The So-called Human Race

Mrs. Skipp assisted her husband all she could, but being a frail little woman she was able to work on only the lightest fiction. Angelica, the oldest daughter, cleared the book bin of a good deal of poetry and gift books, and even Grandpa Skipp was intrusted with a few juveniles.

But none of the family was more helpful than little Harold, who, after school time, worked side by side with his father, trimming the ready made review slips which publishers send out with books, and seeing that the paste pot never got empty or the paste too thick. Harold, as his father often proudly observed, was a born book reviewer. From infancy it was observed that the outside of a book always interested him more than the inside, and once when his school teacher directed him to write a sentence containing the word “book,” he wrote: “The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated.”

One evening, in the very busiest week of the busy season, little Harold’s was the only bright face at the supper table. Abner Skipp had had a bad day in the city; Mrs. Skipp and Angelica were exhausted from reviewing and household cares, and Grandpa was peevish because Abner had taken the “Pea Green Fairy Book” away from him and given him instead a “Child’s History of the Congo Free State.”

“What is the matter, Abner?” his wife asked him when the others of the family had retired. “Does your arm hurt you again?”

“No, wife,” replied Abner Skipp. “My arm does not trouble me; I have handled only the lightest literature for the last fortnight. Alas! it is the same old worry. The interest on the mortgage will be due again next week, and in spite of the fact that the cellar is so full of books that I can scarcely get into it, we have not a dollar above the sum required to meet our monthly bills.”

III

“Alas!” exclaimed the hapless Abner Skipp, next morning, “it seems as if nothing was being published this fall except popular novels, and I obtained an average of less than twenty cents on the last sackload I took to town, not counting the dead ones which I sold to the junkman.”

“If only there were some way of keeping them alive for a few days longer!” said Mrs. Skipp. “If one could only stimulate the heart action by injecting strychnine!”

“Or even embalm them,” said Abner, sharing his wife’s grewsome humor. “But no; it is impossible to deceive a second-hand bookseller. He seems to know to the minute when a novel is dead, and declines to turn his shop into a literary morgue.” The poor man sighed. “If my employers would send me a few volumes of biography, or an encyclopedia, or a set of Shakespeare, we could easily meet the interest on the mortgage.”

“I wish, Abner, that I could be of more help to you,” said Mrs. Skipp. “If I could break myself of the habit of glancing at the last chapter of a novel before reviewing it, I could do ever so many more. Angelica is even more thoughtless than I. The poor child declares that some of the stories look so interesting that she forgets her work completely and actually begins to read them. As for Grandpa, he always was a great reader, and consequently has no head at all for reviewing.”

“If Harold were a few years older – ” mused Abner. “But there, wife, we must not spend in vain repining the scant hours allotted to us for sleep. Perhaps the expressman will bring us some scientific books to-morrow. Quite a number were on Appletree’s fall list.”

Abner Skipp kissed his wife affectionately, and presently the house was dark and still. Mrs. Skipp, worn out by the day’s work, went quickly to sleep; but Abner, haunted by the mortgage, passed a restless night. Several times he fancied he heard a noise in the cellar, as if the expressman were dumping another ton of books into the bin. At last, just before dawn, there came a loud thump, as if a volume of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography had fallen to the floor. Getting out of bed quietly so that his weary wife should not be disturbed, Abner went to the cellar stairway and listened.

A clicking sound was distinctly audible, and a faint light gleamed below.

IV

Cautiously descending the stair, Abner Skipp came upon so strange a sight that with difficulty he restrained himself from crying out his astonishment. Little Harold was seated before a queer mechanism, which resembled a typewriter, spinning wheel, and adding machine combined, engaged in turning the tons of books around him into reviews, as the miller’s daughter spun the straw into gold, in the ancient tale of “Rumpelstiltzkin.”

“Child, what does this mean?” cried the bewildered Abner Skipp. “Father,” replied Harold, “I am lifting the mortgage. Not long ago I saw among the advertisements in the Saturday Home Herald an announcement of a Magic Kit for book reviewers, with a capacity of 300 books per hour. Fortunately I had enough money in my child’s bank to pay the first installment on this wonderful outfit which came to-day. Is it not a marvelous invention, father? Even Grandpa could work it!” Trembling with eagerness Abner Skipp bent over the Magic Kit, while little Harold explained the working of the various parts.

