The So-called Human Race. Taylor Bert Leston
have received a copy of the first issue of The Fabulist, printed in Hingham Centre, Mass., and although we haven’t had time to read it, we like one of its ideas. “Contributions,” it announces, “must be paid for in advance at space rates.”
The viewpoint of Dr. Jacques Duval (interestingly set forth by Mr. Arliss) is that knowledge is more important than the life of individual members of the so-called human race. But even Duval is a sentimentalist. He believes that knowledge is important.
Among reasonable requests must be included that of the Hotel Fleming in Petersburg, Ind.: “Gentlemen, please walk light at night. The guests are paying 75 cents to sleep and do not want to be disturbed.”
We have recorded the opinion that the Lum Tum Lumber Co. of Walla Walla, Wash., would make a good college yell; but the Wishkah Boom Co. of Wishkah, Wash., would do even better.
Some one was commiserating Impresario Dippel on his picturesque assortment of griefs. “Yes,” he said, “an impresario is a man who has trouble. If he hasn’t any he makes it.”
What is the use of expositions of other men’s philosophic systems unless the exposition is made lucid and interesting? Philosophers are much like certain musical critics: they write for one another, in a jargon which only themselves can understand.
O shade of Claude Debussy, for whom the bells of hell or heaven go tingalingaling (for wherever you are it is certain there are many bells – great bells, little bells, bells in high air, and bells beneath the sea), how we should rejoice that the beautiful things which you dreamed are as a book that is sealed to most of those who put them upon programmes; for these do not merely play them badly, they do not play them at all. Thus they cannot be spoiled for us, nor can our ear be dulled; and when the few play them that understand, they are as fresh and beautiful as on the day when first you set them down.
“The increase in the use of tobacco by women,” declares the Methodist Board, “is appalling.” Is it not? But so many things are appalling that it would be a relief to everybody if a board, or commission, or other volunteer organization were to act as a shock-absorber. Whenever an appalling situation arose, this group could be appalled for the rest of us. And we, knowing that the board would be properly appalled, should not have to worry.
Ad of a Des Moines baggage transfer company: “Don’t lie awake fearing you’ll miss your train – we’ll attend to that.” You bet they do.
The president of the Printing Press and Feeders’ (sic) union estimates that a family in New York requires $2,362 a year to get by. Which sets us musing on the days of our youth in Manchester, N. H., when we were envied by the others of the newspaper staff because we got $18 a week. We lived high, dressed expensively (for Manchester), and always had money for Wine and Song. How did we manage it? Blessed if we can remember.
The soi-disant human race appears to its best advantage, perhaps its only advantage, in work. The race is not ornamental, nor is it over-bright, having only enough wit to scrape along with. Work is the best thing it does, and when it seeks to avoid this, its reason for existence disappears.
“Where,” asks G. N., “can I find the remainder of that beautiful Highland ballad beginning —
‘I canna drook th’ stourie tow,
Nor ither soak my hoggie:
Hae cluttered up the muckle doon,
An’ wow but I was voggie.’”
Women regard hair as pianists regard technic: one can’t have too much of it.
The demand for regulation of the sale of wood alcohol reminds Uncle Henry of Horace Greeley’s remark when he was asked to subscribe to a missionary fund “to save his fellow-man from going to hell.” Said Hod, “Not enough of them go there now.”
A few lines on the literary page relate that Edith Alice Maitland, who recently died in London, was the original of “Alice In Wonderland.” Lewis Carroll wrote the book for her, and perhaps read chapters to her as he went along. Happy author, happy reader! If the ordering of our labors were entirely within our control we should write exclusively for children. They are more intelligent than adults, have a quicker apprehension, and are without prejudices. In addressing children, one may write quite frankly and sincerely. In addressing grown-ups the only safe medium of expression is irony.
Gleaned by R. J. S. from a Topeka church calendar: “Preaching at 8 p.m., subject ‘A Voice from Hell.’ Miss Holman will sing.”
Here is a happy little suggestion for traveling men, offered by S. B. T.: “When entering the dining room of a hotel, why not look searchingly about and rub hands together briskly?”
What could be more frank than the framed motto in the Hotel Fortney, at Viroqua, Wis. – “There Is No Place Like Home.”?
As to why hotelkeepers charge farmers less than they charge traveling men, one of our readers discovered the reason in 1899: The gadder takes a bunch of toothpicks after each meal and pouches them; the farmer takes only one, and when he is finished with it he puts it back.
If Plato were writing to-day he would have no occasion to revise his notion of democracy – “a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, and dispensing equality to equals and unequals alike.”
The older we grow the more impressed we are by the amount of bias in the world. Thank heaven, the only prejudices we have are religious, racial, and social prejudices. In other respects we are open to reason.
From the calendar of the Pike county court: “Shank vs. Shinn.”
Strange all this difference should have been
’Twixt Mr. Shank and Mr. Shinn.
Sir: Discovered, in Minnesota, the country delegate who goes to bed wearing the tie his daughter tied on him before he left home, because he wouldn’t know how to tie it in the morning if he took it off. J. O. C.
Sir: A young man promised a charming young woman, as a birthday remembrance, a rose for every year she was old. After he had given the order for two dozen Killarneys, the florist said to his boy: “He’s a good customer. Just put in half a dozen extra.” M. C. G.
“When,” inquires a fair reader, apropos of our remark that the only way to improve the so-called human race is to junk it and begin over again, “when does the junking begin? Because …” Cawn’t say when the big explosion will occur. But look for us in a neighboring constellation.
When they junk the human species
We will meet you, love, in Pisces.
Sir: Did you ever ride on a street car in one of those towns where no one has any place to go and all day to get there in? The conversation runs something like this between the motorman and conductor:
Conductor: “Ding ding!” (Meaning, “I’m ready whenever you are.”)
Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“Well, I’m ready.”)
Conductor: “Ding ding!” (“All right, you can go.”)
Motorman: “Ding ding!” (“I gotcha, Steve.”)
Then they go. P. I. N.
It’s now too late, I fear, to change,
For ever since a child
I’ve always been a little strange,
And just a little wild.
I never knew the reason why,
But now the cause I guess —
What Mr. Wells, the author, calls
“That wild, strange thing, the press.”
I’ve worked for every kind of pape
In journalism’s range,
And