Raymond B. Fosdick (‘Our Foreign Policy in the Looking-Glass’) is a corporation lawyer and a practical student of foreign affairs. In 1919 he was civilian aide to General Pershing in France and later served as UndersecretaryGeneral of the League of Nations. He is a brother of Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick. Δ A tireless sportsman who has ranged three continents for big game, James E. Baum (‘Hunting the Wild Ass’) was in Persia collecting specimens for the Field Museum of Natural History when he had the adventures here described. Simeon Strunsky (’Jones, His Mother and His Wife’) is a member of the editorial staff of the New York Times.T. Swann Harding (‘Another Jew without Money’), with nearly a score of years spent in laboratory research behind him, is a member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Sir John Campbell (‘Waiting for the Rains ) served for a generation in the Indian Civil Service and is now India’s representative on the Opium Advisory Committee of the League of Nations. Freda C. Bond (‘The Seven Seas’) is an English poet. Helen Peffer (‘They Want Their Money Back’) is managing editor of a scientific trade paper; Juna Newton has charge of the Returns Department of a large New York store.

Oliver McKee, Jr. (‘The Direct Primary — A Failure and a Threat’) is Washington correspondent for the Boston Transcript.Ralph P. Holben (‘Science Goes to Prison’) is Assistant Professor of Sociology and Criminology at Dartmouth College. Δ A well-known yachtsman, Alfred F. Loomis (‘Sportsmanship in the Rough’) has borne witness to the joys of his particular sport in his book, The Cruise of the Hippocampus. Δ Crippled by arthritis and handicapped at the age of thirty by failing eyesight, Ogden W. Heath has made up his mind to become an author; ‘The Light Is Sweet’ is his first published effort. Francis G. Peabody (‘Law and Self-Control’) was for many years Plummer Professor of Christian Morals in the Harvard Divinity School; he has been professor emeritus since 1913. Thomas T. Read (‘Our Mediæval Minds’) is a mining engineer whose professional life has been divided between America and China. He is now Professor of Mining Engineering at Columbia University. Maude Dutton Lynch (‘Conscripted Children’) finds time to mother a growing family and to write occasional magazine articles. Julius H. Barnes (‘business Looks at Unemployment’) is president of the United States Chamber of Commerce. Sumner H. Slichter (‘Pharaoh Dreams Again’) is Professor of Business Economies in the Graduate School of Business Administration at Harvard. He has just published a book. Modern Economic Society, containing a survey of the present industrial system in America.

Mazo tie la Roche is the author of Jalna and Whiteoaks of Jalna, to which Finch’s Fortune is a sequel. A brief synopsis of previous installments follows: —

Up to this point the narrative has dealt largely with Fineh Whiteoak, who at twenty-one has inherited hi.s grandmother’s fortune and gone on a trip abroad, taking with him hi.s two uncles, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak. While in England, Finch falls in love with his cousin, Sarah Court, but before he realizes it a Canadian friend, Arthur Leigh, arrives on the scene and marries Sarah. The story now goes back to the rest of the family at Jalna in Ontario. Finch’s oldest brother, Renny, has recently married Alayne Archer, a rather intellectual American girl who had first come to Jalna as the wife of his brother Eden, a young poet. A strong attraction sprang up between Alayne and Renny, and when Eden ran off with a girl named Minny Ware, Alayne divorced him and married Renny. But she soon finds that the careless exuberance of the family at Jalna grates on her New England nerves, and she often feels out of touch with her straightforward, unintellectual husband. A series of petty annoyances leads to a sudden quarrel between them.

Th Atlantic is proud of Mrs. Wilson’s paper, and some there are who understand.

