No, I said; in a hardwood thicket, in October, though it were the misty mid region of Weir, one would not know the sun was lost in clouds. At that moment the sun adventured forth, in blazing denial. It was as if the woodland had burst into flame.

* * *

As a variation of the story about the merchant who couldn't keep a certain article because so many people asked for it, we submit the following: A lady entered the rural drugstore which we patronize and said, "Mr. Blank, I want a bath spray." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Jones," sezze, "but the bath spray is sold."

* * *

IN A DEPARTMENT STORE.

Customer—"I want to look at some tunics."

Irish Floorwalker—"We don't carry musical instruments."

* * *

That Tennessee congressman who was arrested charged with operating an automobile while pifflicated, would reply that when he voted for prohibition he was representing his constituents, not his private thirst. Have we not, many times, in the good old days in Vermont, seen representatives rise with difficulty from their seats to cast their vote for prohibition? One can be pretty drunk and still be able to articulate "Ay."

* * *

A new drug, Dihydroxyphenylethylmethylamine, sounds as if all it needed was a raisin.

* * *

The Gluck aria, which Mme. Homer has made famous, was effectively cited by the critic Hanslick to show that in vocal music the subject is determined only by the words. He wrote:

"At a time when thousands (among whom there were men like Jean Jacques Rousseau) were moved to tears by the air from 'Orpheus'—

'J'ai perdu mon Eurydice, Rien n'egale mon malheur,'

Boye, a contemporary of Gluck, observed that precisely the same melody would accord equally well, if not better, with words conveying exactly the reverse, thus—

'J'ai trouve mon Eurydice, Rien n'egale mon bonheur.'

"We, for our part, are not of the opinion that in this case the composer is quite free from blame, inasmuch as music most assuredly possesses accents which more truly express a feeling of profound sorrow. If however, from among innumerable instances, we selected the one quoted, we have done so because, in the first place, it affects the composer who is credited with the greatest dramatic accuracy; and, secondly, because several generations hailed this very melody as most correctly rendering the supreme grief which the words express."

* * *

Arthur Shattuck sued for appreciation in Fond du Lac the other evening, playing, according to the Reporter, "a plaintiff melody with great tenderness." The jury returned a verdict in his favor without leaving their seats.

* * *

Reports of famine in China have recalled a remark about its excessive population. If the Chinese people were to file one by one past a given point the procession would never come to an end. Before the last man of those living to-day had gone by another generation would have grown up.

* * *

"Say it with handkerchiefs," advertises a merchant in Goshen, Ind. That is, if the idea you wish to convey is that you have a cold in your head.

* * *

THE SOIL OF KANSAS.

[From the Kansas Farmer.]

Formed by the polyps of a shallow, summer sea; fixed by the subtile chemistry of the air, and comminuted by the AEolian geology of the Great Plains, the soil of Kansas has been one of man's richest possessions.

Why prose? The soil of Kansas, the Creator's masterpiece, invites to song. Frinstance—

Formed by the polyps of a summer sea, Fixed by the subtile chemistry of air, Ground by AEolian geology, The soil of Kansas is beyond compare!

* * *

THE GOOD OLD DAYS.

Sir: An old stage hand at the Eau Claire opry house was talking. "No, sir, you don't see the actors to-day like we used to. Why, when Booth and Barrett played here you could hear them breathe way up in the fly gallery."

E. C. M.

* * *

"WHAT THE LA HELLE!"

[From the Kankakee Republican.]

He helped tramp the old Hindenburg line, but this time, beating it on the strains of "Allons enfant de la Patrie le Jour de Gloire est de Triomphe et Arrivee!"

* * *

Here is a characteristic bit of Vermontese that we picked up. A native was besought to saw some wood, but he declined. The owner of the wood offered double price for the sawing, and still the native declined. He was pressed for a reason, and this was it: "Damned if I'll humor a man."

* * *

"It is not moral. It is immoral," declared an editorial colleague; and a reader is reminded of Lex Iconles, the old Greek baker of Grammer's Gap, Ark., who used to display in his window the enticing sign: "Doughnuts. Different and yet not the same."

* * *

The mind of man is subject to many strange delusions, and one of these is that the stock market has a bottom.

* * *

The manufacturer of a certain automobile advertises that his vehicle "will hold five ordinary people." And, as a matter of fact, it usually does.

* * *

The Westminster Gazette headlines "The Intolerable Dullness of Country Life in Ireland." And Irene wonders what they would call excitement.

* * *

An advertisement of dolls mentions, superfluously, that "some may not last the day." One does not expect them to.

* * *

The London Mendicity Society estimates that L100,000 is given away haphazard every year to street beggars, and that the average beggar probably earns more than the average working man. There is talk of the beggars forming a union. A beggars' strike would be a fearsome thing.

* * *

I want to be a diplomat And with the envoys stand, A-wetting of my whistle in A desiccated land.



The London Busman Story.

I.—As George Meredith might have related it.

"Stop!" she signalled.

The appeal was comprehensible, and the charioteer, assiduously obliging, fell to posture of checking none too volant steeds.

You are to suppose her past meridian, nearer the twilight of years, noteworthy rather for matter than manner; and her visage, comparable to the beef of England's glory, well you wot. This one's descent was mincing, hesitant, adumbrating dread of disclosures—these expectedly ample, columnar, massive. The day was gusty, the breeze prankant; petticoats, bandbox, umbrella were to be conciliated, managed if possible; no light task, you are to believe.

"'Urry, marm!"

The busman's tone was patiently admonitory, dispassionate. A veteran in his calling, who had observed the ascending and descending of a myriad matrons, in playful gales.

"'Urry, marm!"

The fellow was without illusions; he had reviewed more twinkling columns than a sergeant of drill. Indifference his note, leaning to ennui. He said so, bluntly, piquantly, in half a dozen memorable words, fetching yawn for period.

The lady jerked an indignant exclamation, and completed, rosily precipitate, her passage to the pave.

II.—As Henry James might have written it.

We, let me ask, what are we, the choicer of spirits as well as the more frugal if not the undeservedly impoverished, what, I ask, are we to do now that the hansom has disappeared, as they say, from the London streets and the taxicab so wonderfully yet extravagantly taken its place? Is there, indeed, else left for us than the homely but hallowed 'bus, as we abbreviatedly yet all so affectionately term it—the 'bus of one's earlier days, when London was new to the unjaded sensorium and "Europe" was so wonderfully, so beautifully dawning on one's so avid and sensitive consciousness?

And fate, which has left us the 'bus—but oh, in what scant and shabby measure!—has left us, too, the weather that so densely yet so congruously "goes with it"—the weather adequately enough denoted by the thick atmosphere, the slimy pavements, the omnipresent unfurled umbrella and the stout, elderly woman intent upon gaining, at cost of whatever risk or struggle, her place and portion among the moist miscellany to whom the dear old 'bus— But perhaps I have lost the thread of my sentence.

Ah, yes—that "stout, elderly woman"; so superabundant whether as a type or as an individual; so prone—or "liable"—to impinge tyrannously upon the consciousness of her fellow-traveller, and in no less a degree upon that of the public servant, who, from his place aloft, guides, as it is phrased, the destinies of the conveyance. It was, indeed, one of the most notable of these—a humble friend of my own—who had the fortune to make the acute, recorded, historic observation which, with the hearty, pungent, cursory brevity and point of his class and metier—the envy of the painstaking, voluminous analyst and artist of our period— But again I stray.

She was climbing up, or climbing down, perplexed equally, as I gather, by the management of her parapluie and of her—enfin, her petticoats. The candid anxiety of her round, underdone face, as she so wonderfully writhed to maintain the standard of pudicity dear—even vital—to the matron of the British Isles appealed—vividly, though mutely—to the forbearance that, seeing, would still seem not to see, her foot, her ankle, her mollet—as I early learned to say in Paris, where, however, so exigent a modesty is scarcely ... well, scarcely.

"Madam," the gracious fellow said in effect, "ne vous genez pas." Then he went on to assure her briefly that he was an elderly man; that he had "held the ribbons," as they phrase it, for several years; that many were the rainy days in London; that each of these placed numerous women—elderly or younger—in the same involuntary predicament as that from which she herself had suffered; and that so far as he personally was concerned he had long since ceased to take any extreme delight in the— Bref, he was charming; he renewed my fading belief—fading, as I had thought, disastrously but immitigably—in the capacity of the Anglo-Saxon for esprit; and I am glad indeed to have taken a line or so to record his mot.

III.—As finally elucidated by Arnold Bennett.

Maria Wickwyre, of the Five Towns, emerged from muddy Bombazine Lane and stood in the rain and wind at Pie Corner, eighty-four yards from the door of St. Jude's chapel, in the Strand. She was in London! Yes, she was on that spot, she and none other. It might have been somewhere else; it might have been somebody else. But it wasn't. Wonderful! The miracle of Life overcame her.

She had arms. Two of them. They were big and round, like herself. One held a large parcel ("package" for the American edition); the other, an umbrella. She also had two legs. She stood on them. If they had been absent, or if they had weakened, she would have collapsed. But they held her up. Ah, the mysteries of existence! More than ever was she conscious of her firm, strong underpinning. Maria waved her umbrella and her parcel and stopped a 'bus. The driver was elderly, wrinkled, weatherbeaten. Maria got in and rode six furlongs and some yards to Mooge Road, and then she stopped the 'bus to get out.

