PART 3

In the dining-room of the Twillys' house everything was very quiet. Even

the vinegar-cruet which was covered with fly-specks. Grandma Twilly lay

with her head in the baked potatoes, poisoned by Mabel, who, in her turn

had been poisoned by her husband and sprawled in an odd posture over the

china-closet. Wilbur and his sister Bernice had just finished choking

each other to death and between them completely covered the carpet in

that corner of the room where the worn spot showed the bare boards

beneath, like ribs on a chicken carcass. Only the baby survived. She had

a mean face and had great spillings of Imperial Granum down her bib. As

she looked about her at her family, a great hate surged through her tiny

body and her eyes snapped viciously. She wanted to get down from her

high-chair and show them all how much she hated them.

Bernice's husband, the man who came after the waste paper, staggered

into the room. The tips were off both his shoe-lacings. The baby

experienced a voluptuous sense of futility at the sight of the

tipless-lacings and leered suggestively at her uncle-in-law.

"We must get the roof fixed," said the man, very quietly. "It lets the

sun in."

III

THIS CHILD KNOWS THE ANSWER--DO YOU?

We are occasionally confronted in the advertisements by the picture of

an offensively bright-looking little boy, fairly popping with

information, who, it is claimed in the text, knows all the inside dope

on why fog forms in beads on a woolen coat, how long it would take to

crawl to the moon on your hands and knees, and what makes oysters so

quiet.

The taunting catch-line of the advertisement is: "This Child Knows the

Answer--Do You?" and the idea is to shame you into buying a set of books

containing answers to all the questions in the world except the question

"Where is the money coming from to buy the books?"

Any little boy knowing all these facts would unquestionably be an asset

in a business which specialized in fog-beads or lunar transportation

novelties, but he would be awful to have about the house.

"Spencer," you might say to him, "where are Daddy's slippers?" To which

he would undoubtedly answer: "I don't know, Dad," (disagreeable little

boys like that always call their fathers "Dad" and stand with their feet

wide apart and their hands in their pockets like girls playing boys'

rôles on the stage) "but I _do_ know this, that all the Nordic peoples

are predisposed to astigmatism because of the glare of the sun on the

snow, and that, furthermore, if you were to place a common ordinary

marble in a glass of luke-warm cider there would be a precipitation

which, on pouring off the cider, would be found to be what we know as

parsley, just plain parsley which Cook uses every night in preparing our

dinner."

With little ones like this around the house, a new version of "The

Children's Hour" will have to be arranged, and it might as well be done

now and got over with.

_The Well-Informed Children's Hour_

Between the dark and the day-light,

When the night is beginning lo lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupation

Which is known as the children's hour.

'Tis then appears tiny Irving

With the patter of little feet,

To tell us that worms become dizzy

At a slight application of heat.

And Norma, the baby savant,

Comes toddling up with the news

That a valvular catch in the larynx

Is the reason why Kitty mews.

"Oh Grandpa," cries lovable Lester,

"Jack Frost has surprised us again,

By condensing in crystal formation

The vapor which clings to the pane!"

Then Roger and Lispinard Junior

Race pantingly down through the hall

To be first with the hot information

That bees shed their coats in the Fall.

No longer they clamor for stories

As they cluster in fun 'round my knee

But each little darling is bursting

With a story that he must tell me,

Giving reasons why daisies are sexless

And what makes the turtle so dour;

So it goes through the horrible gloaming

Of the Well-informed Children's Hour.

IV

RULES AND SUGGESTIONS FOR WATCHING AUCTION BRIDGE

With all the expert advice that is being offered in print these days

about how to play games, it seems odd that no one has formulated a set

of rules for the spectators. The spectators are much more numerous than

the players, and seem to need more regulation. As a spectator of twenty

years standing, versed in watching all sports except six-day bicycle

races, I offer the fruit of my experience in the form of suggestions and

reminiscences which may tend to clarify the situation, or, in case there

is no situation which needs clarifying, to make one.

In the event of a favorable reaction on the part of the public, I shall

form an association, to be known as the National Amateur Audience

Association (or the N.A.A.A., if you are given to slang) of which I

shall be Treasurer. That's all I ask, the Treasurership.

This being an off-season of the year for outdoor sports (except walking,

which is getting to have neither participants nor spectators) it seems

best to start with a few remarks on the strenuous occupation of watching

a bridge game. Bridge-watchers are not so numerous as football watchers,

for instance, but they are much more in need of coordination and it will

be the aim of this article to formulate a standardized set of rules for

watching bridge which may be taken as a criterion for the whole country.

NUMBER WHO MAY WATCH

There should not be more than one watcher for each table. When there are

two, or more, confusion is apt to result and no one of the watchers can

devote his attention to the game as it should be devoted. Two watchers

are also likely to bump into each other as they make their way around

the table looking over the players' shoulders. If there are more

watchers than there are tables, two can share one table between them,

one being dummy while the other watches. In this event the first one

should watch until the hand has been dealt and six tricks taken, being

relieved by the second one for the remaining tricks and the marking down

of the score.

PRELIMINARIES

In order to avoid any charge of signalling, it will be well for the

following conversational formula to be used before the game begins:

The ring-leader of the game says to the fifth person: "Won't you join

the game and make a fourth? I have some work which I really ought to be

doing."

The fifth person replies: "Oh, no, thank you! I play a wretched game.

I'd much rather sit here and read, if you don't mind."

To which the ring-leader replies: "Pray do."

After the first hand has been dealt, the fifth person, whom we shall now

call the "watcher," puts down the book and leans forward in his (or her)

chair, craning the neck to see what is in the hand nearest him. The

strain becoming too great, he arises and approaches the table, saying:

"Do you mind if I watch a bit?"

No answer need be given to this, unless someone at the table has nerve

enough to tell the truth.

PROCEDURE

The game is now on. The watcher walks around the table, giving each hand

a careful scrutiny, groaning slightly at the sight of a poor one and

making noises of joyful anticipation at the good ones. Stopping behind

an especially unpromising array of cards, it is well to say: "Well,

unlucky at cards, lucky in love, you know." This gives the partner an

opportunity to judge his chances on the bid he is about to make, and is

perfectly fair to the other side, too, for they are not left entirely in

the dark. Thus everyone benefits by the remark.

[Illustration: The watcher walks around the table, giving each hand a

careful scrutiny.]

When the bidding begins, the watcher has considerable opportunity for

effective work. Having seen how the cards lie, he is able to stand back

and listen with a knowing expression, laughing at unjustified bids and

urging on those who should, in his estimation, plunge. At the conclusion

of the bidding he should say: "Well, we're off!"

As the hand progresses and the players become intent on the game, the

watcher may be the cause of no little innocent diversion. He may ask one

of the players for a match, or, standing behind the one who is playing

the hand, he may say:

"I'll give you three guesses as to whom I ran into on the street

yesterday. Someone you all know. Used to go to school with you, Harry

... Light hair and blue eyes ... Medium build ... Well, sir, it was Lew

Milliken. Yessir, Lew Milliken. Hadn't seen him for fifteen years. Asked

after you, Harry ... and George too. And what do you think he told me

about Chick?"

Answers may or may not be returned to these remarks, according to the

good nature of the players, but in any event, they serve their purpose

of distraction.

Particular care should be taken that no one of the players is allowed to

make a mistake. The watcher, having his mind free, is naturally in a

better position to keep track of matters of sequence and revoking. Thus,

he may say:

"The lead was over here, George," or

"I think that you refused spades a few hands ago, Lillian."

Of course, there are some watchers who have an inherited delicacy about

offering advice or talking to the players. Some people are that way.

They are interested in the game, and love to watch but they feel that

they ought not to interfere. I had a cousin who just wouldn't talk while

a hand was being played, and so, as she had to do something, she hummed.

She didn't hum very well, and her program was limited to the first two

lines of "How Firm a Foundation," but she carried it off very well and

often got the players to humming it along with her. She could also drum

rather well with her fingers on the back of the chair of one of the

players while looking over his shoulder. "How Firm a Foundation" didn't

lend itself very well to drumming; so she had a little patrol that she

worked up all by herself, beginning soft, like a drum corps in the

distance, and getting louder and louder, finally dying away again so

that you could barely near it. It was wonderful how she could do it--and

still go on living.

Those who feel this way about talking while others are playing bridge

have a great advantage over my cousin and her class if they can play the

piano. They play ever so softly, in order not to disturb, but somehow or

other you just know that they are there, and that the next to last note

in the coda is going to be very sour.

But, of course, the piano work does not technically come under the head

of watching, although when there are two watchers to a table, one may go

over to the piano while she is dummy.

But your real watcher will allow nothing to interfere with his

conscientious following of the game, and it is for real watchers only

that these suggestions have been formulated. The minute you get out of

the class of those who have the best interests of the game at heart, you

become involved in dilettantism and amateurishness, and the whole sport

of bridge-watching falls into disrepute.

The only trouble with the game as it now stands is the risk of personal

injury. This can be eliminated by the watcher insisting on each player

being frisked for weapons before the game begins and cultivating a good

serviceable defense against ordinary forms of fistic attack.

V

A CHRISTMAS SPECTACLE

_For Use in Christmas Eve Entertainments in the Vestry_

At the opening of the entertainment the Superintendent will step into

the footlights, recover his balance apologetically, and say:

"Boys and girls of the Intermediate Department, parents and friends: I

suppose you all know why we are here tonight. (At this point the

audience will titter apprehensively). Mrs. Drury and her class of little

girls have been working very hard to make this entertainment a success,

and I am sure that everyone here to-night is going to have what I

overheard one of my boys the other day calling 'some good time.'

(Indulgent laughter from the little boys). And may I add before the

curtain goes up that immediately after the entertainment we want you all

to file out into the Christian Endeavor room, where there will be a

Christmas tree, 'with all the fixin's,' as the boys say." (Shrill

whistling from the little boys and immoderate applause from everyone).

There will then be a wait of twenty-five minutes, while sounds of

hammering and dropping may be heard from behind the curtains. The Boys'

Club orchestra will render the "Poet and Peasant Overture" four times in

succession, each time differently.

At last one side of the curtains will be drawn back; the other will

catch on something and have to be released by hand; someone will whisper

loudly, "Put out the lights," following which the entire house will be

plunged into darkness. Amid catcalls from the little boys, the

footlights will at last go on, disclosing:

The windows in the rear of the vestry rather ineffectively concealed by

a group of small fir trees on standards, one of which has already fallen

over, leaving exposed a corner of the map of Palestine and the list of

gold-star classes for November. In the center of the stage is a larger

tree, undecorated, while at the extreme left, invisible to everyone in

the audience except those sitting at the extreme right, is an imitation

fireplace, leaning against the wall.