LONDON, ENGLAND
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Will you permit me to say how deeply ashamed I am of having written an article (‘For the Preservation of the War of 1812,’April Atlantic) which seems to have stirred up a good deal of national hatred? When I suggested, foolishly, that because the War of 1812 was in danger of being forgotten we should change the name of New York City to commemorate it, I spoke ironically. It did not occur to me that this fact would not be evident. I was not. trying to disinter old hatreds. I was trying to bury them in a grave decorated with ridicule. 1 was trying to express my fury against the fact that, as a defenseless little child, I was taught in school to be patriotic about a ‘glorious victory" which very few Englishmen — in spite of Green’s history — have ever heard of, and which Canadians are taught to believe they won.
I want to make it plain that I believe that if American children are still to have the shameful folly forced into their consciousness, it ought to be taught to them realistically, and not romantically. I see no reason why children should ever be taught about war; but if they must learn of their war-making fathers, why not tell them that the only way to be worthy of these fathers is to avoid their errors and improve upon their methods? Why not say simply that in Colonial days there was no good road from Boston to Philadelphia, and that men suffered patiently the hardships of the journey; and likewise, because they had not discovered the roads to peace, they sometimes suffered their necessary wounds bravely?
But if we must teach them about battles and campaigns, for the sake of truth let us see that their histories are not written by either patriots or compatriots. Let us do it internationally, from Geneva. Let us appoint a Finn to prepare textbooks for American children, a Swede for English children, a Chinese to write for French children, a Pathan to write for German children, and an Englishman to write for children of some nation against which his country has not within the last hundred years carried on a war of ‘self-defense’—if such a nation exists. Writers so detached might occasionally get at the truth. And then national groups might begin to realize that when they pray, ‘Give us, O Lord, in this world knowledge of the truth,’ they are in reality praying to be delivered from vicious patriotisms.
This letter is not ironical.
MARGARET WILSON

Children and the movies.

THE CHICAGO THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Surely everyone will agree that much of William Orton’s article, ‘Hollywood Has INothing to Learn, is fine. May I suggest, however, that he has considered the movies from the point of view of the producers — namely, as a business of furnishing commercialized entertainment to adults? The trouble with this position is that it takes no account of the children.
Surveys have shown that, on the average, the movies touch every child of school age once a week. The impressions which they create in the minds and characters of children are beyond all calculation. Long ago our government decided that it was a function of the state to educate and protect children; hence schools have been established and parents are required to send their children to them. This is a direct interference with the personal liberty of parents, yet most people will agree that it is justified.
On the same principle would not our government be justified in setting up machinery to prevent the motion-picture industry from defeating the work of the public schools? This would not mean censorship, which is applied at the point of distribution; rather, it would mean a type of social control applied at the source of production, before the expense of filming had been incurred. The proper authority should have power not simply to eliminate pernicious material, but to suggest ways of making a story better. Such social control would bring to the movies not only the point of view of men interested in making profits, but also the point of view of men interested in making character.
FRED EASTMAN

What is your experience?

