Chapter 1

III THIS CHILD KNOWS THE ANSWER--_DO YOU_?

IV RULES AND SUGGESTIONS FOE WATCHING AUCTION BRIDGE

V A CHRISTMAS SPECTACLE

VI HOW TO WATCH A CHESS MATCH

VII WATCHING BASEBALL

VIII HOW TO BE A SPECTATOR AT SPRING PLANTING

IX THE MANHATTADOR

X WHAT TO DO WHILE THE FAMILY IS AWAY

XI "ROLL YOUR OWN"

XII DO INSECTS THINK?

XIII THE SCORE IN THE STANDS

XIV MID-WINTER SPORTS

XV READING THE FUNNIES ALOUD

XVI OPERA SYNOPSES I Die Meister-Genossenschaft. II Il Minnestrone III Lucy de Lima

XVII THE YOUNG IDEA'S SHOOTING GALLERY

XVIII POLYP WITH A PAST

XIX HOLT! WHO GOES THERE?

XX THE COMMITTEE ON THE WHOLE

XXI NOTING AN INCREASE IN BIGAMY

XXII THE REAL WIGLAF: MAN AND MONARCH

XXIII FACING THE BOYS' CAMP PROBLEM

XXIV ALL ABOUT THE SILESIAN PROBLEM

XXV HAPPY THE HOME WHERE BOOKS ARE FOUND

XXVI WHEN NOT IN ROME, WHY DO AS THE ROMANS DID?

XXVII THE TOOTH, THE WHOLE TOOTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TOOTH

XXVIII MALIGNANT MIRRORS

XXIX THE POWER OF THE PRESS

XXX HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

XXXI HOW TO UNDERSTAND INTERNATIONAL FINANCE

XXXII 'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE SUMMER

XXXIII WELCOME HOME--AND SHUT UP

XXXIV ANIMAL STORIES I Georgie Dog II Lillian Mosquito

XXXV THE TARIFF UNMASKED

LITERARY DEPARTMENT

XXXVI "TAKE ALONG A BOOK"

XXXVII CONFESSIONS OF A CHESS CHAMPION

XXXVIII "RIP VAN WINKLE"

XXXIX LITERARY LOST AND FOUND DEPT.

XL "DARKWATER"

XLI THE NEW TIME-TABLE

XLII MR. BOK'S AMERICANIZATION

XLIII ZANE GREY'S MOVIE

XLIV SUPPRESSING "JURGEN"

XLV ANTI-IBÁÑEZ

XLVI ON BRICKLAYING

XLVII "AMERICAN ANNIVERSARIES"

XLVIII A WEEK-END WITH WELLS

XLIX ABOUT PORTLAND CEMENT

L OPEN BOOKCASES

LI TROUT-FISHING

LII "SCOUTING FOR GIRLS"

LIII HOW TO SELL GOODS

LIV "You!"

LV THE CATALOGUE SCHOOL

LVI "EFFECTIVE HOUSE ORGANS"

LVII ADVICE TO WRITERS

LVIII "THE EFFECTIVE SPEAKING VOICE"

LIX THOSE DANGEROUSLY DYNAMIC BRITISH GIRLS

LX BOOKS AND OTHER THINGS

LXI "MEASURE YOUR MIND"

LXII THE BROW-ELEVATION IN HUMOR

LXIII BUSINESS LETTERS

ILLUSTRATIONS

They look him over as if he were a fresh air child being given a day's outing.

The watcher walks around the table, giving each hand a careful scrutiny.

"'Round and 'round the tree I go"

"Atta boy, forty-nine: Only one more to go!"

For three hours there is a great deal of screaming.

He was further aided by the breaks of the game.

Mrs. Deemster didn't enter into the spirit of the thing at all.

"That's right," says the chairman.

"If you weren't asleep what were you doing with your eyes closed?"

You would gladly change places with the most lawless of God's creatures.

I am mortified to discover that the unpleasant looking man is none other than myself.

"I can remember you when you were that high"

She would turn away and bite her lip.

"Listen Ed! This is how it goes!"