If she was conscious of her upper members and their charges, she was still more conscious of her lower ones. If she had her parcel and her umbrella to think about, she also had her stockings and petticoats to consider. The wind blew, the rain drizzled, the driver looked around, wondering why Maria didn't get out and have done with it.

"If he should see them!" she gasped. (You know what she meant by "them.") Her round, broad face mutely implored the 'busman to look the other way.

He wearily closed his eyes. He had been rumbling through the Strand for thirty years. "Lor', mum," he said, "legs ain't no treat to me!"

Maria collapsed, after all, and took the 4:29 for home that same afternoon.



A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO

Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may.

APRILLY.

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote The droghte of March had perced to the roote, I druv a motor thro' Aprille's bliz Somme forty mile, and dam neere lyke to friz.

* * *

Harriet reports the first trustworthy sign of spring: friend husband on the back porch Sunday morning removing last year's mud from his golf shoes.

* * *

Old Doc Oldfield of London prescribes dandelion leaves, eggs, lettuce, milk, and a few other things for people who would live long, and a Massachusetts centenarian offers, as her formula, "Don't worry and don't over-eat." But we, whose mission is to enlighten the world, rather than to ornament it, are more influenced by the experiment of Herbert Spencer. Persuaded to a vegetarian diet, he stuck at it for six months. Then reading over what he had written during that time, he thrust the manuscript into the fire and ordered a large steak with fried potatoes and mushrooms.

* * *

"SPRING HAS COME..."

The trees were rocked by April's blast; A frozen robin fell, And twittered, as he breathed his last, "Lykelle, lykelle, lykelle."

* * *

BYRON WROTE MOST OF THIS.

[From the Monticello Times.]

Julf Husman, who has been busy for the past several months, building a fine new house and barn, celebrated their completion with a barn dance Wednesday night. "The beauty and chivalry" of Wayne and adjoining townships attended, and did "chase the glowing hours with flying feet," with as much enthusiasm and pleasure as did the guests "When Belgium's capital had gathered then and bright the lamps shone over fair women and brave men."

* * *

A CANNERY DANCE.

[From the Iowa City Press.]

"Fair women and brave men" circled hither and thither in the maze of the stately waltz and the festal two-step, and the dainty slippers kept graceful time with the strains of the exceptionally fine music of the hour. Lovely young women, with roses in their cheeks and their hair, caught the reflection of the radiant electric lights and the glory of the superb decorations, and their natural pulchritude was enhanced in impressiveness thereby. The "frou frou" of silks and satins; the enchanting orchestral offerings; the brilliant illuminations; the alluring decorations, and the intoxication of the dance made the event one of the most markedly successful in the history of the university.

* * *

FOR THE LAST DAY OF MARCH.

Just before you go to bed, Push the clock an hour ahead.

Little Mary.

* * *

Don't forget to set the time locks on your safes ahead an hour. Otherwise you'll be all mixed up.

* * *

At Ye Olde Colonial Inn, according to the Aurora Beacon-News, a special "Table de Haute" dinner was served last Sunday. And the Gem restaurant in St. Louis tells the world: "Our famous steaks tripled our seating capacity."

* * *

CHANCES, 2; ERRORS, 2.

Sir: While in the Hotel Dyckman I noted a sign recommending the 85c dinner in the "Elizabethian Room." After a search I found the place, duly labeled "Elizabethean Room."

D. K. M.

* * *

Just what does the trade jargon mean, "Experience essential but not necessary"? We see it frequently in the advertising columns.

* * *

A variant of the form, "experience essential but not necessary," is used by the Racine Times-Call, as follows:

"Wanted, secretary-treasurer for a local music corporation; must also have a knowledge of music, but not essential."

* * *

As curious as the advertising form, "experience essential but not necessary," is the form used by the Daily News: "Responsible for no debts contracted by no other than myself."

* * *

The provincialism indicated by the title of the pop song, "Good bye, Broadway! Hello, France!" reminds us of the headline in a New York paper some years ago: "Halley's Comet Rushing on New York."

* * *

"The love, the worship of truth is the most essential thing in journalism," says the editor of Le Matin. Or, as the ads read, "love of truth essential but not necessary."

* * *

The Hopkinsville, Ky., News is a Negro paper, and its motto is: "Man is made of clay, and like a meerschaum pipe is more valuable when highly colored."

* * *

From the letter of a colored gentleman of leisure, apropos of his wife's suit for divorce: "P. S.: Also, honey, i hope while others have your company i may have your heart." Here is a refrain for a sentimental song.

* * *

SMACK! SMACK!

Sir: May I suggest that the matrimonial bureau of the Academy take steps to introduce Miss Irene V. Smackem of Washington, D.C., and Mr. Kissinger of Fergus Falls, Minn.? They would make a perfect pair.

Kaye.

* * *

MARCH.

With heart of gold and yellow frill, Arcturus, like a daffodil, Now dances in the field of gray Upon the East at close of day; A joyous harbinger to bring The many promises of spring!

W.

* * *

If no one else cares, the compositor and proof reader will be interested to know that Ignacy Seczupakiewicz brought suit in Racine against Praxida Seczupakiewicz.

* * *

Referring to Beethoven's anniversary, Ernest Newman remarks that "a truly civilized community would probably celebrate a centenary by prohibiting all performances of the master's works for three or five years, so that the public's deadening familiarity with them might wear off. That would be the greatest service it could do him."

* * *

Newman, by the way, is a piano-player fan, contending that when the principles of beautiful tone production are understood, mechanical means will probably come nearer to perfection than the human hand. Mr. Arthur Whiting, considering the horseless pianoforte some time ago, was also enthusiastic. The h. p. is entirely self-possessed, and has even more platform imperturbability than the applauded virtuoso. "After a few introductory sounds, which have nothing to do with the music, and without relaxing the lines of its inscrutable face, the insensate artist proceeds to show its power. Its security puts all hand playing to shame; it never hesitates, it surmounts the highest difficulties without changing a clutch."

* * *

Dixon's Elks were entertained t'other evening by the Artists Trio, and the Telegraph observes that "one of the remarkable facts concerning this company is that while they are finished artists they nevertheless are delightful entertainers."

* * *

We seldom listen to a canned-music machine, but when we do we realize the great educational value of the discs. They advise us (especially the records of singing comedians) what to avoid.

* * *

The prejudices against German music will deprive many gluttons for punishment of the opportunity to hear "Parsifal." We remember one lady who was concerned because Dalmores stood for a long time with his back to the audience. "Why does he have to do that?" she asked her companion. "Because," was the answer, "he shot the Holy Grail."

* * *

At a concert in Elmira, N. Y., according to the Telegram, William Kincade sang "Tolstoi's Good Bye." Some one sings it every now and then.

* * *

Among the forty-six professors removed from the universities of Greece were, we understand, all those holding the chair of Greek. Another blow at the classics.

* * *

LITERATURE.

A great deal of very good writing has been done by invalids, but it is not likely that anybody ever produced a line worth remembering while suffering with a plain cold.

* * *

We were saying to our friend Dr. Empedocles that we kept our enthusiasms green by never taking anything very seriously. "That's interesting," said he: "I, too, have kept my enthusiasm fresh, and I have always taken everything seriously." The two notions seemed irreconcilable, but we presently agreed that by having a great number and variety of enthusiasms one is not likely to ride any of them to death. We all know persons who wear out an enthusiasm by taking it as solemnly as they would a religious rite.

* * *

We were sure that the headline, "Mint at Chicago Greatly Needed, Houston Says," would inspire more than one reader to remark that the mint is the least important part of the combination.

* * *

We are reminded of the experience of a friend who has a summer place in Connecticut. At church the pastor announced a fund for some war charity, and asked for contributions. Our friend sent in fifty dollars, and a few days later inquired of the pastor how much money had been raised, "Fifty-five dollars and seventy-five cents," was the answer. The pastor had contributed five dollars.

* * *

SONG.

[In the manner of Laura Blackburn.]

I quested Love with timid feet, And many qualms and perturbations— Hoping yet fearing we should meet, Because I knew my limitations.

When Love I spied I fetched a sigh— A sigh a Tristan might expire on: "I must apologize," said I, "For not resembling Georgie Byron."

Love laughed and said, "You know I'm blind," And pinched my ear, the little cutie! "Her heart and yours shall be entwined, Tho' you were twice as shy on beauty."

* * *

Throwing self-interest to the winds, a Chicago sweetshop advertises: "That we may have a part in the effort to bring back normal conditions and reduce the high cost of living, our prices on chocolates and bon-bons are now one dollar and fifty cents per pound."

* * *

Persons who are so o. f. as to like rhyme with their poetry may discover another reason for their preference in the following passage, which Edith Wyatt quotes from Oscar Wilde:

"Rime, that exquisite echo which in the Muse's hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rime, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material element of material beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rime which can turn man's utterance to the speech of gods"—

* * *

We promised Miss Wyatt that the next time we happened on the parody of Housman's "Lad," we would reprint it; and yesterday we stumbled on it. Voila!—

THE BELLS OF FROGNAL LANE.

They sound for early Service The bells of Frognal Lane; And I am thinking of the day I shot my cousin Jane.

