[pvii]Foreword

[pvii]ForewordBy Henry B. FullerBert Leston Taylor (known the country over as “B. L. T.”) was the first of our day’s “colyumists”—first in point of time, and first in point of merit. For nearly twenty years, with some interruptions, he conducted “A Line-o’-Type or Two” on the editorial page of the ChicagoTribune. His broad column—broad by measurement, broad in scope, and a bit broad, now and again, in its tone—cheered hundreds of thousands at the breakfast-tables of the Middle West, and on its trains and trolleys. As the “Column” grew in reputation, “making the Line” became almost a national sport. Whoever had a happy thought, whoever could handily turn a humorous paragraph or tune a pointed jingle, was only too glad to attempt collaboration with B. L. T. Others, possessing no literary knack, chanced it with brief reports on the follies or ineptitudes of the “so-called human race.” Some of them picked up their matter on their travels—these were the “Gadders.” Others culled oddities from the provincial press, and so gave further scope[pviii] />to “The Enraptured Reporter,” or offered selected gems ofgaucheriefrom private correspondence, and thus added to the rich yield of “The Second Post.” Still humbler helpers chipped in with queer bits of nomenclature, thereby aiding the formation of an “Academy of Immortals”—an organization fully officered by people with droll names and always tending, as will become apparent in the following pages, to enlarge and vary its roster.All these contributors, as well as many other persons who existed independently of the “Line,” lived in the corrective fear of the “Cannery,” that capacious receptacle which yawned for the trite word and the stereotyped phrase. Our language, to B. L. T., was an honest, living growth: deadwood, whether in thought or in the expression of thought, never got by, but was marked for the burning. The “Cannery,” with its numbered shelves and jars, was a deterrent indeed, and anyone who ventured to relieve himself as “Vox Populi” or as a conventional versifier, did well to walk with care.Over all these aids, would-be or actual, presided the Conductor himself, furnishing a steady framework by his own quips, jingles and philosophizings, and bringing each day’s exhibit to an ordered unity. The Column was more than the sum of its contributors. It was the sum of[pix] />units, original or contributed, that had been manipulated and brought to high effectiveness by a skilled hand and a nature wide in its sympathies and in its range of interests.Taylor had the gift of opening new roads and of inviting a willing public to follow. Or, to put it another way, he had the faculty of making new moulds, into which his helpers were only too glad to pour their material. Some of these “leads” lasted for weeks; some for months; others persisted through the years. The lifted wand evoked, marshalled, vivified, and the daily miracle came to its regular accomplishment.Taylor hewed his Line in precise accord with his own taste and fancy. All was on the basis of personal preference. His chiefs learned early that so rare an organism was best left alone to function in harmony with its own nature. The Column had not only its own philosophy and its own æsthetics, but its own politics: if it seemed to contravene other and more representative departments of the paper, never mind. Its conductor had such confidence in the validity of his personal predilections and in their identity with those of “the general,” that he carried on things with the one rule of pleasing himself, certain that he should find no better rule for pleasing others. His success was complete.His papers and clippings, found in a fairly[px] />forward state of preparation, gave in part the necessary indications for the completion of this volume. The results will perhaps lack somewhat the typographical effectiveness which is within the reach of a metropolitan daily when utilized by a “colyumist” who was also a practical printer, and they can only approximate that piquant employment of juxtaposition and contrast which made every issue of “A Line-o’-Type or Two” a work of art in its way. But no arrangement of items from that source could becloud the essential nature of its Conductor: though “The So-Called Human Race” sometimes plays rather tartly and impatiently with men’s follies and shortcomings, it clearly and constantly exhibits a sunny, alert and airy spirit to whom all things human made their sharp appeal.[pxi]The So-CalledHuman Race[p1]A LINE-O’-TYPE OR TWOMotto: Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may.SIMPLEMyreaders are a varied lot;Their tastes do not agree.A squib that tickles A is notAt all the thingfor B.What’s sense to J, is folderolTo K, butpleases Q.So, when I come to fill the Col,I know just what to do.It isrefreshing to find in the society columns an account of a quiet wedding. The conventional screams of a groom are rather trying.A manwill sit around smoking all day and his wife will remark: “My dear, aren’t you smoking too much?” The doctor cuts him down to three cigars a day, and his wife remarks: “My dear, aren’t you smoking too much?” Finally he chops off to a single after-dinner smoke, and when he lights up his wife remarks: “John, you do nothing but smoke all day long.” Women are singularly observant.[p2]NO DOUBT THERE ARE OTHERS.Sir: A gadder friend of mine has been on the road so long that he always speaks of the parlor in his house as the lobby.E. C. M.Withthe possible exception of Trotzky, Mr. Hearst is the busiest person politically that one is able to wot of. Such boundless zeal! Such measureless energy! Such genius—an infinite capacity for giving pains!Ancestorworship is not peculiar to any tribe or nation. We observed last evening, on North Clark street, a crowd shaking hands in turn with an organ-grinder’s monkey.“In fact,” says an editorial on Uncongenial Clubs, “a man may go to a club to get away from congenial spirits.” True. And is there any more uncongenial club than the Human Race? The service is bad, the membership is frightfully promiscuous, and about the only place to which one can escape is the library. It is always quiet there.Signin the Black Hawk Hotel, Byron, Ill.: “If you think you are witty send your thoughts to B. L. T., care Chicago Tribune. Do not spring them on the help. It hurts efficiency.”[p3]AN OBSERVANT KANSAN.[From the Emporia Gazette.]The handsome clerk at the Harvey House makes this profound observation: Any girl will flirt as the train is pulling out.THE GIRL OF THE PERIOD.She formerly talked of the weather,The popular book, or the play;Her old line of chatWas of this thing or thatIn the fashions and fads of the day.But now she discusses eugenics,And things that a pundit perplex;She knocks you quite flatWith her new line of chat,And her “What do you think about sex?”“Arewe all to shudder at the name of Rabelais and take to smelling salts?” queries an editorial colleague. “Are we to be a wholly lady-like nation?” Small danger, brother. Human nature changes imperceptibly, or not at all. The objection to most imitations of Rabelais is that they lack the unforced wit and humor of the original.A pictureof Dr. A. Ford Carr testing a baby provokes a frivolous reader to observe that when[p4] />the babies cry the doctor probably gives them a rattle.WHAT DO YOU MEAN “ALMOST”![From the Cedar Rapids Republican.]The man who writes a certain column in Chicago can always fill two-thirds of it with quotations and contributions. But that may be called success—when they bring the stuff to you and are almost willing to pay you for printing it.WE’LL TELL THE PLEIADES SO.Sir: “I’ll say she is,” “Don’t take it so hard,” “I’ll tell the world.” These, and other slangy explosives from our nursery, fell upon the sensitive auditory nerves of callers last evening. I am in a quandary, whether to complain to the missus or write a corrective letter to the children’s school teachers, for on the square some guy ought to bawl the kids out for fair about this rough stuff—it gets my goat.J. F. B.Didyou think “I’ll say so” was new slang? Well, it isn’t. You will find it in Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey.”Formulafor accepting a second cigar from a man whose taste in tobacco is poor: “Thank you; the courtesy is notallyours.”[p5]A numberof suicides are attributed to the impending conjunction of the planets and the menace of world-end. You can interest anybody in astronomy if you can establish for him a connection between his personal affairs and the movements of the stars.WHERE ’VANGIE LIES.Rondeau Sentimental to Evangeline, the Office Goat.Where ’Vangie lies strown foliosLike Vallambrosan leaves repose,The sad, the blithe, the quaint, the queer,The good, the punk are scattered here—A pile of poof in verse and prose.And none would guess, save him who strows,How much transcendent genius goesUnwept, unknown, into the smearWhere ’Vangie lies.With every opening mail it snowsTill ’Vangie’s covered to her nose.Forgetting that she is so near,I sometimes kick her in the ear.Then sundry piteous ba-a-a’s discloseWhere ’Vangie lies.“Thissale,” advertises a candid clothier, “lasts only so long as the goods last, and that won’t be very long.”[p6]THE SECOND POST.(Letter from an island caretaker.)Dear Sir: Your letter came. Glad you bought a team of horses. Hilda is sick. She has diphtheria and she will die I think. Clara died this eve. She had it, too. We are quarantined. Five of Fisher’s family have got it. My wife is sick. She hain’t got it. If this thing gets worse we may have to get a doctor. Them trees are budding good. Everything is O. K.Justas we started to light a pipe preparatory to filling this column, we were reminded of Whistler’s remark to a student who was smoking: “You should be very careful. You know you might get interested in your work and let your pipe go out.”It isodd, and not uninteresting to students of the so-called human race, that a steamfitter or a manufacturer of suspenders who may not know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution—who may not, indeed, know anything at all—is nevertheless a bubbly-fountain of political wisdom; whereas a writer for a newspaper is capable of emitting only drivel. This may be due to the greater opportunity for meditation enjoyed by suspender-makers and steamfitters.[p7]Janesville’sGrand Hotel just blew itself on its Thanksgiving dinner. The menu included “Cheese a la Fromage.”“It iswith ideas we shall conquer the world,” boasts Lenine. If he needs a few more he can get them at the Patent Office in Washington, which is packed with plans and specifications of perpetual motion machines and other contraptions as unworkable as bolshevism.HEARD IN THE BANK.A woman from the country made a deposit consisting of several items. After ascertaining the amount the receiving teller asked, “Did you foot it up?” “No, I rode in,” said she.H. A. N.Thefact that Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and other great departed whose names are taken in vain every day by small-bore politicians, do not return and whack these persons over the heads with a tambourine, is almost—as Anatole France remarked in an essay on Flaubert—is almost an argument against the immortality of the soul.Harper’s Weeklyrefrains from comment on the shipping bill because, says its editor, “we have not been able to accumulate enough knowledge.”[p8] />Well! If every one refrained from expressing an opinion on a subject until he was well informed the pulp mills would go out of business and a great silence would fall upon the world.It ispleasant to believe the sun is restoring its expended energy by condensation, and that the so-called human race is in the morning of its existence; and it is necessary that the majority should believe so, for otherwise the business of the world would not get done. The happiest cynic would be depressed by the sight of humanity sitting with folded hands, waiting apathetically for the end.Perhapsthe best way to get acquainted with the self-styled human race is to collect money from it.TO A WELL-KNOWN GLOBE.I would not seem to slam our valued planet,—Space, being infinite, may hold a worse;Nor would I intimate that if I ran itIts vapors might disperse.Within our solar system, or without it,May be a world less rationally run;There may be such a geoid, but I doubt it—I can’t conceive of one.[p9]If from the time our sphere began revolvingUntil the present writing there had beenA glimmer of a promise of resolvingThe muddle we are in:If we could answer “Whither are we drifting?”Or hope to wallow out of the morass—I might continue boosting and uplifting;But as it is, I pass.So on your way, old globe, wherever aiming,Go blundering down the endless slopes of space:As far away the prospect of reclaimingThe so-called human race.Gyrate, old Top, and let who will be clever;The mess we’re in is much too deep to solve.Me for a quiet life while you, as ever,Continue to revolve.“Oureditorials,” announces the Tampa Tribune, “are written by members of the staff, and do not necessarily reflect the policy of the paper.” Similarly, the contents of this column are written by its conductor and the straphangers, and have nothing whatever to do with its policy.“What, indeed?” as Romeo replied to Juliet’s query. And yet Ralph Dilley and Irene Pickle were married in Decatur last week.He washeard to observe, coming from the theater into the thick of the wind and snow: “God help the rich; the poor can sleep with their windows shut.”[p10]Wehave received a copy of the first issue of The Fabulist, printed in Hingham Centre, Mass., and although we haven’t had time to read it, we like one of its ideas. “Contributions,” it announces, “must be paid for in advance at space rates.”Theviewpoint of Dr. Jacques Duval (interestingly set forth by Mr. Arliss) is that knowledge is more important than the life of individual members of the so-called human race. But even Duval is a sentimentalist. He believes that knowledge is important.Amongreasonable requests must be included that of the Hotel Fleming in Petersburg, Ind.: “Gentlemen, please walk light at night. The guests are paying 75 cents to sleep and do not want to be disturbed.”Wehave recorded the opinion that the Lum Tum Lumber Co. of Walla Walla, Wash., would make a good college yell; but the Wishkah Boom Co. of Wishkah, Wash., would do even better.Some onewas commiserating Impresario Dippel on his picturesque assortment of griefs. “Yes,” he said, “an impresario is a man who has trouble. If he hasn’t any he makes it.”