Mince Pie Part 16

Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead, The poppies still blow overhead, The larks ye heard, still singing fly.

They sing of the cause which made thee die.

And they are heard far down below, Our fight is ended with the foe.

The fight for right, which ye begun And which ye died for, we have won.

Rest in peace.

The man who wrote that ought to be the first man mobilized for the next war.

All such matters, with a plentiful bastinado for stupidity and sw.a.n.k, are the privilege of the diarist. He may indulge himself in the delightful luxury of making post-mortem enemies. He may wonder what the average reviewer thinks he means by always referring to single publishers in the plural. A note which we often see in the papers runs like this: "Soon to be issued by the Dorans (or Knopfs or Huebsches),"

etc., etc. This is an echo of the old custom when there really were two or more Harpers. But as long as there is only one Doran, one Huebsch, one Knopf, it is simply idiotic.

Well, as we go sauntering along the sunny side of Grub Street, meditating an essay on the Mustache in Literature (we have shaved off our own since that man Murray Hill referred to it in the public prints as "a young hay-wagon"), we are wondering whether any of the writing men are keeping the kind of diary we should like our son to read, say in 1950. Perhaps Miss Daisy Ashford is keeping one. She has the seeing eye.

Alas that Miss Daisy at nine years old was a _puella unius libri_.

BURIAL SERVICE FOR A NEWSPAPER JOKE

_After the remains have been decently interred, the following remarks shall be uttered by the presiding humorist:_

This joke has been our refuge from one generation to another:

Before the mountains were brought forth this joke was l.u.s.ty and of good repute:

In the life of this joke a thousand years are but as yesterday.

Blessed, therefore, is this joke, which now resteth from its labors.

But most of our jokes are of little continuance: though there be some so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their humor then but labor and sorrow:

For a joke that is born of a humorist hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. It cometh up and is cut down like a flower. It fleeth as if it were a shadow and abideth but one edition.

It is sown in quotation, it is raised in misquotation: We therefore commit this joke to the files of the country newspapers, where it shall circulate forever, world without end.

ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A BABY

Interview the baby alone if possible. If, however, both parents are present, say, "It looks like its mother." And, as an afterthought, "I think it has its father's elbows."

If uncertain as to the infant's s.e.x, try some such formula as, "He looks like her grandparents," or "She has his aunt's sweet disposition."

When the mother only is present, your situation is critical. Sigh deeply and admiringly, to imply that you wish _you_ had a child like that.

Don't commit yourself at all until she gives a lead.

When the father only is present, you may be a little reckless. Give the father a cigar and venture, "Good luck, old man; it looks like your mother-in-law."

If possible, find out beforehand how old the child is. Call up the Bureau of Vital Statistics. If it is two months old, say to the mother, "Rather large for six months, isn't he?"

If the worst has happened and the child really does look like its father, the most tactful thing is to say, "Children change as they grow older." Or you may suggest that some mistake has been made at the hospital and they have brought home the wrong baby.

If left alone in the room with the baby, throw a sound-proof rug over it and escape.

ABOU BEN WOODROW

(IN PARIS)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Abou Ben Woodrow (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor (Making the room look like a department store), An Angel writing in a book of gold.

Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow bold And to the Presence in the room said he, "_Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca que tu ecris?"_ Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head (All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's head!) And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's Answered: "The names of those who grease the wheels Of progress and have never, never blundered."

Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered.

"And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low But cheerly still, and in his May I notting Fas.h.i.+on he said: "Of course you may be rotting, But even if you are, may I not then Be writ as one that loves his fellow men?

Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely And I am yours, cordially and sincerely."

The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse.

Next night returned (accompanied by House) And showed the names whom love of Peace had blest.

And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the rest!

MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM

In these days when the streets are so perilous, every man who goes about the city ought to be sure that his pockets are in good order, so that when he is run down by a roaring motor-truck the police will have no trouble in identifying him and communicating with his creditors.

I have always been very proud of my pocket system. As others may wish to install it, I will describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate and lifeless on the paving, I can quickly be identified by the following arrangement of my private affairs:

In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, partially surrounded by pocket.

In my left-hand trouser pocket is a complicated bunch of keys. I am not quite sure what they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. They are very useful, however, as when I walk rapidly they evolve a shrill jingling which often conveys the impression of minted coinage. One of them, I think, unlocks the coffer where I secretly preserve the pair of spats I bought when I became engaged.

My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, for the handkerchief reserves (hayfever sufferers, please notice); and, in winter, for stamps. It is tapestried with a sheet of three-cent engravings that got in there by mistake last July, and adhered.

My left-hand hip pocket holds my memorandum book, which contains only one entry: _Remember not to forget anything_.

The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a pencil, a commutation ticket and a pipe cleaner.

The left-hand lower waistcoat pocket contains what the ignorant will esteem sc.r.a.ps of paper. This, however, is the hub and nerve center of my mnemonic system. When I want to remember anything I write it down on a small slip of paper and stick it in that pocket. Before going to bed I clean out the pocket and see how many things I have forgotten during the day. This promotes tranquil rest.