Newspaper Page Text
j for Thrift
By Earl Baldwin Thomas
^ ^^TT^IMES certainly have chan
?? 9 said the elderly, wise-looking
Jr. gentleman reposing statu
i quely on his pedestal in
Printing House Square, just in front of
the Tribune Building. A glance at the
inscription on the pedestal revealed the
fact that the speaker was Benjamin
Franklin, and confirmed the suspicion
that he was a man of discernment.
"Assuredly," said Benjamin, looking
steadfastly across to City Hall Park,
where Nathan Hale was gazing up with
unblinking oyes at the sun-gilded tower
of the Woolworth Building. "Not only
the buildings and the streets and things
similar have changed, Out lately I have
noticed a transition in the habits of my
fellow countrymen that is very gratify?
ing to me, even if ? am counted among
the dead ?
"Crop!..* >,. ed to laugh when I walked
up the main street in Philadelphia with
a bag of rolls under one arm and my
teeth set firmly in a chinamen bun. Re?
cently I have noticed that the City of
Fraternal Amity has Leen regarded as
one of the principal advocates of t-hrift.
For that, of course. I take due credit to
myself, as is but fair.
"ft is needless for rno to call your at?
tention to the fact that my portrait
adorns the new issue of war saving?
naps. Already they are plastering the
countryside with lithographs and othei
products of ti*e printer's art, proclaiming
me as the Father of American Thrift.
The H a h i t
"Thrift is the change to which 1 refer
It is gripping the entire nation, and '.
have watched it grow from this corne:
ever since the* war began. From talk
hear I b i no d iul t that it prevail
everywhere, alt ough in my presen
capacity of standing on fixed post I ar
not in a position to go dashing uptowi
to the new Coi for tea or to th
1 DJon League breakfast for first
hand information. But the saving habi
rowing *-'" en the latest re
ports about the income taxes aren't hole
ing it back. You will remember when
was known familiarly as 'Poor Richar<
that on one occasion f said:
" 'Taxes are indeed very high, but i
those imposed by the government wei
the only ones we had to pay we migl
mi re easily discharge* them. But thei
'are more gri< i ta s that some of t
? ; ' bear. We are taxed by our prid
and even more so by our folly.'
"That line about pride and folly sti
applies, for human nature, after a
? n't progress as rapidly as inventioi
in mechanics or improvements in trat
methods mount up. Americans of to-di
have locomotives where we ha? i ca
liages, cabarets instead of coffee house
steam sirens instead of Liberty bel
' ad of knee-leng
"*'? breeches. Men and women ave still t
same, witl pi md folly ever on hai
to<- foolish and rob the po(
We had sirens as well as belles in o
?y were female. You ha
them, too, along with the more domes
s pecios of folly. Both pride and fo
serve to confound the householder w
is honestly striving to acquire a knowed
of that virtue which I and my contemi
all who glory overmuch in t
vanities of th ?'. me quote son
thing that I was fond of saying whei
was more active in the dust than in 1
bronze: 'Many a one, for the sake
finery on the back, has gone with a hi
gry belly and half starved the fami
Again: 'Beware of little expenses, fo
all leak will sink a great ship.'
"Since some person who did not m
exp -. e to the rain, mists, sir
cold and heat of the open first appoin
me to this post I have listened to n
ions of persons as they swirled past
their way to work, in the leather fir
newspaper and brokerage offices. T
used not to be interested in thrift,
when the war began an army of Lib
bond sellers and war savings st?
salesmen took up headquarters in Pt
ing House Square and educated tl
sands into the habit of making one
piecea grow up to nickels.
"In the early morning hours I 1
probably noticed more 'husbands wh?
up with sick friends,' milkmen, pan
tilers and brokers who tried unsuc?
fully to corner the cotton market
any other man, living or dead, <
Peter Stuyvesant first placed his wo
H leg on Manhattan and convinced
M * ? that a trunkful of wooden h
a fair price for an embryo mel
"Particularly I used to worry t
young reporters along Park
1 ? ? ionally, in their heyday of
sance-taking they would fling n
?lance, hut none ever took the tn
to nad what I said on thrift. ]
?da;, i r, I notice an improver
for thrift is appealing to journi
as to the rest. It's a
editor who hasn't reformed lince the
began. Thi reef hav? invested he
in Liberty bond? and war Havings st
and are < ? . P pays I
clerk;? am) allrthe downtown fcix
By Sarah Addington
i A PEDLER of pincushions could
< % write his volume about the
housewives of the country, and
his work would stand as au
: thentic. A scribbler who escorts his
pieces from office to office comes to
know his editors in the same intimate
fashion. If a housewife likes blue, the
pedler pulls out a fat blue thing and
I dangles it before her eyes until she
buys. In the same wise, the writer,
whether real or imitation, sizes up the
great gent that presides over the dummy
sheet and the wastebasket and ?
strives to please.
The housewife may be strong-minded,
a perfect resistant to these wiles and
traps, and, ye gods! so may be the edi?
tor, but the psychology of salesman?
ship is practically the same, for selling
is selling the world over, whether it's
poems or pie pans in your sample case.
The only difference between the sales?
man proper and the writer is that the
writer makes his own product, poor
wretch, and is on a strictly commission
basis. Otherwise the whole dreary busi?
ness is the same.
And so, as we stick our noses day
after day into that consecrated, hal?
lowed ground that is the editorial
chamber-, we learn a thing or two or
three about editors. There is that one
who takes you out to lunch, bless him,
and the editor who wears suspenders,
unashamed; there is the one who flatters
you to death and never buys your
stories; there is he who edits you vi?
ciously and advertises your stuff in 18
point caps. There is the one who tells
you you're too clever to be great, and
there is he who remarks that you're too
lazy to be famous. There is the editor
who predicts that success will get you
? if you don't watch out, and there's the
one who warns you solemnly against
And there is the one who bought this
piece. What shall we say of him?
These are a few. How hard we try
to understand them; how humbly do we
take their measures and tailor the story
to fit! Ready-mades for 'editors? Never.
They may buy their hats from a bargain
stand, but their stories are made to
order. And if he doesn't like the mate?
rial, or the way it's put together, or
if he had one like it last year, there's
no use; he won't even give it house room
What folly of salesmanship it would be
to offer the frock-coated managing editor
of the gravest daily in New York an airy
trifle on lingerie and lipsticks, or what
Bessie Broadway will wear at the beach!
With what disgust would he view such
a lapse of judgment, and with what a
disdainful thumb would the very office
boy pen your name and send it speeding
back. But send him an article on a move?
ment, a campaign, a scientific discovery,
and the money is yours. This is by way
of a simple example to show how care?
fully the author must consider the edi?
tors in his field, how they toil not,
neither do they spin, yet have the only
key that fits into the door of success
and future and career.
And authors do consider carefully. An
anthology of editors is the unwritten
masterpiece of most of them.
Who but an edtor, for example, could
have participated in the following com?
Stenographer: Miss A- to see you,
Mr. B: Tell her to go to hell,
Miss A-(who is directly behind
stenographer): Sir, I
Gasps, apologies, titters, bowings,
( scrapings, confusions. Miss A
I flounces out.
Yet this was an actual occurrence.
i When tlie writer told the story as a
joke on herself and a sidelight on the
: manners of ye editor, it was disavowed
by his friends at the dinner table, who
claimed he was a charming fellow. Miss
i A-, needless to say, mails her con
i tributions to him now, under an assumed
name, and reserves opinion about his
There is one "typical" editor m New
| York, the old school kind, a scholar first
and an editor next, and a recluse all the
time. He has no chair in his office be?
cause he is afraid some one will sit down
and stay, and he keeps his wastebasket
empty because a girl once appropriated
it. and its contents for a seat, and stayed
nearly half an hour! He is a lovable
man, with a mellow humor, a genius for
losing manuscripts, addresses and proofs,
a taste for the essay and a habit of
never knowing anything that's going on.
He has a score of devoted contributors
who would write for him for nothing be?
fore they would for many another for a
gilded sum. They rail at his professorial
_." ' .. ??;/" ? jj ?'. " i-?
qualities, and. while they rail, write
more and more for him.
He recently wrote to one of them:
"You probably have something on what
pleases you to call your mind. I sup?
pose I shall have to use it."
He pretends to be abused, poor dear,
but if he doesn't like a story he loses it!
one of the simplest device's known to
the editorial trade.
We are for a certain editor who al?
ways says "yes" first, though a subse?
quent "no" may be forthcoming.
"Go ahead with your idea," is the
usual say-so. "If you believe in it, it
ought to have the breath of life."
His contributors go out bursting with
enthusiasm, and the story comes through,
their best efforts, usually. He doesn't
always buy?he's a good editor?but we,
say his system is a neat one. And his
habit of giving a free hand, whether he
precisely likes the sound of the story
himself or not, of encouraging, rather
than discouraging, the writer, brings into
his office some of the freshest, most con?
fident stuff that is written for newspaper
Women editors suit us very well.
Most of them welcome the new writer,
remember their friends and look out for
value rather than "names"?all of them
pleasant qualities to the hack-about
town who survives by what he sells.
There is nothing of cattishness about
the woman editor, no matter what the
comic spirits of the country may say.
A woman editor will buy from her dear?
est enemy if she thinks the story will
help circulation. Women editors run
young bureaus in their offices, where
youngsters of the female persuasion who
are stung with the writing bug may
come and tell all. They are literary
bureaus, kind friends, prospective buy?
ers, all in one.
Most women attack their magazines or
departments as they would a batch of
bread in the making. They plunge their
hands deeper into the stuff than men do,
work with it themselves, give it shape ;
and form and content. Men editors in
their large way ask for results and get
? them; women evolve their own results
as they achieve bread from flour and
yeast from water.
An editor, when he knows people,
seems, to carry with him a special license
? to insult them. He does it in the man?
ner classical, however, and calls it frank?
ness or advice or some such euphemism.
Nobody minds and he probably enjoys
"My new fiction writer is a fat, gig
1 gling female, but she hath the touch of
j an angel," one said to a feminine staff
I member recently. "Now, you are a lovely
; young lady, with an especially propitious
spring bonnet, but why don't you take
some of the weight out of your pen
Everybody laughed merrily, and don't
1 imagine for a moment that the lovely
young lady minded because he told her
she had a heavy touch. Not at all. Her
attitude was that he could edit out what
he didn't like from her stories. She had
a permanent job, you see, and needed
to truckle to no one.
A bored editor is the hardest nut to
crack, that languid, blas? gentleman
whoip nothing pleases?until it has the
sanction of type. After it is printed in
; his magazine it is the best story that
? was ever written, but when you first
show it to him, he turns over the pages
idly and raises his eyebrows another
fraction. His aim is to reduce you to
the humility of a worm, and that end he
accomplishes by well known office tricks,
such as the above mentioned. Bored
editors don't get out such remarkably
good magazines. Also, their ennui pro?
vides the stuff for the great class war
that rages between the publishing pro?
fession and the Amalgamated Order of
Press Agents. Press agents get on best
with the open minded.
But if all editors are bored when it
comes to reading your masterpieces, it
may mean that there's something wrong
with the product. In that case, there
is always insurance to be sold.
workers. Have you seen a single one
this winter without a fur coat, despite
the balmy atmosphere? They also have
become students of saving. I don't want
to be catty, but when I look at the num?
bers of near-lynx, almost-bear, and pos?
sibly skunk-squirrel-or-fox coats which
parade along Nassau Street, it occurs to !
me that the slaughter of harmless
felines must have been terrific last au?
Buy a War Stamp and Be
Sure of a Toothbrush
"When I was a boy I had a hard time
to make both ends meet, so I began to
save, and I speedily learned the primary
lessons in thrift. What I learned then
prompted me to coin this phrase, 'What
maintains one vice would bring up two
children.' You will conclude from this
that 1 advise virtuous living. Thrift is
a true virtue. Take the war savings
stamp to which I have already alluded.
You buy it to-day for $4.14. Five years
from now you get back $5. That's a
gain of 67 cents on a small investment.
In five years five bucks may buy?at the
present upward trend of costs?a first
class toothbrush, a pack of cigarettes or
i a morning paper.
"One of Carter Glass's bright young
men has figured out that if Columbus in
1492 had deposited $100 in a savings
| bank to the credit of this country the
j amount would have been increased to
i day, through compound interest, to some
I where in the neighborhood of $2,000,000,
? 000. That's enough to pay for one Lib?
"Under the circumstances I feel I car
never forgive myself for not having de?
posited $25,000 in the First Nationa
Bank of Pennsylvania when I first wen!
to Philadelphia. The accrued interest
I feel certain, would have replaced th<
money of some of those short-sighted per
sons who say they won't support th<
; Victory Loan because the war is over
? The idea! 'X good example is the bes
sermon.' That was one of my pet prov
"Well, gooclby," he said. "Here com1
the scrubwomen now, so I think I hai
better be quiet."
"Are you in favor of anything els
besides thrift?" I asked him. "Lcagu
of nations, prohibition, Bolshevism"
"A man In my public position," sai
Ben, "does not dare to be too specific
] Beside?, T am too conspicuous a target.
By Harlan Thompson
OURS is a funny block.
So is every one's.
To dispel the perfectly natural
fear that it's your funny block
? that is going to be yanked out in front of
people, it might be well to state at the be?
ginning that this is one of those blocks in
the Forties which has Broadway at one end
and yet hasn't found room to squeeze in a
theatre. Which should be specific enough
for ordinary "purposes - of which this is one.
From its inability to harbor a few the?
atres it night be inferred that the block
leads a crowded existence. Unlike most in?
ferences, this one ia correct. The block
At least, it does from 11 in the morning
around to 4 the next. The chances are that
it does the other s<wen hours, but that is
.something on which no one can speak defi?
nitely. You see the block goes to its sev?
eral beds about 4 and pays absolutely no at?
tention to itself before 11. For all the
block knows, there may be all sorts of
morning goings on; but for these, if any,
the block can't and won't be held responsi?
For all the block knows, there may be
women who take advantage of its periodi
of unconsciousness to desecrate its side
walks with steps more than fourteen inches
in length. Let them. But let them, also
? understand that nothing of that sort is go
ing to be attempted after 11 and before 4.
No* when it is considered unsportswom
anlike to take the full 14-inch allowance
Most of them can maintain a 9-inch strid
skirt in and skirt out?and never rip a henr
I They are pretty good in our block.
Further study of the preceding paragrap
! leuds to the conclusion that one statcinen
is not supported fully by the available ov
donee. It might be more reliahle to cor
fine it to "skirt in."
The daylight hours In our block are bus;
but futile. One somehow feels that the
are too much taken up with mon who unloa
rattly coal and other men who murmur ?r
vitation? anerit old clothes. Somctimes or
I even has a vag\ie misgiving that things i
I happen in our block that could happen in j
; other blocks, but then one looks upon the
j 11:50 dog parad? or something and is
The parade really starts the day. All
that comes or goes before is sporadic and
preliminary. Such are the white vegetable
ivory hand mirrors with doughnut shaped
i handles that appear on the window sills at
'? 11:10. So, too, are the lathery areas that
I flit beyond the mirrors, lose their lather
' and become jowls.
Other preparations less to windowward
I must go on about the same time, to judge
j from the carefully laid pigments on exhibi?
tion at the dog parade. Shortly after this
is over the uniforms begin to appear in
large numbers and continue in large num?
bers from then on until the block calls
; what has been mostly ni^ht a day.
There are no special features on the af
i ternoon programme. At liest the afternoon
! ?3 no more than a few weary, inevitable
! hours that must be endured before dark.
But after dark! Then it is that our
block comes into its own. From a quite
ordinary appearing section of street, walled
I with less ordinary buildings and peopled by
not at all ordinary persons, it changes at
' nightfall to an enticing back eddy in the
glittering, dazzling stream called Broadway.
To that river of dancing, flaring light it
adds a few ripples of its own.
Under the spell of darkness anything be?
comes not only possible, but matter, of
course. Then come the things that could
never happen in any block but ours.
It is raining and the pavement is criss
crossed with shimmering streaks from this
and that group of linhts. Unmindful of (hi
downpour, two men stan?! on the curb
Water glistens on their derby hats and 01
the fur collars of their overcoats. They ap
parently arc deep in some important argu
ment, for their gestures are tense witl
Suddenly the smaller breaks away witl
an excited sweep of his arma ami stride
to the middle of tho street. After a coup]
j of preliminary awiiifis ho rise? on one to
and Hpiija like a tup. He s'opn, makes
triumphant gesture to hin companion an?
fcapeatfl the spinning. Not eatistied, ho leap
Into the air and whirl?* uncounted times be
fore coming down. This also he repeats
and then walks back to the curb. The
other man is smiling and nodding his head.
They shako hands fervently'and resume
"It's the hit of the act," the smaller one
is saying as they pass.
It was also raining1 as the sailor anil
the girl walked by the non-closing restau?
rant. They, too, were in argument. They
stopped and bent all their energies irfthat
"Well, go on, then," the girl said shrilly
He went on.
She watched him in amazement.
When he was fifty feet away and still
going she ran after him madly. In spite
of the skirt, she caught up with him be?
fore he reached the corner. He took her
The drugstore on the corner belongs
to our block as much as it does to the other
street. The conversations in its telephone
booths might be expected to fall into the
usual categories. If there is anything
that is not individual it is telephone talk.
But many of these are different. As wit?
"Hello! . . . Hello, is that you, mamma?
. . . How aro you? . . . That's good. . . .
Mamma, I won't be home to dinner . . . No.
not co-night.Well, you see, mamma, I
got a little drunk this afternoon?late this
afternoon. . . . Yes, just a little drunk with
Fred. ... He came by and we got a little
drunk together. . . . Sure, I'm ell right. . . .
Yes, sure. . . . We're going to have dinner
now and then we're going to get a little
drunker before 1 come home, so you
shouldn't wait dinner for me. . . . Yes,
mamma, I'll be home at 9 o'clock sure....
I can't get home. . . . We just got a little
drunk. . . . Fred says to tell you that you
can't do it very much longer, you know
... I don't think I'd better come now. . .
I'll be home by 9 safe enough. . . . All right
by 9....Goodby, mamma. .. .Here's a kis:
for you, too. . . . Goodby."
Every block has its fights, some more
some less. The most convenient time ii
our block seems to bo about 2 a. m. Th?
cabarets have closed by then and ther?
is a sort of lull in the proceedings of th
night that must be somehow enliveiic.
If no one else volunteers, chauffeurs ca;
generally be depended upon to furnish ex
citement. It is of interest to note in pass
ing that this is the only known Instarte
where chauffeurs can be depended upon.
Occasionally an episode is unintelligild
from the windows of our block. The lighl
ing, for one thing, is such that muc
of the pantomime is lost and if words
fail, too, the plot is difficult, to follow.
It was so with the lady who stood in the
middle of the street and sang violently
to a decidedly disinterested gentleman on
It; was his unbroken silence that made
it hard to follow. Even when an unex?
pected policeman came up and was sung
to the thing became no plainer. It was
evident from the policeman's manner that
In* wished foi- her to go and sing amid
other surroundings, but she did not care
for his suggestion.--. Then the policeman
went away and she tired of the gentle?
man's inattention presently. So she went
away singing and he went away in silence,
and no one knows yet what the matter was
-the policeman least of all.
Another unsolved mystery is how he man?
aged or happened, or whatever it was, to
disgrace her. It was certain that he had.
She said so time and again as they stood in
front of her steps. She felt rather deeply
about it, so it appeared. Just what his
attitude was will always be uncertain, for
he took it more quietly than she.
"No friend of mine can disgrace me
like that." she said, probably eighty-five
times in all, "No friend of mine can dis?
grace me before 20,000 people and get
away with it. I was never so disgraced
in my life."
Which is not so remarkable, after all, be?
cause it is not every day that 20,000 per
sons are gathered together for disgracinf
purposes. In the course of time her reit
eration of the facts in the case aro1*sei
the most intense curiosity as to how tin
exceptionable job of disgracing had beei
But it was not to be. She pulled thi
last handful o? hair from her fur coat
turned the knob of the front door for th
hundredth time, said "No friend of mine cai
disgra-ce ma before 20,000 people" and wa
gone. Our block had nothing<?to do bu
watch him whistle his way down the stree
and ponder on how he had done it.
The Icavetakings constitute the majo
portion of the last act in pur bloc!
Whether short or prolonged, there arc a'
ways enough to maintain a barrage c
goodbys on-either side of the street unt
time is up. It is here that the uniform
come into prominence again. Not that the
have any monopoly, but they are well re?
In connection with the farewells must fc
mentioned In the interests of truth th
only thing of which our block need I
ashamed, the only thing in which it fai
to maintain its standard of Individually
a thing in which it resemble? your bloc
and the block of everybody else.
Sad, indeed, it is to admit, but it is ll
Before he goes, they kiss in the shade
of the doorway and think no one knows.
Two and Two
and a Third
By Deems Veiller
t">(_>l'PLE A swayed on the right
deck of the ferrv and Couple R
** swayed on the left deck. They
were unaware of each other. The
Third Party stood in the middle, and he
was tremendously aware; he was, ?
should say, all agog.
Man, Couple A, leaned in the shadow
of the lookout and gazed thoughtfully
riverward. He wai a carefully careless
young man, slouch hat, Dunlap, seven
dollars and a half; soft shirt, studied
necktie, orange with a blue scarab in it
?rather a pretty affectation. He might
have been an artist, a student, a vaga?
bond; he was really a man of property
who had successfully got over it.
The She of Couple A was po.se?,
charming, pale, fashionable, blue, fox
furs, tloating veil, bored just enough,
perfumed just enough. The Third Party
spat tobacco juico. "Not bad," com?
mented he. His gaze roved to the left
deck. There stood the feminine B, all
shining in a nearseal coat and a beaver
hat, heavy with last summer's roaos. She
was obviously respectable and had very
The Third Party spat again: "Not
Mr. Couple B crossed his legs and
leaned against the lookout; his derby m
the crook of his arm. He was in a Sun?
day suit of dark blue. You knew it was
a Sunday suit, just as you knew that he
vas a plumber, a carpenter or a grocer's
clerk. His eye was fixed on the rim of
the setting sun; he was thinking deeply.
A fresh puff of air rippled over the
Hudson and snatched at Miss A's veil.
Mr. A started. Being a systematic young
breeze and quite lacking in class distinc?
tion, it fluttered over to Miss B, and
lifted her hat clear off her head. Mr. B
moved forward eagerly, and his derby
clattered to the deck. "Excuse me,"
"I don't talk to strangers," said she
of the rose hat, primly.
''Aw, kid!" said the man, "some sun,
"Yes," said the nearseal coat, re?
"You don't mind if I stand alongside
you, do you, kid?"
The man was already at the rail close
to her. The dying rays of the sun gilded
their awkwardness into a semblance of
The Third Party closed one eye
slowly, "Pretty picture," said he, sen?
Return now to Couple A in the mo?
ment when they were first touched by
the flurry of air. "Ahem," said he. She
was too well-bred to notice that.
"Pardon me," said he. She looked
up arrogantly. Her nose tilted curi?
ously. "Simply couldn't resist the er?
sunset," explained the artistic young
man, moving to the rail beside her.
"Now what," said she of the blue fox
furs, "is the proper precedent, to scream
or to slap your face?"
"Don't slap my face," begged the man.
"Then Pll have to scream." She was
a darned attractive woman.
He answered, "If you do scream, you
know, there is no one to hear you. We
aro alone on the upper deck."
"I'll appeal to the sunbeam elves,"
"Ah, I knew you were a poet."
"Do you believe in elves?"
"I do to-night."
"That's just what you should have
said;" this from the girl.
Silence?they stood together and
watched the reddened sky. The Third
Party turned his head; he spat. "Pretty
picture," said he. "Funny," he mused.
"I thought them two was perfectly re?
spectable girls." At this the breeze,
with the promise of spring in it, frol?
icked across the deck in a drunken eddy
of joy and danced madly away.
"It's getting rough," said the Third
By Jeanne Oldfield Potter
Almost I wish Spring would not com?"
To tree or hill or glen,
For at its tread a quiver runs
Through old-time wounds again.
The speedwell comes into the fields,
The lanes grow white with may.
But underneath the hawthorn bush
No laddie waits tO'day.
The round sun mocks me in the
T he sea wind tries the door,
The moonlight seeks his pillow ana
Finds?moonlight, nothing more
And yet to-day I found a glen
AU deep and cool and dim.?
But it was empty, for it brought
No memory of him.