Twenty-five seconds too early little Flora Rochester will prance out

from the wings, uttering the first shrill notes of a song, and will have

to be grabbed by eager hands and pulled back. Twenty-four seconds later

the piano will begin "The Return of the Reindeer" with a powerful

accent on the first note of each bar, and Flora Rochester, Lillian

McNulty, Gertrude Hamingham and Martha Wrist will swirl on, dressed in

white, and advance heavily into the footlights, which will go out.

There will then be an interlude while Mr. Neff, the sexton, adjusts the

connection, during which the four little girls stand undecided whether

to brave it out or cry. As a compromise they giggle and are herded back

into the wings by Mrs. Drury, amid applause. When the lights go on

again, the applause becomes deafening, and as Mr. Neff walks

triumphantly away, the little boys in the audience will whistle: "There

she goes, there she goes, all dressed up in her Sunday clothes!"

"The Return of the Reindeer" will be started again and the show-girls

will reappear, this time more gingerly and somewhat dispirited. They

will, however, sing the following, to the music of the "Ballet

Pizzicato" from "Sylvia":

"We greet you, we greet you,

On this Christmas Eve so fine.

We greet you, we greet you,

And wish you a good time."

They will then turn toward the tree and Flora Rochester will advance,

hanging a silver star on one of the branches, meanwhile reciting a

verse, the only distinguishable words of which are: "_I am Faith so

strong and pure_--"

At the conclusion of her recitation, the star will fall off.

Lillian McNulty will then step forward and hang her star on a branch,

reading her lines in clear tones:

"_And I am Hope, a virtue great,

My gift to Christmas now I make,

That children and grown-ups may hope today

That tomorrow will be a merry Christmas Day_."

The hanging of the third star will be consummated by Gertrude Hamingham,

who will get as far as "_Sweet Charity I bring to place upon the

tree_--" at which point the strain will become too great and she will

forget the remainder. After several frantic glances toward the wings,

from which Mrs. Drury is sending out whispered messages to the effect

that the next line begins, "_My message bright_--" Gertrude will

disappear, crying softly.

[Illustration: "'Round and 'round the tree I go."]

After the morale of the cast has been in some measure restored by the

pianist, who, with great presence of mind, plays a few bars of "Will

There Be Any Stars In My Crown?" to cover up Gertrude's exit, Martha

Wrist will unleash a rope of silver tinsel from the foot of the tree,

and, stringing it over the boughs as she skips around in a circle, will

say, with great assurance:

"'_Round and 'round the tree I go,

Through the holly and the snow

Bringing love and Christmas cheer

Through the happy year to come._"

At this point there will be a great commotion and jangling of

sleigh-bells off-stage, and Mr. Creamer, rather poorly disguised as

Santa Claus, will emerge from the opening in the imitation fire-place. A

great popular demonstration for Mr. Creamer will follow. He will then

advance to the footlights, and, rubbing his pillow and ducking his knees

to denote joviality, will say thickly through his false beard:

"Well, well, well, what have we here? A lot of bad little boys and girls

who aren't going to get any Christmas presents this year? (Nervous

laughter from the little boys and girls). Let me see, let me see! I have

a note here from Dr. Whidden. Let's see what it says. (Reads from a

paper on which there is obviously nothing written). 'If you and the

young people of the Intermediate Department will come into the Christian

Endeavor room, I think we may have a little surprise for you ...' Well,

well, well! What do you suppose it can be? (Cries of "I know, I know!"

from sophisticated ones in the audience). Maybe it is a bottle of

castor-oil! (Raucous jeers from the little boys and elaborately

simulated disgust on the part of the little girls.) Well, anyway,

suppose we go out and see? Now if Miss Liftnagle will oblige us with a

little march on the piano, we will all form in single file--"

At this point there will ensue a stampede toward the Christian Endeavor

room, in which chairs will be broken, decorations demolished, and the

protesting Mr. Creamer badly hurt.

This will bring to a close the first part of the entertainment.

VI

HOW TO WATCH A CHESS-MATCH

Second in the list of games which it is necessary for every sportsman to

know how to watch comes chess. If you don't know how to watch chess, the

chances are that you will never have any connection with the game

whatsoever. You would not, by any chance, be playing it yourself.

I know some very nice people that play chess, mind you, and I wouldn't

have thought that I was in any way spoofing at the game. I would sooner

spoof at the people who engineered the Panama Canal or who are drawing

up plans for the vehicular tunnel under the Hudson River. I am no man to

make light of chess and its adherents, although they might very well

make light of me. In fact, they have.

But what I say is, that taking society by and large, man and boy, the

chances are that chess would be the Farmer-Labor Party among the

contestants for sporting honors.

Now, since it is settled that you probably will not want to play chess,

unless you should be laid up with a bad knee-pan or something, it

follows that, if you want to know anything about the sport at all, you

will have to watch it from the side-lines. That is what this series of

lessons aims to teach you to do, (of course, if you are going to be

nasty and say that you don't want even to watch it, why all this time

has been, wasted on my part as well as on yours).

HOW TO FIND A GAME TO WATCH

The first problem confronting the chess spectator is to find some people

who are playing. The bigger the city, the harder it is to find anyone

indulging in chess. In a small town you can usually go straight to

Wilbur Tatnuck's General Store, and be fairly sure of finding a quiet

game in progress over behind the stove and the crate of pilot-biscuit,

but as you draw away from the mitten district you find the sporting

instinct of the population cropping out in other lines and chess

becoming more and more restricted to the sheltered corners of Y.M.C.A.

club-rooms and exclusive social organizations.

However, we shall have to suppose, in order to get any article written

at all, that you have found two people playing chess somewhere. They

probably will neither see nor hear you as you come up on them so you

can stand directly behind the one who is defending the south goal

without fear of detection.

THE DETAILS OF THE GAME

At first you may think that they are both dead, but a mirror held to the

lips of the nearest contestant will probably show moisture (unless, of

course, they really should be dead, which would be a horrible ending for

a little lark like this. I once heard of a murderer who propped his two

victims up against a chess board in sporting attitudes and was able to

get as far as Seattle before his crime was discovered).

Soon you will observe a slight twitching of an eye-lid or a moistening

of the lips and then, like a greatly retarded moving-picture of a person

passing the salt, one of the players will lift a chess-man from one spot

on the board and place it on another spot.

It would be best not to stand too close to the board at this time as you

are are likely to be trampled on in the excitement. For this action that

you have just witnessed corresponds to a run around right end in a

football game or a two-bagger in baseball, and is likely to cause

considerable enthusiasm on the one hand and deep depression on the

other. They may even forget themselves to the point of shifting their

feet or changing the hands on which they are resting their foreheads.

Almost anything is liable to happen.

When the commotion has died down a little, it will be safe for you to

walk around and stand behind the other player and wait there for the

next move. While waiting it would be best to stand with the weight of

your body evenly distributed between your two feet, for you will

probably be standing there a long time and if you bear down on one foot

all of the time, that foot is bound to get tired. A comfortable stance

for watching chess is with the feet slightly apart (perhaps a foot or a

foot and a half), with a slight bend at the knees to rest the legs and

the weight of the body thrown forward on the balls of the feet. A

rhythmic rising on the toes, holding the hands behind the back, the head

well up and the chest out, introduces a note of variety into the

position which will be welcome along about dusk.

Not knowing anything about the game, you will perhaps find it difficult

at first to keep your attention on the board. This can be accomplished

by means of several little optical tricks. For instance, if you look at

the black and white squares on the board very hard and for a very long

time, they will appear to jump about and change places. The black

squares will rise from the board about a quarter of an inch and slightly

overlap the white ones. Then, if you change focus suddenly, the white

squares will do the same thing to the black ones. And finally, after

doing this until someone asks you what you are looking cross-eyed for,

if you will shut your eyes tight you will see an exact reproduction of

the chess-board, done in pink and green, in your mind's eye. By this

time, the players will be almost ready for another move.

This will make two moves that you have watched. It is now time to get a

little fancy work into your game. About an hour will have already gone

by and you should be so thoroughly grounded in the fundamentals of chess

watching that you can proceed to the next step.

Have some one of your friends bring you a chair, a table and an old

pyrography outfit, together with some book-ends on which to burn a

design.

Seat yourself at the table in the chair and (if I remember the process

correctly) squeeze the bulb attached to the needle until the latter

becomes red hot. Then, grasping the book-ends in the left hand,

carefully trace around the pencilled design with the point of the

needle. It probably will be a picture of the Lion of Lucerne, and you

will let the needle slip on the way round the face, giving it the

appearance of having shaved in a Pullman that morning. But that really

won't make any difference, for the whole thing is not so much to do a

nice pair of book-ends as to help you along in watching the chess-match.

If you have any scruples against burning wood, you may knit something,

or paste stamps in an album.

And before you know it, the game will be over and you can put on your

things and go home.

VII

WATCHING BASEBALL

D.A.C. NEWS

Eighteen men play a game of baseball and eighteen thousand watch them,

and yet those who play are the only ones who have any official direction

in the matter of rules and regulations. The eighteen thousand are

allowed to run wild. They don't have even a Spalding's Guide containing

group photographs of model organizations of fans in Fall River, Mass.,

or the Junior Rooters of Lyons, Nebraska. Whatever course of behavior a

fan follows at a game he makes up for himself. This is, of course,

ridiculous.

The first set of official rulings for spectators at baseball games has

been formulated and is herewith reproduced. It is to be hoped that in

the general cleanup which the game is undergoing, the grandstand and

bleachers will not resent a little dictation from the authorities.

In the first place, there is the question of shouting encouragement, or

otherwise, at the players. There must be no more random screaming. It

is of course understood that the players are entirely dependent on the

advice offered them from the stands for their actions in the game, and

how is a batter to know what to do if, for instance, he hears a little

man in the bleachers shouting, "Wait for 'em, Wally! Wait for 'em," and

another little man in the south stand shouting "Take a crack at the

first one, Wally!"? What would you do? What would Lincoln have done?

The official advisers in the stands must work together. They must

remember that as the batter advances toward the plate he is listening

for them to give him his instructions, and if he hears conflicting

advice there is no telling what he may do. He may even have to decide

for himself.

Therefore, before each player goes to bat, there should be a conference

among the fans who have ideas on what his course of action should be,

and as soon as a majority have come to a decision, the advice should be

shouted to the player in unison under the direction of a cheer-leader.

If there are any dissenting opinions, they may be expressed in a

minority report.

In the matter of hostile remarks addressed at an unpopular player on the

visiting team, it would probably be better to leave the wording entirely

to the individual fans. Each man has his own talents in this sort of

thing and should be allowed to develop them along natural lines. In such

crises as these in which it becomes necessary to rattle the opposing

pitcher or prevent the visiting catcher from getting a difficult foul,

all considerations of good sportsmanship should be discarded. As a

matter of fact, it is doubtful if good sportsmanship should ever be

allowed to interfere with the fan's participation in a contest. The game

must be kept free from all softening influences.

