice and hearsay.

All the above is probably untrue.



THE TRAGEDY OF WASHINGTON SQUARE

One of our favorite amusements at lunch-time is to walk down to Henry Rosa's pastry shop, and buy a slab of cinnamon bun. Then we walk round Washington Square, musing, and gradually walking round and engulfing the cinnamon bun at the same time. It is surprising what a large circumference those buns of Henry's have. By the time we have gnashed our way through one of those warm and mystic phenomena we don't want to eat again for a month.

The real reason for the cinnamon bun is to fortify us for the contemplation and onslaught upon a tragic problem that Washington Square presents to our pondering soul.

Washington Square is a delightful place. There are trees there, and publishing houses and warm green grass and a fire engine station. There are children playing about on the broad pavements that criss-cross the sward; there is a fine roof of blue sky, kept from falling down by the enormous building at the north side of the Square. But these things present no problems. To our simple philosophy a tree is a vegetable, a child is an animal, a building is a mineral and this classification needs no further scrutiny or analysis. But there is one thing in Washington Square that embodies an intellectual problem, a grappling of the soul, a matter for continual anguish and decision.

On the west side of the Square is the Swiss consulate, and, it is this that weighs upon our brooding spirit. How many times we have paused before that quiet little house and gazed upon the little red cross, a Maltese Cross, or a Cross of St. Hieronymus; or whatever the heraldic term is, that represents and symbolizes the diplomatic and spiritual presence of the Swiss republic. We have stood there and thought about William Tell and the Berne Convention and the St. Gothard Tunnel and St. Bernard dogs and winter sports and alpenstocks and edelweiss and the Jungfrau and all the other trappings and trappists that make Switzerland notable. We have mused upon the Swiss military system, which is so perfect that it has never had to be tested by war; and we have wondered what is the name of the President of Switzerland and how he keeps it out of the papers so successfully. One day we lugged an encyclopedia and the Statesman's Year Book out to the Square with us and sat down on a bench facing the consulate and read up about the Swiss cabinet and the national bank of Switzerland and her child labor problems. Accidentally we discovered the name of the Swiss President, but as he has kept it so dark we are not going to give away his secret.

Our dilemma is quite simple. Where there is a consulate there must be a consul, and it seems to us a dreadful thing that inside that building there lurks a Swiss envoy who does not know that we, here, we who are walking round the Square with our mouth full of Henry Rosa's bun, once spent a night in Switzerland. We want him to know that; we think he ought to know it; we think it is part of his diplomatic duty to know it. And yet how can we burst in on him and tell him that apparently irrelevant piece of information?

We have thought of various ways of breaking it to him, or should we say breaking him to it?

Should we rush in and say the Swiss national debt is $——, or —— kopecks, and then lead on to other topics such as the comparative heights of mountain peaks, letting the consul gradually grasp the fact that we have been in Switzerland? Or should we call him up on the telephone and make a mysterious appointment with him, when we could blurt it out brutally?

We are a modest and diffident man, and this little problem, which would be so trifling to many, presents inscrutable hardships to us.

Another aspect of the matter is this. We think the consul ought to know that we spent one night in Switzerland once; we think he ought to know what we were doing that night; but we also think he ought to know just why it was that we spent only one night in his beautiful country. We don't want him to think we hurried away because we were annoyed by anything, or because the national debt was so many rupees or piasters, or because child labor in Switzerland is——. It is the thought that the consul and all his staff are in total ignorance of our existence that galls us. Here we are, walking round and round the Square, bursting with information and enthusiasm about Swiss republicanism, and the consul never heard of us. How can we summon up courage enough to tell him the truth? That is the tragedy of Washington Square.

It was a dark, rainy night when we bicycled into Basel. We hid been riding all day long, coming down from the dark clefts of the Black Forest, and we and our knapsack were wet through. We had been bicycling for six weeks with no more luggage than a rucksack could hold. We never saw such rain as fell that day we slithered and sloshed on the rugged slopes that tumble down to the Rhine at Basel. (The annual rainfall in Switzerland is——.) When we got to the little hotel at Basel we sat in the dining room with water running off us in trickles, until the head waiter glared. And so all we saw of Switzerland was the interior of the tobacconist's where we tried, unsuccessfully, to get some English baccy. Then he went to bed while our garments were dried. We stayed in bed for ten hours, reading, fairy tales and smoking and answering modestly through the transom when any one asked us questions.

The next morning we overhauled our wardrobe. We will not particularize, but we decided that one change of duds, after six weeks' bicycling, was not enough of a wardrobe to face the Jungfrau and the national debt and the child-labor problenm, not to speak of the anonymous President and the other sights that matter (such as the Matterhorn). Also, our stock of tobacco had run out, and German or French tobacco we simply cannot smoke. Even if we could get along on substitute fumigants the issue of garments was imperative. The nearest place where we could get any clothes of the kind that we are accustomed to, the kind of clothes that are familiarly symbolized by three well-known initials, was London. And the only way we had to get to London was on our bicycle. We thought we had better get busy. It's a long bike ride from Basel to London. So we just went as far as the Basel Cathedral, so as not to seem too unappreciative of all the treasures that Switzerland had been saving for us for countless centuries; then we got on board our patient steed and trundled off through Alsace.

That was in August, 1912, and we firmly intended to go back to Switzerland the next year to have another look at, the rainfall and the rest of the statistics and status quos. But the opportunity has not come.

So that is why we wander disconsolately about Washington Square, trying to make up our mind to unburden our bosom to the Swiss consul and tell him the worst. But how can one go and interrupt a consul to tell him that sort of thing? Perhaps he wouldn't understand it at all; he would misunderstand our pathetic little story and be angry that we took up his time. He wouldn't think that a shortage of tobacco and clothing was a sufficient excuse for slighting William Tell and the Jungfrau. He wouldn't appreciate the frustrated emotion and longing with which we watch the little red cross at his front door, and think of all it means to us and all it might have meant.

We took another turn around Washington Square, trying to embolden ourself enough to go in and tell the consul all this. And then our heart failed us. We decided to write a piece for the paper about it, and if the consul ever sees it he will be generous and understand. He will know why, behind the humble facade of his consulate on Washington Square, we see the heaven-piercing summits of Switzerland rising like a dream, blue and silvery and tantalizing.

P.S. Since the above we have definitely decided not to go to call on the Swiss consul. Suppose he were only a vice-consul, a Philadelphia Swiss, who had never been to Switzerland in his life!



IF MR. WILSON WERE THE WEATHER MAN

My Fellow Citizens: It is very delightful to be here, if I may be permitted to say so, and I consider it a distinguished privilege to open the discussion as to the probable weather to-morrow not only, but during the days to come. I can easily conceive that many of our forecasts will need subsequent reconsideration, for if I may judge by my own study of these matters, the climate is not susceptible of confident judgments at present.

An overwhelming majority of the American people is in favor of fine weather. This underlying community of purpose warms my heart. If we do not guarantee them fine weather, cannot you see the picture of what would come to pass? Your hearts have instructed you where the rain falls. It falls upon senators and congressmen not only—and for that we need not feel so much chagrin—it falls upon humble homes everywhere, upon plain men, and women, and children. If I were to disappoint the united expectation of my fellow citizens for fine weather to-morrow I would incur their merited scorn.

I suppose no more delicate task is given any man than to interpret the feelings and purposes of a great climate. It is not a task in which any man can find much exhilaration, and I confess I have been puzzled by some of the criticisms leveled at my office. But they do not make any impression on me, because I know that the sentiment of the country at large will be more generous. I call my fellow countrymen to witness that at no stage of the recent period of low barometric pressure have I judged the purposes of the climate intemperately. I should be ashamed to use the weak language of vindictive protest.

