Movatterモバイル変換

The Lost Locomotive

The day that Mr. MacGregor lost the locomotive was a confusing onefor our accountants. They didn't know whom to charge it to.

"We have an account here called 'Alterations,'" said the headaccountant (Mr. MacGregor). "We might charge it to that. Losing alocomotive is certainly an alteration in something."

"The point is not what account we are going to charge the lostlocomotive to," I continued. "It is how you happened to lose it."

"I have already told you," he replied, with a touch of asperity,"that I haven't the slightest idea. I was tired and nervousand—well—I lost it, that's all!"

"As a matter of fact," he snapped, "I am not at all sure that thelocomotive is lost. And, if it is, I am not at all sure that I lostit."

"I don't think that we need go into that point," I replied. "When aman takes a locomotive out and comes back without it, and is unable toexplain what has become of it, the presumption is that he, personally,has lost it. How did you like those tangerines we had for lunch?"

We have had a great deal of trouble about Mr. MacGregor's growingcynical. He looks at things with a bilious eye. It is bringing down themorale of the office force, and there are whole days at a time when wedon't sell a thing.

"Well, it couldn't have been very important," I said, laughing. Thisgot him in good humor and we swung forward, double-time, along the roadto work.

"Take the Witness!"

Newspaper accounts of trial cross-examinations always bring out thecleverest in me. They induce day dreams in which I am the witness onthe stand, and if you don't know some of my imaginary comebacks to animaginary cross-examiner (Doe vs. Benchley: 482-U.S.-367-398), you havemissed some of the most stimulating reading in the history of Americanjurisprudence.

These little reveries usually take place shortly after I have readthe transcript of a trial, while I am on a long taxi ride or seated ata desk with plenty of other work to to. I like them best when I havework to to, as they deplete me mentally so that I am forced to go andlie down after a particularly sharp verbal rally. The knowledge that Ihave completely floored my adversary, and the imaginary congratulationsof my friends (also imaginary), seem more worth while than any amountof fiddling work done.

During these cross-questionings I am always very calm. Calm in anice way, that is—never cocky. However frantic my inquisitor maywax (and you should see his face at times—it's purple!), I justsit there, burning him up with each answer, winning the admiration ofthe courtroom, and, at times, even a smile from the judge himself. Atthe end of my examination, the judge is crazy about me.

Just what the trial is about, I never get quite clear in my mind.Sometimes the subject changes in the middle of the questioning, toallow for the insertion of an especially good crack on my part. I don'tthink that I am ever actually the defendant, although I don't know whyI should feel that I am immune from trial by a jury of mypeers—if such exist.

I am usually testifying in behalf of a friend, or perhaps as just animpersonal witness for someone whom I do not know, who, naturally,later becomes my friend for life. It is justice that I amafter—Justice and a few well-spotted laughs.

Let us whip right into the middle of my cross-examination, as Inaturally wouldn't want to pull my stuff until I had been insulted bythe lawyer, and you can't really get insulted simply by having yourname and address asked. I am absolutely fair about these things. If thelawyer will treat me right, I'll treat him right. He has got to startit. For a decent cross-examiner, there is no more tractable witness inthe world than I am.

Advancing toward me, with a sneer on his face, he points a finger atme.(I have sometimes thought of pointing my finger back at him, buthave discarded that as being too fresh. I don't have to resort toclowning.)

Q—You think you're pretty funny, don't you? (I have evidentlyjust made some mildly humorous comeback, nothing smart-alecky, but goodenough to make him look silly.)

Q—Oh, you haven't given the matter much thought, eh? Well, youseem to be treating this examination as if it were a minstrel show.

A(very quietly and nicely)—I have merely been takingmy cue from your questions.(You will notice that all thispresupposes quite a barrage of silly questions on his part, and patanswers on mine, omitted here because I haven't thought them up. At anyrate, it is evident that I have already got him on the run before thisreverie begins.)

A—If it will make it any easier for you.(Pandemonium,which the Court feels that it has to quell, although enjoying itobviously as much as the spectators.)

Q(furious)—I see. Well, here is a question that Ithink will be simple enough to elicit an honest answer: Just how didyou happen to know that it was eleven-fifteen when you saw thedefendant?

Q—I see. Now, it couldn't, by any chance, have beenten-fifteen instead of eleven-fifteen when you looked at your watchthis time, could it?

A—Yes, sir—if I had been in Chicago.(Not very good,really. I'll work up something better. I move to have that answerstricken from the record.)

When I feel myself lowering my standards by answering like that, Iusually give myself a rest, and, unless something else awfully goodpops into my head, I adjourn the court until next day. I can alwaysconvene it again when I hit my stride.

If possible, however, I like to drag it out until I have reallygiven my antagonist a big final wallop which practically curls him upon the floor (I may think of one before this goes to press), and,wiping his forehead, he mutters, "Take the witness!"

As I step down from the stand, fresh as a daisy, there is a round ofapplause which the Court makes no attempt to silence. In fact, I haveknown certain judges to wink pleasantly at me as I take my seat. Judgesare only human, after all.

My only fear is that, if I ever really am called upon to testify incourt, I won't be asked the right questions. Thatwould be apretty kettle of fish!

The New Strokes

It will be interesting to see what the new season will bring out inthe way of novel swimming strokes. I'll bet it involves the use of anauxiliary motor strapped on the shoulders. When I was learning to swim,people just swam. The idea was to keep afloat and, in an orderlyfashion, to get somewhere if possible. If there was nowhere you wantedto get to, you just swam quietly 'round and 'round until your lips gotblue. Then you went in.

The stroke that I was first taught was known as the "breast, orgondola, stroke." High out of the water by the bows. It was dignifiedand stately and went something like this: "One-two-three-sink!One-two-three-sink!" The legs were shot out straight behind, like afrog's, except that they were not good to eat.

Then the more sporting among the swimming crowd took to swimmingtipped over on one side, with one ear dragging in the water. This wasconsidered very athletic, especially if one arm was lifted out of thewater at each stroke. But even then the procedure was easygoing,pleasant, and more of a pastime than a chore. It was considered verybad form to churn.

But with the advent of the various "crawls," swimming took on morethe nature of a battle with the elements. You had to lash at the water,tear at the waves with your teeth, snort and spit, kick your feet likea child with tantrums and, in general, behave as if you had set outdeliberately to drown yourself in an epilepsy. It became tiring just towatch.

I never learned the names of the new strokes as they came along, butI gather that the instructions for some of them must read:

The Australian Wrench: Place the head under water up to theshoulder blades. Bring the left arm up, over and around the neck untilthe fingers of the left hand touch the right cheek (still under water).Shove the right arm sideways and to the left until the right shouldertouches the chin. Then shift arm positions suddenly, and with greatsplashing, propelling the body through the water by lashing upward anddownward with the feet and legs. The head is kept under water duringthe entire race, thereby eliminating both wind-resistance andbreathing. It is bully fun.

The Navajo Twist: Rotate the entire body like a bobbin on thesurface of the water, with elbows and knees bent. Spit while the mouthis on the up-side. Inhale when it is under. This doesn't get you muchof anywhere, but it irritates the other swimmers and makes it difficultfor them to swim.

The Lighthouse Churn: Just stand still, in water about up toyour waist, and beat at the surface with your fists, snorting andspitting at the same time. This does nothing but make you conspicuous,but, after all, what is modern swimming for?

Contributors to This Issue

Unfortunately the current issue of our magazine has had to beabandoned because of low visibility and an epidemic of printers'nausea, but we felt that our readers would still want to know a littlesomething of the private lives of our contributors. At any rate, herewe go:

ELWOOD M. CRINGE, who contributed the articleIs Europe? is agraduate of Moffard College and, since graduation, has specialized inhigh tension rope. He is thirty-two years old, wears a collar, and hishobbies are golf, bobbing for apples, and junket.

HAL GARMISCH, author ofHow It Feels to Be Underslung,writes: "I am young, good-looking and would like to meet a girl aboutmy own age who likes to run. I have no hobbies, but I am crazy aboutkitties."

MEDFORD LAZENBY probably knows more about people, as such, thananyone in the country, unless it is people themselves. He has been allover the world in a balloon-rigged ketch and has a fascinating story totell.China Through a Strainer, in this issue, is not it.

ELIZABETH FEDELLER, after graduation from Ruby College forNear-Sighted Girls, had a good time for herself among the desertedtowns of Montana and writes of her experiences in a style which hasbeen compared unfavorably with that of Ernest Hemingway. She is ratherunattractive looking.

On our request for information, GIRLIE TENNAFLY wrote us that he isunable to furnish any, owing to a short memory. He contributed thearticle onFlanges: Open and Shut, which is not appearing inthis issue.

We will let ESTHER RUBRIC tell about herself: "Strange as it mayseem," writes Miss Rubric, "I am not a 'high-brow,' although I write onwhat are known as 'high-brow' subjects. I am really quite a good sport,and love to play tennis (or 'play at' tennis, as I call it), and amalways ready for a good romp. My mother and father were missionaries inBoston, and I was brought up in a strictly family way. We children usedto be thought strange by all the other 'kids' in Boston because mybrothers had beards and I fell down a lot. But, as far as I can see, weall grew up to be respectable citizens, in a pig's eye. When yourmagazine accepted my article onHow to Decorate a MergenthalerLinotype Machine, I was in the 'seventh heaven.' I copied it, wordfor word, from Kipling."

DARG GAMM is too well known to our readers to call for anintroduction. He is now at work on his next-but-one novel and is inhiding with the Class of 1915 of Zanzer College, who are preparing fortheir twentieth reunion in June.

We couldn't get IRVIN S. COBB or CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND toanswer our request for manuscripts.

Dog Libel

A friend of mine who calls himself a dachshund is furious over anarticle he has just read in a scientific paper purporting to give theessential qualities of a good dachshund. He finds himself libelled byimplication.

"I think I could sue," said my friend. "This man here has said, ineffect, that I am not a real dachshund."

"I wouldn't sue," I advised, cautiously. "In the first place, youwould have to show that you had been damaged by the publication of thearticle. Your standing in this household is just the same as it wasbefore the article was written. We won't go into just what yourstanding is, but it remains unchanged at any rate.

"Furthermore," I added, sagely, "the magazine, pushed to the wall,might dig up a lot of ugly stories which you might not relish havingtold in court. You are not immaculate, you know. Remember that Seelyhamnamed 'Arthur.'"

"Just the same," I warned, "it wouldn't look very well in thetabloids. And, anyway, the case wouldn't come up for a year or so, andeven then it would drag on, with appeals and reappeals, until you wereflat broke. I couldn't do very much to help you out with the costs, youknow."

This rather sobered him up, I thought. He had evidently been more orless counting on me to back him in this crack-brained suit of his.

"Listen to this!" he said, trying to swing me into his ownirrational state of mind. He spread the paper out on the floor with hispaw and adjusted his spectacles. (He wears them only for very fineprint.)

I am afraid that this account is getting to sound just a mitewhimsical, what with dogs wearing spectacles and talking like people.My only excuse is that it is an actual stenographic account of aconversation and is designed only to show the futility of libelsuits.

"Listen to this," he said (we will leave out the spectacles thistime): "'The special work of a dachshund is to enter a badger hole andhold the attention of the animal until it can be dug out.'"

"I never saw a badger," he said, without looking up from the paper,"much less try to hold its attention. How do you hold a badger'sattention, anyway?"

"I shouldn't think that it would be very hard," I said. "You couldmake faces, or just say 'Look, badger!' I don't imagine that a badger'smind wanders easily, once the badger has caught sight ofsomething."

"That is beside the point, anyway," he said, crossly. "The point isthat I do not go into badger-holes myself. Does that, or does it not,imply that I am not a real dachshund?"

"You are too touchy," I said. "There must be plenty of realdachshunds in this country who don't go near a badger-hole from oneyear's end to the other. No jury in the world would count that as apersonal slur on you."

"Very well, then-here is another crack: 'The hind legs should bestrong and capable, and viewed from behind must go down straight and byno means show the turning in at the heel known as cow-hocks. This isvery common and very bad.' Why doesn't he mention my name and be donewith it? Why doesn't he come right out and say Friedel Immerman is nota genuine dachhund?"

"Could you prove in a court of law that you are a genuinedachshund?" I asked, trying not to be brutal about it.

He turned in disgust and walked away without deigning a reply. As hedisappeared through the door I distinctly saw the "turning in at theheel known as cow-hocks. Very common and very bad."

The Rope Trick Explained

In explaining this trick, I need hardly say that it is known as "theIndian rope trick." That is the only trick that everyone explains, aswell as the only trick that no one has ever seen. (Now don't write inand say that you have a friend who has seen it. I know your friend andhe drinks.)

For readers under the age of three (of whom, judging from severalletters at hand, I have several) I will explain that "the Indian ropetrick" consists in throwing a rope into the air, where it remains,apparently unfastened to anything, while a boy climbs up to the top.Don't ask me what he does then.

This trick is very easy to explain. The point is that the boy getsup into the air somehow anddrops the rope down to the ground,making it look as if the reverse were true. This is only one way to doit, however. There are millions of ways.

While in India, a friend of mine, a Mr. MacGregor, assisted me inconfusing the natives, in more ways than one. We dressed up in Indiancostume, for one thing. This confused even us, but we took itgood-naturedly.

Then I announced to a group of natives, who were standingopen-mouthed (ready to bite us, possibly) that Mr. MacGregor and Iwould perform the famous Indian Rope Trick under their very noses. Thiswas like stealing thunder from a child.

Stationing myself at the foot of a rope which extended upward intothe air with no apparent support at the other end, I suggested to Mr.MacGregor that he climb it.

This took up some time, during which part of our audience left. Theremainder were frankly incredulous, as was Mr. MacGregor. I, however,stuck to my guns.

So, like a true yeoman, Mr. MacGregor laid hands on the rope and, ina trice, was at its top. It wasn't a very good trice, especially whenviewed from below, but it served to bring a gasp of astonishment fromthe little group, many of whom walked away.

"Come on in—the water's fine!" called Mr. MacGregor, wavingfrom his pinnacle (one waves from one's pinnacle sideways inIndia).

"Everything fast and burning brightly, sir!" answered Mr. MacGregor,like a good sailor.

"Then—let 'ergo!" I commanded, sounding Taps on alittle horn I had just found in my hand.

And,mirabile dictu, Mr. MacGregor disappeared into thin airanddrew the rope up after him! Even I had to look twice. It wasa stupendous victory for the occult.

"He's a very nice fellow," I answered. "Modest and unassuming. I seequite a lot of him when I am in Hollywood."

There was a scramble for my autograph at this, and the party movedon, insisting that I go with them for a drink and tell them more abouttheir favorite movie stars. There is a native drink in India called"straite-ri" which is very cooling.

It wasn't until I got back to our New York office that I saw Mr.MacGregor again, and I forgot to ask him how he ever got down.

Toddling Along

What is the disease which manifests itself in an inability to leavea party—any party at all—until it is all over and thelights are being put out? It must be some form of perniciousinertia.

No matter where I am, if there are more than four people assembledin party formation, I must always be the last to leave. I may not behaving a very good time; in fact, I may wish that I had never come atall. But I can't seem to bring myself to say, "Well, I guess I'll betoddling along."

Other people are able to guess they'll be toddling along. One byone, and two by two, and sometimes in great groups, I watch them toddlealong, until I am left, with possibly just my host to keep me company.Sometimes even my host asks me if I mind if he toddles along to bed.When this happens, I am pretty quick to take the hint.

I have often thought of hiring a little man to go about with me,just to say to my host:

"Well, old Bob thinks he'll be toddling along now." It's thatinitial plunge that I can't seem to negotiate. It isn't that Ican't toddle. It's that I can'tguess I'll toddle.

I suppose that part of this mania for staying is due to a fear that,if I go, something good will happen and I'll miss it. Somebody might docard tricks, or shoot somebody else. But this doesn't account for itall. It is much deeper seated than that.

The obvious explanation to an analyst would be that I have anaversion to goinghome, because I have a sister fixation or amsubconsciously in love with my parrot and am seeking an escape.

This, as I am so fond of saying to analysts, is not true. I wouldmuch rather be at home than at most parties. In fact, I don't go tomany parties, and for that very reason.

My diagnosis would be that it is a sign of a general break-up. Ihave difficulty in starting to do anything, but once started, I can'tstop. I find myself at a party and I have to stay at a party until I amput out.

No Pullmans, Please!

I suppose that it is just looking for trouble on my part, but whatare they going to do with all the old Pullman cars when thestreamliners come into general use? I hope that they don't try to palmone of them off on me.

I simply couldn't take care of an old Pullman. I haven't got thespace, in the first place. It's all I can do to find room for my bigbag after I have unpacked it. Imagine trying to crowd a pullman in,too!

Neither have I the inclination. I see no reason why I should be madeto take over something that I really don't want, do you? And yet I havea horrible premonition that some day soon they are going to drag arounda car named "Gleeber's Falls" or "Angostura" and ask me to give it ahome.

The first time I read about the advent of the new type of sleepingcar, I said, quick as a flash: "Here it comes! I get the old ones!"They've got to dosomething with all those "Laburnums" and"Latvias." And I always seem to get things like that. "Give it to oldBob," people say, when they are tearing down their houses. "It will bejust right for his room!"

I am to blame, in a way, for a long time ago I set out to furnish aroom in a sort of knickknack fashion. I even invited contributions frommy friends. But what I meant was contributions that I could use. Ididn't mean that I was starting a whaling museum or that I planned tobuild more rooms. I had more or less in mind a mid-Victorian study ofthe "what-not" variety. Well, I got my "what-nots."

It began with little articles to line up on top of a bookcase,miniature geese, little men with baskets, shells with eggs in them andbroken stags. I also was not averse to hanging oddments on the walls.My friends entered into the spirit of this admirably. Every one had funbut the lady who dusted.

Then people began looking around town for heavier gifts. It got tobe a game. Trucks began arriving with old busts of Sir Walter Scott,four-foot statues of men whose shirtfronts lit up when attached to anelectric connection, stuffed owls and fox terriers that had lain toolong at the taxidermist's. This phase ended with the gift of a smalltwo-headed calf in a moderate state of preservation.

From then on the slogan became: "Send it to Benchley!" Wreckingconcerns were pressed into service, and chipped cornices from the oldPost Office, detached flights of stairs, hitching posts and railingsbegan pouring in. Every day was like Christmas in Pompeii. The overflowwent into the bedroom and I started sleeping under an old spinet,covered over with a set of bead-curtains which had been brought to mefrom a bordello in Marseille.

The friendly mood in which the game started changed gradually to oneof persecution. The idea began to embarrass me and to make itimpossible for me to move about. On several occasions it became amatter for the police, and once the Missing Persons Bureau took a handin it and searched my room for a runaway college girl. They foundnothing, however, but three Chinese laborers who had been smuggled intothe country and delivered to my place in a caterer's wagon.

So perhaps I have a right to be worried about those out-of-datePullmans. I have had stranger things foisted on me. I think that thistime I will put my foot down. At the first sign of a Pullman beingbrought up the stairs I will bolt the door, leaving my friends to theirown devices with it. I don't want any more truck in this room, muchless a full-blown Pullman, and, ungracious as it may seem, I don'tintend to have it.

Mysteries from the Sky

I think that I am violating no confidence when I say that Natureholds many mysteries which we humans have not fathomed as yet. Some ofthem may not even be worth fathoming.

What, for instance, do we know of the many strange things which fallfrom the sky? I don't mean old overshoes and snaffle-bits, whicheverybody knows about, but those large masses of nergium and philutiumwhich are always dropping out of nowhere onto Kansas and Oklahoma.

They have never been actually identified as nergium and philutium,because I made those names up, but they certainly are some form ofcalci-colocate (Cb2Ci2M3) or Sneeden's Disease. When subjected to awhite heat this substance explodes with a loud bang (Ba2Ng2) and isnever seen or heard of again. And see if I care!

The most famous deposit of this kind occurred near Dormant, Kansas,in 1846. Following a heavy thunderstorm during the night workers in thefields were more surprised than pleased to find that a whole new Statehad been added to the Union right on top of their wheat, apparentlyhaving dropped from the sky. This made it necessary to elect two moreSenators to go to Congress and to have one more State fair each year.All this resulted in the Civil War.

The so-called "rain of frogs" in North Dakota in 1859 was anothermix-up. Enoch Kaffer, a farmer, was walking along the road near OysterBed one day when he was hit on the head by a falling frog. On lookingup to see where it had come from, he was hit over the eye with anotherfrog. Deciding that it was time to get out of there, he started to run,but soon found himself pelted on all sides by a rain of frogs, all inan ugly humor.

On reaching home Kaffer told his experience to his wife, whodivorced him. That she had a certain amount of right on her side wasshown by subsequent investigations which disclosed no sign of any frogsor even frog footprints in the neighborhood of where he had been.Kaffer himself, however, stoutly maintained his innocence and finallywent insane.

Another somewhat similar case is recorded in what was then IndianTerritory. An Indian by the name of Ferguson was missing from his homefor two days, and on finally returning said that he had been delayed bybeing hit by a falling meteorite which had come flaming through the skyat him as he was crossing a field.

As proof of his story he displayed an ugly cut across the bridge ofhis nose and a black eye. There was also a cigarette burn on theforefinger and a corresponding one on the middle finger of his righthand. The odd part about this incident is that the next day an enormousmeteorite was discovered half-buried in the field he had crossed, whereit is to be seen to this day. The Indian, however, disappeared.

These are only a few of the mysteries which Nature has up her sleeveto drop down on us if we get fresh and try to stand up straight. In theface of them we ought either to be very humble or else get good andsore.

The Evil Eye

Next to our own system of justice, that in vogue in the interior ofAfrica has the most laughs in it. They work on the Evil Eye Theory, andthe complications that arise from being accused of having the Evil Eyeare ludicrous in the extreme.

Mr. MacGregor was accused of having the Evil Eye, that Summer wewere in Africa, and my sides ached at the antics he had to go throughto prove his innocence. (As a matter of fact, he was guilty, and itcost us plenty to buy the witch doctor, or prosecutor, off.)

The witch doctor came to me first and told me that I had better getmy friend out of town, as several housewives had claimed that he wasgoing around looking at their cooking and spoiling it. (MacGregor hadbeen in trouble several times in America on the same charge.)

I said that our defense would be that the cooking would have beenbad anyway, and that this was just an alibi on the part of thehousewives, but the witch doctor said we couldn't get away with that.He said that the only way that MacGregor could prove his innocencewould be to walk over red hot stones.

"That's not the Evil Eye," he replied, rubbing it. "That's justhangover. I'm off that native stuff from now on."

"It's not as simple to explain away as all that," I said. "The witchdoctor says that you've got to give proof that you haven't got it."

"Will he come here, or do I have to go to his office?" askedMacGregor, still in the dark as to the seriousness of theaccusation.

"All you have to do is go out in the public square and walk oversome red hot stones," I explained.

"You go right down our street and turn to the left," I said."They're heating the stones up now. You can leave your shoes here, asyou have to go barefoot."

"That's a horse of a different color," said MacGregor, taking offhis shoes. "Suppose I get slivers on the way down there?"

"It looks to me like a fool's errand," he said. But off he went onhis bicycle to the public square, like the old Navy man that he is. Ihave always said that there's no training for a boy like the Navy.

I stayed at home, as MacGregor had left a lot of work undone (I amalways the fall guy who ends up by doing the work around the house),and besides, I wasn't going to stand around and watch MacGregor make amonkey of himself in public.

I was in the middle of a nap when he got back, so he tiptoed aroundfor a while in order not to awaken me. The guy has his sweet side, too.When I woke up I asked him how it went.

"O. K.," he said. "I ad-libbed a little and got some laughs thatweren't on the routine." Always clowning, MacGregor is.

"Just a little in the right one," he replied. "Nothing that glasseswon't correct. What's for supper?"

Stop Those Hiccoughs!

Anyone will be glad to admit that he knows nothing about beagling,or the Chinese stock market, or ballistics, but there is not a man orwoman alive who does not claim to know how to cure hiccoughs. The funnything is that the hiccoughs are never cured until they get darned goodand ready.

The most modest and unassuming man in the world becomes an arrogantknow-it-all in the presence of hiccoughs—in somebody else.

"Don't be silly," he says, patronizingly. "Just put your head underyour arm, hold a glass of water against the back of your neck, andcount to five hundred by fives without taking a breath. It neverfails."

Then, when ithas failed, he blames you. "It's absolutelysure-fire if you only follow my directions," he says. He also impliesdarkly that what is ailing you is not just merely hiccoughs. "My methodcan't be expected to cure drunkenness, you know," he says.

Drink a glass of milk from the right hand with the right arm twistedaround the neck until the milk enters the mouth from the left side.

Hop, with the feet together, up and down a flight of steps tentimes, screaming loudly at each hop.

Roll down a long, inclined lawn, snatching a mouthful of grass upeach time the face is downward.

I have tried them all, with resultant torn ligaments, incipientdrowning, lockjaw and arsenic poisoning, but, each time, at the finishof the act, and a few seconds of waiting while my mentor says,triumphantly: "See! What did I tell you?" that one, big hiccough alwaysbreaks the tension, indicating that the whole performance has been aghastly flop.

My latest fiasco came as the result of reading the prescription of aBoston doctor, and almost resulted in my being put away as anirresponsible person. "All that the sufferer has to do," wrote thedoctor, "is to blow up an ordinary paper bag, as if to explode it andthen hold it over the mouth and nose tightly, breathing in and out ofthe bag instead of in and out of the open air."

This, according to the doctor, creates an excess of carbon monoxidegas in the bag, which is breathed over and over again, acting on anervous center of the brain and curing the hiccoughs.

Being alone in the room at the time, I blew the bag up and held intightly over my face, including not only my mouth and nose, but my eyesas well, like a gas-mask. I subjected myself to this treatment forpossibly three minutes, walking around the room at the same time tokeep from getting bored.

When I removed the bag I found myself the object of the silent butterrified scrutiny of my wife, who had entered the room without myknowing it, and who had already motioned for corroborating witnessesfrom the next room, two of whom were standing in the doorway,transfixed.

My explanation that I was curing hiccoughs did not go very big, aswhat I had obviously been doing was walking around the room alone witha paper bag over my head. This isnot a good sign.

Bad News

There are certain days when I don't want to hear about certainthings. Do you know what I mean?

Today I do not want to hear about fur-bearing trout. The very words"fur-bearing trout" are offensive to me, either in print or in thespoken word. So today I read that a man has reported to the Anglers'Club that he has discovered a fur-bearing trout. That's the way mywhole life has been.

At first I thought that I wouldn't read about it. "This is a freecountry," I said to myself, smiling sadly. "You don't have to readanything you don't want to read. Skip it, and go on to the next page.Keeping abreast of current events is one thing—masochism isanother."

But that old New England streak in me, that atavistic yearning for abad time if a bad time is possible, turned my eyes down into the columnwhich was headed:

And here I am—not only thinking about it but actually writingabout it. I may not be able to finish, but here I am, passing theunhappy news on to you.

William C. Adams, director of fish and game activities of the StateConservation Commission of New York, is the authority. Passing up, forthe moment, just what fish and game activities call for direction, letus accept Mr. Adams as a man who knows his piscatorial onions. He haseverything to lose and nothing to gain by frightening me with acock-and-bull story about fur-bearing trout. He says:

"Deep in the lakes of Yellowstone, where the waters are so cold theynever freeze, looking you straight in the eye, has been discovered thispeculiar denizen of the deep. Its fur has been found extremely usefulin the prevention of goitre. When collected into a neckpiece thepossibilities are unlimited."

This would seem an understatement. The possibilities of a neck-piecemade of trout pelts would not only be unlimited—they would bestaggering. It could easily drive the wearer crazy, just by herthinking of what she had on. It would start a civil war.

Pistol shots ring out, brother takes up arms against brother, thecountry dissolves rapidly into chaos.

I feel that such news as this which Mr. Adams brings should be keptfrom the public. It does no one any good to know that there are suchthings as fur-bearing trout. If the pelts are good for goitre, letgoitre sufferers take advantage of them under another name, such as"piscarin" or "troutoxin." If neckpieces must be made of them, let usgo to the French for themode and call themfourrure detruite.

But please let's not go about talking of "fur-bearing trout" or"trout pelts." At any rate, not today.

Isn't It Remarkable?

On a recent page of colored reproductions of tomb-paintings andassorted excavations from holes in ancient Egypt there appears apicture of a goose with the following rather condescending caption:

Remarkably Accurate and Artistic Painting of a Goose from PharaohAkhenaten's Palace, Drawn 3300 Years Ago.

What I want to know is—why the "remarkable"? Why is it anymore remarkable that someone drew a goose accurately 3300 years agothan that someone should do it today? Why should we be surprised thatthe people who built the Pyramids could also draw a goose so that itlooked like a goose?

