Evening star., 1933-08-13

something for you to tell your grandchildren
about. And for Pete's sake" he added, take
your thumb out Of my eye!"
MAYHEM the cheering had subsided. Uncle
w Naboth lowered me to the ground with q
sigh Of relief and asked me what had seen.
"Wah Lees Wet Wash Laundry" replied.
But didn't you see President McKinley?"
mo. Unkie- -Nunkie." confessed. "Au saw
was q Chinaman ironing a pink shirt"
At this Uncle Naboth grew very angry and
almost shook me out Of my velveteen jacket.
But after all. It wasn't my fault that We hap
pened to be facing the wrong way.
In my late teens, when began to show
minor poetic symptoms, Uncle Naboth- took
me to Boston, which was then known as the
hub of the universe" to meet Whittier Long
fellow and Holmes. But upon inquiring We
were shocked to discover that they had died,
every last one Of them. why it seems only
yesterday that I was studying their poems In
McGuf1y's Reader" sighed Uncle Naboth
At that time the literary center Of America
had not yet shifted from Greenwich Village to
Greenwich, Conn. rented Q studio apart
ment on Eighth avenue. in New York CITY, and
soon had entree to all the more exclusive
hants of the Bohemians-that is. as long
as was willing to settle for the checks.
Eugene ONeil was . comparatively unknown
writer Of one-act plays then. I recall wildly
eyes. who often sat alone In little restaurant
on Macdougal street. taking no part in the con-
versation around him. Little did think that
some day he would be hailed as Americas
leading dramatist-and sure enough, he wasn't.
He was an accountant from Jersey City.
When Blasco Ibanez whose -Four Horse
men of the Apocalypse" had just taken the
country by storm, arrived in New York. Uncle
Naboth secured me q letter Of introduction
to him. called on him at his hotel one
morning before he was out of bed, and we
chatted together for nearly five minutes. Un-
fortunately, he spoke no English and I spoke
no Spanish, so I shall never know what We
talked about. Perhaps It is just as well.
The following Summer Uncle Naboth took
me abroad to make some foreign literary con-
facts. In London we called on H. G. Wells,
who was in italy, and on Bernard Shaw, who
was in Russia. We also went to Ireland to
see James Joyce; he was in France.
Among my treasured souvenirs Of this trip
are a note written by the late George Moore
or his secretary-reading: "Ebury street, Au-
gust 2. Mr.. Moore regrets that he can endure
no more American tourists this Summer
and a slight scar on my left leg where I was
nipped by one of Mr.. Kiplings dogs.
After failing to meet Hall Caine, Conan
Doyle, Max Beerbohm, two Waughs, three Sit
wells and a couple of Huxleys Uncle Naboth
and came back to this country.
CHORTLY after my return I was invited to
- reception at town hall for G. K. Ches-
terton, who was lecturing here. It wasn't
exactly an invitation; Uncle Naboth saw the
announcement in the paper and bought me
ticket for $150. AS luck would have it, he
misread the date, and I arrived at town hall
just in time to hear three-hour recital by
lady harpist with hyphen in her name.
But shall never forget the night I dined
at the Hotel Glamorgilt with william Butler
Yeats, Siegfried Sassoon, Edwin Markham and
Clement Wood To be sure, there were about
800 other guests present-mostly club ladies
from the Oranges and I was wedged between
two stout dowagers, with my back to the
speakers table. had an unobstructed view
of some gorgeous potted palms.
At the conclusion Of the speeches (Which
was unable to hear because the dowagers made
loud shushing noises every time dish ratified
in the kitchen) made my way to the speak
ers' table, intending to have q word with Mr.
Yeats about the effect Of daylight saving on