AS TO RUMORS

Madrid, Jan. 17.—Nikolai Lenine was among the Russians who landed at Barcelona recently, according to newspapers here.—News item.

It is rather important to understand the technique of rumors. The wise man does not scoff at them, for while they are often absurd, they are rarely baseless. People do not go about inventing rumors, except for purposes of hoax; and even a practical joke is never (to parody the proverb) hoax et præterea nihil. There is always a reason for wanting to perpetrate the hoax, or a reason for believing it will be believed.

Rumors are a kind of exhalation or intellectual perfume thrown off by the news of the day. Some events are more aromatic than others; they can be detected by the trained pointer long before they happen. When things are going on that have a strong vibration—what foreign correspondents love to call a "repercussion"—they cause a good deal of mind-quaking. An event getting ready to happen is one of the most interesting things to watch. By a sort of mental radiation it fills men's minds with surmises and conjectures. Curiously enough, due perhaps to the innate perversity of man, most of the rumors suggest the exact opposite of what is going to happen. Yet a rumor, while it may be wholly misleading as to fact, is always a proof that something is going to happen. For instance, last summer when the news was full of repeated reports of Hindenburg's death, any sane man could foresee that what these reports really meant was not necessarily Hindenburg's death at all, but Germany's approaching military collapse. Some German prisoners had probably said "Hindenburg ist kaput," meaning "Hindenburg is done for," i.e., "The great offensive has failed." This was taken to mean that he was literally dead.

In the same way, while probably no one seriously believes that Lenine is in Barcelona, the mere fact that Madrid thinks it possible shows very plainly that something is going on. It shows either that the Bolshevik experiment in Petrograd has been such a gorgeous success that Lenine can turn his attention to foreign campaigning, or that it has been such a gorgeous failure that he has had to skip. It does not prove, since the rumor is "unconfirmed," that Lenine has gone anywhere yet; but it certainly does prove that he is going somewhere soon, even if only to the fortress of Peter and Paul. There may be some very simple explanation of the rumor. "You go to Barcelona!" may be a jocular Muscovite catchword, similar to our old saying about going to Halifax, and Trotzky may have said it to Lenine. At any rate it shows that the gold dust twins are not inseparable. It shows that Bolshevism in Russia is either very strong or very near downfall.

When we were told not long ago that Berlin was strangely gay for the capital of a prostrate nation and that all the cafés were crowded with dancers at night, many readers were amazed and tried to console their sense of probability by remarking that the Germans are crazy anyway. And yet this rumor of the dancing mania was an authentic premonition of the bloodier dance of death led by the Spartacus group. If Berlin did dance it was a cotillon of despair, caused by infinite war weariness, infinite hunger to forget humiliation for a few moments, and foreboding of troubles to come. Whether true or not, no one read the news without thinking it an ominous whisper.

Coming events cast their rumors before. From a careful study of rumors the discerning may learn a good deal, providing always that they never take them at face value but try to read beneath the surface. People sometimes criticize the newspapers for printing rumors, but it is an essential part of their function to do so, provided they plainly mark them as such. Shakespeare speaks of rumors as "stuffing the ears of men with false reports," yet if so this is not the fault of the rumor itself, but of the too credible listener. The prosperity of a rumor is in the ear that hears it. The sagacious listener will take the trouble to sift and winnow his rumors, set them in perspective with what he knows of the facts and from them he will then deduce exceedingly valuable considerations. Rumor is the living atmosphere of men's minds, the most fascinating and significant problem with which we have to deal. The Fact, the Truth, may shine like the sun, but after all it is the clouds that make the sunset beautiful. Keep your eye on the rumors, for a sufficient number of rumors can compel an event to happen, even against its will.

No one can set down any hard and fast rules for reading the rumors. The process is partly instinctive and partly the result of trained observation. It is as complicated as the calculation by which a woman tells time by her watch which she knows to be wrong—she adds seventeen minutes, subtracts three, divides by two and then looks at the church steeple. It is as exhilarating as trying to deduce what there is going to be for supper by the pervasive fragrance of onions in the front hall. And sometimes a very small event, like a very small onion, can cast its rumors a long way. Destiny is unlike the hen in that she cackles before she lays the egg.

The first rule to observe about rumors is that they are often exactly opposite in tendency to the coming fact. For instance, the rumors of secrecy at the Peace Conference were the one thing necessary to guarantee complete publicity. Just before any important event occurs it seems to discharge both positive and negative currents, just as a magnet is polarized by an electric coil. Some people by mental habit catch the negative vibrations, others the positive. Every one can remember the military critics last March who were so certain that there would be no German offensive. Their very certainty was to many others a proof that the offensive was likely. They were full of the negative vibrations.

An interesting case of positive vibrations was the repeated rumor of the Kaiser's abdication. The fact that those rumors were premature was insignificant compared with the fact that they were current at all. The fact that there were such rumors showed that it was only a matter of time.

It is entertaining, if disconcerting, to watch a rumor on its travels. A classic example of this during the recent war is exhibited by the following clippings which were collected, I believe, by Norman Hapgood:

From theKoelnische-Zeitung:"When the fall of Antwerp became known the church bells were rung." (Meaning in Germany.)

From theKoelnische-Zeitung:

"When the fall of Antwerp became known the church bells were rung." (Meaning in Germany.)

Cartoon drawing of WWI German Soldier kicking a large bell

From the ParisMatin:"According to theKoelnische-Zeitung, the clergy of Antwerp were compelled to ring the church bells when the fortress was taken."From the LondonTimes:"According to what theMatinhas heard from Cologne, the Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, have been driven away from their places."From theCorriere Della Sera, of Milan:"According to what theTimeshas heard from Cologne, via Paris, the unfortunate Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, have been sentenced to hard labor."From theMatinagain:"According to information received by theCorriere Della Sera, from Cologne, via London, it is confirmed that the barbaric conquerors of Antwerp punished the unfortunate Belgian priests for their heroic refusal to ring the church bells by hanging them as living clappers to the bells with their heads down."

From the ParisMatin:

"According to theKoelnische-Zeitung, the clergy of Antwerp were compelled to ring the church bells when the fortress was taken."

From the LondonTimes:

"According to what theMatinhas heard from Cologne, the Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, have been driven away from their places."

From theCorriere Della Sera, of Milan:

"According to what theTimeshas heard from Cologne, via Paris, the unfortunate Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken, have been sentenced to hard labor."

From theMatinagain:

"According to information received by theCorriere Della Sera, from Cologne, via London, it is confirmed that the barbaric conquerors of Antwerp punished the unfortunate Belgian priests for their heroic refusal to ring the church bells by hanging them as living clappers to the bells with their heads down."

Be hospitable to rumors, for however grotesque they are, they always have some reason for existence. The Sixth Sense is the sense of news, the sense that something is going to happen. And just as every orchestra utters queer and discordant sounds while it is tuning up its instruments, so does the great orchestra of Human Events (in other words, The News) offer shrill and perhaps misleading notes before the conductor waves his baton and leads off the concerted crash of Truth. Keep your senses alert to examine the odd scraps of hearsay that you will often see in the news, for it is in just those eavesdroppings at the heart of humanity that the press often fulfills its highest function.

Man standing by baby cradle

When one becomes a father, then first one becomes a son. Standing by the crib of one's own baby, with that world-old pang of compassion and protectiveness toward this so little creature that has all its course to run, the heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to those who felt just so toward one's self. Then for the first time one understands the homely succession of sacrifices and pains by which life is transmitted and fostered down the stumbling generations of men.

Every man is privileged to believe all his life that his own mother is the best and dearest that a child ever had. By some strange racial instinct of taciturnity and repression most of us lack utterance to say our thoughts in this close matter. A man's mother is so tissued and woven into his life and brain that he can no more describe her than describe the air and sunlight that bless his days. It is only when some Barrie comes along that he can say for all of us what fills the eye with instant tears of gentleness. Is there a mother, is there a son, who has not read Barrie's "Margaret Ogilvy?" Turn to that first chapter, "How My Mother Got Her Soft Face," and draw aside the veils that years and perplexity weave over the inner sanctuaries of our hearts.

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!

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.

Man in Pilgrim attire, fishing

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 wordtructa, 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.

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

Woman with arms raised

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.

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.

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 façade of his consulate on Washington Square, we see the heaven-piercing summits of Switzerland rising like a dream, blue and silvery and tantalizing.

P.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!

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.

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.

Woman teacher holding book and pointer standing by a world globe

THOUGHTcannot 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 NOUNis 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 PRONOUNisI.

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

THE VERBSare 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! andGracious! 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 verbgoin the phraseto go to town. When it gets to the city this verb becomeslook, as, for instance, tolook at the shop windows.Thereafter its descent is rapid into the formpurchaseorcharge. This conjugation is often assisted by the auxiliary expressiona 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.

CONVERSATIONin 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.

George Washington with axe and fallen tree

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.

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