“Let China alone,” said Napoleon, “she is a sleeping giant.” The fight has been for China, and the wily Jap, playing on the unfailing cupidity and conquering, grabbing instinct of the Anglo-Saxon, has won. Hereafter China belongs to Japan. Give her just a century to vitalize the nation which, if the world were stood in a line, would count every fourth fighter as hers, and the white race will face the problem of its existence. At Portsmouth recently, when the Sabbath came, the Russian went to church. The Jap only laughed, and voted to work on. Shintoism knows no Sunday, no soul, no to-morrow, no eternity. Shintoism is blind chance pitched against the barb-wire of blind unbelief.
It is time to see clearly—to turn. We have conquered our own kin with a soulless, smiling, ghost-born being who is far-sighted and will yet make our children wonder why we gave him a Mauser for posterity. As for us, we will always be for the white man and the Christian.
Trotwood’s Monthly has installed a new feature in magazine management. We call him Jonah. He is a bright boy who does things around the editorial room. They are not always done right, but when he finishes with them we are willing to aver that they are always done. One of his duties is to read all of the poetry submitted—and it is coming in with a rush—condemn the bad and pass the good up to Trotwood for final judgment. Here are his comments on an execrable batch of it sent in under the title of “Piping Lays” by a good, sweet, but sadly misguided being, whose name begins with Tillie:
Hear we hav a poet boald.
Naught I’m frank to sa is worce,
Than the “Flowery” tales she’s told,
In her akrobatic verce.
Tillie fane would pipe a lay
That would markit fur a song,