Evening star., 1925-04-21
THIS AND THAT
BY CHARLES E. TRACEWELL.

Some bright soul with statistical
jnclinations has discovered that only
one-tenth of ! per cent of the popula.
ton reads poetry. So he says. On
this basis, only 100 subscribers to The
Star care for verse, or probably 200
800 or 400, counting the average unm.
ber in family.
Figures. however, often lie, despite
the old saying that they never do
made to prove almost anything one
wants them to prove. In such a case
as the present, even the basic ground.
work is unsubstantiated.
Personally, I believe that a great
deal more than one-tenth of / per
cent of the population of Washington
likes poetry. Not being a statistician
/ would not hazard any guess as to
the number.
I only know that met a man yes.
terday who could quote whole pas.
sages from Alexander Pope's Essay
on Man." although he had not read
that tour de force for more than 40
years, he said. There are many more
like him.
Undoubtedly, however, there are
those who are poem-shy. The minute
they see thoughts arrayed in verse
form, they pass it up" as the Yer
nacular has it.
Now this is too bad. Poetry-the
old-fashioned kind-not only Is filled
with melody, but contains great
thoughts better stated than prose can
do it. One need never apologize for
Poetry.
Yet for those afraid of verse one
longs to do something. Why not
translate few Of Longfellow's most
famous poems, for instance, into Eng
lish prose, SO that the unpoetical may
not entirely miss these treasures?
X X X n
Let US take first the famous
SERENADE
from "The Spanish Student"
Turn out your lights, you Summer
star; dim them in what would be azure
distances If the sun were shining
which 1t is not.
Can't you see that my best girl is
sleeping? She has washed her fair face
in the approved style of the toilet
soap ads, and has smeared on and
off the cold creams recommended by
the Countess Of Rutabaga.
And you big Summer moon up there
turn off the switch. Perhaps 1t
would be just as well If you would
sink entirely away. Evangeline, my
best girl, is hitting the hay. And
when she sleeps, she sleeps.
Wind, old topper, crawl back into
yourself. and stop waving those win
dow curtains. She's a-sleeping in
there, my best girl is.
Kid o. dreams-tell her, in 6. sort
of F'reudian complex, that 1 am oat
here watching, while she is sleeping
my girl-my best girl-Lord, how
she can sleep.
0tIr- Dext rendition 90 of
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Take away that mournful stuff
about Life being nothing but dream,
and an empty one, at that. You got
1t all wrong, Bo. You're a dead one
If you sleep too much. Things are
never exactly what they seem, as
w. S. Gilbert said, in one of his songs
in 'Pinafore," when he announced
that skim milk often masquerades
as cream.
Life is the real stuff! It is earnest,
too, and we are quite positive that
the grave is not our goal. That wise
crack about dust thou art, to dust
returneth, was never meant to in.
clude the soul.
Not on your lifei Neither movies
nor funerals is our big end in life. The
main thing is to get a move on US
and do our stuff, SO that tomorrow
we will be a little bit better than we
were yesterday.
1t takes a long time to learn to
draw a Gibson girl, and Time itself
is an old slow poke. Our trusty old
hearts, although we must confess
they do the best they can. are in real
fty beating a tattoo to the grave. We
wish we did not have to mention