At Frognal Lane the Service Begins at half-past eight, And some folk get there early While others turn up late.

But, come they late or early, I ne'er shall be again The careless chap of days gone by Before I murdered Jane.

* * *

We have been looking over "Forms Suggested for Telegraph Messages," issued by the Western Union. While more humorous than perhaps was intended, they fall short of the forms suggested by Max Beerbohm, in "How Shall I Word It?" As for example:

LETTER IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WEDDING PRESENT.

Dear Lady Amblesham,

Who gives quickly, says the old proverb, gives twice. For this reason I have purposely delayed writing to you, lest I should appear to thank you more than once for the small, cheap, hideous present you sent me on the occasion of my recent wedding. Were you a poor woman, that little bowl of ill-imitated Dresden china would convict you of tastelessness merely; were you a blind woman, of nothing but an odious parsimony. As you have normal eyesight and more than normal wealth, your gift to me proclaims you at once a Philistine and a miser (or rather did so proclaim you until, less than ten seconds after I had unpacked it from its wrappings of tissue paper, I took it to the open window and had the satisfaction of seeing it shattered to atoms on the pavement). But stay! I perceive a flaw in my argument. Perhaps you were guided in your choice by a definite wish to insult me. I am sure, on reflection, that this is so. I shall not forget.

Yours, etc. Cynthia Beaumarsh.

PS. My husband asks me to tell you to warn Lord Amblesham to keep out of his way or to assume some disguise so complete that he will not be recognized by him and horsewhipped.

PPS. I am sending copies of this letter to the principal London and provincial newspapers.

* * *

We hope that Max Beerbohm read far enough in Bergson to appreciate what Mr. Santayana says of that philosopher. He seems to feel, wrote G. S. (we quote from memory), that all systems of philosophy existed in order to pour into him, which is hardly true, and that all future systems would flow out of him, which is hardly necessary.

* * *

To a great number of people all reasoning and comment is superficial that is not expressed in the jargon of sociology and political economy. Expand a three-line paragraph in that manner and it becomes profound.

* * *

SING A SONG OF SPRINGTIME.

Sing a song of springtime, things begin to grow; Four and twenty bluebirds darting to and fro; When the morning opened the birds began to sing. Wasn't that a pretty day to set before a king!

The King was on the golf links, chopping up the ground; The Queen was in the garden, planting seeds around. When the King returned, after many wasted hours, "Don't ever say," the Queen exclaimed, "that you are fond of flowers."

* * *

Mike Neckyoke drives a taxi in Rhinelander, Wis., and you have only one guess at what he used to drive.

* * *

From Philadelphia comes word of the nuptials of Mr. Tunis and Miss Fisch. Tunis, we leapingly conclude, is the masculine form!

* * *

We have the card of another chimney sweep, who is "sole agent for wind in chimneys and furnaces." His name is MacDraft, which may be another nom de flume.

* * *

The anti-fat brigade may be intrigued to learn that Mr. George Squibb of Wareham, Eng., sought death in the sea at Swanage, but was unable to stay under the water because of his corpulence.

* * *

Not long ago a mule broke a leg by kicking a man in the head, and this week a horse broke a leg in the same way; in each case the man was not seriously injured. Is this merely luck, or is evolution modifying the human coco?

* * *

More building is the solution of the unemployment problem. The unemployed are never so occupied and contented as when watching the construction of a sky-scraper.

* * *

Her publishers having announced that Ellen Glasgow has "gone into leather," Keith Preston explains that going into leather is "like receiving the accolade, taking the veil, or joining the American Academy of Arts and Letters." And we suppose that when one goes into ooze leather, or is padded, one may be said to be fini.

* * *

A FEW MORE "BEST BAD LINES."

Why leapest thou, Why leapest thou So high within my breast? Oh, stay thee now, Oh, stay thee now, Thou little bounder, rest!

—Ruskin (at 12).

Something had happened wrong about a bill, Which was not drawn with true mercantile skill, So to amend it I was told to go To seek the firm of Clutterbuck & Co.

—George Crabbe.

But let me not entirely overlook The pleasure gathered from the rudiments Of geometric science.

—Wordsworth.

Israel in ancient days Not only had a view Of Sinai in a blaze, But heard the Gospel too.

—Cowper.

Flashed from his bed the electric message came; He is no better; he is much the same.

—A Cambridge prize poem.

* * *

A household hinter advises that "if the thin white curtains blow into the gas and catch fire sew small lead weights into the seams." Before doing this, however, it would be wise to turn in an alarm.

* * *

The orchestra was playing too loud to suit the manager, so he complained to the leader. "The passage is written in forte," said the latter. "Well, make it about thirty-five."

* * *

SEIZE HIM, SCOUTS!

Sir: I submit for the consideration of the new school of journalism the following, recently perpetrated by an aspiring young journalist: "Information has been received that Mrs. Blank, who was spending a vacation of several weeks in Colorado, was killed in an automobile accident over long distance telephone by her husband."

Calcitrosus.

* * *

"THAT'S GOOD."

Sir: A man and three girls were waiting for the bus. The driver slowed up long enough to call, "Full house!" "Three queens!" responded the waiting cit, and turned disgustedly away.

X. T. C.

* * *

WHY BANK CLERKS ARE TIRED.

Sir: Voice over the telephone: "Please send me two check books."

B. C.: "Large or small?"

V. o. t. t.: "Well, I don't write such very large checks, but sometimes they amount to a hundred dollars."

Jane.

* * *

"Why not make room for daddy?" queries the editor of the Emporia Gazette, with a break in his voice. Daddy, we hardly need say, is the silently suffering member of the household who hasn't a large closet all to himself, with rows of, shiny hooks on which to hang his duds.

Ah, yes, why not make room for daddy? It is impossible to contemplate daddy's pathetic condition without bursting into tears. Votes for women? Huh! Hooks for men!

* * *

"NATION-WIDE."

How anybody can abide That punk expression, "nation-wide"—

How one can view unhorrified That vile locution, nation-wide,

I cannot see. I almost died When first I spotted nation-wide.

On every hand, on every side, On every page, is nation-wide.

To everything it is applied; No matter what, it's nation-wide.

The daily paper's pet and pride: They simply dote on nation-wide.

It seems if each with t'other vied To make the most of nation-wide.

No doubt the proof-room Argus-eyed Approves the "style" of nation-wide.

My colleagues fall for it, but I'd Be damned if I'd use nation-wide.

It gets my goat, and more beside, That phrase atrocious, nation-wide.

Abomination double-dyed, Away, outrageous "nation-wide"!

* * *

Speaking of local color, B. Humphries Brown and Bonnie Blue were wedded in Indianapolis.

* * *

Married, in Evansville, Ind., Ellis Shears and Golden Lamb. Something might be added about wool-gathering.

* * *

Embarrassed by the riches of modern literature at our elbow, we took refuge in Jane Austen, and re-read "Mansfield Park," marvelling again at its freshness. They who hold that Mark Twain was not a humorist, or that he was at best an incomplete humorist, have an argument in his lack of appreciation of Jane Austen.

* * *

One of the most delightful things about the author of "Mansfield Park" that we have seen lately is an extract from "Personal Aspects of Jane Austen," by Miss Austen-Leigh. "Each of the novels," she says, "gives a description, closely interwoven with the story and concerned with its principal characters, of error committed, conviction following, and improvement effected, all of which may be summed up in the word 'Repentance.'"

* * *

Almost as good is Miss Austen-Leigh's contradiction of the statement that sermons wearied Jane. She quotes the author's own words: "I am very fond of Sherlock's Sermons, and prefer them to almost any." What a lot of amusement she must have had, shooting relatives and friends through the hat!

* * *

Was there ever a character more delightfully detestable than Mrs. Norris? Was there ever another character presented, so alive and breathing, in so few pen strokes? Jane Austen had no need of psychoanalysis.

* * *

As for William Lyons Phelps' remark, which a contrib has quoted, that "too much modern fiction is concerned with unpleasant characters whom one would not care to have as friends," how would you like to spend a week-end with the characters in "The Mayor of Casterbridge"? With the exception of the lady in "Two on a Tower," and one or two others, Mr. Hardy's characters are not the sort that one would care to be cast away with; yet will we sit the night out, book in hand, to follow their sordid fortunes.

* * *

"What I want to know is," writes Fritillaria, "whether you think Jane Austen drew Edmund and Fanny for models, or knew them for the unconscionable prigs they are. I am collecting votes." Well, we think that Jane knew they were prigs, but nevertheless had, like ourself, a warm affection for Fanny. Fanny Price, Elizabeth Bennet, and Anne (we forget her last name) are three of the dearest girls in fiction.

* * *

We are reminded by F. B. T. that the last name of the heroine of "Persuasion" was Elliott. Anne is our favorite heroine—except when we think of Clara Middleton.

* * *

Space has been reserved for us in the archaeological department of the Field Museum for Pre-Dry wheezes, which should be preserved for a curious posterity. We have filed No. 1, which runs:

"First Comedian: 'Well, what made you get drunk in the first place?' Second Comedian: 'I didn't get drunk in the first place. I got drunk in the last place.'"

* * *

Our budding colyumist (who, by the way, has not thanked us for our efforts in his behalf) will want that popular restaurant gag: "Use one lump of sugar and stir like hell. We don't mind the noise."