[p11]Whatis the use of expositions of other men’s philosophic systems unless the exposition is made lucid and interesting? Philosophers are much like certain musical critics: they write for one another, in a jargon which only themselves can understand.O shadeof Claude Debussy, for whom the bells of hell or heaven go tingalingaling (for wherever you are it is certain there are many bells—great bells, little bells, bells in high air, and bells beneath the sea), how we should rejoice that the beautiful things which you dreamed are as a book that is sealed to most of those who put them upon programmes; for these do not merely play them badly, they do not play them at all. Thus they cannot be spoiled for us, nor can our ear be dulled; and when the few play them that understand, they are as fresh and beautiful as on the day when first you set them down.“Theincrease in the use of tobacco by women,” declares the Methodist Board, “is appalling.” Is it not? But so many things are appalling that it would be a relief to everybody if a board, or commission, or other volunteer organization were to act as a shock-absorber. Whenever an appalling situation arose, this group could be appalled for the rest of us. And we, knowing that the board would be properly appalled, should not have to worry.[p12]Adof a Des Moines baggage transfer company: “Don’t lie awake fearing you’ll miss your train—we’ll attend to that.” You bet they do.Thepresident of the Printing Press and Feeders’ (sic) union estimates that a family in New York requires $2,362 a year to get by. Which sets us musing on the days of our youth in Manchester, N. H., when we were envied by the others of the newspaper staff because we got $18 a week. We lived high, dressed expensively (for Manchester), and always had money for Wine and Song. How did we manage it? Blessed if we can remember.Thesoi-disant human race appears to its best advantage, perhaps its only advantage, in work. The race is not ornamental, nor is it over-bright, having only enough wit to scrape along with. Work is the best thing it does, and when it seeks to avoid this, its reason for existence disappears.“Where,” asks G. N., “can I find the remainder of that beautiful Highland balladbeginning—‘I canna drook th’ stourie tow,Nor ither soak my hoggie:Hae cluttered up the muckle doon,An’ wow but I was voggie.’”Womenregard hair as pianists regard technic: one can’t have too much of it.[p13]Thedemand for regulation of the sale of wood alcohol reminds Uncle Henry of Horace Greeley’s remark when he was asked to subscribe to a missionary fund “to save his fellow-man from going to hell.” Said Hod, “Not enough of them go there now.”A fewlines on the literary page relate that Edith Alice Maitland, who recently died in London, was the original of “Alice In Wonderland.” Lewis Carroll wrote the book for her, and perhaps read chapters to her as he went along. Happy author, happy reader! If the ordering of our labors were entirely within our control we should write exclusively for children. They are more intelligent than adults, have a quicker apprehension, and are without prejudices. In addressing children, one may write quite frankly and sincerely. In addressing grown-ups the only safe medium of expression is irony.Gleanedby R. J. S. from a Topeka church calendar: “Preaching at 8 p.m., subject ‘A Voice from Hell.’ Miss Holman will sing.”Hereis a happy little suggestion for traveling men, offered by S. B. T.: “When entering the dining room of a hotel, why not look searchingly about and rub hands together briskly?”[p14]Whatcould be more frank than the framed motto in the Hotel Fortney, at Viroqua, Wis.—“There Is No Place Like Home.”?As towhy hotelkeepers charge farmers less than they charge traveling men, one of our readers discovered the reason in 1899: The gadder takes a bunch of toothpicks after each meal and pouches them; the farmer takes only one, and when he is finished with it he puts it back.IfPlato were writing to-day he would have no occasion to revise his notion of democracy—“a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, and dispensing equality to equals and unequals alike.”Theolder we grow the more impressed we are by the amount of bias in the world. Thank heaven, the only prejudices we have are religious, racial, and social prejudices. In other respects we are open to reason.Fromthe calendar of the Pike county court: “Shank vs. Shinn.”Strange all this difference should have been’Twixt Mr. Shank and Mr. Shinn.[p15]HOME TIES.Sir: Discovered, in Minnesota, the country delegate who goes to bed wearing the tie his daughter tied on him before he left home, because he wouldn’t know how to tie it in the morning if he took it off.J. O. C.THEY FOUND THEM IN THE ALLEY.Sir: A young man promised a charming young woman, as a birthday remembrance, a rose for every year she was old. After he had given the order for two dozen Killarneys, the florist said to his boy: “He’s a good customer. Just put in half a dozen extra.”M. C. G.“When,” inquires a fair reader, apropos of our remark that the only way to improve the so-called human race is to junk it and begin over again, “when does the junking begin?Because …”Cawn’t say when the big explosion will occur. But look for us in a neighboring constellation.When they junk the human speciesWe will meet you, love, in Pisces.THE TOONERVILLE TROLLEY.Sir: Did you ever ride on a street car in one of those towns where no one has any place to go and[p16] />all day to get there in? The conversation runs something like this between the motorman and conductor:Conductor: “Ding ding!” (Meaning, “I’m ready whenever you are.”)Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“Well, I’m ready.”)Conductor: “Ding ding!” (“All right, you can go.”)Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“I gotcha, Steve.”)Then they go.P. I. N.O WILD! O STRANGE!“That wild and strange thing, the press.”—H. G. Wells.It’s now too late, I fear, to change,For ever since a childI’ve always been a little strange,And just a little wild.I never knew the reason why,But now the cause I guess—What Mr. Wells, the author, calls“That wild, strange thing, the press.”I’ve worked for every kind of papeIn journalism’s range,And some were tame and commonplace,But most were wild and strange.[p17]I ran a country paper once—Or, rather, it ran me;It was the strangest, wildest thingThat ever you did see.Some years ago I settled downAnd thought to find a cureBy writing books and plays and sich,That class as litrachoor.And for a time I lived apart,In abject happiness;Yet all the while I hankered forThat strange, wild thing, the press.Its fatal fascination ICould not resist for long;I fled the path of litrachoor,And once again went wrong.I resurrected this here Col,By which you are beguiled.I fear you find it strange sometimes,And always rather wild.A delegationof Socialists has returned from Russia with the news that Sovietude leaves everything to be desired, that “things are worse than in the Czarist days.” Naturally. The trouble is, the ideal is more easily achieved than retained. The ideal existed for a few weeks in Russia. It[p18] />was at the time of the canning of Kerensky. Everybody had authority and nobody had it. Lincoln Steffens, beating his luminous wings in the void, beamed with joy. The ideal had been achieved; all government had disappeared. But this happy state could not last. The people who think such a happy state can last are the most interesting minds outside of the high brick wall which surrounds the institution.Whenone consults what he is pleased to call his mind, this planet seems the saddest and maddest of possible worlds. And when one walks homeward under a waning moon, through Suburbia’s deserted lanes, between hedges that exhale the breath of lilac and honeysuckle, the world seems a very satisfactory half-way house on the road to the Unknown. Shall we trust our intelligence or our senses? If we follow the latter it is because we wish to, not because they are a more trustworthy guide.Onemust agree with Mr. Yeats, that the poetic drama is for a very small audience, but we should not like to see it so restricted. For a good share of the amusement which we get out of life comes from watching the attempts to feed caviar to the general.[p19]THE POPOCATEPETL OF APPRECIATION.[From the Paris, Ill., News.]For the past seven days I have been in inmate at the county jail, and through the columns of the Daily News I wish to express my thanks and appreciation to Sheriff and Mrs. McCallister and Mr. McDaniel for the kindness shown to me. I have been in jail before, here and at other places, and never found a like institution kept in such a sanitary condition. The food prepared by Mrs. McCallister was excellent. In my opinion Mr. McCallister is entitled to any office.May Claybaugh.A copyof the second edition of The Ozark Harpist is received. The Harpist is Alys Hale, who sings on the flyleaf:“Sing on, my harp,Sing on some more and ever,For sweet souls are breaking,And fond hearts are aching,Sing on some more and ever!”Wequite agree with Mr. Masefield that great literary work requires leisure. Lack of leisure is handicapping us in the writing of a romance. We compose it while waiting for trains, while shoveling snow and coal, while riding on the L, while shaving; and we write it on the backs of envelopes, on the covering of packages, on the margins[p20] />of newspapers. The best place to write a book is in jail, where Cervantes wrote Don Quixote; but we can’t find time to commit a greater misdemeanor than this column, and there is no jail sentence for that. The only compensation for the literary method we are forced to adopt is that there is a great deal of “go” in it.Replyingto an extremely dear reader: Whenever we animadvert on the human race we include ourself. We share its imperfections, and we hope we are tinctured with its few virtues. As a race it impresses us as a flivver; we feel as you, perhaps, feel in your club when, looking over the members, you wonder how the dickens most of them got in.Prof. Pickeringis quoted as declaring that a race of superior beings inhabits the moon. Now we are far from claiming that the inhabitants of our geoid are superior to the moon folk, or any other folk in the solar system; but the mere fact that the Moonians are able to exist in conditions peculiar to themselves does not make them superior. The whale can live under water. Is the whale, then, superior to, say, Senator Johnson? True, it can spout farther, but it is probably inferior to Mr. Johnson in reasoning power.[p21]Theman who tells you that he believes “in principles, not men,” means—nothing at all. One would think that in the beginning God created a set of principles, and man was without form and void.“Lost—Pair of trousers while shopping. Finder call Dinsmore 1869.”—Minneapolis Journal.The female of the shopping species is rougher and more ruthless than the male.“AncientRome, in the height of her glory, with her lavish amusements, Olympian games,” etc.—The enraptured advertiser.The proof reader asks us if it was an eruption of Mt. Olympus that destroyed Pompeii.GARDENS.My lady hath a garden fair,Wherein she whiles her hours:She chides me that I do not shareHer rage for springing flowers.I tell her I’ve a garden, too,Wherein I have to toil—The kind that Epicurus knew,If not so good a soil.[p22]And I must till my patch with care,And watch its daily needs;For lacking water, sun, and air,The place would run to weeds.In this the garden of the mind,My flowers are all too few;Yet am I well content to findA modest bloom or two.My lady hath a garden fair,Or will when buds are blown:I’ve but a blossom here and there—Poor posies, but mine own.“Verywell, here is a constructive criticism,” declared Col. Roosevelt, tossing another grenade into the administration trenches. The Colonel is our favorite constructive critic. After he has finished a bit of construction it takes an hour for the dust to settle.Judgmentday will be a complete performance for the dramatic critics. They will be able to stay for the last act.Whyis it that when a woman takes the measurements for a screen door she thinks she has to allow a couple of inches to turn in?“WomanLights 103 Candles With One Match.”[p23]Huh! Helen, with one match, lit the topless towers of Ilium.Itmay be—nay, it is—ungallant so to say,but——Well, have you, in glancing over the beauty contest exhibits, observed a face that would launch a thousand ships? Or five hundred?“Learnto Speak on Your Feet,” advertises a university extension. We believe we could tell all we know about ours in five hundred words.GOOD NIGHT![From the Omaha Bee.]Mrs. Riley gave a retiring party in honor of her husband.Atthe Hotel Dwan, in Benton Harbor, “rooms may be had en suite or connecting.” Or should you prefer that they lead one into another, the management will be glad to accommodate you.Governmentcensus blanks read on top of sheet: “Kindly fill out questions below.” One of the questions is: “Can you read? Can you write? Yes or No?” This reminds a Minneapolis man of the day when he was about 15 miles from Minneapolis and read on a guide post: “15 miles to Minneapolis. If you cannot read, ask at the grocery store.”[p24]Thewave of spiritualism strikes Mr. Leacock as absurd, simply absurd. “And yet people seem to be going mad over it,” he adds. What do you mean “and yet,” Stephen? Don’t you mean “consequently”?A Jolietsocial item mentions the engagement of Miss Lucille Muff De Line. We don’t recall her contribution.[p25]Gilded Fairy Tales.(Revised and regilded for comprehension by the children of the very rich.)THE BABES IN THE WOOD.IOnceupon a time there dwelt in a small but very expensive cottage on the outskirts of a pine forest a gentleman with his wife and two children. It was a beautiful estate and the neighborhood was the very best. Nobody for miles around was worth less than five million dollars.One night the gentleman tapped at his wife’s boudoir, and receiving permission to enter, he said: “Pauline, I have been thinking about our children. I overheard the governess say to-day that they are really bright and interesting, and as yet unspoiled. Perhaps if they had a fair chance they might amount to something.”