TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT TRAVELING ABROAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, possibly so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 dogs viewing tablets of 10 Commandments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower beds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bride and Groom

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

"I will."

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

"I will."

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

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

Man carrying books by Grub Street sign

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MaryLamb, I am glad to say, is just now very comfortable. She has put herself under Doctor Tuthill, who has prescribed water. Charles, in consequence, resolved to accommodate himself to her, and since Lord-Mayor's day has abstained from all other liquor, as well asfrom smoking. We shall all rejoice if this experiment succeeds.... His change of habit, though it, on the whole, improves his health, yet when he is low-spirited, leaves him without a remedy or relief.—Letter of Henry Crabb Robinson To Miss Wordsworth, December 23, 1810.Spent part of the evening with Charles Lamb (unwell) and his sister.—Robinson's Diary, January 8, 1811.Late in the evening Lamb called, to sit with me while he smoked hispipe.—Robinson's Diary, December 20, 1814.Lamb was in a happy frame, and I can still recall to my mind the look and tone with which he addressed Moore, when he could not articulate very distinctly: "Mister Moore, will you drink a glass of wine with me?"—suiting the action to the word, and hobnobbing.—Robinson's Diary, April 4, 1823.

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

Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead,The poppies still blow overhead,The larks ye heard, still singing fly.They sing of the cause which made thee die.And they are heard far down below,Our fight is ended with the foe.The fight for right, which ye begunAnd which ye died for, we have won.Rest in peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abou Ben Woodrow in bed watching angel reading from scroll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes.

Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and matches.

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

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

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

Two men and a woman talking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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