* * *

"What," queries R. W. C., "has become of the little yellow crabs that floated in the o. f. oyster stew?" Junsaypa. We never found out what became of the little gold safety pins that used to come with neckties.

* * *

An innovation at the Murdock House in Shawano, Wis., is "Bouillon in cups," instead of the conventional tin dipper.

* * *

By the way, has any candid merchant ever advertised a Good Riddance Sale?

* * *

Much has been written about Mr. Balfour in the last twelvemonth; and Mr. Balfour himself has published a book, a copy of which we are awaiting with more or less impatience. Mr. Balfour is not considered a success as a statesman, because he has always looked upon politics merely as a game; and Frank Harris once wrote that if A. B. had had to work for a living he might have risen to original thought—whatever that may imply.

* * *

What we have always marveled at is Balfour's capacity for mental detachment. In the first year of the war he found time to deliver, extempore, the Gifford lectures, and in the next year he published "Theism and Humanism." It is said, of course, that he had a great gift for getting or allowing other people to do his work in the war council and the admiralty; but that does not entirely explain his brimming mind.

* * *

"There is a fine old man," as one of our readers reported his Irish gardener as saying of A. B. "Did you know Mr. Balfour?" he was asked. "Did I know him?" was the reply. "Didn't I help rotten-egg him in Manchester twinty-five years ago!"

* * *

Col. Fanny Butcher relates that the average reader who patronizes the New York public library prefers Conan Doyle's detective stories to any others. Quite naturally. There is more artistry in Poe, and the tales about the Frenchman, Arsene Lupin, are ten times more ingenious than Doyle's; but Doyle has infused the adventures of Sherlock Holmes with the undefinable something known as romance, and that has preserved them. The great majority of detective stories are merely ingenious.

* * *

Col. Butcher says she uses "The Crock of Gold" to test the minds of people. A friend of ours employs "Zuleika Dobson" for the same purpose. What literary acid do you apply?

* * *

Our compliments to Mrs. Borah, who possesses a needed sense of humor. "If," she is reported as saying to her husband, "if it were not for the pleasures of life you might enjoy it."

* * *

A librarian confides to us that she was visited by a young lady who wished to see a large map of France. She was writing a paper on the battlefields of France for a culture club, and she just couldn't find Flanders' Fields and No Man's Land on any of the maps in her books.

* * *

A sign, reported by B. R. J., in a Cedar Rapids bank announces: "We loan money on Liberty bonds. No other security required." Showing that here and there you will find a banker who is willing to take a chance.

* * *

The first object of the National Parks association is "to fearlessly defend the national parks and monuments against assaults of private interests." May we not hope that the w. k. infinitive also may be preserved intact?

* * *

A missionary from the Chicago Woman's Club lectured in Ottawa on better English and less slang, and the local paper headed its story: "Bum Jabber Binged on Beezer by Jane With Trick Lingo."

* * *

Young Grimes tells us that he would like to share in the advantages of Better Speech weeks, but does not know where to begin. We have started him off with the word "February." If at the end of the week he can pronounce it Feb-ru-ary we shall give him the word "address."

* * *

"This, being Better English week, everyone is doing their best to improve their English."—Quincy, Mich., Herald.

Still, Jane Austen did it.

* * *

BETTER ENGLISH IN THE BEANERY.

Waiter: "Small on two—well!"

Chef: "Small well on two!"

Tip.

* * *

HAPPY THOUGHT.

This world is so full of a number of singers, We need not be bluffed any longer by ringers.



The Magic Kit.

A FAIRY TALE FOR SYMPATHETIC ELDERS.

I.

Once upon a time, not far removed from yesterday, there lived a poor book reviewer named Abner Skipp. He was a kindly man and an excellent husband and a most congenial soul to chat with, for he possessed a store of information on the most remote and bootless subjects drawn from his remarkable library—an accumulation of volumes sent to him for review, and which he had been unable to dispose of to the dealers in second-hand books. For you are to understand that too little literary criticism is done on a cash basis. Occasionally a famous author, like Mr. Howells, is paid real money to write something about Mr. James, or Mr. James is substantially rewarded for writing about Mr. Howells, and heads of departments and special workers are handsomely remunerated; but the journeyman reviewer is paid in books; and these are the source of his income.

Thus, every morning in the busy season, or perhaps once a week when trade was dull, Abner Skipp journeyed from the suburbs to the city with his pack of books on his back, and made the rounds of the second-hand shops, disposing of his wares for whatever they would fetch. Novels, especially what are known as the "best sellers," commanded good prices if they were handled, like fruit, without delay; but they were such perishable merchandise that oftentimes a best seller was dead before Abner could get it to market; and as he frequently reviewed the same novel for half a dozen employers, and therefore had half a dozen copies of it in his pack, the poor wretch was sadly out of pocket, being compelled to sell the dead ones to the junkman for a few pennies.

Abner Skipp was an industrious artisan and very skillful at his trade; working at top speed, he could review more than a hundred books in a day of eight hours. In a contest of literary critics held in Madison Square Garden, New York, Abner won first prize in all three events—reviewing by publisher's slip, reviewing by cover, and reviewing by title page. But shortly after this achievement he had had the misfortune to sprain his right arm in reviewing a new edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which accident so curtailed his earning power that he fell behind in a money way, and was compelled to mortgage his home. But Abner Skipp was a cheerful, buoyant soul; and as his arm grew better and he was again able to wield the implements of his trade, he set bravely to work to mend his broken fortunes.

II.

If Abner Skipp had had nothing but popular novels to review he would assuredly have perished of starvation, but frequently he received a medical work, or a history, or a volume of sportive philosophy by William James, or some such valuable work, which he could sell for a round sum. There was always plenty to do—all the best magazines employed him, and twice in the year—a month in spring and a month in fall—books came to him in such numbers that the expressman dumped them into the house through a shute like so many coals.

Mrs. Skipp assisted her husband all she could, but being a frail little woman she was able to work on only the lightest fiction. Angelica, the oldest daughter, cleared the book bin of a good deal of poetry and gift books, and even Grandpa Skipp was intrusted with a few juveniles.

But none of the family was more helpful than little Harold, who, after school time, worked side by side with his father, trimming the ready made review slips which publishers send out with books, and seeing that the paste pot never got empty or the paste too thick. Harold, as his father often proudly observed, was a born book reviewer. From infancy it was observed that the outside of a book always interested him more than the inside, and once when his school teacher directed him to write a sentence containing the word "book," he wrote: "The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated."

One evening, in the very busiest week of the busy season, little Harold's was the only bright face at the supper table. Abner Skipp had had a bad day in the city; Mrs. Skipp and Angelica were exhausted from reviewing and household cares, and Grandpa was peevish because Abner had taken the "Pea Green Fairy Book" away from him and given him instead a "Child's History of the Congo Free State."

"What is the matter, Abner?" his wife asked him when the others of the family had retired. "Does your arm hurt you again?"

"No, wife," replied Abner Skipp. "My arm does not trouble me; I have handled only the lightest literature for the last fortnight. Alas! it is the same old worry. The interest on the mortgage will be due again next week, and in spite of the fact that the cellar is so full of books that I can scarcely get into it, we have not a dollar above the sum required to meet our monthly bills."

III.

"Alas!" exclaimed the hapless Abner Skipp, next morning, "it seems as if nothing was being published this fall except popular novels, and I obtained an average of less than twenty cents on the last sackload I took to town, not counting the dead ones which I sold to the junkman."

"If only there were some way of keeping them alive for a few days longer!" said Mrs. Skipp. "If one could only stimulate the heart action by injecting strychnine!"

"Or even embalm them," said Abner, sharing his wife's grewsome humor. "But no; it is impossible to deceive a second-hand bookseller. He seems to know to the minute when a novel is dead, and declines to turn his shop into a literary morgue." The poor man sighed. "If my employers would send me a few volumes of biography, or an encyclopedia, or a set of Shakespeare, we could easily meet the interest on the mortgage."

"I wish, Abner, that I could be of more help to you," said Mrs. Skipp. "If I could break myself of the habit of glancing at the last chapter of a novel before reviewing it, I could do ever so many more. Angelica is even more thoughtless than I. The poor child declares that some of the stories look so interesting that she forgets her work completely and actually begins to read them. As for Grandpa, he always was a great reader, and consequently has no head at all for reviewing."

"If Harold were a few years older——" mused Abner. "But there, wife, we must not spend in vain repining the scant hours allotted to us for sleep. Perhaps the expressman will bring us some scientific books to-morrow. Quite a number were on Appletree's fall list."

Abner Skipp kissed his wife affectionately, and presently the house was dark and still. Mrs. Skipp, worn out by the day's work, went quickly to sleep; but Abner, haunted by the mortgage, passed a restless night. Several times he fancied he heard a noise in the cellar, as if the expressman were dumping another ton of books into the bin. At last, just before dawn, there came a loud thump, as if a volume of Herbert Spencer's Autobiography had fallen to the floor. Getting out of bed quietly so that his weary wife should not be disturbed, Abner went to the cellar stairway and listened.

A clicking sound was distinctly audible, and a faint light gleamed below.

IV.