As a matter of fact, the goose in this particular picture looks morelike a goose than that of many a modern master. Just what we think weare, in this age of bad drawing, to call an Egyptian painting"remarkably accurate and artistic" I don't know, but we have got to getover this feeling that anything that was done correctly in 1000 B. C.was a phenomenon. I say that we have got to get over it, but I don'tknow how.

People managed to drag along in ancient Egypt, from all that we cangather. They may not have known about chocolate malted milk and operahats, but, what with one thing and another, they got by. And,presumably, every once in a while somebody felt like drawing a goose.And why not? Is there something exclusively twentieth century about theart of goose-drawing?

We are constantly being surprised that people did things well beforewe were born. We are constantly remarking on the fact that things aredone well by people other than ourselves. "The Japanese are aremarkable little people," we say, as if we were doing them a favor."He is an Arab, but you ought to hear him play the zither." Why"but"?

Another thing, possibly not exactly in this connection, but in linewith our amazement at obvious things. People are always saying: "Mygrandfather is eighty-two and interested in everything. Reads the paperevery day and follows everything."

Why shouldn't he be interested in everything at eighty-two? Whyshouldn't he beespecially interested in everything ateighty-two? What is there so remarkable about his reading the paperevery day and being conversant on all topics? If he isn't interested ineverything at eighty-two when is he going to be? (I seem to be askingan awful lot of questions. Don't bother answering them, please.)

It is probably this naive surprise at things that keeps us going. Ifwe took it for granted that the ancient Egyptians could draw a gooseaccurately, or that Eskimos could sing bass, or that Grandpa should beinterested in everything at eighty-two, there wouldn't be anything forus to hang our own superiority on.

And if we couldn't find something to hang our own superiority on weshould be sunk. We should be just like the ancient Egyptians, or theEskimos, or Grandpa.

Do Dreams Go By Opposites?

Two or three fishermen have written in asking this department if itbelieves that dreams go by opposites. I am still trying to tie up theirquestion in some way with fishing, but I can't quite figure it out. Idon't even know that they were fishermen.

However, I think that it is safe to say that dreams do go byopposites; otherwise, how do you explain the steamboat?

I have a record of a dream in my files which ought to put an end toany doubt on the matter. It was a dream reported to our Dream Clinic bya man who has since settled down and become the father of a family,and, therefore, does not want his name used. (He isn't ashamed of thedream, but the family didn't pan out very well.)

According to this man (and there is no reason to doubt his word), hehad been worried about business matters for several days preceding thedream, and had decided to just get into bed and pull the covers uparound his head. This was around noon.

He had no intention of going to sleep, but, what with one thing andanother, he dozed off, and before he could stop himself was dreaming ata great rate. In his dream he was in a large, brilliantly lightedpublic dining-room with all his clothes on. This, in itself, marks thedream as unusual. He not only had his clothes on, but he was notrunning for a train. This, he thought, was funny, but paid littleattention to it at the time.

It seemed to him that he sat fully clothed in this publicdining-room, not running for a train—in fact, not doing anythingat all for quite a long time, although probably it was for the fractionof a second, really. Then he woke up in a cold sweat. He was sounnerved by this dream that he took off all his clothes, went to apublic dining-room and ran for a train, which was just at that momentleaving the cloak room. He missed it.

Now, here was a dream which worked out in exactly the oppositefashion in his waking experience. This we will call Case A. The man'sname will be furnished on request. It was George A. Lomasney.

Case B is almost as strange and equally impressive in proving thatdreams go by opposites. A woman was the dreamer in this case (though,aren't we all?) and she is very anxious to give her name, and to waltzwith someone, if possible.

In her dream she was in a greenhouse full of exotic plants, whichwas on a sort of funicular, running up and down the side of a mountain.The mountain was just a shade narrower than the greenhouse, so the endsof the greenhouse jutted out on either side, making it difficult forautomobile traffic, which was very heavy at this point, to pass.

In the greenhouse with the woman was a deaf elk which had got insomehow through a hole in the screen. The elk couldn't hear a word thatthe woman was saying, so she just went on with her tapestry-weaving, asshe had to have the job finished before the greenhouse got to the topof the mountain on its 11 o'clock trip. (That is, 11 o'clock from thefoot of East Fourteenth street, where it started.)

Now, the amazing thing about all this was that exactly the oppositething happened to the woman the very next day. She wasnot in afunicular greenhouse; she didnot see a deaf elk, and she knewnothing about tapestry-weaving.

My White Suit

I have a white suit which I am either going to give away or havedipped. I can't seem quite to swing it.

Other men wear white suits in Summer and it doesn't seem to botherthem. But my white suit seems to be a little whiter than theirs. Ithink also that it may have something written on the back of it,although I can't find it when I take the suit off.

Maybe I don't put it on right. I am sure that all the buttons arebuttoned in their proper order, but it doesn't seem to hang as itshould. The man who made it for me seemed satisfied, but I think thathe was in a hurry to get home. In it I have the feeling of being asky-writer who can't spell.

I put it on and get as far as the front door, where I catch aglimpse of myself in the mirror. If I didn't know otherwise I wouldthink that I had been wired for electricity and that at eight o'clockthe President was going to press a button lighting me up for the SanDiego Exposition.

Once out in the daylight I either come back into the house andchange or rush into a taxi and crouch in the darkest corner. If,through sheer bravado, I walk, little children run away whimpering andI feel that policemen are going to ask me for my hawker's license. Theworld and I seem to be at cross purposes.

When I see anyone I know coming on the same side of the street Istart giggling nervously, and as they come into the picture beat themto it with some such remark as:

"So I see," they say, and into that remark I read anything from mildamusement to downright contempt. Incidentally, on those days when Ichoose to wear my white suit every other man in the county is dressedin blue serge. This I jot down as a fashion note.

I suppose that such self-consciousness is a form ofegotism—that I should think that anyone knows at all what I haveon or cares. But that rig is too white; I know that. I have an oldbrown thing which suits my mood better.

Wear-Out-a-Shoe Week

There is a movement on foot to shut down the radio for one evening aweek, or one week an evening, so that people will go out on the streetsmore.

Once they are out on the streets the theory is that they will wearout more shoes, thereby giving employment to 186,000 people in the shoeindustry alone. Incidentally they might also drop into a poolroom andhelp along the chalk industry.

Why are economists always so concerned with shoes? It amounts tofetichism. When they want to make a point it is always illustrated bythe number of pairs of shoes that a given number of people will wearout over a given period. Just as in the old arithmetics it was alwaysthat A and B were sawing wood or swimming up-stream, in practicaleconomic problems it is always that shoes are being worn out. Doesn'tanyone ever care about socks?

"It has been estimated," says Mr. Irving Caesar, in his petition tothe Federal Government to shut down the radio occasionally, "that thelife of a pair of shoes is 2,500 hours. If fifteen million pairs ofshoes have been inactive for one hour it means that the shoe industryhas lost fifteen million shoe-hours—and the life of a pair ofshoes being 2,500 hours, the shoe industry has lost 6,000 pairs ofshoes."

That's an awful lot of shoes to lose. Just think how you feel whenthe porter doesn't bringone pair of shoes back to you in aPullman, and then multiply that by 6,000. The wonder is that the shoeindustry isn't crazy mad.

Personally, shoes do not bother me much. I sometimes just carry minearound with me in a green baize bag and put them on when I want to makea smart appearance. I don't suppose I wear out a pair of shoes inthirty years. I get sick of them and I throw them at pigeons, but Inever wear them out. This is because I am what is known as "thesedentary type."

If, however, the economic theory back of this move to shut down theradio for one night a week is to make people wear out their shoes, Ihave an even better plan. Why not let them stay at home and listen totheir old radio if they want to, but, while they are listening havethem hold a pair of shoes against a grindstone? There is an old Chineseproverb which says: "There are more ways than one to wear out a pair ofshoes," and I think it is a very good motto for each and every one ofus to take as a guide for our daily lives.

But here again we come to the old problem which worries me so much.Every theory of economic good is based onmy wearing out shoes,onmy looking in store windows, onmy spending money. Ihave never yet encountered a plan for an economic Utopia which includedanyone's reading a piece by Benchley in the paper or even askingBenchley out to dinner. In the Perfect State, Benchley pays.

I suppose it all works out right in the end. I'd be paying anyway.But I resent having it set forth as a dictum.

And, anyway, when I am at home of an evening I don't turn on theradio. I don't wear out my shoes. I am just a parasite—a payingparasite.

Nature's Noises

Throughout the ages there have been natural phenomena which havebeen attributed by the common people (and a few college graduates) tomurmurings of the Great Spirit or noisy protests from Valhalla. Thesehave later turned out to be nothing but the cold water faucet drippinginto the kitchen sink, or the 11:45 from Portland rumbling over a ledgeof rock five miles away.

Some of these queer sounds from lakes and moors have, however, had adeeper significance. They have come from actual convulsions of Nature,and an actual convulsion of Nature is no fun. I know, because I had arelative once who was one.

Take, for instance, the famous "Mumbling Mountain" of Pico, Alaska.Every month or so (excepting February, which has twenty-eight) theinhabitants of Pico heard a loud mumbling like a man talking in hissleep. All of this rapscallion business seemed to come from a nearbymountain, known as Nearby Mountain.

This was naturally attributed to the customary mutterings of theMountain God, angry because he found himself covered with wet mistyclouds. You can hardly blame him. However, thanks to a Dr. Reney, ofthe Alaska Electric Light and Power Co., it has been discovered thatthe sounds really came from a new glacier, which was (and still is,unless it has changed its mind) getting ready to start out on a tour ofNorth America. This will make the map of North America look prettysilly, so you'd better not laugh. You wait and see!

Scientists have, for years, shaken their heads until they ached,over the sound which has come from the skies at Twombley, England. Someof the scientists have said: "Pay no attention to it! You're drunk!"Others have given it as their opinion that it was tops in ominousness.Still others have gone out and got drunk themselves when they heard it.It has turned out to be simply an echo from the surrounding hills. Itis the echo of an old man's voice, screaming. This doesn't help theinhabitants of Twombley much, as you may well imagine, for it has beengoing on, sporadically, for one hundred and thirty years. The old manshouldn't be screaming that loudly at this late date. A lot of peopleare still hoping for another explanation.

Everyone knows about the "Singing Clam Flats of Garkley," in theoutskirts of Gersta, North Wales. On moonlight nights, these clam flatshave definitely been heard to hum. Naturally, it was laid to the clams,as Welch miners are great singers, too. In fact, quite a number ofWelch clams were taken on a concert tour with a Welchmen's chorus, butthey didn't come through as clearly as was expected.

Now, science tells us that these singing clam flats are really notdue to clams at all, but the gradual shifting of Wales into Ireland.There has got to be a great deal of bickering before that happens, I'lltell you!

So the next time you hear a mountain giggling or a lake bottomturning over on its side, don't just say: "It's the gods who arerestless!" You get your things packed up and ask for your hotel bill.Those soundsmean something.

Owl Data

A graduate student in the Ornithology Department of CornellUniversity is looking for data on horned owls. He is writing a thesisfor his doctorate on "Is the Horned Owl a Friend or an Enemy of theFarmer?" and wants people to send in their experiences.

I do not know so much about the farming end of it, but I can testifythat the horned owls in my room are definitely unfriendly. I sometimeswish that I had never let them in.

There are only two of them, and so I don't suppose that anyextensive conclusions can be drawn. They may just be two particularlyunfriendly owls by nature. I, too, may not be doing my part. It takestwo or three to make a quarrel. Possibly if I were to throw them asmile now and then they would be more chummy.

But I don't feel like smiling at them. They don't inspirefriendliness. They just sit and look at me all night and sleep all day.I have even tried sleeping during the day myself and going out atnight, just to get away from their everlasting scrutiny, but that isn'ta natural way to live. I can't rearrange my whole life just for acouple of horned owls.

"It's all for the present," he replied. He didn't seem to want totalk about them very much.

So I dropped the subject and tried to forget. The owls were sittingon the top of a bookcase at the time, and I put a screen up in front ofthem. This helped a little, but it was almost worse at night to look atthe screen and know that they were sitting behind there with their eyeswide open, even though I couldn't see them. A couple of nights I eventhought I heard them whispering.

Finally, one day, I said to MacGregor, "I don't think you're doingvery much to help this situation."

"Had you thought of moving to another house?" he asked. Mr.MacGregor doesn't sleep here, and so the thing had not reached theproportions in his mind that it had in mine. He has no owls out wherehe sleeps.

"That's all very well for you to say," I snapped back, my nervesfinally giving way, "but how are we going to move the bookcase? Who'sgoing to take the screen down, in the first place?"

That is where the matter stands today. I am afraid that I haven'tbeen able to give much help to the Cornell student, but Iwillgive him two horned owls if he wants them—if he will come and getthem.

As They Say in French: Other Times, Other Customs

No matter how doggy an institution may be in its beginnings, sooneror later it gets into general circulation. Now they are playing polo inHollywood and wearing polo coats in the Ozarks.

Some of us older boys can remember back to the days when it wasconsidered putting on the dog to have dinner at night. In New England,at any rate, what was known as "the heavy meal" came in the middle ofthe day, and anyone who asked you to "dinner" at supper-time would wearlorgnettes.

It seems hard to believe now, but the grapefruit was once consideredan item of diet which only the president of the Wire Works could havefor breakfast. After years and years of being thrown away in Florida asinedible, the grapefruit suddenly took on class. To say to a waiter:"Just bring me a grapefruit first!" marked one as a man of the worldand something of a gourmet.

The joke about grapefruit squirting in the eye came in shortly afterthe people who made jokes started blowing themselves to grapefruit. Thejoke has lasted longer than the prestige of the fruit.

The very word "weekend" was not so long ago used only byAnglophiles. You were going British if you spoke of a "weekend" and youwere downright insufferable if you went on one. One of our more classymagazines got its start as a patrician publication by having an articleon "Weekending in the Country" every month. A lot of solid, God-fearingAmericans wouldn't have the paper on their tables.

And, speaking of affecting British mannerisms and habits, whoremembers when cuffs on a man's trousers brought down the jibe: "It'sraining in London?" Only "Cholly-off-the-pickleboat" wore white ducks,and, to jump ahead a bit, several prominent citizens today are onrecord as having once said that they would as soon wear a skirt as awristwatch.

It was only a few years ago that the fussy traveler had to specify"a room with a bath," and even then did it under his breath for fearthat people would think he was on his honeymoon and showing off.Incidentally, the introduction of twin beds into family life was heldto be just a touch swanky and possibly an indication that the upperclasses were drifting toward an effete civilization. To step into thenext room for a minute, when a man threw in a casual remark about"after my shower this morning" he was quite likely to be undersuspicion not only of boasting about a daily bath, but even more oftrying to let people know that he was in daily touch with ashower bath. The early use of showers by athletes prevented anytaint of effeteness, but the owning of a shower was more or less amatter for boasting.

In leaving these erstwhile indications of snobbery, let us ask whoremembers when tomato juice in the morning was a sign that a man hadbeen drinking the night before?

Oh, well—autres temps, autres moeurs—which, initself, is a form of affectation. Perhaps. Someday, everyone will beusing French phrases.

Help!

A couple of years ago I had occasion to complain of a certain formof California bird-life which was sitting on a tree under my window andmaking the night hideous by never giving the same bird-call twice. Icounted a hundred and four different calls before I went mad, all thecalls obviously from the same bird.

But that year I was in a room on the third floor. This year my roomis right on the ground, flush with the bushes. And this year that samebird is back with a whole new routine. Furthermore, he is out to getme. And when I say "get me," I mean actual physical violence, ormayhem.

He must have read what I wrote about him that time or else somebusybody told him. At any rate, he has a definite grudge in mind andhas a campaign mapped out whereby he can get me down. His plan is,evidently, to shatter my nerves during the night and then attack me inmy weakened condition in the daytime.

Two years ago he had a line of calls which, although diversified,still sounded like a bird. This year he has gone in forvoxhumana numbers. He crowds in against the screen and moans.Sometimes he giggles. Sometimes he simply says, in a low voice, "Waittill I get you outside."

Yesterday, after a night of sitting by the window and shouting "Goaway!" I went for a walk in the Petit Trianon back of my house. Therewas my bird, sitting on a branch, eyeing me. It is an evil black color,with bushy eyebrows and a one-sided leer.

I walked by without a word and tried to act as if I had noticednothing during the night. But no sooner was my back to him that I heardthe whir of wings and felt a heavy body brush by my collar on its waythrough the air. I ducked, and he banked sharply to the right, circlingmy head and grazing my other shoulder. I broke into a dignified leapand ran back into the house.

I can see him now, sitting out there on the tree, biding his time.All last night there was a new note of triumph in his program. He hasbroken my morale and he knows it.

What I want to know is—can I call the police and ask for anescort or has a taxpayer no rights?

Nature's Prizes

As some Frenchman has said, translating at sight into English as hewent: "Each one to his taste"; but, with all the things there are to goout after in the world, I think that Dr. Ditmars is going out after theleast attractive. At least, they would be to me.

Dr. Ditmars, head of The Bronx Zoo, is going on an expedition to theCaribbean Sea, and, believe it or not, he is hoping and praying that hecomes back with the following treasures:

One Surinam toad, which, according to Dr. Ditmars, "looks as if anelephant had stepped on it, and has small beady eyes, like pin-points."This is all right, I suppose, so long as Dr. Ditmars thinks he wantsit.

One Giant Horned Frog which attains a length of more than teninches. "It is bright green, has long yellow horns, barks like a dog,and can inflict a very severe bite. It is apt to jump at you and biteyou with no warning whatever." Not atme, Dr. Ditmars, not atme. He couldn't jump that far.

One tropical spider orGrammostola lomgimanca, which is threetimes as large as the common tarantula. In addition to being veryactive, this spider is also very poisonous, and its bite may have afatal result.

One tree frog of the Harlequin family, highly colored. "Their skinsexude a poison which is used by Indians in northeastern South Americato tip their arrows. The venom is said to be as deadly as strychnine ifit enters the bloodstream, and is fatal within ten minutes."

Now Dr. Ditmars' aim is not to keep as far away from these pets aspossible, but actually to go out andget them. He wants to bringthem back to The Bronx Zoo, although, so far, no residents of The Bronxhave issued statements in the matter. It looks like a good year forhouse screens in The Bronx.

The only one of Dr. Ditmars' quarries which could hold my attentionat all is the Surinam toad "which looks as if an elephant had steppedon it." I'd rather like to look at that, and then look right awayagain.

The Surinam toad also has quite a cute trick in disposing of itseggs. (All this is, of course, according to Dr. Ditmars. It comes likea bolt from the blue to me.) The female lays the eggs in the water,each egg floating by itself. The male then takes them, one by one, inhis flipper and imbeds them in the back of the female, where aretaining membrane immediately forms. The young frogs remain on thisrefuge until they can take care of themselves. More than two hundredeggs have been found on the back of a single female.

Well, as the Frenchman said, "Each one to his taste." I couldn't gofor that sort of thing myself—but then, I couldn't go for any ofthe other of Dr. Ditmars' hobbies.

Our Noisy Ghosts

In an ill-advised moment last night I began reading an articlecalledThree Months in a Haunted House. I merely wanted to findout why anyone would stay three months in a haunted house, or threeminutes, for that matter. We are supposedly free agents.

The whole thing ended by my putting on my clothes and going over tospend the rest of the night in the waiting room of the Grand CentralTerminal. Even over there I had to ask the man to put on a few morelights. They start cutting down on electricity along about 3 a. m., andit gets a little gloomy.

While I was tagging along at the heels of the cleaning men, from oneside of the room to the other, I got to thinking in a more or less sanemanner about the difference between modern ghosts and those which hauntcastles in Europe, or drift up and down deserted wings of large estatesin Scotland. Modern ghosts are so rowdy.

At just what age does a ghost stop being noisy and throwing thingsand settle down to dignified haunting? It must have something to dowith immaturity in the ghost-world, for only the youngsters seem totake delight in crashing about as if they were drunk. You never hearany of the ghosts in the Tower of London behaving like hoodlums. Ofcourse it may be a matter of breeding.

All accounts of haunted houses today tell of sounds of furniturebeing thrown downstairs, dishes and spoons being clattered together,and sometimes even actual physical violence, with all the ghostsentering the room and spinning the bed around or yanking off thecovers. You would think that Jack Oakie was in the house. Ghosts whohave died within the past fifty years all seem to have had grudgesagainst people, or else a tendency to practical joking. They all seemto have been people who, when they were alive, went around pushingother people off rafts into the water, or putting rubber frogs intobeer-glasses.

You don't catch any of those nice people who haunt Glamis Castleputting on acts like that. They take a little stroll up and down acorridor or along a battlement; sometimes they just appear at a windowfor a second and then disappear. Once in a great while they clank achain or two, but not in a spirit of mischief. You can't help clankinga chain if it is attached to you.

The chief characteristics of a ghost who has attained a certainamount of dignity are repression and beauty. All the lady ghosts aretall and sad, and the men seem to have gone to some good school. Ourmodern ghosts wouldn't be tolerated in one of those old castles for aminute.

And you will notice that the twentieth-century tin-pan throwers andbed-bouncers never show themselves. If we could see them, I'll bet theywear turtle-necked sweaters and caps. They probably know that once theylet anyone catch sight of them they will be so unimpressive that theghost-racket will be spoiled for them and they will be kicked out intothe yard.

Maybe I have gone a little too far. Mind you, I don't say that therecan't be ladies and gentlemen among present-day ghosts. I am sure thereare. I certainly meant no offense to modern ghosts as a class. They'rethe ones I'll have to deal with, and I hope that they haven't got mewrong in this little article.

All I meant to say was that times have changed. Youknow—animal spirits, and boys will be boys. I was really onlykidding anyway.

Movie Boners

One of the most popular pastimes among movie fans is picking outmistakes in the details of a picture. It is a good game, because ittakes your mind off the picture.

For example (Fr.par example) in the picture called "OneNight Alone—for a Change," the Prince enters the door of thepoolroom in the full regalia of an officer in the Hussars. As we pickhim up coming in the door, in the next shot, he has on chaps and asombrero. Somewhere on the threshold he must have changed. This is justsheer carelessness on the part of the director.

In "We Need a New Title for This," we nave seen Jim, when he came tothe farm, fall in love with Elsie, although what Elsie does not know isthat Jim is really a character from another picture. The old Squire,however, knows all about it and is holding it over Jim, threatening toexpose him and have him sent back to the other picture, which is anindependent, costing only a hundred thousand dollars.

Now, when Jim tells Elsie that he loves her (and, before this, wehave already been told that Elsie has been in New York, working assecretary to a chorus girl who was just about to get the star's part onthe opening night) he says that he is a full-blooded Indian, because heknows that Elsie likes Indians. So far, so good.

But in a later sequence, when they strike oil in Elsie's father (ina previous shot we have seen Elsie's father and have learned that hehas given an option on himself to a big oil company which is competingwith the old Squire, but what the old Squire does not know is that hishouse is afire) and when Elsie comes to Jim to tell him that she can'tmarry him, the clock in the sitting room says ten-thirty. When sheleaves it says ten-twenty. That would make her interview minus tenminutes long.

In "Throw Me Away!" the street car conductor is seen haggling withthe Morelli gang over the disposition of the body of Artie ("Muskrat")Weeler. In the next shot we see Artie haggling with the street-carconductor over the disposition of the bodies of the Morelli gang. Thisis sloppy cutting.

In "Dr. Tanner Can't Eat" there is a scene laid in Budapest. Thereis no such place as Budapest.

What the general public does not know is that these mistakes indetail come from the practice of "block-booking" in the moving pictureindustry. In "block-booking" a girl, known as the "script-girl," holdsthe book of the picture and is supposed to check up, at the beginningof each "take" (or "baby-broad"), to see that the actors are the sameones as those in the previous "take."

The confusion comes when the "script-girl" goes out to lunch andgoes back to the wrong "set." Thus, we might have one scene inTheLittle Minister where everybody was dressed in the costumes ofThe Scarlet Empress, onlyThe Little Minister andTheScarlet Empress were made on different "lots" and at differenttimes.

Let's Not Dance This!

Somehow I do not thrill to the idea that "every form of life isdancing to celestial music," as a well-known but giddy-mindedastronomer has stated. Aside from presenting a rather ludicrouspicture, it is too tiring to think of. I don't like to dance, and Iwon't dance, celestial music or no celestial music!

It seems as if a greater part of my life has been spent in avoidingdancing. When I was little I used to feign measles and fallen arches onSaturday afternoons when the dreaded time came to put the patentleather pumps into the green baize bag and toddle off to dancingschool. I had some pretty clever ruses up my sleeve, but there is norecord of their ever having worked.

Incidentally, I believe that the barbarous custom which prevailed atthe turn of the century of forcing boys into Saturday afternoon dancingschool was responsible for the middle-aged generation ofterpsichore-haters whom we see cowering in corners or hitching heavilyaround dance floors today.

After a Saturday morning of rolling around in the dirt and skinningknee-caps, what red blooded man of eight or nine would not rebel atbeing called in, given a hot bath in the middle of the day and crowdedinto a black suit, merely to spend a sunny afternoon indoors with abunch of girls in blue sashes? It's a wonder that any of us even gotmarried.

Once herded into the torture hall, however, we had ways and means ofavoiding the ultimate degradation of actually dancing. Determinedgroups of stags would barricade themselves in the boys' dressing roomand defy adult pleadings until it became .a case for calling out themilitia. And, even when dragged out into action, there were subtleforms of sabotage such as losing a pump or lacerating the insteps ofour partners, which soon broke down the opposition and sent us back tothe lockers in triumph.

Following the dancing-school period came the parties where someone,after supper, was always rolling back the rugs and turning on thegramophone. The minute I saw a rug being so much as turned up at onecorner I was out on the porch like a wild, hunted thing, even though itwas the dead of Winter, and many a night I have stood jammed against awaterspout in the dark while searching parties brushed by me withbloodhounds.

It wasn't so much that they wanted me to dance as it was theirvicious determination that, at a party, nobody shall ever be let offanything. There is no one so unfeeling as a hostess who is set onhaving the young folks enjoy themselves.

With the years has come that sweet respite from regimentation inmatters of merrymaking, and I can now say quite frankly, "Go away,Twinkletoes, and keep away! Grandpa's sitting right here!" Or, betteryet, I can get up and give them a taste of their own medicine for onelap around the floor, after which any alternative that I suggest isgreeted with a grateful look and limping acquiescence. But my firstinstinct is still to rush to the boys' room when I hear the musicstart.

So, when astronomers tell us that every form of life is dancing tocelestial music and that the earth and the sun set up a rhythm which wecannot escape I settle back in my chair with a confident smile andorder scrambled eggs and bacon.

"You go ahead and dance to the celestial music," I say to my group."I have escaped stronger forces than the earth and the sun in my day. Ihave braved the thin red line of disapproving mothers seated along thewall at dancing school. I have eluded the most eagle-eyed of hostessesat young people's parties. I have definitely established myself as anon-dancer in some of the dancingest circles of my day. The only timethat any celestial influence gets me on my feet will be when it swoopsme up for good."

The French They Are——

I was talking the other day to my friend who happens to be adachshund about this new restaurant in Paris where they caterexclusively to dogs. It is in the Champs Elysees, a very good location,he tells me, for a smart eating place.

"They call itAu Colisee," he said, "although thesignificance of the name eludes me. I suppose that's the French of it.Hysterical exaggeration." (My friend comes from just outsideMunich.)

"I suppose it's all right, if they want to do it," he continued,"but I see no reason for going sissy in it. Look at this!" He read froma menu which some German friend had sent him for his amusement.

"La Patee de Bouky! I'll give you ten guesses whatLaPatee de Bouky is. It's soup, rolls and potatoes! That'sLaPatee de Bouky!"

He then gave an imitation of an effeminate dog orderingLa Pateede Bouky. He overdid it a little, but I got his point.

"Where I come from that dish would be called by a realname—Kartoffelsuppe mit Brotchen. There's a name you canget your teeth into!La Patee de Bouky! Faugh!"

"I don't mind their dressing up," he replied, "but they needn't makea drag out of it. Here's another! . . .Le Regal de Nica. Do youknow whatLe Regal de Nica is?"

"Le Regal de Nica turns out to be clear soup, new carrots,and meat ground up very fine. Now, there's a good, sensible dish, fitfor any man to eat. But you can't go in and ask forLe Regal deNica, now can you?"

"I don't suppose that French dogs mind it as much as you would," Isaid. "You have a different background."

"French dogs don't mindanything, I have found out," hereplied testily. "They even let people put fur pieces on them."

"Oh, that old green thing!" he snorted, trying not to show hisembarrassment. "I've had that six years. I used to play hockey in it inGermany."

"Hockey or no hockey, you appeared on the street in a sweater. Allthat I'm trying to prove is that you can't ever judge a man by what hehas on."

"Maybe not," said my friend, turning back to his menu to change thesubject. "But you can judge a man by what he orders in a restaurant.And I ask you if you would like to hear me ask a waiter for this(looking up and down the card for something he had evidently beensaving as a trump)—here it is!La Dessert de NosToutous!"

"I saidToutous," he replied, sneering. "In case you don'tknow,Toutou is a pet name for a dog. It is equivalent to your'bow-wow,' only less virile. I repeat—would you like to hear mego into a restaurant and orderDessert de Nos T outous?"

Duck, Brothers!

Next month will be a bad one for those people who bruise easily, asmeteor showers are predicted. It will be well for everyone to travel bysubway as much as possible, or, at any rate, to hug up close to thebuildings while walking along the street. Those meteors can hurt!

To forestall indignant letters from astronomers and ex-meteors letme say that I know the difference between meteors and meteorites, andthat meteorites are the only ones that could hurt if they hit you. But,the way things are going today, it is safe to assume that what wouldordinarily be a harmless meteor shower in normal years will end up bybeing, in this year of grace, a full-fledged rain of ten-tonflame-balls, each one headed directly for the corner of the street onwhich you and I are standing. I know where I'm not wanted.

On the map of the heavens I note a group of something called"Delphinus" which has the nickname "Job's Coffin." I have a hunch thatmy meteorite is coming from "Job's Coffin," straight as a die for theback of my neck. I can feel it now! o-o-o-O-O-O-MMM-ONG-O! And the nextthing I know I shall be MgO:FeO or part of an anorthite stick-pin("Very rare, sir; dug out of a meteorite which fell in the 20thcentury. ")

The best part about a meteorite (I always try to look on the brightside) is that you can hear it coming. The sound has been variouslydescribed as that of "the bellowing of oxen," "the roaring of a fire ina chimney" and "the tearing of calico." I certainly hope that minedoesn't sound like the tearing of calico, as that is a sound thatdrives me crazy. I would almost rather be hit by the meteorite withoutany warning. (Cross that out, Miss Schwab, please.)

I suppose that the thing to do when you see a meteorite hurtlingthrough the air at you is to stand like an outfielder until you seejust what direction it is taking, and then, instead of runningfor it, run sharply to the right or left. You would have todecide immediately whether it was going to be right or left andstick to it, as any attempt at broken-field running would besilly.

You might keep looking up every now and then as you ran, just tomake sure that there wasn't a companion piece coming along with the oneyou were dodging, but the main idea would be to keep running. This isonly a tentative plan that I have worked out. I might think up someother scheme on the spur of the moment.

Without being a fatalist, however, I suppose that there isn't muchsense in planning ahead on evading a meteorite. If you are going to gethit you are going to get hit, and there's an end to it (which isputting it mildly). The best one can do is keep a stiff upper lip andnot let the women folk know that you are worried. Just the same, I'llbe glad when the March meteor showers are over and we can all come outinto the open again. Still, I suppose that if it isn't meteorites itwill be something else.

What——No Budapest?

A few weeks ago, in this space, I wrote a little treatise on "MovieBoners," in which I tried to follow the popular custom of pickingtechnical flaws in motion pictures, detecting, for example, that when acharacter enters a room he has on a bow tie and when he leaves it afour-in-hand.

In the course of this fascinating article I wrote: "In the picturecalled 'Dr. Tanner Can't Eat' there is a scene laid in Budapest. Thereis no such place as Budapest."

In answer to this I have received the following communication fromM. Schwartzer, of New York City:

"Ask for your money back from your geography teacher. There is sucha place as Budapest, and it is not a small village, either. Budapest isthe capital of Hungary. In case you never heard of Hungary, it is inEurope. Do you know where Europe is? Respectfully yours," etc.

I am standing by my guns, Mr. Schwartzer. There is no such place asBudapest. Perhaps you are thinking of Bucharest, and there is no suchplace as Bucharest, either.

I gather thatyour geography teacher didn't tell you aboutthe Treaty of Ulm in 1802, in which Budapest was eliminated. By theterms of this treaty (I quote from memory):

"Be it hereby enacted that there shall be no more Budapest. Thiscity has been getting altogether too large lately, and the coffeehasn't been any too good, either. So, no more Budapest is the decree ofthis conference, and if the residents don't like it they can move tosome other place."

This treaty was made at the close of the war of 1805, which wasunique in that it began in 1805 and ended in 1802, thereby confusingthe contestants so that both sides gave in at once. Budapest was thefocal point of the war, as the Slovenes were trying to get rid of it tothe Bulgks, and the Bulgks were trying to make the Slovenes keep it.This will explain, Mr. Schwartzer, why there is no such place asBudapest.

If any word other than mine were needed to convince you that youhave made a rather ludicrous mistake in this matter, I will quote froma noted authority on non-existent cities, Dr. Almer Doctor, PinskProfessor of Obduracy in the university of that name. In hisVanished Cities of Central Europe he writes:

"Since 1802 there has been no such place as Budapest. It is too bad,but let's face it!"

Or, again, fromNerdlinger's Atlas (revised for the CarnationShow in London in 1921):

"A great many uninformed people look in their atlases for the cityof Budapest and complain to us when they cannot find it. Let us takethis opportunity to make it clear that there is no such place asBudapest and has not been since 1802. The spot which was once known asBudapest is now known as the Danube River, by Strauss."

"I would not rebuke you so publicly, Mr. Schwartzer, had it not beenfor that crack of yours about my geography teacher. My geographyteacher was a very fine woman and later became the mother of fourbouncing boys, two of whom are still bouncing. She knew about whathappened to Budapest, and she made no bones about it.

"In future communications with me I will thank you to keep her nameout of this brawl."

MacGregor for Ataman!

What is the news this morning, Mr. MacGregor?" I asked, peeringaround from behind a hangover. "Just give me the keywords."

"It says here," replied MacGregor, catering to my whim, "that theDon Cossacks who have been exiled in this country since the Russianrevolution are going to elect a new Ataman this month."

"I know why you read me that item," I countered, and got the desiredanswer: "Why?"

"And now I have a surprise for you!" I said, getting up off thefloor. "You are going to be a candidate for the office of CossackAtaman!"

"You have the spirit of a Cossack," I replied. "With boots and asabre and a Persian lamb hat you could ride down peasants in the grandmanner."

"I don't think so," he said, ruminatively. "And besides, I couldn'trun for Ataman right now. We have too much work piled up here in theplanetarium."

"'The work can wait,'" I said, quoting our business motto. "I ambacking you for Cossack Ataman, and you would do well not to look agift horse in the mouth."

"Just go around among the exiled Cossacks in town," I explained,"and tell them that you are a candidate. Threaten them, ifnecessary."

"Another rehearsal and you'll have it down cold," I said, although Ihad my doubts.

But I'll be darned if MacGregor didn't go out and get enough votesto be elected.

Do We Sleep Enough?

Does the average man get enough sleep? What is enough sleep? What isthe average man? What is "does"?

It is said that Napoleon was able to go for days without sleep andthen make up for it with a sleep of twenty-four hours' duration. Thetemptation is to say "And look at Napoleon now!" but that would be notonly an oldfashioned crack but an irrelevant one. Napoleon happens tobe doing all right now, in a bigger tomb than any of us sleepy-headswill ever get.

Some people claim that they can do with four hours' sleep, withoutexplaining what they mean by "do with." Do what with? I can do allkinds of things with fifteen minutes' sleep, including gagging,snorting and getting my head caught between the couch and the wall, butdon't boast about it.

A man who goes to bed, let us say, at seven in the evening, or evenseven-fifteen, can get his eight hours' sleep and still have from threea. m. (or 3:15 a. m.) on to do what he wants in. He can milk cows, cutice, or, if he happens to live in New York, go up to Harlem for theearly show. Then there are always long walks in the country.

But even eight hours' sleep do not do any good if they are spentwondering what it is that is lying across the foot of the bed just overyour ankles. Unfortunately I am without a dog at present, so there isno way for me to explain to myself what it is that lies across myankles just after I get to sleep. All that I can do is hope that it issomeone that I know.

There are several different schools in the question of what positionis the most restful during sleep. Some claim that one arm should bewrapped around the head (to keep curiosity-seekers from discovering whois in the bed) and the other extended backward so that the handclutches the electric-light switch, in case screamers or chain-rattlersget into the room. This leaves the feet to be arranged at the pleasureof the sleeper.

Others are convinced that a really recuperative night can be spentonly by sitting bolt upright in bed, with the eyes open and a largeblunderbuss across the knees. In this proposition it is best to keepthe lights on, as clicking them on and off constantly makes quite aracket which is likely to disturb the sleeper.

I, personally, like to sleep with my head out the window and my feetin a tepid foot-bath (72 degrees). Thus I am able to watch up and downthe street and, at the same time, draw the circulation away from myhead, where it is so unhappy.

Infants need the most sleep, and, what is more, get it. Stunningthem with a soft, padded hammer is the best way to insure their gettingit at the right times.

As a person gets older he needs less and less sleep, until by thetime he is ninety-five or a hundred it doesn't make any differencewhether he gets any sleep at all. This scientific fact accounts for thenumber of nonagenarians one sees on the street at three and four in themorning. Or maybe it is just that they look like nonagenarians.

The best way to induce sleep is to take off all the clothes, getinto some comfortable sleeping garment and lie down in bed. You canthen always get up, put on some comfortable hunting togs and go out andrun down a fox.

High Life Among the Birds

Being terrified of birds myself, I have, naturally, a morbidinterest in all their more horrendous activities. It is a form ofmasochism in which the patient suffering from "aviaphobia" actuallyseeks out bird-shocks, and asks people questions about the mostrevolting birds they have known.

It was with considerable revulsion and consequent excitement,therefore, that I read in Mr. D. B. Wyndham Lewis' column in theLondon Daily Mail of a recent bird debauch in England which mustgive pause to even the most sanguine of bird-lovers.

(Mr. D. B. Wyndham Lewis, by the way, is one of the few remainingmadmen of the bulldog breed, and is not, by even the most literate, tobe confused with the other Wyndham Lewis, who, so far as I have everbeen able to ascertain, has never had more than a sober thought in hishead.)

"By an unfortunate oversight," writes Mr.D. B. WyndhamLewis, "a bird-lover of my acquaintance replenished the bird bath inhis lawn the other evening from a jug of melted ice in which lingered afew cocktail dregs."

"The birds," he said, "mopped it up avidly and swarmed aroundshouting for more; and at length there was great excitement andbabbling in the trees, with bursts of sardonic laughter. My friend whohas an ear for bird talk, overheard a truculent blackbird proposing tofly to Kensington and peck the stuffing out of Peter Pan, and a verynoisy nightingale boasting at the top of its voice that 'we microphoneartists' could lay an egg in Sir John Reith's hat any old time, andnothing said."

"In a word," he said, "it was just like any other cocktail partyexcept that nobody fell down."

If Mr. D. B. Wyndham Lewis had not brought the matter up in hissuccinct summary I should probably have kept my promise never tomention the occasion on which two guinea hens of my acquaintance madeperfect fools of themselves through liquor. They apologized the nextday, and I said to forget it. However, as I have since learned that theguinea hens in question ended up in an asylum, I have no compunctionsnow.

It came about through a spilled keg of hard cider, but, so far as Iknow, that has never been an excuse. The guinea hens got drunk. Wemight as well face it. They were drunk.

My fear of birds increases in direct proportion to theirpersonality. Birds who mind their own business find me very tractable,but a bird who sets out to impress me soon learns that he has thepolice to deal with. I am incapable of handling the affair myself, butI know where to go for help.

These two guinea hens, once they realized their advantage,deliberately set out to hector me. They were like two drunken "townies"hanging around the drug store as unprotected girls go by. First, theyannoyed me with remarks; then they actually set in motion after me andtried to trip me up. One of them even left the ground and struck me onthe hip, while the other laughed coarsely.

I am frank to admit that I ran into the barn and told on them. Isaid to the man in there: "Has it got so that a man of forty can't walkthrough your barnyard without being attacked by drunks?" Then I wentinto the harness room until the scene was over.

As I say, they apologized the next day, but I want Mr. D. B. WyndhamLewis to know that we, in America, have our problems of drunkennessamong birds, too. In England they seem to carry their liquor better,that's all.

Do You Make These mistakes?

How many times, for instance, have you wanted to use the word"eleemosynary" and haven't been able to do so without laughing? So youhave used "whom" instead, thinking that it means the same thing. Well,it don't—doesn't.

Probably one of the most prolific causes of mistakes in spokenEnglish is the use of intoxicating liquors. "Impftubbibble" is not goodEnglish, and you know it. Neither is "washerti'?" And yet you heareducated people say these words in the best circles, and think nothingof it. It is merely a slovenly way of speaking, induced by an even moreslovenly way of drinking.

The English language is derived from the Latin, Greek, French,Saxon, Spanish and Yiddish. That is why English is such a difficultlanguage for foreigners to learn. Arabs and Turks are completely at seawith it.

But there is no reason why you should be at sea. All that is neededis a few hours' practice every day, being careful not to bend theknees. Just keep saying to yourself, over and over again, "Ishall speak good English!" Before long, you will find yourselfsaying: "Iwill speak good English!" or possibly just: "The hellwith it!"

Try taking a pencil and jotting down the number of times during theday that you find yourself making the following common mistakes ineveryday English:

You, may think that these little slips, and others like them, do notmatter in ordinary conversation. "I make myself understood, don't I?"you may say. Ah, but do you?

Napoleon failed to take Moscow until it was a mass of ruins becausehe said: "Take your time, Joe!" instead of "Hurry up, Joe!" to the manwho had charge of the army. Just the difference of three littlewords.

A man in Colorado was hanged for murder because in a writtenstatement he said, "I did it," instead of "I didn't do it." If he hadknown the most elementary rudiments of English he wouldn't have madesuch a monkey of himself.

If I had known the most elementary rudiments of English I wouldn'thave written "the most elementary rudiments." So you see?

The Word "Three"

I don't know whether you care or not, but etymological circles arein an uproar. They have just discovered what the word "three" comesfrom.

They have known the derivation of all the other words in thenumber-table (as, for example, "two" from "Tuesday," or the second dayin the week if you don't count Sunday as the first, and "five" from thegod Woden, or Thor, or Buttercup, and so forth and so forth), but theyhave never been able to figure out where the word "three" camefrom.

A little fellow from the University of Welf discovered it. Hedoesn't speak English himself, but he is awfully interested in peoplewho do. It was during one of these periods (I should have told you thathe has periods when he looks up words) that he found out about the word"three." He was looking up the word "tree" and, not speaking Englishwell, he thought that it was pronounced "three." You can see how thatmight very well be.

The word "three" comes to us direct from the French, collect. Theoriginal word was (and still is)tri, which means a sorting, or,as in card-playing, a deal. Thus, one would say: "Give me atri," or "How is yourtri?" meaning "Give me a deal" or"How is your deal?" If one were really speaking in French, of course,all the other words in the sentence would be French, too. (i.e.,"Donnez-moi un tri" or "Votre tri, çamarche?")

Just how the wordtri got into the French language is amystery which occupies practically nobody's attention at the moment. Itis supposed to have come from the Creole patois of New Orleans, and wasused to signify hurry or lethargy. The old form of the word wasblo, which gradually was shortened intotri. Later thewhole word was dropped from the language by a rising vote.

The Normans brought the word into England just before the NormanConquest. In their use of it an extra syllable was added, making ittriouille, meaning white-bait or Roger crab. We still are nonearer than we were to finding out how it came to mean three ofanything. Don't think that I'm not just as worried as you are.

With the advent of water-power and the subsequent water-pistol, Luke(Luke was the fellow I was speaking of a few yards back) didn't knowwhat to do. Unless I am greatly mistaken, this paragraph belongs inanother article.

Well, anyway, the people who are making up the English languagefound themselves with names for every digit except "three." And, asthere were three of quite a lot of things (Marx Brothers, blind mice,wishes and cent stamps) it got increasingly embarrassing not to have aword to express "three." They tried using the word "four," but it endedonly in confusion, especially when addition or subtraction was atstake.

Suddenly someone said: "Why don't we take the wordtri fromthe French? They'll never miss it, and they owe it to us anyway." Thisseemed like a logical plan, and everybody but one man agreed to it. Helater committed suicide when he found out how successfully it hadworked out. "I was a blind fool," he wrote.

As it sounded rather common to saytri, they put in anh and substituted a doublee for thei. This madeas pretty a "three" as you could wish, and from that day on it was apart of the language. They tried it out in a little rhyme:"One-two-three—buckle my shoe," and it went so well that sooneverybody was saying it.

Frankly, I don't know whether I like it as a word or not. It stillsounds a little slangy.

Read and Eat

I have always secretly admired people who could read a newspaperwhile eating. It bespeaks co-ordination, dexterity and automaticdigestion, none of which attributes I seem to possess. It also givesone an air of being a man of affairs, and I long ago abandoned theattempt to look like a man of affairs. I even find it difficult, somemornings, to look like a man.

In the first place, I can't seem to get the newspaper fixed right,even in one of those racks which super-service hotels sometimes providefor the purpose. One corner gets into the butter, another into themarmalade, and, even if I do manage to fold it so that certainheadlines are visible, they are either on stories that I don't want toread or I have to unfold the whole thing again in a minute or two inorder to keep on reading.

In the meantime, what of breakfast? I like my breakfast, and I likeit hot. A cold egg is like a pretty good curate. While I am balancingmy newspaper, and folding it and unfolding it, and knocking over creampitchers and salt cellars, and getting everything set to read twoparagraphs of a full column story, the Grim Reaper has stalked in amongmy breakfast dishes, laying his icy hand on egg and muffin alike. Thereis no news story in the world that is worth that.

Let us say, however, that I have finally found a story that holds myattention, that enough of it is exposed to view to be readconsecutively for two minutes, and that I have taken a bite of baconand toast. I read, and, as I read, I chew, leaning over at an angle tothe left, so that my lapel rests neatly in the egg.

It is my particular misfortune to be unable to do all these thingsat the same time. If a point in my story fascinates me I stop chewing.If I don't actually stop chewing I go ahead automatically, with norelish for the food, and might as well be saving money and chewing on arubber washer. It is a dull, stolid mockery of eating, blessing neitherhim that gives nor him that takes.

If the story continues interesting I keep my eyes glued on the paperand grope tentatively for my coffee cup. I know that it should be nearmy right hand, but, beyond that, I am willing to try out any oldlocation. I dip my fingers, first, lightly on the edge of thetoast-dish; next, like a butterfly alighting, on the rim of my waterglass; then, as if by intuition, directly into the coffee itself. Thisbrings me to my senses, and I take my eyes from the newspaper and goabout my business, which, after all, is eating my breakfast.

Others, more dexterous than I, may be able to swing both reading andeating at the same time. I am more thegourmet type and like myfood. If the breakfast is good—and most breakfasts are—Iprefer to concentrate on that and let my newspaper reading go untillater.

Of course, there are mornings when I don't want any breakfast. ThenI can catch up on my reading.

Talking Dogs

There is a story going the rounds of a man who was driving a horseup hill with a heavy load, his dog running along beside the wagon.

Suddenly the horse stopped short in his tracks and spoke: "Listen!I'm sick of this!" he said. "I don't pull this load another step."

"Well, I'll be darned!" said the man, taken aback. "I never heard ahorse talk before."

Now, this story may seem a little fantastic to the layman, but, fromthe data that I have been able to gather, the thing is not beyond therealm of possibility. At any rate, not the dog's end of it. The man'sremark seems a little far-fetched.

There was a 12-year-old Great Dane named "Boulderwall" who died afew years ago in Rhode Island. She could make herself understood,according to the report, "to a limited extent," by intoning her"bow-wow and r-r-ow." It didn't say to whom she could make herselfunderstood, but it must have been an awfully nice person—or aheavy drinker.

Thus, when Boulderwall wanted water, she said: "Wow-r-r." That'sbetter than a lot of us are able to do at times. I would have liked totry her out on "two two-and-a-half-minute eggs," but possibly shedidn't like eggs. When "wow-r-r-r" is the best you can do for "water,"you're not likely to be eating much, anyway.

The most famous talking dog was "Princess Jacqueline" (they all seemto have been ladies), a French bull who lived in Maine. The Princesshad a vocabulary of about twenty words which she could form intosentences. This I definitely wouldnot have cared to hear. Oneword, yes, but a whole sentence and I might be tempted to drop whateverI was doing and leave the room by the window. I'm no fool, as thefellow said.

A conversation between Boulderwall and Princess Jacqueline mighthave been interesting to listen in on, provided you happened to befeeling in tip-top shape yourself that day. Boulderwall had the sizebut the Princess had the vocabulary, so, unless the thing degeneratedinto a brawl, the odds would have been on the Princess to get her pointacross.

I had a dog once who could singCome, Josephine, in My FlyingMachine, but I had to get rid of him. (This is the first time Ihave ever told anyone about it.) He flatted badly on the "up she goes!"and that sort of thing gets on one's nerves after a while.

My Trouble

What is it, do you suppose, when your throat closes up and you stopbreathing? Am I a victim of an inferiority complex?

I am a boy of 46, partly white, and stand in my stocking feet. Ihaven't had a drink since Repeal, as I believe in the Constitution. (Idid have something made from potatoes, a white liquid which my oldRussian nurse called wodka, but it didn't seem to have any effect.A-ha-ha-ha-ha-hee!)

Now it turns out that, when I lie down to go to sleep, my throatcloses up and I stop breathing. This idiosyncrasy brings me, like aflash, out of bed and onto my feet in the middle of the floor, lookingfor the electric light. (We have had electric lights ever since theywere invented, although we are thinking now of going back to gas.)

What I want to know is—am I unusual for my age? Do all boys of46 stop breathing when they go to bed? Should I see a specialist?

When I first noticed that I wasn't breathing I paid no attention toit, thinking that it was a figment of my imagination. "Of course you'rebreathing," I said to myself, gasping for breath; "look at your clothesover the chair there! Those aren't the clothes of a man who isn'tbreathing." This reassured me for a while. I even got up and put on myclothes and walked, very fast, to the City Line, taking the trolleyback.

Then I began to think: "Who are you to say that you are breathingwhen you're not?" I had no answer to this. I had evidently got in overmy depth. When you can't answer your own questions it is time tostop.

I took my case to a psychoanalyst. "I stop breathing when I liedown," I said, smiling. "What is that?"

"You have a phobia," he said. "You are afraid of stopping breathingwhen you lie down."

"Well, I'll be a son-of-a-gun," I said. "You certainly have hit thenail on the head. Just watch me!" So I lay down and stoppedbreathing.

"You are just making things more difficult for yourself," he said."Go home, and come back to me tomorrow."

I still want to know what it is when your throat closes up and youstop breathing when you lie down.

Hollywood's Loss

As a movie actor, I pride myself on being untemperamental and easyto work with, but there are some things that an artist simply cannottake. One of them is a puppy who wants to hog every scene.

I have been working in a picture (contemptuously known in the tradeas a "short subject") in which it was unfortunately necessary to employa Scottie pup. He was more or less intended as a "straight man" for me.He doesn't even rate second billing. He is just an extra, when you comeright down to it.

The trouble was that he didn't know his place. He thought that hewas the star. I don't mind sharing a scene with another actor. In fact,I often step aside and let others take the limelight—if I feelthat it is for the good of the picture. I will not, however, be imposedupon.

This particular dog has had no picture training. In fact, he has hadno training at all, being in the neighborhood of two months old. He washired for the part simply because of his size, which is negligible. Wewanted a dog who would look futile, and he seemed, at the time, to fillthe bill.

He turned actor on me, however. Once on the set, he becameinsufferable. Every scene that we had together he crabbed by backing meupstage, "catching flies" (the theatrical term, meaning to distractattention from the speaker) and even walking right off the scene duringmy big speeches. At the age of two months, he knew more tricks of scenestealing than a stock company actor.

I finally complained to the director—something that I havenever had to do before. I simply said: "Choose between this newcomerand me. Either he gives me common courtesy during my scenes, or I walkout."

The director took the matter to the Front Office and they had aconference on it. The result was that I was informed that they feltthat they had a "find" in the puppy, and that I could do as Iliked.

I just want it understood why I am leaving the motion picturebusiness. I will not play "straight" to a Scottie puppy, and I don'tfeel that I am being unreasonable.

Lights, Please!

Oh, dear, now they've gone and discovered a woman who lights up! Andjust as things were getting back to normal again! Why can't they stoppoking around?

The story of this "luminous woman" appears in theLondonIllustrated News, so it can't be a publicity gag. They've got awhole page about her, taken fromL'Illustrazione Italiana, withcharts and spectra and a cute photograph of Mrs. Anna Monaro, who isthe eccentric lady in question.

Mrs. Monaro lives in Pirano, Italy, and lights up only at intervals.She doesn't keep glowing all the time, but they haven't got herperfected yet. Think how long it took Edison to get his electric bulbto working. When they get Mrs. Monaro so that she will give off asteady light Mussolini is going to press a button from Rome to startthe grand illumination.

People sleeping in the room with Mrs. Monaro (and, oddly enough, Mr.Monaro doesn't seem to figure in the testimony, although, of courseit's none of my business. Mr. Monaro is a fisherman who takes longtrips), were the first to notice the phenomenon. While asleep, Mrs.Monaro gave off a light from her thorax. You may well imagine thatthere was little more sleeping done in that room that night. Italiansare so excitable.

Doctors and priests and a man from the electric light company wererushed to Pirano, and the humble fisherman's wife became the center ofscientific discussion, first, over all Italy, then over all Europe, andnow on this page. The discussion on this page, however, will probablygive you less idea of just what goes on in Mrs. Monaro's thorax thanthe scientific discussions in Europe. I frankly am still pretty much inthe dark about it.

They put "Miss Electricity 1934" under observation, and found thather little spells occur only when she is asleep, which makes it rathertough for her, as she can't look down and see it. Maybe it is just aswell. I could do without that little excitement if I were Mrs.Monaro.

The doctors have decided, rather half-heartedly, that she is of sucha highly sensitive nature that, when she has been emotionally upsetduring the day, her visceral functions are unbalanced, her combustionis increased and the radiating power of the blood given a terrificboost. So far I understand what they are saying, but——

Mrs. Monaro, being very religious, also does a lot of fasting,"which promotes the concentration of sulphides, which, althoughnormally opaque, become luminous when struck by the ultra-violetradiations of the blood."

The doctors add that "given propitious experimental conditions, thephenomenon might be reproduced artificially."

Not in me, it won't be! I'll stick to the oldfashioned electriclight, thank you.

Did You Know That——

Ice is really not ice at all, but a vegetable organism which formson the surface of water toprevent it from freezing solid?

If you take a ton of anthracite coal (ordinary anthracite) and pressit, you can use it as "pressed anthracite" for blacking up in minstrelshows?

Mount Washington, of the Presidential Range, is really a depressionin the earth's surface which looks high only because the surroundingcountry is so much lower?

The great general Hannibal was really a woman, and a five-foot-twowoman at that?

One year's supply of that other condiment that comes in the secondjar on a horse-radish cruet, would not cover one square foot of a citythe size of Rochester, N. Y.?

No one has ever actuallyseen Brooklyn Bridge? It is merelyan action of light waves on the retina of the eye.

If you were to inhale steadily for fifteen minutes, without onceexhaling, your head would touch the floor in back of you?

Frederick the Great once gave a walking stick to Voltaire which bentdouble every time he leaned his weight on it, which was the reason thatVoltaire was such a cynic?

The reason why it always says "twenty minutes past eight" on thosebig watches that hang outside jewelers' shops is because that isactually the time at the particular moment when you are looking atit?

These and four hundred thousand other fascinating facts, you willfind in a little booklet calledHow to Roll a Hoop, which I ampreparing for a few friends as a birthday surprise to myself. I amverifying each fact as I write it in, which explains why it is takingme such a terribly long time to get the booklet out.

Mutiny on the "Bounty"

"All our problems." (He evidently hadn't heard anything I said thefirst time except the words "would solve.")

There was quite a long silence during which Mr. MacGregor went outand bought some sport shirts. I tended shop.

When he came back he walked straight through the office with hisbundle and into the planetarium.

"Well," I replied, "technically it would come in yourdepartment—Public Works. I would take it over, however, on anyday when you might be sick or nervous. You would find me very willingto help, I assure you."

He said no more, but I heard a sound of clicking once, like suitcasesnaps being snapped. It seemed a little odd that MacGregor should be inthere snapping suitcase snaps, so I dismissed it as an improbability."It is most likely just the wind," I thought.

However, hearing nothing for several hours after that, I went intothe planetarium. It was empty. Mr. MacGregor had left by the doorleading into the Rose Bowl.

On the table was a note. "I am running away from home," it read, "togo to sea." The old Navy urge had been too strong for him.

I was a little hurt, but disgust was predominant in my mind. Loyaltyto me, the amassing of a great fortune from the business, his brown hat(which he had left in the front office), all these meant nothing tohim. Obviously the man was incompetent.

Within two hours private detectives (paid out of my own pocket) hadhim back in the office again. They had found him just as he wasenlisting.

I thought it best not to say anything about his escapade. He seemeda little subdued.

