There was at one time upon the earth a Mr S. L. Binkle, who always spoke
of himself as a Business Expert. He would, from time to time, scatter
broadcast little sheets of paper, on which was printed: ‘Efficiency!
What does it mean to you?’ and many other dark sayings.
This Binkle was a middle-aged man who lived strangely: he never laughed
or sang or ate heartily, though some have said that he had a weakness
for tapioca pudding.
It chanced that one afternoon when he was sitting in his office, there
was some noisy music in the street near by, so Binkle put small pieces
of cotton-wool in his ears. Far away, the gods laughed.
A few minutes later, the office door was flung open, and a red-faced man
rushed in, crying: ‘You Mister Binkle?... come down to Balham ... next
Tuesday evening ... talk on Business Efficiency ... no time to stop ...
train ... ask for Mechanics Institute ... five guineas.’ After which,
the stranger departed noisily.
These loose fragments of speech were quite intelligible and, indeed,
welcome to Binkle, who made a note in a little book and smiled with
satisfaction.
But alas--who can foresee what the gods have decreed? For, with the
cotton-wool in his ears, Binkle had not heard the stranger rightly; and
on the Tuesday following, instead of going to Balham, he went to Barham,
which is full of poets and wild lovers, and there he perished
miserably.
THE TRUE ACCOUNT OF A QUARREL BETWEEN A MAN WE ALL KNOW AND A VERY OLD
FAMILY
The Man who thought about Proteids sat by the roadside, writing with an
indelible pencil in a little notebook. And Spring, all in pink and
white, came tripping by, and cried to him: ‘I will dance for you! Watch
me dance!’ She danced very prettily, but the Man went on writing, and
never looked at her once. So Spring, being young, burst into tears, and
told her sister, Summer.
Summer said to herself: ‘Spring is very foolish to cry. Probably he does
not like dancing. I will sing to him.’ She sang a beautiful sleepy song
to him, but he never listened, being busy writing in his little
note-book. Summer was indignant, and told her sister, Autumn.
Autumn said: ‘There are many good men who do not like dancing. I will
give him some of my wine.’ So she went to the Man and offered him her
purple wine, but he merely said, ‘I do not drink wine,’ and resumed his
writing. Then Autumn was very angry indeed, and told her big brother,
Winter, all that had passed.
Winter was an enormous fellow, with a dreadful roar and howl, and every
time he moved, snowflakes came whirling from his flowing robes. ‘Show me
the fellow,’ he bellowed, puffing out his cheeks. Then he saw the Man
who thought about Proteids, still sitting by the roadside.
‘Do you know me?’ roared Winter, and the Man looked and his teeth
chattered like dead men’s bones.
Then Winter seized him by the neck and whirled him round and round, and
finally flung him over his left shoulder into space.
And the Man who thought about Proteids has not been seen since, but, the
other day, a boy found the little note-book lying by the roadside.