Cautiously descending the stair, Abner Skipp came upon so strange a sight that with difficulty he restrained himself from crying out his astonishment. Little Harold was seated before a queer mechanism, which resembled a typewriter, spinning wheel, and adding machine combined, engaged in turning the tons of books around him into reviews, as the miller's daughter spun the straw into gold, in the ancient tale of "Rumpelstiltzkin."

"Child, what does this mean?" cried the bewildered Abner Skipp. "Father," replied Harold, "I am lifting the mortgage. Not long ago I saw among the advertisements in the Saturday Home Herald an announcement of a Magic Kit for book reviewers, with a capacity of 300 books per hour. Fortunately I had enough money in my child's bank to pay the first installment on this wonderful outfit which came to-day. Is it not a marvelous invention, father? Even Grandpa could work it!" Trembling with eagerness Abner Skipp bent over the Magic Kit, while little Harold explained the working of the various parts.

To review a book all that was necessary was to press a few keys, pull a lever or two, and the thing was done. Reviewing by publisher's slip was simplicity itself; the slips were dropped into a hopper, and presently emerged neatly gummed to sheets of copy paper; and if an extract from the book were desired, a page was quickly torn out and fed in with the slip. Reviewing by title page was almost as rapid. The operator type-wrote the title, author's name, publisher, price, and number of pages, and then pulled certain levers controlling the necessary words and phrases, such as—

"This latest work is not likely to add to the author's reputation"; or—

"The book will appeal chiefly to specialists"; or—

"An excellent tale to while away an idle hour"; or—

"The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated."

"Father," said little Harold, his face glowing, "to-morrow we will hire a furniture van and take all these books to the city."

"My boy," cried Abner Skipp, folding his little son in his arms, "you are the little fairy in our home. Surely no other could have done this job more neatly or with greater dispatch; and no fairy wand could be more wonder-working than this truly Magic Kit."



A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO

"Fay ce que vouldras."

TO B. L. T.

(Quintus Horatius Flaccus loquitur.)

Maecenas sprang from royal line, You spring a Line diurnal. (Perhaps my joke is drawn too fine For readers of your journal.)

But what I started out to say, Across the gulf of ages, Is that, in our old Roman day, My patron paid me wages.

No barren wreath of fame was mine When Mac approved my stuff, But casks of good Falernian wine, And slaves and gold enough.

And last, to keep the wolf away And guard my age from harm, He gave me in his princely way My little Sabine farm.

But now, forsooth, your merry crew— O Tempora! O Mores!— What do they ever get from you— Your Laura, Pan, Dolores?

They fill the Line with verse and wheeze, To them your fame is due. What do they ever get for these? Maecenas? Ha! Ha! You?

So as I quaff my spectral wine, At ease beside the Styx, Would I contribute to the Line? Nequaquam! Nunquam! Nix!

Campion.

* * *

Our compliments to Old Man Flaccus, whose witty message reminds us to entreat contribs to be patient, as we are snowed under with offerings. For a week or more we have been trying to horn into the column with some verses of our own composing.

* * *

BRIGHT SAYINGS OF MOTHER.

My respected father came to breakfast on New Year's Day remarking that he had treated himself to a present by donning a new pair of suspenders, whereupon mother remarked: "Well braced for the New Year, as it were!"

C. T. S.

* * *

After some years of editing stories of events in high society, a gentleman at an adjacent desk believes he has learned the chief duty of a butler. It is to call the police.

* * *

"THAT STRAIN AGAIN—IT HAD A DYING SNORT."

Sir: Speaking of soft music and the pearly gates, S. T. Snortum is owner and demonstrator of the music store at St. Peter, Minnesota.

S. W. E.

* * *

Warren, O., has acquired a lady barber, and dinged if her name isn't Ethel Gillette.

* * *

No doubt the Manistee News-Advocate has its reason for running the "hogs received" news under the heading "Hotel Arrivals."

* * *

"I see by an announcement by the Columbia Mills that window shades are down," communicates W. H. B. "Can it be that the Columbia Mills people are ashamed of something?" Mebbe. Or perhaps they are fixing prices.

* * *

"For the lovamike," requests the Head Scene-Shifter, "keep the Admirable Crichton out of the Column. We have twenty-five presses, and it takes a guard at each press to prevent it from appearing Admiral Crichton."

* * *

Pittsburgh Shriners gave a minstrel show the other night, and the inspired reporter for the Post mentions that "an intermission separated the two parts and broke the monotony."

* * *

A Bach chaconne is on the orchestra programme this week. Some one remarked that he did not care for chaconnes, which moved us to quote what some one else (we think it was Herman Devries) said: "Chaconne a son gout."

* * *

"Pond and Pond Donate $500 to Union Pool Fund."—Ann Arbor item.

Quite so.

* * *

If we had not been glancing through the real estate notes we should never have known that Mystical Schriek lives in Evansville, Ind.

* * *

From the Illinois Federal Reporter: "Village of Westville vs. Albert Rainwater. Mr. Rainwater is charged with violation of the ordinance in regard to the sale of soft drinks." Can Al have added a little hard water to the mixture?

* * *

MEMORY TESTS FOR THE HOME.

Sir: Friend wife was naming authors of various well known novels, as I propounded their titles. Follows the result:

Me: "The Last Days of Pompeii." She: "Dante."

"Les Miserables." "Huguenot."

"Adam Bede." "Henry George."

"Vanity Fair." "Why, that's in Ecclesiastes."

"Ben Hur." "Rider Haggard."

"The Pilgrim's Progress." "John Barleycorn."

"Don Quixote." (No reply.)

"Waverly." "Oh, did Waverly write that?"

"Anna Karenina." "Count Leon Trotsky."

J. C.

* * *

We see by the Fargo papers that Mrs. Bernt Wick gave a dinner recently, and we hope that Miss Candle, the w. k. night nurse, was among the guests.

* * *

LEVI BEIN' A GOOD SPORT.

Sir: Levi Frost, the leading druggist of Milton Falls, Vt., set a big bottle of medicine in his show window with a sign sayin' he'd give a phonograph to anybody who could tell how many spoonfuls there was in the bottle. Jed Ballard was comin' downstreet, and when he seen the sign he went and he sez, sezzee, "Levi," sezzee, "if you had a spoon big enough to hold it all, you'd have just one spoonful in that bottle." And, by Judas Priest, Levi give him the phonograph right off.

Hiram.

* * *

"Basing his sermon on the words of Gesta Romanorum, who in 1473 said, 'What I spent I had, what I kept I lost, what I gave I have,' the Rev. Albert H. Zimmerman," etc.—Washington Post.

As students of the School of Journalism ought to know, the philosopher Gesta Romanorum was born in Sunny, Italy, although some historians claim Merry, England, and took his doctor's degree at the University of Vivela, in Labelle, France. His Latin scholarship was nothing to brag of, but he was an ingenious writer. He is best known, perhaps, as the author of the saying, "Rome was not built in a day," and the line which graced the flyleaf of his first edition, "Viae omniae in Romam adducunt."

* * *

"It is a great misfortune," says Lloyd George, "that the Irish and the English are never in the same temper at the same time." Nor is that conjuncture encouragingly probable. But there is hope. Energy is required for strenuous rebellion, and energy is converted into heat and dissipated. If, or as, the solar system is running down, its stock of energy is constantly diminishing; and so the Irish Question will eventually settle itself, as will every other mess on this slightly flattened sphere.

* * *

Whenever you read about England crumbling, turn to its automobile Blue Book and observe this: "It must be remembered that in all countries except England and New Zealand automobiles travel on the wrong side of the road."

* * *

The first sign of "crumbling" on the part of the British empire that we have observed is the welcome extended to the "quick lunch." That may get 'em.

* * *

LOST AND FOUND.

[Song in the manner of Laura Blackburn.]

Whilst I mused in vacant mood By a wild-thyme banklet, Love passed glimmering thro' the wood, Lost her golden anklet.

Followed I as fleet as dart With the golden token; But she vanished—and my heart, Like the clasp, is broken.

Such a little hoop of gold! She ... but how compare her? Till Orion's belt grow cold I shall quest the wearer.

Next my heart I've worn it since, More than life I prize it, And, like Cinderella's prince, I must advertise it.

* * *

Would you mind contributing a small sum, say a dollar or two, to the Keats Memorial Fund. We thought not. It is a privilege and a pleasure. The object is to save the house in which the poet lived during his last years, and in which he did some of his best work. The names of all contributors will be preserved in the memorial house, so it would be a nice idea to send your dollar or two in the name of your small child or grandchild, who may visit Hampstead when he grows up. Still standing in the garden at Hampstead is the plum tree under which Keats wrote,

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down."

* * *

Americans who speak at French should confine their conversation to other Americans similarly talented. They should not practise on French people, whose delicate ear is no more proof against impure accent than a stone is proof against dripping water. The mistake which English speaking people make is assuming that French is merely a language, whereas, even in Paris, the speaking of it as much as accomplishment as singing, or painting on china. Many gifted Frenchmen, like M. Viviani, Anatole France, and some other Academicians, speak French extremely well, but even these live in hope of improvement, of some day mastering the finest shades of nasality and cadence, the violet rays of rhythm.

