The So-called Human Race

I’ve worked for every kind of pape
In journalism’s range,
And some were tame and commonplace,
But most were wild and strange.

I ran a country paper once —
Or, rather, it ran me;
It was the strangest, wildest thing
That ever you did see.

Some years ago I settled down
And thought to find a cure
By writing books and plays and sich,
That class as litrachoor.

And for a time I lived apart,
In abject happiness;
Yet all the while I hankered for
That strange, wild thing, the press.

Its fatal fascination I
Could not resist for long;
I fled the path of litrachoor,
And once again went wrong.

I resurrected this here Col,
By which you are beguiled.
I fear you find it strange sometimes,
And always rather wild.

A delegation of Socialists has returned from Russia with the news that Sovietude leaves everything to be desired, that “things are worse than in the Czarist days.” Naturally. The trouble is, the ideal is more easily achieved than retained. The ideal existed for a few weeks in Russia. It was at the time of the canning of Kerensky. Everybody had authority and nobody had it. Lincoln Steffens, beating his luminous wings in the void, beamed with joy. The ideal had been achieved; all government had disappeared. But this happy state could not last. The people who think such a happy state can last are the most interesting minds outside of the high brick wall which surrounds the institution.

When one consults what he is pleased to call his mind, this planet seems the saddest and maddest of possible worlds. And when one walks homeward under a waning moon, through Suburbia’s deserted lanes, between hedges that exhale the breath of lilac and honeysuckle, the world seems a very satisfactory half-way house on the road to the Unknown. Shall we trust our intelligence or our senses? If we follow the latter it is because we wish to, not because they are a more trustworthy guide.

One must agree with Mr. Yeats, that the poetic drama is for a very small audience, but we should not like to see it so restricted. For a good share of the amusement which we get out of life comes from watching the attempts to feed caviar to the general.

THE POPOCATEPETL OF APPRECIATION

[From the Paris, Ill., News.]

For the past seven days I have been in inmate at the county jail, and through the columns of the Daily News I wish to express my thanks and appreciation to Sheriff and Mrs. McCallister and Mr. McDaniel for the kindness shown to me. I have been in jail before, here and at other places, and never found a like institution kept in such a sanitary condition. The food prepared by Mrs. McCallister was excellent. In my opinion Mr. McCallister is entitled to any office.

May Claybaugh.

A copy of the second edition of The Ozark Harpist is received. The Harpist is Alys Hale, who sings on the flyleaf:

“Sing on, my harp,
Sing on some more and ever,
For sweet souls are breaking,
And fond hearts are aching,
Sing on some more and ever!”

We quite agree with Mr. Masefield that great literary work requires leisure. Lack of leisure is handicapping us in the writing of a romance. We compose it while waiting for trains, while shoveling snow and coal, while riding on the L, while shaving; and we write it on the backs of envelopes, on the covering of packages, on the margins of newspapers. The best place to write a book is in jail, where Cervantes wrote Don Quixote; but we can’t find time to commit a greater misdemeanor than this column, and there is no jail sentence for that. The only compensation for the literary method we are forced to adopt is that there is a great deal of “go” in it.

Replying to an extremely dear reader: Whenever we animadvert on the human race we include ourself. We share its imperfections, and we hope we are tinctured with its few virtues. As a race it impresses us as a flivver; we feel as you, perhaps, feel in your club when, looking over the members, you wonder how the dickens most of them got in.

Prof. Pickering is quoted as declaring that a race of superior beings inhabits the moon. Now we are far from claiming that the inhabitants of our geoid are superior to the moon folk, or any other folk in the solar system; but the mere fact that the Moonians are able to exist in conditions peculiar to themselves does not make them superior. The whale can live under water. Is the whale, then, superior to, say, Senator Johnson? True, it can spout farther, but it is probably inferior to Mr. Johnson in reasoning power.

The man who tells you that he believes “in principles, not men,” means – nothing at all. One would think that in the beginning God created a set of principles, and man was without form and void.

“Lost – Pair of trousers while shopping. Finder call Dinsmore 1869.” – Minneapolis Journal.

The female of the shopping species is rougher and more ruthless than the male.

“Ancient Rome, in the height of her glory, with her lavish amusements, Olympian games,” etc. – The enraptured advertiser.

The proof reader asks us if it was an eruption of Mt. Olympus that destroyed Pompeii.

GARDENS

My lady hath a garden fair,
Wherein she whiles her hours:
She chides me that I do not share
Her rage for springing flowers.

I tell her I’ve a garden, too,
Wherein I have to toil —
The kind that Epicurus knew,
If not so good a soil.

And I must till my patch with care,
And watch its daily needs;
For lacking water, sun, and air,
The place would run to weeds.

In this the garden of the mind,
My flowers are all too few;
Yet am I well content to find
A modest bloom or two.

My lady hath a garden fair,
Or will when buds are blown:
I’ve but a blossom here and there —
Poor posies, but mine own.

“Very well, here is a constructive criticism,” declared Col. Roosevelt, tossing another grenade into the administration trenches. The Colonel is our favorite constructive critic. After he has finished a bit of construction it takes an hour for the dust to settle.

Judgment day will be a complete performance for the dramatic critics. They will be able to stay for the last act.

Why is it that when a woman takes the measurements for a screen door she thinks she has to allow a couple of inches to turn in?