“Reginald,” replied his wife, “you are growing morbid about those children. You will be asking to see them next.” She shrugged her gleaming shoulders, and rang for the maid to let down her hair.“Remember our own youth and shudder, Pauline,” said the gentleman. “It’s a shame to allow[p26] />Percival and Melisande to grow up in this atmosphere.”“Well,” said the lady petulantly, “what do you suggest?”“I think it would be wise and humane to abandon them. The butler or the chauffeur can take them into the wood and lose them and some peasant may find and adopt them, and they may grow up to be worthy citizens. At least it is worth trying.”“Do as you please,” said the lady. “The children are a collaboration; they are as much yours as mine.”This conversation was overheard by little Melisande, who had stolen down from her little boudoir in her gold-flowered nightdress for a peep at her mamma, whom she had not seen for a long, long time. The poor child was dreadfully frightened, and crept upstairs weeping to her brother.“Pooh!” said Percival, who was a brave little chap. “We shall find our way out of the wood, never fear. Give me your pearl necklace, Melisande.”The wondering child dried her eyes and fetched the necklace, and Percival stripped off the pearls and put them in the pocket of his velvet jacket. “They can’t lose us, sis,” said he.[p27]IIIn the morning the butler took the children a long, long way into the woods, pretending that he had discovered a diamond mine; and, bidding them stand in a certain place till he called, he went away and did not return. Melisande began to weep, as usual, but Percival only laughed, for he had dropped a pearl every little way as they entered the wood, and the children found their way home without the least difficulty. Their father was vexed by their cleverness, but their mamma smiled.“It’s fate, Reginald,” she remarked. “They were born for the smart set, and they may as well fulfill their destinies.”“Let us try once more,” said the gentleman. “Give them another chance.”When the servant called the children the next morning Percival ran to get another pearl necklace, but the jewel cellar was locked, and the best he could do was to conceal a four-pound bunch of hothouse grapes under his jacket. This time they were taken twice as far into the wood in search of the diamond mine; and alas! when the butler deserted them Percival found that the birds had eaten every grape he had dropped along the way. They were now really lost, and wandered all day without coming out anywhere, and at night[p28] />they slept on a pile of leaves, which Percival said was much more like camping out than their summer in the Adirondacks. All next day they wandered, without seeing sign of a road or a château, and Melisande wept bitterly.“I am so hungry,” exclaimed the poor child. “If we only could get a fewmarrons glacésfor breakfast!”“I could eat a few macaroons myself,” said Percival.IIIOn the afternoon of the third day Percival and Melisande came to a strange little cottage fashioned of gingerbread, but as the children had never tasted anything so common as gingerbread they did not recognize it. However, the cottage felt soft and looked pretty enough to eat, so Percival bit off a piece of the roof and declared it was fine. Melisande helped herself to the doorknob, and the children might have eaten half the cottage had not a witch who lived in it come out and frightened them away. The children ran as fast as their legs could work, for the witch looked exactly like their governess, who tried to make them learn to spell and do other disagreeable tasks.Presently they came out on a road and saw a big red automobile belonging to nobody in[p29] />particular. It was the most beautiful car imaginable. The hubs were set with pigeon blood rubies and the spokes with brilliants; the tires were set with garnets to prevent skidding, and the hood was inlaid with diamonds and emeralds. Even Percival and Melisande were impressed. One door stood invitingly open and the children sprang into the machine. They were accustomed to helping themselves to everything that took their fancy; they had inherited the instinct.Percival turned on the gas. “Hang on to your hair, sis!” he cried, and he burnt up the road all the way home, capsizing the outfit in front of the mansion and wrecking the automobile.Their mamma came slowly down the veranda steps with a strange gentleman by her side. “These are the children, Edward,” she said, picking them up, uninjured by the spill. “Children, this is your new papa.”The gentleman shook hands with them very pleasantly and said he hoped that he should be their papa long enough to get really acquainted with them. At which remark the lady smiled and tapped him with her fan.And they lived happily, after their fashion, ever afterward.[p30]LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.IOnce upon a time there was a little girl who was the prettiest creature imaginable. Her mother was excessively fond of her, and saw her as frequently as possible, sometimes as often as once a month. Her grandmother, who doted on her even more, had made for her in Paris a little red riding hood of velvet embroidered with pearl passementerie, which became the child so well that everybody in her set called her Little Red Riding-Hood.One day her mother said to her: “Go, my dear, and see how your grandmother does, for I hear she has been ill with indigestion. Carry her this filet and this little pot of foie gras.”The grandmother lived in a secluded and exclusive part of the village, in a marble cottage situated in the midst of a wooded park. Little Red Riding-Hood got out of the motor when she came to the park, telling the chauffeur she would walk the rest of the way. She hardly passed the hedge when she met a Wolf.“Whither are you going?” he asked, looking wistfully at her.“I am going to see my grandmother, and carry her a filet and a little pot of foie gras from my mamma.”[p31]“Well,” said the Wolf, “I’ll go see her, too. I’ll go this way and you go that, and we shall see who will be there first.”The Wolf ran off as fast as he could, and was first at the door of the marble cottage. The butler informed him that Madame was not at home, but he sprang through the door, knocking the servant over, and ran upstairs to Madame’s boudoir.“Who’s there?” asked the grandmother, when the Wolf tapped at the door.“Your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood,” replied the Wolf, counterfeiting the child’s voice, “who has brought you a filet and a little pot of foie gras.”IIThe good grandmother, who had eaten nothing for two days except a mallard, with a pint of champagne, cried out hungrily, “Come in, my dear.”The Wolf ran in, and, falling upon the old lady, ate her up in a hurry, for he had not tasted food for a whole week. He then got into the bed, and presently Little Red Riding-Hood tapped at the door.The Wolf pitched his voice as high and unpleasant as he could, and called out, “What is it, Hawkins?”[p32]“It isn’t Hawkins,” replied Little Red Riding-Hood. “It is your grandchild, who has brought you a filet and a little pot of foie gras.”“Come in, my dear,” responded the Wolf. And when the child entered he said: “Put the filet and the little pot of foie gras on the gold tabouret, and come and lie down with me.”Little Red Riding-Hood did not think it good form to go to bed so very, very late in the morning, but as she expected to inherit her grandmother’s millions she obediently took off her gold-flowered frock, and her pretty silk petticoat, and her dear little diamond stomacher, and got into bed, where, amazed at the change for the better in her grandmother’s appearance, she said to her:“Grandmother, how thin your arms have got!”“I have been dieting, my dear.”“Grandmother, how thin your legs have got!”“The doctor makes me walk every day.”“Grandmother, how quiet you are!”“This isn’t a symphony concert hall, my dear.”“Grandmother, what has become of your diamond-filled teeth?”“These will do, my dear.”And saying these words the wicked Wolf fell upon Little Red Riding-Hood and ate her all up.[p33]JACK AND THE BEANSTALK.IOnce upon a time there was a very wealthy widow who lived in a marble cottage approached by a driveway of the same stone, bordered with rhododendrons. She had an only son, Jack—a giddy, thoughtless boy, but very kindhearted, as many a hard-working chorus girl had reason to remember. Jack was an idle fellow, whose single accomplishment was driving an automobile, in which he displayed remarkable skill and recklessness; there was hardly a day he did not run over something or somebody. One day he bumped a very heavy workingman, whose remains messed up the car so badly that Jack’s mother lost patience with him. “My dear,” she said, “why don’t you put your skill and energy to some use? If only you would slay the giant Ennui, who ravages our country, you would be as great a hero in our set as St. George of England was in his.”Jack laughed. “Let him but get in the way of my car,” said he, “and I’ll knock him into the middle of next month.”The boy set out gaily for the garage, to have the motor repaired, and on the way he met a green-goods grocer who displayed a handful of beautiful red, white, and blue beans. Jack stopped to look at what he supposed was a new kind[p34] />of poker chip, and the man persuaded the silly youth to exchange the automobile for the beans.When he brought home the “chips” his mother laughed loudly. “You are just like your father; he didn’t know beans, either,” she said. “Dig a hole in the tennis court, Jack, and plant your poker chips, and see what will happen.”Jack did as he was told to do, and the next morning he went out to see whether anything had happened. What was his amazement to find that a mass of twisted stalks had grown out of his jackpot and climbed till they covered the high cliff back of the tennis court, disappearing above it.IIJack came of a family of climbers. His mother had climbed into society and was still climbing. The funny thing about climbers is that they never deceive anybody; every one knows just what they are up to. As Jack had inherited the climbing passion he began without hesitation to ascend the beanstalk, and when he reached the top he was as tired as if he had spent the day laying bricks or selling goods behind a counter; but he perked up when he beheld a fairy in pink tights who looked very much like a coryphée in the first row of “The Girly Girl.”“Is this a roof garden?” asked Jack, looking about him curiously.[p35]“No, kid,” replied the Fairy, tapping him playfully with her spear. “You are in the Land of Pleasure, and in yonder castle lives a horrid Giant called Ennui, who bores everybody he catches to death.”Jack put on a brave face and lighted a cigarette. “Has he ever caught you, little one?” he asked.“No,” she laughed, “but I’m knocking wood. Fairies don’t get bored until they grow old, or at least middle-aged.”“It’s a wonder,” said Jack, “that the Giant doesn’t bore himself to death some day.”“He might,” said the Fairy, “if it were not for his wonderful talking harp, which keeps harping upon Socialism, and the single tax, and the rights of labor, and a lot of other mush; but you see it keeps Ennui stirred up, so that he is never bored entirely stiff.”“Well,” said Jack, “me for that harp, if I die for it!” And thanking Polly Twinkletoes for her information, and promising to buy her a supper when he got his next allowance, he sauntered toward the castle. As he paused before the great gate it was opened suddenly by a most unpleasant looking giantess.“Ho! ho!” she cried, seizing Jack by the arm, “you’re the young scamp who sold me that lightning cleaner last week. I’ll just keep you till[p36] />you take the spots out of my husband’s Sunday pants. If you don’t, he’ll knock the spots out ofyou!”IIIWhile the Giantess spoke she dragged Jack into the castle. “Into this wardrobe,” said she; “and mind you don’t make the smallest noise, or my man will wring your neck. He takes a nap after dinner, and then you’ll have a chance to demonstrate that grease-eradicator you sold me last week.”The wardrobe was as big as Jack’s yacht, and the key-hole as big as a barrel, so the boy could see everything that took place without. Presently the castle was shaken as if by an earthquake, and a great voice roared: “Wife! wife! I smell gasoline!”Jack trembled, remembering that in tinkering around his car that morning he had spilled gas on his clothes.“Be quiet!” replied the Giantess. “It’s only the lightning-cleaner which that scamp of a peddler sold me the other day.”The Giant ate a couple of sheep; then, pushing his plate away, he called for his talking harp. And while he smoked, the harp rattled off a long string of stuff about the equal liability of all men to labor, the abolition of the right of inheritance, and kindred things. Jack resolved that when he[p37] />got hold of the harp he would serve it at a formal dinner, under a great silver cover. What a sensation it would cause among his guests when it began to sing its little song about the abolition of the right of inheritance!In a short time the Giant fell asleep, for the harp, like many reformers, became wearisome through exaggeration of statement. Jack slipped from the wardrobe, seized the harp, and ran out of the castle.“Master! Master!” cried the music-maker. “Wake up! We are betrayed!”Glancing back, Jack saw the Giant striding after him, and gave himself up for lost; but at that moment he heard his name called, and he saw the Fairy, Polly Twinkletoes, beckoning to him from a taxicab. Jack sprang into the machine and they reached the beanstalk a hundred yards ahead of the giant. Down the stalk they slipped and dropped, the Giant lumbering after. Once at the bottom, Jack ran to the garage and got out his man-killer, and when the Giant reached ground he was knocked, as Jack had promised, into the middle of the proximate month.Our hero married the Fairy, much against his mother’s wishes; she knew her son all too well, and she felt certain that she should soon come to know Polly as well, and as unfavorably. Things turned out no better than she had expected.[p38] />After a month of incompatibility, and worse, Polly consented to a divorce in consideration of one hundred thousand dollars, and they all lived happily ever afterward.