* * *

Mr. Masefield, the poet, does not believe that war times nourish the arts. The human brain does its best work, he says, when men are happy. How perfectly true! Look at ancient Greece. She was continually at war, and what did the Grecians do for art? A few poets, a few philosophers and statesmen, a few sculptors, and the story is told. On the other hand, look at England in Shakespeare's time. The English people were inordinately happy, for there were no wars to depress them, barring a few little tiffs with the French and the Spanish, and one or two domestic brawls. The human brain does its best work when men are happy, indeed. There was Dante, a cheery old party. But why multiply instances?

* * *

Having read a third of H. M. Tomlinson's "The Sea and the Jungle," we pause to offer the uncritical opinion that this chap gets as good seawater into his copy as Conrad, and that, in the item of English, he can write rings around Joseph.

* * *

Like others who have traversed delectable landscapes and recorded their impressions, in memory or in notebooks, we have tried to communicate to other minds the "incommunicable thrill of things": a pleasant if unsuccessful endeavor. When you are new at it, you ascribe your failure to want of skill, but you come to realize that skill will not help you very much. You will do well if you hold the reader's interest in your narrative: you will not, except by accident, make him see the thing you have seen, or experience the emotion you experienced.

* * *

So vivid a word painter as Tomlinson acknowledges that the chance rewards which make travel worth while are seldom matters that a reader would care to hear about, for they have no substance. "They are no matter. They are untranslatable from the time and place. Such fair things cannot be taken from the magic moment. They are not provender for notebooks."

* * *

He quotes what the Indian said to the missionary who had been talking to him of heaven. "Is it like the land of the musk-ox in summer, when the mist is on the lakes, and the loon cries very often?" These lakes are not charted, and the Indian heard the loon's call in his memory; but we could not better describe the delectable lands through which we have roamed. "When the mist is on the lakes and the loon cries very often." What traveler can better that?

* * *

Old Bill Taft pulled a good definition of a gentleman t'other day. A gentleman, said he, is a man who never hurts anyone's feelings unintentionally.

* * *

Mr. Generous is the claim agent for the New Haven railroad at New Britain, Conn., but a farmer whose cow wandered upon the rails tells us that he lost money by the settlement.

* * *

William Benzine, who lives near Rio, Wis., was filling his flivver tank by the light of a lantern when— But need we continue?

* * *

Our notion of a person of wide tastes is one who likes almost everything that isn't popular.

* * *

Speaking of the Naval Station, you may have forgotten the stirring ballad which we wrote about it during the war. If so—

YEO-HEAVE-HO!

It was a gallant farmer lad Enlisted in the navy. "Give me," said he, "the deep blue sea, The ocean wide and wavy!"

A sailor's uniform he'd don, And never would he doff it. He packed his grip, and soon was on His way to Captain Moffett.

In cap of white and coat of blue He labored for the nation, A member of the salty crew That worked the Naval Station.

He soon became the best of tars, A seaman more than able, By sweeping streets, and driving cars, And waiting on the table.

He guarded gates, and shoveled snow, And worked upon the highway. "All lads," said he, "should plough the sea, And would if I had my way."

Week-end he took a trolley car, And to the city hied him, Alongside of another tar Who offered for to guide him.

The train rolled o'er a trestle high, The river ran below him. "Well, I'll be blamed!" our tar exclaimed, And grabbed his pal to show him.

"Yes, dash my weeping eyes!" he cried. "That's water, sure, by gravy! The first blue water I have spied Since joining of the navy!"

* * *

Now, "landsmen all," the moral's plain: Our navy still is arming, And if you'd plough the well known main, You'd best begin by farming.

If you would head a tossing prow Among our navigators, Get up at morn and milk the cow, And yeo-heave-ho the 'taters.

Do up your chores, and do 'em brown, And learn to drive a flivver; And some day, when you go to town, You'll see the raging river.

* * *

The speaker of the House of Commons, who, "trembling slightly with emotion," declared the sitting suspended, needs in his business the calm of the late Fred Hall. While Mr. Hall was city editor of this journal of civilization an irate subscriber came in and mixed it with a reporter. Mr. Hall approached the pair, who were rolling on the floor, and, peering near-sightedly at them, addressed the reporter: "Mr. Smith, when you have finished with this gentleman, there is a meeting at the Fourth Methodist church which I should like to have you cover."

* * *

In his informing and stimulating collection of essays, "On Contemporary Literature," recently published, Mr. Stuart P. Sherman squanders an entire chapter on Theodore Dreiser. It seems to us that he might have covered the ground and saved most of his space by quoting a single sentence from Anatole France, who, referring to Zola, wrote: "He has no taste, and I have come to believe that want of taste is that mysterious sin of which the Scripture speaks, the greatest of sins, the only one which will not be forgiven."

* * *

"What is art?" asked jesting Pilate. And before he could beat it for his chariot someone answered: "Art is a pitcher that you can't pour anything out of."

* * *

It is much easier to die than it is to take a vacation. A man who is summoned to his last long voyage may set his house in order in an hour: a few words, written or dictated, will dispose of his possessions, and his heirs will gladly attend to the details. This done, he may fold his hands on his chest and depart this vexatious life in peace.

* * *

It is quite another matter to prepare for a few weeks away from town. There are bills to be paid; the iceman and the milkman and the laundryman must be choked off, and the daily paper restrained from littering the doorstep. There is hair to be cut, and teeth to be tinkered, and so on. In short, it takes days to stop the machinery of living for a fortnight, and days to start it going again. But, my dear, one must have a change.

* * *

JUST A REHEARSAL.

[From the Elgin News.]

Mr. and Mrs. Perce left immediately on a short honeymoon trip. The "real" honeymoon trip is soon to be made, into various parts of Virginia.

* * *

LAME IN BOTH REGISTERS?

[From the Decatur Review.]

Dr. O. E. Williams, who is conducting revival services in the First United Brethren church, spoke to a large audience on Friday night on "Lame in Both Feet." Mrs. Williams sang a solo in keeping with the sermon.

* * *

FLORAL POME.

(Sign on Ashland Ave.: "Vlk the Florist.")

For flowers fragrant, sweet as milk, Be sure to call on Florist Vlk.

Roses, lilies, for the folks Can be purchased down at Vlk's.

Of bouquets there is no lack At the flower shop of Vlk.

Orchids, pansies, daisies, phlox, All are sold at Florist Vlk's.

A wondrous place, a shop de luxe Is this here store of William Vlk's.

F. E. C. Jr.

* * *

The Boston aggregation, by the way (a witty New Yorker, a musician, informed us), is sometimes referred to as the Swiss Family Higginson and the Bocheton Symphony orchestra.

* * *

Touching on musical criticism, a Chicago writer who visited St. Louis to report a music festival had a few drinks before the opening concert. His telegraphed review began: "Music is frozen architecture."

* * *

Aside from his super-mathematics, Dr. Einstein is understandable. He prefers Bach to Wagner, Shakespeare to Goethe, and he would rather walk in the valleys than climb the mountains.

* * *

THE SECOND POST.

[Example of pep and tact.]

Dear Sir: We absolutely cannot understand why you do not buy stock in the —— proposition or why we have not heard from you in reference to our letter. A man in your position should be able to invest some of his earnings into a proposition that should turn out a big success. It seems to us that the more rotten a proposition is the better the people will buy.

Now if you can explain this as to why the people bite on the many and poor schemes that are out to the public as there has been in the last six months, the information would be more than gladly received by us.

Let's get away from all this bunk stuff and think for ourselves and put your money in a real live proposition such as the ——.

After you invest your money in our business, do not fail to submit our proposition to some of your friends, so as to put this proposition over the top just as soon as possible.

May this letter act on you and try to improve your thought on investing your money with us, for we stand as true and honest as we can in order to make money for our clients.

Trusting that you will mail your check or money order to us at your very earliest convenience while the security is still selling at par, $10 per share, or a letter from you stating your reason for not doing so, we are, respectfully yours, etc.

* * *

In dedicating her autobiography to her husband, Mrs. Asquith quotes Epictetus: "Have you not received powers, to the limit of which you will bear all that befalls? Have you not received magnanimity? Have you not received courage? Have you not received endurance?" Mr. Christopher Morley thinks the gentleman needs them, but we are not so sure. It is said that when Margot mentioned to him the large sum she was to receive for the book, Mr. Asquith remarked, "I hope, my dear, that it isn't worth it."

* * *

As many know, Mr. Humphry Ward is a person of importance in his line. An American couple in London invited him to dine with them at their hotel, and concluded the invitation with the line, "If there is a Mrs. Ward, we should like to have her come, too."

* * *

In the Review of Reviews, Mr. Herbert Wade entitles his interview with Prof. Michelson, "Measuring the Suns of the Solar System." Wonder how he explained it to the Prof?

* * *

"She left a note saying she would do the next worst thing to suicide.... She went to Cleveland but decided to return."

Try South Bend.

* * *

"He decided that life was not worth living after that, so he came to South Bend."—South Bend Tribune.

Stet!

* * *

WHY THE DOG LEFT TOWN.

[From the Newton, Ia., News, Dec. 2.]

Warning—A resident of North Newton went home from work Saturday night and as he went in the front door a man went out the back door. This party had better leave town, for I know who he is and am after him.

W. H. Miller.

[From the same paper, Dec. 5.]

I have since discovered that it was a neighbor's dog that bounded out of the back door as I came in the front door the other night. My wife had gone to a neighbor's and left the back door ajar, hence a big dog had no trouble getting in.

