The So-called Human Race

Recurring to the dictaters, letters from the O’Meara Paper company of New York are tagged JEW/EM.

Irene, she works for David Meyer,
Likes her job, not peeved a bit.
But when she ends a letter she
Marks it with this sign, DAM/IT.
Ferro.

Hint to students in the School of journalism: Always begin the description of a tumultuous scene by saying that it is indescribable, and then proceed to describe it until the telegraph editor chokes you off.

To our young friend who expects to operate a column: Lay off the item about Miss Hicks entertaining Carrie Dedbeete and Ima Proone; it is phony. But the wheeze about the “eternal revenue collector” is still good, and timely.

“I am a cub reporter,” writes W. H. D., “and am going to conduct a column in a few weeks, I think.” Zazzo? Well, you can’t do better than to start with the announcement that Puls & Puls are dentists in Sheboygan. And you might add that if the second Puls is a son the firm should be Puls & Fils.

Our cub reporter friend, W. H. D., who expects to run a column presently, should not overlook the sure-fire wheeze, “Shoes shined on the inside.”

Still undiscouraged by the failure of his “shoes shined on the inside” wheeze to get by, the new contrib hopefully sends us the laundry slogan: “Don’t kill your wife. Let us do the dirty work.”

When all the world is safe for democracy, only the aristocracy of taste will remain, and this will cover the world. There is hardly a town so small that it does not contain at least one member. All races belong to it, and its passwords are accepted in every capital. Its mysteries are Rosicrucian to persons without taste. And no other aristocracy was ever, or ever will be, so closely and sympathetically knit together.

Whether Europe and Latin America like it or not, the Monroe Doctrine must and shall be preserved. You may remember the case of the man who was accused of being a traitor. It was charged that he had spoken as disrespectfully of the Monroe Doctrine as Jeffrey once spoke of the Equator. This the man denied vigorously. He avowed that he loved the Monroe Doctrine, that he was willing to fight for it, and, if necessary, to die for it. All he had said was that he didn’t know what it was about.

“There will be no speeches. The entire evening will be given over to entertainment.” – Duluth News-Tribune.

At least prohibition is a check on oratory.

We have just been talking to an optimist, whose nerves have been getting shaky. We fancy that a straw vote of the rocking-chair fleet on a sanitarium porch would show a preponderance of optimists. What brought them there? Worry, which is brother to optimism. We attribute our good health and reasonable amount of hair to the fact that we never flirted with optimism, except for a period of about five years, during which time we lost more hair than in all the years since.

May we again point out that pessimism is the only cheerful philosophy? The pessimist is not concerned over the so-called yellow peril – at least the pessimist who subscribes to the theory of the degradation of energy. Europe is losing its pep, but so is Asia. There may be a difference of degree, but not enough to keep one from sleeping soundly o’ nights. The twentieth or twenty-first century can not produce so energetic a gang as that which came out of Asia in the fifth century.

“If I had no duties,” said Dr. Johnson, “and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life in driving briskly in a postchaise with a pretty woman.” And we wonder whether the old boy, were he living now, would choose, instead, a Ford.

In time of freeze prepare for thaw. And no better advice can be given than Doc Robertson’s: “Keep your feet dry and your gutters open.”

There was an Irish meeting in Janesville the other night, and the press reported that “Garlic songs were sung.” And we recall another report of a lecture on Yeats and the Garlic Revival. Just a moment, while we take a look at the linotype keyboard…

THINGS WORTH KNOWING

Sir: A method of helping oneself to soda crackers, successfully employed by a traveling man, may be of interest to your boarding house readers. Slice off a small piece of butter, leaving it on the knife, then reach across the table and slap the cracker. V.

By the way, Bismarck had a solution of the Irish problem which may have been forgotten. He proposed that the Irish and the Dutch exchange countries. The Dutch, he said, would make a garden of Ireland. “And the Irish?” he was asked. “Oh,” he replied, “the Irish would neglect the dikes.”

A city is known by the newspapers it keeps. They reflect the tastes of the community, and if they are lacking in this or that it is because the community is lacking. And so it is voxpoppycock to complain that a newspaper is not what a small minority thinks it ought to be. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our journals, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Dissatisfaction with American newspapers began with the first one printed, and has been increasing steadily since. In another hundred years this dissatisfaction may develop into positive annoyance.

We tried to have a sign in Los Onglaze translated into French for the benefit of Lizy, the linotype operator who sets this column in Paris, and who says she has yet to get a laugh out of it, but two Frenchmen who tried their hand at it gave it up. Perhaps the compositor at the adjacent machine can randmacnally it for Lizy. Here is the enseigne:

“Flannels washed without shrinking in the rear.”

To the fair Murine: “Drink to me only with thine eyes.”

“Hosiery for Easter,” declares an enraptured ad writer in the Houston Post, “reaches new heights of loveliness.”

If the persons who parade around with placards announcing that this or that shop is “unfair” were to change the legend to read, “God is unfair,” they might get a sympathetic rise out of us. We might question the assertion that in creating men unequal the Creator was actuated by malice rather than a sense of humor, but we should not insist on the point.

THE SECOND POST

[Received by a construction company.]

Dear Sir I an writhing you and wanted to know that can I get a book from your company which will teach me of oprating steam and steam ingean. I was fireing at a plant not long ago and found one of your catalogs and it give me meny good idol about steam. I have been opiratin stean for the last 12 years for I know that there are lots more to learn about steam and I want to learn it so I will close for this time expecting to here from you soon.

“Since Frank Harris has been mentioned,” communicates C. E. L., “it would be interesting to a lot of folks to know just what standing he has in literature.” Oh, not much. Aside from being one of the best editors the Saturday Review ever had, one of the best writers of short stories in English or any other language, and one of the most acute critics in the profession, his standing is negligible.

Our young friend who is about to become a colyumist should certainly include in his first string the restaurant wheeze: “Don’t laugh at our coffee. You may be old and weak yourself some day.”

“One sinister eye – the right one – gleamed at him over the pistol.” – Baltimore Sun.

No wonder foreigners have a hard time with the American language.

BALLADE OF THE OUBLIETTE

And deeper still the deep-down oubliette,
Down thirty feet below the smiling day.

    – Tennyson.

Sudden in the sun
An oubliette winks. Where is he? Gone.

    – Mrs. Browning.

Gaoler of the donjon deep —
Black from pit to parapet —
In whose depths forever sleep
Famous bores whose sun has set,
Daily ope the portal; let
In the bores who daily bore.
Thrust – sans sorrow or regret —
Thrust them through the Little Door.

Warder of Oblivion’s keep —
Dismal dank, and black as jet —
Through the fatal wicket sweep
All the pests we all have met.
Prithee, overlook no bet;
Grab them – singly, by the score —
And, lest they be with us yet,
Thrust them through the Little Door.