Bert Leston Taylor (known the country over as “B. L. T.”) was the first of our day’s “colyumists”—first in point of time, and first in point of merit. For nearly twenty years, with some interruptions, he conducted “A Line-o’-Type or Two” on the editorial page of the ChicagoTribune. His broad column—broad by measurement, broad in scope, and a bit broad, now and again, in its tone—cheered hundreds of thousands at the breakfast-tables of the Middle West, and on its trains and trolleys. As the “Column” grew in reputation, “making the Line” became almost a national sport. Whoever had a happy thought, whoever could handily turn a humorous paragraph or tune a pointed jingle, was only too glad to attempt collaboration with B. L. T. Others, possessing no literary knack, chanced it with brief reports on the follies or ineptitudes of the “so-called human race.” Some of them picked up their matter on their travels—these were the “Gadders.” Others culled oddities from the provincial press, and so gave further scope[pviii] />to “The Enraptured Reporter,” or offered selected gems ofgaucheriefrom private correspondence, and thus added to the rich yield of “The Second Post.” Still humbler helpers chipped in with queer bits of nomenclature, thereby aiding the formation of an “Academy of Immortals”—an organization fully officered by people with droll names and always tending, as will become apparent in the following pages, to enlarge and vary its roster.

All these contributors, as well as many other persons who existed independently of the “Line,” lived in the corrective fear of the “Cannery,” that capacious receptacle which yawned for the trite word and the stereotyped phrase. Our language, to B. L. T., was an honest, living growth: deadwood, whether in thought or in the expression of thought, never got by, but was marked for the burning. The “Cannery,” with its numbered shelves and jars, was a deterrent indeed, and anyone who ventured to relieve himself as “Vox Populi” or as a conventional versifier, did well to walk with care.

Over all these aids, would-be or actual, presided the Conductor himself, furnishing a steady framework by his own quips, jingles and philosophizings, and bringing each day’s exhibit to an ordered unity. The Column was more than the sum of its contributors. It was the sum of[pix] />units, original or contributed, that had been manipulated and brought to high effectiveness by a skilled hand and a nature wide in its sympathies and in its range of interests.

Taylor had the gift of opening new roads and of inviting a willing public to follow. Or, to put it another way, he had the faculty of making new moulds, into which his helpers were only too glad to pour their material. Some of these “leads” lasted for weeks; some for months; others persisted through the years. The lifted wand evoked, marshalled, vivified, and the daily miracle came to its regular accomplishment.

Taylor hewed his Line in precise accord with his own taste and fancy. All was on the basis of personal preference. His chiefs learned early that so rare an organism was best left alone to function in harmony with its own nature. The Column had not only its own philosophy and its own æsthetics, but its own politics: if it seemed to contravene other and more representative departments of the paper, never mind. Its conductor had such confidence in the validity of his personal predilections and in their identity with those of “the general,” that he carried on things with the one rule of pleasing himself, certain that he should find no better rule for pleasing others. His success was complete.

