Evening star., 1942-01-10

Henry McLemore. no subject on
earth, ss far as I can figure, that
won't prompt letter either of praise
or condemnation.
Write a column saying mice are
nice and the mail starts coming IN.
The mice fanciers write to say that
they wouldn't miss your column for
anything, that you are a wise and
knowing man and that If you are
ever in their section of the country
they would like to have you address
their little club, which, Of course,
won't be able to pay you anything
because funds are low.
The anti-micers do everything but
inclose poisoned cheese in their let
ters and always express wonder
ment that any such fool could make
living out of writing such biased
junk. Never again will they take the
time and trouble, or allow any Of
their family to take the time and
trouble, to read the column, etc., etc.
In my seven and a half months
Of turning out this-well, this junk
to some and this deathless prose to
others-I have touched on as many
subjects as there are days in seven
and one-half months. I have COM
mented on birds and morale, Christ
mas trees and Ickes, dieting and
Senator Tobey, cocker spaniel pup
pies and Adolf Hitler, and 1 can
assure you that not one of these
subjects found my readers unified.
Shame on me for making gentle
fun of Honest Harold, prominent
Washington New and Egg Dealer!
Hurrah for me for doing same.
Ffe on me for limiting that I do
not consider Charles Augustus Lind
bergh quite as complete patriot as
Patrick Henry.
Three cheers for me for plucking
a tail feather or two from the
Lone Eagle.
am patriot.
I am Stacker.
The picture of me that runs in
the local paper shows that have
kindly face.
The picture that runs in the local
paper proves conclusively that I
have a mean and snarling face and
undoubtedly had a hand in the
Black Tom explosion, the last Mis-
sissippi flood and was the front man
in the Charley Ross kidnapping job.
My column proves that I am a
natural thinker and that the coun-
try needs more men of my type in
these trying times. My column
proves that I am still a no-good.
jack-leg sports writer who never had
thought more than ne-sixteentn
of an inch deep and that I haven't
the mind or ability to report clearly
or comment on a girls high school
volley ball game.
I am a courtly Southern gentle
man, who respects womanhood.
am woman-hater, who spends
his spare time riding the subways,
buses and trolley cars so that women
can't have a seat.
am a conceited jerk who writes
too much about himself (who cares
about how you cook, ski, skate, feel
in tank, plane or torpedo boat?D.
I am a man who writes too little
about his personal experiences.
cLet's have more about yourself.
In these times, crazy, silly expert
ences Of some one else help to take
our minds of our troubles.~
There are more nice letters than
there are bad ones, but even if there
weren't, I'd still enjoy reading
columnist's mail. There never was
a man who didn't like to open letters,
except when they have that little
isinglass front.
There goes that poStmans whistle.
Wait, just a minute. I'll get the
letters and see what some Of you
have to say to me.
Okay, I'm back and here's one
pulled out at random. 1t starts:
Dear Mr. McLemore: Your last
story in our paper was -
Readers, I pulled the wrong one.
Let's forget it!
| distributed by McNaught Syndicate, Inc)