They intimate that I had better take my few pennies and run 'round the corner to some little haberdashery.

I thank them and walk in to the nearest dining-room table.

"Why didn't you tell us that you were reading a paper on birth control?"

LOVE CONQUERS ALL

I.

THE BENCHLEY-WHITTIER CORRESPONDENCE

Old scandals concerning the private life of Lord Byron have been revived with the recent publication of a collection of his letters. One of the big questions seems to be: _Did Byron send Mary Shelley's letter to Mrs. R.B. Hoppner_? Everyone seems greatly excited about it.

Lest future generations be thrown into turmoil over my correspondence after I am gone, I want right now to clear up the mystery which has puzzled literary circles for over thirty years. I need hardly add that I refer to what is known as the "Benchley-Whittier Correspondence."

The big question over which both my biographers and Whittier's might possibly come to blows is this, as I understand it: _Did John Greenleaf Whittier ever receive the letters I wrote to him in the late Fall of_ 1890? _If he did not, who did? And under what circumstances were they written_?

I was a very young man at the time, and Mr. Whittier was, naturally, very old. There had been a meeting of the Save-Our-Song-Birds Club in old Dane Hall (now demolished) in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Members had left their coats and hats in the check-room at the foot of the stairs (now demolished).

In passing out after a rather spirited meeting, during the course of which Mr. Whittier and Dr. Van Blarcom had opposed each other rather violently over the question of Baltimore orioles, the aged poet naturally was the first to be helped into his coat. In the general mix-up (there was considerable good-natured fooling among the members as they left, relieved as they were from the strain of the meeting) Whittier was given my hat by mistake. When I came to go, there was nothing left for me but a rather seedy gray derby with a black band, containing the initials "J.G.W." As the poet was visiting in Cambridge at the time I took opportunity next day to write the following letter to him:

Cambridge, Mass. November 7, 1890.

Dear Mr. Whittier:

I am afraid that in the confusion following the Save-Our-Song-Birds meeting last night, you were given my hat by mistake. I have yours and will gladly exchange it if you will let me know when I may call on you.

May I not add that I am a great admirer of your verse? Have you ever tried any musical comedy lyrics? I think that I could get you in on the ground floor in the show game, as I know a young man who has written several songs which E.E. Rice has said he would like to use in his next comic opera--provided he can get words to go with them.

But we can discuss all this at our meeting, which I hope will be soon, as your hat looks like hell on me.

Yours respectfully,

ROBERT C. BENCHLEY.

I am quite sure that this letter was mailed, as I find an entry in my diary of that date which reads:

"Mailed a letter to J.G. Whittier. Cloudy and cooler."

Furthermore, in a death-bed confession, some ten years later, one Mary F. Rourke, a servant employed in the house of Dr. Agassiz, with whom Whittier was bunking at the time, admitted that she herself had taken a letter, bearing my name in the corner of the envelope, to the poet at his breakfast on the following morning.

But whatever became of it after it fell into his hands, I received no reply. I waited five days, during which time I stayed in the house rather than go out wearing the Whittier gray derby. On the sixth day I wrote him again, as follows:

Cambridge, Mass. Nov. 14, 1890.

Dear Mr. Whittier:

How about that hat of mine?

Yours respectfully,

ROBERT C. BENCHLEY.

I received no answer to this letter either. Concluding that the good gray poet was either too busy or too gosh-darned mean to bother with the thing, I myself adopted an attitude of supercilious unconcern and closed the correspondence with the following terse message:

Cambridge, Mass. December 4, 1890.

Dear Mr. Whittier:

It is my earnest wish that the hat of mine which you are keeping will slip down over your eyes some day, interfering with your vision to such an extent that you will walk off the sidewalk into the gutter and receive painful, albeit superficial, injuries.

Your young friend,

ROBERT C. BENCHLEY.

Here the matter ended so far as I was concerned, and I trust that biographers in the future will not let any confusion of motives or misunderstanding of dates enter into a clear and unbiased statement of the whole affair. We must not have another Shelley-Byron scandal.

II

FAMILY LIFE IN AMERICA