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Before me are the fruits of a shopping expedition undertaken to determine, at least to my own satisfaction, whether the Philadelphia store with which I am connected is as bad as those portrayed in that exceedingly clever article published in the May Atlantic, entitled ‘Who Wants My Money?' I asked Mrs. Marion Brown to make actual purchases of the articles specified, at the same time being careful to note the length of time required and the quality of service rendered by our people. I frankly told her that I wished to compare her experiences with those outlined in the article. Since I did not wish to influence her in any way, I asked her not to read the article until after she had made her report.
Mrs. Brown readily agreed. Her shopping list was copied word for word from the Atlantic article: ‘two brassieres like my last ones; one pair of fleshcolored side garters; two pairs of women’s pajamas, cotton, sleeveless, size 38; two spools of white thread, number 60; an eggshell sweater; a pair of walking shoes like those I had bought the week before (they were so comfortable and good-looking that I thought I had better buy another pair before they were gone); four pairs of lisle socks, size 11; four sets of men’s underwear, broadcloth shorts and white lisle shirts; an over-the-bed lamp in either blue or yellow; a fifteen-dollar wedding present.’ Those who read the article will recall that its writer allowed two hours within which to complete her purchases; after some most unhappy experiences covering three and one-half hours of precious time,. she gave up in despair, departing homeward minus four of the most needed items. Of her shopping tour she wrote most entertainingly, a tiling which I fear is beyond me; I am content to record Mrs. Brown’s experiences faithfully, letting her story speak for itself.
‘Faring forth with instructions to purchase the articles on my list, 1 enter an elevator in which I descend to the lower-priced section where I so often shop for my own needs. My watch tells me that it is now 2.15 P.M. First, I must find “two brassières like my last ones.” What kind did the author of the article wear? Not knowing, I seek ones like those I wear and find them. No trouble thus far.
‘Next, I must look for side garters. A girl in Art Needlework says to try Corsets. I go there and am told to try Notions on the main floor or Corsets upstairs on the third floor. Poor service this, for I am left to guess at which of two points this elusive article may be found. (Did I but know it, the wanted article is within a few feet. The sales person does not know her stock.) However, going to the Notions Department, I get what I want, and since I secure the spool cotton at the same place, not much time is lost. Retracing my steps, I seek out “pajamas, cotton, sleeveless, size 38.”I learn that no such size is made, but I am assured that size 17 is the equivalent. A good selection is offered and I secure what I want without difficulty.
‘An eggshell sweater, I fear, will be difficult to find. But it is on my list, so I go in search of it. No, they do not have it. Instead I am offered one in creamy white, so dainty and so in keeping with the feminine mode that I buy it. It is not what my list calls for, but surely no one of my sex could resist it. I check this off my list with a clear conscience. Next, I must buy shoes. Again, I do not know what might be meant by ones “like those I had bought the week before,” but I do know what I like. Those first shown are not at all what I want. Four more pairs are brought and among them is a pair of one-strap walking shoes, with moderate heels, which will not be conspicuous on the street and yet will give my feet freedom when considerable walking is to be done. The purchase is quickly made.
‘At the hosiery counter, 1 am offered lisle and rayon of fancy design, but 1 explain that I want them for an elderly gentleman. All-lisle socks arc then found and I choose socks of plain dark blue which I am sure will he satisfactory. The same sales person finds for ine lisle shirts and broadcloth shorts, which complete this part of my list. And so to Lamps, for an over-the-bed lamp in blue or yellow. Eight styles are shown, and from these I pick one which answers the description on my list. Last, but not least, I must select a wedding present for about fifteen dollars. Since I am of economical mind, I cut this to five dollars. Being also of practical mind, I turn to the bedding section for suggestions and discover that I can secure a spread of both useful and ornamental design for three dollars and ninety-five cents. This I buy, and lo! my shopping is done. It is now 3.40 P.M. My shopping has been completed in exactly one hour and twenty-five minutes, and I depart to make my report with everything on my list purchased.’
Because it justified my pride in the institution of which I am a part, Mrs. Brown’s report was received with deep satisfaction. It is passed on in the hope that it may not only be of interest to others, but may serve to point this moral: That not all merchants are such bad storekeepers as those who provided the experiences about which your writer asks despairingly, ‘Who Wants My Money?'
JOHN H. MARCHANT

AN EVOLUTIONIST TO HIS HOUSE CAT

When you were a hungry sabre-tooth
And I was a mere sub-man,
You did n’t desire to be stroked on the back
Or to nibble sardines from a can.
Your rap at the door of my cave at night
Was a thing to be viewed with alarm;
It did n’t denote that you wished for a snooze
By the fire, where the dogs could n’t harm.
When you were a tiger roaming the woods
And I was a luscious human,
A meeting with you caused my heart to beat fast
And my brain to respond with acumen.
You delighted to cuddle up close in the dark
In that masterful way you had,
For mine was a skin that you loved to touch —
But it was n’t. a Woodbury ad.
My playful attempt to tickle vour chin
Is received with comparative quiet,
But my mode of approach would have differed somewhat
Had I been the first homo to try it.
Though I’ve often heard praise of the good old days,
I ’ll confess that I hardly could wish
For the time when you were a sabre-tooth
And I was your favorite dish.

FRANCES BAKER

The safety valve in a national plan.