I have tried once and again, my fellow citizens, to say to you in all frankness what seems to be the prospect of fine weather. There is a compulsion upon one in my position to exercise every effort to see that as little as possible of the hope of mankind is disappointed. Yet this is a hope which cannot, in the very nature of things, be realized in its perfection. The utmost that can be done by way of accommodation and compromise has been performed without stint or limit. I am sure it will not be necessary to remind you that you cannot throw off the habits of the climate immediately, any more than you can throw off the habits of the individual immediately. But however unpromising the immediate outlook may be, I am the more happy to offer my observations on the state of the weather for to-morrow because this is not a party issue. What a delightful thought that is! Whatever the condition of sunshine or precipitation vouchsafed to us, may I not hope that we shall all meet it with quickened temper and purpose, happy in the thought that it is our common fortune?

For to-morrow there is every prospect of heavy and continuous rain.



SYNTAX FOR CYNICS

A GRAMMAR OF THE FEMININE LANGUAGE

The feminine language consists of words placed one after another with extreme rapidity, with intervals for matinees. The purpose of this language is (1) to conceal, and (2) to induce, thought. Very often, after the use of a deal of language, a thought will appear in the speaker's mind. This, while desirable, is by no means necessary.



THOUGHT cannot be defined, but it is instinctively recognized even by those unaccustomed to it.

PARTS OF SPEECH: There are five parts of feminine speech—noun, pronoun, adjective, verb and interjection.

THE NOUN is the name of something to wear, or somebody who furnishes something to wear, or a place where something is to be worn. E.g., hat, husband, opera. Feminine nouns are always singular.

THE PRONOUN is I.

ADJECTIVES: There are only four feminine adjectives—adorable, cute, sweet, horrid. These are all modified on occasion by the adverb perfectly.

THE VERBS are of two kinds—active and passive. Active verbs express action; passive verbs express passion. All feminine verbs are irregular and imperative.

INTERJECTIONS: There are two interjections—Heavens! and Gracious! The masculine language is much richer in interjections.

DECLENSION: There are three ways of feminine declining, (1) to say No; (2) to say Yes and mean No; (3) to say nothing.

CONJUGATION: This is what happens to a verb in the course of conversation or shopping. A verb begins the day quite innocently, as the verb go in the phrase to go to town. When it gets to the city this verb becomes look, as, for instance, to look at the shop windows. Thereafter its descent is rapid into the form purchase or charge. This conjugation is often assisted by the auxiliary expression a bargain. About the first of the following month the verb reappears in the masculine vocabulary in a parallel or perverted form, modified by an interjection.

CONVERSATION in the feminine language consists of language rapidly vibrating or oscillating between two persons. The object of any conversation is always accusative, e.g., "Mrs. Edwards has no taste in hats." Most conversations consist of an indeterminate number of sentences, but sometimes it is difficult to tell where one sentence ends and the next begins. It is even possible for two sentences to overlap. When this occurs the conversation is known as a dialogue. A sentence may be of any length, and is concluded only by the physiological necessity of taking breath.

SENTENCES: A sentence may be defined as a group of words, uttered in sequence, but without logical connection, to express an opinion or an emotion. A number of sentences if emitted without interruption becomes a conversation. A conversation prolonged over an hour or more becomes a gossip. A gossip, when shared by several persons, is known as a secret. A secret is anything known by a large and constantly increasing number of persons.

LETTERS: The feminine language, when committed to paper, with a stub pen and backhanded chirography, is known as a letter. A letter should if possible, be written on rose or lemon colored paper of a rough and flannely texture, with scalloped edges and initials embossed in gilt. It should be written with great rapidity, containing not less than ten exclamation points per page and three underlined adjectives per paragraph. The verb may be reserved until the postscript.

Generally speaking, students of the feminine language are agreed that rules of grammar and syntax are subject to individual caprice and whim, and it is very difficult to lay down fixed canons. The extreme rapidity with which the language is used and the charm and personal magnetism of its users have disconcerted even the most careful and scientific observers. A glossary of technical terms and idioms in the feminine language would be a work of great value to the whole husband world, but it is doubtful if any such volume will ever be published.



THE TRUTH AT LAST

AN EXTRACT FROM MARTHA WASHINGTON'S DIARY



Feb. 22, 1772. A grate Company of Guests assembled at Mt Vernon to celebrate Gen'l Washington's Birthdaye. In the Morning the Gentlemenn went a Fox hunting, but their Sport was marred by the Pertinacity of some Motion Picture menn who persewd them to take Fillums and catchd the General falling off his Horse at a Ditch. In the Evening some of the Companye tooke Occasion to rally the General upon the old Fable of the Cherrye Tree, w'ch hath ever been imputed an Evidence of hys exceeding Veracity, though to saye sooth I never did believe the legend my self. "Well," sayes the General with a Twinkle, "it wolde not be Politick to denye a Romance w'ch is soe profitable to my Reputation, but to be Candid, Gentlemenn, I have no certain recollection of the Affaire. My Brother Lawrence was wont to say that the Tree or Shrubb in question was no Cherrye but a Bitter Persimmon; moreover he told me that I stoutly denyed any Attacke upon it; but being caught with the Goods (as Tully saith) I was soundly Flogged, and walked stiffly for three dayes."

I was glad to heare the Truth in this matter as I have never seen any Corroboration of this surpassing Virtue in George's private Life. The evening broke up in some Disorder as Col Fairfax and others hadd Drunk too freely of the Cock's Taile as they dub the new and very biting Toddy introduced by the military. Wee hadd to call a chirurgeon to lett Blood for some of the Guests before they coulde be gott to Bedd, whither they were conveyed on stretchers.



FIXED IDEAS

It is said that a Fixed Idea is the beginning of madness.

Yet we are often worried because we have so few Fixed Ideas. We do not seem to have any really definite Theory about Life.

* * * * *

We find, on the other hand, that a great many of those we know have some Guiding Principle that excuses and explains all their conduct.

* * * * *

If you have some Theory about Life, and are thoroughly devoted to it, you may come to a bad end, but you will enjoy yourself heartily.

* * * * *

These theories may be of many different kinds. One of our friends rests his career and hope of salvation on the doctrine that eating plenty of fish and going without an overcoat whenever possible constitute supreme happiness.

* * * * *

Another prides himself on not being able to roll a cigarette. If he were forced, at the point of the bayonet, to roll a fag, it would wreck his life.

* * * * *

Another is convinced that the Lost and Found ads in the papers all contain anarchist code messages, and sits up late at night trying to unriddle them.

* * * * *

How delightful it must be to be possessed by one of these Theories! All the experiences of the theorist's life tend to confirm his Theory. This is always so. Did you ever hear of a Theory being confuted?

* * * * *

Facts are quite helpless in the face of Theories. For after all, most Facts are insufficiently encouraged with applause. When a Fact comes along, the people in charge are generally looking the other way. This is what is meant by Not Facing the Facts.

* * * * *

Therefore all argument is quite useless, for it only results in stiffening your friend's belief in his (presumably wrong) Theory.

* * * * *

When any one tries to argue with you, say, "You are nothing if not accurate, and you are not accurate." Then escape from the room.

* * * * *

When we hear our friends diligently expounding the ideas which Explain Everything, we are wistful. We go off and say to ourself, We really must dig up some kind of Theory about Life.

* * * * *

We read once of a great man that he never said, "Well, possibly so." This gave us an uneasy pang.

* * * * *

It is a mistake to be Open to Conviction on so many topics, because all one's friends try to convince one. This is very painful.

* * * * *

And it is embarrassing if, for the sake of a quiet life, one pretends to be convinced. At the corner of Tenth and Chestnut we allowed ourself to agree with A.B., who said that the German colonies should be internationalized. Then we had to turn down Ninth Street because we saw C.D. coming, with whom we had previously agreed that Great Britain should have German Africa. And in a moment we had to dodge into Sansom Street to avoid E.F., having already assented to his proposition that the German colonies should have self-determination. This kind of thing makes it impossible to see one's friends more than one at a time.

* * * * *

Perhaps our Fixed Idea is that we have no Fixed Ideas.

Well, possibly so.



TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT TRAVELING ABROAD

10 a.m.—Arrive at railway station. Welcomed by King and Queen. Hat on head. Umbrella left hand. Gloves on.