One of the chief duties of the fan is to engage in arguments with the

man behind him. This department of the game has been allowed to run down

fearfully. A great many men go to a ball game today and never speak a

word to anyone other than the members of their own party or an

occasional word of cheer to a player. This is nothing short of craven.

An ardent supporter of the home-team should go to a game prepared to

take offense, no matter what happens. He should be equipped with a stock

of ready sallies which can be used regardless of what the argument is

about or what has gone before in the exchange of words. Among the more

popular nuggets of repartee, effective on all occasions, are the

following:

"Oh, is that so?"

"Eah?"

"How do you get that way?"

"Oh, is that so?"

"So are you."

"Aw, go have your hair bobbed."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Who says so?"

"Eah? Well, I'll Cincinnati you."

"Oh, is that so?"

Any one of these, if hurled with sufficient venom, is good for ten

points. And it should always be borne in mind that there is no danger of

physical harm resulting from even the most ferocious-sounding argument.

Statistics gathered by the War Department show that the percentage of

actual blows struck in grandstand arguments is one in every 43,000,000.

For those fans who are occasionally obliged to take inexperienced

lady-friends to a game, a special set of rules has been drawn up. These

include the compulsory purchase of tickets in what is called the

"Explaining Section," a block of seats set aside by the management for

the purpose. The view of the diamond from this section is not very good,

but it doesn't matter, as the men wouldn't see anything of the game

anyway and the women can see just enough to give them material for

questions and to whet their curiosity. As everyone around you is

answering questions and trying to explain score-keeping, there is not

the embarrassment which is usually attendant on being overheard by

unattached fans in the vicinity. There is also not the distracting sound

of breaking pencils and modified cursing to interfere with unattached

fans' enjoyment of the game.

Absolutely no gentlemen with uninformed ladies will be admitted to the

main stand. In order to enforce this regulation, a short examination on

the rudiments of the game will take place at the gate, in which ladies

will be expected to answer briefly the following questions: (Women

examiners will be in attendance.)

1. What game is it that is being played on this field?

2. How many games have you seen before?

3. What is (a) a pitcher; (b) a base; (c) a bat?

4. What color uniform does the home-team wear?

5. What is the name of the home-team?

6. In the following sentence, cross out the incorrect statements,

leaving the correct one: The catcher stands (1) directly behind the

pitcher in the pitcher's box; (2) at the gate taking tickets; (3)

behind the batter; (4) at the bottom of the main aisle, selling

ginger-ale.

7. What again is the name of the game you expect to see played?

8. Do you cry easily?

9. Is there anything else you would rather be doing this afternoon?

10. If so, please go and do it.

It has been decided that the American baseball fan should have a

distinctive dress. A choice has been made from among the more popular

styles and the following has been designated as regulation, embodying,

as it does, the spirit and tone of the great national pastime.

Straw hat, worn well back on the head; one cigar, unlighted, held

between teeth; coat held across knees; vest worn but unbuttoned and

open, displaying both a belt and suspenders, with gold watch-chain

connecting the bottom pockets.

The vest may be an added expense to certain fans who do not wear vests

during the summer months, but it has been decided that it is absolutely

essential to the complete costume, and no true baseball enthusiast will

hesitate in complying.

VIII

HOW TO BE A SPECTATOR AT SPRING PLANTING

The danger in watching gardening, as in watching many other sports, is

that you may be drawn into it yourself. This you must fight against.

Your sinecure standing depends on a rigid abstinence from any of the

work itself. Once you stoop over to hold one end of a string for a

groaning planter, once you lift one shovelful of earth or toss out one

stone, you become a worker and a worker is an abomination in the eyes of

the true garden watcher.

A fence is, therefore, a great help. You may take up your position on

the other side of the fence from the garden and lean heavily against it

smoking a pipe, or you may even sit on it. Anything so long as you are

out of helping distance and yet near enough so that the worker will be

within easy range of your voice. You ought to be able to point a great

deal, also.

There is much to be watched during the early stages of

garden-preparation. Nothing is so satisfying as to lean ruminatingly

against a fence and observe the slow, rhythmic swing of the digger's

back or hear the repeated scraping of the shovel-edge against some

buried rock. It sometimes is a help to the digger to sing a chanty, just

to give him the beat. And then sometimes it is not. He will tell you in

case he doesn't need it.

There is always a great deal for the watcher to do in the nature of

comment on the soil. This is especially true if it is a new garden or

has never been cultivated before by the present owner. The idea is to

keep the owner from becoming too sanguine over the prospects.

"That soil looks pretty clayey," is a good thing to say. (It is hard to

say, clearly, too. You had better practise it before trying it out on

the gardener).

"I don't think that you'll have much luck with potatoes in that kind of

earth," is another helpful approach. It is even better to go at it the

other way, finding out first what the owner expects to plant. It may be

that he isn't going to plant any potatoes, and then there you are, stuck

with a perfectly dandy prediction which has no bearing on the case. It

is time enough to pull it after he has told you that he expects to plant

peas, beans, beets, corn. Then you can interrupt him and say: "Corn?"

incredulously. "You don't expect to get any corn in that soil do you?

Don't you know that corn requires a large percentage of bi-carbonate of

soda in the soil, and I don't think, from the looks, that there is an

ounce of soda bi-carb. in your whole plot. Even if the corn does come

up, it will be so tough you can't eat it."

Then you can laugh, and call out to a neighbor, or even to the man's

wife: "Hey, what do you know? Steve here thinks he's going to get some

corn up in this soil!"

The watcher will find plenty to do when the time comes to pick the

stones out of the freshly turned-over earth. It is his work to get upon

a high place where he can survey the whole garden and detect the more

obvious rocks.

"Here is a big fella over here, Steve," he may say. Or: "Just run your

rake a little over in that corner. I'll bet you'll find a nest of them

there."

"Plymouth Rock" is a funny thing to call any particularly offensive

boulder, and is sure to get a laugh, especially if you kid the digger

good-naturedly about being a Pilgrim and landing on it. He may even give

it to you to keep.

Just as a matter of convenience for the worker, watchers have sometimes

gone to the trouble of keeping count of the number of stones thrown

out. This is done by shouting out the count after each stone has been

tossed. It makes a sort of game of the thing, and in this spirit the

digger may be urged on to make a record.

"That's forty-eight, old man! Come on now, make her fifty. Attaboy,

forty-nine! Only one more to go. We-want-fifty-we-want-fifty-we-want

fifty."

And not only stones will be found, but queer objects which have got

themselves buried in the ground during the winter-months and have become

metamorphosed, so they are half way between one thing and another. As

the digger holds one of these _objets dirt_ gingerly between his thumb

and forefinger the watcher has plenty of opportunity to shout out:

"You'd better save that. It may come in handy some day. What is it,

Eddie? Your old beard?"

And funny cracks like that.

Here is where it is going to be difficult to keep to your resolution

about not helping. After the digging, and stoning, and turning-over has

been done, and the ground is all nice and soft and loamy, the idea of

running a rake softly over the susceptible surface and leaving a

beautiful even design in its wake, is almost too tempting to be

withstood.

[Illustration: "Atta boy, forty-nine: Only one more to go!"]

The worker himself will do all that he can to make it hard for you. He

will rake with evident delight, much longer than is necessary, back and

forth, across and back, cocking his head and surveying the pattern and

fixing it up along the edges with a care which is nothing short of

insulting considering the fact that the whole thing has got to be mussed

up again when the planting begins.

If you feel that you can no longer stand it without offering to assist,

get down from the fence and go into your own house and up to your own

room. There pray for strength. By the time you come down, the owner of

the garden ought to have stopped raking and got started on the planting.

Here the watcher's task is almost entirely advisory. And, for the first

part of the planting, he should lie low and say nothing. Wait until the

planter has got his rows marked out and has wobbled along on his knees

pressing the seeds into perhaps half the length of his first row. Then

say:

"Hey there, Charlie! You've got those rows going the wrong way."

Charlie will say no he hasn't. Then he will ask what you mean the wrong

way.

"Why, you poor cod, you've got them running north and south. They ought

to go east and west. The sun rises over there, doesn't it?" (Charlie

will attempt to deny this, but you must go right on.) "And it comes on

up behind that tree and over my roof and sets over there, doesn't it?"

(By this time, Charlie will be crying with rage.) "Well, just as soon as

your beans get up an inch or two they are going to cast a shadow right

down the whole row and only those in front will ever get any sun. You

can't grow things without sun, you know."

If Charlie takes you seriously and starts in to rearrange his rows in

the other direction, you might perhaps get down off the fence and go in

the house. You have done enough. If he doesn't take you seriously, you

surely had better go in.

IX

THE MANHATTADOR

Announcements have been made of a bull-fight to be held in Madison

Square Garden, New York, in which only the more humane features of the

Spanish institution are to be retained. The bull will not be killed, or

even hurt, and horses will not be used as bait.

If a bull-fight must be held, this is of course the way to hold it, but

what features are to be substituted for the playful gorings and

stabbings of the Madrid system? Something must be done to enrage the

bull, otherwise he will just sulk in a corner or walk out on the whole

affair. Following is a suggestion for the program of events:

1. Grand parade around the ring, headed by a brass-band and the mayor in

matador's costume. Invitations to march in this parade will be issued to

every one in the bull-fighting set with the exception of the bull, who

will be ignored. This will make him pretty sore to start with.

2. After the marchers have been seated, the bull will be led into the

ring. An organized cheering section among the spectators will

immediately start jeering him, whistling, and calling "Take off those

horns, we know you!"

3. The picadors will now enter, bearing pikes with ticklers on the ends.

These will be brushed across the bull's nose as the picadors rush past

him on noisy motor-cycles. The noise of the motor-cycles is counted on

to irritate the bull quite as much as the ticklers, as he will probably

be trying to sleep at the time.

4. Enter the bandilleros, carrying various ornate articles of girls'

clothing (daisy-hat with blue ribbons, pink sash, lace jabot, etc.)

which will, one by one, be hung on the bull when he isn't looking. In

order to accomplish this, one of the bandilleros will engage the animal

in conversation while another sneaks up behind him with the frippery.

When he is quite trimmed, the bandilleros will withdraw to behind a

shelter and call him: "Lizzie!"

5. By this time, the bull will be almost crying he will be so sore. This

is the moment for the entrance of the intrepid matador. The matador will

wear an outing cap with a cutaway and Jaeger vest, and the animal will

become so infuriated by this inexcusable _mésalliance_ of garments that

he will charge madly at his antagonist. The matador, who will be

equipped with boxing-gloves, will feint with his left and pull the

daisy-hat down over the bull's eyes with his right, immediately

afterward stepping quickly to one side. The bull, blinded by the

daisies, will not know where to go next and soon will laughingly admit

that the joke has been on him. He will then allow the matador to jump on

his back and ride around the ring, making good-natured attempts to

unseat his rider.