"I bought a goat on the way home from the recruiting station," saidMr. MacGregor. "He's out in the car."

The Dangers of Bass-Singing

A great many people wish that they could sing bass. In fact, a greatmany people think that theyare singing bass when what they arereally doing is growling the air an octave or two below the rest of thegroup. A really good bass is the hardest drunk to find.

And yet, how many people know the dangers which confront abass-singer? The occupational diseases known to insurance companies as"the basso-profundo risk"—what of them? One must pay the penaltyfor singing bass just as for all the other pleasures of the flesh.

In the first place, you are likely to get your chin caughtunderneath the knot of your necktie. This is no simple matter to setaright. I knew of a man once who, on the three final "zum-zum-zum's" of"Kaintucky Babe," got what they call "cast," in horse parlance, and hadto be carried, with his chin tucked in his collar, all the way from theboat-house, where he was singing, to a blacksmith's shop.

Several years ago a picture appeared inPunch which showed anelderly, benevolent gentleman stopping in front of a group of smallboys who seemed to be singing Christmas carols. The smallest of thewaifs (and he was so small as to be hardly worth including in thepicture at all) was holding his handkerchief to his face in evidentdistress.

"What is the matter, my little man?" asked the old gentleman, in themanner of old gentlemen inPunch pictures. "Why are youcrying?"

"'E's not cryin'," replied the leader of the carolers. "'E justtried to sing bass and it made 'is nose bleed."

Now that may seem a very funny joke to you (or it may not, but if itdoesn't, never darken my door again), but it represents without a doubtone of the things which a bass-singer has got to watch out for. Arupture of the delicate membranes of the nose and throat, or a toogreat strain put upon the blood vessels, and bass-singing can transforma place into a shambles.

The eyes, too, come in for their share of punishment. In executing areally good descent into the lower register the eyes must either beclosed (by far the safest method) or rolled back into the head as thebrow goes forward. If the singer persists in looking at his audiencewhile his chin is in his collar he is running the risk of permanentdislocation of the eyeballs, which will give him a rather horrid lookwhen he raises his head again.

Among other ills to which the bass-singer is heir are "chest-mouse,"caused by teeth dropping into the chest at the lowest note and stayingthere; "ascending larynx," which means, that as the other organs arelowered the larynx remains constant, giving it the effect of risinginto the throat and choking the operator; and actual Death, or Hoxie'sDisease, caused by the stoppage of all functions except that ofbass-singing.

Lucky World

When you come to think of it, the wonder is not that there are somany jammed automobile fenders, bad motion pictures, sore throats,divorces and wars, but that there aren'tmore of them. We areliving in a world that is shot through with luck, that's all.

The next time you are up in a tall building looking for a place tojump from, just take a peek over at a couple of busy trafficintersections below. Then figure out how many of those drivers shouldbe at large on the street at all, much less at the wheel of anautomobile. Then make your jump.

When you consider that the world is full of men who can't stoop overto tie their shoes without bumping their heads, women to whom left andright are interchangeable as a matter of principle, young people whoseparents are still wondering when they are going to develop mentallybeyond the age of nine—all driving automobiles—then thelogical ending to the whole situation is for all the automobiles in theworld to pile up on top of one another at one big cross-road.

I, myself, am aghast at the possibilities of such a catastrophe whenI think of what might happen in my own case if Nature really took itscourse when I am at the wheel, and there must be millions of peopledriving who are no better equipped than I am to guide a motor vehiclethrough any more of an emergency than a sudden light breeze.

When I consider what would result in the way of pictorialentertainment if I, myself, were asked to direct, photograph, cut orsupervise a motion picture, I marvel at the success with whichthousands of other people, many of them in my class, turn out pictureswhich actually hang together, make some sense, and show up on a screen.It amounts to a phenomenon not without the suspicion of blackmagic.

Consider the number of young people all over the world who aregetting married, day in and day out, for no other reason than thatsomeone of the opposite sex looks well in a green jersey or singsbaritone, and then tell me that Divorce has reached menacingproportions. The surface of Divorce has not been scratched yet. We arelucky thateveryone isn't divorced.

Look at the people in the Congress, or the Chamber of Deputies, orthe Parliament in London, and listen to what they say. The only logicalending to it all is that the world is headed for dementia praecox, withall the buildings tumbling down, all the water works shooting up intothe air and all the citizens bumping into each other with trays of hotsoup.

And yet automobiles dodge each other as if by magic, passable motionpictures are produced, many people stay married all their lives andactually don't seem to mind, and only occasionally does hell breakloose entirely.

"Name, Please?"

In reading books about Russians or the ancient Romans, there is anextra hazard which makes the going very difficult for us old plodders.The names of the characters don't mean a thing.

For example, a Roman Emperor's name may have been Tiberius ClaudiusDrusus Nero Germanicus (it was, as a matter of fact), which gave quitea lot of leeway for anyone who wanted to call him quickly. The onlytrouble was that his uncle's name was Tiberius, and his brother's namewas Germanicus, and his successor's name was Nero, all probably endingin the other four names.

A Russian character's name could very well be Stepan NikolaevitchGubaryov, and he be called Grisha, which is the nickname for Gregory.Or sometimes he is called Stepan, sometimes Nickolaevitch, sometimesGubaryov, or sometimes just Pishtchalkin, meaning "Boy with the LongEar Lobes."

It would be only poetic justice if a bunch of Russians should findthemselves in a novel about ancient Rome. Confusion would be, for themoment, rife.

Vasily Ivanovitch Popof Tchitchorna Grushenkov comes to see CaiusGallus Drusus Postumus Galba on business.

"Gallus is Drusus, eh? That's fine! Oh, and, by the way, if a callcomes for Grushenkov, please tell them that I am here and will beleaving in about half an hour."

"I see. And, if I might suggest, it would be better if you left wordthat you would be through in fifteen minutes. I know that Postumus hasan appointment in that time."

The natural outcome would be that the Russian's daughter marries theRoman's son, and they have a little boy named Vasily Caius IvanovitchGallus, Popof Drusus Tchitchorna Postumus Grushenkov, Galba, or"Jimmy," for short.

Eat More Worry

And now it turns out that we must worry! Worry is the new healthfad. That much-maligned emotion has come into its own as abody-builder, along with yeast-eating, nudism and bending over twentytimes to touch second base.

All this comes from a doctor of psychology, so it must come prettystraight. Doctors of psychology are the ones who have been telling usall along not to worry, so they certainly ought to know what's what inthe worry racket.

"When we worry," says the doc, "every gland in the body poursenergizing juices into the brain. It is the body's way of preparing themind to meet an emergency. The biological purpose of worry is to enableyou to get up steam."

Following are a set of worrying exercises for sluggish natures. Getthose energizing juices to flowing!

Position No. 1.—On arising stand facing an open window.(Not too wide open, as, if you get to worrying too well, you may flyout.) Place the hands lightly on the hips and think: "On the fifteenththat big insurance premium comes due. On the fifteenth the income taxis due. On the fifteenth I shall be just eight hundred dollars short ofmeeting them." Repeat this ten times and then exhale.

Position No. 2.—Lie flat on your back, with your legsin the air, and run over in your mind the age at which you findyourself, the amount of money you have saved, the probable number ofyears left, and what chances you will have of getting a ten-yearguest-card at the Home for Aged Men. As soon as the energizing juiceshave reached your feet lower them and adopt a sitting posture on thefloor. Sit that way all day, with your chin in your hand.

Position No. 4.—Wake yourself up in the middle of thenight, lie flat on your back in bed and look at the ceiling. Thenfigure out just how you would get out of the house in case of fire,what you would do first if that pain in your side should turn out to beacute appendicitis, or how you would face an actual werewolf.

If you will conscientiously follow these instructions day by day,supplemented by our special worry-gland tablets, which are guaranteedto pour energizing juices into the brain, it will be no time at allbefore you are a new man, and one that you will not like.

Keep a Log

In planning that automobile trip upcountry this Summer don't forgetto consult those notes you made last year when going over the sameroute. They're in that combination log-book and Japanese fan that youtook along for just that purpose.

These notes, most of which were jotted downen route, seem tohave been made with the wrong end of the pencil. They are partlead-markings and part wood-carvings. It would be fun to dig up thatpencil today, just to take a look at it and see where the lead stoppedand the wood began.

To make things harder you apparently made the notes while takingpart in a hill-climbing contest, when the car was at an angle offorty-five degrees. They are the work of a man in rather desperatestraits to keep himself in his seat, to say nothing of indulging in theluxury of writing. Youcouldn't have been as drunk as that.

The first one, jotted down with great difficulty, was made oppositethe name of the town, East Mipford, fifteen miles from your startingplace. It says, as nearly as you can make it out, simply "EastMipford." This would seem rather silly. Presumably you already knew thename of the town, as it was right there in the map in plain letters.Why jot it down again in that round, boyish hand of yours? Possibly youwere just practicing handwriting. God knows you needed practice!

Anyway, there is "East Mipford" and, opposite it, "East Mipford," soEast Mipford it is. It's a good thing to know, at any rate.

The next bit of puzzle work was jabbed into the paper at Orkington.Here you saw fit to write "No sporfut." Either this was meant as awarning that, at Orkington, one can get no "sporfut" or that it isdangerous to "sporfut" in or around, Orkington. If you had some cleareridea of what "sporfut" was you would know better how to regulate yourpassage through Orkington this year. The lack of "sporfut" last yearmust have been quite a trial to you, otherwise you wouldn't have made anote of it. Well, better luck this time!

At Animals' Falls you had what was designated as "lunch," which ispretty easy to figure out. After it, however is written "GleeverHouse—Central Hotel—Animals' Falls Spa." It must have beena pretty good "lunch" to have included all three restaurants, and, asyou made no designation of which was best, the only thing to do is trythem all again this time.

Perhaps you will remember, after ordering at the Gleever House, thatit was the Central Hotel which was the best. Perhaps you meant that allthree were rotten and that you should go on to the next town beforeeating. The only way to find out is to try.

From then on you are confronted by such notations as "fresh cob" atTurkville (which may mean "fresh cop" or good "fresh corn on the cob"),"Emily" at North Neswick (which may be where you left Emily off), and"steening chahl" at Lurding, which obviously means nothing. You arrivedat your destination, according to the log, at "27 o'clock."

That is the value of a log-book. It makes the second trip seem somuch more exciting.

Lost Youth

Just to show how things can go on under one's very nose withoutone's being aware of them, I find that I was in Worcester, Mass., whenthe first giraffe ever to be brought to the United States was shownfirst on the Worcester Common. And now is the first time I ever knew ofit!

Now, a giraffe is not an animal that one sees for the first timewithout looking twice. A giraffe, no matter how you look at it, is outof the ordinary. And the first giraffe ever to be seen in the UnitedStates must have made more of an impression on Worcester Common thanjust an ordinary four-footed friend pattering along. Worcester isn't asblase as all that.

Of course, I was only three years old at the time, but a child threeyears old has ears. I knew the words toTa-ra-ra-boom-de-ay. Isurely could have been trusted with the information that there was agiraffe down on the Common, especially when no one had ever seen agiraffe before.

I always knew that my father was a phlegmatic man, but I didn'trealize that he was as phlegmatic as that. His office was in the CityHall, which backed right up on the Common, and from his window hecertainly could have seen that something was up.

I can hardly believe that when he came home to dinner and my motherasked him: "What was the news downtown today?" he said: "Nothing much.Oh, yes, there was an animal out on the Common with a neck that reachedup into the trees and all covered over with spots. A giraffe, I thinkthey said. . . . What's for dinner tonight?"

Why wasn't I taken down to see it? I was taken to watch fireworks onthe Fourth of July, and hated it. I was taken to the circus, and allthat the circus had to offer was some old elephants and tigers thateverybody had seen before. But they held out on me when a realattraction came to town. Maybe they thought it would be over my head,and so help me I didn't mean to write it that way. (However, you noticethat I'm letting it stand.)

It is very lucky that I didn't happen to be out for a stroll bymyself and discover that giraffe without any warning. Still, I supposethat, at the age of three, nothing surprises one. But I'll bet thatthere was many a man in Worcester who went on the wagon for good in1893.

The same news story that broke the news to me that I had missed thefirst giraffe in 1893, stated that the first elephant was brought tothis country in 1796 by Captain Jacob Crowninshield, of Salem, Mass.(Massachusetts seems to have gone in for frightening folks.)

However little impression the first giraffe may have made onWorcester or my father, I wouldn't want to have been in Salem on thenight when the first elephant put in an appearance. Three years old ornot, I'll bet I should have rememberedthat!

The Ice-Breaker

Today I heard a man say to his parrot: "Roll over!" and the parrotrolled over. This set me to thinking.

What would be the first thing you would do if you wanted to make aparrot roll over, short of rolling it over yourself? I can understandpossibly teaching a parrot to speak, but how would you approach theproblem of making it roll over?

Would you go right up to it and say: "Roll over!" and then wait? Idon't quite see the common ground that one could get on with a parrotas a starter for such an experiment. There must be some initial move tobe made and I am glad that I am not the one who has to make it.

It is these initial moves that get me down. What is the very firstthing a man does when he sets out to build a bridge? How do you decidewhere to dig the first shovelful of earth in making a road? On thefirst day of work in erecting a skyscraper, what is the very first movemade?

I could probably build a bridge or erect a skyscraper—or eventeach a parrot to roll over—if someone would get the job startedfor me, but I know perfectly well that, if I were handling any one ofthese enterprises I would spend the first day gazing into space, tryingto figure out how to begin. Fortunately, as yet, no one has come to mewith a skyscraper to be erected or a bridge to be built, and, as I amin my middle forties now, it doesn't look as if anyone is going to.

Still, you can't ever tell. Joseph Conrad didn't begin to writeuntil he was forty. Napoleon never even saw a steamboat until he wasfifty-eight. Mozart never wrote a bar of music until he was ninety.Anything can happen, but it usually doesn't.

I am still worrying about that parrot. Did the parrot come to theman, maybe, and say: "Teach me to roll over!"? That, at least, wouldhave broken the ice.

Oh, well, I've got better things to do than worry about breaking theice with a parrot—but right now I can't think what they are.

The Piano-Playing Record

A Mr. John Strickland, of Blackpool, England, claims to have set anew world's record for consecutive hours of piano-playing. He playedfor 122 1/2 hours without a stop. I haven't really checked yet, but Ithink that the woman in the next apartment to mine is worth grooming asa challenger. She has the spirit, all right, and it would only be aquestion of wind.

Posing as merely an interested observer and student of long-distancepiano-playing, I have written Mr. Strickland, asking him a fewquestions. What I really had in mind was finding out his technique, sothat I could steal its best features in a system of training for thewoman in the next apartment. A rather dirty trick, but all's fair inlove and, etc.

A. I try not to think any more than I can help. That is apretty long time for consecutive thinking. I more or less run over inmy mind the main points of English history from the Norman Conquest tothe Reform Act, and try to figure out how they would have been changedif Englishmen had all been colored. Then I go over the whole thingagain, making believe that England was under water all of the time.This gets pretty fascinating along about the Wars of the Roses.

For relaxation I just sit and wonder what I'm doing at the piano,anyway. You see, I really wanted to be a marine architect.

A. I begin withChop Sticks and run along with thatfor a day or two, shifting octaves every four hours. This gives quite abit of variety. Then I go intoThe Skaters waltz, of which Iknow only the air and one chord of the bass. I find that popular musicof the ballad type lends itself easily to repetition, as most of thesongs are alike, and I have fun trying to figure out which one it isthat I am playing.

A. When they do I lean over and play with my chin. When thatgets tired I play first with my right cheek and then with my left.

A. For one like my 122 1/2-hour record-breaker I run atrial-heat of 122 1/2 hours, just to get the hang of the thing.

Being a man of science, and understanding the spirit of my research,Mr. Strickland appends an anecdote of his early years of piano-playingwhen he was in school. There was a rule in the college which heattended forbidding "music between the hours of ten and one." Incalling Mr. Strickland to task one day the dean wrote: "I am afraidthat, for purposes of discipline, your piano-playing must be regardedas music."

I am forwarding Mr. Strickland's replies to my questionnaire to thelady in the next apartment. I hope that she will stop long enough toread it.

Fun with Animals

The news that a small, blackfoot penguin in the New York Aquariumhad sprained its ankle when it stepped on a marshmallow served only toremind us that no one of God's creatures, however smart, is immune fromloss of dignity. No one is infallible.

If anyone ought to be able to walk along without slipping, it is apenguin. Accustomed to treading the slippery surfaces of the globe withconsiderable assurance, if not manner, the penguin is one animal fromwhom you would expect accurate footwork.

And yet one small marshmallow, undoubtedly left there by an admirer,threw this penguin to the tune of a sprained ankle.

I worked on a motion picture once with a penguin named Eddie. Eddieput on quite a lot of airs for himself as a stroller, but I never sawhim walk ten feet without tripping over a cable or something, andtripping rather badly, too. When Eddie tripped, he fell, and fellheavily, but he was always up again in a thrice, pretending that he hadjust been clowning.

There is a great satisfaction to us clumsy humans when we see ananimal that is supposed to surpass us in skill making a monkey ofitself.

I am still gloating over a blackbird that I saw, with my own eyes,in as disgraceful a bit of flying as any novice ever put on.

I was sitting in an automobile by the side of the curb when thisbird swooped down. With some idea, evidently, of making a two-pointlanding, just to show off. Well, just as his feet hit the sidewalk, oneof them slipped out from under him, and I was a witness to theremarkable sight of a full-grown, adult bird falling on its tail. Avaudeville comic couldn't have taken a neater spill.

The chagrin and humiliation of that blackbird were gratifying tosee. He got back his balance immediately and tried to act as if nothinghad happened, but he knew that I had seen him and he was furious. Hewas off in the air again right away, but not before I had sneered:"Nya-ya!" at him and called "Get a horse!"

Everyone ought to see a bird slip on its tail at least once. It is agratifying experience and one good for the soul.

The Children's Hour

I don't want to be an alarmist, but I think that the YoungerGeneration is up to something. I think that there is a plot onfoot.

I base my apprehension on nothing more definite than the fact thatthey are always coming in and going out of the house, without anyapparent reason. When they are indoors, they sit for a while withoutdoing anything much. Then they suddenly decide to go out again for awhile. Then they come in again. In and out—in and out.

Of course, this applies only to Saturdays and vacation time. I don'tknow what they do at school but presumably they stay put. They can'tjust wander in and out of classrooms and school buildings as they do athome.

This foot-loose tendency is most noticeable during Spring and Summervacations. Let us say that two or three of them leave the house rightafter breakfast. In answer to the question: "Where are you going thismorning?" they say: "Oh, just around."

In half an hour they are back, with possibly three others. Theydon't talk. They just come in. Sometimes they sit down in variousattitudes of abandon. Sometimes they walk slowly around the room.Sometimes they just stand and lean against the wall. Then, afterperhaps five minutes of this, they start outdoors again in a body.

This goes on all day. Each time they return, they have two or threenew ones with them, but there seems to be no reason why fresh membershave come. They don't act as if it made any difference to themwhere they were. They do not even appear to enjoy each other'scompany very much. They are very quiet about it all, except forslamming the screen door. It is ominous.

All that I can figure out is that they are plotting a revolution.When they go out, I think that they work secretly on laying cementfoundations for gun-bases, or even lay mines. Then they come indoors tolook around and see if the old folks have begun to suspect anythingyet. Assuring themselves that all is well, someone gives the signal andthey are off again to their plotting.

I don't think that anyone but mothers and fathers of adolescentfamilies will know what I mean, but I have spoken to several parentsabout it and they have all noticed the same thing. There is arestlessness abroad among the Young Folk, but it is a quiet, shamblingsort of restlessness which presages a sudden bugle call some day, atwhich they will all spring into action.

All that I ask is that they let me in on their plans. It would helpif they were noisier about the thing and did a little yelling now andthen. It's this constant coming in and going out of the house likeslippered Moslems fomenting a revolt that gets me down.

Back to Mozart

Some time ago, in this space, I attempted to cheer up others, whofelt Life closing in on them with nothing accomplished, by writing thatNapoleon never saw a steamboat until he was fifty-eight and that Mozartnever wrote a bar of music until he was ninety.

A very pleasant lady correspondent has written in to ask me if therehas not been some mistake. She has always understood, she says, thatMozart died at the age of thirty-five and that he began to compose atthe age of four.

I don't believe that we can be thinking of the same Mozart. TheMozart that I meant was Arthur Mozart, who lived at 138th street untilhe died, in 1926, at the age of ninety-three.

This Mozart that I referred to was a journeyman whistler, who wentabout from place to place, giving bird calls and just plain whistles.He was a short, dark man, with a mustache in which everyone claimed hecarried a bird. After his death this was proven to be a canard. (Thisis not a pun on the French word for "duck." He didn't carry a duckthere, either.)

Up until the age of ninety, however, Arthur had never composedanything for himself to whistle, always relying on the well-known birdcalls and popular airs of the day. That is, they were popular untilArthur gave them a workout.

But just before his ninetieth birthday, the Mozarts got together anddecided that "Grampa Arthur," as they called him, ought to unbelt witha little something for posterity. So they gave him a pitch-pipe, andstood around waiting for him to swallow it.

But, instead of swallowing it, Mozart went into the next room andworked up a fairly hot number for woodwinds and brasses, called "OpusNo. 1," because it was such hard work. It was a steal from Debusset,but the cadenzas were Mozart's. He also went into the coda right afterthe first six bars.

This Arthur Mozart is the one I had reference to in my article. TheMozart that my correspondent refers to was evidently a prodigy of somesort, if he composed at the age of four. He also must have worked onone of the night-club pianos like Harry Richman's. Maybe it was HarryRichman!

All this shows what comes of not giving initials when you mention aname in print. But how was I to know that there were two Mozarts whowere composers?

Frog-Farming

A warning has gone out from the Conservation Commission against toosanguine investment in frog farms. I am one of the most warnable peoplealive, but I don't have to be told to look out for frog farms. I knowabout them.

Mr. MacGregor and I started a frog farm on a small scale only lastyear, but somehow we couldn't seem to make a go of it. I don't thinkthat Mr. MacGregor used the right tactics with the frogs personally.Having been in the Navy during the War he was accustomed to beingobeyed. You can't yell "Avast!" at a frog and expect it to avast, oreven to stand at attention. MacGregor was too gruff with them.

Possibly we didn't have the right sort of corral for them. We usedthe next room. It was nice and light in the next room, and we had pansof water and dog biscuit around everywhere but they didn't seem happy.They never moved around much except when Mr. MacGregor went in to takecare of them.

The first day that we had the frog farm, MacGregor put on a pair ofoveralls and went in to do the chores. In a minute he came out,disspirited:

"What do you want them to hold still for?" I asked, trying to get atthe bottom of the trouble quietly, instead of flying into a panic rightat the start.

"How are you going to bathe a frog if it won't hold still?" heasked. "Just as I get squatted down, it hops half way across theroom."

"Maybe you ought to set it up on a table in front of you," Isuggested. "Then you wouldn't have to squat down. I'd jump half wayacross the room myself if you squatted down beside me."

"No danger of that," he said testily. "You think it's fun to chase afrog all around a room with a stool. Here you sit in this room, 'takingcare of the books,' as you say——"

"Somebody's got to take care of the books if we're going to run afarm scientifically," I replied. "Modern farming isn't the haphazardthing it was when you were a boy, you know."

"Well, supposing I take care of the books for a while and you do thechores." MacGregor was getting sullen. "What have you got to put in thebooks, anyway? We haven't made a sale yet."

"I'm working up a bill head," I replied very calmly. And I showedhim a nicely lettered bill head reading:

"Is that all you're going to say—justFine Frogs?" heasked. "What do you want to say—Fine Frogs, You Bet, orFine Frogs for Fussy Folk?" There was a note of exasperation inmy voice.

"I meanwhat kind of fine frogs? What are theyfor—fighting, breeding, steeplechasing——?"

This brought up a question which we hadn't thought ofbefore—just what were our frogs going to be sold for? We couldn'thope to get along on just the frogs' legs market, and practically noone has a frog as a pet these days.

"Let's go into the stables and see what they do best," I suggested."Take off your overalls and put on your puttees, and we'll take a lookat the stock."

On arriving in the next room, however, our problem was solved forus. There were no frogs at all. We looked under the chairs and thefiling cabinet, and even out the window, but the frogs had gone. Ourbubble had burst.

So we dissolved partnership and went out of business. But we stillkeep the next room shut off—just in case.

My Orchard

I used to think that I was fairly adaptable to any unfamiliarcircumstances in which I might find myself. Give me ten or fifteenminutes to get fully awake and I could make the best of a jail cell inPort Said or the Center Court at Wimbledon. I say the "best," I meanmy best.

But I cannot believe that I am even making my best out of thepresent situation. I find myself the lessee of several orange, lemonand tangerine trees, which grow in the back yard of a house that I haverented, and adaptable as I am, I cannot seem to get the swing ofit.

I have had gardens before, but they were vegetable gardens, wherethings grew in and on the ground—when they grew at all. But thesethings are up above my head, and they belong tome—for afew months. I might as well have been given the use of a captiveballoon.

I go out into the yard and look up at them from one side, and thenwalk around and look up at them from the other side. Then I walk backinto the house. This has been going on for days.

As I stand looking at them I realize that they are oranges andlemons all right. I have seen oranges and lemons growing before. Butthese aremy oranges and lemons. And they are up so high. It isan impossible situation.

I suppose that I could pick some of them, but that would be aviolation of something, I don't know what. When I need oranges andlemons I will buy them through the recognized channels. No lease in theworld could possibly make it legitimate for me to break off one ofthose stems. It is probably a throw-back to the days when I used to getchased for robbing pear trees.

So every day I go out and look up at my oranges and lemons. Then,overcome with the futility of anything so tangible and so high off theground belonging to me, I walk back into the house again. Oddly enough,these little excursions into my orchard throw me off balance for therest of the day. I don't know where I stand aboutanything.

Unfortunately, I am living alone at the time, and so have no one toconfide in. If there were only some one to come out with me and say:"They aren't yours, anyway. They really belong to the people who ownthe house," then I would be relieved.

Hedgehogs Wanted

An advertisement in a London paper reads: "5,000 Hedgehogs Wanted."Of course, it's none of my business, especially as it is an Englishmanthat wants them, but I trust that I may speculate to myself withoutgiving offense.

One hedgehog I could understand, or possibly two, to keep each othercompany. There is no accounting for taste in pets, and I suppose youcould get as attached to a hedgehog as you could to a dog, if you wentabout it in the right way. I, personally, would prefer a dog, but then,I'm dog-crazy.

But 5,000 hedgehogs seem to be overdoing it a bit. When you get upinto the thousands with hedgehogs you are just being silly, it seems tome. And, aside from the looks of the thing, there is the very practicalangle that you might very well find yourself hedgehog-poor.

There must be something that hedgehogs do that I don't know aboutthat makes them desirable to have around in large numbers. They maykeep away flies, or eat moths, or even just spread out in a phalanx andprevent workmen from lying down on the ground, or picnic parties fromcamping out on private property. Whatever their special function, itmust be preventive.

Of course, there may be something in the back of the man's mindabout quills. He may be forming a gigantic toothpick combine orstarting a movement back to the old quill pen. In this case, he has hiswork cut out for him. Shearing, or plucking, or shaving 5,000 hedgehogsis going to be no sinecure. And he is going to run out of swear-wordsthe first day. Just the plain, ordinary "ouch" is going to get himnowhere.

On the whole, my advice would be to give the whole project up,whatever it is. Unless, of course, the advertisement has been answeredalready and he has his 5,000 hedgehogs on his hands. In that case, Idon't knowwhat to advise.

Skol!

Professor Klaus Hansen, of Norway, has announced that he recentlydrank a 98 per cent solution of "heavy water" (H O) withoutexperiencing any ill effects. That's what he thinks. That's what theman said who first drank an Alexander cocktail (one-half gin, onequarter creme de Cacao, one-quarter sweet cream).

The professor admitted that he had "to fight against hysteria" whenhe saw a mouse that drank heavy water at the same time show signs ofillness immediately after the experiment. The mouse was no fool,obviously. He didn't even have to fight against hysteria.

Of course, I would have to fight against hysteria if I simply saw amouse. Following a drink of heavy water, or even vodka, the presence ofa mouse in the room would give me the tip-off. Next would come themuskrats, then the mongeese, and then, in sly succession, the larger,more vivid animals. When one is experimenting with a new drink thefewer livestock there are around the better.

However, there is one item in the cable from Norway which makes methink that Professor Hansen may have hit on something. It is in theform of a follow-up, and it reads:

"Professor Klaus Hansen, of Oslo University, was so pleased todaywith his first quaff of heavy water that he ordered two litres (2.1134quarts) more, valued at 20,000 kroner (about $5,080), for furtherexperiments."

Now, in the first place, that runs into money. You don't orderdrinks "for further experiments" at $2,000 a throw unless there arecertain pleasing features connected with it. It says that "ProfessorHansen was so pleased," which is probably the scientific way of sayingthat "Professor Hansen was still cockeyed."

