Get up at morn and milk the cow,
And yeo-heave-ho the ’taters.
Do up your chores, and do ’em brown,
And learn to drive a flivver;
And some day, when you go to town,
You’ll see the raging river.
The speaker of the House of Commons, who, “trembling slightly with emotion,” declared the sitting suspended, needs in his business the calm of the late Fred Hall. While Mr. Hall was city editor of this journal of civilization an irate subscriber came in and mixed it with a reporter. Mr. Hall approached the pair, who were rolling on the floor, and, peering near-sightedly at them, addressed the reporter: “Mr. Smith, when you have finished with this gentleman, there is a meeting at the Fourth Methodist church which I should like to have you cover.”
In his informing and stimulating collection of essays, “On Contemporary Literature,” recently published, Mr. Stuart P. Sherman squanders an entire chapter on Theodore Dreiser. It seems to us that he might have covered the ground and saved most of his space by quoting a single sentence from Anatole France, who, referring to [p 228] />]Zola, wrote: “He has no taste, and I have come to believe that want of taste is that mysterious sin of which the Scripture speaks, the greatest of sins, the only one which will not be forgiven.”
“What is art?” asked jesting Pilate. And before he could beat it for his chariot someone answered: “Art is a pitcher that you can’t pour anything out of.”
It is much easier to die than it is to take a vacation. A man who is summoned to his last long voyage may set his house in order in an hour: a few words, written or dictated, will dispose of his possessions, and his heirs will gladly attend to the details. This done, he may fold his hands on his chest and depart this vexatious life in peace.