X

WHAT TO DO WHILE THE FAMILY IS AWAY

Somewhere or other the legend has sprung up that, as soon as the family

goes away for the summer, Daddy brushes the hair over his bald spot,

ties up his shoes, and goes out on a whirlwind trip through the hellish

districts of town. The funny papers are responsible for this, just as

they are responsible for the idea that all millionaires are fat and that

Negroes are inordinately fond of watermelons.

I will not deny that for just about four minutes after the train has

left, bearing Mother, Sister, Junior, Ingabog and the mechanical walrus

on their way to Anybunkport, Daddy is suffused with a certain queer

feeling of being eleven years old and down-town alone for the first time

with fifteen cents to spend on anything he wants. The city seems to

spread itself out before him just ablaze with lights and his feet rise

lightly from the ground as if attached to toy balloons. I do not deny

that his first move is to straighten his tie.

But five minutes would be a generous allowance for the duration of this

foot-loose elation. As he leaves the station he suddenly becomes aware

of the fact that no one else has heard about his being fancy-free.

Everyone seems to be going somewhere in a very important manner. A great

many people, oddly enough seem to be going home. Ordinarily he would be

going home, too. But there would not be much sense in going home now,

without--. But come, come, this is no way to feel! Buck up, man! How

about a wild oat or two?

Around at the club the doorman says that Mr. McNartly hasn't been in all

afternoon and that Mr. Freem was in at about four-thirty but went out

again with a bag. There is no one in the lounge whom he ever saw before.

A lot of new members must have been taken in at the last meeting. The

club is running down fast. He calls up Eddie Mastayer's office but he

has gone for the day. Oh, well, someone will probably come in for

dinner. He hasn't eaten dinner at the club for a long time and there

will be just time for a swim before settling down to a nice piece of

salmon steak.

All the new members seem to be congregated now in the pool and they look

him over as if he were a fresh-air child being given a day's outing. He

becomes self-conscious and slips on the marble floor, falling and

hurting his shin quite badly. Who the hell are these people anyway? And

where is the old bunch? He emerges from the locker room much hotter than

he was before and in addition, boiling with rage.

Dinner is one of the most depressing rituals he has ever gone through

with. Even the waiters seem unfamiliar. Once he even gets up and goes

out to the front of the building to see if he hasn't got into the wrong

club-house by mistake. Pretty soon a terrible person whose name is

either Riegle or Ropple comes and sits down with him, offering as his

share of the conversation the dogmatic announcement that it has been

hotter today than it was yesterday. This is denied with some feeling,

although it is known to be true. Dessert is dispensed with for the sake

of getting away from Riegle or Ropple or whatever his name is.

Then the first gay evening looms up ahead. What to do? There is nothing

to prevent his drawing all the money out of the bank and tearing the

town wide open from the City Hall to the Soldier's Monument. There is

nothing to prevent his formally introducing himself to some nice blonde

and watching her get the meat out of a lobster-claw. There is nothing to

prevent his hiring some bootlegger to anoint him with synthetic gin

until he glows like a fire-fly and imagines that he has just been

elected Mayor on a Free Ice-Cream ticket. Absolutely nothing stands in

his way, except a dispairing vision of crêpe letters before his eyes

reading:"--And For What?"

He ends up by going to the movies where he falls asleep. Rather than go

home to the empty house he stays at the club. In the morning he is at

the office at a quarter to seven.

Now there ought to be several things that a man could do at home to

relieve the tedium of his existence while the family is away. Once you

get accustomed to the sound of your footsteps on the floors and reach a

state of self-control where you don't break down and sob every time you

run into a toy which has been left standing around, there are lots of

ways of keeping yourself amused in an empty house.

You can set the victrola going and dance. You may never have had an

opportunity to get off by yourself and practice those new steps without

someone's coming suddenly into the room and making you look foolish.

(That's one big advantage about being absolutely alone in a house. You

can't _look_ foolish, no matter what you do. You may _be_ foolish, but

no one except you and your God knows about it and God probably has a

great deal too much to do to go around telling people how foolish you

were). So roll back the rugs and put on "Kalua" and, holding out one arm

in as fancy a manner as you wish, slip the other daintily about the

waist of an imaginary partner and step out. You'd be surprised to see

how graceful you are. Pretty soon you will get confidence to try a few

tricks. A very nice one is to stop in the middle of a step, point the

left toe delicately twice in time to the music, dip, and whirl. It makes

no difference if you fall on the whirl. Who cares? And when you are

through dancing you can go out to the faucet and get yourself a

drink--provided the water hasn't been turned off.

Lots of fun may also be had by going out into the kitchen and making

things with whatever is left in the pantry. There will probably be

plenty of salt and nutmegs, with boxes of cooking soda, tapioca,

corn-starch and maybe, if you are lucky, an old bottle of olives. Get

out a cook-book and choose something that looks nice in the picture. In

place of the ingredients which you do not have, substitute those which

you do, thus: nutmegs for eggs, tapioca for truffles, corn-starch and

water for milk, and so forth and so forth. Then go in and set the table

according to the instructions in the cook-book for a Washington's

Birthday party, light the candles, and with one of them set fire to the

house.

There is probably a night-train for Anybunkport which you can catch

while the place is still burning.

* * * * *

To those male readers whose families are away for the summer:

_Tear the above story out along dotted line and mail it to the folks,

writing in pencil across the top "This guy has struck it about right."

Then drop around tonight at seven-thirty to Eddie's apartment. Joe

Reddish, John Liftwich, Harry Thibault and three others will be there

and the limit will be fifty cents. Game will_ absolutely _break up at

one-thirty. No fooling. One-thirty and not a minute longer._

XI

"ROLL YOUR OWN"

_Inside Points on Building and Maintaining a Private Tennis Court_

Now that the Great War is practically over, until the next one begins

there isn't very much that you can do with that large plot of ground

which used to be your war-garden. It is too small for a running-track

and too large for nasturtiums. Obviously, the only thing left is a

tennis-court.

One really ought to have a tennis-court of one's own. Those at the Club

are always so full that on Saturdays and Sundays the people waiting to

play look like the gallery at a Davis Cup match, and even when you do

get located you have two sets of balls to chase, yours and those of the

people in the next court.

The first thing is to decide among yourselves just what kind of court it

is to be. There are three kinds: grass, clay, and corn-meal. In Maine,

gravel courts are also very popular. Father will usually hold out for a

grass court because it gives a slower bounce to the ball and Father

isn't so quick on the bounce as he used to be. All Mother insists on is

plenty of headroom. Junior and Myrtis will want a clay one because you

can dance on a clay one in the evening. The court as finished will be a

combination grass and dirt, with a little golden-rod late in August.

A little study will be necessary before laying out the court. I mean you

can't just go out and mark a court by guess-work. You must first learn

what the dimensions are supposed to be and get as near to them as is

humanly possible. Whereas there might be a slight margin for error in

some measurements, it is absolutely essential that both sides are the

same length, otherwise you might end up by lobbing back to yourself if

you got very excited.

The worst place to get the dope on how to arrange a tennis-court is in

the Encyclopædia Britannica. The article on TENNIS was evidently written

by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It begins by explaining that in America

tennis is called "court tennis." The only answer to that is, "You're a

cock-eyed liar!" The whole article is like this.

The name "tennis," it says, probably comes from the French "_Tenez_!"

meaning "Take it! Play!" More likely, in my opinion, it is derived from

the Polish "_Tinith_!" meaning "Go on, that was _not_ outside!"

During the Fourteenth Century the game was played by the highest people

in France. Louis X died from a chill contracted after playing. Charles V

was devoted to it, although he tried in vain to stop it as a pastime for

the lower classes (the origin of the country-club); Charles VI watched

it being played from the room where he was confined during his attack of

insanity and Du Guesclin amused himself with it during the siege of

Dinan. And, although it doesn't say so in the Encyclopædia, Robert C.

Benchley, after playing for the first time in the season of 1922, was so

lame under the right shoulder-blade that he couldn't lift a glass to his

mouth.

This fascinating historical survey of tennis goes on to say that in the

reign of Henri IV the game was so popular that it was said that "there

were more tennis-players in Paris than drunkards in England." The

drunkards of England were so upset by this boast that they immediately

started a drive for membership with the slogan, "Five thousand more

drunkards by April 15, and to Hell with France!" One thing led to

another until war was declared.

The net does not appear until the 17th century. Up until that time a

rope, either fringed or tasseled, was stretched across the court. This

probably had to be abandoned because it was so easy to crawl under it

and chase your opponent. There might also have been ample opportunity

for the person playing at the net or at the "rope," to catch the eye of

the player directly opposite by waving his racquet high in the air and

then to kick him under the rope, knocking him for a loop while the ball

was being put into play in his territory. You have to watch these

Frenchmen every minute.

The Encyclopedia Britannica gives fifteen lines to "Tennis in America."

It says that "few tennis courts existed in America before 1880, but that

now there are courts in Boston, New York, Chicago, Tuxedo and Lakewood

and several other places." Everyone try hard to think now just where

those other places are!

Which reminds us that one of them is going to be in your side yard where

the garden used to be. After you have got the dimensions from the

Encyclopædia, call up a professional tennis-court maker and get him to

do the job for you. Just tell him that you want "a tennis-court."

Once it is built the fun begins. According to the arrangement, each

member of the family is to have certain hours during which it belongs to

them and no one else. Thus the children can play before breakfast and

after breakfast until the sun gets around so that the west court is

shady. Then Daddy and Mother and sprightly friends may take it over.

Later in the afternoon the children have it again, and if there is any

light left after dinner Daddy can take a whirl at the ball.

What actually will happen is this: Right after breakfast Roger Beeman,

who lives across the street and who is home for the summer with a couple

of college friends who are just dandy looking, will come over and ask if

they may use the court until someone wants it. They will let Myrtis play

with them and perhaps Myrtis' girl-chum from Westover. They will play

five sets, running into scores like 19-17, and at lunch time will make

plans for a ride into the country for the afternoon. Daddy will stick

around in the offing all dressed up in his tennis-clothes waiting to

play with Uncle Ted, but somehow or other every time he approaches the

court the young people will be in the middle of a set.

[Illustration: For three hours there is a great deal of screaming.]

After lunch, Lillian Nieman, who lives three houses down the street,

will come up and ask if she may bring her cousin (just on from the West)

to play a set until someone wants the court. Lillian's cousin has never

played tennis before but she has done a lot of croquet and thinks she

ought to pick tennis up rather easily. For three hours there is a great

deal of screaming, with Lillian and her cousin hitting the ball an

aggregate of eleven times, while Daddy patters up and down the

side-lines, all dressed up in white, practising shots against the

netting.

