, 1914-09-17
The Unscientiiic Scientist.

and carried a trident and came up
to blow every go often of course
you can't blame HIM for that, he
was King of the Sea, or something
and he had a license to blowl L
would, too, if | had a job like
that-and who was always attend
ed by swell looking danes whose
neither exiremities, however, were
somewhat disappointing. Frank
ly, just between you and me, l
think the l914-mermaids have the
NEUROLOGICAL ones beaten four
ways from the jack. It's open
season for all the year round
here, too. We've got some of the
late models working at the San
Diego Exposition. Yep, L know.
L saw 'em in the bay last Satur-
day afternoon. Honest, Herb, this
isn't such a poor place to work.
Bnt L WAS going to tell you
about "Neptune's Wonderland"
It's an aquarium on the "Isth-
mus" here, anu a whale of a big
one. 1t holds something like a
million fish, or maybe it was only
a thousand-I forget. Anyway,
it's some aquarium! l give you
my word you begin to feel as if it
were running in strong competi.
ton with the ocean when you see
all those things swimming and
squirming and crawling around in
there. 1 call them "things'' to be
on the safe side-that describes
most anything. 1 started to make
a list of their names, but most of
them / couldn't spell-and they
didn't sound like regular names
anyway-and what l did write
was about as interesting AZ page
209 of my prize dictionary (paid
the last installment on it this
month, didn't take that cash dis
count), go 1 desisted.
One thing in there is an old &C
quaintance-a stingaree. Vividly
l recalled my Introduction to it.
Unwittingly l stepped on it in
the surf; willingly, it threw its
tail up over my foot (10b B-no,
that's the size of my silk hose)
hurriedly but effectively, and L
still carry the scar. Well, the
memory made me sad. Whenever
l feel sad l want to write poetry.
So l wrote you a poem about it.
At least I called it a poem, and
my up-to-date stenographer she
called it a poem. But the Boss
he called it-well, anyway it did
MT get by; SO Tm afraid you'll
never see it, until my Memoirs are
published L named it "The Tail
of the Stingeree." You could sing
it to the tune of the "Tale of the
Bumblebee," if you felt musical.
l played it on the piano, with one
hand, l had to use the other to
beat time-and say! It's a bear!
Sweetly sad Tor sadly sweet, eth
or way (sentiment, tool But you
III have to wait for the Memoirs,
this local Board of Censorship is
awful Grained in Chicago and
acts as if he's proud of it).
The auditor came in to my of
fee the other day and handed me
the check for my monthly stipend.
He's got quite a job that fellow;
nothing to do but count money
and dole it out in the smallest
possible amoynts.) And he ask
ed: "Scotty,' what do you write
that fool stuff to Herb forY"
1 waved the pink slip in his
face coquettishly and said: "For
this" Then he looked kind of
sad-he's not a self-separator at
all-and he asked me if l wasn't
ashamed to take the money. /
said 1 was, but that I'd rather be
ashamed than not get it. He could
see the sense to that all right, ii
didn't leave much room for srgu-
ment, but L still maintain that his
soul harbors none of the divinus
afiatus, whatever that is. Aside
from that, l like him. But dom