10:01—Right glove off (hastily) into left hand. Hat off (right hand). Umbrella hanging on left arm.

10:02—Right glove into left pocket. Hat to left hand. Shake hands with King.

10:03—Shake hands with Queen. Left glove off to receive flowers. Umbrella to right hand.

10:04—Shake hands with Prime Minister. Left glove in left hand. Umbrella back to left hand. Flowers in left hand. Hat in left hand.

10:05—Enter King's carriage. Try to drop flowers under carriage unobserved. Foreign Minister picks them up with gallant remark.

10:06—Shake hands with Foreign Minister. In his emotional foreign manner he insists on taking both hands. Quick work: Umbrella to right elbow, gloves left pocket, hat under right arm, flowers to right pocket.

10:08—Received by Lord Mayor, who offers freedom of the city in golden casket. Casket in left hand, Lord Mayor in right hand Queen on left arm, umbrella on right arm flowers and gloves bursting from pockets hat (momentarily) on head.

10:10—Delegation of statesmen. Statesmen in right hand. Hat, umbrella, gloves, King, flowers, casket in left hand. Situation getting complicated.

10:15—Ceremonial reception by Queen Mother. Getting confused. Queen Mother in left pocket, umbrella on head, gloves on right hand, hat in left hand, King on head, flowers in trousers pocket. Casket under left arm.

10:17—Complete collapse. Failure of the League of Nations.



DIARY OF A PUBLISHER'S OFFICE BOY

Jan. 7, 1600. Thys daye ye Bosse bade mee remaine in ye Outer Office to keepe Callers from Hinderyng Hym in Hys affaires. There came an olde Bumme (ye same wch hath beene heare before) wth ye Scrypte of a Playe, dubbed Roumio ande Julia. Hys name was Shake a Speare or somethynge lyke thatt. Ye Bosse bade mee reade ye maunuscripp myselfe, as hee was Bussy. I dyd. Ande of alle foulishnesse, thys playe dyd beare away ye prize. Conceive ye Absuerditye of laying ye Sceane in Italy, it ys welle knowne that Awdiences will not abear nothyng that is not sett neare at Home. Butt woarse stille, thys fellowe presumes to kille offe Boath Heroe ande Heroine in ye Laste Acte, wch is Intolerabble toe ye Publicke. Suerley noe chaunce of Success in thys. Ye awthour dyd reappeare in ye aufternoone, and dyd seeke to borrowe a crowne from mee, but I sente hym packing. Ye Bosse hath heartilye given me Styx forr admitting such Vagabones to ye Office. I tolde maister Shake a Speare that unlesse hee colde learne to wryte Beste Sellers such as Master Spenser's Faerye Quene (wch wee have put through six editions) there was suerly noe Hope for hym. Hee tooke thys advyse in goode parte, and wente. Hys jerkin wolde have beene ye better for a patchinge.



THE DOG'S COMMANDMENTS



From a witless puppy I brought thee up: gave thee fire and food, and taught thee the self-respect of an honest dog. Hear, then, my commandments:

I am thy master: thou shalt have no other masters before me. Where I go, shalt thou follow; where I abide, tarry thou also.

My house is thy castle; thou shalt honor it; guard it with thy life if need be.

By daylight, suffer all that approach peaceably to enter without protest. But after nightfall thou shalt give tongue when men draw near.

Use not thy teeth on any man without good cause and intolerable provocation; and never on women or children.

Honor thy master and thy mistress, that thy days may be long in the land.

Thou shalt not consort with mongrels, nor with dogs that are common or unclean.

Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not feed upon refuse or stray bits: thy meat waits thee regularly in the kitchen.

Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower beds.

Cats are to be chased, but in sport only; seek not to devour them: their teeth and claws are deadly.

Thou shalt not snap at my neighbor, nor at his wife, nor his child, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor do harm to aught that is his.

The drawing-room rug is not for thee, nor the sofa, nor the best armchair. Thou hast the porch and thy own kennel. But for the love I bear thee, there is always a corner for thee by the winter fire.

Meditate on these commandments day and night; so shalt thou be a dog of good breeding and an honor to thy master.



THE VALUE OF CRITICISM

Our friend Dove Dulcet, the well-known sub-caliber poet, has recently issued a slender volume of verses called Peanut Butter. He thinks we may be interested to see the comment of the press on his book. We don't know why he should think so, but anyway here are some of the reviews:

Buffalo Lens: Mr. Dulcet is a sweet singer, and we could only wish there were twice as many of these delicately rhymed fancies. There is not a poem in the book that does not exhibit a tender grasp of the beautiful homely emotions. Perhaps the least successful, however, is that entitled "On Losing a Latchkey."

Syracuse Hammer and Tongs: This little book of savage satires will rather dismay the simple-minded reader. Into the acid vials of his song Mr. Dulcet has poured a bitter cynicism. He seems to us to be an irremediable pessimist, a man of brutal and embittered life. In one poem, however, he does soar to a very fine imaginative height. This is the ode "On Losing a Latchkey," which is worth all the rest of the pieces put together.

New York Reaping Hook: It is odd that Mr. Dove Dulcet, of Philadelphia we believe should have been able to find a publisher for this volume. These queer little doggerels have an instinctive affinity for oblivion, and they will soon coalesce with the driftwood of the literary Sargasso Sea. Among many bad things we can hardly remember ever to have seen anything worse than "On Losing a Latchkey."

Philadelphia Prism: Our gifted fellow townsman, Mr. Dove Dulcet, has once more demonstrated his ability to set humble themes in entrancing measures. He calls his book Peanut Butter. A title chosen with rare discernment, for the little volume has all the savor and nourishing properties of that palatable delicacy. We wish there were space to quote "On Losing a Latchkey," for it expresses a common human experience in language of haunting melody and witty brevity. How rare it is to find a poet with such metrical skill who is content to handle the minor themes of life in this mood of delicious pleasantry. The only failure in the book is the banal sonnet entitled "On Raiding the Ice Box." This we would be content to forego.

Pittsburgh Cylinder: It is a relief to meet one poet who deals with really exalted themes. We are profoundly weary of the myriad versifiers who strum the so-called lowly and domestic themes. Mr. Dulcet, however, in his superb free verse, has scaled olympian heights, disdaining the customary twaddling topics of the rhymesters. Such an amazing allegory as "On Raiding the Ice Box," which deals, of course, with the experience of a man who attempts to explore the mind of an elderly Boston spinster, marks this powerful poet as a man of unusual satirical and philosophical depth.

Boston Penseroso: We find Mr. Dove Dulcet's new book rather baffling. We take his poem "On Raiding the Ice Box" to be a paean in honor of the discovery of the North Pole; but such a poem as "On Losing a Latchkey," is quite inscrutable. Our guess is that it is an intricate psycho-analysis of a pathological case of amnesia. Our own taste is more for the verse that deals with the gentler emotions of every day, but there can be no doubt that Mr. Dulcet is an artist to be reckoned with.



A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR COMMUTERS

(Fill in railroad as required)



Wilt thou, Jack, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in so far as the —— Railroad will allow? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, take her to the movies, prevent the furnace from going out, and come home regularly on the 5:42 train?"

"I will."

"Wilt thou, Jill, have this commuter to thy wedded husband, bearing in mind snowdrifts, washouts, lack of servants and all other penalties of suburban life? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him, and let him smoke a corncob pipe in the house?"

"I will."

"I, Jack, take thee, Jill, to my wedded wife, from 6 P.M. until 8 A.M., as far as permitted by the —— Railroad, schedule subject to change without notice, for better, for worse, for later, for earlier, to love and to cherish, and I promise to telephone you when I miss the train."

"I, Jill, take thee, Jack, to my wedded husband, subject to the mutability of the suburban service, changing trains at——, to have and to hold, save when the card club meets on Wednesday evenings, and thereto I give thee my troth."



THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET



I often wonder how many present-day writers keep diaries. I wish The Bookman would conduct a questionnaire on the subject. I have a suspicion that Charley Towne keeps one—probably a grim, tragic parchment wherein that waggish soul sets down its secret musings. I dare say Louis Untermeyer has one (morocco, tooled and goffered, with gilt edges), and looks over its nipping paragraphs now and then with a certain relish. It undoubtedly has a large portmanteau pocket with it, to contain clippings of Mr. Untermeyer's letters to the papers taking issue with the reviews of his books. There is no way for the reviewer to escape that backfire. I knew one critic who was determined to review one of Louis's books in such a way that the author would have no excuse for writing to the Times about it. He was overwhelmingly complimentary. But along came the usual letter by return of post. Mr. Untermeyer asked for enough space to "diverge from the critique at one point." He said the review was too fulsome.

I wish Don Marquis kept a diary, but I am quite sure he doesn't. Don is too—well, I was going to say he is too—but after all he has a perfect right to be that way.

It's rather an important thing. Every one knows the fascination exerted by personal details of authors' lives. Every one has hustled to the Cafe de la Source in Paris because R.L.S. once frequented it, or to Allaire's in New York because O. Henry wrote it up in one of his tales, and that sort of thing. People like to know all the minutiae concerning their favorite author. It is not sufficient to know (let us say) that Murray Hill or some one of that sort, once belonged to the Porrier's Corner Club. One wants to know where the Porrier's Corner Club was, and who were the members, and how he got there, and what he got there, and so forth. One wants to know where Murray Hill (I take his name only as a symbol) buys his cigars, and where he eats lunch, and what he eats, whether pigeon potpie with iced tea or hamburg steak and "coffee with plenty." It is all these intimate details that the public has thirst for.

Now the point I want to make is this. Here, all around us, is fine doings (as Murray Hill would put it), the jolliest literary hullabaloo going. Some of the writers round about—Arthur Guiterman or Tom Masson or Witter Bynner or Tom Daly, or some of these chaps now sitting down to combination-plate luncheons and getting off all manner of merry quips and confidential matters—some of these chaps may be famous some day (posterity is so undiscriminating) and all that savory personal stuff will have evaporated from our memories. The world of bookmen is in great need of a new crop of intimists, or whatever you call them. Barbellion chaps. Henry Ryecrofts. We need a chiel taking notes somewhere.

Now if you really jot down the merry gossip, and make bright little pen portraits, and tell just what happens, it will not only afford you a deal of discreet amusement, but the diary you keep will reciprocate. In your older years it will keep you. Harper's Magazine will undoubtedly want to publish it, forty years from now. If that is too late to keep you, it will help to keep your descendants. So I wish some of the authors would confess and let us know which of them are doing it. It would be jolly to know to whom we might confide the genial little items of what-not and don't-let-this-go-farther that come the rounds. The inside story of the literature of any epoch is best told in the diaries. I'll bet Brander Matthews kept one, and James Huneker. It's a pity Professor Matthews's was a bit tedious. Crabb Robinson was the man for my money.

The diarists I would choose for the present generation on Grub Street would be Heywood Broun, Franklin Adams, Bob Holliday, William McFee, and maybe Ben De Casseres (if he would promise not to mention Don Marquis and Walt Whitman more than once per page). McFee might be let off the job by reason of his ambrosial letters. But it just occurs to me that of course one must not know who is keeping the diary. If it were known, he would be deluged with letters from people wanting to get their names into it. And the really worthwhile folks would be on their guard.

But if all the writers wait until they are eighty years old and can write their memoirs with the beautifully gnarled and chalky old hands Joyce Kilmer loved to contemplate, they will have forgotten the comical pith of a lot of it. If you want to reproduce the colors and collisions along the sunny side of Grub Street, you've got to jot down your data before they fade. I wish I had time to be diarist of such matters. How candid I'd be! I'd put down all about the two young novelists who used to meet every day in City Hall Park to compare notes while they were hunting for jobs, and make wagers as to whose pair of trousers would last longer. (Quite a desirable essay could he written, by the way, on the influence of trousers on the fortunes of Grub Street, with the three stages of the Grub Street trouser, viz.: 1, baggy; 2, shiny; 3, trousers that must not be stooped in on any account.) There is an uproarious tale about a pair of trousers and a very well-known writer and a lecture at Vassar College, but these things have to be reserved for posterity, the legatee of all really amusing matters.

But then there are other topics, too, such as the question whether Ibanez always wears a polo shirt, as the photos lead one to believe. The secret Philip Gibbs told me about the kind of typewriter he used on the western front. I would be enormously candid (if I were a diarist). I'd put down that I never can remember whether Vida Scudder is a man or a woman. I'd tell what A. Edward Newton said when he came rushing into the office to show me the Severn death-bed portrait of Keats, which he had just bought from Rosenbach. I'd tell the story of the unpublished letter of R.L.S. which a young man sold to buy a wedding present, which has since vanished (the R.L.S. letter). I'd tell the amazing story of how a piece of Walt Whitman manuscript was lost in Philadelphia on the memorable night of June 30, 1919. I'd tell just how Vachel Lindsay behaves when he's off duty. I'd even forsake everything to travel over to England with Vachel on his forthcoming lecture tour, as I'm convinced that England's comments on Vachel will be worth listening to.

The ideal man to keep the sort of diary I have in mind would be Hilaire Belloc. It was an ancestor of Mr. Belloc, Dr. Joseph Priestley (who died in Pennsylvania, by the way) who discovered oxygen; and it is Mr. Belloc himself who has discovered how to put oxygen into the modern English essay. The gift, together with his love of good eating, probably came to him from his mother, Bessie Rayner Parkes, who once partook of Samuel Rogers's famous literary breakfasts. And this brings us back to our old friend Crabb Robinson, another of the Rogers breakfast clan. Robinson is never wildly exciting, but he gives a perfect panorama of his day. It is not often that one finds a man who associated with such figures as Goethe, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake, and Lamb. He had the true gift for diarizing. What could be better, for instance, than this little miniature picture of the rise and fall of teetotalism in one well-loved person?—

Mary Lamb, I am glad to say, is just now very comfortable. She has put herself under Doctor Tuthill, who has prescribed water. Charles, in consequence, resolved to accommodate himself to her, and since Lord-Mayor's day has abstained from all other liquor, as well as from smoking. We shall all rejoice if this experiment succeeds.... His change of habit, though it, on the whole, improves his health, yet when he is low-spirited, leaves him without a remedy or relief.

—LETTER OF HENRY CRABB ROBINSON To Miss WORDSWORTH, December 23, 1810.

Spent part of the evening with Charles Lamb (unwell) and his sister.

—ROBINSON'S DIARY, January 8, 1811.

Late in the evening Lamb called, to sit with me while he smoked his pipe.

—ROBINSON'S DIARY, December 20, 1814.

Lamb was in a happy frame, and I can still recall to my mind the look and tone with which he addressed Moore, when he could not articulate very distinctly: "Mister Moore, will you drink a glass of wine with me?"—suiting the action to the word, and hobnobbing.

—ROBINSON'S DIARY, April 4, 1823.

Now that, I maintain, is just the kind of stuff we need in a diary of today. How fascinating that old book Peyrat's "Pastors of the Desert" became when we learned that R.L.S. had a copy of the second volume of it in his sleeping sack when he camped out with Modestine. Even so it may be a matter of delicious interest to our grandsons to know what book Joe Hergesheimer was reading when he came in town on the local from West Chester recently, and who taught him to shoot craps. It is interesting to know what Will and Stephen Benet (those skiey fraternals) eat when they visit a Hartford Lunch; to know whether Gilbert Chesterton is really fond of dogs (as "The Flying Inn" implies, if you remember Quoodle), and whether Edwin Meade Robinson and Edwin Arlington Robinson, arcades ambo, ever write to each other. It would be interesting—indeed it would be highly entertaining—to compile a list of the free meals Vachel Lindsay has received, and to ascertain the number of times Harry Kemp has been "discovered." It would be interesting to know how many people shudder with faint nausea (as I do) when they pick up a Dowson playlet and find it beginning with a list of characters including "A Moon Maiden" and "Pierrot," scene set in "a glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon—a statue of Cupid—Pierrot enters with his hands full of lilies." It would be interesting to resume the number of brazen imitations of McCrae's "In Flanders Fields"—here is the most striking, put out on a highly illuminated card by a New York publishing firm:

Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead, The poppies still blow overhead, The larks ye heard, still singing fly. They sing of the cause which made thee die.