Finally, the girls will ask him to play with them, and he will thank

them and say that he has to go in the house now as he is all

perspiration and is afraid of catching cold.

After dinner there is dancing on the court by the young people. Anyway,

Daddy is getting pretty old for tennis.

XII

DO INSECTS THINK?

In a recent book entitled, "The Psychic Life of Insects," Professor

Bouvier says that we must be careful not to credit the little winged

fellows with intelligence when they behave in what seems like an

intelligent manner. They may be only reacting. I would like to confront

the Professor with an instance of reasoning power on the part of an

insect which can not be explained away in any such manner.

During the summer of 1899, while I was at work on my treatise "Do Larvae

Laugh," we kept a female wasp at our cottage in the Adirondacks. It

really was more like a child of our own than a wasp, except that it

_looked_ more like a wasp than a child of our own. That was one of the

ways we told the difference.

It was still a young wasp when we got it (thirteen or fourteen years

old) and for some time we could not get it to eat or drink, it was so

shy. Since it was a, female, we decided to call it Miriam, but soon the

children's nickname for it--"Pudge"--became a fixture, and "Pudge" it

was from that time on.

One evening I had been working late in my laboratory fooling round with

some gin and other chemicals, and in leaving the room I tripped over a

nine of diamonds which someone had left lying on the floor and knocked

over my card catalogue containing the names and addresses of all the

larvae worth knowing in North America. The cards went everywhere.

I was too tired to stop to pick them up that night, and went sobbing to

bed, just as mad as I could be. As I went, however, I noticed the wasp

flying about in circles over the scattered cards. "Maybe Pudge will pick

them up," I said half-laughingly to myself, never thinking for one

moment that such would be the case.

When I came down the next morning Pudge was still asleep over in her

box, evidently tired out. And well she might have been. For there on the

floor lay the cards scattered all about just as I had left them the

night before. The faithful little insect had buzzed about all night

trying to come to some decision about picking them up and arranging them

in the catalogue-box, and then, figuring out for herself that, as she

knew practically nothing about larvae of any sort except wasp-larvae,

she would probably make more of a mess of rearranging them than as if

she left them on the floor for me to fix. It was just too much for her

to tackle, and, discouraged, she went over and lay down in her box,

where she cried herself to sleep.

If this is not an answer to Professor Bouvier's statement that insects

have no reasoning power, I do not know what is.

XIII

THE SCORE IN THE STANDS

The opening week of the baseball season brought out few surprises. The

line-up in the grandstands was practically the same as when the season

closed last Fall, most of the fans busying themselves before the first

game started by picking old 1921 seat checks and October peanut crumbs

out of the pockets of their light-weight overcoats.

Old-timers on the two teams recognized the familiar faces in the

bleachers and were quick to give them a welcoming cheer. The game by

innings as it was conducted by the spectators is as follows:

FIRST INNING: Scanlon, sitting in the first-base bleachers, yelled to

Ruth to lead off with a homer. Thibbets sharpened his pencil. Liebman

and O'Rourke, in the south stand, engaged in a bitter controversy over

Peckingpaugh's last-season batting average. NO RUNS.

SECOND INNING: Scanlon yelled to Bodie to to whang out a double.

Turtelot said that Bodie couldn't do it. Scanlon said "Oh, is that so?"

Turtelot said "Yes, that's so and whad' yer know about that?" Bodie

whanged out a double and Scanlon's collar came undone and he lost his

derby. Stevens announced that this made Bodie's batting average 1000 for

the season so far. Joslin laughed.

THIRD INNING: Thibbets sharpened his pencil. Zinnzer yelled to Mays to

watch out for a fast one. Steinway yelled to Mays to watch out for a

slow one. Mays fanned. O'Rourke called out and asked Brazill how all the

little brazil-nuts were. Levy turned to O'Rourke and said he'd

brazil-nut him. O'Rourke said "Eah? When do you start doing it?" Levy

said: "Right now." O'Rourke said: "All right, come on. I'm waiting."

Levy said: "Eah?" O'Rourke said: "Well, why don't you come, you big

haddock?" Levy said he'd wait for O'Rourke outside where there weren't

any ladies. NO RUNS.

FOURTH INNING: Scanlon called out to Ruth to knock a homer, Thibbets

sharpened his pencil. Scanlon yelled: "Atta-boy, Babe, whad' I tell

yer!" when Ruth got a single.

FIFTH INNING: Mrs. Whitebait asked Mr. Whitebait how you marked a

home-run on the score-card. Mr. Whitebait said: "Why do you have to

know? No one has knocked a home-run." Mrs. Whitebait said that Babe Ruth

ran home in the last inning. "Yes, I know," said Mr. Whitebait, "but it

wasn't a home-run." Mrs. W. asked him with some asperity just why it

wasn't a home-run, if a man ran home, especially if it was Babe Ruth.

Mr. W. said: "I'll tell you later. I want to watch the game." Mrs.

Whitebait began to cry a little. Mr. Whitebait groaned and snatched the

card away from her and marked a home-run for Ruth in the fourth inning.

SIXTH INNING: Thurston called out to Hasty not to let them fool him.

Wicker said that where Hasty got fooled in the first place was when he

let them tell him he could play baseball. Unknown man said that he was

"too Hasty," and laughed very hard. Thurston said that Hasty was a

better pitcher than Mays, when he was in form. Unknown man said "Eah?"

and laughed very hard again. Wicker asked how many times in seven years

Hasty was in form and Thurston replied: "Often enough for you." Unknown

man said that what Hasty needed was some hasty-pudding, and laughed so

hard that his friend had to take him out.

Thibbets sharpened his pencil.

SEVENTH INNING: Libby called "Everybody up!" as if he had just

originated the idea, and seemed proudly pleased when everyone stood up.

Taussig threw money to the boy for a bag of peanuts who tossed the bag

to Levy who kept it. Taussig to boy to Levy.

Scanlon yelled to Ruth to come through with a homer. Ruth knocked a

single and Scanlon yelled "Atta-boy, Babe! All-er way 'round! All-er way

round, Babe!" Mrs. Whitebait asked Mr. Whitebait which were the

Clevelands. Mr. Whitebait said very quietly that the Clevelands weren't

playing to-day, just New York and Philadelphia and that only two teams

could play the game at the same time, that perhaps next year they would

have it so that Cleveland and Philadelphia could both play New York at

once but the rules would have to be changed first. Mrs. Whitebait said

that he didn't have to be so nasty about is. Mr. W. said My God, who's

being nasty? Mrs. W. said that the only reason she came up with him

anyway to see the Giants play was because then she knew that he wasn't

off with a lot of bootleggers. Mr. W. said that it wasn't the Giants but

the Yankees that she was watching and where did she get that bootlegger

stuff. Mrs. W. said never mind where she got it. NO RUNS.

EIGHTH INNING: Thibbets sharpened his pencil. Litner got up and went

home. Scanlon yelled to Ruth to end up the game with a homer. Ruth

singled. Scanlon yelled "Atta-Babe!" and went home.

NINTH INNING: Stevens began figuring up the players' batting averages

for the season thus far. Wicker called over to Thurston and asked him

how Mr. Hasty was now. Thurston said "That's all right how he is." Mrs.

Whitebait said that she intended to go to her sister's for dinner and

that Mr. Whitebait could do as he liked. Mr. Whitebait told her to bet

that he would do just that. Thibbets broke his pencil.

Score: New York 11. Philadelphia 1.

XIV

MID-WINTER SPORTS

These are melancholy days for the newspaper sporting-writers. The

complaints are all in from old grads of Miami who feel that there

weren't enough Miami men on the All-American football team, and it is

too early to begin writing about the baseball training camps. Once in a

while some lady swimmer goes around a tank three hundred times, or the

holder of the Class B squash championship "meets all-comers in court

tilt," but aside from that, the sporting world is buried with the nuts

for the winter.

Since sporting-writers must live, why not introduce a few items of

general interest into their columns, accounts of the numerous contests

of speed and endurance which take place during the winter months in the

homes of our citizenry? For instance:

The nightly races between Mr. and Mrs. Theodore M. Twamly, to see who

can get into bed first, leaving the opening of the windows and putting

out of the light for the loser, was won last night for the first time

this winter by Mr. Twamly. Strategy entered largely into the victory,

Mr. Twamly getting into bed with most of his clothes on.

An interesting exhibition of endurance was given by Martin W. Lasbert at

his home last evening when he covered the distance between the

cold-water tap in his bath-room to the bedside of his young daughter,

Mertice, eighteen times in three hours, this being the number of her

demands for water to drink. When interviewed after the eighteenth lap,

Mr. Lasbert said: "I wouldn't do it another time, not if the child were

parching." Shortly after that he made his nineteenth trip.

As was exclusively predicted in these columns yesterday and in

accordance with all the dope, Chester H. Flerlie suffered his sixtieth

consecutive defeat last evening at the hands of the American Radiator

Company, the builders of his furnace. With all respect for Mr. Flerlie's

pluck in attempting, night after night, to dislodge clinkers caught in

the grate, it must be admitted, even by his host of friends, that he

might much better be engaged in some gainful occupation. The grate

tackled by the doughty challenger last night was one of the fine-tooth

comb variety (the "Non-Sifto" No. 114863), in which the clinker is

caught by a patent clutch and held securely until the wrecking-crew

arrives. At the end of the bout Mr. Flerlie was led away to his dressing

room, suffering from lacerated hands and internal injuries. "I'm

through," was his only comment.

This morning's winners in the Lymedale commuters' contest for seats on

the shady side of the car on the 8:28 were L.Y. Irman, Sydney M.

Gissith, John F. Nothman and Louis Leque. All the other seats were won

by commuters from Loose Valley, the next station above Lymedale. In

trying to scramble up the car-steps in advance of lady passengers,

Merton Steef had his right shin badly skinned and hit his jaw on the

bottom step. Time was _not_ called while his injuries were being looked

after.

[Illustration: He was further aided by the breaks of the game.]

Before an enthusiastic and notable gathering, young Lester J. Dimmik,

age three, put to rout his younger brother, Carl Withney Dimmik, Jr.,

age two, in their matutinal contest to see which can dispose of his

Wheatena first. In the early stages of the match, it began to look as if

the bantamweight would win in a walk, owing to his trick of throwing

spoonfuls of the breakfast food over his shoulder and under the tray of

his high-chair. The referees soon put a stop to this, however, and

specified that the Wheatena must be placed _in_ the mouth. This cramped

Dimmick Junior's form and it soon became impossible for him to locate

his mouth at all. At this point, young Lester took the lead, which he

maintained until he crossed the line an easy winner. As a reward he was

relieved of the necessity of eating another dish of Wheatena.

