BOOK XIV

_Humor_

Comedy of the social struggle; masterpieces from those who have had the courage to fight the battle for social progress with the weapon of laughter.

The Reserved Section

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

(At the time of the great anthracite coal strike of 1902, George F. Baer, head of the coal trust, was quoted as declaring: "The rights and interests of the laboring man will be protected and cared for, not by labor and agitation, but by the Christian men to whom God in his infinite wisdom has given control of the property interests of this country")

In the prehistoric ages, when the world was a ball of mist-- A seething swirl of something unknown in the planet list; When the earth was vague with vapor, and formless and dark and void-- The sport of the wayward comet--the jibe of the asteroid-- Then the singing stars of morning chanted soft: "Keep out of there! Keep off that spot which is sizzling hot--it is making coal for Baer!"

When the pterodactyl ambled, or fluttered, or swam, or jumped, And the plesiosaurus rambled, all careless of what he bumped, And the other old time monsters that thrived on the land and sea, And did not know what their names were, any more than today do we-- Wherever they went they heard it: "You fellows keep out of there-- That place which shakes and quivers and quakes--it is making coal for Baer."

The carboniferous era consumed but a million years; It started when earth was shedding the last of her baby tears, When still she was swaddled softly in clumsily tied on clouds, When stars from the shop of nature were being turned out in crowds; But high o'er the favored section this sign said to all: "Beware! Stay back of the ropes that surround these slopes--they are making coal for Baer!"

The Monthly Rent

(_From "The Game of Life"_)

BY BOLTON HALL

(American lawyer and single-taxer, born 1854)

They sheared the lamb twelve times a year, To get some money to buy some beer; The lamb thought this was extremely queer-- Poor little snow-white lamb!--OLD SONG.

"God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," said the deacon.

"I will shut the gate of the field so as to keep him warm," said the philanthropist.

"If you give me the tags of wool," said the charity clipper, "I'll let the poor creature have half."

"The lambs we have always with us," said the wool broker.

"Lambs must always be shorn," said the business man; "hand me the shears."

"We should leave him enough wool to make him a coat," said the profit sharer.

"His condition is improving," said the land owner, "for his fleece will be longer next year."

"We should prohibit cutting his flesh when we shear," said the legislator.

"But I intend," said the radical, "to stop this shearing."

The others united to throw him out; then they divided the wool.

Penguin Island

BY ANATOLE FRANCE

(French man of letters, born 1844. In this masterpiece of social satire the aged and half-blind Saint Maël has by mistake baptized a flock of penguins. After a consultation of the heavenly powers, the penguins are turned into human beings)

Now one autumn morning, as the blessed Maël was walking in the valley of Clange in company with a monk of Yvern called Bulloch, he saw bands of fierce-looking men loaded with stones passing along the roads. At the same time he heard in all directions cries and complaints mounting up from the valley towards the tranquil sky.

And he said to Bulloch:

"I notice with sadness, my son, that since they became men the inhabitants of this island act with less wisdom than formerly. When they were birds they only quarrelled during the season of their love affairs. But now they dispute all the time; they pick quarrels with each other in summer as well as in winter. How greatly have they fallen from that peaceful majesty which made the assembly of the penguins look like the senate of a wise republic!

"Look towards Surelle, Bulloch, my son. In yonder pleasant valley a dozen men penguins are busy knocking each other down with the spades and picks that they might employ better in tilling the ground. The women, still more cruel than the men, are tearing their opponents' faces with their nails. Alas! Bulloch, my son, why are they murdering each other in this way?"

"From a spirit of fellowship, father, and through forethought for the future," answered Bulloch. "For man is essentially provident and sociable. Such is his character, and it is impossible to imagine it apart from a certain appropriation of things. Those penguins whom you see are dividing the ground among themselves."

"Could they not divide it with less violence?" asked the aged man. "As they fight they exchange invectives and threats. I do not distinguish their words, but they are angry ones, judging from the tone."

"They are accusing one another of theft and encroachment," answered Bulloch. "That is the general sense of their speech."

At that moment the holy Maël clasped his hands and sighed deeply.

"Do you see, my son," he exclaimed, "that madman who with his teeth is biting the nose of the adversary he has overthrown, and that other one who is pounding a woman's head with a huge stone?"

"I see them," said Bulloch. "They are creating law; they are founding property; they are establishing the principles of civilization, the basis of society, and the foundations of the State."

"How is that?" asked old Maël.

"By setting bounds to their fields. That is the origin of all government. Your penguins, O Master, are performing the most august of functions. Throughout the ages their work will be consecrated by lawyers, and magistrates will confirm it."

"Mr. Dooley" on Success

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

(American humorist and social philosopher, born 1867)

Th' millyionaire starts in as a foreman in a can facthry. By an' by, he larns that wan iv th' men wurrukin' f'r him has invinted a top that ye can opin with a pair iv scissors, an' he throws him down an' takes it away fr'm him. He's a robber, says ye? He is while he's got th' other man down. But whin he gets up he's a magnate.

Diomedes the Pirate to Alexander

BY FRANÇOIS VILLON

(French poet and vagabond, 1431-1484)

The Emperor reasoned with him: "Why should you desire to be a pirate?" And the other replied: "Why call me a pirate? Because you see me going about in a little galley? If I could arm myself like you, like you I would be an emperor."