And they are heard far down below, Our fight is ended with the foe. The fight for right, which ye begun And which ye died for, we have won. Rest in peace.

The man who wrote that ought to be the first man mobilized for the next war.

All such matters, with a plentiful bastinado for stupidity and swank, are the privilege of the diarist. He may indulge himself in the delightful luxury of making post-mortem enemies. He may wonder what the average reviewer thinks he means by always referring to single publishers in the plural. A note which we often see in the papers runs like this: "Soon to be issued by the Dorans (or Knopfs or Huebsches)," etc., etc. This is an echo of the old custom when there really were two or more Harpers. But as long as there is only one Doran, one Huebsch, one Knopf, it is simply idiotic.

Well, as we go sauntering along the sunny side of Grub Street, meditating an essay on the Mustache in Literature (we have shaved off our own since that man Murray Hill referred to it in the public prints as "a young hay-wagon"), we are wondering whether any of the writing men are keeping the kind of diary we should like our son to read, say in 1950. Perhaps Miss Daisy Ashford is keeping one. She has the seeing eye. Alas that Miss Daisy at nine years old was a puella unius libri.



BURIAL SERVICE FOR A NEWSPAPER JOKE

After the remains have been decently interred, the following remarks shall be uttered by the presiding humorist:

This joke has been our refuge from one generation to another:

Before the mountains were brought forth this joke was lusty and of good repute:

In the life of this joke a thousand years are but as yesterday.

Blessed, therefore, is this joke, which now resteth from its labors.

But most of our jokes are of little continuance: though there be some so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their humor then but labor and sorrow:

For a joke that is born of a humorist hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. It cometh up and is cut down like a flower. It fleeth as if it were a shadow and abideth but one edition.

It is sown in quotation, it is raised in misquotation: We therefore commit this joke to the files of the country newspapers, where it shall circulate forever, world without end.



ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A BABY

Interview the baby alone if possible. If, however, both parents are present, say, "It looks like its mother." And, as an afterthought, "I think it has its father's elbows."

If uncertain as to the infant's sex, try some such formula as, "He looks like her grandparents," or "She has his aunt's sweet disposition."

When the mother only is present, your situation is critical. Sigh deeply and admiringly, to imply that you wish you had a child like that. Don't commit yourself at all until she gives a lead.

When the father only is present, you may be a little reckless. Give the father a cigar and venture, "Good luck, old man; it looks like your mother-in-law."

If possible, find out beforehand how old the child is. Call up the Bureau of Vital Statistics. If it is two months old, say to the mother, "Rather large for six months, isn't he?"

If the worst has happened and the child really does look like its father, the most tactful thing is to say, "Children change as they grow older." Or you may suggest that some mistake has been made at the hospital and they have brought home the wrong baby.

If left alone in the room with the baby, throw a sound-proof rug over it and escape.



ABOU BEN WOODROW

(IN PARIS)



Abou Ben Woodrow (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor (Making the room look like a department store), An Angel writing in a book of gold. Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow bold And to the Presence in the room said he, "Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca que tu ecris?" Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head (All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's head!) And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's Answered: "The names of those who grease the wheels Of progress and have never, never blundered." Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered. "And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low But cheerly still, and in his May I notting Fashion he said: "Of course you may be rotting, But even if you are, may I not then Be writ as one that loves his fellow men? Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely And I am yours, cordially and sincerely." The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse. Next night returned (accompanied by House) And showed the names whom love of Peace had blest. And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the rest!



MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM

In these days when the streets are so perilous, every man who goes about the city ought to be sure that his pockets are in good order, so that when he is run down by a roaring motor-truck the police will have no trouble in identifying him and communicating with his creditors.

I have always been very proud of my pocket system. As others may wish to install it, I will describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate and lifeless on the paving, I can quickly be identified by the following arrangement of my private affairs:

In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, partially surrounded by pocket.

In my left-hand trouser pocket is a complicated bunch of keys. I am not quite sure what they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. They are very useful, however, as when I walk rapidly they evolve a shrill jingling which often conveys the impression of minted coinage. One of them, I think, unlocks the coffer where I secretly preserve the pair of spats I bought when I became engaged.

My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, for the handkerchief reserves (hayfever sufferers, please notice); and, in winter, for stamps. It is tapestried with a sheet of three-cent engravings that got in there by mistake last July, and adhered.

My left-hand hip pocket holds my memorandum book, which contains only one entry: Remember not to forget anything.

The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a pencil, a commutation ticket and a pipe cleaner.

The left-hand lower waistcoat pocket contains what the ignorant will esteem scraps of paper. This, however, is the hub and nerve center of my mnemonic system. When I want to remember anything I write it down on a small slip of paper and stick it in that pocket. Before going to bed I clean out the pocket and see how many things I have forgotten during the day. This promotes tranquil rest.

The right-hand upper waistcoat pocket is used for wall-paper samples. Here I keep clippings of all the wallpapers at home, so that when buying shirts, ties, socks or books I can be sure to get something that will harmonize. My taste in these matters has sometimes been aspersed, so I am playing safe.

The right-hand lower waistcoat pocket is used for small change. This is a one-way pocket; exit only.

The inner pocket of my coat is used for railroad timetables, most of which have since been changed. Also a selected assortment of unanswered letters and slips of paper saying, "Call Mr. So-and-so before noon." The first thing to be done by my heirs after collecting the remains must be to communicate with the writers of those letters, to assure them that I was struck down in the fullness of my powers while on the way to the post office to mail an answer.

My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes.

Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and matches.

The little tin cup strapped in my left armpit is for Swedish matches that failed to ignite. It is an invention of my own.

I once intended to allocate a pocket especially for greenbacks, but found it unnecessary.



LETTERS TO CYNTHIA

I. IN PRAISE OF BOOBS

Dear Sir—What is a Boob? Will you please discuss the subject a little? Perhaps I'm a boob for asking—but I'd like to know.

CYNTHIA.



BE FRIENDLY WITH BOOBS

The Boob, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's device for mitigating the quaintly blended infelicities of existence. Never be too bitter about the Boob. The Boob is you and me and the man in the elevator.

THE BOOB IS HUMANITY'S HOPE

As long as the Boob ratio remains high, humanity is safe. The Boob is the last repository of the stalwart virtues. The Boob is faith, hope and charity. The Boob is the hope of conservatives, the terror of radicals and the meal check of cynics. If you are run over on Market Street and left groaning under the mailed fist of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and I.W.W. will be watching the shop windows. It will be the Boob who will come to your aid, even before the cop gets there.

1653 BOOBS

If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in the middle of Chestnut Street, and illuminate it with signs and red lights and placards reading, DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT, 1653 Boobs would tumble into it during the course of the day. Boobs have faith. They are eager to plunge in where an angel wouldn't even show his periscope.

THE BOOB RATIO

But that does not prove anything creditable to human nature. For though 1653 people would fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit Company will dig for us free of charge) 26,448 would cautiously and suspiciously and contemptuously avoid it. The Boob ratio is just about 1 to 16.

HE LOOKS FOR ANGELS

It does not pay to make fun of the Boob. There is no malice in him, no insolence, no passion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If he sees some one on a street corner gazing open-mouthed at the sky, he will do likewise, and stand there for half hour with his apple of Adam expectantly vibrating. But is that a shameful trait? May not a Boob expect to see angels in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is he more disreputable than the knave who frisks his watch meanwhile? And suppose he does see an angel, or even only a blue acre of sky—is that not worth as much as the dial in his poke?

