Evening star., 1927-10-16
AROUND THE CITY
BY MAMIE LANCASTER.

lTHERE is never any telling why
people do odd things--probably
| for the reason that they so seldom
know themselves.
Take. say, the bunch of red dahlias
that somebody stuck in the fork OF
tree on the edge of the Capitol
grounds No woman could have
reached up and. naturally, no oldish
man would have bothered. So 1t must
| have been some young chap-and a
young chap implies romance.
Do you suppose he bought those
| flowers for his girl, stuck them 'ip
| there, to be safe and out of the way
| while he attended to a business mat
| ter--and then forgot? The average
youngster is more likely to forget his
| business than his girl, of course, still.
there are always exceptions--which
| is why this is such a nice surprising
world to live in.
Then again, maybe--just maybe
some artist may have come along
with a bunch of dahlias--don't ask
/ where he got them-and it may have
struck him that the blood-red of the
| leaves would make a lovely contrast
! against the green of grass and the
| brown, woodsy bole of a tree, and
| passing people would have a little
thrill of gladness at the sight. Artists
are like that, you know--also poets,
and even some everyday people.
| Isn't it odd?
| Anyhow, the dahias famed against
| the brown of the tree and the shaded
| greens all around, for a couple of
| days, then a rain came and blowy
wind. And after that, the bunch of
| dahlias had disappeared and only the
wind knows where they went.
| And the wind won't tell. 1t will
| whistle or moan. according to the
| humor it is in, but you can't get it to
| gossip. which is a pity.
The wind must know so many
| things.
THERE is a vacant lot between two
brick sides on a shabby street
downtown. In the lot, which was
| muddy, luridly daubed sheet hung
on a line. And behind the sheet were
bulges made by something alive and
kicking. A boy in front, with a black
mustache-cork-and a whip that
horses used to know about, strutted
up and down before the sheet, crack.
ing his whip and bawling out in a
voice that showed for reliable lungs:
III,
see the greatest show on earth-ad.
mission only penny
Apparently every other boy in the
nelghborhood who could raise a cent
was helping to make the inside bulge.
ana batch of less prosperous young
sters stood around. outside to gloat
over the. showman's revealments. BY
way of sex variety, a small rag-tag
girl leaned against one of the walls,
her face hidden in her arms, her bare
feet burrowing in the mud And the
rag-tag was crying.
One OF the boys on the outside, DOS.
sibly unable to bear other disappoint.
ment added to his own, yelled at her
that If she didn't quit he'd come over
and knock her block off, and another
young Bayard SHE'D a banana peel
at her and missed. The rag-tag kept
on crying.
A woman who was tripping care
fully along must have had a perfect
soul, for she paused to say that nice
little girls ought never to cry like
that on the street.
The little girl did not seem to
banker for soul stuff-though she
stopped crying long enough to raise
tea --distorted face and below out:
You lemme lone, you ole smart
cake, you"
And the lady moved on in such a
hurry as to splash her shiny slippers
in puddle between q couple of
broken bricks.
Another woman, apparently lacking
in the finer sensibilities, also paused
to take in the show and to consider
the rag-tag.
Hello. sis. What's the circus
about?"
Perhaps the small thing had cried
nut her stock of tears. Perhaps,
again, she felt like complaining, for q
change:
Its six-toed kitten. an Jimmy
swiped me cent outer me fist an went
inside, stedder m-eee."
The recital was too much and the
child ended with a paroxysm of sobs
that was sorrowful to hear--provided
you know about sorrow.
A mean little red cent makes no
shine in purse of more imposing
coins, but $ to a rag-tag girl whose
whole tempestuous being called for
the hidden glories of a six-toed
cat
The woman treated. Just to show
how downright rich she must have
been she made it nickel. Then she
waited until the Snowman counted
out the change and passed the rag-tag
behind the lurid daub. For that one
instant of anticipation, anyhow, the
child was perfectly happy.
And even a cents worth Of happi-
ness is splendid thing.
Almost a Hero.
James J. Montague in New York Herald
Tribune.
It is now contended that Jesse
James wasn't so bad. Well, compared
with the modern gunman he wasn't