The Leisure Classes

ANONYMOUS

There was a little beggar maid Who wed a king long, long ago; Of course the taste that he displayed Was criticised by folks who know Just what formalities and things Are due to beggar maids and kings.

But straight the monarch made reply: "There is small difference, as I live, Between our stations! She and I Subsist on what the people give. We do not toil with strength and skill, And, pleasing Heaven, never will."

The Influence of Servants

(_From "The Reign of Gilt"_)

BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

(American novelist of radical sympathies, 1867-1911)

There is a woman in one of our big cities who is now a leader of fashion, very "classy" indeed, most glib on the subject of the "traditions of people of our station." Her father was an excellent peddler, her mother a farmer's daughter who could be induced to "help out" a neighbor in the rush of the harvest time. This typical American woman behaved very sensibly so long as her sensible father and mother were alive and until the craze for English households arose. She fell into line. But the haughty servants were most trying at first. For instance, she loved bread spread with molasses. She ate it before the butler once; his face told her what a hideous "break" she had made. She tried to conquer this low taste--never did weak woman fight harder against the gnawings of sinful appetite. At last she gave way, and in secret and in stealth indulged. She was not caught and, encouraged, she proceeded to add one low common habit to another until she was leading a double life. It had its terrors; it had its compensating joys. But before she had gone too far she was happily saved. One morning her maid caught her, and the whole household was agog. The miseries endured in the few following weeks completely cured her. She is now in private, as well as in public, as sound a snob as ever reveled in "exclusiveness."

A Gentleman and His Boots

(_From "A Traveler from Altruria"_)

BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

(The "dean of American novelists," 1837-1919, here gently satirizes his country. "A Traveler from Altruria" comes to America expecting to find democracy; at a summer hotel he makes the mistake of helping the porter to black boots. For this he is rebuked by a friend.)

"There are a great many things we are willing to do for ourselves that we are not willing to do for others. But even on that principle, which I think false and illogical, you could not be justified. A gentleman is not willing to black _his own_ boots. It is offensive to his feelings, to his self-respect; it is something he will not do if he can get anybody else to do it for him."

"Then, in America," said the Altrurian, "it is not offensive to the feelings of a gentleman to let another do for him what he would not do for himself?"

"Certainly not."

"Ah," he returned, "then we understand something altogether different by the word gentleman in Altruria."

Song of the Lower Classes

BY ERNEST JONES

(Chartist leader and poet, 1819-1869; sentenced in 1848 to two years imprisonment)

We plow and sow, we're so very, very low, That we delve in the dirty clay; Till we bless the plain with the golden grain, And the vale with the fragrant hay. Our place we know, we're so very, very low, 'Tis down at the landlord's feet; We're not too low the grain to grow, But too low the bread to eat.

Down, down we go, we're so very, very low, To the hell of the deep-sunk mines; But we gather the proudest gems that glow, When the crown of the despot shines; And when'er he lacks, upon our backs Fresh loads he deigns to lay; We're far too low to vote the tax, But not too low to pay.

We're low, we're low--we're very, very low,-- And yet from our fingers glide The silken floss and the robes that glow Round the limbs of the sons of pride; And what we get, and what we give, We know, and we know our share; We're not too low the cloth to weave, But too low the cloth to wear.

We're low, we're low, we're very, very low, And yet when the trumpets ring, The thrust of a poor man's arm will go Through the heart of the proudest king. We're low, we're low--mere rabble, we know-- We're only the rank and the file; We're not too low to kill the foe, But too low to share the spoil.

Tom Dunstan: or, the Politician

("_How Long, O Lord, How Long?_")

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN

(See pages 367, 412)

Cross-legg'd on the board we sat, Like spiders spinning, Stitching and sweating, while fat Old Moses, with eyes like a cat, Sat greasily grinning; And here Tom said his say, And prophesied Tyranny's death; And the tallow burned all day, And we stitch'd and stitch'd away In the thick smoke of our breath. Poor worn-out slops were we, With hearts as heavy as lead; But "Patience! she's coming!" said he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! _Freedom's_ ahead!" ...

But Tom was little and weak, The hard hours shook him; Hollower grew his cheek, And when he began to speak The coughing took him. And at last the cheery sound Of his voice among us ceased, And we made a purse, all round, That he mightn't starve, at least. His pain was awful to see, Yet there, on his poor sick-bed, "She's coming, in spite of me! Courage, and wait!" cried he; "_Freedom's_ ahead!"

Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold, All life seems duller; There's a blight on young and old, And our talk has lost the bold Red-republican color. But we see a figure gray, And we hear a voice of death, And the tallow burns all day, And we stitch and stitch away In the thick smoke of our breath; Ay, while in the dark sit we, Tom seems to call from the dead-- "She's coming! she's coming!" says he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! _Freedom's_ ahead!"

Lines

BY STEPHEN CRANE

(See page 217)

"Have you ever made a just man?" "Oh, I have made three," answered God, "But two of them are dead, And the third-- Listen! listen, And you will hear the thud of his defeat...."

The Memoirs of Li Hung Chang

(See page 196)

A poor man is ever at a disadvantage in matters of public concern. When he rises to speak, or writes a letter to his superiors, they ask: Who is this fellow that offers advice? And when it is known that he is without coin they spit their hands at him, and use his letters in the cooks' fires. But if it be a man of wealth who would speak, or write, or denounce, even though he have the brain of a yearling dromedary, or a spine as crooked and unseemly, the whole city listens to his words and declares them wise.