* * * * *

Stephen L. Agnew was the lucky guest in the home of Orrin F. McNeal this

week-end, beating out Lee Stable for first chance at the bath-tub on

Sunday morning. Both contestants came out of their bed rooms at the same

time, but Agnew's room being nearer the bath-room, he made the distance

down the hall in two seconds quicker time than his somewhat heavier

opponent, and was further aided by the breaks of the game when Stable

dropped his sponge half-way down the straightaway. Agnew's time in the

bath-room was 1 hr. and 25 minutes.

XV

READING THE FUNNIES ALOUD

One of the minor enjoyable features of having children is the necessity

of reading aloud to them the colored comic sections in the Sunday

papers.

And no matter how good your intentions may have been at first to keep

the things out of the house (the comic sections, not the children)

sooner or later there comes a Sunday when you find that your little boy

has, in some underground fashion, learned of the raucous existence of

_Simon Simp_ or the _Breakback Babies_, and is demanding the current

installment with a fervor which will not be denied.

Sunday morning in our house has now become a time for low subterfuge on

the part of Doris and me in our attempts to be somewhere else when

Junior appears dragging the "funnies" (a loathsome term in itself) to be

read to him. I make believe that the furnace looks as if it might fall

apart at any minute if it is not watched closely, and Doris calls from

upstairs that she may be some time over the weekly accounts.

But sooner or later Junior ferrets one of us out and presents himself

beaming. "_Now_ will you read me the 'funnies'?" is the dread sentence

which opens the siege. It then becomes a rather ill-natured contest

between Doris and me to see which can pick the more bearable pages to

read, leaving the interminable ones, containing great balloons pregnant

with words, for the other.

I usually find that Doris has read the Briggs page to Junior before I

get downstairs, the Briggs page (and possibly the drawings of Voight's

_Lester De Pester_) being the only department that an adult mind can

dwell on and keep its self-respect. "Now _I_ will read you Briggs," says

Doris with the air of an indulgent parent, but settling down with great

relish to the task, "and Daddy will read you the others."

Having been stuck for over a year with "the others" I have now reached a

stage where I utilize a sort of second sight in the reading whereby the

words are seen and pronounced without ever registering on my brain at

all. And, as I sit with Junior impassive on my lap (just why children

should so frantically seek to have the "funnies" read to them is a

mystery, for they never by any chance seem to derive the slightest

emotional pleasure from the recital but sit in stony silence as if they

rather disapproved of the whole thing after all) I have evolved a

system which enables me to carry on a little constructive thinking while

reading aloud, thereby keeping the time from being entirely wasted.

Heaven knows we get little enough opportunity to sit down and think

things out in this busy work-a-day world, so that this little period of

mental freedom is in the nature of a godsend. Thus:

_What Is Being Read Aloud_

"Here he says 'Gee but this is tough luck a new automobile an' no

place to go' and the dog is saying 'It ain't so tough at that'.

Then here in the next picture the old man says: Percy ain't in my

class as a chauffeur, he ain't as fearless as me' and this one is

saying 'Hello there, that looks like the old tin Lizzie that I

gave to the General last year I guess I'll take a peek and see

what's up' 'Well what are you doing hanging around here, what do

you think this is a hotel?' 'Say where do you get that stuff you

ain't no justice of the peace you know' 'Wow! Let me out let me

out, I say' 'I'll show you biff biff wham zowie!' etc. etc."

_Concurrent Thinking_

"Here I am in the thirties and it is high time that I made

something of myself. Is my job as good as I deserve? By studying

nights I might fit myself for a better position in the foreign

exchange department, but that would mean an outlay of money.

Furthermore, is it, on the whole, wise to attempt to hurry the

workings of Fate? Is not perhaps the determinist right who says

that what we are and what we ever can be is already written in the

books, that we can not alter the workings of Destiny one iota?

This theory is, of course, tenable, but, on the whole, it seems to

me that if I were to take the matter into my own hands, etc. etc."

And then, when the last pot of boiling water has been upset over the

last grandfather's back, and Junior has slid down from your lap as near

satisfied as he ever will be, you have ten or fifteen minutes of

constructive thinking behind you, which, if practiced every Sunday, will

make you President of the company within a few years.

XVI

OPERA SYNOPSES

_Some Sample Outlines of Grand Opera Plots For Home Study._

I

DIE MEISTER-GENOSSENSCHAFT

SCENE: _The Forests of Germany_.

TIME: _Antiquity_.

CAST

STRUDEL, _God of Rain_ Basso

SCHMALZ, _God of Slight Drizzle_ Tenor

IMMERGLÜCK, _Goddess of the Six Primary Colors_ Soprano

LUDWIG DAS EIWEISS, _the Knight of the Iron Duck_ Baritone

THE WOODPECKER Soprano

ARGUMENT

The basis of "Die Meister-Genossenschaft" is an old legend of Germany

which tells how the Whale got his Stomach.

ACT I

_The Rhine at Low Tide Just Below Weldschnoffen._--Immerglück has grown

weary of always sitting on the same rock with the same fishes swimming

by every day, and sends for Schwül to suggest something to do. Schwül

asks her how she would like to have pass before her all the wonders of

the world fashioned by the hand of man. She says, rotten. He then

suggests that Ringblattz, son of Pflucht, be made to appear before her

and fight a mortal combat with the Iron Duck. This pleases Immerglück

and she summons to her the four dwarfs: Hot Water, Cold Water, Cool, and

Cloudy. She bids them bring Ringblattz to her. They refuse, because

Pflucht has at one time rescued them from being buried alive by acorns,

and, in a rage, Immerglück strikes them all dead with a thunderbolt.

ACT 2

_A Mountain Pass_.--Repenting of her deed, Immerglück has sought advice

of the giants, Offen and Besitz, and they tell her that she must procure

the magic zither which confers upon its owner the power to go to sleep

while apparently carrying on a conversation. This magic zither has been

hidden for three hundred centuries in an old bureau drawer, guarded by

the Iron Duck, and, although many have attempted to rescue it, all have

died of a strange ailment just as success was within their grasp.

But Immerglück calls to her side Dampfboot, the tinsmith of the gods,

and bids him make for her a tarnhelm or invisible cap which will enable

her to talk to people without their understanding a word she says. For a

dollar and a half extra Dampfboot throws in a magic ring which renders

its wearer insensible. Thus armed, Immerglück starts out for Walhalla,

humming to herself.

ACT 3

_The Forest Before the Iron Duck's Bureau Drawer_.--Merglitz, who has up

till this time held his peace, now descends from a balloon and demands

the release of Betty. It has been the will of Wotan that Merglitz and

Betty should meet on earth and hate each other like poison, but

Zweiback, the druggist of the gods, has disobeyed and concocted a

love-potion which has rendered the young couple very unpleasant company.

Wotan, enraged, destroys them with a protracted heat spell.

Encouraged by this sudden turn of affairs, Immerglück comes to earth in

a boat drawn by four white Holsteins, and, seated alone on a rock,

remembers aloud to herself the days when she was a girl. Pilgrims from

Augenblick, on their way to worship at the shrine of Schmürr, hear the

sound of reminiscence coming from the rock and stop in their march to

sing a hymn of praise for the drying up of the crops. They do not

recognize Immerglück, as she has her hair done differently, and think

that she is a beggar girl selling pencils.

In the meantime, Ragel, the papercutter of the gods, has fashioned

himself a sword on the forge of Schmalz, and has called the weapon

"Assistance-in-Emergency." Armed with "Assistance-in-Emergency" he comes

to earth, determined to slay the Iron Duck and carry off the beautiful

Irma.

But Frimsel overhears the plan and has a drink brewed which is given to

Ragel in a golden goblet and which, when drunk, makes him forget his

past and causes him to believe that he is Schnorr, the God of Fun. While

laboring under this spell, Ragel has a funeral pyre built on the summit

of a high mountain and, after lighting it, climbs on top of it with a

mandolin which he plays until he is consumed.

Immerglück never marries.

II

IL MINNESTRONE

(PEASANT LOVE)

SCENE: _Venice and Old Point Comfort._

TIME: _Early 16th Century._

CAST

ALFONSO, _Duke of Minnestrone_ Baritone

PARTOLA, _a Peasant Girl_ Soprano

CLEANSO } { Tenor

TURINO } _Young Noblemen of Venice_. { Tenor

BOMBO } { Basso

LUDOVICO} _Assassins in the service of_ { Basso

ASTOLFO } _Cafeteria Rusticana_ { Methodist

_Townspeople, Cabbies and Sparrows_

ARGUMENT

"Il Minnestrone" is an allegory of the two sides of a man's nature (good

and bad), ending at last in an awfully comical mess with everyone dead.

ACT I

_A Public Square, Ferrara._--During a peasant festival held to celebrate

the sixth consecutive day of rain, Rudolpho, a young nobleman, sees

Lilliano, daughter of the village bell-ringer, dancing along throwing

artificial roses at herself. He asks of his secretary who the young

woman is, and his secretary, in order to confuse Rudolpho and thereby

win the hand of his ward, tells him that it is his (Rudolpho's) own

mother, disguised for the festival. Rudolpho is astounded. He orders her

arrest.

ACT 2

_Banquet Hall in Gorgio's Palace._--Lilliano has not forgotten Breda,

her old nurse, in spite of her troubles, and determines to avenge

herself for the many insults she received in her youth by poisoning her

(Breda). She therefore invites the old nurse to a banquet and poisons

her. Presently a knock is heard. It is Ugolfo. He has come to carry away

the body of Michelo and to leave an extra quart of pasteurized. Lilliano

tells him that she no longer loves him, at which he goes away, dragging

his feet sulkily.

ACT 3

_In Front of Emilo's House._--Still thinking of the old man's curse,

Borsa has an interview with Cleanso, believing him to be the Duke's

wife. He tells him things can't go on as they are, and Cleanso stabs

him. Just at this moment Betty comes rushing in from school and falls

in a faint. Her worst fears have been realized. She has been insulted by

Sigmundo, and presently dies of old age. In a fury, Ugolfo rushes out to

kill Sigmundo and, as he does so, the dying Rosenblatt rises on one

elbow and curses his mother.

III

LUCY DE LIMA

SCENE: _Wales_.

TIME: _1700 (Greenwich)_.

CAST

WILLIAM WONT, _Lord of Glennnn_ Basso

LUCY WAGSTAFF, _his daughter_ Soprano

BERTRAM, _her lover_ Tenor

LORD ROGER, _friend of Bertram_. Soprano

Irma, _attendant to Lucy_ Basso

_Friends, Retainers and Members of the local Lodge of Elks._

ARGUMENT

"Lucy de Lima," is founded on the well-known story by Boccaccio of the

same name and address.

ACT I

_Gypsy Camp Near Waterbury._--The gypsies, led by Edith, go singing

through the camp on the way to the fair. Following them comes Despard,

the gypsy leader, carrying Ethel, whom he has just kidnapped from her

father, who had previously just kidnapped her from her mother. Despard

places Ethel on the ground and tells Mona, the old hag, to watch over

her. Mona nurses a secret grudge against Despard for having once cut off

her leg and decides to change Ethel for Nettie, another kidnapped child.