Of course, someone else is paying the check, but, even at that,there is a lordly, free-handed air about the ordering that indicatesthat heavy water is not a depressant, at any rate.

And what about the mouse? Does he get in on the "futureexperiments," or does he go back on scotch and plain water, justbecause he got a little sick on his first drink? He took just the samechance that the professor did. He may not have held it so well, but, ifit is as good as it seems to be, he certainly ought to be given anotherwhack at it. Maybe he just drank his first one too fast. He was just akid.

Until the price comes down it doesn't look as if many of us will geta chance to see what there is in heavy water that "pleased" ProfessorHansen so. The formula is simple—just two parts more hydrogenthan there is in ordinary water.

We might be able to whip up a tubful in the kitchen some time andgive it a try, with a little orange bitters. I don't suppose that itwould stand much shaking. That hydrogen is tricky stuff.

On the whole, it might be better to wait for the reports on theprofessor's next session with it. He may think now that he wants somemore, but, when the time comes and he gets the glass to his lips, hemay string right along with the mouse.

Often onethinks that one has had a good time with some newdrink, but when the showdown comes for a repeat a slight repulsion setsin, and one realizes that the good time came from the singing or thecompany. Drinks get an awful lot of credit in retrospect that theydon't deserve.

However, here's to Professor Hansen for taking the chance, andhere's to the University of Oslo for being such a charming host to thetune of 20,000 kroner! And here, also, is to the mouse!

Comes the Eclipse

I don't want to be an alarmist, but there is going to be a totaleclipse of the moon at 11:09 P. M. on July 15th, visible from all cars.The time is Eastern Standard. The moon is that same old yellowthing.

There is also going to be a partial eclipse of the sun on July 30th,but it will be invisible in the United States, so go right ahead withwhatever you are doing at the time. You can look, if you want to, butyou will hurt your eyes.

On the night of July 15th, at 11:09 P. M., I am planning to havequite a time, if I can manage to stay up that late and getout-of-doors. That getting out-of-doors is going to be the tough part.At 11:09 P. M. things are just beginning to get good indoors.

But it seems to me that here will be a chance to do a lot of thingsthat I have wanted to do, but have been held back from by fear ofpublicity. I have arranged a little schedule, beginning at 10:12 P. M.,when the eclipse begins, and ending at 1:47 A. M., when the eclipseends.

At 10:12 I will put on my white suit, which I don't seem able towear in the daytime without blushing, and go out into the garden.

Once in the garden I will pick some flowers. I have had a littlehesitancy about picking flowers in the garden in the daytime, ormoonlight, because I don't know quite what the procedure is. Do youlurch heavily into the flowers until they break off or do you shootthem off with an air rifle? At 10:15, on that night I shall get themoff somehow and I don't want anyone to peek.

As the eclipse progresses I am going to start a gramophone andwaltz. I have always wanted to waltz, but there has always been toomuch light. I think that I might be very good, but, on the other hand,I might be a disappointment. I will try it without a partner at first,and then if I think that it is going well I may send for a local girlto come in by the hour.

I think that then I will get my rowing machine out from under my bedand take it into the garden and row on it. I have had that rowingmachine now for three years and have never been able to bring myself towork it, for fear that a son or somebody might come in and see me. Whenthe eclipse is at its darkest I shall start rowing. I may not get muchexercise in that short time, but at least, I shall have used themachine once.

There are several books I want to read and faces I want to make inthose minutes between 10:12 P. M. and 1:47 A. M., and I might even knita little.

Autographs for Sale

A copy ofThe Autograph Review which has just come to hand(having evidently been in my pocket since 1930, as that is the date onit) presents a slightly more dignified side of the current scramble forautographs than we get from those little brown people who infest theentrances to theatrical and motion picture premieres.

InThe Autograph Review are listed some of the choice itemswhich may be had by sending a nominal sum to the editor. Forinstance:

And so it goes, on through fifty items, ranging an impressivenessfrom a $50 Oscar Wilde to a collection of eight signatures, includingBenjamin F. Butler, Henry Wilson and W. A. Buckingham, for seventy-fivecents. The paper alone is worth that.

I, too, have a collection of signatures which I will gladly turnover to the editor ofThe Autograph Review, or will sell directfrom this office. The prices listed are subject to indefinitewrangling.

Health and Work

A rather horrible bit of news has just come to this desk. We areinformed that the eminent surgeon Dr. G. W. Crile has gone on record assaying that "with proper attention to health a person's active life inbusiness should extend to the age of eighty years." What is this manCrile—an alarmist?

In the first place, how can a person give "proper attention tohealth" and still remain in "active life in business"? It is hardenough just to remain in active business without monkeying around withyour health. "Let well enough alone" would be my advice to anyone withan active business.

Furthermore, what is so tantalizing about the idea of staying inactive business life until the age of eighty? I know that there aresupposed to be veterans who simply have to patter down to the office orthe foundry every day, just out of sheer love of the thing, but theymust also have some other reason for their devotion to work. There mustbe someone at home who gets on their nerves.

Anyone who has given what Dr. Crile calls "proper attention tohealth" should, by the age of fifty, be so sick of his work that hecan't even glance through the trade papers without gagging. Any furtherexertion on his part is either because of necessity or is just sheeraffectation.

Don Herold once wrote someobiter dicta, in the course of abook on something else, which have always been a great comfort to me.At the bottom of a page, in small italic type apparently dropped thereby the printer, he said simply: "Work is a form of nervousness." It hadno connection with the rest of the page, but it might have been madeinto a book by itself.

Mr. Herold is the man who also wrote that during the trying periodwhen his young daughter was having her teeth straightened her mouthlooked like the back of a telephone switchboard. This, together withhis epic exposé of work, qualifies him, in my mind, for theposition of the Moses of our generation.

"Work is a form of nervousness." Just think that over. It has thewisdom of the ages in it. And then think of Dr. Crile's threat that,with proper attention to health, a man can still be active in businessat eighty. How are the other people in the office going to like havinga nervous octogenarian lunging about the place?

The thing to do is to make so much money that you don't have to workafter the age of twenty-seven. In case this is impracticable, stop workat the earliest possible moment, even if it is at a quarter past elevenon the morning of the day when you find you do have enough money. Thenwill be time enough to pay proper attention to your health. What is thesense of being in good health if you have to work?

Experience Meeting

One of these days I have got to go and see a doctor about mycigarette smoking. I am slowly but surely losing the knack.

The thing has crept up on me insidiously. I didn't realize that Iwas smoking fewer and fewer cigarettes each day until I found that Ihad been carrying around an unopened pack in my pocket for three weeks.That sort of thing gets one after a while, you know.

I started out all right. I began, in the customary manner, withcubebs and bamboo. (When you broke the bamboo you found blood from yourtongue in it. Hot dog!) Then sweet fern, dried leaves and, finally, areal cigarette! I was a regular boy, all right!

For quite a while I carried on, and seemed to be well set in thecigarette habit. I even had a favorite brand, although, as I look backon it now, I realize that I wasn't what you would call a slave to it.Another brand substituted in my mouth while I was day-dreaming and Iwouldn't have known the difference.

Then I began to find myself lighting cigarettes and putting themdown on ash trays and forgetting them. There was something aboutlighting a cigarette that gave one a debonair look, but once I hadlooked debonair I was through for the day.

But after a few days I found myself stopping even that. I carriedcigarettes about with me; admirers from all over the world gave mecigarette cases which I constantly left on my bureau, and I gave allthe indications of being a cigarette smoker, except that I didn't smokethe cigarette.

One of the things that has contributed to my present condition is, Ithink, my inability to typewrite, or do anything else, with a cigarettein my mouth. I see other boys working away with a fag hanging from thecorners of their lips, but, when I try it, the smoke gets up my noseand into my eyes and I can't see the paper. Even smoke from a cigarettewhich is lying in an ash tray has a way of seeking out my nose, nomatter which way the wind is blowing. Maybe it's my nose that's atfault.

Whatever the reason, I now realize, too late, that I am a confirmednon-cigarette smoker.

Possibly if the cigarette companies would change their advertising Imight reform. If they should say: "Bamboos Are Definitely Injurious tothe Health," or "Smokes Wear You Down to a Nub," or "Light a Blazer andShorten Your Life," then I might take the habit up again. All my otherhabits have proven disastrous through the centuries. Possibly all thatI need is a little encouragement.

Child-Holding

Fathers, god-fathers and uncles will be glad to learn that babyspecialists have now decided that the child is given beneficialexercise by being shifted about from one position to another in theholder's arms. This will eliminate a great many dirty looks and muchkidding at the male relative's expense.

No male relative, in his right mind, ever takes a baby to hold ofhis own free will. The very thought of dropping it, a thought which isalways present, is enough to reduce all his vital organs to gelatin.Some female always suggests it. "Let Joe hold him for a minute. Holdhim, Joe!"

So, Joe, sweating profusely, picks the infant up and becomes afigure of fun. "Look at how Joe's holding him, Bessie! Like he was agolf bag!" "Poor kid—put him down, Joe!" "Look out,Joe—you'll strangle him!" Lynching is on in the air.

But now Joe can come back with the excuse that he is giving the babyexercise. "You women hold him in that one position all the time, andhis body doesn't develop symmetrically. Ask any one who knows!"

For male relatives who find it necessary for one reason or anotherto hold a baby, the following positions are suggested as being mostbeneficial to the child's development and most conducive ofapprehension on the mother's part.

If the child has to be lifted from its crib by the father or uncle,the old-fashioned way of reaching down and grabbing it under the armsshould be discarded. The male relative should get into the crib withthe child, and lie on his back (his own back), taking the child on hischest and rising to a sitting posture. Then call for someone else tocome and lift both father and child from the crib at once.

In taking the baby from the arms of someone else, as at thechristening or general family gathering, grasp one of the child'sankles firmly in the right hand and tell the other person to let go.The child will then swing, head down, from the other person's arms, andcan be twirled in a semi-circle, in the manner of an adagio dancer,until the arc is completed, and the child lands across the uncle'sshoulder, the latter, if possible, still holding firmly onto the ankle.This will develop the child's leg, and give it poise.

For just ordinary holding, a good bit of exercise can be worked intoa method whereby the male relative holds the child by both wrists andlets it hang down in front of him, swinging slowly back and forth likea pendulum. It can then be tossed high into the air and caught, or not,as Fate will have it.

Rule of Thumb

A lot of us who were brought up on rhymes to aid us in memorizingacademic rules and guides to living, find, as the years go by, that weare stuck with a lot of jingles with the key word missing. This cancause a lot of trouble.

I remember perfectly that "thirty days hath September, April, Juneand——," but whether it is "November" or "December" is amystery to me, and, although I have never been in a position where anextra day in a month, or an extra month in the year, made muchdifference one way or the other, I don't like to be in the dark likethat.

I am letter perfect, except for one detail, on the old mariner'smaxim: "—— skies at night, sailors' delight; ——skies in the morning, sailors take warning." All that Idon'tremember is what color sky it is—blue, red or gray. Fortunately,I gave up my early idea of going to sea, otherwise all my clients mighthave ended up on the rocks and reeking of seaweed, especially as myonly other nautical rule is "Mackerel skies and mares' tails make goodsailors —— —— their sails." The nub of thisadvice is whether to "pull down" or "put up" their sails. That onepoint eludes me.

In spelling, I need every aid to memory that man can devise and eventhen I can whip up a few novelties by myself. I am more theinspirational type of speller. I work on hunches rather than merefacts, and the result is sometimes open to criticism by purists.

So it really is a matter for serious pause on my part when Iremember "i beforee, except after ——" and amthen confronted withc, d, e, g, p, t andv as possiblerhymes. Also, I am not even sure whether it is "i beforee" or "i aftere." This practically vitiates therule as a guide to spelling, whatever virtues it may have as ajingle.

In the study of foreign languages, I am equipped with severalrhythmic grammatical rules which mean nothing, because I have forgottenthe pay-off. In German, I can swing along onaus, ausser, bei, mit,nach, seit, von andxu, and I know that these words all arefollowed by the same case. But is it dative or accusative? That's whatI can't remember!

In Latin (which, fortunately, I am not called upon to use in mywork-a-day routine) I can recitead, ante, con, in, post, prae, pro,sub andsuper, but, if you ask me whether it is theaccusative, ablative, gerundive or putative case that follows them, Iblush prettily and say, "See my lawyer!" You can't expect a man toremembereverything!

In the matter of drinking (which, thank Heaven, I do not have toworry about, now that we have repeal!) there are several rhymes whichcan cause quite a bit of trouble.

is all right as a slogan, unless you happen to think that it mightbe: "Beerafter wine."

The trouble with rhymed rules is that the important words don'trhyme. The whole thing has got to be done over again, I'm afraid.

Quick Quotations

The surest way to make a monkey of a man is to quote him. Thatremark in itself wouldn't make any sense if quoted as it stands. Theaverage man ought to be allowed a quotation of no less than threesentences, one to make his statement and two to explain what he meant.Ralph Waldo Emerson was about the only one who could stand having hisutterances broken up into sentence quotations, and every once in awhile even he doesn't sound so sensible in short snatches.

Takepar (for)example, one of those newspaper columnsof "Quotations of the Week," which has just dropped onto my desk, aftera three-hour hunt for it on my part. Granted that some of them wouldn'tstack up very high even if they were quoted in full, they can'tall be as fatuous as they sound:

"What the world needs more than anything else is arevolution—but it must be a revolution of love."—GeneralEvangeline Booth.

"Sex to me is something very high. It is a divine thing, and it isromantic, and that is the way I feel about it. And I think that is whatI mean to the public. Allure, in a high way, because that is the mannerin which I have portrayed it."—Mae Murray.

(Miss Murray got four sentences and still didn't quite do herselfjustice—or maybe she did.)

"Life does not come all in one piece like cheese; it more resembleslinked sausages, a series of events on a string."—Harold BellWright.

"When you come right down to it, perhaps there are other things inlife besides sex."—Professor R. P. Sears.

(One can be equally sure that Professor Sears was pretty sore whenhe saw just that one sentence quoted. It probably was part of a slydig.)

"I'm really mentally lazy. I have to drive myself to write. Butthere's something inside that keeps nagging me to go on."—MaryPickford.

Probably each one of these people, if confronted with the quotation,would say: "Well, yes, I did say that, but I didn't mean it the way itsounds. What I meant was——"

So sure-fire is the fatuousness inherent in the averagesingle-sentence quotation that several humorous publications havecolumns headed "You're Telling Us," in which embarrassed publiccharacters may read their own remarks used as fun-fodder. A remarklike: "I can't take a nap in the middle of the day," with Mr. JusticeHughes' name after it, would look pretty silly all by itself.

The best way to do, if you are one of those unfortunate people whoare likely to be quoted in print, is to say everything you have to sayin one long, periodic sentence, so that it can't be broken up.

Spy Scares

Whenever you read about the unearthing of a big international spyring in some European country, you may be pretty sure that thegovernment of that country has been naughty and is trying to give thepeople something else to think about for a minute or two.

"O-o-oh! Look over there!" the government is saying. "See dat dreatbid spy!" And, while the public is looking, it tries to cram a bunch ofincriminating letters and contracts down the drain pipe. It's an oldgag, but a good one.

Of course, every government has spies in every other country, andevery other country knows about them. It is merely a form ofinternational courtesy, like exchange professors. So long as the spiesdon't actually block traffic or blow up the newer buildings, they cansnap their cameras and rattle their blueprints to their hearts'content. In fact, they give a rather nice cosmopolitan air to thestreets.

Now, if a government can get out of a jam simply by crying"Spy-ring! Spy-ring!" why can't individuals work the same strategy?There must be some spies in your own neighborhood that you could use ina pinch.

Let us say that you are due home for dinner at seven. What with onething and that other thing, you are delayed until possibly one-thirtyin the morning, just too late for the roast lamb. You don't want anydessert.

"What did you think we were having tonight—a watch nightservice?" says the Little Woman, barely opening her mouth to sayit.

"I suppose they were rebuilding the office and you got walled up inthe masonry," she continues. "You were lucky to get out at all, Isuppose."

Now is the time. "This is not the occasion for flippancy," you say."Our country, your country and my country, is in peril."

"What do you know about your friend Mrs. Geefer?" you continue,taking out your notebook and pencil.

"I know that she thinks that a two-spades bid means that she is topass," comes the answer, without thinking. Then the eyes narrow."What's this Mrs. Geefer element being injected into the conversation?What has she got to do with a half-past one dinner?" "Mrs. Geefer isright now being kept under surveillance as a member of an internationalspy-ring. She, and a man named Wilcensic, are agents for the Sovietgovernment."

"What did they do—make you head of the Secret Service? Is thatwhat kept you so late?"

"We won't discuss my part in this affair. I am under sealed orders.The question is—do you care enough about your country's welfareto co-operate in tracking down this spy-ring?"

"You can go out into the kitchen and track down a coffee ring if youwant something to eat; that's what you can track down. Or did they havefood, too, at that brewers' track meet you were at?"

Things can go on like this until breakfast time or you can go outand make believe round up Mrs. Geefer yourself for your country. Butthe chances are that you will get nowhere with your spy scare. You haveto have a bigger territory to work in.

That's one of the advantages of being a government instead of just aprivate liar.

Mistaken Notions

If there is one thing that I resent (and there is), it is to be toldthat I resent being told anything. It drives me crazy.

I can take criticism and suggestions as well as anybody. In fact,the wonder is that I keep my head as well as I do, with all thecriticism and suggestions that I get. But, frankly, I have just lost mytemper and pretty badly, too. I have been told that I am"misinformed."

Somebody in a Sunday paper has got together a list of "mistakennotions," or things which ignorant people believe to be true, butwhich, according to this upstart, have no basis in fact at all. I findthat I myself believe practically every one of them, which makes itmore or less of an affair of honor between the author of the articleand me.

His article is entitled: "How Badly Misinformed Are You About TheseThings?" The very tone of the title itself is offensive. "Misinformed,"indeed! I think that I am the best judge of whether I am misinformed ornot, and I'll take no back talk out of a Sunday feature writer.

The first point on which I am supposed to be "misinformed" is mybelief that shaving makes hair grow faster. Well, Mr. Feature-writer, Ihappen toknow that it does. He says that experiments haveproved that it doesn't. And I ask you to read what his so-called"experiments" consists of:

"Any skeptic," he says, making a deliberate crack at me, "can testthis easily by letting his whiskers grow for a year, cutting them offand weighing them, and then comparing this weight with the weight ofbits of whisker shaved off every day for another year and carefullywashed and saved."

In the first place, what does he mean by an "easy" test? Washing,saving and weighing whiskers over a period of two years wouldn't leavemuch time for anything else, although a man who would set out to wash,save and weigh his whiskers would probably not have much of anythingelse to do with his time. Certainly nobody would employ such a man onany other kind of job. Nobody would want to have him even around thehouse.

In the second place, I happen to know that shaving does make hairgrow faster, so Mr. Smart Alec can just wash, save and weigh his ownwhiskers and see if it makes any difference to me in my belief.

Another thing on which I am supposed to be "misinformed" is mybelief that rainy weather is the cause of rheumatism and rheumaticpains. I don't know about its being the cause exactly, but I just wishthat the author of that piece could have my knee on a good damp day. Iwish that he could have it onany day, as a matter of fact, butI don't necessarily want to take his knee in exchange.

I'll bet he has an awful knee. I'll bet that he is a verydisagreeable person to live with, constantly going about and saying:"You're misinformed—you're misinformed."

I am furthermore told not to believe that pin pricks with a brasspin are poisonous, that night air is injurious to sick people, thatlightning never strikes twice in the same place, that dishonest peopleusually have a narrow space between their eyes and that fright to amother before a baby is born is liable to mark the child in someway.

All right, I may believe these things and I may not, but from now onthey are a part of my credo. I'll take no dictation from somewhippersnapper on a newspaper. "Misinformed," am I? I'll misinformhim.

Maxims from the Chinese

Three crows are there, if only there were three crows. . . . Oh,well, anyway——!

The wise man moves fast, yet a great many times it is hard to catchhim. This is because he has no soul. This is because he lives up therewith all those radicals.

It is rather to be chosen than great riches, unless I have omittedsomething from the quotation.

One day Lee Fee was walking along the countryside, with his hands onhis elbows. He was thinking, thinking, thinking. So far he has failedto interest us as a character.

"I am wondering," said Lee Fee aloud, in case anyone was asking him."I am wondering what comes after W.'" And, as he wondered, Lee Feewalked, and, as he walked, he wondered, and pretty soon he didn't knowwhat he was doing.

Soon he came to Lee Fee, walking in the opposite direction. This puta stop to his monkey-business. He was good and scared. But he said:"Well, easy come, easy go!" and tried to brush by' himself. But that isno easier than it seems.

"We are getting nowhere," said the eastbound Lee Fee to thewest-bound Lee Fee. "Let's see if we can't come to some compromise. Weare both sensible men, and there is a saying of Confucius that thesensible man goes but a short distance with himself before taking hisown temperature. It is also said that eggs do not roll sideways. Thereis also an old saying——"

But when Lee Fee looked up, Lee Fee was gone. He just couldn't takeit. Too much wisdom gets on the wise man's nerves.

It is often difficult to tell whether a maxim means something, orsomething means maxim.

Three women were keeping house. It was too rainy. The First OldWoman said: "What wouldn't I give for three wishes at this veryminute!"

"I wouldn't give my new silk coat, and I wouldn't give the roastpigeon in my oven, and I wouldn't givethat," replied the FirstOld Woman, snapping her fingers.

"And why wouldn't you give any of these things for three wishes?"asked the Third Old Lady, who had heard nothing of what was goingon.

"Because, even if I had three wishes," replied the First Old Woman,dying, "what chance would there be of their being granted?"

Excelsior!

"I have never really given the matter much thought," said Mr.MacGregor. (I had asked him how he would like to climb theMatterhorn.)

"Well, here we are in Switzerland on business," I said, "and there'sthe Matterhorn. What are you doing—day-dreaming?"

Sometimes it is very difficult to hold MacGregor's attention. Itisn't that he is not interested, but he doesn't seem to be able toexpress it. Some slip-shod habit of mind carried over from the Navy, Isuppose.

"It looks like a set-up for you," I said. "Lots of people risk theirlives every year climbing the Matterhorn, and there you sit, like abump on a log. It ought to be your dish."

"Climbing mountains never interested me very much," said MacGregor,opening and shutting his watchcase.

"That's a very sub-thyroid attitude of mind," I said. "It's peoplelike you who don't climb mountains."

"I guess you're right," he replied, sadly. "But I was alwaysinterested in Burton Holmes and his capers."

"There—you see?" I said, a little more harshly than I meantto. "You started out in—where was it?"

"You started out in Malden, Massachusetts, with a definite interestin Burton Holmes. Then you got soft. You let liquor get the upper hand,and you thought it was smart to be a dilettante. If you had one ounceof stamina in you—to say nothing of consideration for ourbusiness—you would be up there on that mountain this minute,claiming it for the United States."

"Somebody owns it already, don't they?" asked MacGregor, inperfectly horrible English.

"If it isn't one excuse it's another," I said, going back to mypaper. "Do as you like about it. I've had my say. I've done all anyfriend could do. You are your own worst enemy."

From where I sit writing I can see the Matterhorn, snow-capped,although it is only January. And, as I raise my binoculars to my eyes,I can discern a little figure trudging up the side of an enormouscrag—the wrong crag, by the way, if one wishes to get to the topof the mountain.

The Rule of 87

The trouble with modern civilization is that we have too many rules.Take, for example, what is known as "the Rule of 87" recently draggedout at the birth of quintuplets in Ontario and of (pardon me if I askto see the data) sextuplets in Inotest, Rumania.

The Rule of 87, doubtless the work of fanatical reformers, is asfollows: "One twin birth occurs to approximately 87 single births; onetriplet to about 7,569 singles (87 squared); one quadruplet to about658,503 singles (87 cubed); one quintuplet to about 57 million singles(87 to fourth power); one sextuplet to about five billion singles (87to fifth power)."

That's the rule. That's what we are supposed to abide by, whether wewant to or not. By whose authority was the "Rule of 87" promulgated! Ishould like to know. Probably, it was put over while the boys were awayat war.

How long are we to stand for this arbitrary rule that a man can't bethe father of quintuplets until 57 million other people have had onebaby each? Is this Russia, or Germany we are living in? Are we mice orare we men?

One of the sad features of this bondage to statisticians is that ittakes the heart out of an ordinary man. What's the sense in goingahead, if the figures are against you, if you are stymied by a "Rule of87"? Where does initiative come in?

Remember Frank Tinney, who was afraid to have a fourth child becausehe had heard that every fourth child in the world was a Chinaman. Isthat any way to get new members?

I would not be one to set myself against constitutedauthority—unless constituted authority set itself against me.Then I, naturally, would demand my rights. (My rights, at the lastinventory, consisted of the right to inhale and exhale, and to wear thetop button of my coat buttoned.)

But I do protest against the Cossack rule of the statisticians.Supposing that, right now, I should decide that I wanted to be thefather of sextuplets, and had a pretty good idea of how to set aboutit. Would the fact that sextuplets had already been born in Inotest,Rumania, hold me back, just because there had not been five billionsingle babies born since that date? No,citoyens, I am a freeagent! I happen not towant to be the father of sextuplets,which is the only reason that I am not an outlaw.

And there is a point which the promulgators of the oppressive "Ruleof 87" have possibly never considered. Only one father—ormother—in five billionwants to promote sextuplets. Thinkthat over on your legislator!

Jolly Good Fellows

At a dinner of the Dante Society in London several years ago thePoet Laureate of England had proposed the toast and the toastmaster hadgiven his all to the announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen—thetoast is Dante!"

There was a slight pause, and then the pianist, feeling thatsomething was expected of him, crashed through with "For He's a JollyGood Fellow!"

The same thing happened only recently to the Bishop of London. "Onrising to reply," says a newspaper account, "he was received with loudcheers and the singing of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.'"

The same thing happens in the United States every time a group ofmen (and, Heaven help us, sometimes women, too) feel like payingespecial tribute to some poor guy who wishes he were dead at that verymoment.

In the first place, no words could be less appropriate, andeverybody feels this fact as he finds himself singing them. That is whyeverybody is so embarrassed and so glad when the whole horrid affair isover. Even the incorrigible song-leader who has struck it up must wish,by the time he has reached the third "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow"that he had not got quite so hearty.

I don't know in which case the words, "jolly good fellow" are moreembarrassing, in the case of Dante and the Bishop of London or in thecase of some tough mug who is being feted for having won theheavyweight championship of the Navy. I think that probably the latterblushes more. Anyone calling him a "jolly good fellow" to his facewould have to take the consequences.

For a nation of people who are so crazy mad about giving each othertestimonial dinners we have a remarkable paucity of virile, up-to-datesong tributes. They all seem to have been composed in 1870, when peoplemade puns in Latin and Greek, and it was considered pretty devilish tolead a cow up in the chapel bell tower. Even the music dates back toSir Arthur Sullivan and the days when Marlborough was taking himselfoff to war.

Take, as another example, the drinking song beginning: "Here's toBlevitch, he's true blue!" True blue! What kind of talk is that for abunch of 1936 drunks?

And the last line: "When he wants to get to heaven, he will go theother way!" Do you suppose that they mean "H—l?"

"Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!" does manage to keep in thevernacular pretty well for an old number, but, even in that, all butthe most emancipated singers say "What the heck do we care?" And "Hail,hail!" is not a paean of praise to any one person, anyway. It is everyman for himself as the hero.

The point is that we have outgrown the old formal grouptoast-to-music and don't know it. That is why nobody writes any newones. That is why it is so embarrassing to sing the old ones.

If we have to sing at testimonial dinners let it be "Down by the OldMill Stream," with no names mentioned.

Taking up the Cudgels

Somebody named Sir Shah Sulaiman, of Allahabad, India, has seen fitto challenge Professor Albert Einstein's Theory of Relativity. In theabsence of Professor Einstein, I am taking the liberty of replying inhis behalf.

Einstein's value of the deflection of light from a star as it comespast the sun is 1.75. Sir Shah Sulaiman's prediction of value isbetween 2.32 and 2.45.

Einstein's value of the amount of shifting towards red of thespectrum of the light from the limb of the sun is: .0084. Sir S. S.predicts that it will be found to be .00676.

Sir S. S.'s third prediction concerns the elements of orbits ofplanets. He says that the value for the advance of the perihelion ofplanet Mercury is less than estimated by Newcomb.

My answer: Where is Allahabad, India, anyway? And who askedyou to butt in on this? We were getting along very nicely withProf. Einstein, who has proven himself to be an extremely pleasantgentleman and an all-around good egg. He also plays the violin. Whatcanyou play?

That is the trouble with discovering something worth while. Sooneror later some fly-by-night chief justice of India (that's what Sir Shahis, a chief justice) comes along and says that you are all wrong, andthat he has discovered something better that will also cure head colds.It's enough to make a man like Einstein throw the whole thing up andjust sail boats all the rest of his life.

