The So-called Human Race

He had bought a large map representing the moon,
Which he spread with a runcible hand;
And the crew, you could see, were as pleased as could be
With a map they could all understand.

“Now, listen, my friends, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wherever you go,
The warranted pacifist Snarks.

The first is the taste, which is something like guff,
Tho’ with gammon ’twill also compare;
The next is the sound, which is simple enough —
It resembles escaping hot air.

The third is the shape, which is somewhat absurd,
And this you will understand
When I tell you it looks like the African bird
That buries its head in the sand.

The fourth is a want of the humorous sense,
Of which it has hardly a hint.
And last, but not least, this marvelous beast
Is a glutton for getting in print.

Now, Pacifist Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet I deem it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums – ” The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For Jane Addams had fainted away.

Concerning his reference to “Demosthenes’ lantern,” the distinguished culprit, Rupert Hughes, writes us that of course he meant Isosceles’ lantern. The slip was pardonable, he urges, as he read proof on the line only seven times – in manuscript, in typescript, in proof for the magazine, in the copy for the book, in galley, in page-proof, and finally in the printed book. And heaven only knows how many proofreaders let it through. “Be that as it may,” says Rupert, “I am like our famous humorist, Archibald Ward, who refused to be responsible for debts of his own contracting. And, anyway, I thank you for calling my attention to the blunder quietly and confidentially, instead of bawling me out in a public place where a lot of people might learn of it.”

SORRY WE MISSED YOU

Sir: … There were several things I wanted to say to you, and I proposed also to crack you over the sconce for what you have been saying about us Sinn Feiners. I suppose you’re the sort that would laugh at this story:

He was Irish and badly wounded, unconscious when they got him back to the dressing station, in a ruined village. “Bad case,” said the docs. “When he comes out of his swoon he’ll need cheering up. Say something heartening to him, boys. Tell him he’s in Ireland.” When the lad came to he looked around (ruined church on one side, busted houses, etc., up stage, and all that): “Where am I?” sez he. “’S all right, Pat; you’re in Ireland, boy.” “Glory be to God!” sez he, looking around again. “How long have yez had Home Rule?” Tom Daly.

OUR BOYS

[From the Sheridan, Wyo., Enterprise.]

Our boys are off for the borders
Awaiting further orders
From our president to go
Down into old Mexico,
Where the Greaser, behind a cactus,
Is waiting to attack us.

The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leaves they were crispèd and sere, as I sat in the porch chair and regarded our neighbor’s patch of woodland; and I thought: The skies may be ashen and sober, and the leaves may be crispèd and sere, but in a maple wood we may dispense with the sun, such irradiation is there from the gold of the crispèd leaves. Jack Frost is as clever a wizard as the dwarf Rumpelstiltzkin, who taught the miller’s daughter the trick of spinning straw into gold. This young ash, robed all in yellow – what can the sun add to its splendor? And those farther tree-tops, that show against the sky like a tapestry, the slenderer branches and twigs, unstirred by wind, having the similitude of threads in a pattern – can the sun gild their refinèd gold? How delicate is the tinting of that cherry, the green of which is fading into yellow, each leaf between the two colors: this should be described in paint.

No, I said; in a hardwood thicket, in October, though it were the misty mid region of Weir, one would not know the sun was lost in clouds. At that moment the sun adventured forth, in blazing denial. It was as if the woodland had burst into flame.

As a variation of the story about the merchant who couldn’t keep a certain article because so many people asked for it, we submit the following: A lady entered the rural drugstore which we patronize and said, “Mr. Blank, I want a bath spray.” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,” sezze, “but the bath spray is sold.”

IN A DEPARTMENT STORE

Customer – “I want to look at some tunics.”

Irish Floorwalker – “We don’t carry musical instruments.”

That Tennessee congressman who was arrested charged with operating an automobile while pifflicated, would reply that when he voted for prohibition he was representing his constituents, not his private thirst. Have we not, many times, in the good old days in Vermont, seen representatives rise with difficulty from their seats to cast their vote for prohibition? One can be pretty drunk and still be able to articulate “Ay.”

A new drug, Dihydroxyphenylethylmethylamine, sounds as if all it needed was a raisin.

The Gluck aria, which Mme. Homer has made famous, was effectively cited by the critic Hanslick to show that in vocal music the subject is determined only by the words. He wrote:

“At a time when thousands (among whom there were men like Jean Jacques Rousseau) were moved to tears by the air from ‘Orpheus’ —

‘J’ai perdu mon Eurydice,
Rien n’égale mon malheur,’

Boyé, a contemporary of Gluck, observed that precisely the same melody would accord equally well, if not better, with words conveying exactly the reverse, thus —

‘J’ai trouvé mon Eurydice,
Rien n’égale mon bonheur.’

“We, for our part, are not of the opinion that in this case the composer is quite free from blame, inasmuch as music most assuredly possesses accents which more truly express a feeling of profound sorrow. If however, from among innumerable instances, we selected the one quoted, we have done so because, in the first place, it affects the composer who is credited with the greatest dramatic accuracy; and, secondly, because several generations hailed this very melody as most correctly rendering the supreme grief which the words express.”

Arthur Shattuck sued for appreciation in Fond du Lac the other evening, playing, according to the Reporter, “a plaintiff melody with great tenderness.” The jury returned a verdict in his favor without leaving their seats.

Reports of famine in China have recalled a remark about its excessive population. If the Chinese people were to file one by one past a given point the procession would never come to an end. Before the last man of those living to-day had gone by another generation would have grown up.

“Say it with handkerchiefs,” advertises a merchant in Goshen, Ind. That is, if the idea you wish to convey is that you have a cold in your head.

THE SOIL OF KANSAS

[From the Kansas Farmer.]

Formed by the polyps of a shallow, summer sea; fixed by the subtile chemistry of the air, and comminuted by the Æolian geology of the Great Plains, the soil of Kansas has been one of man’s richest possessions.

Why prose? The soil of Kansas, the Creator’s masterpiece, invites to song. Frinstance —

Formed by the polyps of a summer sea,
Fixed by the subtile chemistry of air,
Ground by Æolian geology,
The soil of Kansas is beyond compare!

THE GOOD OLD DAYS