HE SEES THEM

It is the Boob who is always willing to look hopefully for angels who will see them ultimately. And the man who is only looking for the Boob's timepiece will do time of his own by and by.

HE BEARS NO MALICE

The Boob is convinced that the world is conducted on genteel and friendly principles. He feels in his heart that even the law of gravity will do him no harm. That is why he steps unabashed into our pit on Chestnut Street; and finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, he bears no ill will to Sir Isaac Newton. He simply knows that the law of gravity took him for some one else—a street-cleaning contractor, perhaps.

A DEFINITION

A small boy once defined a Boob as one who always treats other people better than he does himself.

HE IS UNSUSPICIOUS

The Boob is hopeful, cheery, more concerned over other people's troubles than his own. He goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under the silk hat, even when the silk hat is on the head of a Mayor or City Councilman. He will pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the whole world is loaded and aimed at him. He will keep on running for the 5:42 train, even though the timetable was changed the day before yesterday. He goes through the revolving doors the wrong way. He forgets that the banks close at noon on Saturdays. He asks for oysters on the first of June. He will wait for hours at the Chestnut Street door, even though his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon counter.

HIS WIFE

Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a Boob before marriage he will never become so after. Women are the natural antidotes of Boobs.

RECEPTIVE

The Boob is not quarrelsome. He is willing to believe that you know more about it than he does. He is always at home for ideas.

HE IS HAPPY

Of course, what bothers other people is that the Boob is so happy. He enjoys himself. He falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and has more fun out of the tumble than the sneering 26,448 who stand above untumbled. The happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 15 per cent investment that returns only engraved prospectuses. He stands on that street corner looking for an imaginary angel parachuting down, and enjoys himself more than the Mephistopheles who is laughing up his sleeve.

NATURE'S DARLING

Nature must love the Boob, because she is a good deal of a Boob herself. How she has squandered herself upon mountain peaks that are useless except for the Alpenstock Trust; upon violets that can't be eaten; upon giraffes whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that the Boob is Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the rest?

A BRIEF MAXIM

Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead.

IN CONCLUSION

But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob with the Poor Fish. The Poor Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob gone wrong. The Poor Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an angel, would think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The Poor Fish is Why Boobs Leave Home.

II. SIMPLIFICATION

Dear Sir—How can life be simplified? In the office where I work the pressure of affairs is very exacting. Often I do not have a moment to think over my own affairs before 4 p.m. There are a great many matters that puzzle me, and I am afraid that if I go on working so hard the sweetest hours of my youth may pass before I have given them proper consideration. It is very irassible. Can you help me?

CYNTHIA.

SALUTATION TO CYNTHIA

Cynthia, my child: How are you? It is very delightful to hear from you again. During the recent months I have been very lonely indeed without your comradeship and counsel with regard to the great matters which were under consideration.

THINKING IT OVER

Well, Cynthia, when your inquiry reached me I propped my feet on the desk, got out the corncob pipe and thought things over. How to simplify life? How, indeed! It is a subject that interests me strangely. Of course, the easiest method is to let one's ancestors do it for one. If you have been lucky enough to choose a simple-minded, quiet-natured quartet of grandparents, frugal, thrifty and foresighted, who had the good sense to buy property in an improving neighborhood and keep their money compounding at a fair rate of interest, the problem is greatly clarified. If they have hung on to the old farmstead, with its huckleberry pasture and cowbells tankling homeward at sunset and a bright brown brook cascading down over ledges of rock into a swimming hole, then again your problem has possible solutions. Just go out to the farm, with a copy of Matthew Arnold's "Scholar Gipsy" (you remember the poem, in which he praises the guy who had sense enough to leave town and live in the suburbs where the Bolsheviki wouldn't bother him), and don't leave any forwarding address with the postoffice. But if, as I fear from an examination of your pink-scalloped notepaper with its exhalation of lilac essence, the vortex of modern jazz life has swept you in, the crisis is far more intricate.

TAKE THE MATTER IN YOUR OWN HANDS

Of course, my dear Cynthia, it is better to simplify your own life than to have some one else do it for you. The Kaiser, for instance, has had his career greatly simplified, but hardly in a way he himself would have chosen. The first thing to do is to come to a clear understanding of (and to let your employer know you understand) the two principles that underlie modern business. There are only two kinds of affairs that are attended to in an office. First, things that absolutely must be done. These are often numerous; but remember, that since they have to be done, if you don't do them some one else will. Second, things that don't have to be done. And since they don't have to be done, why do them? This will simplify matters a great deal.

FURTHER SUGGESTIONS

The next thing to do is to stop answering letters. Even the firm's most persistent customers will cease troubling you by and bye if you persist. Then, stop answering the telephone. A pair of office shears can sever a telephone wire much faster than any mechanician can keep it repaired. If the matter is really urgent, let the other people telegraph. While you are perfecting this scheme look about, in a dignified way, for another job. Don't take the first thing that offers itself, but wait until something really congenial appears. It is a good thing to choose some occupation that will keep you a great deal in the open air, preferably something that involves looking at shop windows and frequent visits to the receiving teller at the bank. It is nice to have a job in a tall building overlooking the sea, with office hours from 3 to 5 p.m.

HOW EASY, AFTER ALL!

Many people, dear Cynthia, are harassed because they do not realize how easy it is to get out of a job which involves severe and concentrated effort. My child, you must not allow yourself to become discouraged. Almost any job can be shaken off in time and with perseverance. Looking out of the window is a great help. There are very few businesses where what goes on in the office is half as interesting as what is happening on the street outside. If your desk does not happen to be near a window, so much the better. You can watch the sunset admirably from the window of the advertising manager's office. Call his attention to the rosy tints in the afterglow or the glorious pallor of the clouds. Advertising managers are apt to be insufficiently appreciative of these things. Sometimes, when they are closeted with the Boss in conference, open the ground-glass door and say, "I think it is going to rain shortly." Carry your love of the beautiful into your office life. This will inevitably pave the way to simplification.

ENVELOPES WITH LOOP HOLES

And never open envelopes with little transparent panes of isinglass in their fronts. Never keep copies of your correspondence. For, if your letters are correct, no copy will be necessary. And, if incorrect, it is far better not to have a copy. If you were to tell me the exact nature of your work I could offer many more specific hints.

YOUR INQUIRY, CHILD, TOUCHES MY HEART

I am intimately interested in your problem, my child, for I am a great believer in simplification. It is hard to follow out one's own precepts; but the root of happiness is never to contradict any one and never agree with any one. For if you contradict people, they will try to convince you; and if you agree with them, they will enlarge upon their views until they say something you will feel bound to contradict. Let me hear from you again.



TO AN UNKNOWN DAMSEL

On Fifth Street, in a small cafe, Upstairs (our tables were adjacent), I saw you lunching yesterday, And felt a secret thrill complacent.

You sat, and, waiting for your meal, You read a book. As I was eating, Dear me, how keen you made me feel To give you just a word of greeting!

And as your hand the pages turned, I watched you, dumbly contemplating— O how exceedingly I yearned To ask the girl to keep you waiting.

I wished that I could be the maid To serve your meal or crumb your cloth, or Beguile some hazard to my aid To know your verdict on that author!

And still you read. You dropped your purse, And yet, adorably unheeding, You turned the pages, verse by verse,— I watched, and worshiped you for reading!

You know not what restraint it took To mind my etiquette, nor flout it By telling you I know that book, And asking what you thought about it.

I cursed myself for being shy— I longed to make polite advances; Alas! I let the time go by, And Fortune gives no second chances.

You read, but still your face was calm— (I scanned it closely, wretched sinner!) You showed no sign—-I felt a qualm— And then the waitress brought your dinner.

Those modest rhymes, you thought them fair? And will you sometimes praise or quote them? And do you ask why I should care? Oh, Lady, it was I who wrote them!



THOUGHTS ON SETTING AN ALARM CLOCK

Mark the monitory dial, Set the gong for six a.m.— Then, until the hour of trial, Clock a little sleep, pro tem.

As I crank the dread alarum Stern resolve I try to fix: My ideals, shall I mar 'em When the awful moment ticks?

