The So-called Human Race Part 54

We welcome Mr. Mark Sullivan, who fights the high cost of existence by turning his clothes inside out, to our recently established league, The Order of the Turning Worm. Mr. Sullivan, meet Mr. Facing-Both-Ways.

Mr. Mark Sullivan may be interested in this case: "My husband," relates a reader, "did a job of turning for a man reputed to be wealthy. He removed the s.h.i.+ngles from a roof, and turned all except those which were impossible: these few were replaced by new ones. The last I heard about this man he was said to have refused Liberty loan salesmen to solicit in his factory."

Five years ago a neighbor told us that he had his clothes turned after a season or two of wear, but we neglected to ask him how he s.h.i.+fted the b.u.t.tonholes to the proper side. Left-handed b.u.t.toning would be rather awkward, especially if one were in a hurry.

Miss Forsythe of the Trades Union league explains that young women in domestic service feel there is a social stigma attached to the work. It is this stigmatism, no doubt, that causes them to break so many dishes.

Anyway, Stigma is a lovely name for a maid, just as pretty as Hilda.

"Why care for grammar as long as we are good?" inquired Artemus Ward. A question to be matched by that of the superintendent of Cook county's schools, "Why shouldn't a man say 'It's me' and 'It don't'?" Why not, indeed! How absurd was Prof. McCoosh of Princeton, who, having answered "It's me" to a student inquiry, "Who's there?" retreated because of his mortification for not having said "It's I." Silly old duffer! He would not have enjoyed Joseph Conrad, who uses unblus.h.i.+ngly the locution, "except you and I."

No, let the school children, like them (or like they) of Rheims, cry out, "That's him!" _Usus loquendi_ has made that as mellifluous as "that's me." It don't make you writhe, do it? Besides, we are all sinners, like McCoosh. And as a gentleman writes to the Scott County, Ind., Journal, "Let he that is without fault cast the first stone."

"I want to use the 'lightning-bug' verse," writes Ursus. "Please reprint it and say to whom credit should be given."

It is easier to reprint the lines than to locate the credit, but we have always a.s.sociated them with Eugene Ware. They go--

"The lightning-bug is brilliant, but he hasn't any mind; He stumbles through existence with his headlight on behind."

The Harmony Cafeteria advertises, "Eat the Harmony Way." A gentleman who lunched there yesterday counted eighteen sword-swallowers.

Remindful of the bow-legged floorwalker who said, "Walk this way, madam."

Watching the play, "At the Villa Rose," our thoughts wandered back to "Prince Otto," in which piece we first saw Otis Skinner. And we wondered precisely what George Moore means when he says that Stevenson is all right except when he tries to tell a story. According to Moore, a story is not a story if it keeps you up half the night; "it is only the insignificant book that cannot be laid down," he once maintained.

What is a story? To us it is drama first, operating on character. To Conrad it is character first, being operated on by drama. That may be why we prefer "The Wrecker" to "The Rescue."

Writes M. G. M. from Denver: "Madame Pompadour, late of Chicago, opened a beauty shop here, and one of our up-to-date young ladies asked her if she was doing the hair in the crime wave so popular in Chicago."

TRADE ADIEUS.

Sir: After I had entertained a saleslady all evening and had said good-night at her abode, she murmured, "Thanks! Will that be all?"

C. H. S.

According to Dr. k.u.mm of the Royal British Geographical Society, the natives of Uganda are happier than we. So are the camels of Sahara. But hoonel, as Orpheus asked Eurydice, wants to be a camel?

Adventures of Robinson Crusoe.

BEING A FEW HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED PAGES FROM HIS JOURNAL.

I.

In this, the seven and twentieth year of my captivity, I have been much distressed by the monotony of my existence. My habitation is as complete as I can wish; I have all the clothing to my need; and my subjects--my man Friday and his father, and the Spaniard--keep me abundantly supplied with food. When I was alone the necessity of husbandry gave me plenty to do, but now I am oppressed by a great lack of matter for occupation, both physical and mental. Questioning myself, I put the blame upon an evil state of mind into which I have fallen, in no longer finding profit in reading my bible and other books, or in meditating on this life and that which is to come.

I am rich in that I want for no material thing; and I am idle, in that I do naught to profit myself or my companions; so that, although practically a solitary, I am, as you might say, an idle rich cla.s.s, and were I multiplied by thousands I should be a grievous burden on society.

Friday, perceiving the state of my mind, has set himself to entertain me, and, being an ingenious fellow, will no doubt succeed. As a beginning he took unto himself the management of our simple meals, and he has contrived so to expand them, both in quant.i.ty of food and time spent in consuming it, that a large part of my day is now given over to eating. I drink a great deal of wine with my meals, and of rum also, a great store of which I saved from the wreck; and these strong waters, added to the great quant.i.ty of food consumed, produce in me a pleasant torpor, which I find to be a satisfactory subst.i.tute for meditation.

II.

My man Friday came running to me this afternoon to relate that "many great number" of savages were landed on our sh.o.r.e, and that, by the preparations the wretches were making, a great feast was intended. The news was extremely welcome, for I have become so bored by the monotony of existence that any pretext for going abroad after nightfall is a G.o.dsend. So after disposing of a heavy dinner, that included six kinds of wines and liquors, my carriage, as I called it (though it was no more than a litter), was fetched by Friday and his father; and followed by the Spaniard, carrying my cloak and perspective gla.s.s, I set out for a little wooded hill that overlooked the beach on which the savages were encamped.

The dreadful wretches had finished their inhuman feast and were squatting on the sand, watching one of their number, a comely female, who was dancing wildly in a circle of strong firelight. The body of this creature was swathed in veils, which she removed, one after the other, until she was wholly naked. This degrading spectacle seemed to be enormously enjoyed by the spectators, who were grouped in the form of a horseshoe. I observed, also, that they were decorated with feathers and gla.s.s beads, and that, except for these ornaments, were as naked as the dancer.

My Spaniard, a G.o.d fearing man, was greatly shocked by the sight, and my man Friday, too, was strongly affected; but to my shame I must confess that I did not share their abhorrence. Yet even my stomach began to protest when the dancer, darting to one of the canoes, appeared with a gory head that had been chopped from one of the victims of the feast, and continued her shocking gyrations, to a most infernal din of barbarous musical instruments that half a hundred of the wretches were beating. The Spaniard and Friday urged, in their indignation, that we discharge our muskets at the unholy crew; but I restrained them from such an intelligible piece of violence, reflecting that the barbarous customs of these people might be regarded as their own disaster, and that I was not called upon to judge their actions, much less to execute the judgment of heaven upon them. Besides, they were in such numbers that, had we attacked, we should have been overwhelmed. So, calling for my litter, I returned to my habitation.

A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO

_Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may._

An artist friend, back from the Land of Taos, brings word of another artist who is achieving influence by raising hogs--or "picture buyers,"

as he sardonically calls them. This set us to wondering what had become of Arthur Dove, one of the first of the Einstein school to exhibit in this town. Despairing of the public intelligence, Mr. Dove took up the raising of chickens, and very old readers of this column may recall the verses in which we celebrated his withdrawal from art: