Evening star., 1934-03-18

odor of peat f,es Later. !. insisted on tweed
which came from a c-rtein Village on the Isle
of Harris, and from the loom OF one particular
weaver in that village. When his pet weaver
died Sylvester was desolated.
By the same token his taste for wine suffered
a sea-change. In his younger days Sylvester
was quite content with port on any occasion.
But after sampling various vintages abroad, he
could never enjoy a drink until he had ascer-
tanned its class year and alma mater. Even
tually his drinking degenerated into a futile
quest for very special wine made from the
fruit in the extreme southwest corner of very
special vineyard in an obscure province of
France during the second week of October in
the year 1882.
Whenever a new literary trend loomed on the
horizon, only trends can loom, Sylvester was
always one jump ahead of the rest of us in
following it. He subscribed TO all the little
revolutionary magazines-an Improbable in
vestment, since few of them survived their sec
ond issue Era Pound, James Joyce and Ger
trude Stein never puzzled him for a moment;
even the DadaistS caused him only temporary
bewilderment. But about the time that e e.
cummings streamlinsd his prose by eliminating
capital letters, Sylvester renounced the radical
stylists and joined the Humanist movement.
The Humansts, he said represented the last
word in culture, but they too dull to read.
So he stopped reading.
THUS Sylvester found himself at last
perched on the pinnacle OF preciosity. with
nothing to read, nothing to wear, nothing TO
drink. There seemed to be nothing for him
to do but sit still and await the ultimate rigor
mortis of refinement.
Then suddenly like a bolt from the blue
stocking came the news of Sylvester's mar
riage to one Birdie Mae Hospers At the
earliest opportunity 1 went out to visit the
newlyweds in their suburban home. Sylvester,
beaming proudly, met the front porch
Of q red-roofed bungalow, which was exactly
like all the other red-roofed bungalows in the
block, and uShered me into the living room.
1t was glaringly lighted by piano lamp with
rose shade and half dozen electric candles
sprouting from the paneled walls. In each
panel hung Maxfield Parrish print framed in
mother pearl
A large ship model with celluloid sails re-
posed in the middle of the mantel, fanked
by green bronze statuette of the Cherub and
vase of artificial poinsettias sprinkled with
Gnsel snow. On mission table in the center
of the room stood an eight-volume edition of
masterpieces of the Worlds Great Literature"
A radio blared forth the melodies of Bump"
ing room of the Hotel Pfister in Milwaukee
And this" Sylvester shouted facetiously
above the din his wife entered the room, els
the ball and chan!"
Happy to know you, I'm sure" cooed Birdie
Mae offering me hand decorated with GRIM
son 6ngernails and a bangle bracelet. She
was plump, forid young lady with titan hair
and the numerous founces and ruff1es of her
pink satin frock made her look almost spherical
She had an alarming tendency toward baby
talk, and when she futtered out of the room
to get us what she called "an ickle dwinkee :"
perfume hung heavy in her wake. The dwinkee
proved to be a mixture of gin and grapefruit
juice with too much sugar, served in thick
if it were nectar.
"Oh Sylly!" cried Birdie Mae, as she refilled
our glasses. Its almost o'clock"
Sylvester dashed to the radio adjusted the
dial with a practiced hand and tiptoed back to
his chair. The angelus had sounded. And rs
looked at Sylvester and Birdie Mae listening
reverently to the dialogue of Amos n Andy
chewing their chicle in perfect rhythm, real
lied that here was scene of absolute felicity
With the help of Birdie Mae, Sylvester had
climbed down from the lonely eminence to
which his discrimination had driven him. He
was back where he started-and glad to be
there. The cycle of the connoisseur was COM
plete.