Heaven strengthen my intention, Grant me grace my vow to keep: Would the law enforced Prevention Of such Cruelty to Sleep!



SONGS IN A SHOWER BATH



HOT WATER

Gently, while the drenching dribble Courses down my sweltered form, I am basking like a sybil, Lazy, languorous and warm. I am unambitious, flaccid, Well content to drowse and dream: How I hate life's bitter acid— Leave me here to stew and steam. Underneath this jet so torrid I forget the world's sad wrath: O activity is horrid! Leave me in my shower-bath!

COLD WATER

But when I turn the crank O Zeus! A silver ecstasy thrills me! I caper and slap my chilled thighs, I plan to make a card index of all my ideas And feel like an efficiency expert. I tweak Fate by the nose And know I could succeed in anything. I throw up my head And glut myself with icy splatter... To-day I will really Begin my career!

ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT

Boiling water now is poured, Pouches filled with fresh tobacco, Round the hospitable board Fragrant steams Ceylon or Pekoe.

Bread and butter is cut thin, Cream and sugar, yes, bring them on; Ginger cookies in their tin, And the dainty slice of lemon.

Let the marmalade be brought, Buns of cinnamon adhesive; And, to catch the leaves, you ought To be sure to have the tea-sieve.

But, before the cups be filled— Cups that cause no ebriation— Let a genial wish be willed Just by way of dedication.

Here's your fortune, gentle pot: To our thirst you offer slakeage; Bright blue china, may I not Hope no maid will cause you breakage.

Kindest ministrant to man, Long be jocund years before you, And no meaner fortune than Helen's gracious hand to pour you!

THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX

A certain young man never knew Just when to say whom and when who; "The question of choosing," He said, "is confusing; I wonder if which wouldn't do?"

Nothing is so illegitimate As a noun when his verbs do not fit him; it Makes him disturbed If not properly verbed— If he asks for the plural, why git him it!

Lie and lay offer slips to the pen That have bothered most excellent men: You can say that you lay In bed—yesterday; If you do it to-day, you're a hen!

A person we met at a play Was cruel to pronouns all day: She would frequently cry "Between you and I, If only us girls had our way—!"



VISITING POETS

We were giving a young English poet a taste of Philadelphia, trying to show him one or two of the simple beauties that make life agreeable to us. Having just been photographed, he was in high good humor.

"What a pity," he said, "that you in America have no literature that reflects the amazing energy, the humor, the raciness of your life! I woke up last night at the hotel and heard a motor fire engine thunder by. There's a symbol of the extraordinary vitality of America! My, if I could only live over here a couple of years, how I'd like to try my hand at it. It's a pity that no one over here is putting down the humor of your life."

"Have you read O. Henry?" we suggested.

"Extraordinary country," he went on. "Somebody turned me loose on Mr. Morgan's library in New York. There was a librarian there, but I didn't let her bother me. I wanted to see that manuscript of 'Endymion' they have there. I supposed they would take me up to a glass case and let me gaze at it. Not at all. They put it right in my hands and I spent three quarters of an hour over it. Wonderful stuff. You know, the first edition of my book is selling at a double premium in London. It's been out only eighteen months."

"How do you fellows get away with it?" we asked humbly.

"I hope Pond isn't going to book me up for too many lectures," he said. "I've got to get back to England in the spring. There's a painter over there waiting to do my portrait. But there are so many places I've got to lecture—everybody seems to want to hear about the young English poets."

"I hear Philip Gibbs is just arriving in New York," we said.

"Is that so? Dear me, he'll quite take the wind out of my sails, won't he? Nice chap, Gibbs. He sent me an awfully cheery note when I went out to the front as a war correspondent. Said he liked my stuff about the sodgers. He'll make a pot of money over here, won't he?"

We skipped across City Hall Square abreast of some trolley cars.

"I say, these trams keep one moving, don't they?" he said. "You know, I was tremendously bucked by that department store you took me to see. That's the sort of place one has to go to see the real art of America. Those paintings in there, by the elevators, they were done by a young English girl. Friend of mine—in fact, she did the pictures for my first book. Pity you have so few poets over here. You mustn't make me lose my train; I've got a date with Vachel Lindsay and Edgar Lee Masters in New York to-night. Vachel's an amusing bird. I must get him over to England and get him started. I've written to Edmund Gosse about him, and I'm going to write again. What a pity Irvin Cobb doesn't write poetry! He's a great writer. What vivacity, what a rich vocabulary!"

"Have you read Mark Twain?" we quavered.

"Oh, Mark's grand when he's serious; but when he tries to be funny, you know, it's too obvious. I can always see him feeling for the joke. No, it doesn't come off. You know an artist simply doesn't exist for me unless he has something to say. That's what makes me so annoyed with R.L.S. In 'Weir of Hermiston' and the 'New Arabian Nights' he really had something to say; the rest of the time he was playing the fool on some one else's instrument. You know style isn't something you can borrow from some one else; it's the unconscious revelation of a man's own personality."

We agreed.

"I wonder if there aren't some clubs around here that would like to hear me talk?" he said. "You know, I'd like to come back to Philadelphia if I could get some dates of that sort. Just put me wise, old man, if you hear of anything. I was telling some of your poets in New York about the lectures I've been giving. Those chaps are fearfully rough with one. You know, they'll just ride over one roughshod if you give them a chance. They hate to see a fellow a success. Awful tripe some of them are writing. They don't seem to be expressing the spirit, the fine exhilaration, of American life at all. If I had my way, I'd make every one in America read Rabelais and Madame Bovary. Then they ought to study some of the old English poets, like Marvell, to give them precision. It's lots of fun telling them these things. They respond famously. Now over in my country we poets are all so reserved, so shy, so taciturn.

"You know Pond, the lecture man in New York, was telling me a quaint story about Masefield. Great friend of mine, old Jan Masefield. He turned up in New York to talk at some show Pond was running. Had on some horrible old trench boots. There was only about twenty minutes before the show began. 'Well,' says Pond, hoping Jan was going to change his clothes, 'are you all ready?' 'Oh, yes,' says Jan. Pond was graveled; didn't know just what to do. So he says, hoping to give Jan a hint, 'Well, I've just got to get my boots polished.' Of course, they didn't need it—Americans' boots never do—but Pond sits down on a boot-polishing stand and the boy begins to polish for dear life. Jan sits down by him, deep in some little book or other, paying no attention. Pond whispers to the boy, 'Quick, polish his boots while he's reading.' Jan was deep in his book, never knew what was going on. Then they went off to the lecture, Jan in his jolly old sack suit."

We went up to a private gallery on Walnut Street, where some of the most remarkable literary treasures in the world are stored, such as the original copy of Elia given by Charles Lamb to the lady he wanted to marry, Fanny Kelly. There we also saw some remarkable first editions of Shelley.

"You know," he said, "Mrs. L—— in New York—I had an introduction to her from Jan—wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, but I wouldn't let her."

"How do you fellows get away with it?" we said again humbly.

"Well, old man," he said, "I must be going. Mustn't keep Vachel waiting. Is this where I train? What a ripping station! Some day I must write a poem about all this. What a pity you have so few poets ..."



A GOOD HOME IN THE SUBURBS

There are a number of empty apartments in the suburbs of our mind that we shall be glad to rent to any well-behaved ideas.

These apartments (unfurnished) all have southern exposure and are reasonably well lighted. They have emergency exits.

We prefer middle-aged, reasonable ideas that have outgrown the diseases of infancy. No ideas need apply that will lie awake at night and disturb the neighbors, or will come home very late and wake the other tenants. This is an orderly mind, and no gambling, loud laughter and carnival or Pomeranian dogs will be admitted.

If necessary, the premises can be improved to suit high-class tenants.

No lease longer than six months can be given to any one idea, unless it can furnish positive guarantees of good conduct, no bolshevik affiliations and no children.

We have an orphanage annex where homeless juvenile ideas may be accommodated until they grow up.