FROM ECCLESIASTICUS

A rich man speaketh, and all keep silence; and what he saith they extol to the clouds: A poor man speaketh, and they say, Who is this? and if he stumble, they will help to overthrow him.

The Pauper's Drive

BY T. NOEL

(English poet of the Chartist period)

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:-- "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

Oh, where are the mourners? alas! there are none; He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone, Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man-- To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din; The whip how it cracks! and the wheels how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!" ...

You bumpkin, who stare at your brother conveyed; Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid, And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go. "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

But a truce to this strain--for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear softly his bones over the stones; Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

Complaint to My Empty Purse

BY GEOFFREY CHAUCER

(See page 423)

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Complain I, for ye be my lady dear! I am so sorry, now that ye be light; For certès, but ye make me heavy cheer, Me were as lief be laid upon my bier; For which unto your mercy thus I cry: Be heavy again, or elles might I die!

Now voucheth safe this day, or it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sun bright That of yellowness had never a peer. Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good company: Be heavy again, or elles might I die!

"Mr. Dooley" on Poverty

(See page 683)

Wan iv th' sthrangest things about life is that th' poor, who need th' money th' most, ar-re th' very wans that niver have it.

Don Quixote

BY MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

(Sancho Panza, the servant of the half-crazed knight, has accompanied him upon the promise of being promoted to a high station)

"Troth, wife," quoth Sancho, "were not I in hopes to see myself, ere it be long, governor of an island, on my conscience I should drop down dead on the spot." "Not so, my chicken," quoth the wife, "'let the hen live, though it be with pip'; do thou live, and let all the governments in the world go to the Devil. Thou camest out of thy mother's belly without government, and thou mayest be carried to thy long home without government, when it shall please the Lord. How many people in this world live without government yet do well enough, and are well looked upon? There is no sauce in the world like hunger; and as the poor never want that, they always eat with a good stomach."

The Freebooter's Prayer

(_Scotland, 1405_)

Thou That willed us naked-born, Send us meat against the morn-- Got with right or got with wrong So we fast not overlong. Prosper "Snaffle, Spur and Spear!" Grant us booty, horse and gear; Save our necks from hempen thrall, Bless the souls of them that fall.

_A Modern Version_

(_U. S. A., 1905_)

BY ARTHUR GUITERMAN

(Contemporary American poet)

Thou, Whom rich and poor adore, Grant me fifty millions more, Earned or pilfered, foul or pure; From man's law hold me secure. So, when I have gained of gold All my coffers well can hold, I may give, O Lord, for Thee, One-sixteenth in Charity.

Zadig

BY VOLTAIRE

(See page 674)

The lord of the castle was one of those Arabians who are commonly called robbers; but he now and then performed some good actions amidst a multitude of bad ones. He robbed with furious rapacity, and granted favors with great generosity.

"May I take the liberty of asking thee," said Zadig, "how long thou hast followed this noble profession?"

"From my most tender youth," replied the lord. "I was servant to a petty, good-natured Arabian, but could not endure the hardships of my situation. I was vexed to find that fate had given me no share of the earth which equally belongs to all men. I imparted the cause of my uneasiness to an old Arabian, who said to me:

"'My son, do not despair; there was once a grain of sand that lamented that it was no more than a neglected atom in the deserts; at the end of a few years it became a diamond, and it is now the brightest ornament in the crown of the king of the Indies.'

"This discourse made a deep impression on my mind. I was the grain of sand, and I resolved to become the diamond. I began by stealing two horses. I soon got a party of companions. I put myself in a condition to rob small caravans; and thus, by degrees, I destroyed the difference which had formerly subsisted between me and other men. I had my share of the good things of this world; and was even recompensed with usury for the hardships I had suffered. I was greatly respected, and became the captain of a band of robbers. I seized this castle by force. The satrap of Syria had a mind to dispossess me of it; but I was too rich to have anything to fear. I gave the satrap a handsome present, by which I preserved my castle, and increased my possessions. He even appointed me treasurer of the tributes which Arabia Petraea pays to the king of kings. I perform my office of receiver with great punctuality; but I take the freedom to dispense with that of paymaster."

For the Other 365 Days

BY FRANKLIN P. ADAMS

(Contemporary American humorist)

Christmas is over. Uncork your ambition! Back to the battle! Come on, competition! Down with all sentiment, can scrupulosity! Commerce has nothing to gain by jocosity; Money is all that is worth all your labors; Crowd your competitors, nix on your neighbors! Push 'em aside in a passionate hurry, Argue and bustle and bargain and worry! Frenzy yourself into sickness and dizziness-- Christmas is over and Business is Business.

The Road to Success

(_From "Random Reminiscences of Men and Events"_)

BY JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER

(See page 487)

If I were to give advice to a young man starting out in life, I should say to him: If you aim for a large, broad-gauged success, do not begin your business career, whether you sell your labor or are an independent producer, with the idea of getting from the world by hook or crook all you can. In the choice of your profession or your business employment, let your first thought be: Where can I fit in so that I may be most effective in the work of the world? Where can I lend a hand in a way most effective to advance the general interests? Enter life in such a spirit, choose your vocation in that way, and you have taken the first step on the highest road to a large success. Investigation will show that the great fortunes which have been made in this country, and the same is probably true of other lands, have come to men who have performed great and far-reaching economic services--men who, with great faith in the future of their country, have done most for the development of its resources. The man will be most successful who confers the greatest service on the world.