HARVARD LAW SCHOOL CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
May an ex-corporation lawyer who by some accident has become a law professor add a word to the discussion of current business problems so ably opened in your June issue by Mr. James Harvey Williams and Mr. Stuart Chase?
It is hardly possible to question the truth of Mr. Chase’s central thesis that we shall ultimately be forced by the conditions of machine production to adopt a national economic plan. But such a plan, to be workable, must solve one problem which was not even confronted by the War Industries Board and the Russian Gosplan — that of disposing of the surplus human energy which a rational ordering of our business life would certainly release. Ten years of commercial and corporation practice have given me some opportunity to observe the process of consolidation by which business appears already to be groping towards some sort of centralized control. One unfortunate consequence of this process is to thwart or waste the initiative of large numbers of enterprising young men. Everyone in business can recall examples — men of unquestioned ability and ambition who would head productive businesses of their own if they could obtain capital, but who cannot obtain capital because the conditions of cutthroat competition described by Mr. Williams make the risks of small enterprise too great. Too many such men now rust in salaried jobs where they are outstripped by plodders, or else turn to wasteful or speculative enterprises of the kind which Mr. Chase rightly deplores. It is probable that the great Common Stock Bubble was largely inflated by people who sought in the risks of speculation some compensation for the lack of individual enterprises of their own.
An adventurous and aggressive spirit is the greatest natural resource of any people, as the Incas learned to their sorrow from the little band of Spaniards bred in a continent of poverty and wars. Mr. Chase’s national plan will have to provide for its conservation, along with the timber and the coal and oil. But if we are not to engage in warfare, if commercial buccaneering is to be planned out of existence, if we cannot, like the Russians, look to a foreign model whose mechanical equipment we are to ‘overtake and surpass,’ where is this spirit to be cultivated and employed)' Is it to have no outlet except in rum-running and professional sport?
It is precisely here that Mr. Williams’s ‘The Reign of Error’ points out one of the essential conditions of advance. There are, perhaps, a few basic industries in which monopoly cannot be escaped. If so, these must be treated as public utilities, either legally or in fact. But the field of competition must be kept as broad as possible, and — paradoxically — this can be accomplished only by restricting competition to productive ends. Just as we protect productive competition by forbidding theft, just as we protect it by forbidding slavery even for the discharge of lawful debts, just as we protect it by attempting, at least, to suppress the racketeer, so we shall protect it ultimately by eliminating those forms of commercial competition which can only result in the destruction of both competitors or their consolidation into a single trust.
So I say, ‘Good for Mr. Williams, and more power to his pen!’ The only place I quarrel with him is where he says, ’The problem is fundamentally economic and not legal.’ That hurts my professional pride, and it is wrong, too,—because the law is and always has been concerned with the conflicts between men’s economic interests, and with not much else. What Mr. Williams means is that most lawyers don’t understand or think much about his particular problem, which is unfortunately true. When they went to law school they were elaborately drilled in the rules which governed the economic conflicts of the nineteenth century, but they hardly got an introduction to the problems of the twentiethcentury game. This seems to be bringing the argument too near home, however, and I must pause. When the national plan is completed it will include a rather extensive reform of legal education — but that, as Kipling used to tell us, is a story by itself.
Sincerely yours,
GEORGE K. GARDNER

Imagination pays dividends.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I read with a great deal of interest the article, ‘Imagination — An Investment Asset,’ by Jonathan C. Royle in the Financial Counselor section of the June issue. Being closely affiliated with the investment business, I was very strongly impressed by the sound logic of the article. Far too many people, as the records show, have persistently poured their accumulations of a lifetime of labor into decadent industries because they lack the imagination to visualize the youthful giant industries in the offing. During the next five or ten years the march of scientific discovery and research will probably make it more important than ever for investors to practise the policies so ably set forth in this little masterpiece by Mr. Royle. Let’s hear more from this author.
EDVARD J. DIES

Chacun à son goût.

WASHINGTON, D. C.
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Usually I avoid ‘flying stories’ as I would poison, because almost all of them are rather ‘sad stuff.’ Impelled by curiosity, however, I read ‘Big Flight’ in your June number; and my opinion remains unchanged.
Perhaps one of these days there will appear a writer of flying stories whose stock in trade will consist of something more than a handsome, dashing hero (sometimes he is one of those strong, silent men) and a beautiful, tearful damsel who spends most of her time worrying over and praying for her sky-going superman (I have never seen such a damsel in real life). Along with the aforesaid hero and damsel one always finds a jumble of technical aviation terms and hangar-door slang. The plot never varies. The formula is to describe meticulously how the hero pilot put on his flying gear, warmed up his engine, cheeked his instruments (each instrument is always carefully mentioned), conversed in gruff, manly tones with his faithful mechanic, who assures him that the ‘old boat’ or ‘old girl’ is in the pink of condition, clasped the beautiful damsel in a lingering embrace, leaped into the cockpit, and then — amid the frantic plaudits of tire assembled thousands— started upon an epochal flight.
J. M. SHEEHAN

BURLINGTON, IOWA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
At seven o’clock at the breakfast table this (Monday) morning I read Mr. Francis Vivian Drake’s ’Big Flight’ with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat which threatened seriously, at times, to interfere with breakfast. Considering the time, the place, and the day, I think this no small tribute to the literary powers of the author, and I wish to congratulate both him and the Atlantic upon having found each other,
JOSEPHINE W. RONEY

An old sailor’s birds.