To review a book all that was necessary was to press a few keys, pull a lever or two, and the thing was done. Reviewing by publisher’s slip was simplicity itself; the slips were dropped into a hopper, and presently emerged neatly gummed to sheets of copy paper; and if an extract from the book were desired, a page was quickly torn out and fed in with the slip. Reviewing by title page was almost as rapid. The operator type-wrote the title, author’s name, publisher, price, and number of pages, and then pulled certain levers controlling the necessary words and phrases, such as —

“This latest work is not likely to add to the author’s reputation”; or —

“The book will appeal chiefly to specialists”; or —

“An excellent tale to while away an idle hour”; or —

“The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated.”

“Father,” said little Harold, his face glowing, “to-morrow we will hire a furniture van and take all these books to the city.”

“My boy,” cried Abner Skipp, folding his little son in his arms, “you are the little fairy in our home. Surely no other could have done this job more neatly or with greater dispatch; and no fairy wand could be more wonder-working than this truly Magic Kit.”

A LINE-O’-TYPE OR TWO

“Fay ce que vouldras.”

TO B. L. T(Quintus Horatius Flaccus loquitur.)Maecenas sprang from royal line,You spring a Line diurnal.(Perhaps my joke is drawn too fineFor readers of your journal.)But what I started out to say,Across the gulf of ages,Is that, in our old Roman day,My patron paid me wages.No barren wreath of fame was mineWhen Mac approved my stuff,But casks of good Falernian wine,And slaves and gold enough.And last, to keep the wolf awayAnd guard my age from harm,He gave me in his princely wayMy little Sabine farm.But now, forsooth, your merry crew —O Tempora! O Mores!—What do they ever get from you —Your Laura, Pan, Dolores?They fill the Line with verse and wheeze,To them your fame is due.What do they ever get for these?Maecenas? Ha! Ha! You?So as I quaff my spectral wine,At ease beside the Styx,Would I contribute to the Line?Nequaquam! Nunquam! Nix!Campion.

Our compliments to Old Man Flaccus, whose witty message reminds us to entreat contribs to be patient, as we are snowed under with offerings. For a week or more we have been trying to horn into the column with some verses of our own composing.

BRIGHT SAYINGS OF MOTHER

My respected father came to breakfast on New Year’s Day remarking that he had treated himself to a present by donning a new pair of suspenders, whereupon mother remarked: “Well braced for the New Year, as it were!” C. T. S.

After some years of editing stories of events in high society, a gentleman at an adjacent desk believes he has learned the chief duty of a butler. It is to call the police.

“THAT STRAIN AGAIN – IT HAD A DYING SNORT.”

Sir: Speaking of soft music and the pearly gates, S. T. Snortum is owner and demonstrator of the music store at St. Peter, Minnesota. S. W. E.

Warren, O., has acquired a lady barber, and dinged if her name isn’t Ethel Gillette.

No doubt the Manistee News-Advocate has its reason for running the “hogs received” news under the heading “Hotel Arrivals.”

“I see by an announcement by the Columbia Mills that window shades are down,” communicates W. H. B. “Can it be that the Columbia Mills people are ashamed of something?” Mebbe. Or perhaps they are fixing prices.

“For the lovamike,” requests the Head Scene-Shifter, “keep the Admirable Crichton out of the Column. We have twenty-five presses, and it takes a guard at each press to prevent it from appearing Admiral Crichton.”

Pittsburgh Shriners gave a minstrel show the other night, and the inspired reporter for the Post mentions that “an intermission separated the two parts and broke the monotony.”

A Bach chaconne is on the orchestra programme this week. Some one remarked that he did not care for chaconnes, which moved us to quote what some one else (we think it was Herman Devries) said: “Chaconne à son goût.”

“Pond and Pond Donate $500 to Union Pool Fund.” – Ann Arbor item.