His papers and clippings, found in a fairly[px] />forward state of preparation, gave in part the necessary indications for the completion of this volume. The results will perhaps lack somewhat the typographical effectiveness which is within the reach of a metropolitan daily when utilized by a “colyumist” who was also a practical printer, and they can only approximate that piquant employment of juxtaposition and contrast which made every issue of “A Line-o’-Type or Two” a work of art in its way. But no arrangement of items from that source could becloud the essential nature of its Conductor: though “The So-Called Human Race” sometimes plays rather tartly and impatiently with men’s follies and shortcomings, it clearly and constantly exhibits a sunny, alert and airy spirit to whom all things human made their sharp appeal.

[p1]A LINE-O’-TYPE OR TWOMotto: Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may.

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

Myreaders are a varied lot;Their tastes do not agree.A squib that tickles A is notAt all the thingfor B.What’s sense to J, is folderolTo K, butpleases Q.So, when I come to fill the Col,I know just what to do.

Myreaders are a varied lot;Their tastes do not agree.A squib that tickles A is notAt all the thingfor B.

Myreaders are a varied lot;

Their tastes do not agree.

A squib that tickles A is not

At all the thingfor B.

What’s sense to J, is folderolTo K, butpleases Q.So, when I come to fill the Col,I know just what to do.

What’s sense to J, is folderol

To K, butpleases Q.

So, when I come to fill the Col,

I know just what to do.

It isrefreshing to find in the society columns an account of a quiet wedding. The conventional screams of a groom are rather trying.

A manwill sit around smoking all day and his wife will remark: “My dear, aren’t you smoking too much?” The doctor cuts him down to three cigars a day, and his wife remarks: “My dear, aren’t you smoking too much?” Finally he chops off to a single after-dinner smoke, and when he lights up his wife remarks: “John, you do nothing but smoke all day long.” Women are singularly observant.

Sir: A gadder friend of mine has been on the road so long that he always speaks of the parlor in his house as the lobby.E. C. M.

Withthe possible exception of Trotzky, Mr. Hearst is the busiest person politically that one is able to wot of. Such boundless zeal! Such measureless energy! Such genius—an infinite capacity for giving pains!

Ancestorworship is not peculiar to any tribe or nation. We observed last evening, on North Clark street, a crowd shaking hands in turn with an organ-grinder’s monkey.

“In fact,” says an editorial on Uncongenial Clubs, “a man may go to a club to get away from congenial spirits.” True. And is there any more uncongenial club than the Human Race? The service is bad, the membership is frightfully promiscuous, and about the only place to which one can escape is the library. It is always quiet there.

Signin the Black Hawk Hotel, Byron, Ill.: “If you think you are witty send your thoughts to B. L. T., care Chicago Tribune. Do not spring them on the help. It hurts efficiency.”

The handsome clerk at the Harvey House makes this profound observation: Any girl will flirt as the train is pulling out.

She formerly talked of the weather,The popular book, or the play;Her old line of chatWas of this thing or thatIn the fashions and fads of the day.But now she discusses eugenics,And things that a pundit perplex;She knocks you quite flatWith her new line of chat,And her “What do you think about sex?”

She formerly talked of the weather,The popular book, or the play;Her old line of chatWas of this thing or thatIn the fashions and fads of the day.

She formerly talked of the weather,

The popular book, or the play;

Her old line of chat

Was of this thing or that

In the fashions and fads of the day.

But now she discusses eugenics,And things that a pundit perplex;She knocks you quite flatWith her new line of chat,And her “What do you think about sex?”

But now she discusses eugenics,

And things that a pundit perplex;

She knocks you quite flat

With her new line of chat,

And her “What do you think about sex?”

“Arewe all to shudder at the name of Rabelais and take to smelling salts?” queries an editorial colleague. “Are we to be a wholly lady-like nation?” Small danger, brother. Human nature changes imperceptibly, or not at all. The objection to most imitations of Rabelais is that they lack the unforced wit and humor of the original.

A pictureof Dr. A. Ford Carr testing a baby provokes a frivolous reader to observe that when[p4] />the babies cry the doctor probably gives them a rattle.

The man who writes a certain column in Chicago can always fill two-thirds of it with quotations and contributions. But that may be called success—when they bring the stuff to you and are almost willing to pay you for printing it.

Sir: “I’ll say she is,” “Don’t take it so hard,” “I’ll tell the world.” These, and other slangy explosives from our nursery, fell upon the sensitive auditory nerves of callers last evening. I am in a quandary, whether to complain to the missus or write a corrective letter to the children’s school teachers, for on the square some guy ought to bawl the kids out for fair about this rough stuff—it gets my goat.J. F. B.

Didyou think “I’ll say so” was new slang? Well, it isn’t. You will find it in Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey.”

Formulafor accepting a second cigar from a man whose taste in tobacco is poor: “Thank you; the courtesy is notallyours.”

[p5]A numberof suicides are attributed to the impending conjunction of the planets and the menace of world-end. You can interest anybody in astronomy if you can establish for him a connection between his personal affairs and the movements of the stars.

Where ’Vangie lies strown foliosLike Vallambrosan leaves repose,The sad, the blithe, the quaint, the queer,The good, the punk are scattered here—A pile of poof in verse and prose.And none would guess, save him who strows,How much transcendent genius goesUnwept, unknown, into the smearWhere ’Vangie lies.With every opening mail it snowsTill ’Vangie’s covered to her nose.Forgetting that she is so near,I sometimes kick her in the ear.Then sundry piteous ba-a-a’s discloseWhere ’Vangie lies.

Where ’Vangie lies strown foliosLike Vallambrosan leaves repose,The sad, the blithe, the quaint, the queer,The good, the punk are scattered here—A pile of poof in verse and prose.

Where ’Vangie lies strown folios

Like Vallambrosan leaves repose,

The sad, the blithe, the quaint, the queer,

The good, the punk are scattered here—

A pile of poof in verse and prose.

And none would guess, save him who strows,How much transcendent genius goesUnwept, unknown, into the smearWhere ’Vangie lies.

And none would guess, save him who strows,

How much transcendent genius goes

Unwept, unknown, into the smear

Where ’Vangie lies.

With every opening mail it snowsTill ’Vangie’s covered to her nose.Forgetting that she is so near,I sometimes kick her in the ear.Then sundry piteous ba-a-a’s discloseWhere ’Vangie lies.

With every opening mail it snows

Till ’Vangie’s covered to her nose.

Forgetting that she is so near,

I sometimes kick her in the ear.

Then sundry piteous ba-a-a’s disclose

Where ’Vangie lies.

“Thissale,” advertises a candid clothier, “lasts only so long as the goods last, and that won’t be very long.”

Dear Sir: Your letter came. Glad you bought a team of horses. Hilda is sick. She has diphtheria and she will die I think. Clara died this eve. She had it, too. We are quarantined. Five of Fisher’s family have got it. My wife is sick. She hain’t got it. If this thing gets worse we may have to get a doctor. Them trees are budding good. Everything is O. K.

Justas we started to light a pipe preparatory to filling this column, we were reminded of Whistler’s remark to a student who was smoking: “You should be very careful. You know you might get interested in your work and let your pipe go out.”

It isodd, and not uninteresting to students of the so-called human race, that a steamfitter or a manufacturer of suspenders who may not know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution—who may not, indeed, know anything at all—is nevertheless a bubbly-fountain of political wisdom; whereas a writer for a newspaper is capable of emitting only drivel. This may be due to the greater opportunity for meditation enjoyed by suspender-makers and steamfitters.

[p7]Janesville’sGrand Hotel just blew itself on its Thanksgiving dinner. The menu included “Cheese a la Fromage.”

“It iswith ideas we shall conquer the world,” boasts Lenine. If he needs a few more he can get them at the Patent Office in Washington, which is packed with plans and specifications of perpetual motion machines and other contraptions as unworkable as bolshevism.

A woman from the country made a deposit consisting of several items. After ascertaining the amount the receiving teller asked, “Did you foot it up?” “No, I rode in,” said she.H. A. N.

Thefact that Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and other great departed whose names are taken in vain every day by small-bore politicians, do not return and whack these persons over the heads with a tambourine, is almost—as Anatole France remarked in an essay on Flaubert—is almost an argument against the immortality of the soul.

Harper’s Weeklyrefrains from comment on the shipping bill because, says its editor, “we have not been able to accumulate enough knowledge.”[p8] />Well! If every one refrained from expressing an opinion on a subject until he was well informed the pulp mills would go out of business and a great silence would fall upon the world.

It ispleasant to believe the sun is restoring its expended energy by condensation, and that the so-called human race is in the morning of its existence; and it is necessary that the majority should believe so, for otherwise the business of the world would not get done. The happiest cynic would be depressed by the sight of humanity sitting with folded hands, waiting apathetically for the end.

Perhapsthe best way to get acquainted with the self-styled human race is to collect money from it.

I would not seem to slam our valued planet,—Space, being infinite, may hold a worse;Nor would I intimate that if I ran itIts vapors might disperse.Within our solar system, or without it,May be a world less rationally run;There may be such a geoid, but I doubt it—I can’t conceive of one.[p9]If from the time our sphere began revolvingUntil the present writing there had beenA glimmer of a promise of resolvingThe muddle we are in:If we could answer “Whither are we drifting?”Or hope to wallow out of the morass—I might continue boosting and uplifting;But as it is, I pass.So on your way, old globe, wherever aiming,Go blundering down the endless slopes of space:As far away the prospect of reclaimingThe so-called human race.Gyrate, old Top, and let who will be clever;The mess we’re in is much too deep to solve.Me for a quiet life while you, as ever,Continue to revolve.

I would not seem to slam our valued planet,—Space, being infinite, may hold a worse;Nor would I intimate that if I ran itIts vapors might disperse.

I would not seem to slam our valued planet,—

Space, being infinite, may hold a worse;

Nor would I intimate that if I ran it

Its vapors might disperse.

Within our solar system, or without it,May be a world less rationally run;There may be such a geoid, but I doubt it—I can’t conceive of one.

Within our solar system, or without it,

May be a world less rationally run;

There may be such a geoid, but I doubt it—

I can’t conceive of one.

[p9]If from the time our sphere began revolvingUntil the present writing there had beenA glimmer of a promise of resolvingThe muddle we are in:

[p9]If from the time our sphere began revolving

Until the present writing there had been

A glimmer of a promise of resolving

The muddle we are in:

If we could answer “Whither are we drifting?”Or hope to wallow out of the morass—I might continue boosting and uplifting;But as it is, I pass.

If we could answer “Whither are we drifting?”

Or hope to wallow out of the morass—

I might continue boosting and uplifting;

But as it is, I pass.

So on your way, old globe, wherever aiming,Go blundering down the endless slopes of space:As far away the prospect of reclaimingThe so-called human race.

So on your way, old globe, wherever aiming,

Go blundering down the endless slopes of space:

As far away the prospect of reclaiming

The so-called human race.

Gyrate, old Top, and let who will be clever;The mess we’re in is much too deep to solve.Me for a quiet life while you, as ever,Continue to revolve.

Gyrate, old Top, and let who will be clever;

The mess we’re in is much too deep to solve.

Me for a quiet life while you, as ever,

Continue to revolve.

“Oureditorials,” announces the Tampa Tribune, “are written by members of the staff, and do not necessarily reflect the policy of the paper.” Similarly, the contents of this column are written by its conductor and the straphangers, and have nothing whatever to do with its policy.

“What, indeed?” as Romeo replied to Juliet’s query. And yet Ralph Dilley and Irene Pickle were married in Decatur last week.

He washeard to observe, coming from the theater into the thick of the wind and snow: “God help the rich; the poor can sleep with their windows shut.”

[p10]Wehave received a copy of the first issue of The Fabulist, printed in Hingham Centre, Mass., and although we haven’t had time to read it, we like one of its ideas. “Contributions,” it announces, “must be paid for in advance at space rates.”

Theviewpoint of Dr. Jacques Duval (interestingly set forth by Mr. Arliss) is that knowledge is more important than the life of individual members of the so-called human race. But even Duval is a sentimentalist. He believes that knowledge is important.

Amongreasonable requests must be included that of the Hotel Fleming in Petersburg, Ind.: “Gentlemen, please walk light at night. The guests are paying 75 cents to sleep and do not want to be disturbed.”

Wehave recorded the opinion that the Lum Tum Lumber Co. of Walla Walla, Wash., would make a good college yell; but the Wishkah Boom Co. of Wishkah, Wash., would do even better.

Some onewas commiserating Impresario Dippel on his picturesque assortment of griefs. “Yes,” he said, “an impresario is a man who has trouble. If he hasn’t any he makes it.”

[p11]Whatis the use of expositions of other men’s philosophic systems unless the exposition is made lucid and interesting? Philosophers are much like certain musical critics: they write for one another, in a jargon which only themselves can understand.

O shadeof Claude Debussy, for whom the bells of hell or heaven go tingalingaling (for wherever you are it is certain there are many bells—great bells, little bells, bells in high air, and bells beneath the sea), how we should rejoice that the beautiful things which you dreamed are as a book that is sealed to most of those who put them upon programmes; for these do not merely play them badly, they do not play them at all. Thus they cannot be spoiled for us, nor can our ear be dulled; and when the few play them that understand, they are as fresh and beautiful as on the day when first you set them down.

“Theincrease in the use of tobacco by women,” declares the Methodist Board, “is appalling.” Is it not? But so many things are appalling that it would be a relief to everybody if a board, or commission, or other volunteer organization were to act as a shock-absorber. Whenever an appalling situation arose, this group could be appalled for the rest of us. And we, knowing that the board would be properly appalled, should not have to worry.

[p12]Adof a Des Moines baggage transfer company: “Don’t lie awake fearing you’ll miss your train—we’ll attend to that.” You bet they do.

Thepresident of the Printing Press and Feeders’ (sic) union estimates that a family in New York requires $2,362 a year to get by. Which sets us musing on the days of our youth in Manchester, N. H., when we were envied by the others of the newspaper staff because we got $18 a week. We lived high, dressed expensively (for Manchester), and always had money for Wine and Song. How did we manage it? Blessed if we can remember.

Thesoi-disant human race appears to its best advantage, perhaps its only advantage, in work. The race is not ornamental, nor is it over-bright, having only enough wit to scrape along with. Work is the best thing it does, and when it seeks to avoid this, its reason for existence disappears.

“Where,” asks G. N., “can I find the remainder of that beautiful Highland balladbeginning—

‘I canna drook th’ stourie tow,Nor ither soak my hoggie:Hae cluttered up the muckle doon,An’ wow but I was voggie.’”

‘I canna drook th’ stourie tow,Nor ither soak my hoggie:Hae cluttered up the muckle doon,An’ wow but I was voggie.’”

‘I canna drook th’ stourie tow,

Nor ither soak my hoggie:

Hae cluttered up the muckle doon,

An’ wow but I was voggie.’”

Womenregard hair as pianists regard technic: one can’t have too much of it.

[p13]Thedemand for regulation of the sale of wood alcohol reminds Uncle Henry of Horace Greeley’s remark when he was asked to subscribe to a missionary fund “to save his fellow-man from going to hell.” Said Hod, “Not enough of them go there now.”

A fewlines on the literary page relate that Edith Alice Maitland, who recently died in London, was the original of “Alice In Wonderland.” Lewis Carroll wrote the book for her, and perhaps read chapters to her as he went along. Happy author, happy reader! If the ordering of our labors were entirely within our control we should write exclusively for children. They are more intelligent than adults, have a quicker apprehension, and are without prejudices. In addressing children, one may write quite frankly and sincerely. In addressing grown-ups the only safe medium of expression is irony.

Gleanedby R. J. S. from a Topeka church calendar: “Preaching at 8 p.m., subject ‘A Voice from Hell.’ Miss Holman will sing.”

Hereis a happy little suggestion for traveling men, offered by S. B. T.: “When entering the dining room of a hotel, why not look searchingly about and rub hands together briskly?”

[p14]Whatcould be more frank than the framed motto in the Hotel Fortney, at Viroqua, Wis.—“There Is No Place Like Home.”?

As towhy hotelkeepers charge farmers less than they charge traveling men, one of our readers discovered the reason in 1899: The gadder takes a bunch of toothpicks after each meal and pouches them; the farmer takes only one, and when he is finished with it he puts it back.

IfPlato were writing to-day he would have no occasion to revise his notion of democracy—“a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, and dispensing equality to equals and unequals alike.”

Theolder we grow the more impressed we are by the amount of bias in the world. Thank heaven, the only prejudices we have are religious, racial, and social prejudices. In other respects we are open to reason.

Fromthe calendar of the Pike county court: “Shank vs. Shinn.”

Strange all this difference should have been’Twixt Mr. Shank and Mr. Shinn.

Strange all this difference should have been’Twixt Mr. Shank and Mr. Shinn.

Strange all this difference should have been

’Twixt Mr. Shank and Mr. Shinn.

Sir: Discovered, in Minnesota, the country delegate who goes to bed wearing the tie his daughter tied on him before he left home, because he wouldn’t know how to tie it in the morning if he took it off.J. O. C.

Sir: A young man promised a charming young woman, as a birthday remembrance, a rose for every year she was old. After he had given the order for two dozen Killarneys, the florist said to his boy: “He’s a good customer. Just put in half a dozen extra.”M. C. G.

“When,” inquires a fair reader, apropos of our remark that the only way to improve the so-called human race is to junk it and begin over again, “when does the junking begin?Because …”Cawn’t say when the big explosion will occur. But look for us in a neighboring constellation.

When they junk the human speciesWe will meet you, love, in Pisces.

When they junk the human speciesWe will meet you, love, in Pisces.

When they junk the human species

We will meet you, love, in Pisces.

Sir: Did you ever ride on a street car in one of those towns where no one has any place to go and[p16] />all day to get there in? The conversation runs something like this between the motorman and conductor:

Conductor: “Ding ding!” (Meaning, “I’m ready whenever you are.”)

Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“Well, I’m ready.”)

Conductor: “Ding ding!” (“All right, you can go.”)

Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“I gotcha, Steve.”)

Then they go.P. I. N.

It’s now too late, I fear, to change,For ever since a childI’ve always been a little strange,And just a little wild.I never knew the reason why,But now the cause I guess—What Mr. Wells, the author, calls“That wild, strange thing, the press.”I’ve worked for every kind of papeIn journalism’s range,And some were tame and commonplace,But most were wild and strange.[p17]I ran a country paper once—Or, rather, it ran me;It was the strangest, wildest thingThat ever you did see.Some years ago I settled downAnd thought to find a cureBy writing books and plays and sich,That class as litrachoor.And for a time I lived apart,In abject happiness;Yet all the while I hankered forThat strange, wild thing, the press.Its fatal fascination ICould not resist for long;I fled the path of litrachoor,And once again went wrong.I resurrected this here Col,By which you are beguiled.I fear you find it strange sometimes,And always rather wild.

It’s now too late, I fear, to change,For ever since a childI’ve always been a little strange,And just a little wild.

It’s now too late, I fear, to change,

For ever since a child

I’ve always been a little strange,

And just a little wild.

I never knew the reason why,But now the cause I guess—What Mr. Wells, the author, calls“That wild, strange thing, the press.”

I never knew the reason why,

But now the cause I guess—

What Mr. Wells, the author, calls

“That wild, strange thing, the press.”

I’ve worked for every kind of papeIn journalism’s range,And some were tame and commonplace,But most were wild and strange.

I’ve worked for every kind of pape

In journalism’s range,

And some were tame and commonplace,

But most were wild and strange.

[p17]I ran a country paper once—Or, rather, it ran me;It was the strangest, wildest thingThat ever you did see.

[p17]I ran a country paper once—

Or, rather, it ran me;

It was the strangest, wildest thing

That ever you did see.

Some years ago I settled downAnd thought to find a cureBy writing books and plays and sich,That class as litrachoor.

Some years ago I settled down

And thought to find a cure

By writing books and plays and sich,

That class as litrachoor.

And for a time I lived apart,In abject happiness;Yet all the while I hankered forThat strange, wild thing, the press.

And for a time I lived apart,

In abject happiness;

Yet all the while I hankered for

That strange, wild thing, the press.

Its fatal fascination ICould not resist for long;I fled the path of litrachoor,And once again went wrong.