Of course, it's none of my business, but, being in more or less thesame line of work as Einstein (writing), I feel that we all ought tostand together.

Prof. Einstein probably will have something more to add to his owndefense than what I have outlined here, but this will serve as anopening gun in the rebuttal.

Special Sale!

In the welter of disturbing dispatches from overseas, the followingitem from the LondonObserver is vaguely reassuring:

"A recent paragraph (here) mentioned the sale by Robert Hope-Johnsonof his moustache to Lord Esme Gordon at the old Pelican Club, andspeculated as to the fate of the ornament."

This, in a way, calms everything down. Not only the fact that RobertHope-Johnson could sell his moustache to Lord Esme Gordon at thePelican Club, but the fact that theObserver could speculate "asto the fate of the ornament" in times like these, lends a sort ofcommon sense to the affairs of the world which they sadly need.

Furthermore, theObserver is happy to state that it has beeninformed by a correspondent that "the hirsute relics were sent toRowland Ward, who mounted them in a case of velvet and silver, with asuitable lyric inscription appended, and the trophy occupied a place ofhonor upon the walls of the club."

The correspondent adds that the famous moustache of Mr. Herman-Hodge(now Lord Wyfold) "is, I am pleased to say, as fine as ever."

There is, obviously, more here than meets the eye of the Americanreader. This barter of rare moustaches is evidently something thatcauses no more comment among British clubmen than the exchange of astuffed boar's head for three dick-dick antlers. The spirit behind thewhole thing seems charming.

But what is confusing is, if Mr. Hope-Johnson possessed such aspectacular set of moustaches, why did he feel that he must sell themto Lord Esme Gordon? Was it in payment of some old gambling debt, orhad they belonged to Lord Esme in the first place and were only farmedout?

And why sell them instead of paying rent? And what is Mr.Hope-Johnson doing now? Surely he can raise another set and sell themfor more.

What I want to see is a photograph of Mr. Hope-Johnson before hewent commercial.

All Aboard for Dementia Praecox

It is a little terrifying, with all that I have to do this week, todiscover that I have adementia praecox into the bargain. "Whatnext?" I often ask myself.

There is no doubt about thedementia praecox. I've got it,all right. The only question now is, can I swing the other things thatI have to face? A good case ofdementia praecox is about enoughfor one week.

I got my data from a report submitted at the American PsychiatricAssociation. This report said thatdementia praecox can behelped by oxygen treatment. And, in passing, the report just happenedto mention the symptoms ofdementia praecox. Not that any of itsreaders would find it applicable to themselves—just in passing,you know.

Early stages: (1) "Defective judgment." Well, I could keep you hereall night giving examples of my defective judgment that would make yourblood curdle. I couldn't even judge a sack-race. On this count Iqualify hands down.

(2) "Retarded perception." I didn't even know that the fleet was inuntil I readTime ten days later.

(3) "Restrictions in the field of attention." My attention can beheld only by strapping me down to a cot and sitting on my chest. Eventhen my eyes wander.

(4) "Deficiency of ethical inhibitions." I took a course in ethicsonce, but I didn't do very well in it. We didn't know about"inhibitions" in my day. They came in with horn-rimmed glasses andFreud. We just said "Yes, please," or "No, thanks," and let it go atthat. I don't know whether I've got "ethical inhibitions" or not. Justtry me once, that's all.

(5) "Silly laughter." I hold the Interscholastic (New England),Intercollegiate, East Coast Amateur and Open Professional cups forsilly laughter. I laugh at anything except a French clown. You can't besillier than that.

Among the more advanced symptoms ofdementia praecox I findto my horror the following:

(1) "Lack of skill in motor performance." I was asked to surrendermy license while driving an old Model T Ford in 1915 because I couldnot co-ordinate in time to press the clutch at just the right moment. Ialso had a little trouble with "right" and "left." Next to "sillylaughter," "lack of skill in motor performance" is my forte.

(2) "Stupor." We need not go into this. The last thing that Iremember clearly is that elaborate parade for Admiral Dewey under thearch at Twenty-third street. Since then I have more or less takenthings easily. In addition, I can say only that there are hundreds ofpeople willing to bet that I have never had my eyes open. I have noproof to the contrary.

Our Publicity Department submits the following items of interest (ofinterest to our Publicity Department) concerning a few of our authors.In case you do not want to print them, they go awfully well with peanutbutter.

How does an author work when he has been put in a strait-jacket byrelatives? This question is answered by Germer C. Arsh, author of"Brimmer Grows a Goatee and Other Sonnets," to be published in the Fallby the Aesophagus Press. "I just lie there and think very hard," hesays, "and pretty soon the book is written by my sister."

Lingard M. Lilacs, author of "Penny Wise, Pound of Cat Meat," to bepublished in the Fall by the Aesophagus Press, is probably the onlyshort, blond man to be taken for Primo Carnera. He was taken forCarnera, along with a dozen Easter eggs, but Carnera couldn't see hisway clear to using any of them.

"Never try to set a thief to catch a thief, or to throw good moneyafter bad," says Robert Wrist, in the third chapter of "Don't Open onChristmas!" (Aesophagus Press.) "I am sick and tired of trying." Mr.Wrist's book is now in its first edition.

Quite a controversy has arisen, and died down, over Marian Querey'sstatement that women are more allergic to horsehairs than men. "I can'tgo near a horse," said Miss Querey, "without sneezing, due to the fineparticles of horsehair that are in the air. I know lots of girls whoare the same way but only one man." The answer is, according to ouropponents, that Miss Querey knows only one man anyway.

Miss Querey's new book,April Asthma, will be published inthe Fall by the Aesophagus Press.

"Arabian is the easiest language in the world to learn, next toChoctaw," says the Princess Ludovica von Preepos und Schnurbart, whosenovel,Tight Grows the Eel-Grass, is already being consideredfor rejection by the Aesophagus Press. "All you have to do is rememberthat all verbs meaning 'to inhale' take the dative."

Remember, all of these items are absolutely free for your use,together with libel liability and a big kiss.

One Minute, Please

A very brisk young woman said, "Wait a minute, please," but shedidn't mean the "please." What she obviously meant was just "Wait aminute!"

Now this is a thing that especially irks me. When I am called by asecretary who doesn't tell me who is calling, but says, "Wait a minute"and then goes off somewhere for five minutes, I hang up.

So I hung up. "They'll call back," I said to myself, and stoodwaiting by the instrument.

I tried to read the paper I had in my hand, but couldn'tconcentrate. Each second I could hear that bell ringing, only it didn'tring. I sat down by the telephone. "There's no sense in going back intothe other room," I thought. "It'll come any minute now." But itdidn't.

The sound of a telephone bell which ought to ring any minute, butdoesn't, is much worse than the actual thing. By this time I wasdefinitely on edge. I was also in a frenzy to know who the caller hadbeen.

Finally I went into the other room. "That'll bring them," I said tomyself, sagely. I know how those things work.

But I overestimated their perversity this time. Even when I sat downin a low, easy chair, difficult to get out of, it didn't work. As afinal ruse I lay down on a couch and pretended to be asleep. Nobell.

I thought of calling Central and asking who had called me, but thatwould be weak. Anyway, Central couldn't tell me. I thought of callingall my friends and asking them if they had just called, but that wouldbe pretty futile on the face of it. I thought of putting the wholematter out of my mind, but that was impossible. I was obsessed.

It has been an hour now and I have been pacing up and down the roomgnawing at my nails. Obviously whoever it was is not going to callback. In a weak attempt to restore my peace of mind I am using thisspace as a

Who Did It?

The parlor game of "Detective" got off to a flying start a fewmonths ago, but what it needs now are some fresh problems. Not havingany personal problems of my own I am taking the liberty of making up afew:

1. A man leaves his home in the morning to go to work. An hour laterhe is found back in his own bed with a nasty scalp wound. His clothesare folded neatly over a chair. He is unable to talk, but a coloredman, who is in bed with him, also with a bad scalp wound, says that hedoesn't know who his buddie is, having never seen him before. Thepolice arrest the housekeeper. Why?

2. A baggage master in a small railway station detects somethingsuspicious about a large box which has been lying in the baggage roomfor three years. He opens it and finds a mummified fox terrier. Aroundthe dog's neck is a tag reading: "Please return to John Grunch, 78North Creep Street, Noky, Idaho."

The police go to the address and are told that Mr. Grunch doesn'tlive there any more. What should the next move be?

3. Three men are sitting at a table playing "gummidge." A says: "Ihave seven stops." B says: "I have three leaves and a throw." C says:"I win! I have two reekers." There is only one reeker in a "gummidge"pack. Who won?

Prodigal Sea-Lions

Two letters written to the bedeviled editor of theLondon SundayTimes have stirred old memories in my breast, and if the editor oftheSunday Times doesn't mind I will take them off hishands.

The first, from a Mr. Ernest Blaikley, of Stanley Gardens, N. W. 3,begins: "Recently, at a well-known circus, I saw the performingsea-lions. As I watched their extraordinary balancing feats I could nothelp wondering to what use they put this peculiar gift in their wildstate."

Without knowing it, Mr. Blaikley has hit upon a very tender subjectwith me. It has to do with my first job after leaving college, andtherefore my first failure at a job. On "coming down" from theuniversity I was employed by an oil spermery-and-refining company, todo just exactly what Mr. Blaikley has been wondering about. I wasassigned the job of finding out some use for the peculiar balancinggift of sea-lions.

Of course, my company was concerned primarily with whales and theirby-products, but it had been found that the seals in the whalingterritory were seriously impeding operations by sitting around in theway of the whalers and just swinging back and forth with their noses inthe air. "Find those animals something to balance on their noses," saidthe captain of the whaling fleet in his monthly report, "or I shall gocrazy."

So I went up into the seal district and tried putting various lightobjects on the noses of the seals as they swung back and forth. This isvery hard to do, you will find. I tried the conventional rubber ball,but discovered that it is only seals with actor-blood in their veinsthat will go for the rubber ball. The ones we see in circuses aredyed-in-the-wool hams, who like to show off and revel in publicapplause. Your average sea-lion, the sea-lion-in-the-street, doesn'tgive a hoot whether anyone sees him or not—and I shouldn't thinkthat he would, everything considered.

So you will see that my assignment was not an easy one, for not onlywas I unable to get the seals to hold still enough for me to getanything started balancing on their noses, but I couldn't make them seethe importance of trying to balance things for themselves. They justdidn't seem to care that they had this peculiar gift (which Mr.Blaikley has noticed, too, and wondered about), or that it was going towaste. And you just can't help anyone who refuses to help himself. Anysocial worker will tell you that.

So I simply sent in my report, which read: "Complete indifference onpart of seals to waste of balancing gift. Recommend abandoning wholeproject." Naturally, I was not given another assignment, and if Mr.Blaikley wants to take a try at it my old desk is still vacant, Iunderstand.

The other letter to theSunday Times deals with a controversywhich has been raging over the site, and name, of the earliest indoorskating rink in London, and I am afraid that I have not left quite roomenough to take it up now. Perhaps at our next session we can deal withit. In the meantime I will go over my records more carefully, for I ama little hazy on one or two points. We might all of us read up a bit onEarly Indoor Skating Rinks of London, and then I shall not be talkingto such a lot of lunkheads on the subject as might otherwise be thecase.

London's Oldest Rink

If you don't mind, we will now take up the second of two letters totheLondon Sunday Times which held me spellbound when I firstread them, the other having been apropos the lack of things for sealsto balance on their noses when in their wild state.

The letter which we will use as a basis for today's seminar is fromSir Algernon Law, and reads as follows:

"Sir—it must have been in the mid-seventies that Mr. Gamgeestarted his indoor ice-rink off the King's Road, Chelsea. My brothers,Major (later Major-General) F. T. A. Law and Mr. Ernest Law, used toskate there. But it was poorly attended. When my brother Ernest came inthe afternoon, he would ask: 'Has anyone been here?' The reply wouldoften be: 'Only the marquess and the major!'

"The marquess was Clanricarde, a timid performer, who used to flyfrom the brusque movements of the major, who had learnt to skate on thePeiho River in 1861. As the 'major' became a lieut.-colonel on October1, 1877, Mr. Gamgee's venture was apparently the earliest of its kindin this country."

Sir Algernon is cockeyed. The first indoor skating rink in Londonwas not Mr. Gamgee's comparatively modern venture, but one situated inthe old Baker Street Bazaar, adjoining the original Madame Tussaud'sExhibition. This flourished in 1845, when Sir Algernon's Mr. Gamgee(granting that there could have been a person named Gamgee) was a merechild, and probably a very disagreeable child, too.

My grandfather, Corporal Benchley (later Private Benchley) used toskate there and has left abundant correspondence to prove it. Almostanything can be proved by my grandfather's correspondence, as he likedto write, and was interested in practically everything. A lot of it hewrote in a jaunting-car, however, which makes it read almost likemusic.

However, I have before me a note made by him in 1845, just previousto his falling down in the old Baker Street Rink. It reads: "I guessI'll fall down now—Boomp! There I go!"

In his diary, under a date which seems to be 1456, but couldn't be,he writes: "When I went to the rink to skate today, I asked the Duke ofChichester, who sweeps off the ice, if anyone had fallen down moreoften than I had the day before. 'Dey's nobody here but jes' uschickens!' replied the old Duke, referring to a Negro story current atthe time. So we joined hands and skated around the rink once together,then backwards as far as we were able, which, I am convulsed to say,wasn't very far."

This makes it clear, I think, that indoor ice-skating was already anestablished fad in London as early as 1845, or, if we take the date inmy grandfather's diary as authentic, 1456. In 1456, however, the Warsof the Roses were just beginning and it wouldn't have been cold enoughfor much skating. And I am sure that my grandfather was not fourhundred and four years old when he died in 1860, or we kids would havebeen told something about it.

I think that I have shown enough to prove Sir Algernon Law wrong,with his Mr. Gamgee and 1877, and, unless the British aristocracy hasgone completely to pot, he will apologize.

Robot Rats

It's all right with me if people want to construct robots to do thework of men. In fact, I could use a good robot right this minute. But Ican't see the sense of making robot rats.

Some one has gone and made a robot rat. Maybe it is because I don'tquite understand what they are going to use a robot rat for, but thewhole thing seems to be a little unnecessary. I don't like ratsanyway.

This "rat" is described as a sort of "three-wheeled roller skate,loaded with small motors, electromagnets and switches," which, I willadmit, must be an improvement over the ordinary house, or wharf, rat inappearance. It shouldn't send timid folks leaping into chairs at anyrate.

But I still can't figure out the need for having done it at all. Therobot rat is so constructed that, when set on a track and adjusted totake the wrong turn at a switch, it learns a lesson from having bumpedup the dead-end and the next time takes the right turn of its ownaccord.

This is very cute of it, but wouldn't it have been simpler to haveadjusted it to take the right turn in thefirst place? Whysubject it to the humiliation of bumping up the dead-end at all?

I don't know anything at all about machinery, and I am sure that thewhole thing has a purpose and a very valuable one. (The end of thearticle I read about it was torn off, so I just got the main ideawithout the explanation of why it was considered necessary.)

I do know that, for the present, there are several mechanicalappliances that I want more than a robot rat which is deliberatelymaladjusted just for the sake of watching it do the whole thing overagain correctly. If anyone does give me one for Christmas I warn thescientific world that I will fix it to take thecorrect turn thefirst time, thereby spoiling the experiment.

End of the Chanticleer!

For the benefit of those who find themselves unable to sleep throughthe early morning clarion call of the rooster (sometimes called "TheHerald of the Dawn," among other names), I will recount how I,single-handed, put an end to this chanticleer business for at least onemorning.

In telling my story I may have to make myself seem to be cutting arather strange figure, but I am willing to be misunderstood if I canspread the word that the Lord of the Barnyard need no longer also bethe Lord of the Bedroom, and that a man, by striking out with somespirit, can meet a rooster in single combat, and win.

Returning home late from a Grange meeting, I was shown to theguest-room which, as it turned out, was abutting the poultryreservation. I had barely found my pillow (it was a small one andeasily lost) and closed my eyes (also small and easily lost) when SirRooster began to put on his act. "Cock-a-doodle-do" is the way it isprinted, but that is a euphemism.

At first I thought that the bird was in bed with me, but, after acareful pawing with my hands and feet, I decided that he was outside.It then became a matter for direct action on my part. With adetermination which I seldom display in crises, I got out of bed and,putting on the tops of my pajamas, went out into the hen-yard.

I took my stand by the wire enclosure and waited. Several of thehens paid me the courtesy of a glance, but the rooster was gatheringhimself for another onslaught at the silences and did not see me. I wascalmness itself.

Then it came—a rousing, throaty crow, which he doubtlessthought was causing me to writhe on my couch inside the guest-house. Idid not leave him long in his fool's paradise. I answered him with alouder and throatier crow which practically tore my tonsils from theirmoorings, but which also sent my antagonist toppling to one side insurprise and chagrin. The battle was on!

Every time he crowed I would crow back, going him one better. Once Ieven carried the fight into his own territory and crowed first. Thissent him into a fever of inferiority, believe it or not. The Cock ofthe Walk befuddled, confused, and a tantrum of futility!

The hens took it rather hard. Not only were they being terrifiedpersonally (I saw to that, in my odd moments), but their hero was beingmocked, ridiculed, and outplayed at his own game. They ran to and froin despair, but I was not to be put off by any considerations ofchivalry. I even did a few hen cackles to putthem intheir places. It was a complete rout in favor of the forces oflaw and order.

It was not long before I waited in vain for a "cock-a-doodle-do" toset me off into my own. The rooster was licked and he knew it. A fewhens were still loyal to him and tried to curry favor by running backto him and saying, "The man's drunk! Pay no attention to him." But Iwasn't drunk, unless it was with power, and the Old Devil knew it.

So, still in the tops of my pajamas, I made my triumphal entry backinto the guest-house and took a well-deserved nap, with no sound fromthe hen-yard except a few scattered cluckings from discontented poultrywho were talking it over. The Big Shot was silent, probably committingsuicide.

I found out at luncheon, however, that I had awakened everyone elsein the household, which somehow was never completely under the spell ofthe illusion that I was a rooster. Well, in every great cause some fewinnocent heads must fall.

Waiting for Bad News

Ever since last Summer I have been waiting for a decision in a casewhich affects me rather seriously. Is there, or is there not, such athing as a tribal pow-wow of prairie chickens? If there is, I'mthrough!

I read of it first inTime, although it is evidently anage-old custom—or a superstition. That's what I want toknow—is it a custom or a superstition?Time said that itwas a superstition, and then someone wrote in and said that it was onthe level. I haven't slept a wink since.

For the benefit of those who do not know what a prairie chickenpow-wow is I will quote fromTime's disturbing account of whatthree men saw on a prairie in Saskatchewan, one of the men being anex-premier of that province.

"In double file, with every one in step, twenty black-and-whitestreaked grouse strutted forward, keeping perfect time. As one theyhopped as neatly back. Forward again, and with heads bobbing the twofront couples swung to left and right, wheeled fanwise, fell in at therear. Four times the figure was repeated, until the rear couples wereonce more in their places. Now odd couples did a left face, evencouples a right face, and the two lines moved apart. An about-facebrought them back together. Then all faced front and again the doublefile moved forward—one, two, three, four; one, two, three,four."

Superstition or not, it isn't reassuring to know that anyone couldeventhink he saw that! I don't like even to copy it out.

But then somebody wrote intoTime and said that it wasn't asuperstition at all, and gave some sort of explanation for it, havingto do, I think, with mating time. I remember reading it hurriedly andthinking: "I'll study this later, when I'm feeling better." And then Ilost it.

That was during the Summer, and here it is almost Winter and I amstill in the dark about it. Do prairie chickens do a Portland Fancy ingroups of twenty or don't they? It sometimes seems as if I should gomad worrying about it!

Time said it was a myth, handed down from the Indians, andthat people in Saskatchewan didn't believe it any more. Then this manwrote in and said that it was a well-known fact. And the ex-premier andtwo other men swore that they saw it from their automobile. Nothingfurther has come out about it. That's where the matter stands—itmay, or it may not, be true. It's the uncertainty of the thing!

I put out my light each night and try to think of church picnicswhen I was a child and of die quiet streets of Rothenburg, Germany. Irun over the score oflolanthe and try to remember the membersof my class in the Fourth Grade. I say to myself: "You are your ownworst enemy if you let yourself think of prairie chickens!"

But in spite of all this the prairie chickens come, all twenty ofthem, in double file, with every one in step. Forward and back, firstcouples to the right, second to the left, "ladies change" (or was it"ladies' chain"?) and "balance your partners!" Then, "All faceBenchley! March! One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four!" It ishorrible!

It's the backward steps that terrify me the most. Birds shouldn'ttake steps forward and then steps backward—in tempo! Theyshouldn't take steps backward anyway, not even in a myth.

I am writing this in the hope that the man who wrote toTimewill see it and put me out of my misery. If such a thing exists I mightas well know it and make my plans accordingly.

All that I pray is, when the truth is broken to me, I don't end upin the middle of my bedroom floor doing the steps myself.

Judgment-Day Rehearsal

Fate, that saucy minx, has ordained that, for the past threeSummers, I should live in a section of the country where thunderstormsare practically unknown.(Note to Chamber of Commerce: How about aparking permit, boys?)

This has been all right with me, as I list thunderstorms eighteenthin my category of favorite pranks of Nature. There is something trickyabout a thunderstorm that I don't like. Three Summers without one havebeen so much velvet.

Yesterday morning, however, I was awakened by the sound of thunder.A morning thunderstorm, in any section of the country, is an ominouspiece of business. When you haven't heard thunder for three years ithas somewhat the effect on the pores as the sound of Gabriel'strumpet.

At first I thought that it was an earthquake.(Note to Chamber ofCommerce: Never mind about that parking permit.) I had heardearthquakes sound like thunder at first, so I watched the pictures onthe wall like a hawk. Not a very alert hawk, I will admit, for I dozedoff almost immediately.

Then the rumble came again, this time nearer, and I decided that itwasn't an earthquake. I was rather disappointed, in a way, as I sleepon the ground floor and am fairly agile, in spite of my enormousweight. Agility counts for nothing in a thunderstorm.

As the storm came nearer I began to realize that I hadn't made themost of my three years' immunity. In fact, I hadn't done a single thingabout cleaning up my life. I was, if anything, an even more logicaltarget for lightning than the last time I was within range. Andthunderstorms don't creep up on you at seven o'clock in the morning ina non-thunderstorm country for nothing, you know.

I lined up a rather panicky schedule of reforms which I would putinto effect if I got out of this scrape without being made the focalpoint for an electrical display. It involved what is known in municipalcircles as a "clean-up in all departments."

But as the storm suddenly petered out and went off in the otherdirection nothing much has come out of it yet. I may have three yearsmore, and these things can't be rushed.

What to Loll In

The problem of what to wear while lolling about the house on a hotSunday afternoon is becoming more and more acute as the fashions inlolling garments change. The American home is in danger of taking onthe appearance of an Oriental bordello.

There was a time when on a hot Sunday afternoon the various membersof the family retired to their respective rooms and just plain"stripped down." It wasn't a family group that John Singer Sargentwould have wasted much time over, but it kept the air currents passingback and forth over the epidermis.

There were several drawbacks to this nudist policy, however. It moreor less prevented games of bridge and group singing, and caused thehouse to ring with cries of, "Keep out of here, will you!"

It also made it difficult to find places to sit down. Chairs andsofas developed unsuspected bristles, and one had more or less to keepwalking up and down while reading, unless there happened to be anold-fashioned, cool-surfaced horsehair sofa handy. Even then there wereseveral spots on its surface that had to be watched.

But with the advent of fancy beach togs and diaphanous sports rigsit became possible to wear something that passed for clothing and yetto keep cool. Unfortunately, however, these exotic-looking outfits weredesigned for use on beaches, where yellow sands and blue waves andmulti-colored umbrellas make them a bit less conspicuous. They donot go well in a city apartment, or a country cottage, on aSunday afternoon.

On such Sundays as the family are not at the beach or at theswimming-pool, the living-room becomes the scene of what might be aPagan rout, if there were any rout. We see Mother and the girls arrayedas if they were about to be sold at auction, prosaically reading theSunday papers, while Daddy and the boys moon about, like the Pirates ofPenzance, in gay stripes and flaming bandanas, cool, perhaps, butobviously on the lookout for a dance boat on a Venetian lagoon.

It is the effect on the family morale that is the danger of thishome masquerade. Everyone is at home, but is dressed for somewhereelse. The furniture seems shabby. The four walls close in.Personalities clash and fist fights set in.

It would be much better if everyone went to his room and stripped,as Grandpa used to do.

Blizzard Hysteria

From my seat in a snow-bank, where I happened to be taking it easylast week for a minute before starting to look for my right shoe again,I laughingly remembered a threat that I made early in October.

"If we don't get any more snow this Winter than we have had the pastfive years, I am packing up and going to Canada for a month. I'm asnow-baby," I said, ruggedly, "and I'm going to get some snow formyself this year or know the reason why."

Well, I got my snow, and without having to go any nearer Canada thanthe north windows of my house. Sometimes I couldn't even get within twofeet of my north windows.

I shall be particularly glad this year when it stops blizzarding, asthen we won't have so much trouble with Joe. Joe is a friend of minewho gets blizzard hysteria. As soon as a real blizzard sets in, he goesSt. Bernard on us.

The only difference between him and the famous mountain dogs isthat, instead of the St. Bernard going out to look for lost travelersin the snow, we all have to go out in the snow and look for the St.Bernard. The only feature of the old St. Bernard tradition that he hasretained is the keg of brandy around his neck.

When the first blizzard of the present season started, I noticed astrange light come into Joe's eye. He went to the window and looked outat the whirling snow, and I saw his left foot start to paw aroundslightly. "Looks like a real one," he said. Then, after a pause, herepeated: "Yes, sir! A real one!" This was around lunch time.

"I guess I'll get out the team," he said, softly, "and mush up toJack and Charlie's for a bite to eat." That was the last I saw of himuntil Thursday.

Later that afternoon, I did get a report from him. He called on thetelephone and said, in a voice quivering with excitement: "Come on outand play, you old stick-in-the-mud, you! The snow's a foot deep!" Iasked him where he was, and he said "Latitude 45—Longitude54."

In about an hour he called up again and said that the horses wereall down in the streets and that Shearer's Dry Goods Store was on fire."Get your sled and come on out!" was his final shout, as he hung up. Ina field-communique along about six, he announced that shipping was tiedup and that he didn't think he could bring the "Sarah H. Walton" inuntil morning. At ten that night his wife called up and asked if I knewwhere Joe was.

On Thursday, Joe was very dispirited. "I don't see how it could havehappened," he said. "I don't know anybody in New Rochelle." We bothagreed that a little vacation once every ten years or so did a man noharm, especially, as Joe said, as it would be ten years before we hadanother blizzard. As he said this he walked to the window, and I heardhim moan. It was snowing again.

"I guess I'd better get home before it gets too deep," said Joe.This was about four in the afternoon. At six he called up and said:"Get your sled out! This looks like a real one!"

This time we got the searching parties out early, but it was hardgoing and he got to Montclair, New Jersey, before we caught him. He hadbuilt himself a snow fort and kept us at bay with snow-balls for quitea while.

And so it has gone all Winter. Much as I like snow, I dread to seeeach successive blizzard starting, for it means a night out with thedog sleds. Joe himself dreads it more than we do, and hides under thebed whenever he sees the first flakes come swirling down. But he can'tseem to win out. This year, Spring will have a doubly gratefulsignificance for everyone, I guess.

The Moth Invasion

One day, a few weeks ago, certain sections of New York City foundthemselves in the midst of a flurry of tiny, white moths. A lot ofpeople thought at first that it was snow, but as the thermometer read97 at the moment, this theory was discarded as visionary.

It has been my great good luck to talk with one of the mothshimself, one who got separated from the swarm and flew in at my window.Being rather unnerved by his experience, he felt that he wanted to talkto somebody about it. He gave me quite a different angle on the BigMoth Invasion of 1935.

"We were flying along, the rest of the bunch and I," he said, "when,all of a sudden, the air ahead of us seemed full of great, hulkingshapes impeding our passage.

"Harry, my pal, who was flying alongside of me, took one look andsaid: 'Hello, what's all this? A phenomenon?'

"I could hardly see a wing before my face for the great swarm ofwoolen-covered bodies that pushed up against us, and, for a moment, Ithought that Harry was right. 'A phenomenon as ever I saw,' I said.'Just pay no attention, Harry, and we'll be out of it in aminute.'"

"Then one of the boys, who had studied anthropology in school, spokeup and said that it was nothing but a settlement of human beings, who,on hot days, sometimes appear in large numbers and beat themselvesblindly against whatever happens to be in their way. 'We just happen tohave run into a bit of hard luck,' he added.