Quite so.

If we had not been glancing through the real estate notes we should never have known that Mystical Schriek lives in Evansville, Ind.

From the Illinois Federal Reporter: “Village of Westville vs. Albert Rainwater. Mr. Rainwater is charged with violation of the ordinance in regard to the sale of soft drinks.” Can Al have added a little hard water to the mixture?

MEMORY TESTS FOR THE HOME

Sir: Friend wife was naming authors of various well known novels, as I propounded their titles. Follows the result:

Me: “The Last Days of Pompeii.” She: “Dante.”

“Les Miserables.” “Huguenot.”

“Adam Bede.” “Henry George.”

“Vanity Fair.” “Why, that’s in Ecclesiastes.”

“Ben Hur.” “Rider Haggard.”

“The Pilgrim’s Progress.” “John Barleycorn.”

“Don Quixote.” (No reply.)

“Waverly.” “Oh, did Waverly write that?”

“Anna Karenina.” “Count Leon Trotsky.” J. C.

We see by the Fargo papers that Mrs. Bernt Wick gave a dinner recently, and we hope that Miss Candle, the w. k. night nurse, was among the guests.

LEVI BEIN’ A GOOD SPORT

Sir: Levi Frost, the leading druggist of Milton Falls, Vt., set a big bottle of medicine in his show window with a sign sayin’ he’d give a phonograph to anybody who could tell how many spoonfuls there was in the bottle. Jed Ballard was comin’ downstreet, and when he seen the sign he went and he sez, sezzee, “Levi,” sezzee, “if you had a spoon big enough to hold it all, you’d have just one spoonful in that bottle.” And, by Judas Priest, Levi give him the phonograph right off. Hiram.

“Basing his sermon on the words of Gesta Romanorum, who in 1473 said, ‘What I spent I had, what I kept I lost, what I gave I have,’ the Rev. Albert H. Zimmerman,” etc. – Washington Post.

As students of the School of Journalism ought to know, the philosopher Gesta Romanorum was born in Sunny, Italy, although some historians claim Merry, England, and took his doctor’s degree at the University of Vivela, in Labelle, France. His Latin scholarship was nothing to brag of, but he was an ingenious writer. He is best known, perhaps, as the author of the saying, “Rome was not built in a day,” and the line which graced the flyleaf of his first edition, “Viae omniae in Romam adducunt.”

“It is a great misfortune,” says Lloyd George, “that the Irish and the English are never in the same temper at the same time.” Nor is that conjuncture encouragingly probable. But there is hope. Energy is required for strenuous rebellion, and energy is converted into heat and dissipated. If, or as, the solar system is running down, its stock of energy is constantly diminishing; and so the Irish Question will eventually settle itself, as will every other mess on this slightly flattened sphere.

Whenever you read about England crumbling, turn to its automobile Blue Book and observe this: “It must be remembered that in all countries except England and New Zealand automobiles travel on the wrong side of the road.”

The first sign of “crumbling” on the part of the British empire that we have observed is the welcome extended to the “quick lunch.” That may get ’em.

LOST AND FOUND[Song in the manner of Laura Blackburn.]Whilst I mused in vacant moodBy a wild-thyme banklet,Love passed glimmering thro’ the wood,Lost her golden anklet.Followed I as fleet as dartWith the golden token;But she vanished – and my heart,Like the clasp, is broken.Such a little hoop of gold!She … but how compare her?Till Orion’s belt grow coldI shall quest the wearer.Next my heart I’ve worn it since,More than life I prize it,And, like Cinderella’s prince,I must advertise it.

Would you mind contributing a small sum, say a dollar or two, to the Keats Memorial Fund. We thought not. It is a privilege and a pleasure. The object is to save the house in which the poet lived during his last years, and in which he did some of his best work. The names of all contributors will be preserved in the memorial house, so it would be a nice idea to send your dollar or two in the name of your small child or grandchild, who may visit Hampstead when he grows up. Still standing in the garden at Hampstead is the plum tree under which Keats wrote,

“Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down.”