Its fatal fascination I

Could not resist for long;

I fled the path of litrachoor,

And once again went wrong.

I resurrected this here Col,By which you are beguiled.I fear you find it strange sometimes,And always rather wild.

I resurrected this here Col,

By which you are beguiled.

I fear you find it strange sometimes,

And always rather wild.

A delegationof Socialists has returned from Russia with the news that Sovietude leaves everything to be desired, that “things are worse than in the Czarist days.” Naturally. The trouble is, the ideal is more easily achieved than retained. The ideal existed for a few weeks in Russia. It[p18] />was at the time of the canning of Kerensky. Everybody had authority and nobody had it. Lincoln Steffens, beating his luminous wings in the void, beamed with joy. The ideal had been achieved; all government had disappeared. But this happy state could not last. The people who think such a happy state can last are the most interesting minds outside of the high brick wall which surrounds the institution.

Whenone consults what he is pleased to call his mind, this planet seems the saddest and maddest of possible worlds. And when one walks homeward under a waning moon, through Suburbia’s deserted lanes, between hedges that exhale the breath of lilac and honeysuckle, the world seems a very satisfactory half-way house on the road to the Unknown. Shall we trust our intelligence or our senses? If we follow the latter it is because we wish to, not because they are a more trustworthy guide.

Onemust agree with Mr. Yeats, that the poetic drama is for a very small audience, but we should not like to see it so restricted. For a good share of the amusement which we get out of life comes from watching the attempts to feed caviar to the general.

For the past seven days I have been in inmate at the county jail, and through the columns of the Daily News I wish to express my thanks and appreciation to Sheriff and Mrs. McCallister and Mr. McDaniel for the kindness shown to me. I have been in jail before, here and at other places, and never found a like institution kept in such a sanitary condition. The food prepared by Mrs. McCallister was excellent. In my opinion Mr. McCallister is entitled to any office.May Claybaugh.

A copyof the second edition of The Ozark Harpist is received. The Harpist is Alys Hale, who sings on the flyleaf:

“Sing on, my harp,Sing on some more and ever,For sweet souls are breaking,And fond hearts are aching,Sing on some more and ever!”

“Sing on, my harp,Sing on some more and ever,For sweet souls are breaking,And fond hearts are aching,Sing on some more and ever!”

“Sing on, my harp,

Sing on some more and ever,

For sweet souls are breaking,

And fond hearts are aching,

Sing on some more and ever!”

Wequite agree with Mr. Masefield that great literary work requires leisure. Lack of leisure is handicapping us in the writing of a romance. We compose it while waiting for trains, while shoveling snow and coal, while riding on the L, while shaving; and we write it on the backs of envelopes, on the covering of packages, on the margins[p20] />of newspapers. The best place to write a book is in jail, where Cervantes wrote Don Quixote; but we can’t find time to commit a greater misdemeanor than this column, and there is no jail sentence for that. The only compensation for the literary method we are forced to adopt is that there is a great deal of “go” in it.

Replyingto an extremely dear reader: Whenever we animadvert on the human race we include ourself. We share its imperfections, and we hope we are tinctured with its few virtues. As a race it impresses us as a flivver; we feel as you, perhaps, feel in your club when, looking over the members, you wonder how the dickens most of them got in.

Prof. Pickeringis quoted as declaring that a race of superior beings inhabits the moon. Now we are far from claiming that the inhabitants of our geoid are superior to the moon folk, or any other folk in the solar system; but the mere fact that the Moonians are able to exist in conditions peculiar to themselves does not make them superior. The whale can live under water. Is the whale, then, superior to, say, Senator Johnson? True, it can spout farther, but it is probably inferior to Mr. Johnson in reasoning power.

[p21]Theman who tells you that he believes “in principles, not men,” means—nothing at all. One would think that in the beginning God created a set of principles, and man was without form and void.

“Lost—Pair of trousers while shopping. Finder call Dinsmore 1869.”—Minneapolis Journal.

The female of the shopping species is rougher and more ruthless than the male.

“AncientRome, in the height of her glory, with her lavish amusements, Olympian games,” etc.—The enraptured advertiser.

The proof reader asks us if it was an eruption of Mt. Olympus that destroyed Pompeii.

My lady hath a garden fair,Wherein she whiles her hours:She chides me that I do not shareHer rage for springing flowers.I tell her I’ve a garden, too,Wherein I have to toil—The kind that Epicurus knew,If not so good a soil.[p22]And I must till my patch with care,And watch its daily needs;For lacking water, sun, and air,The place would run to weeds.In this the garden of the mind,My flowers are all too few;Yet am I well content to findA modest bloom or two.My lady hath a garden fair,Or will when buds are blown:I’ve but a blossom here and there—Poor posies, but mine own.

My lady hath a garden fair,Wherein she whiles her hours:She chides me that I do not shareHer rage for springing flowers.

My lady hath a garden fair,

Wherein she whiles her hours:

She chides me that I do not share

Her rage for springing flowers.

I tell her I’ve a garden, too,Wherein I have to toil—The kind that Epicurus knew,If not so good a soil.

I tell her I’ve a garden, too,

Wherein I have to toil—

The kind that Epicurus knew,

If not so good a soil.

[p22]And I must till my patch with care,And watch its daily needs;For lacking water, sun, and air,The place would run to weeds.

[p22]And I must till my patch with care,

And watch its daily needs;

For lacking water, sun, and air,

The place would run to weeds.

In this the garden of the mind,My flowers are all too few;Yet am I well content to findA modest bloom or two.

In this the garden of the mind,

My flowers are all too few;

Yet am I well content to find

A modest bloom or two.

My lady hath a garden fair,Or will when buds are blown:I’ve but a blossom here and there—Poor posies, but mine own.

My lady hath a garden fair,

Or will when buds are blown:

I’ve but a blossom here and there—

Poor posies, but mine own.

“Verywell, here is a constructive criticism,” declared Col. Roosevelt, tossing another grenade into the administration trenches. The Colonel is our favorite constructive critic. After he has finished a bit of construction it takes an hour for the dust to settle.

Judgmentday will be a complete performance for the dramatic critics. They will be able to stay for the last act.

Whyis it that when a woman takes the measurements for a screen door she thinks she has to allow a couple of inches to turn in?

“WomanLights 103 Candles With One Match.”

[p23]Huh! Helen, with one match, lit the topless towers of Ilium.

Itmay be—nay, it is—ungallant so to say,but——Well, have you, in glancing over the beauty contest exhibits, observed a face that would launch a thousand ships? Or five hundred?

“Learnto Speak on Your Feet,” advertises a university extension. We believe we could tell all we know about ours in five hundred words.

Mrs. Riley gave a retiring party in honor of her husband.

Atthe Hotel Dwan, in Benton Harbor, “rooms may be had en suite or connecting.” Or should you prefer that they lead one into another, the management will be glad to accommodate you.

Governmentcensus blanks read on top of sheet: “Kindly fill out questions below.” One of the questions is: “Can you read? Can you write? Yes or No?” This reminds a Minneapolis man of the day when he was about 15 miles from Minneapolis and read on a guide post: “15 miles to Minneapolis. If you cannot read, ask at the grocery store.”

[p24]Thewave of spiritualism strikes Mr. Leacock as absurd, simply absurd. “And yet people seem to be going mad over it,” he adds. What do you mean “and yet,” Stephen? Don’t you mean “consequently”?

A Jolietsocial item mentions the engagement of Miss Lucille Muff De Line. We don’t recall her contribution.

Onceupon a time there dwelt in a small but very expensive cottage on the outskirts of a pine forest a gentleman with his wife and two children. It was a beautiful estate and the neighborhood was the very best. Nobody for miles around was worth less than five million dollars.

One night the gentleman tapped at his wife’s boudoir, and receiving permission to enter, he said: “Pauline, I have been thinking about our children. I overheard the governess say to-day that they are really bright and interesting, and as yet unspoiled. Perhaps if they had a fair chance they might amount to something.”

“Reginald,” replied his wife, “you are growing morbid about those children. You will be asking to see them next.” She shrugged her gleaming shoulders, and rang for the maid to let down her hair.

“Remember our own youth and shudder, Pauline,” said the gentleman. “It’s a shame to allow[p26] />Percival and Melisande to grow up in this atmosphere.”

“Well,” said the lady petulantly, “what do you suggest?”

“I think it would be wise and humane to abandon them. The butler or the chauffeur can take them into the wood and lose them and some peasant may find and adopt them, and they may grow up to be worthy citizens. At least it is worth trying.”

“Do as you please,” said the lady. “The children are a collaboration; they are as much yours as mine.”

This conversation was overheard by little Melisande, who had stolen down from her little boudoir in her gold-flowered nightdress for a peep at her mamma, whom she had not seen for a long, long time. The poor child was dreadfully frightened, and crept upstairs weeping to her brother.

“Pooh!” said Percival, who was a brave little chap. “We shall find our way out of the wood, never fear. Give me your pearl necklace, Melisande.”

The wondering child dried her eyes and fetched the necklace, and Percival stripped off the pearls and put them in the pocket of his velvet jacket. “They can’t lose us, sis,” said he.

In the morning the butler took the children a long, long way into the woods, pretending that he had discovered a diamond mine; and, bidding them stand in a certain place till he called, he went away and did not return. Melisande began to weep, as usual, but Percival only laughed, for he had dropped a pearl every little way as they entered the wood, and the children found their way home without the least difficulty. Their father was vexed by their cleverness, but their mamma smiled.

“It’s fate, Reginald,” she remarked. “They were born for the smart set, and they may as well fulfill their destinies.”

“Let us try once more,” said the gentleman. “Give them another chance.”

When the servant called the children the next morning Percival ran to get another pearl necklace, but the jewel cellar was locked, and the best he could do was to conceal a four-pound bunch of hothouse grapes under his jacket. This time they were taken twice as far into the wood in search of the diamond mine; and alas! when the butler deserted them Percival found that the birds had eaten every grape he had dropped along the way. They were now really lost, and wandered all day without coming out anywhere, and at night[p28] />they slept on a pile of leaves, which Percival said was much more like camping out than their summer in the Adirondacks. All next day they wandered, without seeing sign of a road or a château, and Melisande wept bitterly.