The Latest Decalogue

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

(See page 488)

Thou shalt have one God only; who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency. Swear not at all; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse. At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend. Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall. Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive. Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it. Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat. Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly. Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition.

"Mr. Dooley" on the Trusts

(See pages 683, 692)

"Mind ye, Jawn, I've no wurrud to say again thim that sets back in their own house an' lot an' makes th' food iv th' people dear. They're good men, good men. Whin they tilt the price iv beef to where wan pound iv it costs as much as many th' man in this Ar-rchey Road 'd wurruk from th' risin' to th' settin' iv th' sun to get, they have no thought iv th' likes iv you an' me. 'Tis aisy come, aisy go with thim; an' ivry cint a pound manes a new art musoom or a new church, to take th' edge off hunger. They're all right, thim la-ads with their own porkchops delivered free at th' door. 'Tis, 'Will ye have a new spring dress, me dear? Willum, ring thim up, an' tell thim to hist the price iv beef. If we had a few more pitchers an' statoos in th' musoom 'twud ilivate th' people a sthory or two. Willum, afther this steak 'll be twinty cints a pound.' Oh, they're all right, on'y I was thinkin' iv th' Connock man's fam'ly back iv th' dumps."

"For a man that was gay a little while ago, it looks to me as if you'd grown mighty solemn-like," said Mr. McKenna.

"Mebbe so," said Mr. Dooley. "Mebbe so. What th' 'ell, annyhow. Mebbe 'tis as bad to take champagne out iv wan man's mouth as round steak out iv another's. Lent is near over. I seen Doherty out shinin' up his pipe that's been behind th' clock since Ash Winsdah. Th' girls 'll be layin' lilies on th' altar in a day or two. The springs come on. Th' grass is growin' good; an', if th' Connock man's children back iv th' dumps can't get meat, they can eat hay."

What the Moon Saw

BY VACHEL LINDSAY

(See pages 335, 599, 672)

Two statesmen met by moonlight. Their ease was partly feigned. They glanced about the prairie, Their faces were constrained. In various ways aforetime They had misled the state, Yet did it so politely Their henchmen thought them great. They sat beneath a hedge and spake No word, but had a smoke. A satchel passed from hand to hand. Next day the deadlock broke.

Portrait of a Supreme Court Judge

BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER

(See pages 42, 418, 515)

How well this figure represents the Law-- This pose of neuter Justice, sterile Cant; This Roman Emperor with the iron jaw, Wrapped in the black silk of a maiden-aunt.

The Furred Law-Cats

(_From "Pantagruel"_)

FRANÇOIS RABELAIS

(French satirist of the middle ages, 1483-1553)

The Furred Law-Cats are most terrible and dreadful monsters; they devour little children, and trample over marble stones. Pray tell me, noble topers, do they not deserve to have their snouts slit? The hair of their hides doesn't lie outward, but inwards, and every mother's son of them for his device wears a gaping pouch, but not all in the same manner; for some wear it tied to their neck scarfwise, others upon the breech, some on the side, and all for a cause, with reason and mystery. They have claws so very strong, long, and sharp that nothing can get from 'em what is once fast between their clutches. Sometimes they cover their heads with mortar-like caps, at other times with mortified caparisons.

Examine well the countenance of these stout props and pillars of this catch-coin law and iniquity; and pray observe, that if you live but six olympiads, and the age of two dogs more, you'll see these Furred Law-cats lords of all Europe, and in peaceful possession of all the estates and domains belonging to it; unless, by divine providence, what's got over the devil's back is spent under his belly, or the goods which they unjustly get perish with their prodigal heirs. Take this from an honest beggar!

Among 'em reigns the sixth essence; by the means of which they gripe all, devour all, conskite all, burn all, draw all, hang all, quarter all, behead all, murder all, imprison all, waste all, and ruin all, without the least notice of right and wrong; for among them vice is called virtue; wickedness, piety; treason, loyalty; robbery, justice. Plunder is their motto, and when acted by them is approved by all men, except the heretics; and all this they do because they dare; their authority is sovereign and irrefragable. Should all their villany be once displayed in its true colours and exposed to the people, there never was, is, nor will be any spokesman could save 'em; nor any magistrate so powerful as to hinder their being burnt alive in their coney-burrows without mercy. Even their own furred kittlings, friends and relations would abominate 'em.

The Gentleman Inside

BY DAMON RUNYON

(Contemporary American writer)

They's a banker that's a trusty workin' on the warden's books; I kin see him from the rock pile where I'm sittin', An' on his case I'm basin' this advice to feller crooks: You'd better git a plenty while yer gittin'. Now, this guy wrecked a county an' he copped his neighbor's dough; He got six hundred thousand, which is some change, as you know; They give him one or two years, an' the softest job here--Oh It pays to git a plenty while yer gittin'.

Wit' me little flask o' nitro an' me bar o' laundry soap, I blew a safe, an' then, as was befittin', I took me ten years smilin', glad I didn't get the rope!-- But the next time! Oh, a plenty while I'm gittin'! For this guy tore off half a state an' shook the other half; He robbed his friends an' neighbors an' he handed both the laugh-- But you oughta heard him holler at that one or two year gaff. You'd better git a plenty while yer gittin'!