W. H. Miller.

* * *

"'I don't see why we go to England for nincompoops when we have men like Prof. Grummann here at home,' remarked Fred L. Haller."—Omaha Bee.

We trust Mr. Haller called up the Professor and explained what he meant.

* * *

THE PASSIONATE PURE FOOD EXPERT TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, my own pure love, And we will all the pleasures prove, In passion unadulterated And bliss that isn't benzoated.

Love's purest formula we'll spell: Our joys will never fail to jell. The honeyed kisses we imprint Will show of glucose not a hint.

Your Wiley will your food prepare, And cook a meal to curl your hair; And every morning you shall have a Rare cup of genuine Mocha-Java.

And you shall have a buckwheat cake Better than mother used to make, And sirup from the maple wood— Not a vile sorghum "just as good."

The eggs, the bacon, and the jam Shall he as pure as Mary's lamb; And nothing sans a pure-food label Shall grace your matutinal table.

Oh, hearken to your Harvey's suit, And 'ware the phony substitute. If pure delights your mind may move, Come live with me and be my Love.

* * *

Prof. Brown of Carlton College complains that college faculties are concerned with the mental slacker and the laggard, that they have geared their machinery to the sluggard's pace. True enough, but not only true of educational institutions. In a democracy everything is geared to the pace of the weak.

"As for authors," sighs Shan Bullock, "their case is fairly hopeless. But I recognize that in the new democracy even average intellect has no place at present. The new democracy is on trial. Until it has proven definitely whether it sides with cinemas or ideals, there is not even a living for men who once held an honored place in the scheme of things. That is a dark saying, but I think it is true."

* * *

We thought the doubtful honor was possessed by the United States, but M. Cambon declares that there is no other country where people take so little interest in foreign politics as they do in France.

* * *

A nervy Frenchman, M. Bourgeois, has translated "The Playboy of the Western World." You can imagine with what success. "God help me, where'll I hide myself away and my long neck naked to the world?" becomes "Dieu m'aide, ou vais-je me cacher et mon long cou tout nu?"

* * *

The President of the Chicago Chapter of the Wild Flower Preservation Society wrote to the Department of Agriculture for a certain Bulletin on Forestry and another one on Mushrooms for the book table at their Exhibition in the Art Institute. In due time arrived 250 copies of "How to make unfermented grape juice" and 250 copies of "Hog Cholera." Anybody want them?

* * *

OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET MARY, BEN BOLT?

"What has become of Mary MacLane?" asks a reader. We don't know, at this moment, but we remember—what is more important—a jingle by the late lamented Roz Field:

"She dwelt beside the untrodden ways, Among the hills of Butte, A maid whom no one cared to love, And no one dared to shoot."

* * *

The Montmartre crowd had a ticket in the Paris municipal election. The design on the carte d'electeur was a windmill, with the legend below, "Bien vivre et ne rien faire." This would do nicely for our city hall push.

* * *

Is there another person in this wicked world quite so virtuous as a chief of police on the day that he takes office?

* * *

INDIFFERENCE.

Said B. L. T. to F. P. A., "How shall I end the Line to-day?" "It's immaterial to me," Said F. P. A. to B. L. T.

M. L. H.

Let it, then, go double.



Mr. Dubbe's Program Study Class.

(ACCOMPANYING THE SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA CONCERTS.)

Reported by Miss Poeta Pants.

I.—THE NEAPOLITAN SIXTH.

Mr. Criticus Flub-Dubbe's program study class began the season yesterday afternoon with every member present and keenly attentive. After a preparatory sketch of old Italian music, Mr. Dubbe told us about the Neapolitan Sixth, which, he said had exercised so strong an influence on music that, if Naples had never done anything else, this alone would have insured to the city fame in history.

"The Neapolitan Sixth," said Mr. Dubbe, "is so called because the composers of the Neapolitan school of opera were the first to introduce it freely. D. and A. Scarlatti were at the head of the school and were well-known musicians. Bach, who was not so well known, also used this sixth."

"Which used it first?" asked Mrs. Givu A. Payne.

"Bach, of course," replied Mr. Dubbe. "Bach used everything first."

"Dear old Bach!" exclaimed Miss Georgiana Gush.

"The Neapolitan Sixth," continued Mr. Dubbe, "is usually found in the first inversion; hence the name, the sixth indicating the first inversion of the chord."

"How clever!" said Mrs. Gottem-Allbeat.

"It is an altered chord, the altered tone being the super-tonic. The real character of the chord is submediant of the subdominant key; that is, it is a major chord, and the use of such a major chord in the solemn minor tonalities is indicative of the superficiality of the Italian school—a desire for a change from the strict polyphonic music of the times. Even the stern Bach was influenced."

"The Italians are so frivolous," said Mrs. Boru-Stiffe.

"A reign of frivolity ensued," went on Mr. Dubbe. "Not only was Italian music influenced by this sixth, but Italian art, architecture, sculpture, even material products. Take, for example, Neapolitan ice-cream. Observe the influence of the sixth. The cream is made in three color tones—the vanilla being the subdominant, as the chord is of subdominant character; the strawberry being the submediant, and the restful green the lowered supertonic or altered tone."

"What is the pineapple ice?" asked Miss Gay Votte.

"The pineapple ice is the twelfth overtone," replied Mr. Dubbe.

"There doesn't seem to be anything that Mr. Dubbe doesn't know," whispered Mrs. Fuller-Prunes to me with a smile.

I should say there wasn't!

After the lecture we had a lovely hand-made luncheon. Miss Ellenborough presided at the doughnuts and Mrs. G. Clef poured. It was such a helpful hour.

II.

"You remember," said Mr. Dubbe, "that Herr Weidig, in his lecture on the wood winds, gave a double bassoon illustration from Brahms' 'Chorale of St. Anthony,' which you are to hear to-day. But Herr Weidig neglected to mention the most interesting point in the illustration—that the abysmal-toned double bassoon calls attention to the devil-possessed swine, St. Anthony being the patron saint of swine-herds. I want you to listen carefully to this swine motive. It is really extraordinary." Mr. Dubbe wrote the motive on the blackboard and then played it on his double bassoon, which, he said, is one of the very few in this country.

"The bassoon," said Mr. Dubbe, "was Beethoven's favorite instrument. I go further than Beethoven in preferring the double bassoon. Among my unpublished manuscripts are several compositions for this instrument, and my concerto for two double bassoons is now in the hands of a Berlin publisher.

"But to recur to the Brahms chorale. You should know that it makes the second best variations in existence. The best are in the Heroic Symphony. The third best are Dvorak's in C major."

"C. Major—that's the man who wrote 'Dorothy Vernon,'" giggled Miss Vera Cilly.

"I am not discussing ragtime variations," said Mr. Dubbe, severely.

"Not knocking anybody," whispered Miss Gay Votte.

"Another interesting point in connection with this week's program," resumed Mr. Dubbe, "is the river motive in Smetana's symphonic poem, 'The Moldau.' Three flutes represent (loosely speaking; for, as I have often told you, music cannot represent anything) the rippling of the Moldau, a tributary of the Danube. If the composer had had a larger river in mind he would have used nine flutes. If this composition of Smetana's seems rather unmusical, allowance must be made for him, as the poor man was deaf and couldn't hear how bad his own music was."

"Wasn't Beethoven deaf?" asked Miss Sara Band.

"Only his physical ears were affected," replied Mr. Dubbe. "Smetana's soul ears were also deaf."

At the close of the lecture Miss Ellenborough gave us a surprise in the way of raised doughnuts made in the form of a G clef. Mrs. Gottem-Allbeat poured.

III.

There was an ominous flash in Dr. Dubbe's eye when he arose to address the class. "We have this week," he began, "a program barbarous enough to suit the lovers of ultra-modern music. There is Saint-Saens' overture, 'Les Barbares,' to begin with. This is as barbaric as a Frenchman can get, and is interesting chiefly as a study of how not to use the trumpets. But for sheer barbarity commend me to Hausegger's 'Barbarossa.' Here we find the apotheosis of modern exaggeration. Hausegger strove to make up for inimportant themes by a profuse use of instruments. Only one theme, which occurs in the third movement, is of any account, and that is an imitation of an old German chorale. In this most monotonously muted of tone-poems the composer forgot to mute one instrument—his pen."

"My! but Dr. Dubbe is knocking to-day," whispered Miss Sara Band.

"The thing is in C major and opens with a C major chord," continued Dr. Dubbe. "That is the end of the C major; it never returns to that key. This is modern music. Take the third movement. It opens with a screeching barbershop chord. A little later ensues a prize fight between two themes, which continues until one of them is knocked out. In this edifying composition, also, snare drum sticks are used on the kettle drums. More modern music. Bah!"

I have never seen Dr. Dubbe so irritated.

"Let us turn to something more cheerful," resumed Dr. Dubbe; and seating himself at the piano he played the Schubert C minor impromptu. "On the second page," he said, "where the key becomes A flat major, occurs a harmony which looks and sounds like a foreign chord. Treated harmonically it is a second dominant formation, and should read C flat, D natural, A flat, diminished seventh of the key of the dominant. Schubert does not, however, use it harmonically, otherwise the B natural would read C flat. These notes are enharmonic because, though different, they sound the same."

"How clear!" exclaimed Miss Gay Votte.

