The Washington times., 1923-02-27

States probably will be decided
this week.
mario, and when I say they ruined
the story I'm praising their work. l
saw my lawyers and my lawyers saw
their lawyers. They said go ahead
and fight, but there / was under
contract with a theatrical company
and out of the city and 1 decided
that it wouldn't be worth while.
Next thing l know Charlie Chap
Floor'-not, mind you. The Face
Upon the Floor but THE Face on
the Barroom Floor Well, I tried to
hide my hurt, but it doesn't do much
good. A photograph comes out with
my poem recited by somebody who
thinks my lines were written to
make the people laugh and the record
calls 1t The Face on the Barroom
Floor The curse that Bowery min.
strel put on me could not be shaken
off. Did you ever hear how I came
to write it?
A Regular Honest Bum.
well about a week before the Dis.
patch printed it we were sitting in
Joe Schmidt's saloon on the corner
street drinking beer. Joe had one
of the finest places in the city and
Union Square used to be to the
theatrical profession what Long
Acre Square is now. Let's see, there
were Henry Greenwald, who con-
trolled most of the. theaters in Texas;
Frank O'Brien, who owned the Bir-
mingham Opera House; Col. Mel
som, who ran two. theaters in Nash
vile; Frank Tannenbaum, of Mo-
bile, and myself in that party that
evening in Joe's.
1T must have been about II
o'clock at night and Frank O'Brien
was saying something about going
home when in came a chap who
looked as though he had just passed
through one of those old-fashioned
street sweepers backward. In short,
he was a monumental bum
Cents said he, L need a drink
I'VE gave him a glass of whis-
key. which he shot, and then Joe
wanted to give him what is ia
miliarly known as the air. One
of the walters grabbed our friend
and heaved him through the swing
ing doors. He was still in the air
when Toby, Joe's hound, took hold
of him. We resented this rough
stuff and went out and found the
stranger flat on the sidewalk. We
picked him up, fetched him back,
threw a few WHISTLES into him
and had a quarrel with Joe. We
talked to the tramp. He told us
that he was or had been an artist
Well, the tragedy of the thing
began working in my mind and
before 1 reached home that night
my first two lines had formed in
my head:
Twas a balmy summer evening,
and q goodly crowd was there,
Which well nigh filled Joe's bar.
j. room on the corner of the square.
Not "'Ostler Joe" Either.
NO" sighed Mr.. Darcy, "they
don't, write verse like that any
more. You don't see them writing
any more gems like John Trow-
bridges The Vagabonds' and 'Da-
RUS Green and His Flying Ma
chine And you don't get any
more like Casey at the Bat and
'Ostler joe and-now there's an
other case. George r. Sinms, a
friend of mine. wrote that poem,
but he didn't call it ''OstIer joe
ne name Oh lndL poem was
'Phryne's Husband George Simms
took that poem to an editor and the
first thing that editor did was to
change the name to ''Ostler joe
Why? Because that editor had
never read Greek mythology Ind
had never heard of Phryne, so he
made it ''Ostler joe and 'Ostler
Joe it has been ever since. Ignor-
ance, that's the trouble.
No, instead Of 'Lasca' and Casa
blanca and Jim Bludso' and Little
Br4eches' and 'Horatius' and The
Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight
and Juggling Jerry and The
Prisoner of Chilon' and the like,
we get lot of this catch-ascatch-
can vers libre and tone poems that
don't mean solitary thing to me.
Maybe I'm a bit stupid; l don't
know. but give me the swing and
human feeling of my own master
piece. Listen:
Another drink. and with chalk in hand
the vagabond began
To sketch a face that we'll might buy
the soul of any man;
Then as he placed another lock upon
the shapely head,
With a fearful shrek leaped and fell
across the picture.
Mr.. Darcy paused. The silence
was complete. And then Mr.. Darcy
whispered his immortal last word