DUTCH FLAT, CALIFORNIA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I must tell you how keenly I enjoyed ‘The History of the King Bee’ by Chares D. Stewart in the May Atlantic. To me an article of this sort is worth more than the price of a year’s subscription. ‘Bird Heart’ in the February number was another such article. I have often wished that its author, Mr. Julian S. Huxley, would give me some information about the behavior of a bird that has come under my observation during the past few weeks.
The bird is a red-shafted flicker, locally known as a yellow-hammer. My neighbor’s house has a tin chimney which was set upon the roof ridge as an ornament — to give the roof symmetry, I suppose. Every morning for weeks past a red-shafted flicker has drummed upon it just as a flicker ordinarily drums upon dead branches, seeking grubs. Morningafter morning I have wakened to the steady, quick drum of his bill on the metal. I should like to know just what he thinks he is doing. Surely he must know that it is tin on which he drums, or at least that it is not wood. Even my most unnoticing neighbors, who take no particular interest in birds, have noticed this one and have commented on his regular morning performance. After a while he leaves the tin chimney and comes to drum on the dead limb of a lofty poplar beside mv window. If Mr. Huxley or anyone else can explain bis actions, I should he most interested.
I used to love the sea birds in ray sailor days. Often, while I stood at the wheel in a Cape Horn blow, there would be a row of half a dozen or a dozen great w hite albatrosses, one behind another, hovering with scarce-moving wings at a level a few feet higher than my head and just beyond the taffrail. For, with the exception of the booby, I know no sea bird that ever comes inboard — ever comes, that is, so much as a foot in from a line above the bulwarks. None ever passes through between the masts. None flies over, unless at a great height, as does the marlinespike bird. Well-nigh motionless upon the gale, those noble albatrosses would turn their heads and eye the young lad at the wheel. To catch an albatross was easy. All that one needed was a line and a hook, with a scrap of salt pork for bait. I have often hauled them aboard. While I have heard that sailors do, or did, at times kill them, I am glad to say that I have only once known a sailor to take the life of any sea bird. We used to catch them merely to watch them at close range. Always when we set them on deck they were immediately seasick, throwing up partly digested fish or whatever scraps they had picked up when we flung our scant leavings overboard after meals.
If was a common custom to fasten a scrap of canvas to the leg of an albatross, with the ship’s name marked on it, and the latitude and longitude in which the bird was caught. I have seen albatrosses flying beside my ship with such scraps of old sail on their legs, but we were never able to catch one of these. Our messages were, I suppose, always written in vain, though perhaps there has been some instance of a lost ship being heard of thus for the last time. In those southern latitudes were countless myriads of Cape pigeons birds of about the size of a pigeon with plumage that was either jet-black or snow-white, the jet and the snow intermingled in a most lovely pattern. When caught, they would sit in a bucket of sea water and take salt pork slush from a. sailor’s hand. There were times, south of the Horn, when sea birds were so numerous as to form bird clouds, almost—albatrosses. Cape hens, mollymauks, ice birds, Cape pigeons, petrels. When we had come past the stormy Horn they would follow us north for days. I think these birds must do without sleep for great periods, for I have seen vast numbers follow for many degrees of latitude. Little by little they drop away, becoming scarcer as the ship goes north. Then at last comes a morning when the last Cape pigeon is gone.
Well, a man could write forever of birds, and of insects, and wish that he knew more about them.
BILL ADAMS

P.S. I must tell you about an old sailor we had with us on one voyage round the Horn. A Norwegian he was, a white-headed, bent man — a foul-mouthed old dog of the ocean. If was a custom of his to strip to his waist each morning and slap salt water over his hide, no matter whether in the tropics or in bitter seas. A dirty old devil, we young lads called him, for there was never an ending to his filthy tales. But he and I were together once upon the poop, and astern there hovered Mother Carey’s chickens, a pale blue cloud of them. The mate called, ‘Belay! That’ll do,’and I made fast the rope that old Nelson and I had been ‘swigging’ taut. The mate went down to the main deck. Old Nelson, about to follow, paused and looked astern. ‘See there, boy,’ said he, ‘Mother Carey’s. Ain’t they the pretty little sea butterflies, eh?’

I think that I never yet met a man in whom was not to be found, somewhere, a glint of heaven s poetry.

