Part 21 (1/2)

Cranberry pie, or apricot-- We love them not, we hate them not.

Of all the victuals in pot or plate, There's only one that we loathe and hate.

We love a hundred, we hate but one, And that we'll hate till our race is run-- BREAD PUDDING!

It's known to you all, it's known to you all, It casts a gloom, and it casts a pall; By whatso name they mark the mess, You take one taste and you give one guess.

Come, let us stand in the Wailing Place, A vow to register, face to face: We will never forego our hate Of that tasteless fodder we execrate-- BREAD PUDDING!

Cranberry pie, or apricot-- Some folks like 'em, and some folks not.

They're not so bad if they're made just right, Tho' they don't enkindle our appet.i.te.

But _you_ we hate with a lasting hate, And never will we that hate abate: Hate of the tooth and hate of the gum, Hate of palate and hate of tum, Hate of the millions who've choked you down, In country kitchen or house in town.

We love a thousand, we hate but one, With a hate more hot than the hate of Hun-- BREAD PUDDING!

Since prohibition came in, says the Onion King, Americans have taken to eating onions. As Lincoln prophesied, this nation is having a new breath of freedom.

Asked what the racket was all about, the inspired waiter at the Woman's Athletic Club replied, ”It's the Va.s.sar illumini.”

In a soi-disant democracy ”personal liberty” is an empty phrase, bursting with nothingness. Personal liberty is to be enjoyed only under a benevolent autocracy. It is contained wholly in the code of King Pausole:

”I.--Ne nuis pas a ton voisin.

”II.--Ceci bien compris, fais ce qu'il te plait.”

There are many definitions of ”optimist” and ”pessimist.” As good as another is one that the Hetman of the Boul Mich Cossacks is fond of quoting: ”An optimist is a man who sees a great light where there is none. A pessimist is a man who comes along and blows out the light.”

”Two-piano playing is more or less of a sport, as the gardeners say,”

observes Mr. Aldrich in the New York Times. And we are reminded of Philip Hale's review of a two-piano recital. ”We have heard these two gentlemen separately without being greatly stirred,” he said in effect, ”but their combination was like bringing together the component parts of a seidlitz powder.”

Writes H. D., at present in Loz Onglaze: ”Alphonse Daudet says that the sun is the real liar, that it alone is responsible for all the exaggerations of its favorite children of the south.” And you know what the sun does to Californians.

The Paris decision suggests a neat form letter for collection lawyers: ”We hope that you will not place us under the necessity of envisaging the grave situation which will be created if you persist in failing to meet this obligation.”

FOR WHICH MUCH THANKS.