Ethel pleads with Mona to let her stay with Despard, for she has fallen

in love with him on the ride over. But Mona is obdurate.

ACT 2

_The Fair._--A crowd of sightseers and villagers is present. Roger

appears, looking for Laura. He can not find her. Laura appears, looking

for Roger. She can not find him. The gypsy queen approaches Roger and

thrusts into his hand the locket stolen from Lord Brym. Roger looks at

it and is frozen with astonishment, for it contains the portrait of his

mother when she was in high school. He then realizes that Laura must be

his sister, and starts out to find her.

ACT 3

_Hall in the Castle._--Lucy is seen surrounded by every luxury, but her

heart is sad. She has just been shown a forged letter from Stewart

saying that he no longer loves her, and she remembers her old free life

in the mountains and longs for another romp with Ravensbane and

Wolfshead, her old pair of rompers. The guests begin to assemble for the

wedding, each bringing a roast ox. They chide Lucy for not having her

dress changed. Just at this moment the gypsy band bursts in and Cleon

tells the wedding party that Elsie and not Edith is the child who was

stolen from the summer-house, showing the blood-stained derby as proof.

At this, Lord Brym repents and gives his blessing on the pair, while the

fishermen and their wives celebrate in the courtyard.

XVII

THE YOUNG IDEA'S SHOOTING GALLERY

Since we were determined to have Junior educated according to modern

methods of child training, a year and a half did not seem too early an

age at which to begin. As Doris said: "There is no reason why a child of

a year and a half shouldn't have rudimentary cravings for

self-expression." And really, there isn't any reason, when you come

right down to it.

Doris had been reading books on the subject, and had been talking with

Mrs. Deemster. Most of the trouble in our town can be traced back to

someone's having been talking with Mrs. Deemster. Mrs. Deemster brings

an evangelical note into the simplest social conversations, so that by

the time your wife is through the second piece of cinnamon toast she is

convinced that all children should have their knee-pants removed before

they are four, or that you should hire four servants a day on three-hour

shifts, or that, as in the present case, no child should be sent to a

regular school until he has determined for himself what his profession

is going to be and then should be sent straight from the home to Johns

Hopkins or the Sorbonne.

Junior was to be left entirely to himself, the theory being that he

would find self-expression in some form or other, and that by watching

him carefully it could be determined just what should be developed in

him, or, rather, just what he should be allowed to develop in himself.

He was not to be corrected in any way, or guided, and he was to call us

"Doris" and "Monty" instead of "Mother" and "Father." We were to be just

pals, nothing more. Otherwise, his individuality would become submerged.

I was, however, to be allowed to pay what few bills he might incur until

he should find himself.

The first month that Junior was "on his own," striving for

self-expression, he spent practically every waking hour of each day in

picking the mortar out from between the bricks in the fire-place and

eating it.

"Don't you think you ought to suggest to him that nobody who really _is_

anybody eats mortar?" I said.

"I don't like to interfere," replied Doris. "I'm trying to figure out

what it may mean. He may have the makings of a sculptor in him." But one

could see that she was a little worried, so I didn't say the cheap and

obvious thing, that at any rate he had the makings of a sculpture in him

or would have in a few more days of self-expression.

Soft putty was put at his disposal, in case he might feel like doing a

little modeling. We didn't expect much of him at first, of course; maybe

just a panther or a little General Sherman; but if that was to be his

_métier_ we weren't going to have it said that his career was nipped in

the bud for the lack of a little putty.

* * * * *

The first thing that he did was to stop up the keyhole in the bath-room

door while I was in the tub, so that I had to crawl out on the piazza

roof and into the guest-room window. It did seem as if there might be

some way of preventing a recurrence of that sort of thing without

submerging his individuality too much. But Doris said no. If he were

disciplined now, he would grow up nursing a complex against putty and

against me and might even try to marry Aunt Marian. She had read of a

little boy who had been punished by his father for putting soap on the

cellar stairs, and from that time on, all the rest of his life, every

time he saw soap he went to bed and dreamed that he was riding in the

cab of a runaway engine dressed as Perriot, which meant, of course,

that he had a suppressed desire to kill his father.

It almost seemed, however, as if the risk were worth taking if Junior

could be shown the fundamentally anti-social nature of an act like

stuffing keyholes with putty, but nothing was done about it except to

take the putty supply away for that day.

The chief trouble came, however, in Junior's contacts with other

neighborhood children whose parents had not seen the light. When Junior

would lead a movement among the young bloods to pull up the Hemmings'

nasturtiums or would show flashes of personality by hitting little Leda

Hemming over the forehead with a trowel, Mrs. Hemming could never be

made to see that to reprimand Junior would be to crush out his God-given

individuality. All she would say was, "Just look at those nasturtiums!"

over and over again. And the Hemming children were given to understand

that it would be all right if they didn't play with Junior quite so

much.

[Illustration: Mrs. Deemster didn't enter into the spirit of the thing

at all.]

This morning, however, the thing solved itself. While expressing himself

in putty in the nursery, Junior succeeded in making a really excellent

lifemask of Mrs. Deemster's fourteen-months-old little girl who had

come over to spend the morning with him. She had a little difficulty in

breathing, but it really was a fine mask. Mrs. Deemster, however, didn't

enter into the spirit of the thing at all, and after excavating her

little girl, took Doris aside. It was decided that Junior is perhaps too

young to start in on his career unguided.

That is Junior that you can hear now, I think.

XVIII

POLYP WITH A PAST

THE STORY OF AN ORGANISM WITH A HEART

Of all forms of animal life, the polyp is probably the most neglected by

fanciers. People seem willing to pay attention to anything, cats,

lizards, canaries, or even fish, but simply because the polyp is

reserved by nature and not given to showing off or wearing its heart on

its sleeve, it is left alone under the sea to slave away at

coral-building with never a kind word or a pat on the tentacles from

anybody.

It was quite by accident that I was brought face to face with the human

side of a polyp. I had been working on a thesis on "Emotional Crises in

Sponge Life," and came upon a polyp formation on a piece of coral in the

course of my laboratory work. To say that I was astounded would be

putting it mildly. I was surprised.

The difficulty in research work in this field came in isolating a single

polyp from the rest in order to study the personal peculiarities of the

little organism, for, as is so often the case (even, I fear, with us

great big humans sometimes), the individual behaves in an entirely

different manner in private from the one he adopts when there is a crowd

around. And a polyp, among all creatures, has a minimum of time to

himself in which to sit down and think. There is always a crowd of other

polyps dropping in on him, urging him to make a fourth in a string of

coral beads or just to come out and stick around on a rock for the sake

of good-fellowship.

The one which I finally succeeded in isolating was an engaging organism

with a provocative manner and a little way of wrinkling up its ectoderm

which put you at once at your ease. There could be no formality about

your relations with this polyp five minutes after your first meeting.

You were just like one great big family.

Although I have no desire to retail gossip, I think that readers of this

treatise ought to be made aware of the fact (if, indeed, they do not

already know it) that a polyp is really neither one thing nor another in

matters of gender. One day it may be a little boy polyp, another day a

little girl, according to its whim or practical considerations of

policy. On gray days, when everything seems to be going wrong, it may

decide that it will be neither boy nor girl but will just drift. I think

that if we big human cousins of the little polyp were to follow the

example set by these lowliest of God's creatures in this matter, we all

would find, ourselves much better off in the end. Am I not right, little

polyp?

What was my surprise, then, to discover my little friend one day in a

gloomy and morose mood. It refused the peanut-butter which I had brought

it and I observed through the microscope that it was shaking with sobs.

Lifting it up with a pair of pincers I took it over to the window to let

it watch the automobiles go by, a diversion which had, in the past,

never failed to amuse. But I could see that it was not interested. A

tune from the victrola fell equally flat, even though I set my little

charge on the center of the disc and allowed it to revolve at a dizzy

pace, which frolic usually sent it into spasms of excited giggling.

Something was wrong. It was under emotional stress of the most racking

kind.

I consulted Klunzinger's "Die Korallenthiere des Rothen Meeres" and

there found that at an early age the polyp is quite likely to become the

victim of a sentimental passion which is directed at its own self.

In other words, my tiny companion was in love with itself, bitterly,

desperately, head-over-heels in love.

In an attempt to divert it from this madness, I took it on an extended

tour of the Continent, visiting all the old cathedrals and stopping at

none but the best hotels. The malady grew worse, instead of better. I

thought that perhaps the warm sun of Granada would bring the color back

into those pale tentacles, but there the inevitable romance in the soft

air was only fuel to the flame, and, in the shadow of the Alhambra, my

little polyp gave up the fight and died of a broken heart without ever

having declared its love to itself.

I returned to America shortly after not a little chastened by what I had

witnessed of Nature's wonders in the realm of passion.

XIX

HOLT! WHO GOES THERE?

The reliance of young mothers on Dr. Emmett Holt's "The Care and Feeding

of Children," has become a national custom. Especially during the early

infancy of the first baby does the son rise and set by what "Holt says."

But there are several questions which come to mind which are not

included in the handy questionnaire arranged by the noted

child-specialist, and as he is probably too busy to answer them himself,

we have compiled an appendix which he may incorporate in the next

edition of his book, if he cares to. Of course, if he doesn't care to it

isn't compulsory.

BATHING

_What should the parent wear while bathing the child?_

A rubber loin-cloth will usually be sufficient, with perhaps a pair of

elbow-guards and anti-skid gloves. A bath should never be given a child

until at least one hour after eating (that is, after the parent has

eaten).

_What are the objections to face-cloths as a means of bathing children?_

They are too easily swallowed, and after six or seven wet face-cloths

have been swallowed, the child is likely to become heavy and lethargic.

_Under what circumstances should the daily tub-bath be omitted?_

Almost any excuse will do. The bath-room may be too cold, or too hot, or

the child may be too sleepy or too wide-awake, or the parent may have

lame knees or lead poisoning. And anyway, the child had a good bath

yesterday.

CLOTHING

_How should the infant be held during dressing and undressing?_

Any carpenter will be glad to sell you a vise which can be attached to

the edge of the table. Place the infant in the vise and turn the screw

until there is a slight redness under the pressure. Be careful not to

turn it too tight or the child will resent it; but on the other hand,

care should be taken not to leave it too loose, otherwise the child will

be continually falling out on the floor, and you will never get it

dressed that way.

_What are the most important items in the baby's clothing?_

The safety-pins which are in the bureau in the next room.

WEIGHT

_How should a child be weighed?_

Place the child in the scales. The father should then sit on top of the

child to hold him down. Weigh father and child together. Then deduct the

father's weight from the gross tonnage, and the weight of the child is

the result.