An' so he's here a trusty, while I wear a ball an' chain-- (They say he beat most every statoot written.) He's got a fortune planted an' all I've got's a pain; You'd better git a plenty while yer gittin'! He cost the state a million bucks before they put him here; He had ten lawyers for his trial, w'ich lasted most a year; An' the jedge who had to sentence him pronounced it wit' a tear-- It pays to git a plenty while yer gittin'!

The Memoirs of Li Hung Chang

(See pages 196, 689)

They showed me a beautifully shaped old bell, which is in Independence Hall, and is called the Bell of Liberty; which means that at its ringing all men within sound of its voice know they are free. But they do not ring it any more because it is cracked. Is Liberty cracked also?

Penguin Island

BY ANATOLE FRANCE

(See page 681. In the following passage one of the most learned of the Penguins pays a visit to America)

After a voyage of fifteen days his steamer entered, during the night, the harbor of Titanport, where thousands of ships were anchored. An iron bridge thrown across the water and shining with lights, stretched between two piers so far apart that Professor Obnubile imagined he was sailing on the seas of Saturn, and that he saw the marvellous ring which girds the planet of the Old Man. And this immense conduit bore upon it more than a quarter of the wealth of the world. The learned Penguin, having disembarked, was waited on by automatons in a hotel forty-eight stories high. Then he took the great railway that led to Gigantopolis, the capital of New Atlantic. In the train there were restaurants, gaming-rooms, athletic arenas, telegraphic, commercial, and financial offices, a Protestant Church, and the printing-office of a great newspaper, which latter the doctor was unable to read, as he did not know the language of the New Atlantans. The train passed along the banks of great rivers, through manufacturing cities which concealed the sky with the smoke from their chimneys, towns black in the day, towns red at night, full of noise by day and full of noise also by night.

"Here," thought the doctor, "is a people far too much engaged in industry and trade to make war. I am already certain that the New Atlantans pursue a policy of peace. For it is an axiom admitted by all economists that peace without and peace within are necessary for the progress of commerce and industry."

As he surveyed Gigantopolis, he was confirmed in this opinion. People went through the streets so swiftly propelled by hurry that they knocked down all who were in their way. Obnubile was thrown down several times, but soon succeeded in learning how to demean himself better; after an hour's walking he himself knocked down an Atlantan.

Having reached a great square he saw the portico of a palace in the classic style, whose Corinthian columns reared their capitals of arborescent acanthus seventy metres above the stylobate.

As he stood with his head thrown back admiring the building, a man of modest appearance approached him and said in Penguin:

"I see by your dress that you are from Penguinia. I know your language; I am a sworn interpreter. This is the Parliament palace. At the present moment the representatives of the States are in deliberation. Would you like to be present at the sitting?"

The doctor was brought into the hall and cast his looks upon the crowd of legislators who were sitting on cane chairs with their feet upon their desks.

The president arose, and, in the midst of general inattention, muttered rather than spoke the following formulas which the interpreter immediately translated to the doctor.

"The war for the opening of the Mongol markets being ended to the satisfaction of the States, I propose that the accounts be laid before the finance committee...."

"Is there any opposition?..."

"The proposal is carried."

"The war for the opening of the markets of Third-Zealand being ended to the satisfaction of the States, I propose that the accounts be laid before the finance committee...."

"Is there any opposition?..."

"The proposal is carried."

"Have I heard aright?" asked Professor Obnubile. "What? you an industrial people and engaged in all these wars!"

"Certainly," answered the interpreter, "these are industrial wars. Peoples who have neither commerce nor industry are not obliged to make war, but a business people is forced to adopt a policy of conquest. The number of wars necessarily increases with our productive capacity. As soon as one of our industries fails to find a market for its products a war is necessary to open new outlets. It is in this way we have had a coal war, a copper war, and a cotton war. In Third-Zealand we have killed two-thirds of the inhabitants in order to compel the remainder to buy our umbrellas and braces."

At that moment a fat man who was sitting in the middle of the assembly ascended the tribune.

"I claim," said he, "a war against the Emerald Republic, which insolently contends with our pigs for the hegemony of hams and sauces in all the markets of the universe."

"Who is that legislator?" asked Doctor Obnubile.

"He is a pig merchant."

"Is there any opposition?" said the President. "I put the proposition to the vote."

The war against the Emerald Republic was voted with uplifted hands by a very large majority.

"What?" said Obnubile to the interpreter; "you have voted a war with that rapidity and that indifference!"

"Oh! it is an unimportant war which will hardly cost eight million dollars."

"And men...."

"The men are included in the eight million dollars."

Then Doctor Obnubile bent his head in bitter reflection.

"Since wealth and civilization admit of as many causes of poverty as war and barbarism, since the folly and wickedness of men are incurable, there remains but one good action to be done. The wise man will collect enough dynamite to blow up this planet. When its fragments fly through space an imperceptible amelioration will be accomplished in the universe and a satisfaction will be given to the universal conscience. Moreover, this universal conscience does not exist."

"Mr. Dooley" on the Tariff

(See pages 683, 692, 698)

"Well," said Mr. Hennessy, "what diff'rence does it make? Th' foreigner pays th' tax annyhow."