"Well, sir, we flew along for a while, and these things seemed toget thicker and thicker. One of them, lunging ahead right in front ofme, caught me plumb in the eye, so that I couldn't see for aminute.

"'Let's fly out of here!' I yelled to Harry and the rest of theboys. 'I can't take it. Let's get a little altitude and see if we can'tfly over it!'

"But Harry had caught one of those New Yorkers (the special breed ofhuman that was proving such a pain in the neck to us) right by thewindshield of his automobile, and couldn't get him loose. 'This guy isblinding me!' he yelled back at me. Things were beginning to lookpretty serious."

"So I ups and turns into a sharp left at about fifty feet, and, thenext thing I know I'm through the window and here in your office. . . .Got a drink?"

"O. K.," said the moth, poising himself on the window ledge. "Nexttime I'll make a detour. What's the name of this place again?"

"That's right. New York! I ought to remember that—my motherwas a Yorkshire Gypsy. Well, toodle-oo! I'll be seein' yer!" And he wasoff to join his squadron.

Don't Get Lost!

If you are one of those helpless people who are constantly gettinglost, and just standing still and sobbing, the coming season holds outgreat hope for you. The stars are going to be unusually bright thisSummer. You can't get lost if you know the stars—unless, ofcourse, you can't see the stars.

People usually get lost more easily in Summer than they do inWinter, because they find themselves in stranger places in Summer.Anyone who, in Winter, gets lost in his own street, or even five blocksfrom his own street (which is as far away as any sensible man gets inWinter), will not be benefited by looking at any stars. What he needsis a nice, sympathetic cop.

But in the Summer you get to stumbling around in fields, or on thebeach looking for horseshoe-crabs, and, along about eleven o'clock inthe evening, you are quite likely to find yourself tripping over an oldcigaret-butt of yours that you dropped half an hour before on the wayhome. Anyone is likely to do that, so don't get downhearted. You'renobody's fool.

If you find yourself lost during the last two weeks of July (youhave simply got to know, in a general way, what time of the month itis, or I can be of no help to you), look in the skies for the brighteststar, which will be Jupiter. Then you can say: "That's Jupiter!" Sofar, so good.

Now, work backward. I don't mean walk backward, but say to yourself:"Jupiter should be right over our house—a little to the left."You will have to have figured this out before leaving the house, butthat's the fun of the thing. There will be so much figuring out to dobefore you leave the house that you may not leave at all, and then youwon't even get lost.

Therefore, if Jupiter is right over your house and a little to theleft, the thing for you to do now is to walk, very carefully, towardJupiter—and a little to the right. This will land you nicely inthe old north creek.

Or, if you happen to get lost during the middle of August (betweenthe 11th and the 21st, to be exact—don't count on it if ithappens to be the 22nd), you must look for Venus. Venus is unusuallybright just after sunset, so lay your plans to get lost just aftersunset. All you have to know is just what relation Venus bears to thespot you are headed for and—presto—there youare—still lost!

Of course, if you get lost indoors, in a strange house, and can'tfind the bathroom, it will do you no good to stick your head out thewindow to look for a star. Neither can you count on the heavens if youfind yourself lost in your own bed, with the footboard where theheadboard ought to be. In such emergencies as these you will simplyhave to use your wits.

But, in general, there is no excuse for a good woodsman or a goodmariner getting lost in the Summer time, unless, of course, hewants to get lost. That can happen, too.

Notes

Henri Lababage, the inventor of crêpes Suzette, arrived intown today, parcel post. His version of the invention of the famousdessert is a simple and wholly credible one:

"I was chef at the Sulphur Baths at Oxnard," he said, blushingfuriously. "King Edward VII, then known to his intimates as the Princede Galles, came to me and he say: 'Henri,' he say, 'make me acrêpe Suzette!' So I make him three crêpes Suzette.Voici!"

Campari Janos, famous Hungarian maître-d'hôtel, wastalking the other night in front of a mirror. There were a lot of ussitting around, singing gypsy songs ("Hi-ya!") and going to town.

"Who is that mysterious-looking ingot?" asked someone, doubtless I(or me) pointing to Janos.

"That is the inventor of crêpes Suzette," was the reply,scarcely audible over the reflexes. "He named them after Suzette, afamouspot au feu of his day."

"You ask me how I came to invent crêpes Suzette," said HymanShrink, opening his vest. "I am telling you."

"I was a stranger in town and so was the Prince of Wales, then knownas King Edward VII to his intimates. He asked me why I didn't make apancake which would taste like an orange, only with a pancakeflavor.

"'Why don'tyou?' I asked him right back. But finally hewheedled me into doing it, and that is how crêpe Suzettes wereinvented."

A man who was arrested at the corner of Sixth ave., New York, andMichigan blvd., Chicago, yesterday, on the charge of being tooalert-looking, told the jail matron that he was the inventor ofcrêpes Suzette.

"I was King Edward at the time," he replied, "and it seemed to bethe only thing to do. Suzette was one swell gal."

As a matter of fact,I invented crêpes Suzette, and Idid it by getting so gosh-darned sick of old-fashioned wheatcakes thateverything went black before my eyes, and when I came to—therewere crêpes Suzette.

Artist's Model Succumbs!

A strange case has just come to light involving an artist's model inLondon, who, to date, has not been able to drive one man mad. Shehasn't been able even to drive one man to drink. The police are workingon it now.

Dorine LaBoeuf was the only daughter of a poor laborer, and was bornin a thatched hut, or hutched thatch, in Normandy. Or hatchedthutch.

She was noted for her beauty, even in those days—which willgive you some idea. Later she married and settled down in Lyons andnever went to London at all. So, you will see, we have started off withthe wrong girl. She has nothing to do with the story at all, and Idon't know what I was thinking of.

The girlI mean was born in Kansas City, but was fatter thanDorine LaBoeuf as a child. She was so fat that they despaired of herlife at one time, but when she got to London (how she got toLondon is another story—and a better one) she calmed down alittle and got a job as an artist's model. She posed for automobileaccessories and moccasins.

Now, everyone knows that an artist's model is quite likely to drivemen mad, and end up as a dope feind. (i beforee, exceptafterc.) This girl, in spite of her great beauty and collectionof time-tables, couldn't even manage to end up as a dope fiend. (Theproofreader caught it this time.)

She posed and she posed and she posed, but nobody ever eventhreatened to killher, much less himself. It was the slowestyear for suicides that London had had since Chelsea became theGreenwich Village of America.

We are now getting around slowly to the unpleasant fact that thisgirl was not so hot-looking. She thought she was, and the man at thedesk thought she was fair (that's the way he phrased it: "She's fair"),but that was where it ended.

I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except that you asked meto tell you the story of the London model who didn't drive men mad. Youdon't remember that, do you? I suppose that next you'll be saying thatyou aren't even reading this.

Well, all fooling aside now! This girl is actually in London at thisminute, and I can prove it. And do you know who she is? She is the wifeof a very prominent man, who offered me a great deal of money (threedollars) if I would keep it out of the papers.

But once a newspaperman, always a newspaperman, and a good "story"(newspaper jargon for "cub") is more important than all the money inthe world. That's why newspapermen are so poorly paid.

Those Dicta

Scientists would get a lot farther with me if they didn't generalizeso dogmatically. For every general dictum that they issue, at leastthree exceptions can be found right in my own house.

A Soviet psychologist has come out with one which sends me intoparoxysms of rage every time I think about it.

"Brain sensitivity varies with the seasons," he says. "In the Springthe sensitivity of the brain is greatest, which explains why mankindalways feels better in the Spring."

"Mankind," eh? Well, I, and at least eight other people that Ihappen to know, feel lousy in the Spring and top-hole in the Fall, andwhat do you know about that, you Communistic old doctor, you? Justbecauseyou happen to feel best in the Spring it turns out that"mankind" feels best in the Spring.

I don't know anything about my brain sensitivity (and, apparently,you don't, either), but I do know that I reach my low point in May andam my peppiest in October. And I flatter myself that I am a member ofthat group which is known, euphemistically, as mankind. Not a member invery good standing, perhaps, but good enough to have a vote on theseasons. And I didn't give you my proxy, either.

Another dictum which makes me see red is the one issued by allscientific analysts of humor, namely that the universal joke, the onething that all "mankind" thinks is funny, is the sight of some one elseslipping on a banana peel and falling. They always use this banana peelas the example, which is a tip-off in itself, on their own range ofhumor.

Now, Idon't happen to think that it is funny to see anyoneelse slip on a banana peel and fall, and I know several other peoplewho don't, either. I don't claim that we are right in this. All that Iclaim is that it is not the "universal joke." And I'll thank thelearned humor-analysts not to go around saying that "everyone" laughsat it, and basing their theories on that premise.

"Mankind feels best in the Spring." "Everyone laughs at a manslipping on a banana peel." "All dreams are based on sex.""Self-preservation is the first law of mankind." With possibly fiftymillion exceptions.

The trouble with the specialists in what mankind does or does not dois that they don't get around enough with mankind.

The Vigil

Not content with saddling me with a blood-thirsty bird, who sits inthe tree outside my window and threatens me, the Fates have now visitedme with a love-sick dog, who sits day and night on my doorstep andmopes. It is too much.

Up until last week I had, as a house guest, a very respectable and(I must admit) attractive girl dog, a spaniel of a light mocha hue, whowas not without a certain ingenuous flirtatious charm. She madecontacts in the neighborhood, and once there were rumors of anengagement.

Nothing came of it, however, and last week her owner, concerned withmore mundane matters, took her away to visit the Yosemite, where, Ihave no doubt, she divides her time between a contemplation of thegrandeur of Nature and minor affairs of the heart.

But she has left behind her a very sad and rather elderly spaniel,who sits and sits on every doorstep that I have, waiting for herreturn. He must belong to someone in the neighbor hood, for I rememberhaving seen him for a long time romping about with the other boys. Buthe romps no longer, and he, apparently, never goes home.

He has large, rheumy eyes, like a nonagenarian and he looks at me asI pass in and out of the house with an accusing stare, as if to say:"What have you done with her, you cad?" I have almost come to believe,myself, that I am responsible for something.

He is not a physically attractive dog. He is on the brown and whiteside and I think a little too large for a spaniel. From lying about somuch on our doorsteps and in the flower beds, he is, by now, quiteunkempt.

I have tried shooing him away, rather crossly. I have said to him inso many words: "She is no longer here, my lad. My advice to you wouldbe to forget her. But, even if you cannot forget her, do go home andcease haunting me."

But he doesn't go home. No matter how late I come in (and it wasalmost midnight last night, I guess, because the sun was coming up)there he is on the doorstep, looking at me with those accusing eyes. Itis getting on my nerves. God knows I have done nothing to his girl.

Haircut, Please!

Among other things that I am finding it increasingly difficult toget, is a haircut. I just can't seem to bring myself to make the firstmove.

In my moresoigné days I had no difficulty in walkingright into a barber shop every Tuesday (I chose Tuesday because it isthe day thatVariety comes out) and saying, in ringing tones,"Haircut, please." Those were the days when I was known as "BeauBob."

But gradually, as my life became more sedentary, I began to find itdifficult to leave the house until after the barber shops had closed.Those that were open in the evening somehow didn't have the knack offixing my peculiar hair-line in back so that I didn't look like ashepherd.

It got to be once every two weeks instead of once every week, andthen once every three weeks. Now, for the greater part of each month, Igive the impression of having just come from Oberammergau to look for ajob. In Hollywood, it is just taken for granted that I am working in"Mutiny on the Bounty."

Several times I have tried having a barber come into my place andcut my hair, since it is obvious that I am never going to be able toget out to his place. This luxury, however, suffuses me with a sense ofdecadence, and I feel that all I need is three or four dancing girls tobring about the Revolution, with me at the bottom of the pile. Also, ittakes quite a lot of nerve to call the barber.

The thing has now reached a stage where it is practically a phobia.When, by some convulsion of Nature, I do find myself in front of abarber shop in the daytime, I stand and look inside, hoping that allthe chairs are occupied.

If they are not, I sometimes wait until they are. Then I go on myway with an easy conscience. I guess that the answer is that I shallhave to learn to cut my own hair. I am dreading that phase.

Flying Flea

There are some compensations for being in the middle generation. Thechances are that none of us will ever have to operate a "flying flea"in our daily routine.

The "flying flea" is a wingless autogiro which is destined,according to some people whom I do not trust, to be the means oftransportation for the business man of the future. (That is, if thereis any business in the future.)

In the "flying flea" the pilot can drive along the highway, as in anautomobile, until he reaches a field. Up to this point I string alongwith the inventor. It is after the thing reaches the field that I amwondering about.

"Here he will take off," says the prospectus, "aided by a new jumpfeature recently perfected. Like a flea, the giro will jump upward from15 to 25 feet. Then, before it can drop back, the propeller will takehold and normal flight begin."

The catch, as I see it, comes in that "before it can drop back." IfI know propellers, they are not always sure-fire on the first spin.And, when you are 15 to 25 feet up in the air, the first spin is moreor less what counts. There really isn't time to fool around with asecond or third.

They should have left the words "before it can drop back" out of thesales talk. They emphasize too strongly the possibility of the Law ofGravitation's having its way with the giro. The propeller may not workthe first time, but the Law of Gravitation is usually pretty reliableon the first crack out of the box.

I guess a man would feel pretty silly, after having made a leap likea flea up into the air for 15 or 20 feet, to find that was as far as hewas going, and that the return trip to earth was setting in almostimmediately. The humiliation alone would be something.

However, being more or less wedded to the bicycle, I expect to bespared any such dispiriting experience with a "flying flea" It iscomforting to be sure of something in this unpredictable world.

Phobias

The discovery of phobias by the psychiatrists has done much to clearthe atmosphere. Whereas in the old days a person would say: "Let's getthe heck out of here!" today he says: "Let's get the heck out of here!I've got claustrophobia!"

Most everybody knows the name of the phobia that he has personally,and it is a great comfort to him. If he is afraid of high places, hejust says: "Oh, it's just my old acrophobia," and jumps.

If he is afraid of being alone he knows that he has monophobia andhas the satisfaction of knowing that he is a pathological case. If hekeeps worrying, in the middle of a meal, about the possibility of beingburied alive, he can flatter himself that he has taphephobia, and thatit is no worse than a bad cold.

But there are some honeys among the phobias that don't get muchpublicity. There is, for example, phobophobia, which is the fear ofhaving a phobia, even though you may not have one at the moment. Thistakes the form of the patient sitting in terror and saying to himself:"Supposing I should be afraid of food, I would starve to death!" Not avery pretty picture, you will admit.

Then there is kemophobia, or the fear of sitting too close to theedge of a chair and falling off. People with kemophobia are constantlyhitching themselves back in their chairs until they tip themselves overbackward. This gives the same general effect as falling off the chairfrontward, so they find themselves in acul-de-sac.

Then there is goctophobia, or the fear of raising the hand too farand striking oneself in the face, with the possibility of putting aneye out. These patients keep their hands in their pockets all the timeand have to be fed by paid attendants. A nasty complication arises whenthey also have nictophobia, or fear of paid attendants.

Some of the other little known phobias are octophobia, or fear ofthe figure 8; genophobia, or the fear of being burned on door-handles;kneebophobia, or the fear that one knee is going to bend backwardsinstead of forwards some day, and optophobia, or the dread of openingthe eyes for fear of what they will see.

The Camel Market

The New South Wales correspondent of theInternational NewsService forwards the disquieting news that a man named Manning,living in Newcastle, N. S. W., has just bought a camel at auction forthe small sum of $1.25, or five shillings. There are two ways oflooking at this.

Five shillings is not a good price for a camel, even though theseare not boom days. In fact, it comes under the head of starvationprices. The camel market in New South Wales cannot be glutted. It ismore than likely that this was the only camel in the country. Whatprice Recovery if an exclusive camel drags down only five shillings atan auction?

On the other hand, the affair has its brighter side. The camel wasthe property of the Shire Council, which had impounded it. (Thecorrespondent doesn't say how it happened to be there for the ShireCouncil to impound, but there may have been a previous story which Ididn't catch.) The fact that the camel was put up at auction at allshows that the Shire Council felt that things were picking up in theNewcastle district. They could have just ignored it.

I wish that there had been more about the auction itself. Just whatis the selling talk for a camel in New South Wales? How would anauctioneer go about stimulating frantic bidding?

"Gentlemen! Here is a camel!" Then what? "How much am I bid for thismarvelous camel? Denizen of the desert, the Arabian's best friend,sometimes called 'the Crouching Horse of Sandyland!' How much am I bidfor this indispensable pet?"

"Look at him, gentlemen! Mount him if you wish! . . . No, my goodman, not that way—you facefront—that's right! Isthat a mount worth owning? Tell the gentlemen what you see from upthere. The ocean? You hear, gentlemen? Mr. Manning says that he can seethe ocean from his seat on this camel! Is that something, or isn'tit?"

"Good! Mr. Manning has bid five shillings against himself! Do I hearsix? . . . Going—going—at five shillings—soldto Mr. Manning for five shillings!"

The next news story we shall look for is the one telling what Mr.Manning did with the camel.

The Curse Shortage

The art of cursing people seems to have lost its tang since the olddays when a good malediction took four deep breaths to deliver and sentthe outfielders scurrying toward the fence to field.

The best we seem able to do nowadays is some sissy clichélike: "May all your children be acrobats!" after which we laugh and buydrinks all around to show that there is really no hard feeling. We justdon't seem to care any more whether anyone is properly cursed ornot.

The last real, cellophane-wrapped curse that came to my attentionwas delivered at the start of the World War by an ardent and zealousGreek patriot, and Eleutherios Venizelos was the lucky boy. The patriotwas cross at M. Venizelos because he was pro-Ally, and this is how heshowed his irritation:

"Against this traitor Venizelos we have invoked the followinginjuries: the ulcers of job, the whale of Jonah, the leprosy of Naaman,the bite of Death, the shivering of the dying, the thunderbolt of Helland the malediction of God and man."

The good man went even farther, caught up in the spirit of thething. "We shall call for the same injuries upon those who at thecoming elections shall vote for the Traitor Venizelos, and we shallfurther pray for their hands to wither and for them to become deaf andblind."

It was obvious that the patriot was taking sides in the election, orat any rate, had leanings. The funny part of it was that Venizelos wonout and, so far as anyone could notice with his clothes on, contractednone of the troubles wished on him, not even the whale of Jonah. Hedidn't do it so well in his recent revolution, but he looked all rightin the news reels. Maybe the curse was on a long-term endowment plan,falling due in 1940.

At any rate we are getting nowhere with our present-daymilk-and-water maledictions. Either we ought to wish everybody well orthink up some original, four-motored curses. Perhaps the telegraphcompanies could put their Fathers' Day men to work on it and give us alist to choose from.

First Aid

Not being much of a haemophile and being fairly immune againstinfection from anything smaller than B-B shot, I do not keep abreast ofthe antiseptic procession. Unless a germ starts trying to wrestle, Iusually let him alone on me. I find that he goes away sooner orlater.

But when the subject of tetanus or sunburn or medicine chests creepsinto a dinner conversation, as it often does just before the salad, Iam appalled at my medieval faith in what seems to be witches' brews andblack magic. All of my little cure-alls have evidently been discreditedas long ago as March, 1935.

I always take my tip on emergency remedies from those "in the know."There was a time when anything that was cut had to be dippedimmediately in, let us say, "Cut-a-Mint." No first-class medicinecabinet was without "Cut-a-Mint." So I lay in a stock of"Cut-a-Mint."

This would be, perhaps, in June. By the following October, somerandom investigator, looking through my medicine chest for dentalfloss, would say in horror: "You don't use 'Cut-a-Mint,' do you? Didn'tyou know that it actuallyspreads cuts? Didn't you read thelatest bulletin of the Bleeders' Research Division?"

Well, I have so much Latin to read during the week that I hadn't gotaround to the bulletin, but I am willing to take any expert advice(which is why 1929 was such a bad financial year for me, having been aVirgo child), so I would throw away all my "Cut-a-Mint" and lay in astock of "Hypo-Haemo," the new antiseptic. "They used it all during theWar, you know," was the recommendation, and certainly anything thatthey used all during the War must have been O.K., because the War was agreat success.

But by the time I had a chance to use my "Hypo-Haemo" someinvestigators had got out a report exposing it as nothing but tea witha little developing fluid in it, and the smart ones were off on anothertack—just plain chloride of lime with a wintergreen odor. You rubit in.

I have about decided that when I cut myself, or cut anyone else, Iwill just forget about it and let Nature take its course. I supposethat they have found out something about Nature by now. There iscertainly plenty to find out.

No More Nightmares

There is a new treatment for nightmares (I never knew about the oldone as a matter of fact) which involves the use of perfumes, will powerand music, any of which you can procure at your dealer's. Just ask fora "nightmare kit."

The nightmare victim lies down on a couch and relaxes—a toughassignment right at the start for a nightmare victim. His face iscovered with four layers of gauze, muffling nose, mouth, eyes and ears.So far it looks as if we were on the wrong track.

But, get this! Jasmine and tuberose perfumes are then dropped on thegauze and symphony music is played. If the symphony orchestra happensto be out on tour at the time or you haven't got enough chairs in thehouse, chamber music will do. Someone could even just hum a symphony, Isuppose.

The patient then becomes somnolent, according to the prospectus,although what probably happens is that he is smothered intoinsensibility. He is supposed to run through a routine of day-dreams,carefully selected in advance, retracing the ideals of the patient'syouth, such as playing shortstop for the Red Sox or running a canoerental landing.

He lies in this state for half or three-quarters of an hour, with asoft gong sounding from time to time. (Quite a lot of props are neededfor this nightmare cure. It is strictly a rich man's treatment.) Thegong is the signal to change dreams. No matter where you are in theaction of one day-dream you change to another when the gong sounds.This, I should think, would cause neurasthenia and general debility,but I guess the doctors know best.

One of the changes is the conscious introduction of the nightmareitself. The patient forces his imagination to go through with thenightmare, daring it to do its worst. The jasmine and tuberose are, inthe meantime, getting in their work, but the symphony orchestra hasknocked off at five and gone home.

This treatment is not only for bad dreams, but "depressioninsomnias, anxiety, moderate stupors and confusion." I'll take a bookof ten tickets for treatments for confusion, please, with an extra houron Saturdays for a moderate stupor.

Ominous Announcements

To the man who has been out late the night before, or even to justthe nervous man who winces at unusual commotions, there is no moreupsetting announcement than: "The expressmen are here for thetrunks!"

Better never go away for the Summer than face the arrival of theexpressmen for the trunks on a jumpy morning. It isn't so much what theexpressmen doafter they get into the room. It is the shock ofthe announcement that they are downstairs and on their way up! It islike seeing a comet rushing toward the earth at a million miles asecond.

In the first place, the trunks are very likely not quite ready,which makes for confusion, and confusion is just the thing you do notwant on that particular morning. "Above all things, no confusion!" youhave said, as you agreed to get up out of bed that morning. "Noconfusion, and a minimum of crashing about, please!" And here are theexpressmen!

Then the trunks always seem to be too heavy for the helpers. Theymust run across some pretty heavy trunks in their day's work and, afterall, it is their work and they knew what it was going to be like whenthey went into it, but yours is evidently more than even anexpressman's helper could be expected to face. What have you got init—rocks?

This attitude on their part does not help you in your own mentalstrain. You feel every tug on their muscles, as if it were on your own,and the sweat starts from your own forehead as they finally grunt theirway out of the room, neatly chipping off a large segment from the doorjamb. It would have been simpler to have carried the trunk downyourself.

Another announcement of almost equal implications to the man whodreads disruption of the regular, easy flow of household life is: "Theplumber's here to fix the bathroom!"

He couldn't wait until afternoon, when you might be feeling better.Oh, no! He must come at crack of dawn, with all his instruments andblow-torches, like a fiend from hell. The water must be shut off, pipesmust be hammered and banged, and, above all, strangers will be pokingtheir heads in and out of doors where you are accustomed to seeing onlyfamiliar faces.

Strange faces peering out from the bathroom can be prettyfrightening if you are not in good health or spirits.

On the whole, it is better for the man who craves the Old Order ofThings on any particular morning to go down in the cellar and sit.Then, probably, he will hear from the head of the stairs: "The man'shere to fix the hot-water heater!"

"East, West, Home's Best!"

In case your house or apartment has begun to pall on you and you aregetting sick of the same old molding and the same old windows everyday, just notify an agent that he may bring people around to look theplace over for rental. You'll want to stay then, just out of spite.

People who are doing what is known as "looking at" an apartment areunpleasant people in the very nature of things. They are passingjudgment on a place in which you have, for better or for worse, beenliving for some time. 'There's an insult, right there.

In the first place they always come "to look" when you are in yourbare feet, or have half your face covered with lather. You may havethought that you kept the place fairly tidy, but the minute the"lookers" come in the door it takes on, even in your eyes, theappearance of a house in one of William Faulkner's novels, where poormountain-whites have been inbreeding and cooking pork chops forgenerations. You can tell that it wouldn't surprise them to see an oldsheep stagger out of a corner.

Then they begin. You try to pay no attention and to give them therun of the place by themselves, but you hear them whispering, or seethem exchange glances. It's those glances that get your back up.Whatever you may pretend to be doing while they are looking (and itusually is something spurious, like winding your watch or patting downsofa cushions which don't need patting) you are burning up as you gothrough the motions.

"I suppose this is the dining-room," the woman says. (Shesupposes it is the dining room! It's got a dining-room table andchairs and a sideboard in it, hasn't it? What does she want—asteaming roast ox spread out for her?)

"It's not very light, is it?" (It's light enough foryou, oldgirl! You can stand a few shadows, with that pan!)

"It might be a little more cheerful with other curtains." (One ofthe reasons you want to leave may have been the dark dining room, butit now seems like a sun parlor to you. Other curtains, indeed!)

"Helma would never work here, I know." (And who is Helma to refuseto work inyour kitchen? Better cooks than Helma have managed towhip themselves into working there.)

Then you hear an "Ugh!" No remark—just an "Ugh!" Therecertainly is nothing in that kitchen to go "Ugh!" about, unless she hasgot into the icebox and doesn't like cold beets. She'd better get outof that icebox or you'll have the police on her. She's not renting coldbeets from you. She's not renting anything from you, if you have yourway. You're going to stay right there yourself.

As they come back surprising you at your pillow patting you ask ifthey want to have you show them the bedrooms. The woman smiles a nastysmile and says no, they won't put you to that trouble, as they havealmost decided (an exchange of glances) that the place is notquite large enough for them. They have a little girl, you see. Well, itmust be a pretty big little girl to crowd them, in a place this size.Pretty big, and pretty disagreeable.

So they leave, with polite thanks, which do not fool you for aminute, and you come back into the dear little nest that you call Home,and that you are going to call Home for at least another year, Godwilling.

No More Bananas

It is perhaps presumptuous for any one of us to say just what hewill or will not do with the remaining days allotted to him, but Ithink that I may safely predict this: I am off bananas, definitely.

More in the nature of a whim than anything else (I really don't needto take offmuch weight possibly ten or twelve pounds here andthere, now that the bathing suit season is coming on), I started lastweek on what is known as the "banana and skimmed milk diet," or theJohns Hopkins glide. I am no longer on it, but, even after a threedays' work-out, I swear that if a banana so much as crosses my path, Iwill shoot it down like a dog.

As I understood it, you took two bananas and a glass of skimmed milkthree times a day for two weeks. Then you bought yourself a whitemess-jacket and a wide black sash, and chased Clifton Webb for theconcavity prize. That was what I heard.

I started on a Monday morning with my two bananas and a glass ofskimmed milk. To make things harder, I never liked bananas very much,anyway. Two-thirds of the way down even one banana I am willing toconcede defeat smilingly and give the rest to the nearest monkey. Hereweretwo bananas. And two more for lunch. And two more fordinner. I began to look upon the skimmed milk as more or less of acordial. Then my friends began:

"It isn't two bananas three times a day; it's three bananas twice aday. I read it in a medical journal."

"You're crazy to do it that way. You are supposed to stay in bed thewhole two weeks and have the bananas rubbed into your arm."

"Bananas and skimmed milk! You know what that'll do to you, don'tyou? Just turn your liver to rubber, that's all!"

"I know of a girl who tried that diet, and, when they cut her open,they found that she was all coated over inside with banana oil."

"I hope you're sure that the bananas are not too hard. The action ofmilk on hard bananas when they get in your stomach together—well,go ahead with it if you want to."

Now, all this time I was none too happy as it was, without outsideheckling on the subject. I began cutting my bananas up into cubes forone meal, into diamonds for the next, and finally I mashed them up withthe milk into a cocktail shaker and gave myself quite a party. That wasthe evening of the second day.