Americans who speak at French should confine their conversation to other Americans similarly talented. They should not practise on French people, whose delicate ear is no more proof against impure accent than a stone is proof against dripping water. The mistake which English speaking people make is assuming that French is merely a language, whereas, even in Paris, the speaking of it as much as accomplishment as singing, or painting on china. Many gifted Frenchmen, like M. Viviani, Anatole France, and some other Academicians, speak French extremely well, but even these live in hope of improvement, of some day mastering the finest shades of nasality and cadence, the violet rays of rhythm.

Mr. Masefield, the poet, does not believe that war times nourish the arts. The human brain does its best work, he says, when men are happy. How perfectly true! Look at ancient Greece. She was continually at war, and what did the Grecians do for art? A few poets, a few philosophers and statesmen, a few sculptors, and the story is told. On the other hand, look at England in Shakespeare’s time. The English people were inordinately happy, for there were no wars to depress them, barring a few little tiffs with the French and the Spanish, and one or two domestic brawls. The human brain does its best work when men are happy, indeed. There was Dante, a cheery old party. But why multiply instances?

Having read a third of H. M. Tomlinson’s “The Sea and the Jungle,” we pause to offer the uncritical opinion that this chap gets as good seawater into his copy as Conrad, and that, in the item of English, he can write rings around Joseph.

Like others who have traversed delectable landscapes and recorded their impressions, in memory or in notebooks, we have tried to communicate to other minds the “incommunicable thrill of things”: a pleasant if unsuccessful endeavor. When you are new at it, you ascribe your failure to want of skill, but you come to realize that skill will not help you very much. You will do well if you hold the reader’s interest in your narrative: you will not, except by accident, make him see the thing you have seen, or experience the emotion you experienced.

So vivid a word painter as Tomlinson acknowledges that the chance rewards which make travel worth while are seldom matters that a reader would care to hear about, for they have no substance. “They are no matter. They are untranslatable from the time and place. Such fair things cannot be taken from the magic moment. They are not provender for notebooks.”

He quotes what the Indian said to the missionary who had been talking to him of heaven. “Is it like the land of the musk-ox in summer, when the mist is on the lakes, and the loon cries very often?” These lakes are not charted, and the Indian heard the loon’s call in his memory; but we could not better describe the delectable lands through which we have roamed. “When the mist is on the lakes and the loon cries very often.” What traveler can better that?

Old Bill Taft pulled a good definition of a gentleman t’other day. A gentleman, said he, is a man who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.

Mr. Generous is the claim agent for the New Haven railroad at New Britain, Conn., but a farmer whose cow wandered upon the rails tells us that he lost money by the settlement.

William Benzine, who lives near Rio, Wis., was filling his flivver tank by the light of a lantern when – But need we continue?

Our notion of a person of wide tastes is one who likes almost everything that isn’t popular.

Speaking of the Naval Station, you may have forgotten the stirring ballad which we wrote about it during the war. If so —

YEO-HEAVE-HO!It was a gallant farmer ladEnlisted in the navy.“Give me,” said he, “the deep blue sea,The ocean wide and wavy!”A sailor’s uniform he’d don,And never would he doff it.He packed his grip, and soon was onHis way to Captain Moffett.In cap of white and coat of blueHe labored for the nation,A member of the salty crewThat worked the Naval Station.He soon became the best of tars,A seaman more than able,By sweeping streets, and driving cars,And waiting on the table.He guarded gates, and shoveled snow,And worked upon the highway.“All lads,” said he, “should plough the sea,And would if I had my way.”Week-end he took a trolley car,And to the city hied him,Alongside of another tarWho offered for to guide him.The train rolled o’er a trestle high,The river ran below him.“Well, I’ll be blamed!” our tar exclaimed,And grabbed his pal to show him.“Yes, dash my weeping eyes!” he cried.“That’s water, sure, by gravy!The first blue water I have spiedSince joining of the navy!”* * * * *Now, “landsmen all,” the moral’s plain:Our navy still is arming,And if you’d plough the well known main,You’d best begin by farming.If you would head a tossing prowAmong our navigators,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 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.