"But Schubert, instead of progressing harmonically, goes directly back into the tonic of A flat major."

"How careless of him!" said Mrs. Givu A. Payne.

"Schubert uses it in its natural position. If the enharmonic C flat were used the chord would then be in its third inversion. Each diminished seventh harmony may resolve in sixteen different ways."

"Mercy!" murmured Mrs. Fuller-Prunes. "How much there is to know."

Dr. Dubbe passed his hand across his brow as if wearied. "I shall never cease to regret," he said, "that Schubert did not write C flat. It would have been so much clearer."

After the lecture Miss Ellenborough gave us another surprise—doughnuts made in the shape of flats. Dr. Dubbe ate five, saying that D flat major was his favorite key.

I rode down in the elevator with him and he repeated his remark that Schubert had unnecessarily bemuddled the chord.

"I am sure you made it very plain," I said. "We all understand it now."

"Do you, indeed?" he replied. "That's more than I do."

Of course he was jesting. He understands everything.

IV.

Dr. Dubbe was in his element yesterday. The trinity of B's—Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms—or, as Dr. Dubbe put it, the "trinity of logicians," was much to his taste: a truly Gothic program.

"But what a contrast is the second half," said Dr. Dubbe. "In the first we have the Kings of absolute music. In his youth Beethoven strayed from the path (for even he must sow his musical wild oats), but in his maturer years he produced no music that was not absolute. But in the second half we have Berlioz and program music."

"I thought program music was music suitable for programs," said Mrs. Givu A. Payne.

"Berlioz," continued Dr. Dubbe, "instituted the 'musical reform' in Germany—the new German school of Liszt and Wagner. Berlioz's music is all on the surface, while Brahms' music sounds the depths. He uses the contra-bassoon in about all of his orchestral compositions (you will hear it to-day), and most of his piano works take the last A on the piano. If his bass seems at times muddy it is because he goes so deep that he stirs up the bottom."

"How clear!" exclaimed Miss Gay Votte.

"Take measure sixty-five in Berlioz's 'Dance of the Sylphs,'" said Dr. Dubbe. "The spirits hover over Faust, who has fallen asleep. The 'cellos are sawing away drowsily on their pedal point D (probably in sympathy with Faust), and what sounds like Herr Thomas tuning the orchestra is the lone A of the fifth. The absent third represents the sleep of Faust. This is a trick common to the new school. Wagner uses it in 'Siegfried,' in the close of the Tarnhelm motive, to illustrate the vanishing properties of the cap. In measure fifty-seven of the Ballet you will find a chord of the augmented five-six, a harmony built on the first inversion of the diminished seventh of the key of the dominant, with lowered bass tone, and which in this instance resolves into the dominant triad. Others claim that this harmony is a dominant ninth with root omitted and lowered fifth."

"It has always seemed so to me," said Mrs. Fuller-Prunes. But I don't believe she knows a thing about it.

"I think it's all awfully cute," said Miss Georgiana Gush.

"The harmony," resumed Dr. Dubbe, frowning, "really sounds like a dominant seventh, and may be changed enharmonically into a dominant seventh and resolve into the Neapolitan sixth. This is all clear to you, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," we all replied.

Dr. Dubbe then analyzed and played for us Brahms' First Symphony, after which Miss Ellenborough served doughnuts made in the shape of a Gothic B. We all had to eat them—one for Bach, one for Beethoven, and one for Brahms.

V.

Dr. Dubbe did not appear enthusiastic over this week's program. I guess because there was no Bach or Brahms on it. But we enjoyed his lecture just the same.

"Raff was the Raphael of music," said Dr. Dubbe. "He was handicapped by a superabundance of ideas, but, unlike Raphael, he did not constantly repeat himself. This week we will have a look at his Fifth Symphony, entitled 'Lenore.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Georgiana Gush, "that's the one the hero of 'The First Violin' was always whistling."

"As you all know," said Dr. Dubbe, "this symphony is based on Buerger's well-known ballad of 'Lenore,' but as only the last movement is concerned with the actual ballad I will confine my remarks mainly to that. I wish, however, to call your attention to a curious harmony in the first movement. Upon the return of the first theme the trombones break in upon a dominant B major harmony with what is apparently a dominant C major harmony, D, F, and B. But the chords are actually enharmonic of D, E sharp, and B. This is a dominant harmony in F sharp. Listen for these trombone chords, and pay special attention to the E sharp—a tone that is extremely characteristic of Raff."

"I think I have read somewhere," said Mrs. Givu A. Payne, "that Raff was exceedingly fond of E sharp."

"He was," said Dr. Dubbe. "He often said he didn't see how he could get along without it. But to resume:

"The fourth movement opens with Lenore's lamentation over her absent lover and her quarrel with her mother—the oboe being the girl and the bassoon her parent. Lenore foolishly curses her fate (tympani and triangle), and from that moment is lost. There is a knock at the door and her dead lover appears with a horse and suggests something in the nature of an elopement. Not knowing he is dead, Lenore acquiesces, and away they go (trumpets, flutes and clarinets).

"'T is a wild and fearful night. Rack scuds across the moon's wan face (violas and second violins). Hanged men rattle in their chains upon the wayside gibbets (triangle and piccolo). But on, on, on go the lovers, one dead and the other nearly so.

"At last they reach the grave in the church-yard, and death claims the lost Lenore ('cellos and bass viols pizzicato). For a conclusion there is a coda founded on the line in the ballad, 'Gott sei der Seele gnaedig.' It is very sad."

Dr. Dubbe seemed much affected by the sad tale, and many of us had to wipe tears away. But Miss Ellenborough came to our rescue with some lovely doughnuts made in the shape of a true lovers' knot. These, with the tea, quite restored us.

VI.

There really wasn't any study class this week—that is, Dr. Dubbe did not appear. While the class waited for him and wondered if he were ill a messenger brought me the following note:

"My Dear Poeta: Kindly inform the class that there will be no lecture this week. I cannot stand for such a trivial program as Herr Thomas has prepared. C. F.-D."

"He might have told us sooner," said Miss Georgiana Gush.

"Why, yes; he knew last week what the next program would be," said Mrs. Faran-Dole.

"The eccentricity of genius, my dear," remarked Mrs. Gottem-Allbeat. "Genius is not tied down by rules of conduct of any sort."

"Well," said Mrs. Givu A. Payne, "I don't blame him for not wanting to analyze this week's program. There isn't a bit of Bach or Brahms on it."

"Ladies," said Miss Ellenborough, coming forward with a gentleman who had just arrived, "let me introduce Mr. Booth Tarkington, of Indiana. Mr. Tarkington came up to attend the lecture, but as Dr. Dubbe will not be here Mr. Tarkington has kindly consented to give a doughnut recital, so to speak."

"Oh, how lovely!" we all exclaimed.

"Mr. Tarkington," added Miss Ellenborough, "is well known as the author of the Beaucaire doughnut, the pride of Indiana doughnutdom."

Saying which Miss Ellenborough removed the screen that conceals her work table and Mr. Tarkington, in an incredibly short time, produced a batch of Beaucaires. They were really excellent, and we didn't leave a single one. Mr. Everham Chumpleigh Keats poured.

After tea we all adjourned to the concert, which we enjoyed immensely, in spite of the absence of Bach and Brahms. Not knocking Dr. Dubbe.



A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO

Inveniat, quod quisque velit; non omnibus unum est, Quod placet; hic spinas colligit, ille rosas.

—Petronius.

THE PASSING OF SUMMER.

Summer is gone with its roses, Summer is gone with its wine; Likewise a lot of dam choses Not so ideal and benign.

King Sol is visiting Virgo, On his Zodiacal way. 'Morrow's the twenty-third! Ergo, Summer will vanish to-day.

* * *

Summer in town is a synonym for dullness. The theaters offer nothing of importance; only trivialities are to be found on "the trestles." Musical directors appeal only to the ears—chiefly the long ears mentioned by Mozart. Bookstores offer "best sellers," "the latest fiction," and "books worth reading" on the same counter; and the magazines become even less consequential. Art in all its manifestations matches our garments for thinness and lightness.

During the canicular period intellectual activity is at a stand, and we should be grateful for the accident which tilted earth's axis at its present angle; for when the leaves begin to fly before the "breath of Autumn's being" we plunge into the new season with a cleared mentality and a great appetite for things both new and old.

* * *

A man asks the Legal Friend of the People, "Will you kindly publish whether or not it is illegal for second cousins to marry in the state of Illinois?" and the Friend replies, "No." Aw, go on and publish it. There's no harm in telling him.

* * *

WHYNOTT?

[From the Boston Globe.]

From this date, Sept. 25, 1920, I will not be responsible for any bill contracted by my wife, Mrs. Bernardine Whynott.

G. Whynott.

* * *

In all the world the two most fragile things are a lover's vows and the gut in a tennis racket. Neither is guaranteed to last an hour.

* * *

It would help along the economic readjustment, suggests Dean Johnson, of New York University's school of commerce, if we all set fire to our Liberty Bonds. We can't go along with the Dean so far, but we have a hundred shares of copper stock that we will contribute to a community bonfire.

* * *

The height of patriotism, confides P. H. T., is represented by Mr. Aleshire, president of the Chicago Board of Underwriters, who, billed to deliver a patriotic address in an Evanston theater, paid his way into the theater to hear himself talk.