"He does," said Mr. Dooley, "if he ain't turned back at Castle Garden."

The Preacher and the Slave

BY J. HILL

(_Tune: "Sweet Bye and Bye"_)

(A sample of many parodies upon Christian hymns which are published by the Industrial Workers of the World, and sung by the migratory workers of the Far West in their camping-places, known as "jungles." While this selection and the one following can hardly be classed as literature, they have their interest as social documents. It was Napoleon who said that if he could write a country's songs, he would not care who wrote its laws.)

Long-haired preachers come out every night, Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right; But when asked how 'bout something to eat They will answer with voices so sweet:

CHORUS

You will eat, bye and bye, In that glorious land above the sky; Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.

And the Starvation Army they play, And they sing and they clap and they pray, Till they get all your coin on the drum, Then they'll tell you when you're on the bum: (Chorus)

If you fight hard for children and wife-- Try to get something good in this life-- You're a sinner and bad man, they tell, When you die you will sure go to hell. (Chorus)

Workingmen of all countries, unite, Side by side we for freedom will fight; When the world and its wealth we shall gain To the grafters we'll sing this refrain:

CHORUS

You will eat, bye and bye, When you've learned how to cook and to fry; Chop some wood, 'twill do you good, And you'll eat in the sweet bye and bye.

Work for All but Father

BY HENRY M. TICHENOR

(The poet of the _Rip-Saw_, a revolutionary paper of the middle West which has an immense circulation)

"Everybody works but father"--God, what a ghastly lay! "Everybody works but father"--he wants too much pay! Mother and Ann and Maggie, and tiny Tim and Bill, work like hell for a paltry wage in the sweatshop and the mill. "Everybody works but father"--he talks like a fool--he asks enough in wages to send the kids to school--he wants more for his daily toil than we pay the wife and brood--he says he ought to have enough to keep them all in food! "Everybody works but father"--for him we have no need--all we want of father is just to keep up the breed. The mother and the babies, that's all we require, the mother and the babies--those are the ones we hire. Just keep on breeding babies--that's the bull moose hunch--just keep on breeding babies, we can work the whole damn bunch!

Mr. "Dooley" on Industry

(See pages 683, 692, 698, 706)

'Tis a sthrange thing whin we come to think iv it that th' less money a man gets f'r his wurruk, th' more nicissary it is to th' wurruld that he shud go on wurrukin'. Ye'er boss can go to Paris on a combination wedding an' divoorce thrip an' no wan bothers his head about him. But if ye shud go to Paris--excuse me f'r laughin' mesilf black in th' face--th' industhrees iv the counthry pines away.

Lines to a Pomeranian Puppy Valued at $3,500

BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER

(See pages 42, 418, 515, 699)

Often as I strain and stew, Digging in these dirty ditches, I have dared to think of you-- You and all your riches.

Lackeys help you on and off; And the bed is silk you lie in; You have doctors when you cough, Priests when you are dying.

Wrapt in soft and costly furs, All sewed up with careful stitches, You consort with proper curs And with perfumed bitches....

You don't sweat to struggle free, Work in rags and rotting breeches-- Puppy, have a laugh at me Digging in the ditches!

Labor and Capital Are One

(_From The "Game of Life"_)

BY BOLTON HALL

(See page 680)

"Times are hard," said the Picked Chicken.

"Why," said the Rat, "this is an era of prosperity; see how I have feathered my nest."

"But," said the Picked Chicken, "you have gotten my feathers."

"You must not think," said the Rat, "that because I get more comfort you get poorer."

"But," said the Chicken, "you produce no feathers, and I keep none--"

"If you would use your teeth"--interrupted the Rat.

"If--" said the Picked Chicken.

"You could lay--"

"I--" said the Picked Chicken.

"--up as much as I do," concluded the Rat.

"Excuse me for living," said the Picked Chicken, "but--"

"Without consumers like me," said the Rat, "there would be no demand for the feathers which you produce."

"I shall vote for a change," said the Picked Chicken.

"Only those who have feathers should have the Privilege of voting," remarked the Rat.

"Mr. Dooley" on Prosperity

(See pages 683, 692, 698, 706, 709)

Yes, Prosperity has come hollerin' an' screamin'. To read th' papers, it seems to be a kind iv a vagrancy law. No wan can loaf anny more. Th' end iv vacation has gone f'r manny a happy lad that has spint six months ridin' through th' counthry, dodgin' wurruk, or loafin' under his own vine or hat-three. Prosperity grabs ivry man be th' neck, an' sets him shovellin' slag or coke or runnin' up an' down a ladder with a hod iv mortar. It won't let th' wurruld rest.... It goes around like a polisman givin' th' hot fut to happy people that are snoozin' in th' sun. 'Get up,' says Prosperity. 'Get up, an' hustle over to th' rollin' mills: there's a man over there wants ye to carry a ton iv coal on ye'er back.' 'But I don't want to wurruk,' says th' lad. 'I'm very comfortable th' way I am.' 'It makes no difference,' says Prosperity. 'Ye've got to do ye'er lick. Wurruk, f'r th' night is comin'. Get out, an' hustle. Wurruk, or ye can't be unhappy; an', if th' wurruld isn't unhappy, they'se no such a thing as Prosperity."