Adult infantilism.

WEST HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Let me express to you my thorough appreciation of Mr. Nock’s article, ‘American Education.’ It impresses me all the more strongly because I have just received an invitation to the annual commencement festivities of my college, which illustrates — I am sure Mr. Nock would agree — the type of thing that never would come from a European university. This invitation has been so worded, so devised, as to appeal to the largest possible number of my classmates. We are all, therefore, indirectly —if not directly — responsible for the tone and style of it. Most deplorable of all, it will circulate among four or five hundred members of my class, already ten years out, and will doubtless impress the majority of them as a very clever, friendly bit of American col legiate enthusiasm.
I quote certain passages. The request for money is thus expressed: ‘ If you have n’t replied in cash to my impassioned appeal of last October, and have just one dollar that is n"t hitting on all four (or six), please tuck it into an envelope and send it on to Momma,’ The attractions for commencement are announced: ‘All the beauty and wit and latent talent among the various clubs will be spread before you. They are all working hard now, and the ultimate effect will be something than which there could be nothing whicher. If you survive this orgy, there’s Illumination Night, which ought to finish you off.’ Certain members of the faculty are referred to by nickname, and One is importantly described as ‘not as usual, for his moustache has gone.’
There is no suggestion of possible interest in the intellectual or artistic achievements of members of the returning class, or of their use during ten years’ time of the preparation which our college training was supposed to have provided for our lives. I am forced to admit that the appointment card from my dentist in France would stand infinitely higher in courtesy and dignity than does this announcement of my class reunion at one of the most important colleges of our country.
ALUMNA

‘Doing and getting’ versus ‘Being and becoming.’

ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Albert Jay Nocks article on ‘American Education’ in the May Atlantic reminded me of a bit of Virginia Woolf’s gentle satire. Orlando’s famous home had been in her family for about five hundred years. ‘Her ancestors had accumulated field after field, house after house, honour after honour. . . . Any man who did now what her ancestors had done three or four hundred years ago would be denounced — and by her own family most loudly — for a vulgar upstart, an adventurer, a nouveau riche.' Mr. Nock and Mr. James Truslow Adams forget that tradition and culture, like Rome, are not built in a day. The most ancient of well-bred English families had a period of ’doing and getting’ which furnished the background for their later generations, who can now spend much time ‘being and becoming,’ as well as denouncing as vulgar upstarts any family which is now trying to better itself materially and educationally.
Many graduates of our courses in agriculture, business administration, and home economics have glimpsed enough of higher learning to imbue their sons and daughters with a thirst for formative knowledge. Perhaps there is such a thing as evolution of brains. Perhaps, after several generations of the same family have ‘floated’ through our universities, their capacities and demands will have changed so that the universities may change their courses, even to Mr. Nock’s limited classical curriculum — which Heaven forbid! But follow Mr. Nock’s advice to cut the whole school population, above the primary grades, by 90 per cent, and see what, would happen. We’d find ourselves back in the Elizabethan Age, when for every Francis Bacon there were hundreds of thousands of illiterates.
MRS. WILBUR B. REAM

Remarkable coincidences.

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Robert Whitcomb’s article, ‘The New Pilgrim’s Progress,’ has struck very close home in this family. Two sons of mine, traveling their widely different paths, came in contact with him on his ten months’ trip.
One of my sons was the ‘well-dressed man in the company of a woman who passed by smoking a cigarette’ and whom the policeman politely told that smoking was not permitted. He remembers the incident clearly. He had arrived from South America and was walking along the wharf with his chum’s mother, showing her how they unloaded bananas. It was the time of Mardi Gras, just as Whitcomb described it. My son was attracted by Whitcomb’s face and wondered what the poor fellow had done to be arrested.
Another of my sons was one of the ‘bums’ on the freight train out West which was loaded with hoboes. He remembers the young newspaper man and the signs, ‘Business Is Good—Keep It Good!’ — and the joke of it all. He struck Nevada in May in a snowstorm and slept in a haystack, hut he found no work. The night he got home on a freight at midnight, two Negro Women accosted him with ‘Hello, son! When he crawled in the basement and saw himself in the mirror, he understood: they thought he was one of their color.
Now you will see that we have a very kindred feeling for Robert Whitcomb. We admire his spirit and his descriptive narrative, and we hope to see more of him in print.
LOUISE DIMALINE