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Speaks Again j for Thrift I_ .? 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. "Changed?" "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 Grows "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 sterity?thrift, 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 No Inore Poor Journalists? "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 form. '?f.'i'.i. clerk;? am) allrthe downtown fcix ^^t^ttBtTttmmtwmmamm?smsssasMsum?SMStsum?Bmmmmmmt^^ 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 I ? if you don't watch out, and there's the one who warns you solemnly against Greenwich Village. 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 over night. 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? pact drama: Stenographer: Miss A- to see you, Mr. B-. Mr. B: Tell her to go to hell, please. 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 alleged charm. 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 publication. 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 the process. "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 ' hand?" i 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? tumn. 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? erty Loan. "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 erbs." franklin paused. "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 does. 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? ble. 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 straightway reassured. 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 i ! 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 feeling. 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 their way. "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 direction. "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 arm unconcernedly. 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? ness: "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 the sidewalk. 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 accomplished. 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? resented. 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 truth. Before he goes, they kiss in the shade of the doorway and think no one knows. Two and Two and a Third Partv i_ 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 red hands. The Third Party spat again: "Not bad, either." 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," saitj he. "I don't talk to strangers," said she of the rose hat, primly. ''Aw, kid!" said the man, "some sun, ain't it?" "Yes," said the nearseal coat, re? luctantly. "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 grace. The Third Party closed one eye slowly, "Pretty picture," said he, sen? timentally. 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. delighted. "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," whimsically. "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 Party. The Wish 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 morn, 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.