Why the Socialist Party Is Growing

(_Dedicated to the School of Journalism_)

BY FRANKLIN P. ADAMS

(See page 695)

"A story," the reporter said, "about commercial crime. A merchant's been convicted of selling phony stuff. The sentence is a thousand meg and seven years of time--" "A hundred words," the city Ed. replied, "will be enough."

"A story," the reporter said, "about a crimson dame Just landed from the steamer, wearing slippers that are red. She used to be the Dearest Friend of Emperor Wotsisname--" "Three columns and a layout!" cried the eager city Ed.

The Babble Machines

(_From "When the Sleeper Wakes"_)

BY H. G. WELLS

(One of the writer's earlier romances, telling of a man who sleeps for two hundred years and wakens to find himself hailed as Master of the World--through the operation of a bequest of money which has been accumulating through that time. The power of this wealth is being wielded in his name by a cynical and unscrupulous oligarchy which has reduced the populace to a uniformed slave-caste, seething with futile revolt. The following portrays the newspapers of that new world of Capitalism triumphant)

Beyond this place they came into a closed hall, and Graham discovered the cause of the noise that had perplexed him. His attention was arrested by a violent, loud hoot, followed by a vast leathery voice. He stopped and, looking up, beheld a foolish trumpet face. This was the General Intelligence Machine. For a space it seemed to be gathering breath, and a regular throbbing from its cylindrical body was audible. Then it trumpeted "Galloop, Galloop," and broke out again.

"Paris is now pacified. All resistance is over. Galloop! The black police hold every position of importance in the city. They fought with great bravery, singing songs written in praise of their ancestors by the poet Kipling. Once or twice they got out of hand, and tortured and mutilated wounded and captured insurgents, men and women. Moral--don't go rebelling. Haha! Galloop, Galloop! They are lively fellows. Lively brave fellows. Let this be a lesson to the disorderly banderlog of this city. Yah! Banderlog! Filth of the earth! Galloop, Galloop!"

The voice ceased. There was a confused murmur of disapproval among the crowd. "Damned niggers." A man began to harangue near them. "Is this the Master's doing, brothers? Is this the Master's doing?"

"Black police!" said Graham. "What is that? You don't mean----"

His companion touched his arm and gave him a warning look, and forthwith another of these mechanisms screamed deafeningly and gave tongue in a shrill voice. "Yahaha! Yahah, Yap! Hear a live paper yelp! Live paper. Yaha! Shocking outrage in Paris. Yahahah! The Parisians exasperated by the black police to the pitch of assassination. Dreadful reprisals. Savage times come again. Blood! Blood! Yahah!" The nearer Babble Machine hooted stupendously, "Galloop, Galloop," drowned the end of the sentence, and proceeded in a rather flatter note than before with novel comments on the horrors of disorder. "Law and order must be maintained," said the nearer Babble Machine....

The Ballad of Kiplingson

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN

(An English poet and journalist, 1841-1901, who through his lifetime fought valiantly against militarism and imperialism. See pages 367, 412, 687)

There came a knock at the Heavenly Gate, where the good St. Peter sat,-- "Hi, open the door, you fellah there, to a British rat-tat-tat!"

The Saint sat up in his chair, rubbed eyes, and prick'd his holy ears, "Who's there?" he muttered, "a single man, or a regiment of Grenadiers?"

"A single man," the voice replied, "but one of prodigious size, Who claims by Jingo, his patron Saint, the entry to Paradise!"

The good St. Peter open'd the Gate, but blocking the entry scan'd The spectacled ghost of a little man, with an infant's flag in his hand....

"Wot! haven't you heard of Kiplingson? whose name and fame have spread As far as the Flag of England waves, and the Tory prints are read?

"I was raised in the lap of Jingo, sir, till I grew to the height of man, And a wonderful Literary Gent, I emerged upon Hindostan!...

"And rapid as light my glory spread, till thro' cockaigne it flew, And I grew the joy of the Cockney cliques, and the pet of the Jingo Jew!

"For the Lord my God was a Cockney Gawd, whose voice was a savage yell, A fust-rate Gawd who dropt, d'ye see, the 'h' in Heaven and Hell!...

"Oh I was a real Phenomenon," continued Kiplingson, "The only genius ever born who was Tory at twenty-one!"

"Alas! and alas!" the good Saint said, a tear in his eye serene, "A Tory at twenty-one! Good God! At fifty what _would_ you have been?

"There's not a spirit now here in Heaven who wouldn't at twenty-one Have tried to upset the very Throne, and reform both Sire and Son!

"The saddest sight my eyes have seen, down yonder on earth or here, Is a brat that talks like a weary man, or a youth with a cynic's leer.

"Try lower down, young man," he cried, and began to close the Gate-- "Hi, here, old fellah," said Kiplingson, "by Jingo! just you wait--

"I've heaps of Criticisms here, to show my claims are true, That I'm 'cute in almost everything, and have probed Creation through!"

"And what have you _found_?" the Saint inquired, a frown on his face benign-- "The Flag of England!" cried Kiplingson, "and the thin black penny-a-line!

"Wherever the Flag of England waves, down go all other flags; Wherever the thin black line is spread, the Bulldog bites and brags!...

"O Gawd, beware of the Jingo's wrath! the Journals of Earth are mine! Across the plains of the earth still creeps the thin black penny-a-line!