It was on the third day that I decided to call the whole thing off.I got up in the morning and fell down while trying to get into myslippers. As I ate my three-and-a-half-minute bananas, with a dash ofWorcestershire on them, and drank my cup of steaming hot skimmed milk(dated), I glanced over the morning paper:

Such were the headlines that greeted my eye. I put my paper down."Juliette," I called out as loudly as my enfeebled condition wouldallow, "a plate of ham and eggs, wheat cakes and coffee,withcream! And if you have any of the roast pork left over from last night,put a piece on the plate with the muffins. I want to wrap it up in abanana-skin and take it to the office for my lunch."

And that, kiddikins, is why you must never mention bananas in frontof Grandpa if you don't want a good, swift clout across your prettylittle mouths.

You Mr. Grown-Up!

One of the eight things which are supposed to be wrong with thepresent generation of adults (not including the mere fact of being inthe present generation of adults, which is no small handicap in itself)is that we didn't learn enough about the science of physics when wewere young. Well, it might as well be that as anything.

All of this is being remedied in the coming generation, thanks tothe model laboratories where children are being taught to do littletricks which involve the principle of light refraction and thecoefficient of linear expansion. The best of it is that they don't knowthat they are being taught anything. They just think they're playingwith eggs and matches.

Here is a list of problems which any kiddie in the modern laboratorycan do. It is printed in the paper under the heading: "Mr. GrownUp, CanYou Do These Things?" Well, "Mr. Grown-Up" isn't my name, in the firstplace. And Ican do these things, in the second. I may messthings up a little, but I'll get them done somehow. No child of six isgoing to get ahead of me.

1. Can you place a shelled, hard-boiled egg in the mouth of amilk bottle, and, without touching it, cause it to plop into thebottle?

Sure I can. I haven't figured it out yet, but I'll do it if I haveto use a robin's egg. (Ha-ha—you hadn't thought of that, had you,Mr. SixYear-Old?)

2. Tell why a stick, placed in water at an angle, appears to bebent at the surface.

3. Produce a series of sounds like chimes with a piece of stringand a teaspoon.

Hit the teaspoon repeatedly with the piece of string until it doesgive off a series of sounds like chimes. This is just a matter ofperseverance. It may take quite a while, but before long you'll kidyourself into thinking you hear chimes, whether you do or not. What'sso great about chimes, anyway?

5. Tell why a balloon, only partly inflated, will apparently fillup when held tightly over the top of a milk bottle filled withsteam.

Because itdoes fill up. You didn't expect me to fallbackward at that one, did you?

Well, that cleans up Mr. Grown-Up's part of the examination. Nowwe'll ask Mr. Six-Year-Old some questions.

Sluggards, Ahoy!

At a recent so-called "hobby exhibit" in New York a young manentered as his hobby a colony of ants. I remember thinking at the time:"Well, sir——"

Presumably the young man, who was specializing in zoology, took upants as a hobby because he subscribed to the age-old theory that Manhas a great deal to learn from the ants. As a matter of fact the onlything that I ever learned from an ant was not to try to carry too big acrumb on my back or I would walk sideways.

And now along comes as smart an ant-watcher as Professor JulianHuxley, who says that we humans can not only hold our own with ants,but possibly might be able to slip over a couple of tricks on them oncein a while.

"One of the important differences between a human being and atermite is the matter of size," says Professor Huxley, cracking downwith a dictum. "Important difference," Professor? It's colossal!It's the difference between my sleeping in my bed or an ant's sleepingthere, that's all.

"If we had ants as big as fox terriers and wasps as big as eagles,"continues Dr. Huxley—but there I left him. I don't want to knowwhat the end of that sentence was. And I don't want anyone ever tobegin a sentence that way again, either—at least, not within myhearing.

The comforting thing about Prof. Huxley's lecture was the statementthat we really don't have to learn anything from the ant. We can go ourway and the ant can go his. Contrary to our teachings, we do not haveto be bending over all the time studying how the ants do it.

Human beings and ants have a great many things in common, however.They are the only organisms which have rubbish heaps, slaves anddomestic animals, and which make war with military precision. Whichbrings me to a remark of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's, as what doesn't?

Mrs. Campbell was sitting at dinner next to an ant-watcher, who wastelling, at considerable length, about the remarkable organization ofant communities.

"They have teams and working units, with sub-divisions of labor," hesaid. "An ant community even has an army."

Sweet Solitude

Every man owes it to himself (and his friends) to get away entirelyalone in an isolated shack every so often, if only to find out justwhat bad company he can be.

I don't mean just getting upstairs alone for an evening and readingbound volumes ofHarper's Weekly without answering thetelephone. There's quite a lot of kick in that, and one ought to comedownstairs the next morning a better man.

What I mean is an isolation that would make Thoreau on Walden Pondlook like a bookmaker at a racetrack. I mean to have somebody drive youout to a shack on a sand dune and then drive off without you, callingback, "See you Thursday!" Let's see—Saturday, Sunday, Monday,Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—Hey, Eddie—come back!

Here's the thing you always thought you'd like to do—get awayfrom it all! Just settle down absolutely alone by yourself and checkup. Take my advice anddon't ever check up! Take my advice andsettle down right in the middle of Piccadilly Circus with a goodbook.

The first thing you do is to go around front and take a look at theocean. That's a big ocean all right. Just a shadetoo big, ifyou ask me. Now go around back and look at the moors. Yes,sir—there are the moors! Now what?

Well, you might as well start in on that bag of books you brought.You wanted to catch up on your reading. All right,catch up onit! Go ahead—catch up! You're so fond of reading—goahead, read a book.

Let's see, the rest of Saturday, all of Sunday, Monday, Tuesday.Don't go on that way, or you'll go crazy. Maybe you'll go crazy anyway.Maybe you were crazy before, and now you're going sane. Maybe that'sthe top of your head flying off—or was it just a gull going by?Suppose it were a gullwith the top of your head! What about agood, loud scream?

You could scramble yourself some eggs. That's a good idea, even ifit is only four o'clock in the afternoon. It's something to do, at anyrate. Scrambled eggs—ambled screggs—drangledgeggs—smammbled mreggs—grambled smeggs. So this is the mindwhich God gave you to work things out with! This is called "communingwith yourself"!

Heigh-ho! Eggs over! My, my—here it is a quarter to five of aSaturday (Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,Thursday)afternoon. Almost bedtime. Why not? You're here for a rest. Sleep, theysay, knits up the raveled sleeve of care, the death of each day's life,sore Labour's bath, balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,chief nourisher in life's feast. Not bad!

Now would be a good time to think. Think about what? There must belots of things to think about. Nameone! Life. . . . All right,think about Life, you're so crazy about thinking. . . . I guess thatwas the top of your head that gull had. . . . And will he besore when he finds out that it isn't a fish!

Bed at five-thirty . . . eight good hours of sleep, and up with abound at one-thirty A. M. ready for another day! Anyway, it's Sunday.Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,Thursday! How about scrambling someeggs? Scrambled eggs—ambled screggs . . . come, come! No more ofthat!

A look at the ocean . . . a look at the moors . . . a look at thebag of books . . . a look at yourself in the mirror . . . Boo! Youpretty thing! See how far you can stick your tongue out. . . . See ifyou can raise one eyebrow and lower the other. . . . See if you canlook like Bismarck. . . . Youare Bismarck! . . . Hi-ya,Bismarck!

(Editor's Note: This fragment of manuscript was found floating ina bather off Santa Barbara.)

Penguin Feud

There is bad news from the Toledo (Ohio) Zoo. Admiral and Jake, thetwo penguin buddies, have had a falling out. They don't speak.

Admiral and Jake were recently acquired from the South Polarregions, where they were popular favorites and, according to SouthPolar gossip, inseparable. They even insisted that they be bookedtogether at the Toledo Zoo, for, as Admiral said when approached forthe engagement: "Jake and I are like that!"

On arriving in Toledo they were put in the same pen (at theirrequest), and when Admiral went into the pool for hismorning-noon-afternoon-and-evening dip Jake went, too. Sometimes it wasJake who went first, with Admiral following. (We mustn't give you theidea that Jake was just the weakling of the combination. The two wereequally interested in each other.)

I am taking this all on the word of the Zoo authorities, but it isalso said that Admiral and Jake took strolls together around the penand discussed the latest news from the South Polar regions in atemperate, though definitely intimate, manner. So far as the police canlearn, there was never a sign of personal animosity, never a harsh wordor an ugly look. There was even some idea of changing their names toDamon and Pythias.

Then—like a bolt from the blue—something happened!Whether it was something that Admiral said, or something that Jakedidn't say, no one will ever know. The fact remains that the other daythey definitely severed relations. No brawling, you understand. Just anagreement to disagree.

Admiral now takes his plunge alone, and Jake waits until he isthrough. Jake totters back and forth on his constitutional, and Admiralwatches from his club window until Jake has finished and then whips outfor a brisk walk alone. If they happen to meet they look the other way.Jake bows slightly.

I took the liberty of interviewing them for my paper, but I mustconfess that I could get nothing from either one. Both being Harvardmen, they preferred to let the matter go without publicity. After all,what concern is it of the outside world?

I quote Jake first: "There is really nothing in the story at all.Admiral and I are still great friends. It is true that we do not seeeach other as much as we did, but what of that? I am sure that I speakfor Admiral as well as for myself when I say that, should the occasionarise for a joint effort in behalf of some common cause, I would gladlycoöperate—to the extent of tending my name with his."

Admiral was perhaps more personal: "Jake is—or was—toogood a friend of mine for me to imply that the reason for our split-upwas due to his insufferable curiosity. 'What are you doing tonight?''Who was that you were talking to?' 'Where did you get that fish?' Isimply could not stand it, that's all! But please do not print anythingthat would hurt Jake. I am sure that things will be straightened out,and that we shall be back together again before long. I mean too muchto Jake for him to let me go."

When shown the above statement of Admiral's, Jake merely said:"That's whathe thinks!"

In the meantime, the officials of the Toledo Zoo are in a quandary.Should they put Admiral and Jake in two separate pens or just let themwork it out for themselves? Sometimes these things go on for months,and, after all, Admiral and Jake were hired as a team.

Coffee Versus Gin

What is it with these people at Cornell and other hotbeds of medicalresearch that they are always monkeying around with experiments onliquor? They are always trying to find out how many cubic centimetersof alcohol you can take before the salivary glands start drying up, orhow much black coffee it takes to counteract the effects of a shot ofgin. What do youcare?

Presumably drinking is a carefree occupation; at any rate while youare drinking. If it isn't a lark, it certainly isn't anything else. Itcertainly isn't practical; we know that. I don't suppose you would findone man in a hundred who has made a nickel by taking a drink.

So why all this "cubic centimeter" talk? Why go at it sohard-headedly? Why drag in the salivary glands?We know they dryup. You don't have to work in a Cornell laboratory to know that.

The particular experiments which have thrown me into such afever-heat of indignation had to do with the use of coffee as anantidote for liquor. Seventy-five cubic centimeters of gin followedimmediately by ten grams of coffee in a half pint of water and the ginhad no effect. I've got a better scheme than that. Don't take theseventy-five centimeters of gin at all. Think of all the coffee you'dsave!

And, incidentally, I consider coffee greatly overrated as astimulant: It has never kept me awake yet and it has never started meoff with a bang in the morning. A lot of people say: "I'm no good inthe morning until I've had my coffee." I'm no good in the morning evenafter I've had my coffee.

This old-wives' superstition that a cup of black coffee will "putyou on your feet" with a hangover is either propaganda by the coffeepeople or the work of dilettante drinkers who get giddy oncooking-sherry. A man with areal hangover is in no mood to betold "Just take a cup of black coffee" or "The thing for you is acouple of aspirin." A real hangover is nothing to try out familyremedies on. The only cure for a real hangover is death.

On such rare occasions as I feel called upon to work late at night,a cup of black coffee taken at midnight acts as an instantaneoussoporific. Two cups and I oversleep in the morning. I like coffee, butit soothes me. And that is one thing I don't need—soothing.

The same people who tell you that a cup of black coffee will put you"on your feet" are also the ones who go around recommending a "gooddose of castor oil" for a broken leg. (Why must it always be agood dose of castor oil? There is no such thing as a "good" doseof castor oil.) They tell you how to cure hiccoughs, and swear by aglass of hot milk in cases of insomnia. They are nice, kindly people,but you will usually find that they lead fairly sheltered lives. Theydon't get around much in real suffering circles.

And Cornell or no Cornell, I still don't believe that ten grams ofcoffee in a half pint of water will offset seventy-five cubiccentimeters of gin. How much is seventy-five cubic centimeters of gin,anyway?

The Early Worm

Early rising has several points in its favor, such as getting firstcrack at the bathroom and the best of the coffee brew, but it is likelyto lead to melancholia if you happen to be with a week-end group oflate sleepers. One can roam about alone just so long, and then madnesssets in.

The man who finds himself, either because of abundant health or anuncomfortable bed, up early in the morning on a house-party or boattrip, is at first suffused with a glow of superiority. If he is in aposition to take a swim alone in the crisp morning air he becomeswell-nigh insufferable, or would be if there were anyone awake tosuffer from his manner.

Then comes the tough part. He tiptoes around, listening at thevarious doors to find out if anyone else is awake. Gad! how can peoplesleep like that! There is nothing so brutish as someone asleep when youare up and bathed and coffeed. It shakes one's respect for humannature, that's what it does.

Waking people up deliberately is a little drastic, but there areother ways of disturbing their slumber so that possibly they may awakenby themselves. Stumbling over chairs, playing the radio, or even awell-spotted coughing spell have been known to accomplish this, but youcan't count on it. Usually the best you can get is the weaksatisfaction of hearing someone roll over.

There are always four or five books on a shelf in a beach-house orsailboat, but somehow they never seem to fit in with a 9 A.M. mood.The Golden Ostrich, Lost Heritage, Lady Alice's Compact andModern Clipper Ships, all of them looking as if they had, atsome time, been dipped in brine, usually constitute the lay-out, withpossibly a copy of last week'sNew Yorker with the cover tornoff.

Then it is when brooding sets in. You have no right to be off onthis junket, anyway, with all that work to do at home. The office maybe calling for you at this very minute. The house may be on fire. Yourembezzlement may have been discovered. What are you making of yourlife, anyway?

Pacing up and down, smoking innumerable cigarettes, shadowboxing—none of these expedients serve to calm you. But they wearyou out, so that by the time the other members of the party have comepeering out for breakfast you are overcome with a belated drowsinessand sleep like a tired child during whatever excitement may follow.

Truffle Poisoning

One of the easiest forms of pretense to break down is the pretenseof enthusiasm for exotic foods. Just bring on the exotic foods. When aman opens his eyes very wide and says, "Boy, what I couldn't do to arasher of Japanese rollmops right now!" get him a rasher of Japaneserollmops and see what he does to them. The chances are that he can'tgag down more than three mouthfuls.

Almost everyone has some little dish that he talks a lot aboutliking, because it is either hard to get or hard to swallow. But whenthey are confronted with their dream dish, it very often turns out thatnausea flies in the window.

I used to rave a lot about truffles. (Incidentally, while raving, Imispronounced the word.) Now, all that I actually knew about truffleswas that they came as a fixing to several very tasty dishes. I hadnever really tasted a truffle on the hoof, but I had read about them,and talked as if all Paris knew of my craving for them.

Then, one night, I had my bluff called. A friend, with whom I wasdining, said: "You ought to be very happy tonight. I see that they havetrufflesau nature on the menu." I said: "Oh, boy!"

There being very few things that I cannot eat with relish, I hadevery reason to believe that I could carry on with a truffle, eventhough I had never tasted one.

And I probably could have made a go of it if I had been in top formthat night. But I was more in the mood to be pampered, and a plaintruffle, although considered a delicacy, is not exactly succulent. Itturned out to be some thing on the order of edible pumice, or a small,black sponge. It had no sauce. Just the pumice. But I had to dig in andlook as much like an ecstatic epicure as I could, smacking my lips andmaking French gestures with my free hand, while my companion watchedwith what I thought I detected to be high glee.

I was cured of my truffle talk, but I still have several dishes thatI pretend to crave and which I hope I never have to eat under closescrutiny. One of them istête de veau, or the head of acalf served with the brains, ears and eyes.

If you ever hear me raving abouttête de veau, it willpay you to order me one and watch.

My Untold Story

For the benefit of those who are not following the startling "untoldstories" of the down-fall of gun molls, scarlet women and othercelebrities they are currently unfolding in the newspapers, I will givea brief resume of my own untold story, telling, in every sordid detail,of how I came to New York, an innocent young man from New England, andcouldn't get myself seduced, even into taking a glass of beer, for lovenor money.

I arrived in New York (for my second try at it) on New Year's Day,1916. How memorable that day turned out to be in my life may be judgedfrom the fact that I just had to look it up. I would have said that itwas 1917.

I was inexperienced in the ways of the world, being only twenty-sixat the time and having seen nothing of life except that in a very toughpreparatory school, four years in a college notorious for its highliving, and a few more years knocking about in a chain of New Englandmills. I had also worked for a year in New York, before.

So, you will see, New Year's Day, 1916, found me wide-eyed andinnocent, although I had heard that New York was full of pitfalls foryoung men like me. I remember asking the policeman, just outside theGrand Central Terminal where I could find the nearest pitfall. He toldme that, it being a legal holiday, the pitfalls were all closed.

I neither drank nor smoked, and my experience with women was limitedto being married and having one child. But I had heard that, in NewYork, I should probably be forced to drink if I wanted to keep up withthe fast social set of the day. I was prepared, however, to put up astiff fight.

Being a reporter on a daily newspaper ("the worst reporter, even forhis age, in New York," was the affectionate epithet applied to me), Iwas immediately plunged into the gay life of a newspaper office and theclubs that went with it. Here I met such well-known bon-vivants of theday as Franklin P. Adams, Charles Hansom Towne, Deems Taylor, ArthurFolwell, Izzy Kaplan, Irwin Edman—none of whom drank.

I shall never forget my first "party" in the famous "Tower Room" ofFranklin P. Adams, in the oldWorld building. The room had beendesigned by the International Pulp and Paper Company, and was averitable bower of copy-paper, spittoons and wall calendars for 1914. Iknew, when "Frank," as he was called, invited me, that I was about tosee life at last. Poor little me!

Some of the fellows had already assembled, Folwell, Taylor, Edmanand Kaplan, and soon the cry was: "Everybody over to Dewey's forlunch." Dewey's was a down-town restaurant, famous at that time for itsfreshly made grape juice. They pressed the grapes right in the windowand you could go in and drink your fill. And you may be sure that weall did!

I was a little disappointed at not being offered any hard liquor sothat I could refuse it, but the grape juice and steamed cod were sodelicious that I soon forgot my little worries and joined in with therest. It was soon time to go back to the paper to work, where I wasassigned to "cover" a banquet of the New Hampshire Society, which wasbeing held that evening at the old Waldorf-Astoria! It was my first bigassignment!

On being told that I was no longer a reporter on theTribune(that would be the oldTribune, introduced by P. T. Barnum intothis country with great success at Castle Garden, now the Aquarium) Iwas in a quandary, as you may well imagine. I had been two years in NewYork, associating with a group of men who were, for the most part,teetotallers, and I had not even learned to drink. Neither could Iinhale very well.

I didn't tell Mama that I had lost my job, as Mama was up in NewEngland, and I had no one to go to with my troubles except severalwealthy men who had offered to lend me money. I hated to accept moneyfrom men, however, as you know how that looks when it comes out in thepapers at the trial. So I compromised by borrowing a hundred from one,two hundred from another, and fifty cents from a third. I shall neverforget their kindness.

Fortunately for me, one of them also got me a position aspress-agent which paid twice as much as my old newspaper job had paidand threw me at once into the maelstrom of theatrical life on Broadway.Here, at last, it looked as if my dreams of being seduced into someform of wickedness were coming true. You know that theatrical crowd inNew York! Hot dickety!

If I were to list all the famous people I met in my life in thetheatre, you wouldn't believe me. William A. Brady (my employer); Mrs.William A. Brady (Grace George); A. O. Brown (at that time manager ofthe Playhouse); Charlie, the carriage-starter; Miss Healy; Julius Cohen(at that time representative of the theatrical advertising agency, nowdramatic critic of theNew York Journal of Commerce); and LionelAtwill. Here was life with a vengeance for poor little me!

I told Mama that I was working for the B. R. T., as I didn't wanther to worry. To this day she doesn't know that I was in the employ ofa theatrical producer. Neither does the theatrical producer.

My office was on the top floor of the Playhouse in the famous "TowerRoom." Here I sat all day, amid piles and piles of old newspapers andphotographs of road companies of Mr. Brady'sWay Down East, andtyped out stories about how Bernstein came to writeL'Elevation,the play which Miss George was doing at that time. I also wrote somestories aboutThe Man Who Came Back, which was then on the road.The theatre was "getting me," I could tell that.

They didn't like to have me backstage much, but I used to hangaround the box-office quite a bit, as I felt that there I was getting alittle closer to the smell of grease paint and "the world ofmake-believe." Mr. Brown was also very good company, and I had no oneto talk to up in the famous "Tower Room."

At last, however, Mr. Brown's patience wore out, as the box-officewas very small, and, finally, on one matinee day, he asked me why Ididn't get out of the way. I had no good answer to this, so I went overto the Capehart Theatrical Advertising Agency and talked with JuliusCohen for a little while.

I think that Mr. Brown regretted his brusqueness a little, for hewas really very kindhearted, and one Saturday night he said to me,smiling: "The show closes next Saturday night. You close tonight!"

So that ended my Broadway career for a while, and still I had notbeen seduced. In all my stay among "the white lights" (two months) Ihad spoken to only one woman, Miss Healy, up in the office. She wasvery nice. As Miss George was always very busy, I had met noactresses.

As I walked out of the Playhouse that cold November night, adischarged press-agent, I realized that I was not only broke but, whatwas worse, unsullied. Neither Newspaper Row nor the Gay White Way hadeven lifted a finger to drag me down. What was the matter with me,anyway? Wasn't I pretty enough?

But around the corner lay the grim spectre of army life, which hasbeen the downfall of so many young men. My turn was coming, although Idid not know it. When I think, that, on that November night of 1917, Ihad been able neither to get myself lured into taking a drink nor intoany wild orgies with women, I smile a wry smile. For, by the end of thewar, I had been no more successful.

Having been, at the time of the draft, the father of anexceptionally dependent child, I was placed in what was known as "Class1-A," or the Sitting Pretty Group. However, it was an imminentnecessity for me to get a job of some kind in order to keep a familyalive; so a good friend (who shall be nameless, as I have forgotten hisname) got me a position (civilian) in Washington, with the AircraftBoard. So, packing up milk containers and diapers, we marched away fromthe Great City which had failed so miserably as a Hell Hole.

My field headquarters during the war were in Room 911 of the MunseyBuilding, Washington, D. C., in the very heart of the district whichpresented so many pitfalls to the young man on leave. On one corner wasthe New Willard Hotel, with no bar, and on another corner the CapitolLunch, where egg sandwiches at all hours of the day and night were aconstant temptation. The trolley ride out to Chevy Chase each eveningwas also a rather riotous experience.

The Aircraft Board having been given quite a bit of publicity aboutairplanes which seem never to have been shipped to France, my job wasto keep all mention of airplanes out of papers until the affair hadblown over. So I sat in Room 911 all day and read all the papers in theUnited States. It was gruelling work, and sometimes I would come intomy office with my shoes caked with the red mud in which our Chevy Chasehouse was built, but I never whimpered, if I do say so myself. I waswaiting for someone to offer me a drink, so that my morale could crack.But no one ever did, darn it!

Among the famous war characters who didn't offer me a drink orsuggest that I step out withmademoiselles were Mr. Payne andMr. Horton, who worked in the Aircraft Board office; Mr. Howard Coffin,the chairman (who once inveigled me up to his house for tea, whichturned out to be tea), and the Washington newspaper correspondents, whowouldn't have given me a drink if they had had one. I also once talkedto a man in uniform, but, as he was a major-general, he said nothingabout sin.

So there was poor little Me, having been through the mill ofnewspaper work, theatrical work, and war work, and still as virginal inthe ways of the world as when I left Mama in Worcester. I was, frankly,discouraged. Was I never to see Life?

As you may well imagine, I was, by this time, a pretty discouragedboy at my vain attempts to taste even a dreg of life. When a boyreaches the age of thirty without having had even a glass of beer or asly wink from a pair of roguish eyes, things begin to look pretty blackfor his career as a man-about-town.

So it was with high excitement that I made my first trip toHollywood, the Sin Capital of the World. "Here it comes at last!" Igiggled to myself. "Life in the raw, and then down-down-down!" I couldhardly wait.

I shall never forget my first night in Hollywood. I had taken a roomat a hotel, and with me was Marc Connelly, a tea merchant, who hadknocked around the world quite a bit, and George Jessel, a romanticactor of that period (1926). We had dined wisely, but not very well,and were in the mood for about three-quarters of an orgy. The onlytrouble was that we were all just a little sleepy. At first, thatCalifornia air gets you that way.

Mr. Jessel said that he knew a beautiful girl that he would call up."We'll have a million laughs," he said. A million laughs wasn't my ideaof what constituted a Hollywood orgy, but I figured it out thateveryone didn't necessarily have to laugh all the time.

He called the number of the beautiful girl, and while he was waitinghe reassured us again. "She's the most beautiful girl you ever saw," hesaid. Then, after a long wait, he added, "She's so beautiful she isn'tat home!"

So he called another number, that of a well-known movie actress. Myheart went like a tackhammer! A movie actress! She turned out to be athome, but just about to go to bed. "On the set at nine tomorrow, youknow," she said.

While George called some other actresses' numbers, Marc and I triedto see who could recall the oldest popular song. It was great fun!Then, all of George's numbers being either out or on the point of goingto bed, we hit upon a great plan for the rest of the evening.

"Let's go over to Henry's and get an egg sandwich!" said Marc. Likea flash we were off, and ten o'clock saw us in the middle of our secondegg sandwich, washed down with an equal number of beakers of milk.(Henry's was the only place in Hollywood that stayed open afternine-thirty, so we were in great good luck to find it.)

And so it went during my whole stay in the Movie Capital. Work allday with Ray Griffiths, who didn't drink and who kept bachelor quartersat the Los Angeles Athletic Club ("open house," we called it), dinnerat six-thirty and bed at nine-thirty, reading last Thursday's New Yorkpaper from cover to cover. I gained eleven pounds and forgot how toinhale cigarets. (It is a funny thing, but, once I had lost the knackof inhaling, I lost interest in cigarets, and have never smoked themsince.)

I met lots of movie actors and actresses, but I guess that I gotinto the wrong set, for they were all crazy about tennis and earlyrising. The nearest I got to temptation was once when I went out of themovie colony to Santa Barbara to be best man at Donald Ogden Stewart'swedding and got water on the knee. But I did that all by myself. Nobodytempted me. Sometimes now I think of those quiet evenings in Hollywoodunder the reading lamp and wonder if it wouldn't be better if I hadstayed there among the orange juice.

I could hardly sleep on my first day in Paris, but, as there wasnothing much else to do, I turned in at about three in the afternoon,shortly after the arrival of the boat-train, and managed to tear offabout fifteen hours. (It had been a very rough crossing, during which Ihad met no interesting people, and I was dead tired.)

The next morning the sun rose gray and foggy, and I put in along-distance call for America, just to talk with Mama. (Mama had notcome along on the trip, being no fool.)

Then—what to do? The Galleries Lafayette, Cook's, the AmericanExpress, all these were names to conjure with. So I conjured with themfor a while and then went out for a walk. This broke up the day nicely,especially as it began to rain, and I had to run for it, I can tellyou. As our hotel was on a side street, through which no one had passedsince the days of the Commune, I, fortunately, had plenty of room inwhich to run. But was I out of breath! Hotdickety!

That evening I was all agog, except for my dress tie, which I hadlost somewhere. We were going to the Folies Bergères! Hereanything might happen. I had always heard that the FoliesBergères was very immoral, and there was a pretty good chancethat I should be grabbed up by one of those Frenchcocottes anddragged off to some hell-hole, willyand nilly. I might not havemade much of a hit with thedemi-monde in my own country, but Isaw no way out of a complete collapse of my moral fibre now. I evendashed a bit of cologne on my lapel.

After I got back from the Folies Bergères I read a copy ofCollier's that I had bought on a newsstand and had a really goodnight's sleep. There was a corking good story inCollier's abouta man who owned a sheep-dog that barked when the house caught fire. Ishall never forget it.

Day followed day in Paris, a typically French trick. In my desire tosee life I went to the Louvre, but it was closed on account of thetheft of the Mona Lisa, which had occurred just that week. I went toNapoleon's Tomb, but there was nothing doing there. It wasla grandesemaine in Paris, and the chestnut trees were all dying off.Zutalors!

My nights were spent in looking for adventure, which I found invarious forms. A place called Mitchell's, on Montmartre, servedwheatcakes and sausages just like those in New York, and over on theLeft Bank, the home of the Bohemians, I found a man from Worcester whowas studying book-binding and wanted to know all about the home folks.He introduced me to a drink which was something like iced tea withoutthe kick. The ham sandwiches were also pretty bad.