FRESH AIR

_What are the objections to an infant's sleeping out-of-doors?_

Sleeping out-of-doors in the city is all right, but children sleeping

out of doors in the country are likely to be kissed by wandering cows

and things. This should never be permitted under any circumstances.

DEVELOPMENT

_When does the infant first laugh aloud?_

When father tries to pin it up for the first time.

_If at two years the child makes no attempt to talk, what should be

suspected?_

That it hasn't yet seen anyone worth talking to.

FEEDING

_What should not be fed to a child?_

Ripe olives.

_How do we know how much food a healthy child needs?_

By listening carefully.

_Which parent should go and get the child's early morning bottle?_

The one least able to feign sleep.

XX

THE COMMITTEE ON THE WHOLE

A new plan has just been submitted for running the railroads. That makes

one hundred and eleven.

The present suggestion involves the services of some sixteen committees.

Now presumably the idea is to get the roses back into the cheeks of the

railroads, so that they will go running about from place to place again

and perhaps make a little money on pleasant Saturdays and Sundays. But

if these proposed committees are anything like other committees which we

have had to do with, the following will be a fair example of how our

railroads will be run.

The sub-committee on the Punching of Rebate Slips will have a meeting

called for five o'clock in the private grill room at the Pan-American

Building. Postcards will have been sent out the day before by the

Secretary, saying: "Please try to be present as there are several

important matters to be brought up." This will so pique the curiosity of

the members that they will hardly be able to wait until five o'clock.

One will come at four o'clock by mistake and, after steaming up and down

the corridor for half an hour, will go home and send in his resignation.

At 5:10 the Secretary will bustle in with a briefcase and a map showing

the weather areas over the entire United States for the preceding year.

He will be very warm from hurrying.

At 5:15 two members of the committee will stroll in, one of them saying

to the other: "--so the Irishman turns to the Jew and says: 'Well, I

knew your father before that!' Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! 'I knew your father

before that!'"

They will then seat themselves at one end of the committee-table, just

as another member comes hurrying in. Time 5:21.

One of the story-tellers being the Chairman, he will pound

half-heartedly on the table and say: "As some of us have to get away

early, I think that we had better begin now, although Mr. Entwhistle and

Dr. Pearly are not here."

"I met Dr. Pearly last night at the Vegetarian Club dinner," says one of

the members, "and he said that he might be a little late today but that

he would surely come."

"His wife has just had a very delicate throat operation, I understand,"

offers a committeeman who is drawing concentric circles on his pad of

paper.

"Bad weather for throat operations," says the Secretary.

"That's right," says the Chairman, looking through a pile of papers for

one which he has left at home. "But let's get down to business. At the

last meeting the question arose as to whether or not it was advisable to

continue having conductors punch the little hole at the bottom of rebate

slips. As you know, the slip says, 'Not redeemable if punched here.'

Now, someone brought up the point that it seems silly to give out a

rebate slip at all if there isn't going to be any rebate on it. A

sub-committee was appointed to go into the matter, and I would like to

ask Mr. Twing, the chairman, what he has to report."

Mr. Twing will clear his throat and start to speak, but will make only

an abortive sound. He will then clear his throat again.

"Mr. Chairman, the other members of the sub-committee and myself were

unable to get exactly the data on this that we wanted and I delegated

Mr. Entwhistle to dig up something which he said he had read recently in

the files of the _Scientific American._ But Mr. Entwhistle doesn't seem

to be here today, and so I am unable to report his findings. It was,

however, the sense of the meeting that the conductors should not."

[Illustration: "That's right," says the chairman.]

"Should not what?" inquires Dr. Pearly, who has just sneaked in,

knocking three hats to the floor while hanging up his coat.

Dr. Pearly is never answered, for the Chairman looks at his watch and

says: "I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but I have an appointment at 5:45 and

must be going. Supposing I appoint a sub-committee consisting of Dr.

Pearly, Mr. Twing and Mr. Berry, to find Mr. Entwhistle and see what he

dug out of the files of the _Scientific American._ Then, at the next

meeting we can have a report from both sub-committees and will also hear

from Professor McKlicktric, who has just returned from Panama.... A

motion to adjourn is now in order. Do I hear such a motion?"

After listening carefully, he hears it, and the railroads run themselves

for another week.

XXI

NOTING AN INCREASE IN BIGAMY

Either more men are marrying more wives than ever before, or they are

getting more careless about it. During the past week bigamy has crowded

baseball out of the papers, and while this may be due in part to the

fact that it was a cold, rainy week and little baseball could be played,

yet there is a tendency to be noted there somewhere. All those wishing

to note a tendency will continue on into the next paragraph.

There is, of course, nothing new in bigamy. Anyone who goes in for it

with the idea of originating a new fad which shall be known by his name,

like the daguerreotype or potatoes O'Brien, will have to reckon with the

priority claims of several hundred generations of historical characters,

most of them wearing brown beards. Just why beards and bigamy seem to

have gone hand in hand through the ages is a matter for the professional

humorists to determine. We certainly haven't got time to do it here.

But the multiple-marriages unearthed during the past week have a

certain homey flavor lacking in some of those which have gone before.

For instance, the man in New Jersey who had two wives living right with

him all of the time in the same apartment. No need for subterfuge here,

no deceiving one about the other. It was just a matter of walking back

and forth between the dining-room and the study. This is, of course,

bigamy under ideal conditions.

But in tracing a tendency like this, we must not deal so much with

concrete cases as with drifts and curves. A couple of statistics are

also necessary, especially if it is an alarming tendency that is being

traced. The statistics follow, in alphabetical order:

In the United States during the years 1918-1919 there were 4,956,673

weddings. 2,485,845 of these were church weddings, strongly against the

wishes of the bridegrooms concerned. In these weddings 10,489,392 silver

olive-forks were received as gifts.

Starting with these figures as a basis, we turn to the report of the

Pennsylvania State Committee on Outdoor Gymnastics for the year

beginning January 4th, 1920, and ending a year later.

This report being pretty fairly uninteresting, we leave it and turn to

another report, which covers the manufacture and sale of rugs. This has

a picture of a rug in it, and a darned good likeness it is, too.

In this rug report we find that it takes a Navajo Indian only eleven

days to weave a rug 12 x 5, with a swastika design in the middle. Eleven

days. It seems incredible. Why, it takes only 365 days to make a year!

Now, having seen that there are 73,000 men and women in this country

today who can neither read nor write, and that of these only 4%, or a

little over half, are colored, what are we to conclude? What is to be

the effect on our national morale? Who is to pay this gigantic bill for

naval armament?

Before answering these questions any further than this, let us quote

from an authority on the subject, a man who has given the best years, or

at any rate some very good years, of his life to research in this field,

and who now takes exactly the stand which we have been outlining in this

article.

"I would not," he says in a speech delivered before the Girls' Friendly

Society of Laurel Hill, "I would not for one minute detract from the

glory of those who have brought this country to its present state of

financial prominence among the nations of the world, and yet as I think

back on those dark days, I am impelled to voice the protest of millions

of American citizens yet unborn."

Perhaps some of our little readers remember what the major premise of

this article was. If so, will they please communicate with the writer.

Oh, yes! Bigamy!

Well, it certainly is funny how many cases of bigamy you hear about

nowadays. Either more men are marrying more wives than ever before, or

they are getting more careless about it. (That sounds very, very

familiar. It is barely possible that it is the sentence with which this

article opens. We say so many things in the course of one article that

repetitions are quite likely to creep in).

At any rate, the tendency seems to be toward an increase in bigamy.

XXII

THE REAL WIGLAF: MAN AND MONARCH

Much time has been devoted of late by ardent biographers to

shedding light on misunderstood characters in history, especially

British rulers. We cannot let injustice any longer be done to King

Wiglaf, the much-maligned monarch of central Britain in the early

Ninth Century.

The fall of the kingdom of Mercia in 828 under the the onslaughts

of Ecgberht the West-Saxon, have been laid to Wiglaf's untidy

personal habits and his alleged mania for practical joking. The

accompanying biographical sketch may serve to disclose some of the

more intimate details of the character of the man and to alter in

some degree history's unfavorable estimate of him.

Our first glimpse of the Wiglaf who was one day to become ruler of

Mercia, the heart of present-day England (music, please), is when at the

age of seven he was taken by Oswier, his father's murderer, to see Mrs.

Siddons play _Lady Macbeth._ (Every subject of biographical treatment,

regardless of the period in which he or she lived, must have been taken

at an early age to see Mrs. Siddons play _Lady Macbeth._ It is part of

the code of biography.)

While sitting in the royal box, the young prince Wiglaf was asked what

he thought of the performance. "Rotten!" he answered, and left the place

abruptly, setting fire to the building as he went out.

Beobald, in citing the above incident in his "Chronicles of Comical

Kings," calls it "an hendy hap ichabbe y-hent." And perhaps he's right.

Events proceeded in rapid succession after this for the young boy and we

next find him facing marriage with a stiff upper-lip. Mystery has always

surrounded the reasons which led to the choice of Princess Offa as

Wiglaf's bride. In fact, it has never been quite certain whether or not

she _was_ his bride. No one ever saw them together.[1] On several

occasions he is reported to have asked his chamberlain who she was as

she passed by on the street.[2]

And yet the theory persists that she was his wife, owing doubtless to

the fact that on the eve of the Battle of Otford he sent a message to

her asking where "in God's name" his clean shirts had been put when they

came back from the wash.

We come now to that period in Wiglaf's life which has been for so many

centuries the cause of historical speculation, pro and con. The

reference is, of course, to his dealings with Aethelbald, the ambassador

from Wessex. Every schoolboy has taken part in the Wiglaf-Aethelbald

controversy, but how many really know the inside facts of the case?

Examination of the correspondence between these two men shows Wiglaf to

have been simply a great, big-hearted, overgrown boy in the whole

affair. All claims of his having had an eye on the throne of Northumbria

fade away under the delightful ingenuousness of his attitude as

expressed in these letters.

"I should of thought," he writes in 821 to his sister, "that anyone who

was not cock-ide drunk would have known better than to of tried to walk

bear-foot through that eel-grass from the beech up to the bath-house

without sneekers on, which is what that ninn Aethelbald tryed to do this

AM. Well say laffter is no name for what you would of done if you had

seen him. He looked like he was trying to walk a tide-rope. Hey I yelled

at him all the way, do you think you are trying to walk a tide-rope?

Well say maybe that didn't make him sore."

Shortly after this letter was written, Wiglaf ascended the throne of

Mercia, his father having disappeared Saturday night without trace. A

peasant[3] some years after said that he met the old king walking along

a road near what is now the Scottish border, telling people that he was

carrying a letter of greeting from the Mayor of Pontygn to the Mayor of

Langoscgirh. Others say that he fell into the sea off the coast of Wales

and became what is now known as King's Rocks. This last has never been

authenticated.