Does It Pay to Forget?
An Irishman and a German went out to the back yard to settle an argument with their fists. Just before the fight started they agreed that when either of them had enough he would say “Sufficient.” Then they went at it.
The Irishman soon knocked the Fritzie off his feet. Heinie got up, shook his head and, catching the Irishman off his guard, hit him for a goal. Pat came back fast and furious, and so the battle waged fast and faster—when finally the German, about ready to drop from sheer exhaustion, cried out—“Sufficient.”
Pat shook hands with him and said: “I’ve been trying to think of that word for the last ten minutes.”
“A Fool’s Paradise”
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL
Pastor of People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.
Palm Beach is the place where the palm is held out for your money as soon as you land. Here nothing is free save the air, looks and morals of the visitors. On the beach color, costume, commotion, low necks, high skirts, bare legs, wicked winks and studied poses kindle the onlooker’s thoughts into a flame that Neptune cannot put out. This is the place for high jinks that would shame the half-naked savages of the South Seas and outdo the love-antics of the nymphs and gods in old mythology.
Dinner is the day’s event at the Poinciana Hotel. ’Tis a thrilling sight to see an army of waiters “charge” through miles of dinner table trenches, while the guests, armed with sabre knives and bayonet forks, fight to get food. After the attack the survivors sit around in the lobby, stand or march about the miles of halls and foyers, shooting glances at each other and attempting to make “conquests.” Despite the heat of the room, there were many chilling glances and cold shoulders if you were not one of the “regulars.” Giddy boys and girls, thoroughbred sports of men and women, were all there to see and be seen, to show all they dared, to flaunt their gold and diamonds and exhibit everything they could on their outside which did but advertise the naked poverty of their inner mentality and morality.
Amid all this glare, gold and giddiness, I watched an old woman, who was out of the society race, but painfully anxious to be noticed. This slave of fashion with rope of pearls around her neck, bosom bound round with chains of gold, and handcuffed with bracelets, leaned back in her chair. When she saw me look at her she raised the lace on her breast that I might see her hidden diamonds, then rested her withered arms for me to admire her bracelets, moved her bony, be-diamonded fingers, heaved her upholstered bosom and writhed her wrinkled, snaky neck.
Ye Gods, what a sight! This last leaf on Life’s tree—this winter of discontent amid these tropical surroundings—this dying spark in life’s conflagration of passion—this woman of three score years making this unholy show of herself, when she ought to be in bed or with a Bible on her knees preparing to meet her God. This after-dinner sideshow was a fulsome fiesta of Fashion, a vicious Vanity Fair.
The “Beach Club” is the Monte Carlo of the U. S. A. To gain admission you must be a member, or be vouched for by a member in good standing. I met a member who offered to take me in and show me around. I had seen the real Monte Carlo abroad and was told this was like it with its games and sports. I did manage to get by the Cerberus at the door, but was then politely stopped by a smiling, monkey flunkey with an expression of “Thus far shalt thou go and go further.” He informed me I couldn’t enter without being in evening dress. Since I was like the man in the Scripture, without the wedding garment, I was cast out. Nevertheless, at the door I saw two old satyrs taking a chance with two powdered, painted dames, who in life’s game had lost everything worth having. One of the girls was tipsy. They made some fly remarks and were welcomed in.
This “Beach” Club is a place of financial and moral wrecks. It is openly run in defiance of the Florida state law against gambling. There is not a law of man or God that it does not break, except the one that unless you wear a tuxedo or Prince Albert you cannot enter. Here hearts, heads and bank accounts are broken. Fabulous amounts exchange hands among the players. If you are just a looker-on you pay for the privilege—a dollar for a glass of water or ten dollars a plate for a light luncheon. Question: Why does the government pinch the little gamblers and permit this “White House” to be a black palace of ruin and despair?
There is some excuse for the routine of an insane asylum but none for the silly Palm Beach daily program. Here it is: Yawns, idleness, ennui and indigestion; dressing for beach and undressing for dinner; sun-tan of the “Browning Club” and tonic baths; whisking around in an invalid wheel chair in company of dudes and pug-dogs; driveling talk of clothes and looks; drinking pink tea or cocktails; reading the latest trash; spooning, dancing, flirting, golfing, yachting, sporting, and parading high-priced dogs, cats and monkeys whose mentality and morals are often higher than their owners’.
Even Mother Nature here is togged out in society form, laced and corseted. Trees and flowers are trimmed out of all picturesqueness; natural curves give way to geometrical squares; lawns are imprisoned in concrete curbs; the air is perfumed with the balmy fragrance of cigarettes and cigars; there in no rest found beneath palms, fruit trees or among plants and flowers on account of the stinging swarms of society gnats. Florid Florida folders describe Palm Beach as “paradise,” but the attractions to me were outside of the garden. Everything is over-estimated. It is very far from the luxuriance of Hawaii, the sport of Monte Carlo, the beauty and history of Mediterranean resorts. It takes more than a railroad and a big hotel to beat them.
Palm Beach pauperizes and provokes. Her short season sickens and shames. She is the painted, pampered prostitute of Florida. “Do as you damn please” is her motto. This was no place for a minister’s son, so I stood not upon the order of my going, but went by the first midnight train—before I lost all my money and morals.
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