“I am so hungry,” exclaimed the poor child. “If we only could get a fewmarrons glacésfor breakfast!”

“I could eat a few macaroons myself,” said Percival.

On the afternoon of the third day Percival and Melisande came to a strange little cottage fashioned of gingerbread, but as the children had never tasted anything so common as gingerbread they did not recognize it. However, the cottage felt soft and looked pretty enough to eat, so Percival bit off a piece of the roof and declared it was fine. Melisande helped herself to the doorknob, and the children might have eaten half the cottage had not a witch who lived in it come out and frightened them away. The children ran as fast as their legs could work, for the witch looked exactly like their governess, who tried to make them learn to spell and do other disagreeable tasks.

Presently they came out on a road and saw a big red automobile belonging to nobody in[p29] />particular. It was the most beautiful car imaginable. The hubs were set with pigeon blood rubies and the spokes with brilliants; the tires were set with garnets to prevent skidding, and the hood was inlaid with diamonds and emeralds. Even Percival and Melisande were impressed. One door stood invitingly open and the children sprang into the machine. They were accustomed to helping themselves to everything that took their fancy; they had inherited the instinct.

Percival turned on the gas. “Hang on to your hair, sis!” he cried, and he burnt up the road all the way home, capsizing the outfit in front of the mansion and wrecking the automobile.

Their mamma came slowly down the veranda steps with a strange gentleman by her side. “These are the children, Edward,” she said, picking them up, uninjured by the spill. “Children, this is your new papa.”

The gentleman shook hands with them very pleasantly and said he hoped that he should be their papa long enough to get really acquainted with them. At which remark the lady smiled and tapped him with her fan.

And they lived happily, after their fashion, ever afterward.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was the prettiest creature imaginable. Her mother was excessively fond of her, and saw her as frequently as possible, sometimes as often as once a month. Her grandmother, who doted on her even more, had made for her in Paris a little red riding hood of velvet embroidered with pearl passementerie, which became the child so well that everybody in her set called her Little Red Riding-Hood.

One day her mother said to her: “Go, my dear, and see how your grandmother does, for I hear she has been ill with indigestion. Carry her this filet and this little pot of foie gras.”

The grandmother lived in a secluded and exclusive part of the village, in a marble cottage situated in the midst of a wooded park. Little Red Riding-Hood got out of the motor when she came to the park, telling the chauffeur she would walk the rest of the way. She hardly passed the hedge when she met a Wolf.

“Whither are you going?” he asked, looking wistfully at her.

“I am going to see my grandmother, and carry her a filet and a little pot of foie gras from my mamma.”

[p31]“Well,” said the Wolf, “I’ll go see her, too. I’ll go this way and you go that, and we shall see who will be there first.”

The Wolf ran off as fast as he could, and was first at the door of the marble cottage. The butler informed him that Madame was not at home, but he sprang through the door, knocking the servant over, and ran upstairs to Madame’s boudoir.

“Who’s there?” asked the grandmother, when the Wolf tapped at the door.

“Your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood,” replied the Wolf, counterfeiting the child’s voice, “who has brought you a filet and a little pot of foie gras.”

The good grandmother, who had eaten nothing for two days except a mallard, with a pint of champagne, cried out hungrily, “Come in, my dear.”

The Wolf ran in, and, falling upon the old lady, ate her up in a hurry, for he had not tasted food for a whole week. He then got into the bed, and presently Little Red Riding-Hood tapped at the door.

The Wolf pitched his voice as high and unpleasant as he could, and called out, “What is it, Hawkins?”

[p32]“It isn’t Hawkins,” replied Little Red Riding-Hood. “It is your grandchild, who has brought you a filet and a little pot of foie gras.”

“Come in, my dear,” responded the Wolf. And when the child entered he said: “Put the filet and the little pot of foie gras on the gold tabouret, and come and lie down with me.”

Little Red Riding-Hood did not think it good form to go to bed so very, very late in the morning, but as she expected to inherit her grandmother’s millions she obediently took off her gold-flowered frock, and her pretty silk petticoat, and her dear little diamond stomacher, and got into bed, where, amazed at the change for the better in her grandmother’s appearance, she said to her:

“Grandmother, how thin your arms have got!”

“I have been dieting, my dear.”

“Grandmother, how thin your legs have got!”

“The doctor makes me walk every day.”

“Grandmother, how quiet you are!”

“This isn’t a symphony concert hall, my dear.”

“Grandmother, what has become of your diamond-filled teeth?”

“These will do, my dear.”

And saying these words the wicked Wolf fell upon Little Red Riding-Hood and ate her all up.

Once upon a time there was a very wealthy widow who lived in a marble cottage approached by a driveway of the same stone, bordered with rhododendrons. She had an only son, Jack—a giddy, thoughtless boy, but very kindhearted, as many a hard-working chorus girl had reason to remember. Jack was an idle fellow, whose single accomplishment was driving an automobile, in which he displayed remarkable skill and recklessness; there was hardly a day he did not run over something or somebody. One day he bumped a very heavy workingman, whose remains messed up the car so badly that Jack’s mother lost patience with him. “My dear,” she said, “why don’t you put your skill and energy to some use? If only you would slay the giant Ennui, who ravages our country, you would be as great a hero in our set as St. George of England was in his.”

Jack laughed. “Let him but get in the way of my car,” said he, “and I’ll knock him into the middle of next month.”

The boy set out gaily for the garage, to have the motor repaired, and on the way he met a green-goods grocer who displayed a handful of beautiful red, white, and blue beans. Jack stopped to look at what he supposed was a new kind[p34] />of poker chip, and the man persuaded the silly youth to exchange the automobile for the beans.

When he brought home the “chips” his mother laughed loudly. “You are just like your father; he didn’t know beans, either,” she said. “Dig a hole in the tennis court, Jack, and plant your poker chips, and see what will happen.”

Jack did as he was told to do, and the next morning he went out to see whether anything had happened. What was his amazement to find that a mass of twisted stalks had grown out of his jackpot and climbed till they covered the high cliff back of the tennis court, disappearing above it.

Jack came of a family of climbers. His mother had climbed into society and was still climbing. The funny thing about climbers is that they never deceive anybody; every one knows just what they are up to. As Jack had inherited the climbing passion he began without hesitation to ascend the beanstalk, and when he reached the top he was as tired as if he had spent the day laying bricks or selling goods behind a counter; but he perked up when he beheld a fairy in pink tights who looked very much like a coryphée in the first row of “The Girly Girl.”

“Is this a roof garden?” asked Jack, looking about him curiously.

[p35]“No, kid,” replied the Fairy, tapping him playfully with her spear. “You are in the Land of Pleasure, and in yonder castle lives a horrid Giant called Ennui, who bores everybody he catches to death.”

Jack put on a brave face and lighted a cigarette. “Has he ever caught you, little one?” he asked.

“No,” she laughed, “but I’m knocking wood. Fairies don’t get bored until they grow old, or at least middle-aged.”

“It’s a wonder,” said Jack, “that the Giant doesn’t bore himself to death some day.”

“He might,” said the Fairy, “if it were not for his wonderful talking harp, which keeps harping upon Socialism, and the single tax, and the rights of labor, and a lot of other mush; but you see it keeps Ennui stirred up, so that he is never bored entirely stiff.”

“Well,” said Jack, “me for that harp, if I die for it!” And thanking Polly Twinkletoes for her information, and promising to buy her a supper when he got his next allowance, he sauntered toward the castle. As he paused before the great gate it was opened suddenly by a most unpleasant looking giantess.

“Ho! ho!” she cried, seizing Jack by the arm, “you’re the young scamp who sold me that lightning cleaner last week. I’ll just keep you till[p36] />you take the spots out of my husband’s Sunday pants. If you don’t, he’ll knock the spots out ofyou!”

While the Giantess spoke she dragged Jack into the castle. “Into this wardrobe,” said she; “and mind you don’t make the smallest noise, or my man will wring your neck. He takes a nap after dinner, and then you’ll have a chance to demonstrate that grease-eradicator you sold me last week.”

The wardrobe was as big as Jack’s yacht, and the key-hole as big as a barrel, so the boy could see everything that took place without. Presently the castle was shaken as if by an earthquake, and a great voice roared: “Wife! wife! I smell gasoline!”

Jack trembled, remembering that in tinkering around his car that morning he had spilled gas on his clothes.

“Be quiet!” replied the Giantess. “It’s only the lightning-cleaner which that scamp of a peddler sold me the other day.”

The Giant ate a couple of sheep; then, pushing his plate away, he called for his talking harp. And while he smoked, the harp rattled off a long string of stuff about the equal liability of all men to labor, the abolition of the right of inheritance, and kindred things. Jack resolved that when he[p37] />got hold of the harp he would serve it at a formal dinner, under a great silver cover. What a sensation it would cause among his guests when it began to sing its little song about the abolition of the right of inheritance!

In a short time the Giant fell asleep, for the harp, like many reformers, became wearisome through exaggeration of statement. Jack slipped from the wardrobe, seized the harp, and ran out of the castle.

“Master! Master!” cried the music-maker. “Wake up! We are betrayed!”

Glancing back, Jack saw the Giant striding after him, and gave himself up for lost; but at that moment he heard his name called, and he saw the Fairy, Polly Twinkletoes, beckoning to him from a taxicab. Jack sprang into the machine and they reached the beanstalk a hundred yards ahead of the giant. Down the stalk they slipped and dropped, the Giant lumbering after. Once at the bottom, Jack ran to the garage and got out his man-killer, and when the Giant reached ground he was knocked, as Jack had promised, into the middle of the proximate month.

Our hero married the Fairy, much against his mother’s wishes; she knew her son all too well, and she felt certain that she should soon come to know Polly as well, and as unfavorably. Things turned out no better than she had expected.[p38] />After a month of incompatibility, and worse, Polly consented to a divorce in consideration of one hundred thousand dollars, and they all lived happily ever afterward.

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