* * *
A bachelor complains to us that prohibition has ruined his life. His
companions have deserted their haunts--all, all are gone, the old
familiar faces--and he can find no one to talk to; and he talks very
well, too. Now, we have as much compassion for him as it is possible to
have for any bachelor, and yet we do not esteem his case utterly
hopeless. As Mr. Lardner has suggested, when he repairs to his hotel at
night he can open the clothespress and talk to his other suit of
clothes.
* * *
Tolstoi's "Power of Darkness" reminds P. G. Wodehouse of a definition of
Greek tragedy--the sort of drama in which one character comes to another
and says, "If _you_ don't kill mother, _I_ will!"
* * *
"The jehu of the rubber-neck wagon," reports a gadder from Loz Onglaze,
"called out: 'We are now in the center of the old aristocratic center.
That palatial residence on our left is the home of Fatty Arbuckle.'"
* * *
_MORNING IN IOWA_.
_A cold, rough, gloomy morning!
'Gainst yellow dawn the smoke
Of neighbors' chimneys stains the air,
Reminding me that yon grim, white-capped cone,
Which like a second Rainier stands in my backyard,
Like him of ash and cinders built, now calls
For more upbuilding. That white bloom
Which last night's snow hath left upon
His smooth and awful sides must now
Be sicklied o'er with more and yet more
Ashes._
_What's that I smell--buckwheats?
And What's-his-name's pig sausage?
It is? Aha!
Gee, what a peach of a morning!_
Abd-el-Kader.
* * *