The southwestern section of our mind, where these apartments are available, is some distance from the bustle and traffic, but all the central points can be reached without difficulty. Middle-aged, unsophisticated ideas of domestic tastes will find the surroundings almost ideal.

For terms and blue prints apply janitor on the premises.



WALT WHITMAN MINIATURES

I

A decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that one should have some excuse for being away from the office on a working afternoon. September sunshine and trembling blue air are not sufficient reasons, it seems. Therefore, if any one should brutally ask what I was doing the other day dangling down Chestnut Street toward the river, I should have to reply, "Looking for the Wenonah." The Wenonah, you will immediately conclude, is a moving picture theater. But be patient a moment.

Lower Chestnut Street is a delightful place for one who does not get down there very often. The face of wholesale trade, dingier than the glitter of uptown shops, is far more exciting and romantic. Pavements are cumbered with vast packing cases; whiffs of tea and spice well up from cool cellars. Below Second Street I found a row of enormous sacks across the curb, with bright red and green wool pushing through holes in the burlap. Such signs as WOOL, NOILS AND WASTE are frequent. I wonder what noils are? A big sign on Front Street proclaims TEA CADDIES, which has a pleasant grandmotherly flavor. A little brass plate, gleamingly polished, says HONORARY CONSULATE OF JAPAN. Beside immense motor trucks stood a shabby little horse and buggy, restored to service, perhaps, by the war-time shortage of gasoline. It was a typical one-horse shay of thirty years ago.

I crossed over to Camden on the ferryboat Wildwood, observing in the course of the voyage her sisters, Bridgeton, Camden, Salem and Hammonton. It is curious that no matter where one goes, one will always meet people who are traveling there for the first time. A small boy next to me was gazing in awe at the stalwart tower of the Victor Company, and snuffing with pleasure the fragrance of cooking tomatoes that makes Camden savory at this time of year. Wagonloads of ripe Jersey tomatoes making their way to the soup factory are a jocund sight across the river just now.

Every ferry passenger is familiar with the rapid tinkling of the ratchet wheel that warps the landing stage up to the level of the boat's deck. I asked the man who was running the wheel where I would find the Wenonah. "She lays over in the old Market Street slip," he replied, and cheerfully showed me just where to find her. "Is she still used?" I asked. "Mostly on Saturday nights and holidays," he said, "when there's a big crowd going across."

The Wenonah, as all Camden seafarers know, is a ferryboat, one of the old-timers, and I was interested in her because she and her sister, the Beverly, were Walt Whitman's favorite ferries. He crossed back and forth on them hundreds of times and has celebrated them in several paragraphs in Specimen Days. Perhaps this is the place to quote his memorandum dated January 12, 1882, which ought to interest all lovers of the Camden ferry:

"Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before sundown yesterday evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden, is worth weaving into an item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from the southwest, the water of a pale tawny color, and just enough motion to make things frolicsome and lively. Add to these an approaching sunset of unusual splendor, a broad tumble of clouds, with much golden haze and profusion of beaming shaft and dazzle. In the midst of all, in the clear drab of the afternoon light, there steamed up the river the large new boat, the Wenonah, as pretty an object as you could wish to see, lightly and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white, covered with flags, transparent red and blue streaming out in the breeze. Only a new ferryboat, and yet in its fitness comparable with the prettiest product of Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up in the transparent ether gracefully balanced and circled four or five great sea hawks, while here below, mid the pomp and picturesqueness of sky and river, swam this creature of artificial beauty and motion and power, in its way no less perfect."

You will notice that Walt Whitman describes the Wenonah as being white. The Pennsylvania ferryboats, as we know them, are all the brick-red color that is familiar to the present generation. Perhaps older navigators of the Camden crossing can tell us whether the boats were all painted white in a less smoky era?

The Wenonah and the Beverly were lying in the now unused ferry slip at the foot of Market Street, alongside the great Victor Talking Machine works. Picking my way through an empty yard where some carpentering was going on, I found a deserted pier that overlooked the two old vessels and gave a fair prospect on to the river and the profile of Philadelphia. Sitting there on a pile of pebbles, I lit a pipe and watched the busy panorama of the river. I made no effort to disturb the normal and congenial lassitude that is the highest function of the human being: no Hindoo philosopher could have been more pleasantly at ease. (O. Henry, one remembers, used to insist that what some of his friends called laziness was really "dignified repose.") Two elderly colored men were loading gravel onto a cart not far away. I was a little worried as to what I could say if they asked what I was doing. In these days casual loungers along docksides may be suspected of depth bombs and high treason. The only truthful reply to any question would have been that I was thinking about Walt Whitman. Such a remark, if uttered in Philadelphia, would undoubtedly have been answered by a direction to the chocolate factory on Race Street. But in Camden every one knows about Walt. Still, the colored men said nothing beyond returning my greeting. Their race, wise in simplicity, knows that loafing needs no explanation and is its own excuse.

If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so well, in New York and Philadelphia, he would find the former strangely altered in aspect. The New York skyline wears a very different silhouette against the sky, with its marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. But Philadelphia's profile is (I imagine) not much changed. I do not know just when the City Hall tower was finished: Walt speaks of it as "three-fifths built" in 1879. That, of course, is the dominant unit in the view from Camden. Otherwise there are few outstanding elements. The gradual rise in height of the buildings, from Front Street gently ascending up to Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation to catch the gaze. The spires of the older churches stand up like soft blue pencils, and the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel buildings catch the sunlight. Otherwise the outline is even and well-massed in a smooth ascending curve.

It is curious how a man can stamp his personality upon earthly things. There will always be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Delaware ferries are full of excitement and meaning because of Walt Whitman. Just as Stratford is Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman. Some supercilious observers, flashing through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a town in which there is no delirious and seizing beauty. Let us remind them of Walt's own words:

A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world.

And as I came back across the river, and an airplane hovered over us at a great height, I thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, a poet who can catch the heart and meaning of these grievous bitter years, who can make plain the surging hopes that throb in the breasts of men. The world has not flung itself into agony without some unexpressed vision that lights the sacrifice. If Walt Whitman were here he would look on this new world of moving pictures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell us what it means. His great heart, which with all its garrulous fumbling had caught the deep music of human service and fellowship, would have had true and fine words for us. And yet he would have found it a hard world for one of his strolling meditative observancy. A speeding motor truck would have run him down long ago!

As I left the ferry at Market Street I saw that the Norwegian steamer Taunton was unloading bananas at the Ericsson pier. Less than a month ago she picked up the survivors of the schooner Madrugada, torpedoed by a U-boat off Winter Bottom Shoal. On the Madrugada was a young friend of mine, a Dutch sailor, who told me of the disaster after he was landed in New York. To come unexpectedly on the ship that had rescued him seemed a great adventure. What a poem Walt Whitman could have made of it!

II

It is a weakness of mine—not a sinful one, I hope—that whenever I see any one reading a book in public I am agog to find out what it is. Crossing over to Camden this morning a young woman on the ferry was absorbed in a volume, and I couldn't resist peeping over her shoulder. It was "Hans Brinker." On the same boat were several schoolboys carrying copies of Myers' "History of Greece." Quaint, isn't it, how our schools keep up the same old bunk! What earthly use will a smattering of Greek history be to those boys? Surely to our citizens of the coming generation the battles of the Marne will be more important than the scuffle at Salamis.

My errand in Camden was to visit the house on Mickle Street where Walt Whitman lived his last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer, a friendly Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer graciously allowed me to go through the downstairs rooms.

I don't suppose any literary shrine on earth is of more humble and disregarded aspect than Mickle Street. It is a little cobbled byway, grimed with drifting smoke from the railway yards, littered with wind-blown papers and lined with small wooden and brick houses sooted almost to blackness. It is curious to think, as one walks along that bumpy brick pavement, that many pilgrims from afar have looked forward to visiting Mickle Street as one of the world's most significant altars. As Chesterton wrote once, "We have not yet begun to get to the beginning of Whitman." But the wayfarer of to-day will find Mickle Street far from impressive.