"For wherever the Flag of England waves"--but here, we grieve to state, His voice was drown'd in a thunder-crash, for the Saint bang'd-to the Gate!

Militancy

BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL

(See page 136)

Heckling became a fine art, and even a joyous: for, despite all the suffering it cost them, they carried it through with such inexhaustible spirit and invention as to restore a touch of chic and bravado to our drab life and add to the gaiety of nations. Miss Pankhurst even managed to badger Cabinet Ministers in the witness-box.... There was no meeting, however guarded, to which, by hook or crook, organ-pipe or drain-pipe, she did not gain admission, padlocking herself against easy expulsion; while, even were her bodily presence averted, always, like the horns of Elfland faintly blowing, came from some well-placed megaphone that inevitable and implacable slogan "Votes for Women." Chalked on pavement or scrawled on walls or blazoned on sky-signs, it became a universal, ubiquitous obsession. Streamers carried it under the terrace of Parliament or balloons suspended it from above. Cabinet Ministers were dogged to their privatest haunts, for the leakages of information were everywhere. Since Christianity no such force has arisen to divide families. No household, however Philistine, was safe from a jail-bird. If Lady Anon asked Lady Alamode when her daughter was coming out, it no longer referred to the young lady's début. The most obstinate autocrat since Pharaoh, Mr. Asquith, has been shown similar signs and wonders. "We are the appointed plagues," said Mrs. Pankhurst, with a rare touch of humor. And nothing has plagued British society more than that outbreak of religion which brought disgrace upon so many respectable homes. Incidentally, the prisons and the courts were improved by receiving critics instead of criminals. "We do not care for ourselves," cried Christabel Pankhurst at the London Police Court, "because prison is nothing to us. But the injustice done here to thousands of helpless creatures is too terrible to contemplate." Warders and wardresses, too, profited by the society of their new prisoners. It was like a rise in the social scale to them. Nor was even the Bench immune from education.

"Boyle!" called the magistrate. "_Miss_ Boyle" corrected the prisoner. "We always call our prisoners by their surnames," explained the magistrate. "We are here to teach you better manners" said the Suffragette.

"Mr. Dooley" on Woman Suffrage

(See pages 683, 692, 698, 706, 709, 711)

Don't ask f'r rights. Take thim. An' don't let anny wan give thim to ye. A right that is handed to ye f'r nawthin' has somethin' the matther with it. It's more than likely it's on'y a wrong turned inside out.

Heloise sans Abelard

(_A Modern Scholar on a Mediæval Nun_)

BY JOEL ELIAS SPINGARN

(A professor in America's most prosperous university was discharged for his protests against commercialized education. In the following poem he has paid his respects to his colleagues, likening them to nuns in a convent, and himself to Heloise, who ran away)

In the cool, calm palace of prayer She sought her haven of dreams; She gave up her dower of air, Of stars, and cities, and streams.

On the cold, sweet steps of prayer She sought what young girls seek; She laid her bosom bare, And asked for the stones to speak.

Who wonders she could not hear What silence and stones belie? Who wonders where love may steer? Not I, not I, not I!

O passionate Heloise, I, too, have lived under the ban, With seven hundred professors, And not a single man.

In the Shadows: the Priest

BY ARTHUR UPSON

(American poet, 1877-1908)

How long is it now, I wonder-- A thousand years, at least, Here the dark vault under, Feet to the East, Supposed to be Paradise-walking, a purgèd priest! Well, none of them see me, thank heaven, As they pass me here on the hill-- So long as they live they're shriven, And when they come here--they are still.

Thinking

BY ANATOLE FRANCE

(See pages 681, 703)

'Tis a great infirmity to think. God preserve you from it, my son, as He has preserved His greatest saints, and the souls whom He loves with especial tenderness and destines to eternal felicity.

The Tail of the World

BY JOHN AMID

(Contemporary American poet)

The world is a beast with a long fur tail, With an angry tooth, and a biting nail; And she's headed the way that she ought not to go For the Lord he designed and decreed her so.

The point of the game is to drag the beast While she's headed sou-west, toward the nor-nor-east; God made the beast, and he drew the plan, And he left the bulk of the haul to man.

So primitive man dug a brace for his sandal. Took hold of the tail, as the logical handle; Got a last good drink, and a bite of bread, And pulled till the blood ran into his head.

At first he gained till it looked like a cinch, But then the beast crawled back an inch; And ever since then it's been Nip and Tuck, Sometimes moving, but oftener stuck.

Most of the gains have been made by the crowd-- Sweating nobly, and swearing aloud. Yet sometimes a single man could land A good rough jerk, or a hand-over-hand.

They say Confucius made her come-- Homer and Dante--they each pulled some! Bill Schopenhauer's foot slipped, rank, While Shakespeare, he fetched her a horrible yank.

The beast has hollered and frequently spit, Often scratched, and sometimes bit, And the men who were mauled, or laid out cold, Were the very ones with the strangle hold.

Why he did it, I don't know; But the Lord he designed and decreed it so. Of course he knew that the game was no cinch, So he gave man some trifles to help in a pinch.

One was an instinct, that might be read: "Lay hold of something, and pull till you're dead!" Another, that can't be translated as well, Was, "Le' go my tail--and go to Hell!"

But the strongest card in the whole blame pack Was the fine sensation that paid man back; For the finest feeling that's been unfurled Is the feel of the fur on the tail of the world!