V

A column a day keeps the sheriff away and when you’ve got the habit, you keep right on, no matter what your feelings are—or your readers’. It helped L. C. to bear incertitude with fortitude.

The make-up seldom varied. It must open with a poem, preferably an authentic L. C. Horatian ode. His odometer registered three a week. It was his line—“master of the Horatian line,” he had been called. As thus:

THE MAN OF UPRIGHT LIFE
Horace: Book I; Ode 22
Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus—

De gink dat never croaked a guy

Nor crowned a cop

Nor even bumped a buddy on the beezer

Nor kicked his frail an’ blacked her eye

(It does ’em good an’ dat’s no lie)

Nor stuck a knife in any scrappy geezer—

A chink or wop,

Nor peddled dope or hop or hooch, nor panned a yid

Nor blew a safe, nor shoved de queer, nor napped a kid

Dat never copped a come-on’s kale

Nor frisked a hayseed’s leather

Ain’t got no fear of judge or jail

Nor de cops all put together

Dey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!

Dat ain’t no loss!

Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.

He’ll never git no third degree

(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.

I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.

I come across!!)

Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoof

And pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roof

He needn’t pack no wicked gat.

Policemen’ll protect him.

If he forgets where home is at,

Kind Central’ll connect him.

L’Envoi

Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,

He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.

But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?

I’ll tell de world! Oh, baby!

Then the contribs must have a chance. Just now they were busy with Tens. For example, one proposed, as the Ten Most Lovable Old Women in History, a list beginning with (1) Mother Goose and (2) Old Mother Hubbard, and ending with (9) Josephine Daniels and (10) Wilhelmina Jenny Bryan.

Another wrote——

“Sir: If I had to go to a Desert Island and take

Ten Women with me, I’d take

(1) Cyanide of Potassium

And that would be about all.

“G. P. B.”

Then the Diary:

“Wednesday, October 9.

“Up betimes, at ten of the clock and to my office, there half an hour pasting contribs’ contribs to make a full column and amazed to find how short my stint, but with no lack of pleasure or content. Having nothing now in my mind of trouble in the world, did sit and think on many things. So to lunch with H. Broun, my fellow scrivener and a very pleasant fellow withal, though me thought me had heard before some of the bright sayings of his little son, wherewith he regaled me. Thence to the game or play of base-ball, as well played as ever I saw in my life. Thence to tea with Mistress Myssa McMynn, with much merriment and wit. Thence to dinner with F. Adams, the satyrickal writer, H. Canby, the excellent critick, C. Morley, the literary philosopher, D. Marquis, the poet, and other wits, and much good talk of this and that. Thence to the playhouse where was enacted a masque entitled “The Follies,” to my great content. Thence to supper with W. Rogers, the antick player, and found him very intelligent, whereat I wondered greatly. And so to bed, very low spirited and lay a long time marvelling at my capacity for work and how, poor wretch, I must earn my bread by the sweat of my paste pot.”