It is quite another matter to prepare for a few weeks away from town. There are bills to be paid; the iceman and the milkman and the laundryman must be choked off, and the daily paper restrained from littering the doorstep. There is hair to be cut, and teeth to be tinkered, and so on. In short, it takes days to stop the machinery of living for a fortnight, and days to start it going again. But, my dear, one must have a change.

JUST A REHEARSAL[From the Elgin News.]

Mr. and Mrs. Perce left immediately on a short honeymoon trip. The “real” honeymoon trip is soon to be made, into various parts of Virginia.

LAME IN BOTH REGISTERS?[From the Decatur Review.]

Dr. O. E. Williams, who is conducting revival services in the First United Brethren church, spoke to a large audience on Friday night on “Lame in Both Feet.” Mrs. Williams sang a solo in keeping with the sermon.

FLORAL POME(Sign on Ashland Ave.: “Vlk the Florist.”)For flowers fragrant, sweet as milk,Be sure to call on Florist Vlk.Roses, lilies, for the folksCan be purchased down at Vlk’s.Of bouquets there is no lackAt the flower shop of Vlk.Orchids, pansies, daisies, phlox,All are sold at Florist Vlk’s.A wondrous place, a shop de luxeIs this here store of William Vlk’s.F. E. C. Jr.

The Boston aggregation, by the way (a witty New Yorker, a musician, informed us), is sometimes referred to as the Swiss Family Higginson and the Bocheton Symphony orchestra.

Touching on musical criticism, a Chicago writer who visited St. Louis to report a music festival had a few drinks before the opening concert. His telegraphed review began: “Music is frozen architecture.”

Aside from his super-mathematics, Dr. Einstein is understandable. He prefers Bach to Wagner, Shakespeare to Goethe, and he would rather walk in the valleys than climb the mountains.

THE SECOND POST[Example of pep and tact.]

Dear Sir: We absolutely cannot understand why you do not buy stock in the – proposition or why we have not heard from you in reference to our letter. A man in your position should be able to invest some of his earnings into a proposition that should turn out a big success. It seems to us that the more rotten a proposition is the better the people will buy.

Now if you can explain this as to why the people bite on the many and poor schemes that are out to the public as there has been in the last six months, the information would be more than gladly received by us.

Let’s get away from all this bunk stuff and think for ourselves and put your money in a real live proposition such as the – .

After you invest your money in our business, do not fail to submit our proposition to some of your friends, so as to put this proposition over the top just as soon as possible.

May this letter act on you and try to improve your thought on investing your money with us, for we stand as true and honest as we can in order to make money for our clients.

Trusting that you will mail your check or money order to us at your very earliest convenience while the security is still selling at par, $10 per share, or a letter from you stating your reason for not doing so, we are, respectfully yours, etc.

In dedicating her autobiography to her husband, Mrs. Asquith quotes Epictetus: “Have you not received powers, to the limit of which you will bear all that befalls? Have you not received magnanimity? Have you not received courage? Have you not received endurance?” Mr. Christopher Morley thinks the gentleman needs them, but we are not so sure. It is said that when Margot mentioned to him the large sum she was to receive for the book, Mr. Asquith remarked, “I hope, my dear, that it isn’t worth it.”

As many know, Mr. Humphry Ward is a person of importance in his line. An American couple in London invited him to dine with them at their hotel, and concluded the invitation with the line, “If there is a Mrs. Ward, we should like to have her come, too.”

In the Review of Reviews, Mr. Herbert Wade entitles his interview with Prof. Michelson, “Measuring the Suns of the Solar System.” Wonder how he explained it to the Prof?

“She left a note saying she would do the next worst thing to suicide… She went to Cleveland but decided to return.”

Try South Bend.

“He decided that life was not worth living after that, so he came to South Bend.” – South Bend Tribune.

Stet!

WHY THE DOG LEFT TOWN[From the Newton, Ia., News, Dec. 2.]

Warning – A resident of North Newton went home from work Saturday night and as he went in the front door a man went out the back door. This party had better leave town, for I know who he is and am after him. W. H. Miller.