The Washington herald., 1914-01-04

/ NAAN "Siiies &hu ~ShaPh
cations of his business affairs, his spiri
fairly yearning for something fluffy
and intellectually completely restful, dc
you suppose for a moment that he j:
going to be lifted out of the morass Of
his woe by conversation with thai
lady of his on the subject of the In.
estimable Inhnitude of the Protoplas-
mic Suffragette as outlined BY Mr.
Louis d. Brandeis in the latest issue OF
Harper's Weekly? Not he, my dear
Mrs. Pedagog. What he wants on that
occasion is somebody to 81: alongside
of him while he pulls away on his old
briar wood pipe, holding his tired, lit.
tie paddy in her soft, right hand, while
she twitters forth George AIDES lates,
Fable on The Flipper that Flapped,
or something else equally diverting
The reverse of the picture is equally
true. II there is anything in the world
that drives man to despair it is to
have to listen to S o'clock tea gabble
when he happens to be in a mood for
the Alexander Hamilton, or Vice Pres
ident Marshall style of discourse. The
facts are the same in both cases. The
Bernard Shaw lady is delight to the
heart and soul in his Bernard Shaw
moods. The George Ade lady is a
source of unalloyed bliss in a George
Ade mood, but they don't reverse read
lily, and in most cases they can't re-
verse at all. Then there are other
equally battling complications along
other lines. A man may be crazy
about poetry, and he falls in love, as
he supposes, with a dainty little
creature in gold-rimmed eyeglasses,
who writes the most exquisite lyrics,
simply because he thinks at the mo-
ment that those lyrics are going to
make his life just one sweet song
after another. He marries the little
songbird, and then what happens?"
Never having married a canary, I
don't know" said the Landlady, with
glance at her husband.
well, I'll tell YOU" said the Idiot.
He has honeymoon of lovely i'm
ages. He feels like a colt put out to
pasture on the slopes of Parnassus.
Life runs along with the lilt of a
patter song-and then, to indulge in
joke worthy of the palmiest days of
London Punch, he comes out of Pat
ter-Song! There dawns day when he
is full chock-a-block up to his neck
with poetry, and the inner man Graves
the reinforcement of the kind of
aapjacks his mother used to make. One
good waffle would please him more
than sixty-seven sonnets on the sub
ject of Aspiration Nothing short of
lustrous, smoking, cleaning, stack
of fresh buckwheats can hold him on
the pinnacle of JOY, and the lovely lit
tie lyrist, TO whom he has committed
himself, his destinies, and all that he
HoS ohNSA NoW iOl iiS, LiSS uCtSSil
singing to the kitchen, mixes the neces-
sary amount of concrete, serves the re-
sulting dishes at the breakfast table, and
gloom, gloom unmitigated, falls upon that
house. After eating two of her cakes
poor old hubby begins to feel as if he
had swallowed the corner stone of al
Carnegie library. That lyric touch
that Herrick might have envied and
Tennyson have viewed with profess
sional alarm has produced buckwheat
cake of such impenetrable density that
the Navy Department, if it only knew
about it, would joyously grant her the
contract for furnishing the armor plate
for the new superdreadnoughts we are
about to build in order to enforce the
closed season on our dove of peace.
While eating those cakes the victim
speculates on that old problem, Is Sui
eide SIM A cloud rises upon the
horizon of his JOY, and without intend
ing any harm whatsoever his mind. in
reyerts to another little
lady he once knew. who, while She